Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Dan looked stubborn and said nothing.

‘You have to trust me,’ Ned said urgently. ‘Come on!’

‘At least two thousand,’ Dan said at last.

‘What?’ Ned was pleasantly surprised. ‘I imagined a few hundred at most.’

‘There’s more than one group. And the numbers have increased since June.’

‘Because of what happened to your father?’

Dan looked bitter. ‘More because of what happened to your mother. They’re scared to do business. No deal is safe now. Most of these people don’t care about a Protestant martyr, but they can’t live with a Church that steals their money.’

Ned nodded. He suspected Dan was right. Few people became passionate about doctrinal disputes, but everyone had to make a living, and a Church that stopped them doing that was bound to run into trouble.

Ned said: ‘I’ve come here from Hatfield with one question for you, Dan, and I could be in danger just for asking it, so please think before you answer.’

Dan looked scared. ‘Don’t involve me in anything treasonable!’

That was exactly what Ned was about to do. He said: ‘Out of those two thousand Protestants, how many able-bodied men could you muster, when the queen dies, to fight for Elizabeth against the supporters of Mary Stuart?’

Dan looked away. ‘I have no idea.’

He was prevaricating, Ned knew. He moved closer to Dan, pressing the point. ‘What if a group of Catholic noblemen, led perhaps by Earl Swithin, were to muster an army to march on Hatfield, intending to take Elizabeth prisoner while they wait for Mary Stuart and her hard-line uncles to arrive from France? Would you stand by and let that happen?’

‘Four hundred Kingsbridge men won’t make any difference.’

So it was four hundred, Ned thought. That was the information he needed. He was pleased: it was more than he had expected. He said: ‘Do you imagine you’re the only brave Protestants in England?’ He lowered his voice more. ‘Every city in the land has a group like yours, ready to march to Hatfield and defend Elizabeth, waiting only for the word from her.’

For the first time, Dan’s face was lit by hope — albeit hope of revenge. ‘Is that true?’ he said.

It was something of an exaggeration, but not entirely untrue. Ned said: ‘If you want the freedom to worship in the way you so passionately believe is right — and to do so without the fear, every minute, that you might be burned alive for it — then you must be ready to fight, and I mean fight with swords.’

Dan nodded thoughtfully.

‘And there’s one other thing you have to do,’ Ned went on. ‘Watch what Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald are up to. Send a fast messenger to me at Hatfield as soon as they do anything unusual, such as stockpiling weapons. Early information is the key.’

Dan said nothing. Ned stared at him, waiting for a reply, hoping for assent. At last Dan said: ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said.’ Then he walked away.

Ned was frustrated. He had felt confident that Dan would be eager to revenge the killing of his father by leading a Kingsbridge militia to fight for Elizabeth, and he had assured Sir William Cecil of it. Perhaps he had been overconfident.

Discouraged, Ned made his way back across the square, heading for where his mother stood. Halfway there he found himself facing Rollo Fitzgerald, who said: ‘What news of the queen?’

It was on everyone’s minds, of course.

Ned said: ‘She is gravely ill.’

‘There are rumours that Elizabeth intends to permit Protestantism if she becomes queen.’ Rollo made it sound like an accusation.

‘Rumours, indeed?’ Ned had no intention of getting into that kind of discussion. He moved to step around Rollo.

But Rollo blocked his way. ‘Or even that she wants to turn England to heresy, as her father did.’ Rollo lifted his chin aggressively. ‘Is it true?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Consider this,’ said Rollo, who could ignore a question as effortlessly as Ned. ‘If she tries it, who will oppose her? Rome, of course.’

‘Indeed,’ said Ned. ‘The Pope’s policy on Protestants is extermination.’

Rollo put his hands on his hips and leaned forward belligerently. The stance was familiar to Ned from their schooldays: this was Rollo playing the bully. ‘She will also be opposed by the king of Spain, who is the richest and most powerful man in the world.’

‘Perhaps.’ The position of Spain was not that simple, but there was certainly some danger that King Felipe would try to undermine Elizabeth.

‘And the king of France, probably the second most powerful.’

‘Hmm.’ That, too, was a real danger.

‘Not to mention the king of Portugal and the queen of Scots.’

Ned was pretending to be indifferent to this argument, but Rollo was dismayingly right. Almost all Europe was going to turn on Elizabeth if she did what Ned knew perfectly well she intended to do. He had known all this, but Rollo’s summation was hammering the points home with chilling effect.

Rollo went on: ‘And who would support her? The king of Sweden and the queen of Navarre.’ Navarre was a small kingdom between Spain and France.

‘You paint a dramatic picture.’

Rollo came uncomfortably close. He was tall, and loomed threateningly over Ned. ‘She would be very foolish indeed to quarrel with so many powerful men.’

Ned said: ‘Take a step back, Rollo. If you don’t, I promise you, I will pick you up with both hands and throw you.’

Rollo looked uncertain.

Ned put a hand on Rollo’s shoulder, in a gesture that might have been friendly, and said: ‘I won’t tell you twice.’

Rollo pushed Ned’s hand off his shoulder, but then he turned away.

‘That’s how Elizabeth and I deal with bullies,’ said Ned.

There was a fanfare of trumpets, and the bride appeared.

Ned caught his breath. She looked wonderful. Her dress was a pale sky-blue with a dark blue underskirt. It had a high collar that stood up dramatically behind like a fan, framing her curly hair. Her jewelled headdress had a plume at an angle.

Ned heard a group of girls nearby murmur approval. Glancing at their faces, he saw mainly envy. It occurred to him that Margery had hooked the man they all wanted. Bart must be the most eligible bachelor in the county. They thought she had won first prize. How wrong they were.

Sir Reginald walked beside her, looking proud in a doublet of gorgeous red silk embroidered with gold thread, and Ned thought angrily: He paid for all this with my mother’s money.

Ned studied Margery’s expression as she came across the square, looking tiny and helpless as she approached the massive stones of the west front. What was she thinking? Her lips were set in a half-smile, and she looked from side to side, nodding at friends. She seemed confident and proud. But Ned knew her better. Serenity was not her mode. The natural Margery was playful, mischievous, amused and amusing. There was no laughter in her today. She was putting on an act, like the boy impersonating Mary Magdalene in the play.

As she passed where he stood, she caught his eye.

She had not known he would be here, and she was shocked. Her eyes widened in dismay. She looked away from him immediately, but she had lost her self-possession. Her fixed smile faltered, and a moment later she stumbled.

Ned stepped forward automatically to help her, but he was five yards away. Sir Reginald, next to her, caught her arm. But his reaction was late and his arm was not strong enough to save her. She lost her balance and went down on her knees.

The crowd gasped. It was bad luck. A fall on the way to your wedding was the worst possible omen for your married life.

Margery remained on her knees for a few seconds, catching her breath and trying to regain her composure, while her family clustered around her. Ned was one of many people trying to look over their shoulders to see if she was all right. Those farther away in the crowd were asking each other what had happened.