Authors: Ken Follett
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 towards 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 neighbours, 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 the Eighth 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.’
*
R
OLLO 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 fiancé. 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 wilful 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 walk-out. ‘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.’
Rollo 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 goosebumps 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 practised their profanation here in Kingsbridge. He tried not to show his sudden excitement. ‘I suppose those services were pretty dull,’ he said, endeavouring 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 behaviour. As long as they kept their thoughts to themselves they committed no offence. 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.
There was nothing much Rollo could do about it, for tomorrow Donal would surely deny everything and plead intoxication. But this information would prove useful one day.
He decided to tell his father about it. He finished his drink and left.
He arrived at the family home on the high street at the same time as Bishop Julius. ‘We gave our soldiers a jolly good send-off,’ he said cheerfully to the bishop.
‘Never mind about that,’ said Julius irascibly. ‘I’ve got something to tell Sir Reginald.’ Clearly he was angry, though fortunately his ire did not seem to be directed at the Fitzgeralds.
Rollo led him into the great hall. ‘I’ll fetch my father at once,’ Rollo said. ‘Please sit here in front of the fire.’
Julius gave a dismissive wave and began to pace up and down impatiently.
Sir Reginald was taking a nap. Rollo woke him and told him the bishop was downstairs. Reginald groaned and got out of bed. ‘Give him a cup of wine while I dress,’ he said.
A few minutes later the three men were seated in the hall. Julius began immediately. ‘Alice Willard has heard from Calais. The
St Margaret
has been confiscated by the French and her cargo sold.’
Despair seized Rollo. ‘I knew it,’ he said. It had been his father’s last throw of the dice, and he had lost. What would they do now?
Sir Reginald flushed with anger. ‘What the devil was the ship doing in Calais?’
Rollo answered him. ‘Jonas Bacon told us that when he met the ship, its captain was intending to go into port for minor repairs. Hence the delay.’
‘But Bacon didn’t say the port was Calais.’
‘No.’
Reginald’s freckled face twisted with hatred. ‘He knew, though,’ he said. ‘And I’ll bet Philbert did, too, when he sold us the cargo.’
‘Of course Philbert knew, the lying hypocritical Protestant swindler.’ Rollo was boiling with rage. ‘We’ve been robbed.’
The bishop said: ‘If that’s so, can you get your money back from Philbert?’
‘Never,’ said Reginald. ‘A town like this can’t let people renege on contracts, even when there has been sharp practice. The contract is sacred.’
Rollo, who had studied law, knew he was right. ‘The court of quarter sessions will uphold the validity of the transaction,’ he said.
Bishop Julius said: ‘If you’ve lost that money, will you be able to repay Alice Willard?’
‘No.’
‘And you pledged the priory as security for the loan.’
‘Yes.’
‘Alice Willard told me this morning that the priory is hers, now.’
‘Damn her eyes,’ said Reginald.
‘So she’s right.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were going to let the Church have the priory back, Reginald.’
‘Don’t ask for sympathy from me, Julius. I’ve just lost four hundred pounds.’
‘Four hundred and twenty-four, Willard told me.’
‘Correct.’
Julius seemed to think the exact figure was significant, and Rollo wondered why, but he did not get a chance to ask. His father stood up restlessly and walked across the room and back again. ‘I’ll get Philbert for this, I swear it. He’ll find out that no one swindles Reginald Fitzgerald and gets away with it. I’ll see him suffer. I don’t know how . . .’
Rollo experienced a flash of inspiration, and he said: ‘I do.’
‘What?’
‘I know how to get revenge on Philbert.’
Reginald stopped pacing and stared at Rollo with narrowed eyes. ‘What have you got in mind?’
‘Philbert’s clerk, Donal Gloster, was drunk in the Slaughterhouse this afternoon. He’s been rejected by Philbert’s daughter. Drink loosened his tongue and resentment made him malicious. He told me that the Cobleys and their friends hold services.’
Bishop Julius was outraged. ‘Services? With no priest? That’s heresy!’
‘As soon as I took him up on it, Donal changed his story, and said they were only meetings; then he looked guilty and clammed up.’
The bishop said: ‘I’ve long suspected that the rats perform Protestant rites in secret. But where? And when? And who attends?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rollo. ‘But Donal does.’
‘Will he tell?’
‘Perhaps. Now that Ruth has rejected him, he no longer has any loyalty to the Cobley family.’
‘Let’s find out.’
‘Let me go and see him. I’ll take Osmund.’ Osmund Carter was the head of the watch. He was a big man with a brutal streak.
‘What will you say to Donal?’
‘I’ll explain that he is suspected of heresy, and he’s going to be put on trial unless he tells all.’
‘Will that scare him?’
‘He’ll shit.’
Bishop Julius said thoughtfully: ‘This could be a good moment to strike against the Protestants. The Catholic Church is sadly on the defensive. Queen Mary Tudor is unpopular because of the loss of Calais. Her rightful heir, Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, is about to get married in Paris, and a French husband will turn the English against her. Sir William Cecil and his pals are going around the country trying to drum up support for the illegitimate Elizabeth Tudor as heir to the throne. So a clampdown on Kingsbridge heretics now would be a useful boost to Catholic morale.’