Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘I’m sorry,’ Reginald said to Swithin. ‘There’s a difficulty.’

Rollo eased his horse forward so that he was at the front with Swithin and Bart. ‘What on earth is the matter?’ he said.

His father seemed in despair. ‘If you will dismount and come with me, I’ll show you,’ he said.

Swithin said irascibly: ‘This is a poor way to welcome a holy crusade!’

‘I know,’ said Reginald. ‘Believe me, I am mortified. But come and look.’

The three leaders got off their horses. Swithin summoned the captains, gave them money, and told them to get barrels of beer sent over from the Slaughterhouse tavern to keep the men happy.

Reginald led them across the double bridge into the city, and up the main street to the market square.

There they saw an astonishing sight.

The market stalls were closed, the temporary structures having been removed, and the square had been cleared. Forty or fifty stout tree trunks, all six or eight inches in diameter, had been firmly planted in the hard winter earth. Several hundred young men stood around the stakes, and Rollo saw, with increasing astonishment, that all of them had wooden swords and shields.

It was an army in training.

As they watched, a leader performed a demonstration on a raised stage, attacking the stake with wooden sword and shield, using right and left arms alternately in a rhythm that — Rollo could imagine — would have been effective on the battlefield. When the demonstration was over, all the others tried to imitate his actions, taking it in turns.

Rollo recalled seeing similar exercises in Oxford, when Queen Mary Tudor had been preparing to send an English army to France to support the Spanish war. The stakes were called pells. They were firmly seated and difficult to knock over. At first, he remembered, untrained men’s swings were so wild that they sometimes missed the pell entirely. They quickly learned to aim carefully and hit harder. He had heard military men say that a few afternoons of pell practice could turn a hopeless yokel into a halfway dangerous soldier.

Rollo saw Dan Cobley among the trainees, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

This was a Protestant army.

They would not call themselves that, of course. They would claim to be preparing to resist a Spanish invasion, perhaps. Sir Reginald and Bishop Julius would not have believed them, but what could they do? The dozen or so men of the city watch could not arrest and jail several hundred, even if the trainees had been breaking the law, which they probably were not.

Rollo watched in despair as the young men attacked the pells, rapidly becoming more focussed and effective. ‘This is not a coincidence,’ he said. ‘They heard of the approach of our army, and mustered their own to obstruct us.’

Reginald said: ‘Earl Swithin, if your army enters the town, there will be a pitched battle in the streets.’

‘My strong-armed village lads will smash these puny city Protestants.’

‘The aldermen will not admit your men.’

‘Overrule the cowards,’ Swithin said.

‘I don’t have the right. And they have said they will arrest me if I try.’

‘Let them. We’ll get you out of jail.’

Bart said: ‘We’ll have to fight our way across that damn bridge.’

‘We can do that,’ Swithin blustered.

‘We’d lose a lot of men.’

‘That’s what they’re for.’

‘But then who would we take to Hatfield?’

Rollo watched Swithin’s face. It was not in his character to yield, even when the odds were against him. His expression showed furious indecision.

Bart said: ‘I wonder if the same thing is happening elsewhere — Protestants getting ready to fight, I mean.’

This had not occurred to Rollo. When he had proposed that Swithin raise a small army, he should have guessed that the Protestants would be thinking the same way. He had foreseen a neat coup d’état, but instead he was facing a bloody civil war. And instinct told him that the English people did not want a civil war — and might well turn on men who started one.

It was beginning to look as if the peasant lads would have to be sent home.

Two men emerged from the nearby Bell Inn and came hurrying over. Seeing them, Reginald remembered something. ‘There’s a message for you, earl,’ he said. ‘These two men got here an hour ago. I told them to wait rather than risk missing you on the road.’

Rollo recognized the men Swithin had sent to Lambeth Palace. What had Archbishop Pole said? That could prove crucial. With his encouragement, perhaps Swithin’s army could continue to Hatfield. Without it, they might be wiser to disband.

The older of the two couriers spoke. ‘There’s no reply from the cardinal,’ he said.

Rollo’s heart sank.

‘What do you mean, no reply?’ Swithin said angrily. ‘He must have said something.’

‘We spoke to his clerk, Canon Robinson. He told us the cardinal was too ill to read your letter, let alone reply to it.’

‘Why, he must be at death’s door!’ said Swithin.

‘Yes, my lord.’

This was catastrophic, Rollo thought. England’s leading ultra-Catholic was dying at this turning point in the country’s history. The fact changed everything. The idea of kidnapping Elizabeth and sending for Mary Stuart had seemed, until now, like a hopeful enterprise with a great chance of success. Now it looked suicidal.

Sometimes, Rollo reflected, fate seemed to be on the side of the devil.

Ned moved to London and haunted St James’s Palace, waiting for news of Queen Mary Tudor.

She weakened dramatically on 16 November, a day that Protestants began to call Hope Wednesday even before the sun went down. Ned was in the shivering crowd outside the tall red-brick gatehouse the following morning, just before dawn, when a servant, hurrying out with a message, whispered: ‘She’s gone.’

Ned ran across the road to the Coach and Horses tavern. He ordered a horse to be saddled, then woke his messenger, Peter Hopkins. While Hopkins was getting dressed and drinking a flagon of ale for breakfast, Ned wrote a note telling Elizabeth that Mary Tudor was dead. Then he saw the man off to Hatfield.

He returned to the gatehouse and found the crowd grown larger.

For the next two hours he watched important courtiers and less important messengers hurry in and out. But when he saw Nicholas Heath emerge, he followed him.

Heath was probably the most powerful man in England. He was archbishop of York, Queen Mary’s Chancellor, and the holder of the Great Seal. Cecil had tried to win him to the cause of Elizabeth, but Heath had remained uncommitted. Now he would have to jump — one way or the other.

Heath and his entourage rode the short distance to Westminster, where members of Parliament would be gathering for the morning session. Ned and others ran behind them. Another crowd was already forming at Westminster. Heath announced that he would address the lords and commons together, and they assembled in the House of Lords.

Ned tried to slip in with Heath’s entourage, but a guard stopped him. Ned pretended to be surprised, and said: ‘I represent the princess Elizabeth. She has ordered me to attend and report to her.’

The guard was disposed to make trouble, but Heath heard the altercation and intervened. ‘I’ve met you, young man,’ he said to Ned. ‘With Sir William Cecil, I think.’

‘Yes, my lord archbishop.’ It was true, though Ned was surprised that Heath remembered.

‘Let him in,’ Heath said to the guard.

The fact that Parliament was sitting meant that the succession could happen quickly, especially if Heath backed Elizabeth. She was popular, she was the sister of Queen Mary Tudor, and she was only twenty miles away. Mary Stuart, by contrast, was unknown to the English, she had a French husband, and she was in Paris. Expediency favoured Elizabeth.