Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Alain said: ‘He goes by the name of Jean Langlais.’

Sylvie breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Does he, now?’ she said. ‘Well, well.’

Sheffield Castle was one of the more uncomfortable prisons in which Alison had spent the last fifteen years with Mary Stuart. It was three hundred years old, and felt it. The place was built at the confluence of two rivers and had a moat on the other two sides, and to say it was damp was a grim understatement. Its owner, the earl of Shrewsbury, had quarrelled with Queen Elizabeth about the meagre allowance she gave him for Mary’s keep; and in consequence Shrewsbury provided the cheapest food and drink.

The only redeeming feature of the place was a deer park of four square miles just across the moat.

Mary was allowed to ride in the park, though she always had to be accompanied by an escort of armed guards. On days when she did not want to ride, for any reason, Alison was allowed to go into the park on her own: no one cared if she escaped. She had a black pony called Garçon who was well-behaved most of the time.

As soon as she had the avenue of walnut trees in front of her she galloped Garçon for a quarter of a mile, to burn off his excess energy. After that he was more obedient.

Riding fast gave her a feeling of freedom that was brief and illusory. When she slowed Garçon to a walk, she remembered that she lived in a prison. She asked herself why she stayed. No one would stop her if she went back to Scotland, or France. But she was a prisoner of hope.

She had lived her life in hope — and disappointment. She had waited for Mary to become queen of France, then that had lasted less than two years. Mary had come home to rule Scotland, but had never been truly accepted as queen, and in the end they had forced her to abdicate. Now she was the rightful queen of England, recognized as such by everyone — except the English. But there were thousands, perhaps millions, of loyal Catholics here who would fight for her and acclaim her as their queen, and now Alison was waiting and hoping for the moment when they would get the chance to do just that.

It was a long time coming.

As she was passing through a grove, a man she did not know stepped from behind a massive oak tree and stood in front of her.

He startled Garçon, who skittered sideways. Alison brought the pony under control swiftly, but not before the stranger had come close enough to grab the bridle.

‘Let go of my horse, or I’ll have you flogged,’ she said firmly.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said.

‘Then let go.’

He released the bridle and stepped back a pace.

He was a little under fifty years old, she guessed; his hair thinning on top, his reddish beard bushy. He did not seem very threatening, and perhaps he had taken the bridle only to help her control the horse.

He said: ‘Are you Alison McKay?’

She lifted her chin in the universal gesture of superiority. ‘When I married my husband I became Lady Ross, and when I buried him a year later I became the dowager Lady Ross, but I was Alison McKay once, a long time ago. Who are you?’

‘Jean Langlais.’

Alison reacted to the name, saying: ‘I’ve heard of you. But you’re not French.’

‘I am a messenger from France. To be exact, from Pierre Aumande de Guise.’

‘I know him.’ She recalled a young man with waves of blond hair and an air of ruthless competence. She had wanted him on her side, and imagined them as a team, but that had not been their destiny. He was no longer young, of course. ‘How is Pierre?’

‘He is the right-hand man of the duke of Guise.’

‘A bishop, perhaps, or even an archbishop? No, of course not, he’s married.’ To a servant girl who had been impregnated by one of the rowdy Guise adolescents, she remembered. Much to Alison’s regret.

‘His wife died recently.’

‘Ah. Now watch him rise. He may end up as Pope. What’s his message?’

‘Your imprisonment is almost over.’

Alison’s heart leaped in optimism, but she suppressed her elation. It was easy to say: Your imprisonment is almost over. Making it happen was another thing. She kept her expression neutral as she said: ‘How so?’

‘The duke of Guise plans to invade England, with the backing of King Felipe of Spain and Pope Gregory XIII. Mary Stuart must be the symbolic leader of this army. They will free her and put her on the throne.’

Could this be true? Alison hardly dared to think so. She considered what she should say. To gain time she pretended to muse. ‘Last time I saw Henri de Guise he was a little blond boy ten years old, and now he wants to conquer England.’

‘The Guises are second only to the royal family in France. If he says he will conquer England, he will. But he needs to know that his cousin Mary will play to the full her role in this revolution.’

Alison studied him. His face was lean and handsome, but his looks gave an impression of flinty ruthlessness. He reminded her somewhat of Pierre. She made her decision. ‘I can give you that guarantee here and now.’

Jean Langlais shook his head. ‘Duke Henri will not take your word for it — nor mine, come to that. He wants it in writing, from Mary.’

Alison’s hopes faded again. That would be difficult. ‘You know that all her outgoing and incoming letters are read by a man called Sir Ned Willard.’ Alison had met the young Ned Willard at St Dizier, with Mary’s half-brother James Stuart, and then again at Carlisle Castle. Like Pierre, Ned had come a long way.

Recognition flickered in Langlais’s eyes, and Alison guessed that he, too, knew Ned. He said: ‘We need to set up a secret channel of communication.’

‘You and I can meet here. I get to ride out alone about once a week.’

He shook his head. ‘That might do for now. I’ve been observing the castle, and I see that security around Queen Mary is slack. But it may be tightened up. We need a means that is more difficult to detect.’

Alison nodded. He was right. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘I was going to ask you that. Is there a servant, someone who routinely goes in and out of Sheffield Castle, who might be persuaded to smuggle letters?’

Alison considered. She had done this before, at Loch Leven, and she could do it again. Many people called at the castle every day. They had to supply food and drink and everything else needed by Queen Mary and her entourage of thirty people — even an imprisoned monarch had a court. And that was on top of family and hangers-on of the earl of Shrewsbury. But which of the callers could be charmed, bullied or bribed into this dangerous business?

Alison’s mind went to Peg Bradford, a plain, raw-boned girl of eighteen who came to collect the soiled linen and took it home to wash it. She had never before seen a queen, and made no secret of her worship of Mary Stuart. The queen of Scots was past forty now, and her beauty had gone; captivity had made her heavy, and her once-luxuriant hair had deteriorated so much that in company she wore an auburn wig. But she was still that fairy-tale figure, an ill-fated queen, nobly suffering cruelty and injustice, irresistibly seductive to some people. Mary played up to Peg almost automatically, hardly thinking about it: to such people she was always regal but friendly, so that they thought she was marvellously warm and human. If you were a queen, Alison knew, you did not have to do much to be loved.

‘A laundress called Peg Bradford,’ Alison said. ‘She lives in Brick Street next to St John’s church.’

‘I’ll make contact. But you need to prepare her.’

‘Of course.’ That would be easy. Alison could picture Mary holding Peg’s hand, talking to her in a low, confidential voice. She could imagine the joy and devotion on Peg’s face when she was entrusted with a special task for the queen.