Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Tilbury said: ‘We will now consider the question of punishment.’

Rollo spoke again. ‘The Act of 1552 is very clear, your worships. The culprit must lose both interest and principal of the loan and, in addition, “fines and ransom at the king’s will or pleasure”, to quote the exact words of the law.’

Ned shouted: ‘No!’ Surely his mother could not forfeit the four hundred pounds as well as the interest?

The Kingsbridge folk felt the same, and there was a mutinous hubbub. Paul Pettit had to call for silence again.

The crowd eventually went quiet, but Tilbury did not immediately speak. He turned to his fellow justice, Seb Chandler, and they held a murmured conversation. Then Tilbury summoned Pettit to join them. The silence grew tense. The justices talked to Pettit, who was a qualified lawyer, as were all Clerks of the Peace. They appeared to be arguing, with Pettit shaking his head in negation. Finally, Tilbury shrugged and turned away, Seb Chandler nodded agreement, and Pettit returned to his seat.

At last Tilbury spoke. ‘The law is the law,’ he said, and Ned knew at once that his mother was ruined. ‘Alice Willard must forfeit both the amount of the loan and the additional rent or interest demanded.’ He had to raise his voice over the noise of protest. ‘No further punishment will be necessary.’

Ned stared at his mother. Alice was stricken. Until now she had been defiant. But she had been up against the full power of the Church, and her resistance had been hopeless. Now she was suddenly diminished: dazed, pale, bewildered. She looked like one who has been knocked off her feet by a charging horse.

The clerk said: ‘Next case.’

Ned and his mother left the court and walked down the main street to their house without speaking. Ned’s life had been turned upside down and he could hardly digest the implications. Six months ago he had been sure of spending his life as a merchant, and almost sure of marrying Margery. Now he had no employment and Margery was engaged to Bart.

They went into the parlour. ‘At least we won’t starve,’ Alice said. ‘We’ve still got the houses in St Mark’s.’

Ned had not expected his mother to be so pessimistic. ‘Won’t you find a way to start again?’

Alice shook her head wearily. ‘I’ll be fifty soon — I haven’t got the energy. Besides, when I look back over the past year, I seem to have lost my judgement. I should have moved some of the traffic away from Calais when the war broke out last June. I should have developed the Seville connection more. And I should never have lent money to Reginald Fitzgerald, no matter how much pressure he put on me. Now there’s no business left for you and your brother to inherit.’

‘Barney won’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘He’d rather be at sea anyway.’

‘I wonder where he is now. We must tell him, if we can locate him.’

‘He’s probably in the Spanish army.’ They had received a letter from Aunt Betsy. Barney and Carlos had got into trouble with the Inquisition and had been forced to leave Seville in a hurry. Betsy was not sure where they had gone, but a neighbour thought he had seen them listening to a recruiting captain down at the dockside.

Alice said glumly: ‘But I don’t know what you’ll do, Ned. I’ve brought you up to be a merchant.’

‘Sir William Cecil said he needed a young man like me to work for him.’

She brightened. ‘So he did. I had forgotten.’

‘He may have forgotten, too.’

Alice shook her head. ‘I doubt he ever forgets anything.’

Ned wondered what it might be like, working for Cecil, being part of Elizabeth Tudor’s household. ‘I wonder if Elizabeth will be queen one day?’

His mother spoke with sudden bitterness. ‘If she is, perhaps she’ll get rid of some of these arrogant bishops.’

Ned began to see a glimmer of hope.

Alice said: ‘I’ll write to Cecil for you, if you like.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ned said. ‘I might simply show up on his doorstep.’

‘He might simply send you home again.’

‘Yes,’ said Ned. ‘He might.’

The revenge of the Fitzgeralds continued the next day.

The weather was hot, but the south transept of Kingsbridge Cathedral was cool in the afternoon. All the leading citizens were there for the Church court. The Protestants arrested in Widow Pollard’s barn were on trial for heresy. Few people were ever found not guilty, everyone knew that. The main question was how harsh the punishments would be.

Philbert Cobley faced the most serious charges. He was not in the cathedral when Ned arrived, but Mrs Cobley stood there weeping helplessly. Pretty Ruth Cobley was red-eyed, and Dan’s round face looked uncharacteristically grim. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother were trying to give comfort.

Bishop Julius was in charge. This was his court. He was prosecutor as well as judge — and there was no jury. Beside him sat Canon Stephen Lincoln, a young sidekick, handing him documents and making notes. Next to Stephen was the dean of Kingsbridge, Luke Richards. Deans were independent of bishops and did not always follow their orders: Luke was the only hope for mercy today.

One by one the Protestants confessed their sins and recanted their beliefs. By doing so they escaped physical punishment. They were given fines, which most of them paid to the bishop immediately.

Dan Cobley was their deputy leader, according to Julius, and he was given an additional, humiliating sentence: he had to parade through the streets of Kingsbridge wearing only a nightshirt, carrying a crucifix, and chanting the paternoster in Latin.

But Philbert was the leader, and everyone was waiting to see what his sentence would be.

Suddenly the crowd’s attention turned to the nave of the church.

Following the direction in which they were looking, Ned saw Osmund Carter approaching, in his leather helmet and laced knee boots. He was with another member of the watch, and they were carrying between them a wooden chair that had on it some kind of bundle. Looking more closely, Ned saw that the bundle was Philbert Cobley.

Philbert was stocky, an imposing figure in spite of being short. Or he had been. Now his legs hung loose over the edge of the chair and his arms dangled limply at his sides. He groaned in pain constantly, his eyes closed. Ned heard Mrs Cobley scream at the sight.

The watchmen put the chair down in front of Bishop Julius and stood back.

The chair had arms that prevented Philbert from falling sideways, but he could not hold himself upright, and he began to slip down in the chair.

His family rushed to him. Dan took him under the arms and lifted him back: Philbert screamed in agony. Ruth pushed at Philbert’s hips to keep him in a sitting position. Mrs Cobley moaned: ‘Oh, Phil, my Phil, what have they done to you?’

Ned realized what had happened: Philbert had been tortured on the rack. His wrists had been attached to two posts, then his ankles had been tied with ropes that were wrapped around a geared wheel. As the gears were turned, the wheel tightened the rope and the victim’s body was stretched agonizingly. This form of torment had been devised because priests were forbidden to shed blood.

Philbert had obviously resisted, and refused to recant his beliefs, despite the pain, so the torture had continued until the shoulder and hip joints had been completely dislocated. He was now a helpless cripple.

Bishop Julius said: ‘Philbert Cobley has admitted to leading gullible fools into heresy.’

Canon Lincoln brandished a document. ‘Here is his signed confession.’

Dan Cobley approached the judges’ table. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Lincoln hesitated and looked at Julius. The court was under no obligation to the son of the accused man. But Julius probably did not want to provoke further protests from the crowd. He shrugged, and Lincoln gave the papers to Dan.