Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

But the Church favoured Mary Stuart.

The debating chamber resounded with animated conversation as everyone in the room discussed the same question. Then they fell silent when Heath stood up.

‘God this present morning called to his mercy our late sovereign lady, Queen Mary,’ he said.

The assembly gave a collective sigh. All of them either knew this or had heard rumours, but the confirmation was heavy.

‘But we have cause to rejoice with praise to Almighty God for that he left us a true, lawful and right inheritress to the crown.’

The chamber went dead silent. Heath was about to name the next queen. But which one would it be?

‘Lady Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘ whose most lawful right and title we need not doubt! ’

The room exploded in uproar. Heath carried on speaking, but no one heard. The archbishop had endorsed Elizabeth, calling her title ‘lawful’ — in direct contradiction of the Pope’s ruling. It was all over.

A few of the members of Parliament were shouting in protest, but Ned could see that most of them were cheering. Elizabeth was Parliament’s choice. Perhaps they had been afraid to reveal their feelings while the issue was in doubt, but now their inhibitions fell away. Cecil might even have underestimated Elizabeth’s popularity, Ned saw. Although there were some long faces in the chamber, men neither applauding nor cheering but sitting silent with folded arms, they were a minority. The rest were delighted. Civil war had been avoided, there would be no foreign king, the burnings would end. Ned realized that he was cheering, too.

Heath left the chamber, followed by most of the Privy Council, and stood on the steps outside to repeat his proclamation to the waiting crowd.

He then announced that he would read it again in the city of London. But before he left he beckoned to Ned. ‘I expect you’ll ride to Hatfield now with the news,’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord archbishop.’

‘You may tell Queen Elizabeth that I will be with her before nightfall.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t stop to celebrate until after you have delivered the message.’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

Heath left.

Ned ran back to the Coach and Horses. A few minutes later he was on the road to Hatfield.

He had a good, steady mare which he trotted and walked alternately. He was afraid to push her too hard for fear she would break down. Speed was not crucial, as long as he got there before Heath.

He had set off at mid-morning, and it was mid-afternoon when he saw the red-brick gables of Hatfield Palace ahead.

Hopkins was there already, presumably, so everyone already knew that Queen Mary Tudor was dead. But no one knew who was the new monarch.

As he rode into the courtyard, several grooms shouted at once: ‘What’s the news?’

Ned decided that Elizabeth herself must be the first to know. He said nothing to the grooms and kept his face expressionless.

Elizabeth was in her parlour with Cecil, Tom Parry and Nell Baynsford. They all stared at him in tense silence as he walked in, still wearing his heavy riding cloak.

He walked up to Elizabeth. He tried to remain solemn, but he could not help smiling. She read his expression and he saw her lips move slightly in a responding smile.

‘You are the queen of England,’ he said. He took off his hat, bent his knee and made a deep, sweeping bow. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said.

We were happy, because we had no idea how much trouble we were causing. It was not just me, of course: I was the junior partner with others who were older and a good deal wiser. But none of us saw the future.

We had been warned. Rollo Fitzgerald had lectured me on how much opposition Queen Elizabeth would face, and what a pitiful few European leaders would support her. I paid him no heed, but he was right, the sanctimonious bastard.

What we did in that momentous year of 1558 caused political strife, revolt, civil war and invasion. There were times, in later years, when in the depths of despair I would wonder whether it had been worth it. The simple idea that people should be allowed to worship as they wished caused more suffering than the ten plagues of Egypt.

So, if I had known then what I know now, would I have done the same?

Hell, yes.

Strolling along the southern side of the Île de la Cité on a sunny Friday in June, with the winged cathedral on one side and the sparkling river on the other, Sylvie Palot said to Pierre Aumande: ‘Do you want to marry me, or not?’

She had the satisfaction of seeing a flash of panic in his eyes. This was unusual. His equanimity was not easily disturbed: he was always controlled.

He regained his composure so quickly that she might almost have imagined the lapse. ‘Of course I want to marry you, my darling,’ he said, and he looked hurt. ‘How could you ask such a question?’

She regretted it instantly. She adored him, and hated to see him upset in any way. He looked especially lovable now, with the breeze off the river ruffling his blond mane. But she hardened her heart and persisted with her question. ‘We’ve been betrothed for more than a year. It’s too long.’

Everything else in Sylvie’s life was good. Her father’s bookshop was booming, and he was planning to open a second store on the other side of the river, in the university quarter. His illegal trade in French-language Bibles and other banned books was going even better. Hardly a day went by when Sylvie did not go to the secret warehouse in the rue du Mur for a book or two to sell to a Protestant family. New Protestant congregations were coming up like bluebells in spring, in Paris and elsewhere. As well as spreading the true gospel, the Palots were making healthy profits.

But Pierre’s behaviour puzzled and troubled her.

‘I need to finish my studies, and Father Moineau refused to allow me to continue as a married student,’ he said now. ‘I explained that to you, and you agreed to wait.’

‘For a year. And in a few days’ time lectures will be over for the summer. We have my parents’ consent. We have enough money. We can live over the shop, at least until we have children. But you haven’t said anything.’

‘I’ve written to my mother.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I’m waiting for her answer.’

‘What was the question?’

‘Whether she’s well enough to travel to Paris for the wedding.’

‘And if she’s not?’

‘Let’s not worry about that unless it happens.’

Sylvie was not happy with this response, but she let it drop for the moment, and said: ‘Where shall we have the official ceremony?’ Pierre glanced up at the towers of Notre Dame, and she laughed and said: ‘Not there. That’s for the nobility.’

‘At the parish church, I assume.’

‘And then we’ll have our real wedding at our own church.’ She meant the old hunting lodge in the forest. Protestants still could not worship openly in Paris, though they did in some French cities.

‘I suppose we’ll have to invite the marchioness,’ Pierre said with a grimace of dislike.

‘As the building belongs to her husband...’ It was unfortunate that Pierre had got off on the wrong foot with Marchioness Louise, and afterwards had not been able to win her round. In fact, the more he tried to charm her, the frostier she became. Sylvie had expected him to brush this aside with a laugh, but it seemed he could not. It made him furious, and Sylvie realized that her outwardly self-assured fiancé was, in fact, deeply sensitive to any kind of social slight.

His vulnerability made her love him more, but it also troubled her, though she was not sure why.