A Column of Fire

  "You have a sword, now," she said.

  Ned shrugged. "Courtiers wear swords," he said. "I've even had fencing lessons, just so that I know what to do with it."

  Getting over her surprise, she began to think logically. Clearly this was a chance to use the secret. If people noticed her talking to Ned, they would nod sagely and tell each other that she had never really got over him; and her family would think the same if they got to hear of it.

  She was not sure how much to tell him. "There's going to be a fight at the consecration," she began. "Dan Cobley is going to seize the bones of the saint."

  "How do you know?"

  "Donal Gloster told Rollo."

  Ned raised his eyebrows. Of course he had not known that Dan Cobley's right-hand man was a spy for the Catholics. But he made no comment, seeming to tuck the revelation away for future consideration.

  Margery went on: "Rollo told Swithin, and Swithin is going to use it as an excuse to start a fight and kill Dan."

  "In the church?"

  "Yes. He thinks he'll get away with it because he will be protecting the clergy and the relics."

  "Swithin's not smart enough to think of that."

  "No, it was Rollo's idea."

  "The devil."

  "I've been trying to figure out how to warn the Puritans so that they can come armed. But now you can do it."

  "Yes," he said. "Leave it to me."

  She resisted the temptation to throw her arms around him and kiss him.

  "We must call off the ceremony," Dean Luke said when Ned told him what was going to happen.

  "But when would you reschedule it?"

  "I don't know."

  They were in the chancel, standing next to one of the mighty pillars that held up the tower. Looking up, Ned recalled that this was Merthin's tower, rebuilt by him after the old one caused a collapse, according to the history of Kingsbridge known as Timothy's Book. Merthin must have built well, for that had been two hundred years ago.

  Ned turned his gaze to Luke's anxious face and mild blue eyes. He was a priest who would avoid conflict at all costs. "We can't postpone the consecration," Ned said. "It would be a political blow to Queen Elizabeth. People would say that the Kingsbridge Puritans had prevented her from appointing the bishop of her choice. Ultra-Protestants in other cities would think they had the right to say who should be their bishop, and they might start copycat riots. The queen would crucify you and me for letting it happen."

  "Oh, dear," said Luke. "Then we'll have to leave the saint inside his railings."

  Ned glanced across at the tomb of St. Adolphus. The monument was closed off by locked iron railings. A little group of pilgrims were on their knees, staring through the grille at the reliquary. It was a gold casket in the shape of a church, with archways and turrets and a spire. Set into the gold were pearls, rubies, and sapphires, glittering in the watery sunlight that came through the great east window.

  "I'm not sure that will be enough," Ned said. "Now that they've planned this, they may break down the railings."

  Luke looked panicky. "I can't have a riot during my consecration!"

  "No, indeed. That would be almost as bad as cancellation, from the point of view of the queen."

  "What, then?"

  Ned knew what he wanted to do, but he hesitated. There was something Margery was not telling him. She had wanted him to arm the Puritans, not avoid the brawl altogether. It was surprising that she had taken that line, for she was strongly against religious violence of any kind. This thought had occurred to him vaguely while talking to her, but he saw it more clearly now in retrospect. Something else was going on, but he did not know what.

  However, he could not base his actions on such nebulous notions. He put thoughts of Margery aside. He needed to offer Luke a safe way out. "We have to take the gunpowder out of the cannon," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We have to get rid of the relics."

  Luke was shocked. "We can't just throw them away!"

  "Of course we can't. But we can bury them--with all due ceremony. Hold a funeral service tomorrow at first light--just you and one or two priests. Tonight, have George Cox dig a hole somewhere inside the cathedral--don't tell anyone where." George Cox was the gravedigger. "Bury the bones, in the golden casket, and let George replace the stones of the floor so that no one can tell they've been disturbed."

  Luke was thinking this through with a worried frown. "When people arrive for the consecration it will already be done. But what will they say? They will see that the saint has gone."

  "Put up a notice on the iron railings saying that St. Adolphus is buried here in the cathedral. Then explain, in your sermon, that the saint is still here, blessing us with his presence, but he has been buried in a secret grave to protect his remains from people who might wish to violate them."

  "That's clever," Luke said admiringly. "The people will be content, but there will be nothing for the Puritans to object to. Their protest will be like gunpowder that has separated."

  "A good image. Use it in your sermon."

  Luke nodded.

  Ned said: "So that's settled."

  "I have to discuss it with the chapter."

  Ned suppressed an impatient retort. "Not really. You're the bishop-elect." He smiled. "You may command."

  Luke looked uncomfortable. "It's always better to explain to people the reasons for commands."

  Ned decided not to fight a hypothetical battle. "Do it your way. I'll come here at dawn to witness the burial."

  "Very well."

  Ned was not totally sure that Luke would go through with it. Perhaps a reminder of Luke's debt to him would help. "I'm glad I was able to persuade the queen that you're the right man to be bishop of Kingsbridge," he said.

  "I'm deeply grateful to you, Ned, for your faith in me."

  "I believe we'll work well together, in years to come, to prevent religious hatred."

  "Amen."

  Luke could yet change his mind about the whole idea, if one of his colleagues objected to burying the relics, but Ned could do no more for now. He resolved to see Luke again before nightfall and make sure of him.

  He took his leave and walked down the nave, between the marching pillars, the leaping arches, and the glowing windows, thinking how much good and evil this building had seen in the last four hundred years. When he stepped out of the west door he saw Margery again, returning to her house with her fish basket over her arm. She caught his eye and turned to meet him.

  In the cathedral porch she said: "Did you do it?"

  "I think I've avoided violence," he said. "I've persuaded Luke to bury the bones clandestinely, tomorrow morning, so that there will be nothing to fight over."

  He expected her to be pleased and grateful, but to his consternation she stared at him in horror for a long moment, then said: "No! That's not it."

  "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "There has to be a fight."

  "But you were always so much against violence."

  "Swithin has to die!"

  "Hush!" He took her elbow and led her back inside. In the north aisle was a side chapel dedicated to St. Dymphna. She was not a popular figure, and the little space was empty. The painting of the saint being beheaded had been taken down to appease the Puritans.

  He stood in front of Margery, holding her hands, and said: "You'd better tell me what's wrong. Why does Swithin have to die?"

  She said nothing, but he could see, watching her face, that a struggle was going on inside her, and he waited.

  At last she said: "When Bart is away from home, Swithin comes to my bed at night."

  Ned stared at her, aghast. She was being raped--by her father-in-law. It was obscene--and brutal. Hot rage possessed him, and he had to quell his emotions and think rationally. Questions leaped to his mind, but the answers were obvious. "You resist him, but he's too strong, and he tells you that if you scream he will say you seduced him, and everyone will believe him." r />
  Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I knew you'd understand."

  "The man is an animal."

  "I shouldn't have told you. But perhaps God will take Swithin's life tomorrow."

  And if God won't, I will, Ned vowed, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said: "I'll talk to Luke again. I'll make sure there's a fight."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. I have to think."

  "Don't risk your own life. That would be even worse."

  "Take your fish home," he said.

  She hesitated for a long moment. Then she said: "You're the only person I can trust. The only one."

  He nodded. "I know," he said. "Go home."

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left the cathedral, and he followed her out a minute later.

  If he had seen Swithin at that moment, he would have fallen on the earl and got his hands around the man's throat and choked the life out of him--or, perhaps, been run through by Swithin's sword, though he was too angry to fear that or anything else.

  He turned and looked back at the mighty west front of the cathedral, wet now with the persistent slow English rain. That was the doorway through which people went to find God: how could Ned think of murder there? But he could hardly think of anything else.

  He struggled to be cogent. Face it, he said to himself, in a fight with Swithin you might not win, and if you did you would be hanged for murdering a nobleman. But you are smart, and Swithin is stupid, so come up with a clever way to put an end to him.

  He turned away and crossed the market square. It was busy every Saturday, but today it was teeming with all the visitors who had come for tomorrow's ceremony. Normally, winding his way between the stalls, he would have automatically noted rising and falling prices, shortages and gluts, how much money people had and what they spent it on; but not now. He was aware of acquaintances greeting him, but he was too deep in thought to respond with more than a vague wave or a distracted nod. He reached the front door of the family house and went inside.

  His mother had drifted unhappily into old age. Alice seemed to have shrunk inside her skin, and she walked with a stoop. She seemed to have lost interest in the world outside the house: she asked Ned perfunctory questions about his work with the queen and hardly listened to the answers. In the old days she would have been eager to hear about political maneuverings, and wanted to know all about how Elizabeth ran her household.

  However, since Ned had left the house this morning something seemed to have changed. His mother was in the main hall with their three servants: Janet Fife, the housekeeper; her husband, lame Malcolm; and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Eileen. They all looked animated. Ned guessed right away that they had good news. As soon as his mother saw him she said: "Barney's back in England!"

  Some things went right, Ned reflected, and he managed a smile. "Where is he?"

  "He landed at Combe Harbour with the Hawk. We got a message: he's only waiting to collect his pay--three years of it!--then he's coming home."

  "And he's safe and well? I told you he'd been to the New World."

  "But he's come home unhurt!"

  "Well, we must prepare to celebrate--kill the fatted calf."

  Alice's jubilation was punctured. "We haven't got a calf, fatted or otherwise."

  Young Eileen, who had once had a childish crush on Barney, said excitedly: "We've got a six-month-old piglet out the back that my mother was planning to use for winter bacon. We could roast it on a spit."

  Ned was pleased. The whole family would be together again.

  But Margery's torment came back to him as he sat down with his mother for the midday meal. She chatted animatedly, speculating about what kind of adventures Barney might have had in Seville, Antwerp, and Hispaniola. Ned let her talk flow over him while he brooded.

  Margery's idea had been to warn the Puritans so that they would come armed, and to hope that Swithin would die in the resulting brawl. But Ned had not known the full story, and despite the best of intentions he had put paid to her hopes. There would be no brawl, now: the relics would not be seen in the consecration ceremony, the Puritans would therefore not protest, and Swithin would have no pretext for a fight.

  Could Ned now undo what he had done? It was next to impossible. Dean Luke would surely refuse to return to the original timetable in order to guarantee a riot.

  Ned realized he could re-create the brawl scenario, simply by telling both sides that the relics would now be buried at dawn. But there was another snag. A brawl was unpredictable. Swithin might be hurt, but he might not. Ned needed to be surer than that, for Margery's sake.

  Was there a way to turn tomorrow's burial ceremony into a trap for Swithin?

  What if Ned could preserve Rollo's violent plan, but remove the justification?

  A scheme began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps he could lure Swithin to the cathedral with false information. But of course the Catholics would not trust Ned. Who would they trust?

  Then he remembered what Margery had told him about Donal Gloster's being a spy. Rollo would trust Donal.

  Ned began to feel hopeful again.

  He left his family's dinner table as soon as he could. He walked down the main street, turned along Slaughterhouse Wharf, and went past the moorings to the Tanneries, a riverside neighborhood of smelly industries and small houses. There he knocked on Donal Gloster's front door. It was opened by Donal's mother, a handsome middle-aged woman with Donal's full lips and thick dark hair. She looked wary. "What brings you here, Mr. Willard?"

  "Good afternoon, Widow Gloster," Ned said politely. "I want to speak to Donal."

  "He's at work. You know where Dan Cobley's place of business is."

  Ned nodded. Dan had a warehouse down by the docks. "I shan't disturb Donal at work. When do you expect him home?"

  "He'll finish at sundown. But he usually goes to the Slaughterhouse tavern before coming home."

  "Thank you."

  "What do you want him for?"

  "I don't mean him any harm."

  "Thank you," she said, but she said it uncertainly, and Ned suspected she did not believe him.

  He returned to the waterfront and sat on a coil of rope, gnawing at his plan, which was uncertain and dangerous, while he watched the bustle of commerce, the boats and carts arriving and leaving, loading and unloading grain and coal, stones from the quarry and timber from the forest, bales of cloth and barrels of wine. This was how his family had prospered: by buying in one place and selling in another, and pocketing the difference in the price. It was a simple thing, but it was the way to become rich--the only way, unless you were a nobleman and could force people to pay you rent for the land they farmed.

  The afternoon darkened. The hatches were closed and the warehouses locked up, and men began to leave the docks, their faces eager for home and supper, or tavern and song, or dark lane and lover. Ned saw Donal come out of the Cobley building and head for the Slaughterhouse with the air of one who does not have to make a decision because he does the same thing every day.

  Ned followed him into the inn. "A quiet word with you, Donal, if I may." These days, no one refused Ned a quiet word. He had become a man of power and importance, and everyone in Kingsbridge knew it. Strangely, this gave him no great satisfaction. Some men craved deference; others craved wine, or the bodies of beautiful women, or the monastic life of order and obedience. What did Ned crave? The answer came into his mind with a speed and effortlessness that took him by surprise: justice.

  He would have to think about that.

  He paid for two tankards of ale and steered Donal to a corner. As soon as they sat down he said: "You lead a dangerous life, Donal."

  "Ned Willard, always the cleverest boy in the class," said Donal with an unpleasant twist of his lips.

  "We're not at the grammar school any longer. There we were only flogged for our mistakes. Now we get killed."

  Donal looked intimidated, but he put on a brave face. "Then it's a good thing I don't make any."
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  "If Dan Cobley and the Puritans find out about you and Rollo, they'll tear you to pieces."

  Donal turned white.

  After a long moment he opened his mouth to speak, but Ned forestalled him. "Don't deny it. That would be a waste of your time and mine. Focus on what you have to do to make sure that I keep your secret."

  Donal swallowed and managed a nod.

  "What you told Rollo Fitzgerald yesterday was correct at the time, but it has changed."

  Donal's mouth dropped open. "How--?"

  "Never mind how I know what you told Rollo. All you need to understand is that the relics of the saint will be desecrated in the cathedral tomorrow--but the time has changed. Now it will be done at dawn, with few people present."

  "Why are you telling me?"

  "So that you will tell Rollo."

  "You hate the Fitzgeralds--they ruined your family."

  "Don't try to figure this out. Just do what you're told and save your skin."

  "Rollo will ask how I know about the change."

  "Say you overheard Dan Cobley talking about it."

  "All right."

  "Go and see Rollo now. You must have some means of signaling that you need an urgent meeting."

  "I'll just finish my beer."

  "Wouldn't you rather be stone-cold sober?"

  Donal looked regretfully at his tankard.

  Ned said: "Now, Donal."

  Donal got up and left.

  Ned went a few minutes later. He walked back up the main street. He felt uneasy. He had a plan, but it relied on a lot of people doing what he expected: Dean Luke, Donal Gloster, Rollo Fitzgerald, and--most important of all, and most willful--Earl Swithin. If one part of the chain were to break the scheme would fail.

  And now he had to add one more link.

  He walked past the cathedral, the Bell Inn, and the new Fitzgerald palace called Priory Gate, and went into the guildhall. There he tapped on the door of Sheriff Matthewson's room and went in without waiting for an invitation. The sheriff was eating an early supper of bread and cold meat. He put down his knife and wiped his mouth. "Good evening, Mr. Willard. I hope you're well."

  "Very well, Sheriff, I thank you."

  "Can I be of service to you?"

  "To the queen, Sheriff. Her Majesty has a job for you to do--tonight."

  Rollo nervously touched the hilt of his sword. He had never been in battle. As a boy he had practiced with a wooden weapon, like most sons of prosperous families, but he had no experience of deadly combat.