A Column of Fire (32 page)

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.

*

N
ED 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.

Part Two

1559 to 1563

9

Strolling along the southern side of the Île de la Cité on a sunny Friday in June, with the winged cathedral on one side and the sparkling river on the other, Sylvie Palot said to Pierre Aumande: ‘Do you want to marry me, or not?’

She had the satisfaction of seeing a flash of panic in his eyes. This was unusual. His equanimity was not easily disturbed: he was always controlled.

He regained his composure so quickly that she might almost have imagined the lapse. ‘Of course I want to marry you, my darling,’ he said, and he looked hurt. ‘How could you ask such a question?’