5
Margery’s wedding was postponed.
After the fall of Calais, England expected to be invaded, and Bart Shiring was deputed to raise a hundred men-at-arms and garrison Combe Harbour. The wedding would have to wait.
For Ned Willard, postponement was hope.
Towns such as Kingsbridge were hastily repairing their walls, and earls reinforcing their castles. Ports scraped the rust off the ancient cannons on their sea fronts, and demanded that the local nobility do their duty and defend the population against the dreaded French.
People blamed Queen Mary Tudor. It was all her fault, for marrying the king of Spain. Were it not for him Calais would still be English, England would not be at war with France, and there would be no need for city walls and waterfront cannons.
Ned was glad. While Margery and Bart remained unmarried, anything could happen: Bart could change his mind, or be killed in battle, or die of the shivering fever that was sweeping the country.
Margery was the woman Ned wanted, and that was that. The world was full of attractive girls, but none of them counted: she was the one. He did not really understand why he was so sure. He just knew that Margery would always be there, like the cathedral.
He regarded her engagement as a setback, not a defeat.
Bart and his squadron mustered in Kingsbridge to travel by barge to Combe Harbour on the Saturday before Holy Week. That morning, a crowd gathered at the river to cheer the men off. Ned joined them. He wanted to be sure that Bart really went.
It was cold but sunny, and the waterfront looked festive. Downstream of Merthin’s Bridge, boats and barges were moored on both banks and all around Leper Island. On the far side, in the suburb of Loversfield, warehouses and workshops jostled for space. From Kingsbridge the river was navigable, by shallow-draught vessels, all the way to the coast. Kingsbridge had long been one of the biggest market towns in England; now it did business with Europe, too.
A big barge was docking on the near bank when Ned arrived at Slaughterhouse Wharf. This had to be the vessel that would take Bart and his company to Combe Harbour. Twenty men had rowed upriver, assisted by a single sail. Now they rested on their oars while the barge was poled into a berth. The downriver voyage would be easier, even with a hundred passengers.
The Fitzgeralds came down the main street to give an enthusiastic send-off to the man who was set to become their son-in-law. Sir Reginald and Rollo walked side by side, old and new editions of the same tall, thin, self-righteous book; Ned stared at them with hatred and contempt. Margery and Lady Jane were behind them, one small and sexy, one small and mean.
Ned believed that Rollo saw Margery as nothing more than a means to power and prestige. Many men had this attitude to the girls in their family, but in Ned’s eyes it was the opposite of love. If Rollo was fond of his sister, it was no more than the emotion he might have felt towards a horse: he might like it, but he would sell or trade it if necessary.
Sir Reginald was no better. Ned suspected that Lady Jane was not quite so ruthless, but she would always put the interests of the family before the happiness of any individual member, and in the end that led her to the same cruelty.
Ned watched Margery go up to Bart. He was preening, proud to have the prettiest girl in Kingsbridge as his fiancée.
Ned studied her. It almost seemed as if there was a different person wearing the bright coat of Kingsbridge Scarlet and the little hat with the feather. She stood straight and still, and although she was talking to Bart, her face was like that of a statue. Everything about her expressed resolution, not animation. The imp of mischief had vanished.
But no one could change so quickly. That imp must still be inside her somewhere.
He knew she was miserable, and that made him angry as well as sad. He wanted to pick her up and run away with her. At night he elaborated fantasies in which the two of them slipped out of Kingsbridge at dawn and disappeared into the forest. Sometimes they walked to Winchester and got married under false names; or they made their way to London and set up in some business; they even went to Combe Harbour and took ship to Seville. But he could not save her unless she wanted to be saved.
The oarsmen disembarked and went into the nearest tavern, the Slaughterhouse, to quench their thirsts. A passenger got off the barge, and Ned stared at him in surprise. Wrapped in a grubby cloak and carrying a battered leather satchel, the man had the wearily dogged look of the long-distance traveller. It was Ned’s cousin Albin from Calais.
They were the same age, and had become close while Ned was living with Uncle Dick.
Ned hurried to the quay. ‘Albin?’ he said. ‘Is it you?’
Albin replied in French. ‘Ned, at last,’ he said. ‘What a relief.’
‘What happened in Calais? We still haven’t had definite information, even after all this time.’
‘It’s all bad news,’ Albin said. ‘My parents and my sister are dead, and we’ve lost everything. The French crown seized the warehouse and handed over everything to French merchants.’
‘We were afraid of that.’ It was the news the Willards had been dreading for so long, and Ned felt deeply dispirited. He was particularly sad for his mother, who had lost her life’s work. She would be devastated. But Albin had suffered a much greater loss. ‘I’m so sorry about your parents and
They walked up the main street. ‘I managed to escape from the town,’ Albin said. ‘But I had no money, and, anyway, it’s impossible to get passage from France to England now because of the war. That’s why you’ve had no news.’
‘So how did you get here?’
‘First I had to leave France, so I crossed the border into the Netherlands. But I still didn’t have the fare to England. So I had to get to our uncle in Antwerp.’
Ned nodded. ‘Jan Wolman, our fathers’ cousin.’ Jan had visited Calais while Ned was there, so both he and Albin had met him.
‘So I walked to Antwerp.’
‘That’s more than a hundred miles.’
‘And my feet felt every yard. I took a lot of wrong turnings, and I nearly starved to death, but I got there.’
‘Well done. Uncle Jan took you in, no doubt.’
‘He was wonderful. He fed me beef and wine, and Aunt Hennie bandaged my feet. Then Jan bought me passage from Antwerp to Combe Harbour, and a new pair of shoes, and gave me money for the journey.’
‘And here you are.’ They arrived at the door of the Willard house. Ned escorted Albin into the parlour. Alice was sitting at a table placed near the window for light, writing in a ledger. There was a big fire in the grate, and she was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. No one ever got warm keeping books, she sometimes said. ‘Mother, here’s Albin, arrived from Calais.’
Alice put down her pen. ‘Welcome, Albin.’ She turned back to Ned. ‘Fetch your cousin something to eat and drink.’
Ned went to the kitchen and asked the housekeeper, Janet Fife, to serve wine and cake.
Back in the parlour, Albin told his story. He spoke French, with Ned translating the parts his mother did not understand.
It brought tears to Ned’s eyes. The portly figure of his mother seemed to shrink in the chair as the grim details came out: her brother-in-law dead, with wife and daughter; the warehouse given to a French merchant, with all its contents; strangers living in Dick’s house. ‘Poor Dick,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Poor Dick.’
Ned said: ‘I’m so sorry, Mother.’
Alice made an effort to sit upright and be positive. ‘We’re not ruined, not quite. I still have this house and four hundred pounds. And I own six houses by St Mark’s church.’ The St Mark’s cottages were her inheritance from her father, and brought a small income in rents. ‘That’s more wealth than most people see in a lifetime.’ Then she was struck by a worrying thought. ‘Though now I wish my four hundred pounds were not on loan to Sir Reginald Fitzgerald.’
‘All the better,’ said Ned. ‘If he doesn’t pay it back, we get the priory.’
‘Speaking of that,’ said his mother, ‘Albin, do you know anything of an English ship called the St Margaret?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Albin. ‘It came into Calais for repairs the day before the French attack.’
‘What happened to the ship?’
‘It was seized by the French crown, like all the other English property in Calais – spoils of war. The hold was full of furs. They were auctioned on the quayside; they sold for more than five hundred pounds.’
Ned and Alice looked at each other. This was a bombshell. Alice said: ‘So Reginald has lost his investment. My goodness, I’m not sure he can survive this.’
Ned said: ‘And he’ll forfeit the priory.’
Alice said grimly: ‘There will be trouble.’
‘I know,’ said Ned. ‘He’ll squeal. But we will have a new business.’ He began to brighten. ‘We can make a fresh start.’
Alice, always courteous, said: ‘Albin, you may like a wash and a clean shirt. Janet Fife will give you everything you need. And then we’ll have dinner.’
‘Thank you, Aunt Alice.’
‘It is I who thank you for making this long journey and bringing me the facts at last, terrible though they are.’
Ned studied his mother’s face. She had been rocked by the news, even though it was not unexpected. He felt desperate to do something to renew her spirits. ‘We could go and look at the priory now,’ he said. ‘We can begin to figure out how we’ll parcel out space, and whatnot.’
She looked apathetic, then she made an effort. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘It’s ours now.’ She got to her feet.
They left the house and crossed the market square to the south side of the cathedral.
Ned’s father, Edmund, had been mayor of Kingsbridge when King Henry VIII began to abolish the monasteries. Alice had told Ned that Edmund and Prior Paul – the last prior of Kingsbridge, as things turned out – had seen what was coming, and conspired together to save the school. They had separated the school from the priory and given it self-government and an endowment. Two hundred years earlier, something similar had been done with Caris’s Hospital, and Edmund had taken that as a model. So the town still had a great school and a famous hospital. The rest of the priory was a ruin.
The main door was locked, but the walls were falling down, and they found a place at the back of the old kitchen where they could clamber over rubble into the premises.
Other people had had the same idea. Ned saw the ashes of a recent fire, a few scattered meat bones, and a rotted-out wineskin: someone had spent a night here, probably with an illicit lover. There was a smell of decay inside the buildings, and the droppings of birds and rodents were everywhere. ‘And the monks were always so clean,’ Alice said dismally, looking around. ‘Nothing is permanent, except change.’
Despite the dilapidation, Ned felt a keen sense of anticipation. All this now belonged to his family. Something wonderful could be made of it. How clever his mother was, to think of it – and just when the family needed a rescue plan.
They made their way to the cloisters and stood in the middle of the overgrown herb garden, by the ruined fountain where the monks used to wash their hands. Looking all around the arcade, Ned saw that many of the columns and vaults, parapets and arches were still sound, despite decades of neglect. The Kingsbridge masons had built well.
‘We should start here,’ said Alice. ‘We’ll knock an archway through the west wall, so that people can see in from the market square. We can divide the cloisters up into small shops, one to each bay.’
‘That would give us twenty-four,’ Ned said, counting. ‘Twenty-three, if we use one for the entrance.’
‘The public can come into the quadrangle and look around.’
Ned could picture it, just as his mother obviously could: the stalls with bright textiles, fresh fruits and vegetables, boots and belts, cheese and wine; the stallholders calling their wares, charming their customers, taking money and making change; and the shoppers in their best clothes, clutching their purses, looking and touching and sniffing while they gossiped with their neighbours. Ned liked markets: they were where prosperity came from.
‘We don’t need to do a lot of work, initially,’ Alice went on. ‘We’ll have to clean the place up, but the stallholders can bring their own tables, and anything else they need. Once the market is up and running, and making money, we can think about repairing the stonework, renewing the roof, and paving the quadrangle.’
Suddenly Ned felt they were being watched. He turned around. The south door of the cathedral was open, and Bishop Julius stood in the cloister, hands like claws on his bony hips, blue eyes glaring at them balefully. Ned felt guilty, though he had no reason to: priests had that effect, he had noticed.
Alice saw the bishop a moment later. She grunted with surprise. Then she muttered: ‘I suppose we might as well get this over with.’
Julius shouted indignantly: ‘What do you two think you’re doing here?’
‘Good day, my lord bishop.’ Alice walked towards him, and Ned followed. ‘I’m examining my property.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I own the priory now.’
‘No, you don’t. Sir Reginald does.’ The bishop’s cadaverous face registered scorn, but Ned could see that beneath the bluster he was worried.
‘Reginald pledged the priory to me as security for a loan he can’t repay. He bought the cargo of a ship called the St Margaret that has been confiscated by the French king, and he’ll never get his money back. So now the property becomes mine. Naturally, I want us to be good neighbours, bishop, and I look forward to discussing my plans—’
‘Wait a minute. You can’t enforce that pledge.’
‘On the contrary. Kingsbridge is a trading city with a reputation for respecting contracts. Our prosperity depends on that. So does yours.’
‘Reginald promised to sell the priory back to the Church – to which it rightfully belongs.’
‘Then Sir Reginald broke his promise to you when he pledged it as security for his loan. All the same, I’d be happy to sell the property to you, if that’s what you would like.’
Ned held his breath. He knew his mother did not really want to do this.
Alice went on: ‘Pay me the amount Reginald owes me, and the place is yours. Four hundred and twenty-four pounds.’
‘Four hundred and twenty-four?’ Bishop Julius repeated, as if there was something odd about the number.
‘Yes.’
The priory was worth more than that, Ned thought. If Julius had any sense he would snap up this offer. But perhaps he did not have the money.
The bishop said indignantly: ‘Reginald offered it to me at the price he paid for it – eighty pounds!’
‘That would have been a pious gift, not a business transaction.’
‘You should do the same.’
‘Reginald’s habit of selling things for less than they’re worth may be the reason he’s now penniless.’
The bishop shifted his ground. ‘What would you propose to do with these ruins?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Alice lied. ‘Let me develop some ideas, then come and talk to you.’ Ned guessed she did not want to give Julius the chance to start a campaign against the market even before the plans were finished.
‘Whatever you try to do, I’ll stop you.’
That was not going to happen, Ned thought. Every alderman on the council knew how badly the town needed more space for citizens to sell their goods. Several of them were desperate for premises themselves, and would be the first to rent space in the new market.
‘I hope we can work together,’ Alice said pacifically.
Julius said intemperately: ‘You could be excommunicated for this.’
Alice remained calm. ‘The Church has tried everything to get the monastic properties back, but Parliament won’t permit it.’
‘Sacrilege!’
‘The monks became rich, lazy and corrupt, and the people lost respect for them. That’s why King Henry was able to get away with dissolving the monasteries.’
‘Henry the Eighth was a wicked man.’
‘I want to be your friend and ally, my lord bishop, but not at the price of impoverishing myself and my family. The priory is mine.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Julius. ‘It belongs to God.’
*
ROLLO BOUGHT DRINKS for all Bart Shiring’s men-at-arms before they embarked for Combe Harbour. He could not afford it, but he was keen to stay on good terms with his sister’s fiancé. He did not want the engagement to be broken off. The marriage was going to transform the fortunes of the Fitzgerald family. Margery would be a countess, and if she gave birth to a son he would grow up to become an earl. The Fitzgeralds would almost be aristocracy.
However, they had not yet made that coveted leap: an engagement was not a marriage. The wilful Margery could renew her mutiny, encouraged by the detestable Ned Willard. Or her ill-concealed reluctance could offend Bart and cause him to break it off in a fit of wounded pride. So Rollo spent money he could not spare to foster his friendship with Bart.
It was not easy. The camaraderie of brothers-in-law had to be mixed with deference and laced with flattery. But Rollo could do that. Raising his tankard, he said: ‘My noble brother! May God’s grace protect your strong right arm and help you repel the stinking French!’
That went down well. The men-at-arms cheered and drank.
A handbell was rung, and they emptied their cups and went on board the barge. The Fitzgeralds waved from the quayside. When the barge was out of sight, Margery and the parents went home, but Rollo went back into the Slaughterhouse.
In the tavern he had noticed one man who was not celebrating, but sitting in a corner on his own looking depressed. He recognized the dark lustrous hair and full lips of Donal Gloster. He was interested: Donal was weak, and weak men could be useful.
He bought two fresh tankards and went to sit with Donal. They were too far apart socially to be close friends, but they were the same age and had attended Kingsbridge Grammar School together. Rollo lifted his beer and said: ‘Death to the French.’
‘They won’t invade us,’ said Donal, but he drank anyway.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘The King of France can’t afford it. They might talk about an invasion, and they could do hit-and-run raids, but a real cross-Channel armada would cost more than they have to spend.’
Rollo thought Donal might know what he was talking about. His employer, Philbert Cobley, was more familiar with the costs of ships than anyone else in Kingsbridge, and as an international trader he probably also understood the finances of the French crown. ‘So we should celebrate!’ he said.
Donal grunted.
Rollo said: ‘You look like a man who has had bad news, old schoolmate.’
‘Do I?’
‘None of my business, of course . . .’
‘You might as well know. Everyone will, soon. I proposed to Ruth Cobley, and she turned me down.’
Rollo was surprised. Everyone expected Donal to marry Ruth. It was the commonest thing in the world for an employee to marry the boss’s daughter. ‘Doesn’t her father like you?’
‘I’d make a good son-in-law for him, because I know the business so well. But I’m not religious enough for Philbert.’
‘Ah.’ Rollo recalled the play at New Castle. Donal had clearly been enjoying it, and had seemed reluctant to join the Cobleys in their outraged walk-out. ‘But you said Ruth turned you down.’ Rollo would have thought Donal was attractive to girls, with his dark, romantic good looks.
‘She says I’m like a brother to her.’
Rollo shrugged. There was no logic to love.
Donal looked at him shrewdly. ‘You’re not very interested in girls.’
‘Nor boys either, if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘No.’ The truth was that Rollo did not know what all the fuss was about. Masturbation for him was a mild pleasure, like eating honey, but the idea of sex with a woman, or another man, just seemed slightly distasteful. His preference was for celibacy. If the monasteries still existed he might have been a monk.
‘Lucky you,’ Donal said bitterly. ‘When I think of all the time I’ve spent trying to be the right husband for her – pretending not to like drinking and dancing and seeing plays, going to their boring services, talking to her mother . . .’
Rollo felt goosebumps at the back of his neck. Donal had said going to their boring services. Rollo had long known that the Cobleys belonged to that dangerous class of people who thought they had the right to their own opinions about religion, but he had not previously come across evidence that they actually practised their profanation here in Kingsbridge. He tried not to show his sudden excitement. ‘I suppose those services were pretty dull,’ he said, endeavouring to sound casual.
Donal immediately backtracked. ‘I should have said meetings,’ he said. ‘Of course they don’t hold services – that would be heresy.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Rollo said. ‘But there’s no law against people praying together, or reading from the Bible, or singing hymns.’
Donal raised his tankard to his mouth, then put it down again. ‘I’m talking nonsense,’ he said. His eyes showed the shadow of fear. ‘I must have had too much to drink.’ He got to his feet with an effort. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Rollo, eager to know more about Philbert Cobley’s meetings. ‘Finish your tankard.’
But Donal was scared. ‘Need to take a nap,’ he mumbled. ‘Thanks for the beer.’ He staggered away.
Rollo sipped meditatively. The Cobleys and their friends were widely suspected of secretly having Protestant beliefs, but they were careful, and there was never the least evidence of illicit behaviour. As long as they kept their thoughts to themselves they committed no offence. However, holding Protestant services was another matter. It was a sin and a crime, and the punishment was to be burned alive.
And Donal, drunk and embittered, had momentarily lifted the veil.
There was nothing much Rollo could do about it, for tomorrow Donal would surely deny everything and plead intoxication. But this information would prove useful one day.
He decided to tell his father about it. He finished his drink and left.
He arrived at the family home on the high street at the same time as Bishop Julius. ‘We gave our soldiers a jolly good send-off,’ he said cheerfully to the bishop.
‘Never mind about that,’ said Julius irascibly. ‘I’ve got something to tell Sir Reginald.’ Clearly he was angry, though fortunately his ire did not seem to be directed at the Fitzgeralds.
Rollo led him into the great hall. ‘I’ll fetch my father at once,’ Rollo said. ‘Please sit here in front of the fire.’
Julius gave a dismissive wave and began to pace up and down impatiently.
Sir Reginald was taking a nap. Rollo woke him and told him the bishop was downstairs. Reginald groaned and got out of bed. ‘Give him a cup of wine while I dress,’ he said.
A few minutes later the three men were seated in the hall. Julius began immediately. ‘Alice Willard has heard from Calais. The St Margaret has been confiscated by the French and her cargo sold.’
Despair seized Rollo. ‘I knew it,’ he said. It had been his father’s last throw of the dice, and he had lost. What would they do now?
Sir Reginald flushed with anger. ‘What the devil was the ship doing in Calais?’
Rollo answered him. ‘Jonas Bacon told us that when he met the ship, its captain was intending to go into port for minor repairs. Hence the delay.’
‘But Bacon didn’t say the port was Calais.’
‘No.’
Reginald’s freckled face twisted with hatred. ‘He knew, though,’ he said. ‘And I’ll bet Philbert did, too, when he sold us the cargo.’
‘Of course Philbert knew, the lying hypocritical Protestant swindler.’ Rollo was boiling with rage. ‘We’ve been robbed.’
The bishop said: ‘If that’s so, can you get your money back from Philbert?’
‘Never,’ said Reginald. ‘A town like this can’t let people renege on contracts, even when there has been sharp practice. The contract is sacred.’
Rollo, who had studied law, knew he was right. ‘The court of quarter sessions will uphold the validity of the transaction,’ he said.
Bishop Julius said: ‘If you’ve lost that money, will you be able to repay Alice Willard?’
‘No.’
‘And you pledged the priory as security for the loan.’
‘Yes.’
‘Alice Willard told me this morning that the priory is hers, now.’
‘Damn her eyes,’ said Reginald.
‘So she’s right.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were going to let the Church have the priory back, Reginald.’
‘Don’t ask for sympathy from me, Julius. I’ve just lost four hundred pounds.’
‘Four hundred and twenty-four, Willard told me.’
‘Correct.’
Julius seemed to think the exact figure was significant, and Rollo wondered why, but he did not get a chance to ask. His father stood up restlessly and walked across the room and back again. ‘I’ll get Philbert for this, I swear it. He’ll find out that no one swindles Reginald Fitzgerald and gets away with it. I’ll see him suffer. I don’t know how . . .’
Rollo experienced a flash of inspiration, and he said: ‘I do.’
‘What?’
‘I know how to get revenge on Philbert.’
Reginald stopped pacing and stared at Rollo with narrowed eyes. ‘What have you got in mind?’
‘Philbert’s clerk, Donal Gloster, was drunk in the Slaughterhouse this afternoon. He’s been rejected by Philbert’s daughter. Drink loosened his tongue and resentment made him malicious. He told me that the Cobleys and their friends hold services.’
Bishop Julius was outraged. ‘Services? With no priest? That’s heresy!’
‘As soon as I took him up on it, Donal changed his story, and said they were only meetings; then he looked guilty and clammed up.’
The bishop said: ‘I’ve long suspected that the rats perform Protestant rites in secret. But where? And when? And who attends?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rollo. ‘But Donal does.’
‘Will he tell?’
‘Perhaps. Now that Ruth has rejected him, he no longer has any loyalty to the Cobley family.’
‘Let’s find out.’
‘Let me go and see him. I’ll take Osmund.’ Osmund Carter was the head of the watch. He was a big man with a brutal streak.
‘What will you say to Donal?’
‘I’ll explain that he is suspected of heresy, and he’s going to be put on trial unless he tells all.’
‘Will that scare him?’
‘He’ll shit.’
Bishop Julius said thoughtfully: ‘This could be a good moment to strike against the Protestants. The Catholic Church is sadly on the defensive. Queen Mary Tudor is unpopular because of the loss of Calais. Her rightful heir, Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, is about to get married in Paris, and a French husband will turn the English against her. Sir William Cecil and his pals are going around the country trying to drum up support for the illegitimate Elizabeth Tudor as heir to the throne. So a clampdown on Kingsbridge heretics now would be a useful boost to Catholic morale.’
So, Rollo thought, we will be doing God’s will as well as getting our revenge. He felt ferocity boil up in his heart.
His father clearly felt the same. ‘Do it, Rollo,’ Reginald said. ‘Do it now.’
Rollo put on his coat and left the house.
The Guild Hall was right across the street. Sheriff Matthewson had a room on the ground floor, with a clerk, Paul Pettit, who wrote letters and kept documents in careful order in a chest. Matthewson could not always be relied upon to do the bidding of the Fitzgerald family: he would occasionally defy Sir Reginald, saying that he served the queen, not the mayor. Happily, the sheriff happened to be away from his room today, and Rollo had no intention of sending for him.
Instead he went down to the basement, where Osmund and the rest of the watchmen were preparing for their Saturday night duties. Osmund wore a close-fitting leather helmet that made him look even more pugnacious. He was lacing up knee boots.
‘I need you to come with me to question someone,’ Rollo said to Osmund. ‘You won’t need to say anything.’ He was going to add Just look menacing, but that would have been superfluous.
They walked down the main street together in late-afternoon light. Rollo wondered whether he had been right to assure his father and the bishop that Donal would crack. If Donal had sobered up by now he might be tougher. He could apologize for talking trash while drunk and deny point-blank that he had ever been to any kind of Protestant service. Then it would be hard to prove anything.
Passing the wharves, Rollo was greeted by Susan White, a baker’s daughter of his own age. She had a heart-shaped face and a sweet nature. When they were both younger they had kissed, and tried other mild experiments. That was when Rollo had realized that sex did not have the power over him that it had over boys such as Donal Gloster and Ned Willard, and his dalliance with Susan had come to nothing. He might marry anyway, one day, in order to have someone to manage his household, but in that event he would hope for someone of higher rank than a baker’s daughter.
Susan bore him no resentment: she had had plenty of boyfriends. Now she looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry you lost your cargo,’ she said. ‘It seems unfair.’
‘It is unfair.’ Rollo was not surprised that the story was getting around. Half of Kingsbridge was involved, one way or another, in trading by sea, and everyone was interested in good or bad shipping news.
‘You’re due for some good luck next,’ Susan said. ‘That’s what people say, anyway.’
‘I hope it’s true.’
Susan looked with curiosity at Osmund, evidently wondering what he and Rollo were up to.
Rollo did not want to have to explain, so he brought the conversation to an end. ‘Forgive me, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Goodbye!’
Rollo and Osmund walked on. Donal lived in the south-west of the city, the industrial quarter known as the Tanneries. The north and east had long been the desirable neighbourhoods. The priory had always owned the land upstream of Merthin’s Bridge, and there the water was clean. The borough council directed industry downstream, and all of Kingsbridge’s dirty enterprises – leather tanning, textile dyeing, coal washing, paper making – sluiced their filth into the river here, as they had done for centuries.
Tomorrow was Sunday, and people would be exchanging news at church, Rollo reflected. By the evening everyone in Kingsbridge would know what had happened to the St Margaret. They might sympathize, like Susan, or they might think Sir Reginald was a fool to let himself be cheated, but either way they would regard the Fitzgeralds with a mixture of pity and scorn. Rollo could hear them being wise after the event, saying: ‘That Philbert’s a sly one. He never sold anyone a bargain. Sir Reginald should have known that.’ The thought made Rollo cringe. He hated the idea of people looking down on his family.
But they would change their tune when Philbert was arrested for heresy. It would be seen as Philbert’s punishment. People would say: ‘It doesn’t pay to swindle Sir Reginald – Philbert should have known that.’ The honour of the family would be restored, and once again Rollo’s chest would swell with pride when he told people his name.
If he could get Donal to talk.
Rollo led the way to a small house beyond the docks. The woman who opened the door had Donal’s sensual good looks. She recognized Osmund and said: ‘Mercy! What’s my boy done?’
Rollo pushed past her into the house, and Osmund followed.
‘I’m sorry he got drunk,’ she said. ‘He suffered a terrible disappointment.’
Rollo said: ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s dead.’
Rollo had forgotten that. It made things easier. ‘Where’s Donal?’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ She turned away.
Rollo caught her arm. ‘When I speak to you, you must listen to what I say. I didn’t tell you to get him. I asked you where he is.’
Her brown eyes flashed anger, and for a moment R0llo thought she was going to tell him she would do as she pleased in her own house; then she got herself under control, no doubt fearing that defiance would make things worse for her son. Eyes downcast, she said: ‘In bed. First door at the top of the stairs.’
‘You wait here. Osmund, come with me.’
Donal was prone on the bed, fully dressed except for his boots. There was a smell of puke, though it seemed his mother might have cleaned up the worst of it. Rollo shook him awake. He came round blearily. When he saw Osmund he sat bolt upright and said: ‘Jesus Christ save me!’
Rollo sat on the edge of the bed and said: ‘Christ will save you, if you tell the truth. You’re in trouble, Donal.’
Donal was bewildered. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Don’t you recall our talk in the Slaughterhouse?’
Donal looked panicky as he tried to remember. ‘Um . . . vaguely . . .’
‘You told me you attended Protestant services with the Cobley family.’
‘I never said anything of the kind!’
‘I’ve already spoken to Bishop Julius. You’re going to stand trial for heresy.’
‘No!’ Trials rarely found men not guilty. The general view was that if a man were innocent he would not have got into trouble in the first place.
‘You’ll be better off if you tell the truth.’
‘I am telling the truth!’
Osmund said: ‘Shall I beat it out of him?’
Donal looked terrified.
Then his mother’s voice was heard from the doorway. ‘You’re not going to beat anyone, Osmund. My son is a law-abiding citizen and a good Catholic boy, and if you touch him you’re the one who’ll be in trouble.’
It was a bluff – Osmund never got into trouble for beating people – but it gave heart to Donal. Looking braver, he said: ‘I have never attended a Protestant service, with Philbert Cobley or anyone else.’
Mrs Gloster said: ‘You can’t hold a man to account for what he says when drunk, and if you try to, you’ll make a fool of yourself, young Rollo.’
Rollo cursed inwardly. Mrs Gloster was getting the better of him. He saw that he had made a mistake in questioning Donal here at home, with his mother to stiffen his nerve. But he could soon put that right. He was not going to let a woman stand in the way of the Fitzgerald family revenge. He stood up. ‘Get your boots on, Donal. You’ll have to come with us to the Guild Hall.’
Mrs Gloster said: ‘I’ll come, too.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Rollo.
Mrs Gloster’s eyes flashed mutiny.
Rollo added: ‘And if I see you there, you will be arrested too. You must have known Donal was going to blasphemous services – so you’re guilty of concealing his crime.’
Mrs Gloster lowered her eyes again.
Donal put his boots on.
Rollo and Osmund escorted him up the main street to the crossroads and took him into the Guild Hall through the basement entrance. Rollo sent one of the watchmen to fetch Sir Reginald, who arrived a few minutes later accompanied by Bishop Julius. ‘Well, young Donal,’ said Reginald with a pretence of affability. ‘I hope you’ve seen the sense of making a clean breast of things.’
Donal’s voice was shaky, but his words were brave enough. ‘I don’t know what I said when drunk, but I know the truth. I’ve never been to a Protestant service.’
Rollo began to worry that he might not crack after all.
‘Let me show you something,’ said Reginald. He went to a massive door, lifted the heavy bar, and opened it. ‘Come here and look.’
Donal obeyed reluctantly. Rollo followed. They looked into a windowless room with a high ceiling and an earth floor. It smelled of old blood and shit, like an abattoir.
Reginald said: ‘You see that hook in the ceiling?’
They all looked up.
Reginald said: ‘Your hands will be tied behind your back. Then the rope from your wrists will be looped around that hook, and you will be hoisted up.’
Donal groaned.
‘The pain is unbearable, of course, but at first your shoulders will not dislocate – it doesn’t happen that quickly. Heavy stones will be attached to your feet, increasing the agony in your joints. When you pass out, cold water will be thrown in your face to bring you round – there’s no relief. As the weights get heavier, so the pain gets worse. Eventually your arms spring from their sockets. Apparently that is the most dreadful part.’
Donal was white, but he did not give in. ‘I’m a citizen of Kingsbridge. You can’t torture me without a royal command.’
That was true. The Privy Council had to give permission for torture. The rule was often broken, but Kingsbridge people knew their rights. There would be an outcry if Donal was tortured illegally.
‘I can get permission, you young fool.’
‘Then do,’ Donal said in a voice shrill with fear but still determined.
Rollo was downcast to think that they might have to give up. They had done everything possible to scare Donal into a confession, but it had not quite worked. Perhaps Philbert would not be punished after all.
Then Bishop Julius spoke. ‘I think you and I had better have a quiet talk, young Donal,’ he said. ‘But not here. Come with me.’
‘All right,’ said Donal nervously. He was apprehensive, but Rollo guessed he would agree to anything that would get him out of that basement.
Julius escorted Donal out of the Guild Hall. Rollo and Reginald followed a few yards behind. Rollo wondered what the bishop had in mind. Could he save the dignity of the Fitzgerald family after all?
They went down the main street to the cathedral. Julius led them through a small door in the north side of the nave. The choir was singing evensong. The interior of the church was dimly lit by candles that sent dancing shadows across the arches.
Julius picked up a candle, then took Donal into a side chapel with a small altar and a large painting of Christ crucified. He put the candle on the altar so that it lit up the picture. He stood with his back to the altar, and made Donal face him, so that Donal could see Jesus on the cross.
Julius motioned Rollo and Reginald to keep their distance. They remained outside, but they could see into the chapel and hear what was said.
‘I want you to forget about earthly punishments,’ Julius said to Donal. ‘Perhaps you will be tortured, and burned at the stake as a heretic, but that is not what you should be in fear of this evening.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Donal was mystified as well as scared.
‘My son, your soul is in mortal danger. Whatever you said earlier today in the Slaughterhouse doesn’t matter – because God knows the truth. He knows what you have done. The pain you would suffer in hell would be so much worse than anything that could happen to you here on earth.’
‘I know.’
‘But God gives us hope of forgiveness, you know. Always.’
Donal said nothing. Rollo stared at his face in the unsteady candlelight, but could not read his expression.
Julius said: ‘You must tell me three things, Donal. If you do, I will forgive your sins, and so will God. If you lie to me, you will go to hell. That’s the decision you must make, here and now.’
Rollo saw Donal’s head tilt back slightly as he looked at the picture of Jesus.
Julius said: ‘Where do they hold their services? When? And who goes? You must tell me, right now.’
Donal gave a sob. Rollo held his breath.
‘Let’s start with where,’ Julius said.
Donal said nothing.
‘Last chance of forgiveness,’ Julius said. ‘I won’t ask you again. Where?’
Donal said: ‘In Widow Pollard’s cowshed.’
Rollo expelled his breath silently. The secret was out.
Mrs Pollard had a smallholding at the southern edge of the city, on the Shiring road. There were no other houses close by, which would be why the Protestants had not been overheard.
Julius said: ‘And when?’
‘Tonight,’ said Donal. ‘Always on Saturday evening, at twilight.’
‘They creep through the streets in the dusk so that they won’t be noticed,’ Julius said. ‘Men love the darkness rather than the light, because their deeds are evil. But God sees them.’ He glanced up at the pointed arch of the window. ‘It’s almost nightfall. Will they be there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Philbert, and Mrs Cobley, and Dan and Ruth. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother, and their families. Mrs Pollard. Ellis the brewer. The Mason brothers. Elijah Cordwainer. That’s all I know. There might be others.’
‘Good lad,’ Julius said. ‘Now, in a few minutes I’m going to give you my blessing and you can go home.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘Don’t tell anyone we’ve had this conversation – I don’t want people to know where my information comes from. Just go back to your normal life. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, lord bishop.’
Julius looked towards where Rollo and Reginald stood, just outside the chapel. His voice changed from low and friendly to brisk and commanding. ‘Get down to that cowshed now,’ he said. ‘Arrest the heretics – every one of them. Go!’
As Rollo turned to leave, he heard Donal say in a low voice: ‘Oh, God, I’ve betrayed them all, haven’t I?’
Bishop Julius said smoothly: ‘You have saved their souls – and your own.’
Rollo and Reginald left the cathedral at a run. They went up the main street to the Guild Hall and summoned the men of the watch from the basement. They crossed the street to their house and buckled on their swords.
The watchmen all carried home-made clubs of different shapes and sizes. Osmund had a roll of stout cord for tying people’s wrists. Two of the men brought lanterns on poles.
Widow Pollard’s place was a mile away. ‘It would be quicker to ride,’ Rollo said.
‘Not much quicker, in the dark,’ his father replied. ‘And the sound of the horses would forewarn the Protestants. I don’t want any of those devils to slip through our fingers.’
They all marched down the main street, past the cathedral. People looked apprehensively at them. Clearly someone was in big trouble.
Rollo worried that someone friendly to the Protestants might guess what was happening. A fast runner could warn them. He quickened his pace.
They crossed Merthin’s double bridge to the suburb of Loversfield, then followed the Shiring road south. The outskirts of the city were quieter and darker. Fortunately, the road was straight.
Widow Pollard’s house gave on to the street, but her cowshed was set well back in an acre or so of land. The late Walter Pollard had kept a small dairy herd. After he died, his widow had sold the cattle. That was why she had a fine brick cowshed standing empty.
Osmund opened a wide gate, and they all followed the track the cows had used to take to milking. No light showed from the building: a cowshed had no need of windows. Osmund whispered to one of the lantern bearers: ‘Walk around quickly and see if there’s another way out.’
The rest went up to the wide double door. Sir Reginald put his finger to his lips, miming silence, and they all listened. From inside they could hear a murmur of several voices chanting something. After a minute Rollo recognized the Lord’s Prayer.
In English.
That was heresy. No more proof was needed.
The lantern bearer returned and whispered: ‘No other way in or out.’
Reginald tried the door. It seemed to be barred from the inside.
The sound alerted the people in the cowshed, and they fell silent.
Four of the watchmen charged the door, and it flew open. Reginald and Rollo stepped inside.
Twenty people sat on four benches. In front of them was a plain square table, covered with a white cloth, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug that presumably contained wine. Rollo was horrified: they were celebrating their own version of the Mass! He had heard that this went on but never thought he would see it with his own eyes.
Philbert stood behind the table, wearing a white smock over his doublet and hose. He was playing the part of a priest, even though he had never been ordained.
The intruders stared at the blasphemy going on in front of them. The congregation stared back, both sides equally stunned.
Then Reginald found his voice. ‘This is heresy, plain to see. You’re under arrest, every last one of you.’ He paused. ‘Especially you, Philbert Cobley.’