A Column of Fire

  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 that. "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 northwest 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 acknowledgment of the truth, and had the satisfaction of feeling one step closer to his goal.

  Re
luctantly 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 rumors that Elizabeth intends to permit Protestantism if she becomes queen." Rollo made it sound like an accusation.

  "Rumors, 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 school days: 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 jeweled 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 was 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 fe
et. 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 toward 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."