Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Ned followed Parry into the house. The place was gloomy and somewhat decrepit: Elizabeth might have a royal income, but clearly it did not stretch to refurbishing a palace.

Parry opened a door, looked in, and said: ‘Do you want to receive a Ned Willard from Kingsbridge, Sir William?’

A voice inside answered: ‘Very well.’

Parry turned to Ned. ‘Go in.’

The room was large, but not richly decorated; a working office, with ledgers on shelves, rather than a reception room. Cecil sat at a writing table, with pens and ink, paper and sealing-wax. He wore a black velvet doublet that looked too warm for summer weather — but he was sedentary, and Ned had been walking in the sun.

‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Cecil said when he saw Ned. ‘Alice Willard’s boy.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just a little wary. ‘Is your mother well?’

‘She’s lost all her money, Sir William,’ Ned replied. ‘Most of our fortune was in Calais.’

‘Several good men have suffered a similar fate. We were foolish to declare war on France. But why have you come to me? I can’t get Calais back.’

‘When we met, at the earl of Shiring’s banquet, you said you were looking for a young man a bit like myself, to help you in your work for the lady Elizabeth. My mother told you I was destined to work in the family business, and therefore unavailable — but now there is no business. I don’t know whether you found someone...’

‘I did,’ said Cecil, and Ned was crestfallen. Then Cecil added: ‘But he turned out to be a bad choice.’

Ned brightened again. ‘I would be honoured and grateful if you would consider me for the position,’ he said eagerly.

‘I don’t know,’ Cecil said. ‘This is not one of those posts that exists to provide an income for a courtier. It requires real work.’

‘I’m prepared to work.’

‘Perhaps, but to be frank, a boy from a rich background whose family have fallen on bad times does not usually make a good assistant: he’s liable to be too accustomed to giving the orders himself, and he may find it strange that anyone should expect him to do what he’s told promptly and conscientiously. He just wants the money.’

‘I want more than the money.’

‘You do?’

‘Sir William, two weeks ago we burned a Protestant in Kingsbridge — our first.’ Ned knew he should not get emotional, but he could hardly help it. ‘As I watched him die screaming, I remembered what you said to me about Elizabeth’s wish that no one should be killed for his faith.’

Cecil nodded.

‘I want her to be queen one day,’ Ned said passionately. ‘I want our country to be a place where Catholics and Protestants don’t kill one another. When the moment comes, I want to be with you as you help Elizabeth to win the throne. That’s the real reason I’m here.’

Cecil stared hard at Ned, as if trying to look into his heart and determine whether he was sincere. After a long pause he said: ‘All right. I’ll give you a trial.’

‘Thank you,’ Ned said fervently. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’

Ned was still in love with Margery Fitzgerald, but he would have gone to bed with Elizabeth in a heartbeat.

And yet she was not beautiful. She had a big nose and a small chin, and her eyes were too close together. But, paradoxically, she was irresistibly alluring: astonishingly clever, as charming as a kitten, and shamelessly flirtatious. The effect was hardly reduced by her imperiousness and her occasional bad temper. Men and women adored her even after she had scolded them cruelly. Ned had never met anyone remotely like her. She was overpowering.

She spoke French to him, mocked his hesitant Latin, and was disappointed that he could not help her practise her Spanish. She let him read any of her books that he fancied, on condition that he discussed them with her. She asked him questions about her finances that made it clear she understood accounts as well as he did.

Within a few days he learned the answers to two key questions.

First, Elizabeth was not plotting against Queen Mary Tudor. In fact, she expressed a horror of treason that seemed genuine to Ned. However, she was preparing, quite methodically, to make a bid for the throne after Mary’s death, whenever that might be. Cecil’s Christmas trip to Kingsbridge had been part of a programme in which he, and other allies of Elizabeth, visited the most important cities in England to assess her support — and opposition. Ned’s admiration for Cecil grew fast: the man thought strategically, judging every issue by its long-term effect on the destiny of the princess he served.

Second, Elizabeth was a Protestant, despite Cecil’s pretence that she had no strong religious convictions. She went to Mass and performed every Catholic ritual that was expected of her, but that was for show. Her favourite book was Paraphrases of the New Testament by Erasmus. Most telling was her bad language. She used swear words that Catholics considered offensive. In polite company she chose phrases that were not quite blasphemous: ‘blood’ instead of ‘God’s blood’; ‘zounds’ for ‘God’s wounds’; and ‘marry’ for ‘Mary’. But in private she was more profane, saying: ‘by the Mass’ and — her favourite — ‘God’s body!’

In the mornings she studied with her tutor, and Ned sat in Cecil’s office with the ledgers. Elizabeth had a lot of property, and a major part of Ned’s job was making sure that she was paid the rents due to her in full and on time. After the midday meal Elizabeth relaxed, and sometimes she liked her favourite servants to chat with her. They would sit in a room known as the bishop’s parlour, which had the most comfortable chairs, a chess board, and a virginal on which Elizabeth would sometimes pick out tunes. Her governess, Nell Baynsford, was always there, and sometimes Tom Parry, who was her treasurer.

Ned was not a member of this exclusive inner circle, but one day, when Cecil was absent, he was called in to talk about plans for Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth birthday on 7 September, a couple of weeks away. Should they try to arrange a big celebration in London, which would require the permission of the queen, or something more modest here at Hatfield, where they could do what they liked?

They were deep in discussion when a surprise visitor arrived.

They heard the clatter of hooves as several horses came through the arched gateway into the central courtyard. Ned went to the leaded window and peered out through the smoky glass. There were six riders, and their mounts were powerful, costly beasts. Elizabeth’s grooms came out of the stables to deal with the horses. Ned looked harder at the leader of the group and was astonished to recognize him. ‘It’s Earl Swithin!’ he said. ‘What does he want here?’

Ned’s first thought was that the visit must have something to do with the coming marriage of the earl’s son, Bart, to the girl Ned loved, Margery. But this was a fantasy. Even if the engagement had been broken off, the earl would not trouble to tell Ned.

What, then?

The visitors were ushered into the house, taking off their dusty cloaks. A few minutes later a servant came into the parlour to say that the earl of Shiring would like to speak to the lady Elizabeth, and Elizabeth ordered that he should be shown in.

Earl Swithin was a big man with a loud voice, and when he entered, he filled the room with his presence. Ned, Nell and Tom stood up, but Elizabeth remained sitting, perhaps to emphasize that her royal blood counted for more than Swithin’s greater age. He made a deep bow, but spoke in familiar tones, like an uncle to a niece. ‘I’m pleased to see you looking so well, and so beautiful,’ he said.

‘This is an unexpected delight,’ Elizabeth said. The compliment was fulsome but her tone was wary. Clearly she mistrusted Swithin — and so she should, Ned thought. Loyal Catholics such as Swithin had prospered under Queen Mary Tudor, and they feared a return to Protestantism, so they did not want Elizabeth to become queen.