7
Ned was furious when Sir Reginald Fitzgerald refused to sign the papers transferring ownership of the old priory to Alice Willard.
Reginald was the mayor of a trading city: it was shockingly bad for the town’s reputation. Most citizens were on Alice’s side. They, too, had contracts which they could not afford to see broken.
Alice had to go to court to force Sir Reginald to fulfil his promise.
Ned had no doubt that the court would uphold the contract, but the delay was maddening. He and his mother were keen to inaugurate their indoor market. While they waited for the hearing, days and weeks went by when the Willard family was not making money. It was fortunate that Alice had a modest income from the row of cottages in the parish of St Mark’s.
‘What’s the point?’ Ned asked in frustration. ‘Reginald can’t win.’
‘Self-deception,’ said Alice. ‘He made a bad investment, and he wants to blame everyone but himself.’
Four times a year, important cases were heard at the Quarter Sessions by two Justices of the Peace assisted by a Clerk of the Peace. Alice’s lawsuit was put down for the June Quarter Sessions, and was the first case of the day.
The Kingsbridge courthouse was a former dwelling house on the high street, next to the Guild Hall. The court sat in what had been the dining hall of the house. Other rooms were offices for the justices and clerks. The basement served as a jail.
Ned arrived at the court with his mother. A crowd of townspeople stood around the room, talking. Sir Reginald was already there, with Rollo. Ned was glad Margery was not present: he did not want her to see her father’s humiliation.
Ned nodded stiffly to Rollo. He could no longer act friendly with the Fitzgerald family: the lawsuit had put an end to that pretence. He still greeted Margery when he saw her in the street. She reacted with embarrassment. But Ned loved her, and he believed she felt the same, despite everything.
Dan Cobley and Donal Gloster were also in court. The ill-fated ship the St Margaret might be mentioned, and the Cobleys would want to hear anything that was said about them.
Dan and the other Protestants arrested in Widow Pollard’s barn had been released on bail, all but Philbert, who was undoubtedly the leader. Philbert was in the basement jail, having been interrogated by Bishop Julius. They would all be tried tomorrow, not at the Quarter Sessions but at the independent church court.
Donal Gloster had escaped arrest. He had not been with his employer at Widow Pollard’s barn: the story going around town was that he had been at home drunk, luckily for him. Ned might have suspected that Donal was the one who had betrayed the location of the Protestant service, except that his story had been confirmed by several people who had seen him staggering out of the Slaughterhouse that afternoon.
The clerk, Paul Pettit, called for silence, and the two justices came in and took their seats at one end of the room. The senior justice was Rodney Tilbury, a retired cloth merchant. He wore a rich blue doublet and several large rings. He had been appointed by Queen Mary Tudor, being a staunch Catholic, but Ned did not think that would make any difference today, for the case had nothing to do with religion. The second justice, Seb Chandler, was friendly with Sir Reginald, but again Ned did not see how he could go against the plain facts of the case.
The jury were sworn in: twelve men, all Kingsbridge citizens.
Rollo stepped forward immediately and said: ‘I will speak for my father this morning, with your worships’ permission.’
Ned was not surprised. Sir Reginald was irascible, and quite likely to spoil his own case by bad temper. Rollo was just as clever as Reginald, but better controlled.
Justice Tilbury nodded. ‘As I recall, you studied law at Gray’s Inn in London, Mr Fitzgerald.’
‘Yes, your worship.’
‘Very well.’
As the proceedings were beginning, in walked Bishop Julius, dressed in his priestly robes. His presence was no mystery. He wanted the priory buildings for himself, and Reginald had promised to sell them to him cheaply. He must be hoping that Reginald would find a way to wriggle out of his contract.
Alice stepped forward. She presented the case herself, and handed the signed and sealed contract to the clerk. ‘Sir Reginald cannot deny the three key facts,’ Alice said. She spoke in the mild, reasonable tone of one who merely wishes to point out the truth. ‘One, that he signed the contract; two, that he took the money; and three, that he has not paid it back within the promised time. I ask the court to rule that he has quite clearly forfeited the security. That, after all, is what a security is for.’
Alice was confident of victory, and Ned did not see how any court could possibly rule for Reginald, unless the judges were bribed – and where would Reginald get the money for a bribe?
Tilbury thanked Alice politely and turned to Rollo. ‘What have you got to say to that, Mr Fitzgerald? It seems pretty clear-cut.’
But Reginald did not give his son time to reply. ‘I was cheated!’ he burst out, his freckled face turning pink. ‘Philbert Cobley knew perfectly well that the St Margaret had gone into Calais and was likely to be lost.’
Ned thought that was probably true. Philbert was as slippery as a live fish. All the same, Reginald’s demand was outrageous. Why should the Willard family pay for Philbert’s dishonesty?
Philbert’s son, Dan Cobley, shouted out: ‘That’s a lie! How could we possibly have known what the French king would do?’
‘You must have known something!’ Reginald shot back.
Dan replied with a quotation from the Bible. ‘The book of Proverbs tells us: “A prudent man concealeth knowledge”.’
Bishop Julius pointed a bony finger at Dan and said furiously: ‘This is what happens when ignorant fools are allowed to read the Bible in English – they cite God’s word to justify their crimes!’
The clerk stood up and shouted for quiet, and they all calmed down.
Tilbury said: ‘Thank you, Sir Reginald. Even if it were true that Philbert Cobley, or any other third party, cheated you out of money, that would not release you from your contract with Alice Willard. If that is the basis of your argument, you are clearly in the wrong, and the court will rule against you.’
Exactly, Ned thought with satisfaction.
Rollo spoke immediately. ‘No, your worships, that is not our argument, and I beg your pardon for my father’s intervention, but you will understand that he feels very angry.’
‘So what is your argument? I’m eager to hear, and I’m sure the jury are too.’
So was Ned. Did Rollo have something up his sleeve? He was a nasty bully, but he was no fool.
‘Simply that Alice Willard is guilty of usury,’ said Rollo. ‘She loaned Sir Reginald four hundred pounds, but she demanded to be repaid four hundred and twenty-four pounds. She is charging interest, which is a crime.’
Suddenly Ned recalled his mother’s conversation with Bishop Julius in the cloisters of the ruined priory. Alice had told Julius the exact amount of the debt, and Julius had seemed momentarily struck by the figure, though in the end he had not commented. And here Julius was in court for the hearing. Ned frowned anxiously. The contract between Alice and Sir Reginald had been drawn carefully, so that there was no reference to interest; but the definition of usury was notoriously a grey area of law.
Alice said firmly: ‘No interest was payable. The contract states that Sir Reginald will pay rent of eight pounds a month for the continued use of the priory until the loan is repaid or the property is forfeited.’
Reginald protested: ‘Why would I pay rent? I never use the place! This was nothing less than concealed usury.’
Alice said: ‘But you proposed it!’
‘I was misled.’
The clerk interrupted: ‘Please! Address the court, not each other.’
Justice Tilbury said: ‘Thank you, Mr Pettit. Quite right.’
Rollo said: ‘The court cannot enforce a contract that requires a party to commit a crime.’
Tilbury said: ‘Yes, I have grasped that point. So you’re asking the court to decide whether the extra money payable under the contract is genuinely rent or a concealed form of usury.’
‘No, your worship, I am not asking you to decide. With your permission, I will bring an authoritative witness who will testify that this is usury.’
Ned was bewildered. What was he talking about?
The two justices seemed equally puzzled. Tilbury said: ‘An authoritative witness? Who do you have in mind?’
‘The bishop of Kingsbridge.’
A murmur of surprise went up from the watching crowd. No one had anticipated this. Justice Tilbury looked as startled as anyone. However, after a few moments he said: ‘Very well. What have you got to say, my lord bishop?’
Ned was dismayed: everyone knew whose side Julius was on.
Julius walked slowly to the front, his bald head high, making the most of the dignity of his office. As expected, he said: ‘The so-called rent is clearly disguised interest. Sir Reginald did not use the land and buildings during the period in question, and had never intended so to do. This was nothing but a flimsy cover for the sin and crime of usury.’
Alice said: ‘I protest. The bishop is not an unbiased witness. Sir Reginald has promised the priory to him.’
Rollo said: ‘Surely you do not accuse the bishop of dishonesty?’
Alice replied: ‘I accuse you of asking the cat whether the mouse should be allowed to go free.’
The crowd laughed: they appreciated wit in argument. But Justice Tilbury did not. ‘This court can hardly contradict the bishop on a question of sin,’ he said severely. ‘It seems the jury will have to rule that the contract is invalid.’ He looked unhappy about it, for he knew as well as anyone that many contracts made by Kingsbridge traders might be undermined by such a ruling; but Rollo had backed him into a corner.
Now Rollo said: ‘It is no longer a matter merely of invalidating the contract, your worships.’ The look of malicious satisfaction on his face worried Ned. Rollo went on: ‘Alice Willard has been proved guilty of a crime. I submit that it is the duty of the court to impose the punishment laid down in the Act of 1552.’
Ned did not know what punishment was specified by the law.
Alice said: ‘I will plead guilty to usury – on one condition.’
Tilbury said: ‘All right, what?’
‘There is another person in this court who is as guilty as I am, and he must be punished too.’
‘If you’re referring to Sir Reginald, the crime attaches to the lender, not the borrower—’
‘Not Sir Reginald.’
‘Who, then?’
‘The bishop of Kingsbridge.’
Julius looked angry. ‘Take care what you say, Alice Willard.’
Alice said: ‘Last October you pre-sold the fleeces of a thousand sheep to Widow Mercer for ten pence each.’ Widow Mercer was the biggest wool dealer in town. ‘The sheep were sheared this April, and Mrs Mercer sold the fleeces to Philbert Cobley for twelve pence each, two pence more than she paid you. You forfeited two pence per fleece in order to have your money six months earlier. You paid forty per cent annual interest.’
There was a mutter of approval. Most of the leading citizens were traders, and they understood percentages.
Julius said: ‘I am not on trial here, you are.’
Alice ignored that. ‘In February you bought stone from the earl’s quarry for the extension to your palace. The price was three pounds, but the earl’s quarrymaster offered you a reduction of a shilling in the pound for advance payment, which you accepted. The stone was delivered by barge a month later. In effect, you charged the earl sixty per cent interest on the money you paid early.’
The crowd were beginning to enjoy this, and Ned heard laughter and a ripple of applause. Pettit shouted: ‘Silence!’
Alice said: ‘In April you sold a flour mill in Wigleigh—’
‘This is irrelevant,’ Julius said. ‘You cannot excuse yourself by claiming, plausibly or otherwise, that other people have committed similar crimes.’
Tilbury said: ‘The bishop is right about that. I direct the jury to declare Alice Willard guilty of usury.’
Ned harboured a faint hope that the businessmen in the jury might protest, but they did not have the nerve to challenge such a clear direction from the justices, and after a moment they all nodded agreement.
Tilbury said: ‘We will now consider the question of punishment.’
Rollo spoke again. ‘The Act of 1552 is very clear, your worships. The culprit must lose both interest and principal of the loan and, in addition, “fines and ransom at the king’s will or pleasure”, to quote the exact words of the law.’
Ned shouted: ‘No!’ Surely his mother could not forfeit the four hundred pounds as well as the interest?
The Kingsbridge folk felt the same, and there was a mutinous hubbub. Paul Pettit had to call for silence again.
The crowd eventually went quiet, but Tilbury did not immediately speak. He turned to his fellow justice, Seb Chandler, and they held a murmured conversation. Then Tilbury summoned Pettit to join them. The silence grew tense. The justices talked to Pettit, who was a qualified lawyer, as were all Clerks of the Peace. They appeared to be arguing, with Pettit shaking his head in negation. Finally, Tilbury shrugged and turned away, Seb Chandler nodded agreement, and Pettit returned to his seat.
At last Tilbury spoke. ‘The law is the law,’ he said, and Ned knew at once that his mother was ruined. ‘Alice Willard must forfeit both the amount of the loan and the additional rent or interest demanded.’ He had to raise his voice over the noise of protest. ‘No further punishment will be necessary.’
Ned stared at his mother. Alice was stricken. Until now she had been defiant. But she had been up against the full power of the Church, and her resistance had been hopeless. Now she was suddenly diminished: dazed, pale, bewildered. She looked like one who has been knocked off her feet by a charging horse.
The clerk said: ‘Next case.’
Ned and his mother left the court and walked down the main street to their house without speaking. Ned’s life had been turned upside down and he could hardly digest the implications. Six months ago he had been sure of spending his life as a merchant, and almost sure of marrying Margery. Now he had no employment and Margery was engaged to Bart.
They went into the parlour. ‘At least we won’t starve,’ Alice said. ‘We’ve still got the houses in St Mark’s.’
Ned had not expected his mother to be so pessimistic. ‘Won’t you find a way to start again?’
Alice shook her head wearily. ‘I’ll be fifty soon – I haven’t got the energy. Besides, when I look back over the past year, I seem to have lost my judgement. I should have moved some of the traffic away from Calais when the war broke out last June. I should have developed the Seville connection more. And I should never have lent money to Reginald Fitzgerald, no matter how much pressure he put on me. Now there’s no business left for you and your brother to inherit.’
‘Barney won’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘He’d rather be at sea anyway.’
‘I wonder where he is now. We must tell him, if we can locate him.’
‘He’s probably in the Spanish army.’ They had received a letter from Aunt Betsy. Barney and Carlos had got into trouble with the Inquisition and had been forced to leave Seville in a hurry. Betsy was not sure where they had gone, but a neighbour thought he had seen them listening to a recruiting captain down at the dockside.
Alice said glumly: ‘But I don’t know what you’ll do, Ned. I’ve brought you up to be a merchant.’
‘Sir William Cecil said he needed a young man like me to work for him.’
She brightened. ‘So he did. I had forgotten.’
‘He may have forgotten, too.’
Alice shook her head. ‘I doubt he ever forgets anything.’
Ned wondered what it might be like, working for Cecil, being part of Elizabeth Tudor’s household. ‘I wonder if Elizabeth will be queen one day?’
His mother spoke with sudden bitterness. ‘If she is, perhaps she’ll get rid of some of these arrogant bishops.’
Ned began to see a glimmer of hope.
Alice said: ‘I’ll write to Cecil for you, if you like.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ned said. ‘I might simply show up on his doorstep.’
‘He might simply send you home again.’
‘Yes,’ said Ned. ‘He might.’
*
THE REVENGE OF the Fitzgeralds continued the next day.
The weather was hot, but the south transept of Kingsbridge Cathedral was cool in the afternoon. All the leading citizens were there for the Church court. The Protestants arrested in Widow Pollard’s barn were on trial for heresy. Few people were ever found not guilty, everyone knew that. The main question was how harsh the punishments would be.
Philbert Cobley faced the most serious charges. He was not in the cathedral when Ned arrived, but Mrs Cobley stood there weeping helplessly. Pretty Ruth Cobley was red-eyed, and Dan’s round face looked uncharacteristically grim. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother were trying to give comfort.
Bishop Julius was in charge. This was his court. He was prosecutor as well as judge – and there was no jury. Beside him sat Canon Stephen Lincoln, a young sidekick, handing him documents and making notes. Next to Stephen was the dean of Kingsbridge, Luke Richards. Deans were independent of bishops and did not always follow their orders: Luke was the only hope for mercy today.
One by one the Protestants confessed their sins and recanted their beliefs. By doing so they escaped physical punishment. They were given fines, which most of them paid to the bishop immediately.
Dan Cobley was their deputy leader, according to Julius, and he was given an additional, humiliating sentence: he had to parade through the streets of Kingsbridge wearing only a nightshirt, carrying a crucifix, and chanting the paternoster in Latin.
But Philbert was the leader, and everyone was waiting to see what his sentence would be.
Suddenly the crowd’s attention turned to the nave of the church.
Following the direction in which they were looking, Ned saw Osmund Carter approaching, in his leather helmet and laced knee boots. He was with another member of the watch, and they were carrying between them a wooden chair that had on it some kind of bundle. Looking more closely, Ned saw that the bundle was Philbert Cobley.
Philbert was stocky, an imposing figure in spite of being short. Or he had been. Now his legs hung loose over the edge of the chair and his arms dangled limply at his sides. He groaned in pain constantly, his eyes closed. Ned heard Mrs Cobley scream at the sight.
The watchmen put the chair down in front of Bishop Julius and stood back.
The chair had arms that prevented Philbert from falling sideways, but he could not hold himself upright, and he began to slip down in the chair.
His family rushed to him. Dan took him under the arms and lifted him back: Philbert screamed in agony. Ruth pushed at Philbert’s hips to keep him in a sitting position. Mrs Cobley moaned: ‘Oh, Phil, my Phil, what have they done to you?’
Ned realized what had happened: Philbert had been tortured on the rack. His wrists had been attached to two posts, then his ankles had been tied with ropes that were wrapped around a geared wheel. As the gears were turned, the wheel tightened the rope and the victim’s body was stretched agonizingly. This form of torment had been devised because priests were forbidden to shed blood.
Philbert had obviously resisted, and refused to recant his beliefs, despite the pain, so the torture had continued until the shoulder and hip joints had been completely dislocated. He was now a helpless cripple.
Bishop Julius said: ‘Philbert Cobley has admitted to leading gullible fools into heresy.’
Canon Lincoln brandished a document. ‘Here is his signed confession.’
Dan Cobley approached the judges’ table. ‘Show me,’ he said.
Lincoln hesitated and looked at Julius. The court was under no obligation to the son of the accused man. But Julius probably did not want to provoke further protests from the crowd. He shrugged, and Lincoln gave the papers to Dan.
Dan looked at the last page and said: ‘This is not my father’s signature.’ He showed it to the men nearest him. ‘Any one of you knows my father’s hand. This is not it.’
Several of them nodded agreement.
Julius said irritably: ‘He was not able to sign unassisted, obviously.’
Dan said: ‘So you stretched him until—’ He choked, tears rolling down his face, but he forced himself to go on. ‘You stretched him until he was unable to write – and yet you pretend that he signed this.’
‘Pretend? Are you accusing a bishop of lying?’
‘I’m saying my father never admitted to heresy.’
‘How could you possibly know—’
‘He did not believe himself to be a heretic, and the only reason he would have said the opposite was torture.’
‘He was prayerfully persuaded of the error of his ways.’
Dan pointed dramatically to his father’s hideous form. ‘Is this what happens to a man when the bishop of Kingsbridge prays for him?’
‘The court will not hear any more of this insolence!’
Ned Willard spoke up. ‘Where is the rack?’
The three priests looked at him in silence.
‘Philbert has been racked, that’s obvious – but where?’ Ned said. ‘Here in the cathedral? In the bishop’s palace? Underneath the courthouse? Where is the rack kept? I think the citizens of Kingsbridge are entitled to know. Torture is a crime in England, except when licensed by the Privy Council. Who has been given permission to carry out torture in Kingsbridge?’
After a long pause, Stephen Lincoln said: ‘There is no rack in Kingsbridge.’
Ned digested this fact. ‘So Philbert was tortured elsewhere. Do you imagine that makes it all right?’ He pointed a finger at Bishop Julius. ‘It doesn’t matter if he was tortured in Egypt – if you sent him there, you are the torturer.’
‘Be silent!’
Ned decided he had made his point. He turned his back and stepped away.
At that point Dean Luke stood up. He was a tall, stooped man of forty with a mild manner and thinnish greying hair. ‘My lord bishop, I urge you to be merciful,’ he said. ‘Philbert is undoubtedly a heretic and a fool, but he is also a Christian, and in his misguided way he seeks to worship God. No man should be executed for that.’ He sat down.
There was a collective sound of agreement from the watching citizens. They were mostly Catholics, but they had been Protestants under the two previous monarchs, and none of them felt entirely safe.
Bishop Julius gave the dean a look of withering contempt, but did not reply to his plea. He said: ‘Philbert Cobley is guilty, not just of heresy but of spreading heresy. As is usual in such cases, he is sentenced to be excommunicated and then burned to death. The execution will be carried out by the secular authorities tomorrow at dawn.’
There were several different methods of execution. Noblemen normally benefited from the quickest, having their heads chopped off, which was instant if the executioner was skilled, and took only a minute if he was clumsy and needed several blows with the axe before the neck was fully severed. Traitors were hung, disembowelled while still living, then hacked into pieces. Anyone who robbed the Church was flayed, his skin cut off him with a very sharp knife while he was still alive: an expert could take off the skin in one piece. Heretics were burned alive.
The townspeople were not completely taken by surprise, but all the same they greeted the sentence with a horrified silence. No one had yet been burned in Kingsbridge. Ned thought that a ghastly line was being crossed, and he sensed that his neighbours felt the same.
Suddenly Philbert’s voice was heard, loud and surprisingly strong: he must have been saving his remaining energy for this. ‘I thank God that my agony has almost ended, Julius – but yours has yet to begin, you blaspheming devil.’ There was a gasp of shock at this insult, and Julius leaped to his feet, outraged; but a condemned man was traditionally allowed his say. ‘Soon you will go to hell, where you belong, Julius, and your torment will never end. And may God damn your eternal soul.’
The curse of a dying man was especially potent, and though Julius would have scorned such superstition, nevertheless he was trembling with rage and fear. ‘Take him away!’ he shouted. ‘And clear the church – this court is closed!’ He turned and stormed out through the south door.
Ned and his mother went home in a grim silence. The Fitzgeralds had won. They had killed the man who cheated them; they had stolen the Willards’ fortune; and they had kept their daughter from marrying Ned. It was total defeat.
Janet Fife served them a desultory supper of cold ham. Alice drank several glasses of sherry wine. ‘Will you go to Hatfield?’ she asked him as Janet cleared away.
‘I still haven’t decided. Margery isn’t married yet.’
‘But even if Bart were to drop dead tomorrow, they still wouldn’t let her marry you.’
‘She turned sixteen last week. In five years’ time, she’ll be able to marry whoever she likes.’
‘But you can’t stand still, like a ship becalmed, for so long. Don’t let this blight your life.’
She was right, he knew.
He went to bed early and lay awake. Today’s dreadful proceedings made him more inclined to go to Hatfield, but still he could not make up his mind. It would be giving up hope.
He drifted off to sleep in the small hours, and was awakened by sounds outside. Looking out of his bedroom window he saw men in the market square, their movements illuminated by half a dozen flaming torches. They were bringing dry sticks for the execution. Sheriff Matthewson was there, a big man wearing a sword, supervising the preparations: a priest could condemn a man to death, but could not carry out the sentence himself.
Ned put on a coat over his nightshirt and went outside. The morning air smelled of wood smoke.
The Cobley family were there, and most of the other Protestants arrived shortly afterwards. The crowd swelled within minutes. By first light, as the torch flames seemed to fade, there were at least a thousand people in the square in front of the cathedral. The men of the watch forced the spectators to keep their distance.
The crowd was noisy, but they fell silent when Osmund Carter appeared from the direction of the Guild Hall, with another watchman, the two men again carrying Philbert between them on a wooden chair. They had to force their way through the crowd, who made way reluctantly, as if they would have liked to obstruct the progress of the chair but did not quite have the courage.
The women of the Cobley family wailed piteously as the helpless man was tied upright to a wooden stake in the ground. He kept slipping down on his useless legs, and Osmund had to bind him tightly to keep him in place.
The watchmen piled firewood around him while Bishop Julius intoned a prayer in Latin.
Osmund picked up one of the torches that had lit their night-time labours. He stood in front of Philbert and looked at Sheriff Matthewson, who held up a hand indicating that Osmund should wait. Matthewson then looked at Julius.
In the pause, Mrs Cobley started screaming, and her family had to hold her.
Julius nodded, Matthewson dropped his arm, and Osmund put the torch to the firewood around Philbert’s legs.
The dry wood caught quickly and the flames crackled with hellish merriment. Philbert cried out feebly at the heat. Wood smoke choked the nearest watchers, who backed away.
Soon there was another smell, one that was at once familiar and sickening, the smell of roasting meat. Philbert began to scream in pain. In between screams he yelled: ‘Take me, Jesus! Take me, Lord! Now, please, now!’ But Jesus did not take him yet.
Ned had heard that merciful judges sometimes allowed the family to hang a bag of gunpowder around the neck of the condemned man so that his end would be quick. But Julius evidently had not permitted that kindness. The lower half of Philbert’s body burned while he remained alive. The noise he made in his agony was unbearable to hear, more like the squealing of a terrified animal than the sound of a man.
At last Philbert fell silent. Perhaps his heart gave out; perhaps the smoke suffocated him; perhaps the heat boiled his brain. The fire continued to burn, and the dead body of Philbert turned into a blackened ruin. The smell was disgusting, but at least the noise had stopped. Ned thanked God it was over at last.
*
In my short life I had never seen anything so dreadful. I did not know how men could do such things, and I did not understand why God would let them.
My mother said something that I have remembered all the subsequent years: ‘When a man is certain that he knows God’s will, and is resolved to do it regardless of the cost, he is the most dangerous person in the world.’
When the spectators began to drift away from the marketplace I remained. The sun rose, though it did not shine on the smouldering remains, which were in the cold shadow of the cathedral. I was thinking about Sir William Cecil, and our conversation about Elizabeth on the Twelfth Day of Christmas. He had said, ‘She has told me many times that if she should become queen, it is her dearest wish that no Englishman should lose his life for the sake of his beliefs. I think that’s an ideal worthy of a man’s faith.’
At the time it had struck me as a pious hope. But after what I had just seen, I thought again. Was it even possible that Elizabeth would get rid of dogmatic bishops such as Julius and end scenes such as the one I had just witnessed? Might there come a time when people of different faiths did not kill one another?
But would Elizabeth become queen when Mary Tudor died? That would depend, I supposed, on what kind of help she got. She had the formidable William Cecil, but one man was not enough. She needed an army of supporters.
And I could be one.
The prospect lifted my heart. I stared at the ashes of Philbert Cobley. I felt sure it did not have to be like this. There were people in England who wanted to stop this happening.
And I wanted to be with them. I wanted to fight for Elizabeth’s tolerant ideals.
No more burnings.
I decided to go to Hatfield.