A Column of Fire

  Ned studied her. It almost seemed as if there was a different person wearing the bright coat of Kingsbridge Scarlet and the little hat with the feather. She stood straight and still, and although she was talking to Bart her face was like that of a statue. Everything about her expressed resolution, not animation. The imp of mischief had vanished.

  But no one could change so quickly. That imp must still have been inside her somewhere.

  He knew she was miserable, and that made him angry as well as sad. He wanted to pick her up and run away with her. At night he elaborated fantasies in which the two of them slipped out of Kingsbridge at dawn and disappeared into the forest. Sometimes they walked to Winchester and got married under false names, or they made their way to London and set up in some business; they even went to Combe Harbour and took ship to Seville. But he could not save her unless she wanted to be saved.

  The oarsmen disembarked and went into the nearest tavern, the Slaughterhouse, to quench their thirsts. A passenger got off the barge, and Ned stared at him in surprise. Wrapped in a grubby cloak and carrying a battered leather satchel, the man had the wearily dogged look of the long-distance traveler. It was Ned's cousin Albin from Calais.

  They were the same age, and had become close while Ned was living with Uncle Dick.

  Ned hurried to the quay. "Albin?" he said. "Is it you?"

  Albin replied in French. "Ned, at last," he said. "What a relief."

  "What happened in Calais? We still haven't had definite information, even after all this time."

  "It's all bad news," Albin said. "My parents and my sister are dead, and we've lost everything. The French crown seized the warehouse and handed over everything to French merchants."

  "We were afraid of that." It was the news the Willards had been dreading for so long, and Ned felt deeply dispirited. He was particularly sad for his mother, who had lost her life's work. She would be devastated. But Albin had suffered a much greater loss. "I'm so sorry about your parents and Therese."

  "Thank you."

  "Come to the house. You have to tell my mother everything." Ned dreaded the moment, but it had to be done.

  They walked up the main street. "I managed to escape from the town," Albin said. "But I had no money, and anyway it's impossible to get passage from France to England now because of the war. That's why you've had no news."

  "So how did you get here?"

  "First I had to leave France, so I crossed the border into the Netherlands. But I still didn't have the fare to England. So I had to get to our uncle in Antwerp."

  Ned nodded. "Jan Wolman, our father's cousin." Jan had visited Calais while Ned was there, so Albin had met him.

  "So I walked to Antwerp."

  "That's more than a hundred miles."

  "And my feet felt every yard. I took a lot of wrong turnings, and I nearly starved to death, but I got there."

  "Well done. Uncle Jan took you in, no doubt."

  "He was wonderful. He fed me beef and wine, and Aunt Hennie bandaged my feet. Then Jan bought me passage from Antwerp to Combe Harbour, and a new pair of shoes, and gave me money for the journey."

  "And here you are." They arrived at the door of the Willard house. Ned escorted Albin into the parlor. Alice was sitting at a table placed near the window for light, writing in a ledger. There was a big fire in the grate, and she was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. No one ever got warm keeping books, she sometimes said. "Mother, here's Albin, arrived from Calais."

  Alice put down her pen. "Welcome, Albin." She turned back to Ned. "Fetch your cousin something to eat and drink."

  Ned went to the kitchen and asked the housekeeper, Janet Fife, to serve wine and cake.

  Back in the parlor, Albin told his story. He spoke French, with Ned translating the parts his mother did not understand.

  It brought tears to Ned's eyes. The portly figure of his mother seemed to shrink in the chair as the grim details came out: her brother-in-law dead, with wife and daughter; the warehouse given to a French merchant, with all its contents; strangers living in Dick's house. "Poor Dick," Alice said quietly. "Poor Dick."

  Ned said: "I'm so sorry, Mother."

  Alice made an effort to sit upright and be positive. "We're not ruined, not quite. I still have this house and four hundred pounds. And I own six houses by St. Mark's Church." The St. Mark's cottages were her inheritance from her father, and brought a small income in rents. "That's more wealth than most people see in a lifetime." Then she was struck by a worrying thought. "Though now I wish my four hundred pounds were not on loan to Sir Reginald Fitzgerald."

  "All the better," said Ned. "If he doesn't pay it back, we get the priory."

  "Speaking of that," said his mother, "Albin, do you know anything of an English ship called the St. Margaret?"

  "Why, yes," said Albin. "It came into Calais for repairs the day before the French attack."

  "What happened to the ship?"

  "It was seized by the French crown, like all the other English property in Calais--spoils of war. The hold was full of furs. They were auctioned on the quayside--they sold for more than five hundred pounds."

  Ned and Alice looked at each other. This was a bombshell. Alice said: "So Reginald has lost his investment. My goodness, I'm not sure he can survive this."

  Ned said: "And he'll forfeit the priory."

  Alice said grimly: "There will be trouble."

  "I know," said Ned. "He'll squeal. But we will have a new business." He began to brighten. "We can make a fresh start."

  Alice, always courteous, said: "Albin, you may like a wash and a clean shirt. Janet Fife will give you everything you need. And then we'll have dinner."

  "Thank you, Aunt Alice."

  "It is I who thank you for making this long journey and bringing me the facts at last, terrible though they are."

  Ned studied his mother's face. She had been rocked by the news, even though it was not unexpected. He felt desperate to do something to renew her spirits. "We could go and look at the priory now," he said. "We can begin to figure out how we'll parcel out space, and whatnot."

  She looked apathetic, then she made an effort. "Why not?" she said. "It's ours now." She got to her feet.

  They left the house and crossed the market square to the south side of the cathedral.

  Ned's father, Edmund, had been mayor of Kingsbridge when King Henry VIII began to abolish the monasteries. Alice had told Ned that Edmund and Prior Paul--who was the last prior of Kingsbridge, as things turned out--had seen what was coming, and conspired together to save the school. They had separated the school from the priory and given it self-government and an endowment. Two hundred years earlier, something similar had been done with Caris's Hospital, and Edmund had taken that as a model. So the town still had a great school and a famous hospital.

  The rest of the priory was a ruin.

  The main door was locked, but the walls were falling down, and they found a place at the back of the old kitchen where they could clamber over rubble into the premises.

  Other people had had the same idea. Ned saw the ashes of a recent fire, a few scattered meat bones, and a rotted-out wineskin: someone had spent a night here, probably with an illicit lover. There was a smell of decay inside the buildings, and the droppings of birds and rodents were everywhere. "And the monks were always so clean," Alice said dismally, looking around. "Nothing is permanent, except change."

  Despite the dilapidation, Ned felt a keen sense of anticipation. All this now belonged to his family. Something wonderful could be made of it. How clever his mother was, to think of it--and just when the family needed a rescue plan.

  They made their way to the cloisters and stood in the middle of the overgrown herb garden, by the ruined fountain where the monks used to wash their hands. Looking all around the arcade, Ned saw that many of the columns and vaults, parapets and arches were still sound, despite decades of neglect. The Kingsbridge masons had built well.

  "We should start here," said Alice. "We'll knock a
n archway through the west wall, so that people can see in from the market square. We can divide the cloisters up into small shops, one to each bay."

  "That would give us twenty-four," Ned said, counting. "Twenty-three, if we use one for the entrance."

  "The public can come into the quadrangle and look around."

  Ned could picture it, just as his mother obviously could: the stalls with bright textiles, fresh fruits and vegetables, boots and belts, cheese and wine; the stallholders calling their wares, charming their customers, taking money and making change; and the shoppers in their best clothes, clutching their purses, looking and touching and sniffing while they gossiped with their neighbors. Ned liked markets: they were where prosperity came from.

  "We don't need to do a lot of work, initially," Alice went on. "We'll have to clean the place up, but the stallholders can bring their own tables, and anything else they need. Once the market is up and running, and making money, we can think about repairing the stonework, renewing the roof, and paving the quadrangle."

  Suddenly Ned felt they were being watched. He turned around. The south door of the cathedral was open, and Bishop Julius stood in the cloister, hands like claws on his bony hips, blue eyes glaring at them balefully. Ned felt guilty, though he had no reason to: priests had that effect, he had noticed.

  Alice saw the bishop a moment later. She grunted with surprise. Then she muttered: "I suppose we might as well get this over with."

  Julius shouted indignantly: "What do you two think you're doing here?"

  "Good day, my lord bishop." Alice walked toward him, and Ned followed. "I'm examining my property."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "I own the priory now."

  "No, you don't. Sir Reginald does." The bishop's cadaverous face registered scorn, but Ned could see that beneath the bluster he was worried.

  "Reginald pledged the priory to me as security for a loan he can't repay. He bought the cargo of a ship called the St. Margaret that has been confiscated by the French king, and he'll never get his money back. So now the property becomes mine. Naturally I want us to be good neighbors, bishop, and I look forward to discussing my plans--"

  "Wait a minute. You can't enforce that pledge."

  "On the contrary. Kingsbridge is a trading city with a reputation for respecting contracts. Our prosperity depends on that. So does yours."

  "Reginald promised to sell the priory back to the church--to which it rightfully belongs."

  "Then Sir Reginald broke his promise to you when he pledged it as security for his loan. All the same, I'd be happy to sell the property to you, if that's what you would like."

  Ned held his breath. He knew his mother did not really want to do this.

  Alice went on: "Pay me the amount Reginald owes me, and the place is yours. Four hundred and twenty-four pounds."

  "Four hundred and twenty-four?" Bishop Julius repeated, as if there was something odd about the number.

  "Yes."

  The priory was worth more than that, Ned thought. If Julius had any sense he would snap up this offer. But perhaps he did not have the money.

  The bishop said indignantly: "Reginald offered it to me at the price he paid for it--eighty pounds!"

  "That would have been a pious gift, not a business transaction."

  "You should do the same."

  "Reginald's habit of selling things for less than they're worth may be the reason he's now penniless."

  The bishop shifted his ground. "What would you propose to do with these ruins?"

  "I'm not sure," Alice lied. "Let me develop some ideas, then come and talk to you." Ned guessed she did not want to give Julius the chance to start a campaign against the market even before the plans were finished.

  "Whatever you try to do, I'll stop you."

  That was not going to happen, Ned thought. Every alderman on the council knew how badly the town needed more space for citizens to sell their goods. Several of them were desperate for premises themselves, and would be the first to rent space in the new market.

  "I hope we can work together," Alice said pacifically.

  Julius said intemperately: "You could be excommunicated for this."

  Alice remained calm. "The church has tried everything to get the monastic properties back, but Parliament won't permit it."

  "Sacrilege!"

  "The monks became rich, lazy, and corrupt, and the people lost respect for them. That's why King Henry was able to get away with dissolving the monasteries."

  "Henry VIII was a wicked man."

  "I want to be your friend and ally, my lord bishop, but not at the price of impoverishing myself and my family. The priory is mine."

  "No, it's not," said Julius. "It belongs to God."

  Rollo bought drinks for all Bart Shiring's men-at-arms before they embarked for Combe Harbour. He could not afford it, but he was keen to stay on good terms with his sister's fiance. He did not want the engagement to be broken off. The marriage was going to transform the fortunes of the Fitzgerald family. Margery would be a countess, and if she gave birth to a son he would grow up to become an earl. The Fitzgeralds would almost be aristocracy.

  However, they had not yet made that coveted leap: an engagement was not a marriage. The willful Margery could renew her mutiny, encouraged by the detestable Ned Willard. Or her ill-concealed reluctance could offend Bart and cause him to break it off in a fit of wounded pride. So Rollo spent money he could not spare to foster his friendship with Bart.

  It was not easy. The camaraderie of brothers-in-law had to be mixed with deference and laced with flattery. But Rollo could do that. Raising his tankard, he said: "My noble brother! May God's grace protect your strong right arm and help you repel the stinking French!"

  That went down well. The men-at-arms cheered and drank.

  A handbell was rung, and they emptied their cups and went on board the barge. The Fitzgeralds waved from the quayside. When the barge was out of sight, Margery and the parents went home, but Rollo went back into the Slaughterhouse.

  In the tavern he had noticed one man who was not celebrating, but sitting in a corner on his own looking depressed. He recognized the dark lustrous hair and full lips of Donal Gloster. He was interested: Donal was weak, and weak men could be useful.

  He bought two fresh tankards and went to sit with Donal. They were too far apart socially to be close friends, but they were the same age and had attended Kingsbridge Grammar School together. Rollo lifted his beer and said: "Death to the French."

  "They won't invade us," said Donal, but he drank anyway.

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "The king of France can't afford it. They might talk about an invasion, and they could do hit-and-run raids, but a real cross-Channel armada would cost more than they have to spend."

  Rollo thought Donal might know what he was talking about. His employer, Philbert Cobley, was more familiar with the costs of ships than anyone else in Kingsbridge, and as an international trader he probably also understood the finances of the French crown. "So we should celebrate!" he said.

  Donal grunted.

  Rollo said: "You look like a man who has had bad news, old schoolmate."

  "Do I?"

  "None of my business, of course . . ."

  "You might as well know. Everyone will, soon. I proposed to Ruth Cobley, and she turned me down."

  Rollo was surprised. Everyone expected Donal to marry Ruth. It was the commonest thing in the world for an employee to marry the boss's daughter. "Doesn't her father like you?"

  "I'd make a good son-in-law for him, because I know the business so well. But I'm not religious enough for Philbert."

  "Ah." Rollo recalled the play at New Castle. Donal had clearly been enjoying it, and had seemed reluctant to join the Cobleys in their outraged walkout. "But you said Ruth turned you down." Rollo would have thought Donal was attractive to girls, with his dark, romantic good looks.

  "She says I'm like a brother to her."

  Rol
lo shrugged. There was no logic to love.

  Donal looked at him shrewdly. "You're not very interested in girls."

  "Nor boys either, if that's what you were thinking."

  "It crossed my mind."

  "No." The truth was that Rollo did not know what all the fuss was about. Masturbation for him was a mild pleasure, like eating honey, but the idea of sex with a woman, or another man, just seemed slightly distasteful. His preference was for celibacy. If the monasteries still existed he might have been a monk.

  "Lucky you," Donal said bitterly. "When I think of all the time I've spent trying to be the right husband for her--pretending not to like drinking and dancing and seeing plays, going to their boring services, talking to her mother . . ."

  Rollo felt goose bumps at the back of his neck. Donal had said going to their boring services. Rollo had long known that the Cobleys belonged to that dangerous class of people who thought they had the right to their own opinions about religion, but he had not previously come across evidence that they actually practiced their profanation here in Kingsbridge. He tried not to show his sudden excitement. "I suppose those services were pretty dull," he said, endeavoring to sound casual.

  Donal immediately backtracked. "I should have said meetings," he said. "Of course they don't hold services--that would be heresy."

  "I know what you mean," Rollo said. "But there's no law against people praying together, or reading from the Bible, or singing hymns."

  Donal raised his tankard to his mouth, then put it down again. "I'm talking nonsense," he said. His eyes showed the shadow of fear. "I must have had too much to drink." He got to his feet with an effort. "I'm going home."

  "Don't go," said Rollo, eager to know more about Philbert Cobley's meetings. "Finish your tankard."

  But Donal was scared. "Need to take a nap," he mumbled. "Thanks for the beer." He staggered away.

  Rollo sipped meditatively. The Cobleys and their friends were widely suspected of secretly having Protestant beliefs, but they were careful, and there was never the least evidence of illicit behavior. As long as they kept their thoughts to themselves they committed no offense. However, holding Protestant services was another matter. It was a sin and a crime, and the punishment was to be burned alive.

  And Donal, drunk and embittered, had momentarily lifted the veil.