A Column of Fire by Ken Follett (8)

8

Ned walked from Kingsbridge to Hatfield, a journey of a hundred miles, not knowing whether he would be welcomed and given employment, or sent ignominiously home.

For the first two days he was with a group of students going to Oxford. Everyone travelled in groups: a man on his own was in danger of being robbed; a woman on her own was more vulnerable to worse dangers.

As he had been taught by his mother, Ned talked to everyone he met, acquiring information that might or might not be useful: prices of wool, leather, iron ore, and gunpowder; news of plagues and storms and floods; bankruptcies and riots; aristocratic weddings and funerals.

Each night he stayed in taverns, often sharing beds, an unpleasant experience for a boy from the merchant class used to his own room. However, the students were lively companions on the road, switching from coarse jokes to theological arguments and back again effortlessly. The July weather was warm, but at least it did not rain.

During pauses in the conversation, Ned worried about what awaited him at Hatfield Palace. He hoped to be greeted as just the young assistant they were looking for. But Cecil might say: ‘Ned who?’ If he was rejected, he did not know quite what he would do next. It would be humiliating to return to Kingsbridge with his tail between his legs. Perhaps he would go to London, and try his luck in the big city.

In Oxford he stayed at Kingsbridge College. Established by the great Prior Philip as an outpost of Kingsbridge Priory, it had become independent of the monastery, but it still provided accommodation for students from Kingsbridge, and hospitality to Kingsbridge citizens.

It was more difficult to find travelling companions for the journey from Oxford to Hatfield. Most people were going to London, which was out of Ned’s way. While waiting he fell under the spell of the university. He liked the lively discussions about all kinds of topics, from where the Garden of Eden was to how the Earth could be round without people falling off it. Most students would become priests, a few lawyers or doctors; Ned’s mother had told him he would learn nothing at a university that could be of use to a merchant. Now he wondered if she had been right. She was wise, but not omniscient.

After four days he joined a group of pilgrims going to St Albans Cathedral. That took another three days. Then he took a chance and walked alone the last seven miles from St Albans to his destination.

King Henry VIII had confiscated Hatfield Palace from the bishop of Ely, and had used it as an occasional nursery for his children. Elizabeth had spent much of her childhood there, Ned knew. Now Queen Mary Tudor, Elizabeth’s older half-sister, liked to keep her there. Hatfield was twenty miles north of London, a day’s walk or half a day’s fast ride: Elizabeth was out of London, where she might have been a nuisance, but close enough to be watched. Elizabeth was not exactly a prisoner, but she was not free to come and go as she pleased.

The palace was visible from a distance, atop a rise. It looked like an enormous barn built of red brick with leaded windows. As he climbed the slope to the entrance arch, Ned saw that in fact it was four linked buildings in a square, enclosing a courtyard big enough to hold several tennis courts.

His apprehension grew as he saw the busy crowd in the yard, grooms and laundresses and delivery boys. He realized that even though Elizabeth was out of favour she was still royal, and she maintained a large household. Probably lots of people would like to work for her. Perhaps the servants turned applicants away every day.

He walked into the courtyard and looked around. Everyone was busy, no one noticed him. Cecil might be away, he realized: one reason the man needed an assistant was that he could not be at Hatfield all the time.

Ned went up to an older woman placidly shelling peas. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he said politely. ‘Where might I find Sir William Cecil?’

‘Ask the fat man,’ she said, jerking a thumb at a well-dressed heavy-set figure Ned had not previously noticed. ‘Tom Parry.’

Ned approached the man. ‘Good day, Master Parry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Sir William Cecil.’

‘A lot of people would like to see Sir William,’ said Parry.

‘If you tell him Ned Willard from Kingsbridge is here, he will be glad of the information.’

‘Will he, now?’ Parry was sceptical. ‘From Kingsbridge?’

‘Yes. I walked here.’

Parry was unimpressed. ‘I didn’t think you’d flown.’

‘Will you be so kind as to give him my name?’

‘And if he asks me what business Ned Willard has with him, what shall I say?’

‘The confidential matter he and I discussed with the earl of Shiring on the Twelfth Day of Christmas.’

‘Sir William, and the earl, and you?’ said Parry. ‘What were you doing – serving the wine?’

Ned smiled thinly. ‘No. But the topic was, as I mentioned, confidential.’ He decided that if he submitted himself to any further rude interrogation he would begin to seem desperate, so he ended the conversation. ‘Thank you for your courtesy,’ he said, and turned his back.

‘All right, no need to take umbrage. Come with me.’

Ned followed Parry into the house. The place was gloomy and somewhat decrepit: Elizabeth might have a royal income, but clearly it did not stretch to refurbishing a palace.

Parry opened a door, looked in, and said: ‘Do you want to receive a Ned Willard from Kingsbridge, Sir William?’

A voice inside answered: ‘Very well.’

Parry turned to Ned. ‘Go in.’

The room was large, but not richly decorated; a working office, with ledgers on shelves, rather than a reception room. Cecil sat at a writing table, with pens and ink, paper and sealing-wax. He wore a black velvet doublet that looked too warm for summer weather – but he was sedentary, and Ned had been walking in the sun.

‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Cecil said when he saw Ned. ‘Alice Willard’s boy.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just a little wary. ‘Is your mother well?’

‘She’s lost all her money, Sir William,’ Ned replied. ‘Most of our fortune was in Calais.’

‘Several good men have suffered a similar fate. We were foolish to declare war on France. But why have you come to me? I can’t get Calais back.’

‘When we met, at the earl of Shiring’s banquet, you said you were looking for a young man a bit like myself, to help you in your work for the lady Elizabeth. My mother told you I was destined to work in the family business, and therefore unavailable – but now there is no business. I don’t know whether you found someone . . .’

‘I did,’ said Cecil, and Ned was crestfallen. Then Cecil added: ‘But he turned out to be a bad choice.’

Ned brightened again. ‘I would be honoured and grateful if you would consider me for the position,’ he said eagerly.

‘I don’t know,’ Cecil said. ‘This is not one of those posts that exists to provide an income for a courtier. It requires real work.’

‘I’m prepared to work.’

‘Perhaps, but to be frank, a boy from a rich background whose family have fallen on bad times does not usually make a good assistant: he’s liable to be too accustomed to giving the orders himself, and he may find it strange that anyone should expect him to do what he’s told promptly and conscientiously. He just wants the money.’

‘I want more than the money.’

‘You do?’

‘Sir William, two weeks ago we burned a Protestant in Kingsbridge – our first.’ Ned knew he should not get emotional, but he could hardly help it. ‘As I watched him die screaming, I remembered what you said to me about Elizabeth’s wish that no one should be killed for his faith.’

Cecil nodded.

‘I want her to be queen one day,’ Ned said passionately. ‘I want our country to be a place where Catholics and Protestants don’t kill one another. When the moment comes, I want to be with you as you help Elizabeth to win the throne. That’s the real reason I’m here.’

Cecil stared hard at Ned, as if trying to look into his heart and determine whether he was sincere. After a long pause he said: ‘All right. I’ll give you a trial.’

‘Thank you,’ Ned said fervently. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’

*

NED WAS STILL in love with Margery Fitzgerald, but he would have gone to bed with Elizabeth in a heartbeat.

And yet she was not beautiful. She had a big nose and a small chin, and her eyes were too close together. But, paradoxically, she was irresistibly alluring: astonishingly clever, as charming as a kitten, and shamelessly flirtatious. The effect was hardly reduced by her imperiousness and her occasional bad temper. Men and women adored her even after she had scolded them cruelly. Ned had never met anyone remotely like her. She was overpowering.

She spoke French to him, mocked his hesitant Latin, and was disappointed that he could not help her practise her Spanish. She let him read any of her books that he fancied, on condition that he discussed them with her. She asked him questions about her finances that made it clear she understood accounts as well as he did.

Within a few days he learned the answers to two key questions.

First, Elizabeth was not plotting against Queen Mary Tudor. In fact, she expressed a horror of treason that seemed genuine to Ned. However, she was preparing, quite methodically, to make a bid for the throne after Mary’s death, whenever that might be. Cecil’s Christmas trip to Kingsbridge had been part of a programme in which he, and other allies of Elizabeth, visited the most important cities in England to assess her support – and opposition. Ned’s admiration for Cecil grew fast: the man thought strategically, judging every issue by its long-term effect on the destiny of the princess he served.

Second, Elizabeth was a Protestant, despite Cecil’s pretence that she had no strong religious convictions. She went to Mass and performed every Catholic ritual that was expected of her, but that was for show. Her favourite book was Paraphrases of the New Testament by Erasmus. Most telling was her bad language. She used swear words that Catholics considered offensive. In polite company she chose phrases that were not quite blasphemous: ‘blood’ instead of ‘God’s blood’; ‘zounds’ for ‘God’s wounds’; and ‘marry’ for ‘Mary’. But in private she was more profane, saying: ‘by the Mass’ and – her favourite – ‘God’s body!’

In the mornings she studied with her tutor, and Ned sat in Cecil’s office with the ledgers. Elizabeth had a lot of property, and a major part of Ned’s job was making sure that she was paid the rents due to her in full and on time. After the midday meal Elizabeth relaxed, and sometimes she liked her favourite servants to chat with her. They would sit in a room known as the bishop’s parlour, which had the most comfortable chairs, a chess board, and a virginal on which Elizabeth would sometimes pick out tunes. Her governess, Nell Baynsford, was always there, and sometimes Tom Parry, who was her treasurer.

Ned was not a member of this exclusive inner circle, but one day, when Cecil was absent, he was called in to talk about plans for Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth birthday on 7 September, a couple of weeks away. Should they try to arrange a big celebration in London, which would require the permission of the queen, or something more modest here at Hatfield, where they could do what they liked?

They were deep in discussion when a surprise visitor arrived.

They heard the clatter of hooves as several horses came through the arched gateway into the central courtyard. Ned went to the leaded window and peered out through the smoky glass. There were six riders, and their mounts were powerful, costly beasts. Elizabeth’s grooms came out of the stables to deal with the horses. Ned looked harder at the leader of the group and was astonished to recognize him. ‘It’s Earl Swithin!’ he said. ‘What does he want here?’

Ned’s first thought was that the visit must have something to do with the coming marriage of the earl’s son, Bart, to the girl Ned loved, Margery. But this was a fantasy. Even if the engagement had been broken off, the earl would not trouble to tell Ned.

What, then?

The visitors were ushered into the house, taking off their dusty cloaks. A few minutes later a servant came into the parlour to say that the earl of Shiring would like to speak to the lady Elizabeth, and Elizabeth ordered that he should be shown in.

Earl Swithin was a big man with a loud voice, and when he entered, he filled the room with his presence. Ned, Nell and Tom stood up, but Elizabeth remained sitting, perhaps to emphasize that her royal blood counted for more than Swithin’s greater age. He made a deep bow, but spoke in familiar tones, like an uncle to a niece. ‘I’m pleased to see you looking so well, and so beautiful,’ he said.

‘This is an unexpected delight,’ Elizabeth said. The compliment was fulsome but her tone was wary. Clearly she mistrusted Swithin – and so she should, Ned thought. Loyal Catholics such as Swithin had prospered under Queen Mary Tudor, and they feared a return to Protestantism, so they did not want Elizabeth to become queen.

‘So beautiful, and almost twenty-five years old!’ Swithin went on. ‘A red-blooded man such as myself cannot help thinking that such beauty should not be wasted – you will forgive me for saying so.’

‘Will I?’ Elizabeth replied frostily. She never was amused by vague sexual innuendo uttered in tones of jollity.

Swithin sensed Elizabeth’s coolness and looked at the servants standing in the background. Clearly he was wondering if he might get on better without them listening. He was mildly startled when his eye fell on Ned, but he said nothing to him. Turning back to Elizabeth he said: ‘May I speak privately to you, my dear?’

Assuming unwarranted familiarity was not the way to charm Elizabeth. She was a younger daughter, some said illegitimate, and that made her ultra-sensitive to any sign of disrespect. But Swithin was too stupid to grasp that.

Tom Parry said: ‘The lady Elizabeth must never be alone with a man – on the instructions of the queen.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Swithin.

Ned wished that Cecil had been here for this visit. It was risky for servants to stand up to an earl. The thought crossed his mind that Swithin might deliberately have arranged to come on a day when none of Elizabeth’s senior staff were at the house.

What was he up to?

Swithin said: ‘Elizabeth has nothing to fear from me,’ and he chortled heartily. It made Ned’s skin crawl.

But Elizabeth took offence. ‘Fear?’ she said, raising her voice. She resented any suggestion that she was a fragile woman in need of protection. ‘Why should I be afraid? Of course I will speak to you privately.’

Reluctantly, her servants left the room.

When the door was closed, Tom said to Ned: ‘You know him – what is he like?’

‘Swithin is a violent man,’ Ned said. ‘We must stay close.’ He realized that Tom and Nell were looking to him for guidance. He thought fast. ‘Nell, will you tell the kitchen to send wine for the guest?’ If it became necessary to enter the room, the wine would provide a pretext.

Tom said: ‘What will he do if we go back in?’

Ned thought of Swithin’s reaction to the Puritan walk-out at the play. ‘I’ve seen him try to kill a man who offended him.’

‘God save us.’

Ned touched his head to the door. He could hear the two voices: Swithin’s was loud and Elizabeth’s was penetrating. He could not make out the words, but the tones were calm, if not very amiable, and he felt that for the moment Elizabeth was in no danger.

Ned tried to figure out what was going on. Swithin’s surprise visit must have something to do with the succession to the throne. It was the only reason a powerful courtier would be interested in Elizabeth.

Ned recalled that a much-discussed solution to the problem of the succession was to marry Elizabeth to a strong Catholic. It was assumed that she would be led by her husband in religious matters. Ned now knew Elizabeth well enough to realize that such a plan would not work, but others thought it would. King Felipe had proposed his cousin, the duke of Savoy, but Elizabeth had refused.

Did Swithin want to marry Elizabeth himself? It was possible. He might hope to seduce her on this visit. More likely, he might think that if he spent enough time alone with her the suspicion of fornication would make a marriage the only way to rescue her reputation.

He would not be the first to try. When Elizabeth had been only fourteen Thomas Seymour – a man of forty – had indulged in sexual petting with her and schemed to marry her. Seymour had ended up executed for treason, though his designs on Elizabeth had not been his only offence. Ned thought it was quite possible that the foolhardy Earl Swithin might be prepared to risk the same fate.

The tones of voice within the room changed. Elizabeth began to sound commanding. Swithin went the other way, countering her coldness with a voice so amiable it was almost lecherous.

If something unpleasant should happen, Elizabeth could shout for help. Except that she never admitted needing help. And Swithin might be able to silence her anyway.

Nell reappeared carrying a tray with a jug of wine, two goblets, and a plate of cakes. Ned held up a hand to stop her entering the room. ‘Not yet,’ he murmured.

A minute later Elizabeth made a noise that was almost a scream. It was followed by a crash and a tinkling sound that Ned guessed was a bowl of apples being knocked to the floor. He hesitated, waiting for Elizabeth to shout. But there followed a silence. Ned did not know what to do. He found the silence more sinister than anything.

Unable to bear the suspense, he threw open the door, seized the tray from Nell, and stepped inside.

On the far side of the room, Earl Swithin held Elizabeth in a bear hug, kissing her. Ned’s worst fears had been justified.

Elizabeth turned her head from side to side, trying to escape his mouth, and Ned saw her small fists beating ineffectually on Swithin’s broad back. Clearly she was unwilling. But this would be Swithin’s idea of courtship, Ned thought. He would imagine that a woman might be overcome by the strength of his passion, yield to his embraces, and fall in love with him for his forceful masculinity.

Elizabeth would not be won that way if Swithin were the last man on earth.

In a loud voice Ned said: ‘Some refreshments for you, Earl.’ He was shaking with fear but he managed to make his voice jovial. ‘A glass of sherry wine, perhaps?’ He put the tray down on a table beside the window.

Swithin turned to Ned but kept tight hold of Elizabeth’s slim wrist in his deformed left hand. ‘Get out of here, you little turd,’ he said.

His persistence shocked Ned. How could Swithin continue now that he had been seen? Even an earl could be executed for rape, especially if there were three independent witnesses – and both Tom and Nell were in the doorway, watching, though too terrified to enter.

But Swithin was nothing if not headstrong.

Ned realized he could not leave now, no matter what.

With an effort he controlled the shaking of his hands enough to pour wine into a goblet. ‘And the kitchen has kindly sent some cakes. You must be hungry after your journey.’

Elizabeth said: ‘Let go of my arm, Swithin.’ She tugged, but even though he was holding her with his mutilated hand, the one that had lost two and a half fingers, she could not free herself.

Swithin put his hand on the dagger at his belt. ‘Leave the room instantly, young Willard, or by God I’ll slit your throat.’

Ned knew he was capable of it. At New Castle, in his rages, he had injured servants in several incidents that had been smoothed over, later, with a combination of threats and compensation. And if Ned defended himself, he could be hanged for wounding an earl.

But he could not leave Elizabeth now.

The mention of a knife inspired him. ‘There’s been a fight in the stables,’ he said, extemporizing. ‘Two of your companions got into an argument. The grooms managed to pull them apart, but one seems badly injured – a knife wound.’

‘Bloody liar,’ said Swithin, but clearly he was not sure, and the indecision cooled his ardour.

Behind Ned, Nell and Tom at last came hesitantly into the room. Nell knelt down and started to pick up pieces of the broken fruit bowl. Tom cottoned on to Ned’s story and said: ‘Your man is bleeding quite badly, Earl Swithin.’

Common sense began to prevail. Swithin seemed to realize that he could not stab three of Elizabeth’s servants without getting into trouble. And his plan of seduction had collapsed. He looked furious, but let go of Elizabeth. She immediately moved away from him, rubbing her wrist.

With a grunt of frustration, Swithin strode from the room.

Ned almost collapsed with relief. Nell began to cry. Tom Parry took a gulp of sherry directly from the jug.

Ned said: ‘My lady, you should go to your private chamber with Nell and bar the door. Tom, you and I should vanish too.’

‘I agree,’ said Elizabeth, but she did not leave immediately. She moved closer to Ned and said quietly: ‘There was no fight in the stables, was there?’

‘No. It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment.’

She smiled. ‘How old are you, Ned?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘You risked your life for me.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips briefly but tenderly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Then she left the room.

*

MOST PEOPLE BATHED twice a year, in spring and autumn, but princesses were fastidious, and Elizabeth bathed more often. It was a major operation, with maidservants carrying big two-handled laundry tubs of hot water from the kitchen fire to her bedchamber, hurrying up the stairs before the water cooled.

She took a bath the day after Swithin’s visit, as if to wash away her disgust. She had said no more about Swithin, after kissing Ned, but Ned thought he had won her trust.

Ned knew he had made an enemy of a powerful earl, but he hoped it would not last: Swithin was quick-tempered and vengeful but, Ned thought, he had a short attention span. With luck he would nurse his grudge against Ned only until a better one came along.

Sir William Cecil had arrived shortly after Swithin left, and next morning he got down to work with Ned. Cecil’s office was in the same wing as Elizabeth’s private suite. He sent Ned to Tom Parry’s office to fetch a ledger of expenditure for another house Elizabeth owned. Coming back with the heavy book in his hand, Ned walked along Elizabeth’s corridor, where the floorboards were puddled with water spilled by the maids. As he passed her suite, he saw that the door was open, and – stupidly – he glanced in.

Elizabeth had just got out of her bath. The tub itself was screened off, but she had stepped across the room to pick up a large white linen sheet with which to dry herself. There should have been a maid waiting beside the tub holding the towel, and of course the door should have been shut; but someone had been dilatory, and Elizabeth was impatient with dozy servants.

Ned had never seen a woman naked. He had no sisters, he had never gone that far with a girlfriend, and he had not visited a brothel.

He froze, staring. The hot bathwater, steaming faintly, ran from her dainty shoulders down her small breasts to her rounded hips and her strong thighs, muscular from riding. Her skin was creamy white and her pubic hair was a wonderful red-gold. Ned knew he should look away instantly, but he was enchanted, and could not move.

She caught his eye and was startled, but only for a moment. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.

Then she smiled.

A moment later she slammed the door.

Ned hurried along the corridor, his heart beating like a big drum. For what he had just done he could be sacked from his job, put in the stocks, or flogged – or all three.

But she had smiled.

The smile had been warm, friendly, and a little coquettish. Ned could imagine a naked woman smiling like that at her husband or lover. The smile seemed to say that this glimpse of forbidden loveliness was a boon she was happy to grant him.

He told nobody what had happened.

That evening he waited for an explosion of anger, but none came. Elizabeth did not mention the incident, to him or anyone else. Slowly Ned became sure he was not going to be punished. Then he began to doubt whether it had really happened. It was more like something he might have dreamed.

But he would remember that vision for the rest of his life.

*

MARGERY WAS KISSED by Bart for the first time in the new house, Priory Gate.

Sir Reginald Fitzgerald, Lady Jane and Rollo were proudly showing Earl Swithin around. Margery followed with Bart, who was back from his posting to Combe Harbour now that the threat of a French invasion seemed to have faded. Margery knew that Reginald had sold the rest of the priory back to the cathedral chapter, as promised. The price had been low, but enough to pay for the building work on the new house to be completed.

It was a grand, impressive modern structure on the market square, made of the same pale limestone as the cathedral. It had rows of large windows and tall clustered chimneys. Inside there seemed to be staircases everywhere and dozens of fireplaces. It smelled of new paint, some of the chimneys smoked, and several of the doors would not close properly, but it was habitable, and servants were already moving furniture here from the old house on the high street.

Margery did not want to live here. For her, Priory Gate would always smell of bloodshed and fraud. Philbert Cobley had been burned to death and Alice Willard had been ruined so that this house could be finished. Philbert and Alice had committed sins, of course, and so had to be punished, but Margery’s sharp moral discrimination would not permit her to content herself with such blurring of distinctions: the severe sentences had been prompted by impure motives. Bishop Julius had got the priory back for the cathedral and Margery’s father had gained a lot of money that was not really his.

A mere girl had no business thinking such thoughts, but she could not help it, and it made her angry. Bad behaviour by bishops and leading Catholics was part of what drove Protestantism – could they not see that? However, there was nothing she could do but seethe.

As the party entered the Long Gallery, Bart lagged behind, grabbed Margery’s elbow, and pulled her back; then, when the others were out of sight, he kissed her.

Bart was tall and handsome and well dressed, and Margery knew that she must love him, for he had been chosen as her husband by her parents, who had been set in authority over her by God. So she kissed him back, opening her mouth, and let him explore her body, feel her breasts and even press his hand between her legs. It was difficult, especially as she kept remembering that Ned had kissed her in this house when it was half built. She tried to summon the feelings that used to come over her with Ned. It did not really work, but it made the ordeal a little easier to bear.

She broke the embrace and saw Swithin watching them.

‘We were wondering where you two had got to,’ he said, then he gave a conspiratorial grin and a lascivious wink. Margery found it creepy that he had stood there, watching, until she had noticed him.

The party sat down in the room designated as Sir Reginald’s parlour to talk about the wedding. It was just a month away. Margery and Bart would be married in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and there would be a banquet here in the new house. Margery had ordered a dress in pale blue silk and an elaborate headdress in the jaunty style she loved. Earl Swithin wanted to know all the details of her outfit, almost as if he would be marrying her himself. Her parents had to have new clothes, too, and there were a hundred other decisions to be made. There would be entertainment as well as food and drink for the guests, and Sir Reginald would have to provide free beer for all comers at the gate.

They were discussing what play would be appropriate to finish the festivities when the head groom, Percy, came in followed by a young man with the dust of the road on his clothes. ‘A courier from London, Sir Reginald,’ said Percy. ‘He assures me you would not want to delay hearing his news.’

Sir Reginald looked at the courier. ‘What is it?’

‘I bring a letter from Davy Miller, sir.’ Miller was Reginald’s business representative in London. The courier held out a slim leather wallet.

‘Tell me what it says, man,’ said Sir Reginald impatiently.

‘The queen is ill.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘The doctors say there is a malignant growth in her female parts that is causing her belly to swell.’

Rollo said: ‘Ah. Those false pregnancies . . .’

‘It is so bad that she sometimes falls unconscious.’

‘The poor queen,’ said Margery. She had mixed feelings about Mary Tudor. The queen was an admirably strong-willed and devout woman, but the burnings of Protestants were wrong. Why could people not be devout and merciful at the same time, like Jesus?

Rollo said worriedly: ‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘We understand that she may take some months to die, but she will not recover.’

Margery saw Rollo turn a little pale, and a moment later she understood why. ‘This is the worst possible news,’ he said. ‘Mary Tudor has no child, and young Mary Stuart has made herself a less attractive successor by marrying the wretched French boy. That makes Elizabeth Tudor the leading candidate – and all our efforts to bring her under control have failed.’

Rollo was right. Margery had not seen it as quickly as he had, but as soon as he said it she understood, and so did her father and the earl. England was in danger of falling back into the swamp of heresy. She shivered.

Swithin said: ‘Elizabeth must not become queen! That would be a catastrophe.’

Margery looked at Bart, but he seemed bored. Her husband-to-be was impatient with politics. He preferred to talk about horses and dogs. She felt annoyed with him: the topic was their future!

Reginald said: ‘Mary Stuart is married to a French prince, and the English people don’t want another foreign king.’

‘The English people will have no say in the matter,’ Swithin grunted. ‘Tell them now that their next monarch will be Mary Stuart. By the time it happens they will have got used to the idea.’

Margery thought that was wishful thinking, and her father showed, by his next remark, that he agreed. ‘We can tell them anything,’ said Reginald. ‘But will they believe us?’

Rollo answered the question. ‘They might,’ he said with a speculative air. He was thinking on his feet, Margery could tell, but what he was saying made sense. ‘Especially if the announcement was endorsed by King Felipe.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Sir Reginald. ‘First we would have to get King Felipe to agree.’

Margery began to see a glimmer of hope.

Rollo said: ‘Then we will go and see King Felipe.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘In Brussels, leading his army against the French. But that war is almost over.’

‘We may have to be quick, if the queen is as ill as she seems.’

‘Indeed. We can get passage from Combe Harbour to Antwerp – Dan Cobley has ships going every week. From Antwerp to Brussels is a day’s ride. We’ll be back for the wedding.’

It was ironic, Margery thought, that they would have to rely on the ultra-Protestant Dan Cobley to transport them on this mission.

Rollo said: ‘Would King Felipe receive us?’

Swithin answered the question. ‘He would receive me. England is one of his kingdoms, and I’m one of its greatest noblemen. And he stayed at New Castle once, after the marriage, on his way from Winchester to London.’

The three men looked at one another: Reginald, Rollo and Swithin. ‘Very well,’ said Reginald. ‘We’ll go to Brussels.’

Margery felt better. At least they were doing something.

Rollo stood up. ‘I’ll go and see Dan about a ship,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to lose any time.’

*

NED WILLARD DID NOT want to go to Kingsbridge for Margery’s wedding, but he had to. The ceremony provided too good a pretext for his undercover mission.

In October he retraced the steps of his July journey, but this time on horseback. His mission was urgent. The queen was dying, and everything was urgent.

His mother seemed shrunken. It was not so much physical – she was still quite heavy – but the spirit had gone out of her. Ned had not really believed her, back in June, when she had said: ‘I’ll be fifty soon – I haven’t got the energy.’ But three months later she was still despondent and lethargic. Ned felt sure now that Alice would never revive the family enterprise. It made him grind his teeth with rage.

But things were going to change. Ned was part of the force that would break the power of men such as Bishop Julius and Sir Reginald. Ned was thrilled to be part of Elizabeth’s household. Both Cecil and Elizabeth liked him, especially since he had defied Swithin. He felt a surge of eager anticipation every time he thought about how they would change the world together. But first they had to put Elizabeth on the throne of England.

He stood with his mother in the market square, waiting for the bride. A brisk north wind blew across the open space. As always, the couple would exchange vows in the porch of the church, then go inside for the wedding Mass. Kingsbridge people greeted Ned warmly. Most of them felt that his family had been severely mistreated.

Swithin and Bart stood at the front of the crowd, Bart wearing a new yellow doublet. There was no sign of the bride yet. Would she look happy or sad? Was she heartbroken, her life ruined because she was not marrying Ned? Or was she by now getting over her love for him and beginning to enjoy her new role with Viscount Bart? Ned was not sure which he would find harder to bear.

But he was not really here for Margery. He raked the crowd, looking for the Protestants. He spotted Dan Cobley and began his mission.

Faking a casual air, he strolled across the square to speak to Dan, who was standing outside the north-west corner of the cathedral. Dan seemed changed, although it had been only three months: he had lost some weight, and his face looked harder as well as leaner. Ned was pleased by the change, for his mission was to turn Dan into a military leader.

It would not be easy.

Exchanging pleasantries, he drew Dan behind a mighty buttress, then spoke in a low voice. ‘The queen is fighting for her life.’

‘So I hear,’ said Dan warily.

Ned was disheartened to see that Dan did not trust him, but he understood why. The Willards had switched from Catholicism to Protestantism and back again too easily for Dan’s liking. Now Dan was not sure where they really stood.

Ned said: ‘The succession is a contest between Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart. Now, Mary is fifteen years old and married to a sickly husband who is even younger: she would be a weak queen, dominated by her French uncles, the Guises – who are ultra-Catholic. You need to fear her.’

‘But Elizabeth goes to Mass.’

‘And she may continue to do so after she becomes queen – no one really knows.’ This was not true. Ned and everyone close to Elizabeth knew she would become openly Protestant as soon as she could, for that was the only way to break the stranglehold of the Church. But they were pretending otherwise to disarm the opposition. In the world of kings and courtiers, Ned had learned, no one told all of the truth all of the time.

Dan said: ‘In that case, why should I care whether our next monarch is Elizabeth Tudor or Mary Stuart?’

‘If Elizabeth becomes queen, she will not burn Protestants for their beliefs.’ That part was true.

Fury blazed in Dan’s eyes at this reminder of his father’s dreadful death; but he controlled his emotions. ‘That’s easy to say.’

‘Be realistic. You want the slaughter of Protestants to stop. Elizabeth is not just your best hope, she’s your only hope.’ Dan did not want to believe this, Ned guessed, but he saw in Dan’s eyes an acknowledgement of the truth, and had the satisfaction of feeling one step closer to his goal.

Reluctantly, Dan said: ‘Why are you telling me this?’

Ned answered Dan’s question with a question. ‘How many Protestants are there in Kingsbridge now?’

Dan looked stubborn and said nothing.

‘You have to trust me,’ Ned said urgently. ‘Come on!’

‘At least two thousand,’ Dan said at last.

‘What?’ Ned was pleasantly surprised. ‘I imagined a few hundred at most.’

‘There’s more than one group. And the numbers have increased since June.’

‘Because of what happened to your father?’

Dan looked bitter. ‘More because of what happened to your mother. They’re scared to do business. No deal is safe now. Most of these people don’t care about a Protestant martyr, but they can’t live with a Church that steals their money.’

Ned nodded. He suspected Dan was right. Few people became passionate about doctrinal disputes, but everyone had to make a living, and a Church that stopped them doing that was bound to run into trouble.

Ned said: ‘I’ve come here from Hatfield with one question for you, Dan, and I could be in danger just for asking it, so please think before you answer.’

Dan looked scared. ‘Don’t involve me in anything treasonable!’

That was exactly what Ned was about to do. He said: ‘Out of those two thousand Protestants, how many able-bodied men could you muster, when the queen dies, to fight for Elizabeth against the supporters of Mary Stuart?’

Dan looked away. ‘I have no idea.’

He was prevaricating, Ned knew. He moved closer to Dan, pressing the point. ‘What if a group of Catholic noblemen, led perhaps by Earl Swithin, were to muster an army to march on Hatfield, intending to take Elizabeth prisoner while they wait for Mary Stuart and her hard-line uncles to arrive from France? Would you stand by and let that happen?’

‘Four hundred Kingsbridge men won’t make any difference.’

So it was four hundred, Ned thought. That was the information he needed. He was pleased: it was more than he had expected. He said: ‘Do you imagine you’re the only brave Protestants in England?’ He lowered his voice more. ‘Every city in the land has a group like yours, ready to march to Hatfield and defend Elizabeth, waiting only for the word from her.’

For the first time, Dan’s face was lit by hope – albeit hope of revenge. ‘Is that true?’ he said.

It was something of an exaggeration, but not entirely untrue. Ned said: ‘If you want the freedom to worship in the way you so passionately believe is right – and to do so without the fear, every minute, that you might be burned alive for it – then you must be ready to fight, and I mean fight with swords.’

Dan nodded thoughtfully.

‘And there’s one other thing you have to do,’ Ned went on. ‘Watch what Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald are up to. Send a fast messenger to me at Hatfield as soon as they do anything unusual, such as stockpiling weapons. Early information is the key.’

Dan said nothing. Ned stared at him, waiting for a reply, hoping for assent. At last Dan said: ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said.’ Then he walked away.

Ned was frustrated. He had felt confident that Dan would be eager to revenge the killing of his father by leading a Kingsbridge militia to fight for Elizabeth, and he had assured Sir William Cecil of it. Perhaps he had been overconfident.

Discouraged, Ned made his way back across the square, heading for where his mother stood. Halfway there he found himself facing Rollo Fitzgerald, who said: ‘What news of the queen?’

It was on everyone’s minds, of course.

Ned said: ‘She is gravely ill.’

‘There are rumours that Elizabeth intends to permit Protestantism if she becomes queen.’ Rollo made it sound like an accusation.

‘Rumours, indeed?’ Ned had no intention of getting into that kind of discussion. He moved to step around Rollo.

But Rollo blocked his way. ‘Or even that she wants to turn England to heresy, as her father did.’ Rollo lifted his chin aggressively. ‘Is it true?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Consider this,’ said Rollo, who could ignore a question as effortlessly as Ned. ‘If she tries it, who will oppose her? Rome, of course.’

‘Indeed,’ said Ned. ‘The Pope’s policy on Protestants is extermination.’

Rollo put his hands on his hips and leaned forward belligerently. The stance was familiar to Ned from their schooldays: this was Rollo playing the bully. ‘She will also be opposed by the king of Spain, who is the richest and most powerful man in the world.’

‘Perhaps.’ The position of Spain was not that simple, but there was certainly some danger that King Felipe would try to undermine Elizabeth.

‘And the king of France, probably the second most powerful.’

‘Hmm.’ That, too, was a real danger.

‘Not to mention the king of Portugal and the queen of Scots.’

Ned was pretending to be indifferent to this argument, but Rollo was dismayingly right. Almost all Europe was going to turn on Elizabeth if she did what Ned knew perfectly well she intended to do. He had known all this, but Rollo’s summation was hammering the points home with chilling effect.

Rollo went on: ‘And who would support her? The king of Sweden and the queen of Navarre.’ Navarre was a small kingdom between Spain and France.

‘You paint a dramatic picture.’

Rollo came uncomfortably close. He was tall, and loomed threateningly over Ned. ‘She would be very foolish indeed to quarrel with so many powerful men.’

Ned said: ‘Take a step back, Rollo. If you don’t, I promise you, I will pick you up with both hands and throw you.’

Rollo looked uncertain.

Ned put a hand on Rollo’s shoulder, in a gesture that might have been friendly, and said: ‘I won’t tell you twice.’

Rollo pushed Ned’s hand off his shoulder, but then he turned away.

‘That’s how Elizabeth and I deal with bullies,’ said Ned.

There was a fanfare of trumpets, and the bride appeared.

Ned caught his breath. She looked wonderful. Her dress was a pale sky-blue with a dark blue underskirt. It had a high collar that stood up dramatically behind like a fan, framing her curly hair. Her jewelled headdress had a plume at an angle.

Ned heard a group of girls nearby murmur approval. Glancing at their faces, he saw mainly envy. It occurred to him that Margery had hooked the man they all wanted. Bart must be the most eligible bachelor in the county. They thought she had won first prize. How wrong they were.

Sir Reginald walked beside her, looking proud in a doublet of gorgeous red silk embroidered with gold thread, and Ned thought angrily: He paid for all this with my mother’s money.

Ned studied Margery’s expression as she came across the square, looking tiny and helpless as she approached the massive stones of the west front. What was she thinking? Her lips were set in a half-smile, and she looked from side to side, nodding at friends. She seemed confident and proud. But Ned knew her better. Serenity was not her mode. The natural Margery was playful, mischievous, amused and amusing. There was no laughter in her today. She was putting on an act, like the boy impersonating Mary Magdalene in the play.

As she passed where he stood, she caught his eye.

She had not known he would be here, and she was shocked. Her eyes widened in dismay. She looked away from him immediately, but she had lost her self-possession. Her fixed smile faltered, and a moment later she stumbled.

Ned stepped forward automatically to help her, but he was five yards away. Sir Reginald, next to her, caught her arm. But his reaction was late and his arm was not strong enough to save her. She lost her balance and went down on her knees.

The crowd gasped. It was bad luck. A fall on the way to your wedding was the worst possible omen for your married life.

Margery remained on her knees for a few seconds, catching her breath and trying to regain her composure, while her family clustered around her. Ned was one of many people trying to look over their shoulders to see if she was all right. Those farther away in the crowd were asking each other what had happened.

Then Margery stood upright again, and seemed steady enough on her feet. Her face assumed the same controlled expression. She looked around, smiling ruefully as if at her own clumsiness.

At last she stepped forward, and continued towards the cathedral porch.

Ned stayed where he was. He did not need to see the ceremony close up. The woman he loved was committing her life to another man. Margery was serious about promises: for her, a vow was sacred. When she said: ‘I do,’ she meant it. Ned knew he was losing her permanently.

After the exchange of vows, everyone proceeded into the cathedral for the wedding Mass.

Ned intoned the responses and looked at the sculpted pilasters and soaring arches, but today the timeless rhythm of the repeated columns and curves failed to soothe his wounded soul. Bart was going to make Margery miserable, Ned knew that. The thought that kept recurring, and that Ned could not completely suppress no matter how hard he tried, was that tonight Bart, that wooden-headed fool in a yellow doublet, would lie in bed with Margery and do with her all the things Ned himself longed for.

Then it was over, and they were husband and wife.

Ned left the cathedral. Now there was no uncertainty and no hope. Ned was going to spend his life without her.

He felt sure he would never love anyone else. He would be a lifelong bachelor. He was glad that at least he had a new career that engaged him so powerfully. His work for Elizabeth quite possessed him. If he could not spend his life with Margery, he would dedicate himself to Elizabeth. Her ideal of religious tolerance was outrageously radical, of course. Almost the whole world thought that the notion of letting everyone worship as they wished was disgustingly permissive and completely mad. But Ned thought the majority were mad, and people who believed as Elizabeth did were the only sane ones.

Life without Margery would be sad, but not pointless.

He had impressed Elizabeth once, by the way he had dealt with Earl Swithin, and now he needed to do it again, by recruiting Dan Cobley and the Kingsbridge Protestants as soldiers in her army.

He stopped in the windy square and looked around for Dan, who had not come into the cathedral for the wedding Mass. Presumably Dan had spent the hour thinking about Ned’s proposition. How long did he need? Ned spotted him in the graveyard, and went to join him.

Philbert Cobley had no grave, of course: heretics did not benefit from Christian burial. Dan was standing at the tomb of his grandparents, Adam and Deborah Cobley. ‘We gathered some ashes, furtively, after the burning,’ Dan said. His face was wet with tears. ‘We brought them here that evening and dug them into the soil at dusk. We’ll see him again, on the Last Day.’

Ned did not like Dan, but could not help feeling sad for him. ‘Amen,’ he said. ‘But it’s a long time until Judgement Day, and in the meantime we have to do God’s work here on earth.’

‘I’ll help you,’ Dan said.

‘Good man!’ Ned was happy. His mission had been accomplished. Elizabeth would be pleased.

‘I should have said yes right away, but I’ve become cautious.’

Understandably, Ned thought. But he did not want to dwell on the past, now that Dan had committed himself. He adopted a briskly practical tone. ‘You’ll need to appoint ten captains, each in charge of forty men. They won’t all have swords, but tell them to find good daggers or hammers. An iron chain can make a useful weapon.’

‘Is this the advice you’re giving to all the Protestant militias?’

‘Exactly. We need disciplined men. You need to take them to a field somewhere and march them up and down. It sounds stupid, but anything that gets them used to moving in unison is good.’ Ned was not speaking from his own knowledge or experience: he was repeating what Cecil had told him.

‘We might be seen, marching,’ Dan said dubiously.

‘Not if you’re discreet.’

Dan nodded. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘You want to know what Swithin and the Fitzgeralds do.’

‘Very much.’

‘They went to Brussels.’

Ned was rocked. ‘What? When?’

‘Four weeks ago. I know because they travelled on a ship of mine. We took them to Antwerp, and heard them hiring a guide to take them on to Brussels. They came back on one of my ships, too. They were afraid they might have to postpone the wedding, but they got here three days ago.’

‘King Felipe is in Brussels.’

‘So I gather.’

Ned tried to analyse this as William Cecil would, and in his mind the dominoes fell one by one. Why did Swithin and the Fitzgeralds want to see King Felipe? To talk about who would rule England when Mary Tudor died. What had they said to Felipe? That Mary Stuart should be queen, not Elizabeth Tudor.

They must have asked Felipe to support Mary.

And if Felipe had said yes, Elizabeth was in trouble.

*

NED BECAME EVEN more worried when he saw Cecil’s reaction.

‘I didn’t expect King Felipe to support Elizabeth, but I did hope he might stay out of it,’ Cecil said anxiously.

‘Why wouldn’t he support Mary Stuart?’

‘He’s worried about England coming under the control of her French uncles. He doesn’t want France to become too powerful. So, much as he wants us to be Catholic again, he’s in two minds. I don’t want him to be talked into making a decision for Mary Stuart.’

Ned had not thought of that. It was remarkable how often Cecil pointed out things he had not thought of. He was learning fast, but he felt he would never master the intricacies of international diplomacy.

Cecil was moody for an entire day, trying to think of something he could do or say to discourage the Spanish king from interfering. Then he and Ned went to see the count of Feria.

Ned had met Feria once before, back in the summer, when the Spanish courtier had come to Hatfield. Elizabeth had been pleased to see him, taking his visit as a sign that his master, King Felipe, might not be implacably opposed to her. She had turned the full force of her charm on Feria, and he had gone away half in love with her. However, nothing was quite what it seemed in the world of international relations. Ned was not sure how much it meant that Feria was smitten with Elizabeth. He was a smooth diplomat, courteous to all, ruthless beneath the surface.

Cecil and Ned found Feria in London.

The city of London was small by comparison with Antwerp, Paris or Seville, but it was the beating heart of England’s growing commercial life. From London a road ran west, along the river, through palaces and mansions with gardens running down to the beach. Two miles from London was the separate city of Westminster, which was the centre of government. White Hall, Westminster Yard and St James’s Palace were where noblemen, councillors and courtiers gathered to thrash out the laws that made it possible for the merchants to do business.

Feria had an apartment in the sprawl of assorted buildings known as White Hall Palace. Cecil and Ned were lucky: they caught him as he was about to return to his master in Brussels.

Cecil was not fluent in Spanish, but happily Feria spoke good English. Cecil pretended he had been passing Feria’s door and had merely dropped in to pay his respects. Feria politely pretended to believe him. They danced around each other for a few minutes, speaking platitudes.

A lot was at stake underneath the courtesies. King Felipe believed it was his holy duty to support the Catholic Church: it was perfectly possible for Swithin and Sir Reginald to talk the Spanish king into opposing Elizabeth.

Once the formalities were done, Cecil said: ‘Between us, England and Spain have very nearly defeated France and Scotland.’

Ned noted the odd emphasis. England had had little to do with the war: it was Spain that was winning. And Scotland was almost irrelevant. But Cecil was reminding Feria who his friends were.

Feria said: ‘The war is almost won.’

‘King Felipe must be pleased.’

‘And most grateful for the assistance of his English subjects.’

Cecil nodded acknowledgement and got down to business. ‘By the way, count, have you been in touch recently with Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots?’

Ned was surprised by the question. Cecil had not told him in advance what he planned to say.

Feria was surprised, too. ‘Good lord, no,’ he said. ‘Why on earth do you want me to communicate with her?’

‘Oh, I’m not saying you should – although I would, if I were you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, she may be the next queen of England, even though she’s a mere girl.’

‘One could say the same of Princess Elizabeth.’

Ned frowned. Feria had misjudged Elizabeth if he thought she was a mere girl. Perhaps he was not as sharp as people said.

Cecil ignored the remark. ‘In fact, I understand that King Felipe has been asked to support Scottish Mary’s claim to the throne.’

Cecil paused, giving Feria the chance to deny this. Feria said nothing. Ned concluded that his guesswork had been accurate: Swithin and Reginald had asked Felipe to support Mary Stuart.

Cecil went on: ‘In your place, I would ask Mary Stuart for a very specific commitment. I would want her to guarantee that under her rule England will not change sides, to join forces with France and Scotland against Spain. After all, at this stage that’s just about the only development that could prevent Spain winning this war.’

Ned marvelled. Cecil’s imagination had come up with just the right fantasy to scare Feria – and his master, the king of Spain.

Feria said: ‘Surely you don’t think that’s likely?’

‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Cecil said, though Ned felt sure he thought no such thing. ‘Mary Stuart is technically ruler of Scotland, though her mother acts as regent on her behalf. And Mary’s husband is heir to the throne of France. How could she be disloyal to both her countries? She is sure to turn England against Spain – unless you do something now to prevent it.’

Feria nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I’m guessing you have a suggestion,’ he said.

Cecil shrugged. ‘I hardly dare offer advice to the most distinguished diplomat in Europe.’ Cecil, too, could be smooth when necessary. ‘But, if King Felipe really is considering a request from English Catholics to support Mary Stuart as heir to the throne of England, I do think his majesty might first ask her for a guarantee that, as queen of England, she will not declare war on Spain. He could make that a condition of his support.’

‘He could,’ Feria said neutrally.

Ned was confused. Cecil was supposed to be talking Feria out of supporting Mary Stuart. Instead he seemed to be suggesting how King Felipe might overcome the main problem. Was there yet again something here Ned was not seeing?

Cecil stood up. ‘I’m glad we had the chance to chat,’ he said. ‘I only looked in to say bon voyage.’

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you. Please give my respects to the lovely Elizabeth.’

‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be glad.’

As soon as they were outside, Ned said: ‘I don’t understand! Why did you make that helpful suggestion about asking Mary Stuart for a guarantee?’

Cecil smiled. ‘First of all, King Henri of France will never allow his daughter-in-law to make such a promise.’

Ned had not thought of that. She was still only fifteen: she could not do anything without approval.

Cecil went on: ‘Second, her guarantee would be worthless. She would just break it after she took the throne. And there would be nothing anyone could do to hold her to it.’

‘And King Felipe will see both of those snags.’

‘Or, if he doesn’t, Count Feria will point them out to him.’

‘So why did you suggest it?’

‘As the fastest way to alert Feria and Felipe to the hazards of supporting Mary Stuart. Feria won’t take up my suggestion, but he’s now thinking hard about what else he could do to protect Spain. And soon Felipe will be thinking about it, too.’

‘And what will they do?’

‘I don’t know – but I know what they won’t do. They won’t help Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald. They won’t throw their weight behind the campaign for Mary Stuart. And that makes things a lot more hopeful for us.’

*

QUEEN MARY TUDOR departed her earthly life gradually and majestically, like a mighty galleon inching out of its berth.

As she got weaker, lying in bed in her private apartment in St James’s Palace, London, Elizabeth at Hatfield received more and more visitors. Representatives of noble families and rich businesses came to tell her how unhappy they were about religious persecution. Others sent messages offering to do anything they could for her. Elizabeth spent half the day dictating to secretaries, sending a blizzard of short notes thanking people for their loyalty, firming up friendships. The implied message in every letter was I will be an energetic monarch, and I will remember who helped me at the start.

Ned and Tom Parry were in charge of military preparations. They commandeered a nearby house, Brocket Hall, and made it their headquarters. From there, they liaised with Elizabeth’s backers in the provincial towns, preparing to deal with a Catholic uprising. Ned added up the number of soldiers they could muster, calculated how long it would take each group to get to Hatfield, and wrestled with the problem of finding weapons for them all.

Cecil’s sly intervention with Count Feria had been effective. Feria was back in England in the second week of November. He met with the Privy Council – the monarch’s most powerful group of advisors – and told them that King Felipe supported Elizabeth as heir to the throne. Queen Mary, in so far as she was able to do anything at all, seemed to have accepted her husband’s decision.

Then Feria came to Hatfield.

He walked in all smiles, a man with good news for a captivating woman. The Spanish were the richest people in the world, and Feria wore a red doublet delicately pinked to show the gold lining. His black cloak had a red lining and gold embroidery. Ned had never seen anyone looking quite so pleased with himself.

‘Madam, I bring you a gift,’ he said.

In the room with Elizabeth and Feria were Cecil, Tom Parry and Ned.

Elizabeth liked presents but hated surprises, and she said guardedly: ‘How kind.’

‘A gift from my master and yours, King Felipe,’ Feria went on.

Felipe was still Elizabeth’s master, technically, for Mary Tudor was still alive, still queen of England, and therefore her husband was king of England. But Elizabeth was not pleased to be reminded of this. Ned saw the signs – her chin raised a fraction, the ghost of a frown on her pale brow, a barely perceptible stiffening of her body in the carved-oak chair – but Feria missed them.

He went on: ‘King Felipe gives you the throne of England.’ He took a step back and bowed, as if expecting a round of applause, or a kiss.

Elizabeth looked calm, but Ned could tell she was thinking hard. Feria brought good news, but delivered it with magnificent condescension. What would Elizabeth say?

After a moment Feria added: ‘May I be the first to congratulate you – your majesty.’

Elizabeth nodded regally, but still said nothing. Ned knew such a silence to be ominous.

‘I have informed the Privy Council of King Felipe’s decision,’ Feria added.

‘My sister is dying, and I am to be queen,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I feel a kind of defeated joy, gladness and sorrow equal in the balance.’

Ned thought she had probably prepared those words.

Feria said: ‘Queen Mary, despite her illness, was able to ratify her husband’s choice.’

Something had changed subtly in his manner, and Ned instinctively suspected that Feria was now lying.

Feria went on: ‘She designates you her heir, on condition that you promise to keep England Catholic.’

Ned’s spirits fell again. Elizabeth’s hands would be tied from the start of her reign if she agreed to this. Bishop Julius and Sir Reginald would continue to do anything they pleased in Kingsbridge.

Ned glanced at Cecil. He did not seem dismayed. Perhaps he, too, thought Feria was lying. Cecil’s expression showed faint amusement, and he was looking expectantly at Elizabeth.

There was a long silence. Feria broke it by saying: ‘May I tell the king and queen that you consent to their decision?’

When Elizabeth spoke at last, her voice was like the crack of a whip. ‘No, sir, you may not.’

Feria looked as if he had been slapped. ‘But . . .’

Elizabeth did not give him the chance to protest. ‘If I become queen, it will be because I have been chosen by God, not King Felipe,’ she said.

Ned wanted to cheer.

She went on: ‘If I rule, it will be by the consent of the English people, not of my dying sister.’

Feria was thunderstruck.

Elizabeth’s scorn became vitriolic. ‘And when I am crowned I will take the oath customary to an English sovereign – and will not add extra promises proposed to me by the count of Feria.’

For once Feria did not know what to say.

He had played his cards in the wrong order, Ned realized. Feria should have demanded a promise of Catholicism from Elizabeth before endorsing her to the Privy Council. Now it was too late. Ned guessed that at their first meeting Feria had been misled by Elizabeth’s alluring manner into thinking she was a weak female who could be manipulated by a strong-minded man. But she had played him, instead of the other way around.

Feria was not a fool, and he saw all this in a flash, Ned could tell. Suddenly Feria looked deflated, an empty wineskin. He made as if to speak then changed his mind, several times: Ned guessed he could think of nothing to say that would make any difference.

Elizabeth put him out of his misery. ‘Thank you for coming to visit us, Count,’ she said. ‘Please give our best greetings to King Felipe. And though hope is slender, we will pray for Queen Mary.’

Ned wondered whether she meant to include her staff in the good wishes, or was already using the royal ‘we’. Knowing her, he decided the ambiguity was probably intentional.

Feria took his dismissal as graciously as he could and backed out of the room.

Ned grinned happily. He thought of Earl Swithin and said quietly to Cecil: ‘Well, Count Feria isn’t the first man to suffer for underestimating Elizabeth.’

‘No,’ said Cecil, ‘and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last.’

*

WHEN MARGERY WAS nine years old, she had announced that she was going to be a nun.

She was awestruck by the devout life led by her great-aunt, Sister Joan, living on the top floor of the house with her altar and her prayer beads. Joan had dignity and independence and a purpose in life.

All the nunneries had been abolished, along with the monasteries, by Henry VIII, and Queen Mary Tudor had failed to restore them; but that was not the reason Margery abandoned her ambition. The truth was that as soon as she reached puberty she knew that she could never live a life of celibacy. She loved boys, even when they acted stupid. She liked their boldness and their strength and their humour, and she was excited by the yearning stares they directed at her body. She even liked how blind they were to subtleties and hidden meanings: there was something attractive about their straightforwardness, and sometimes girls were so sly.

So she had given up on the plan of becoming a nun, but she was still drawn to the idea of a life devoted to a mission. She confessed this to Sister Joan, on the day she was to move to New Castle, while her clothes, books and jewellery were being loaded onto a four-wheeled cart for the journey. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sister Joan said, sitting on a wooden stool, straight-backed and alert despite her age. ‘God has a purpose for you. He has a purpose for all of us.’

‘But how can I find out what his purpose is for me?’

‘Why, you can’t find out!’ said Sister Joan. ‘You must just wait for him to reveal it. God won’t be hurried.’

Margery vowed to use self-control, although she was beginning to feel that her life was an exercise in self-control. She had submitted to her parents in marrying Bart. With her new husband she had spent the last two weeks at a house on Leper Island owned by the earl, and during that time Bart had made it clear that he expected Margery to submit to him in the same way she had submitted to her parents. He decided on his own where they would go and what they would do and then simply issued instructions to her as he might have done to a steward. She had expected their marriage to be more of a partnership, but that thought seemed never to have crossed Bart’s mind. She hoped she might change him, gradually and subtly, but he was awfully like his father.

Her proud family came with her on the journey to New Castle: Sir Reginald, Lady Jane and Rollo. They were related to the earl, now, and revelling in their connection with the aristocracy.

Also, the men were eager to confer with Earl Swithin. Their trip to Brussels had failed. King Felipe had seemed to listen to them and agree with their point of view, but someone else must have got to him, for in the end he had thrown the weight of his support behind Elizabeth. Rollo was bitterly disappointed, Margery could see.

On the journey Reginald and Rollo discussed what to do next. The only recourse left to them was an armed uprising against Elizabeth immediately after the death of Mary Tudor. They needed to know how many men-at-arms Earl Swithin could muster, and who among the Catholic nobility could be relied upon to support Swithin.

Margery was troubled. She saw Protestantism as an arrogant heresy favoured by men who imagined they were clever enough to find fault with hundreds of years of Church teaching, but she also believed that Christians should not kill one another. However, as New Castle loomed up ahead, her mind was on more mundane worries. Earl Swithin was a widower, so Margery – now titled Viscountess Shiring – was going to be the lady of the house. She was only sixteen, and hardly knew what it took to manage a castle. She had talked it over at length with Lady Jane, and made some plans, but she was anxious about facing the reality.

Bart had gone ahead, and when the Fitzgerald party arrived, about twenty servants were waiting for them in the courtyard. They clapped and cheered when Margery rode in, and she felt welcomed. Perhaps they disliked working for an all-male family, and looked forward to a woman’s touch. She hoped so.

Swithin and Bart came out to greet them. Bart kissed her, then Swithin did the same, letting his lips linger on her cheek and pressing her body to his. Then Swithin introduced a voluptuous woman of about thirty. ‘Sal Brendon is my housekeeper, and she will help you with everything,’ he said. ‘Show the viscountess around, Sal. We men have a lot to talk about.’

As he turned away to usher Reginald and Rollo into the house, he gave Sal a pat on her ample bottom. Sal did not seem surprised or displeased. Both Margery and Lady Jane noticed this and looked at one another. Sal was obviously more than a housekeeper.

‘I’ll take you to your quarters,’ Sal said. ‘This way.’

Margery wanted more of a tour. She had been here before, most recently on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, but it was a big place and she needed to refamiliarize herself with the layout. She said: ‘We’ll look at the kitchen first.’

Sal hesitated, looking annoyed, then said: ‘As you wish.’

They entered the house and went to the kitchen. It was hot and steamy and not too clean. An older servant was sitting on a stool, watching the cook work and drinking from a tankard. When Margery entered, he got to his feet rather slowly.

Sal said: ‘This is the cook, Mave Brown.’

There was a cat sitting on the table picking delicately at the remains of a knuckle of ham. Margery lifted the cat up with a swift movement and dropped it on the floor.

Mave Brown said resentfully: ‘She’s a good mouser, that cat.’

Margery said: ‘She’ll be a better mouser if you don’t let her eat ham.’

The older manservant began to prepare a tray with a plate of cold beef, a jug of wine and some bread. Margery took a slice of the beef and ate it.

The man said: ‘That’s for the earl.’

‘And very good it is, too,’ Margery said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Colly Knight,’ he said. ‘Worked for Earl Swithin forty years, man and boy.’ He said it with an air of superiority, as if to let Margery know that she was a mere latecomer.

‘I am the viscountess,’ Margery said. ‘You should say “my lady” when you speak to me.’

There was a long pause, then at last Colly said: ‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Now we will go to the viscount’s quarters,’ Margery said.

Sal Brendon led the way. They passed through the great hall, where a girl of ten or eleven was sweeping the floor in a desultory way, holding the brush with one hand. ‘Get both your hands on that broom handle,’ Margery snapped at her as they passed. The girl looked startled but did as she was told.

They went up the stairs and along the corridor to the end. The bedchamber was a corner room with communicating doors to two side rooms. Margery immediately liked that arrangement: it meant that Bart could have a dressing room for his muddy boots, and Margery could have a boudoir where maids could help with her clothes and hair.

But all the rooms were filthy. The windows seemed not to have been washed for a year. There were two big dogs lying on a blanket, an old one and a young one. Margery saw dog shit on the floor – Bart obviously let his pets do as they pleased in his rooms. On the wall was a painting of a naked woman, but the room contained no flowers or greenery, no plates of fruit or raisins, no fragrant bowls of dried herbs and petals to scent the air. On a chair was a tangle of laundry, including a bloodstained shirt, that seemed to have been there a long time.

‘This is disgusting,’ Margery said to Sal Brendon. ‘We’re going to clean the place up before I open my trunks. Go and fetch brooms and a shovel. The first thing you’ll do is clean up the dog shit.’

Sal put her hand on her hip and looked mutinous. ‘Earl Swithin is my master,’ she said. ‘You’d better speak to him.’

Something in Margery snapped. She had been deferring to people too long: her parents, Bishop Julius, Bart. She was not going to defer to Sal Brendon. All the bottled fury of the past year boiled over inside her. She drew back her arm and gave Sal a terrific slap across the face. The crack of palm on cheek was so loud that one of the dogs jumped. Sal fell back with a cry of shock.

‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ Margery said. ‘I know your type. Just because the earl gives you a fuck when he’s drunk you think you’re the countess.’ Margery saw a flare of recognition in Sal’s eyes that confirmed the truth of the accusation. ‘I am mistress of this house now, and you’ll obey me. And if you give trouble, you’ll be out of here so fast your feet won’t touch the ground until you land in the Kingsbridge whorehouse, which is probably where you belong.’

Sal was visibly tempted to defy her. Her face was suffused with rage and she might even have hit back. But she hesitated. She had to realize that if the earl’s new daughter-in-law were to ask him to get rid of an insolent servant, today of all days, he could not possibly refuse. Sal saw sense and her face changed. ‘I . . . I ask your pardon, my lady,’ she said humbly. ‘I’ll fetch the brooms right away.’

She left the room. Lady Jane said quietly to Margery: ‘Well done.’

Margery spotted a riding whip on a stool beside a pair of spurs, and picked it up. She crossed the room to where the dogs lay. ‘Get out, you filthy beasts,’ she said, and gave each of them a smart smack. More shocked than hurt, both dogs jumped up and scampered from the room, looking indignant.

‘And stay out,’ said Margery.

*

ROLLO REFUSED TO believe that the tide was turning against Mary Stuart. How could it, he asked himself indignantly, when England was a Catholic country and Mary had the support of the Pope? So that afternoon he wrote a letter for Earl Swithin to send to the archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Pole.

The letter asked for the archbishop’s blessing on an armed insurrection against Elizabeth Tudor.

Violence was now the only hope. King Felipe had turned against Mary Stuart and backed Elizabeth. That meant disaster for Rollo, the Fitzgerald family and the true Catholic Christian faith in England.

‘Is this treason?’ Swithin asked as he picked up the pen.

‘No,’ said Rollo. ‘Elizabeth is not queen yet, so no one is conspiring to rebel against the sovereign.’ Rollo knew that if they lost and Elizabeth won the crown, she would consider that a distinction without a difference. So they were all risking execution. But at moments such as this men had to take sides.

Swithin signed it – not without difficulty, for he found it easier to break in a wild horse than to write his name.

Pole was ill, but he could surely dictate a letter, Rollo thought. What would he say in reply to Swithin? Pole was the most hard-line Catholic of all the English bishops, and Rollo felt almost certain that he would support a revolt. Then the actions of Swithin and his supporters would be legitimized by the Church.

Two of Swithin’s trusted men were given the letter to carry to Lambeth Palace, the archbishop’s residence near London.

Meanwhile, Sir Reginald and Lady Jane returned to Kingsbridge. Rollo stayed with the earl. He wanted to make sure there was no backsliding.

While waiting for the archbishop’s reply, Swithin and Bart set about mustering a force of armed men. Other Catholic earls must be doing the same thing all over England, Rollo reckoned, and their combined forces would be irresistible.

In a hundred villages in the county of Shiring, Earl Swithin was lord and master with much of the same absolute authority that his ancestors had wielded in the Middle Ages. Swithin and Bart visited some of these places personally. The earl’s servants read a proclamation in others, and parish priests gave the same message in their sermons. Single men between eighteen and thirty were summoned to New Castle, and ordered to bring with them axes, scythes and iron chains.

Rollo had no experience of anything like this, and could not guess what would happen.

The response thrilled him. Every village sent half a dozen lads. They were keen to go. The makeshift weapons, and the young men carrying them, were not much needed in the fields in November. And Protestantism was an urban movement: it had never taken hold in the conservative countryside. Besides, this was the most exciting thing that had happened in living memory. Everyone was talking about it. Beardless boys and old men wept that they were not wanted.

The army could not remain many days at New Castle, and anyway it was a long march to Hatfield, so they set off, even though they had not heard back from Cardinal Pole. Their route would take them through Kingsbridge, where they would receive the blessing of Bishop Julius.

Swithin rode at the head of the column, with Bart at his side and Rollo behind. They reached Kingsbridge on the third day. Entering the city, they were stopped at Merthin’s Bridge by Rollo’s father, Sir Reginald, who was the mayor. He was accompanied by the aldermen of the borough.

‘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.

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.