Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Also in the outer chamber was the Spanish ambassador, Álvaro de la Quadra. He was pacing restlessly and looked angry, though Ned suspected the emotion might be at least partly faked. An ambassador’s job was difficult, Ned reflected: when his master was impassioned he had to convey that emotion, whether he shared it or not.

It was only a few minutes before the secretary of state came in and swept Ned along with him to the presence chamber.

Queen Elizabeth was now thirty, and she had lost the girlish bloom that had once made her almost beautiful. She was heavier, and her fondness for sugary treats had damaged her teeth. But she was in a good mood today.

‘Before we get on to bishops, let’s have the Spanish ambassador in,’ she said. Ned guessed that she had been waiting for Cecil, not wanting to be alone for a confrontation with Quadra, who represented the most powerful monarch in Europe.

Quadra’s greetings to the queen were so brisk as to be almost offensive, then he said: ‘A Spanish galleon has been attacked by English pirates.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said the queen.

‘Three noblemen were killed! Several sailors also died, and the ship was severely damaged before the pirates fled.’

Reading between the lines, Ned guessed that the galleon had got the worst of the encounter. King Felipe’s pride was hurt, hence his ire.

Elizabeth said: ‘I’m afraid I can’t control what my subjects do when they’re at sea and far from home. No monarch can.’

What Elizabeth said was only half the truth. It was difficult to control ships at sea, but the other side of the story was that Elizabeth did not try very hard. Merchant ships could get away with murder, often literally, because of the role they played in the security of her kingdom. In times of war the monarch could order merchant ships to join forces with the royal navy. Together they formed the main defence of an island nation with no standing army. Elizabeth was like the owner of a vicious dog that is useful in scaring off intruders.

Elizabeth went on: ‘Anyway, where did this happen?’

‘Off the coast of Hispaniola.’

Cecil, who had studied law at Gray’s Inn, asked: ‘And who fired the first shot?’

That was an astute question. ‘I do not have that information,’ said Quadra, and Ned took that to mean the Spaniards had fired first. Quadra came close to confirming his suspicion when he blustered: ‘However, a ship of his majesty King Felipe would be entirely justified in firing on any vessel involved in criminal activity.’

Cecil said: ‘What sort of crime are we talking about?’

‘The English ship did not have permission to sail to New Spain. No foreign ships may do so.’

‘And do we know what the captain was up to in the New World?’

‘Selling slaves!’

Elizabeth said: ‘Let me make sure I understand you,’ and Ned wondered if Quadra could hear, as clearly as Ned could, the dangerous note in her voice. ‘An English vessel, innocently doing business with willing buyers in Hispaniola, is fired upon by a Spanish galleon — and you are complaining to me because the English fired back?’

‘They were committing a crime just by being there! Your majesty is well aware that his holiness the Pope has granted jurisdiction over the entire New World to the kings of Spain and Portugal.’

The queen’s voice became icy. ‘And his majesty King Felipe is well aware that the Pope does not have the authority to grant this or that part of God’s earth to one monarch or another at his pleasure!’

‘The holy father in his wisdom—’

‘God’s body!’ Elizabeth exploded, using a curse that deeply offended Catholics such as Quadra. ‘If you fire upon Englishmen just for being in the New World, your ships must take their chances! Don’t complain to me of the consequences. You are dismissed.’

Quadra bowed, then looked sly. ‘Don’t you want to know the name of the English ship?’

‘Tell me.’

‘It was the Hawk , based at Combe Harbour, and its captain is Jonas Bacon.’ Quadra looked at Ned. ‘The master gunner is someone called Barnabas Willard.’

Ned gasped. ‘My brother!’

‘Your brother,’ said Quadra with evident satisfaction, ‘and, by generally accepted laws, a pirate.’ He bowed again to the queen. ‘I humbly bid your majesty good day.’

When he had gone, Elizabeth said to Ned: ‘Did you know?’

‘Some of it,’ said Ned, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘Three years ago, my uncle Jan in Antwerp wrote to say that Barney was on his way home aboard the Hawk . We guessed that he got diverted. But we had no idea that he might have crossed the Atlantic!’

‘I hope he gets home safely,’ the queen said. ‘Now, speaking of Kingsbridge, who can we have as bishop?’

Ned missed his cue, still being dazed by the news of Barney; but after a pause Cecil prompted him by saying: ‘Ned knows of a suitable candidate.’

Ned shook himself. ‘Luke Richards. Aged forty-five. He’s already the dean.’

‘A friend of yours, I suppose,’ the queen said sniffily.

‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘A moderate man. He is a good Protestant — although honesty compels me to tell your majesty that five years ago he was a good Catholic.’

Cecil frowned in disapproval, but Queen Elizabeth laughed heartily. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘That’s just the kind of bishop I like!’

Margery had been married for five years, and every day of those years she had thought about running away.

Bart Shiring was not a bad husband by general standards. He had never beaten her. She had to submit to sex with him now and again, but most of the time he took his pleasure elsewhere, so in that respect he was like most noblemen. He was disappointed that they had no children, and all men believed that such a failure was the woman’s fault, but he did not accuse her of witchcraft, as some husbands would have. All the same, she hated him.

Her dream of escape took many forms. She thought about entering a French nunnery, but of course Bart would find her and bring her back. She could cut her hair, dress as a boy, and run away to sea; but there was no privacy on a ship and she would be discovered within a day. She could saddle her favourite horse one morning and just never come back, but where would she go? London appealed, but how would she make a living? She knew a little of how the world worked, and it was common knowledge that girls who fled to the big city usually ended up as prostitutes.

There were times when she was tempted to commit the sin of suicide.

What kept her alive was her clandestine work for England’s deprived Catholics. It gave meaning to her existence, and in addition it was exciting, though frightening. Without it she would have been nothing more than a sad victim of circumstance. With it she was an adventurer, an outlaw, a secret agent for God.

When Bart was away from home she was almost happy. She liked having the bed to herself: no one snoring, belching or lurching out of bed in the middle of the night to piss in the pot. She enjoyed being alone in the morning while she washed and dressed. She liked her boudoir, with its little shelf of books and sprays of greenery in jugs. She could come back to her room in the afternoon, to sit alone and read poetry or study her Latin Bible, without being asked scornfully why any normal person would want to do such a thing.

It did not happen often enough. When Bart travelled it was usually to Kingsbridge, and then Margery went with him, taking the opportunity to see friends and connect with the clandestine Catholics there. But this time Bart had gone to Combe Harbour, and Margery was enjoying her own company.