Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘Good idea.’

‘I want that patch of wall to be indistinguishable from all the rest.’

‘Of course. But no one is going to come down here anyway.’

‘Just in case,’ said Rollo. ‘We can’t be too careful.’

They returned to the storeroom.

The other two were unloading the gunpowder barrels and rolling them to the far end of the space. Rollo directed them to put the firewood in front of the barrels, stacking the bundles carefully so that the pile would remain stable. One of the young men stood on the broken table, careful not to put his foot through the hole, and the other passed bundles up to him to be placed at the top.

When it was done Rollo studied their work carefully. No one would suspect that this was anything other than a stack of firewood. He was satisfied. ‘Even if someone were to search this place,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘they probably wouldn’t find the gunpowder.’

Ned and Margery lived in St Paul’s Churchyard, in a pleasant row house with a pear tree in the backyard. It was not grand, but Margery had made it cosy with rugs and pictures, and they had coal fires to keep the place warm in winter. Ned liked it because he could look out and see the cathedral, which reminded him of Kingsbridge.

Ned arrived back from Paris late one evening, tired and anxious. Margery made him a light supper and they went to bed and made love. In the morning he told her about his trip. She was shocked rigid by what he said, and struggled to hide her emotions. Fortunately, he was in a hurry to report to Robert Cecil, and he went out immediately after breakfast, leaving her free to think in peace.

There was a plan to kill the royal family, all except Princess Elizabeth, and at the same time all the leading ministers, which probably meant burning down a palace, Ned had said. But Margery knew more. Bartlet was going to miss the opening of Parliament, for the first time since he had become earl of Shiring. Margery had been puzzled by his decision, but now it made sense. The plotters would strike at Westminster.

The opening ceremony was ten days away.

How did Bartlet know about it? Ned had learned that Jean Langlais was involved, and Margery knew that Langlais was Rollo. Bartlet’s uncle Rollo had warned him to stay away.

She knew it all, now, but what was she to do? She could denounce Rollo to Ned, and perhaps that was what she would have to do in the end, although she shuddered with horror at the thought of sending her brother to his death. However, there might be a better way. She could go and see Rollo. She knew where he was lodging. She could tell him she knew everything and threaten to reveal all to Ned. Once Ned knew, the entire plot was doomed. Rollo would have no choice but to give the whole thing up.

She put on a heavy cloak and stout boots and went out into the London autumn.

She walked to the White Swan and found the red-nosed landlord. ‘Good day to you, Mr Hodgkinson,’ she said. ‘I was here a few weeks ago.’

The landlord was grumpy, perhaps because he had drunk too much of his own wine the night before. He gave her a look of indifference and said: ‘I can’t remember everyone who buys a cup of wine in here.’

‘No matter. I want to see Rollo Fitzgerald.’

‘There’s no one of that name in the house,’ he said tersely.

‘But he was lodging here!’

He gave her a hostile look. ‘May I ask who you are?’

Margery assumed an air of aristocratic hauteur. ‘I am the dowager countess of Shiring, and you would do well to mind your manners.’

He changed his tune. No one wanted to quarrel with an aristocrat. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady, but I can’t recall ever having a guest of the name you mentioned.’

‘I wonder if any of his friends stayed here. What about Jean Langlais?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Hodgkinson. ‘French name, though he spoke like an Englishman. But he left.’

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘No. Monsieur Langlais is not a man to give out unnecessary information, my lady. Close-mouthed, he is.’

Of course he was.

She left the inn. What was she going to do now? She had no idea where Rollo might be. There was now little point in denouncing him to Ned, for Ned would not be able to find him either. She racked her brains. People were going to commit an atrocity, and she had to stop them.

Could she give warning? Perhaps she could do that without condemning Rollo to death. She considered an anonymous letter. She could write to Ned, disguising her handwriting, and pretend to be one of the conspirators. She need not say anything about Rollo. The letter would simply warn Ned to stay away from the opening of Parliament if he wanted to live.

But that was implausible. Why would a Catholic conspirator want to save the life of a famous Protestant courtier?

On the other hand, if the letter went to a Catholic, he might approve of the plot and keep the news to himself.

What she needed was someone in between: a man who was loyal to the king, but sufficiently friendly to Catholics that they would not want to kill him. There were several such people at court, and Margery thought of Lord Monteagle, a Catholic who wanted to be at peace with his Protestant countrymen. People such as Rollo and Bartlet spoke of him as a weak ditherer, but Margery thought he was sensible. If he were warned he would sound the alarm.

She decided to write him a letter.

She stepped out to one of the many stationery shops in St Paul’s Churchyard and bought some paper of a type she did not normally use. Back in the house, she sharpened a quill with a pen knife. Using her left hand to disguise her writing, she began:

My Lord, out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care of your preservation.

That was nicely vague, she thought.

Therefore, I would advise you as you tender your life to devise some excuse to shift off your attendance at this Parliament.

That was unmistakable: his life was in danger.

What would Rollo say in such a message? Something pious, perhaps.

For God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time.

That seemed to have the right apocalyptic tone.

And think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into your country where you may expect the event in safety.

She needed to say something about the means by which the killing would be done. But all she knew was that Ned thought they planned to set the building on fire. She should hint at something like that.

For though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament. And yet they shall not see who hurts them.

What else would a conspirator think about? Destroying the evidence?

This counsel is not to be condemned because it may do you good, and can do you no harm; for the danger is past as soon as you have burned the letter.

And how should she end? With something sincere, she decided.

And I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it: to whose Holy protection I commend you.

She folded the letter and sealed it, pressing a coin into the soft wax and wiggling it a bit to make the impression unreadable, as if a seal ring had been carelessly applied.

Now she had to deliver it.

She would probably be seen by people at the house, and perhaps by Monteagle himself, who knew her, so she needed a disguise.

Margery and Ned employed a maid-of-all-work who was at present washing sheets in the backyard. Margery told her to take the rest of the day off and gave her sixpence to go to the bear-baiting.

She went to Ned’s wardrobe. She put on a pair of his breeches, tucking her petticoats inside for bulk, and then a frayed old doublet. Ned was slim, but, nevertheless, his clothes were too big for her. However, a mere messenger would be expected to be badly dressed. She put on a worn-down pair of his shoes and stuffed them with rags to make them fit. Her ankles were too small for a man, she saw. She pinned up her hair and put on Ned’s third-best hat.