Authors: Ken Follett
Justice Tilbury nodded. ‘As I recall, you studied law at Gray’s Inn in London, Mr Fitzgerald.’
‘Yes, your worship.’
‘Very well.’
As the proceedings were beginning, in walked Bishop Julius, dressed in his priestly robes. His presence was no mystery. He wanted the priory buildings for himself, and Reginald had promised to sell them to him cheaply. He must be hoping that Reginald would find a way to wriggle out of his contract.
Alice stepped forward. She presented the case herself, and handed the signed and sealed contract to the clerk. ‘Sir Reginald cannot deny the three key facts,’ Alice said. She spoke in the mild, reasonable tone of one who merely wishes to point out the truth. ‘One, that he signed the contract; two, that he took the money; and three, that he has not paid it back within the promised time. I ask the court to rule that he has quite clearly forfeited the security. That, after all, is what a security is for.’
Alice was confident of victory, and Ned did not see how any court could possibly rule for Reginald, unless the judges were bribed – and where would Reginald get the money for a bribe?
Tilbury thanked Alice politely and turned to Rollo. ‘What have you got to say to that, Mr Fitzgerald? It seems pretty clear-cut.’
But Reginald did not give his son time to reply. ‘I was cheated!’ he burst out, his freckled face turning pink. ‘Philbert Cobley knew perfectly well that the
St Margaret
had gone into Calais and was likely to be lost.’
Ned thought that was probably true. Philbert was as slippery as a live fish. All the same, Reginald’s demand was outrageous. Why should the Willard family pay for Philbert’s dishonesty?
Philbert’s son, Dan Cobley, shouted out: ‘That’s a lie! How could we possibly have known what the French king would do?’
‘You must have known something!’ Reginald shot back.
Dan replied with a quotation from the Bible. ‘The book of Proverbs tells us: “A prudent man concealeth knowledge”.’
Bishop Julius pointed a bony finger at Dan and said furiously: ‘This is what happens when ignorant fools are allowed to read the Bible in English – they cite God’s word to justify their crimes!’
The clerk stood up and shouted for quiet, and they all calmed down.
Tilbury said: ‘Thank you, Sir Reginald. Even if it were true that Philbert Cobley, or any other third party, cheated you out of money, that would not release you from your contract with Alice Willard. If that is the basis of your argument, you are clearly in the wrong, and the court will rule against you.’
Exactly, Ned thought with satisfaction.
Rollo spoke immediately. ‘No, your worships, that is not our argument, and I beg your pardon for my father’s intervention, but you will understand that he feels very angry.’
‘So what
is
your argument? I’m eager to hear, and I’m sure the jury are too.’
So was Ned. Did Rollo have something up his sleeve? He was a nasty bully, but he was no fool.
‘Simply that Alice Willard is guilty of usury,’ said Rollo. ‘She loaned Sir Reginald four hundred pounds, but she demanded to be repaid four hundred and twenty-four pounds. She is charging interest, which is a crime.’
Suddenly Ned recalled his mother’s conversation with Bishop Julius in the cloisters of the ruined priory. Alice had told Julius the exact amount of the debt, and Julius had seemed momentarily struck by the figure, though in the end he had not commented. And here Julius was in court for the hearing. Ned frowned anxiously. The contract between Alice and Sir Reginald had been drawn carefully, so that there was no reference to interest; but the definition of usury was notoriously a grey area of law.
Alice said firmly: ‘No interest was payable. The contract states that Sir Reginald will pay rent of eight pounds a month for the continued use of the priory until the loan is repaid or the property is forfeited.’
Reginald protested: ‘Why would I pay rent? I never use the place! This was nothing less than concealed usury.’
Alice said: ‘But you proposed it!’
‘I was misled.’
The clerk interrupted: ‘Please! Address the court, not each other.’
Justice Tilbury said: ‘Thank you, Mr Pettit. Quite right.’
Rollo said: ‘The court cannot enforce a contract that requires a party to commit a crime.’
Tilbury said: ‘Yes, I have grasped that point. So you’re asking the court to decide whether the extra money payable under the contract is genuinely rent or a concealed form of usury.’
‘No, your worship, I am not asking you to decide. With your permission, I will bring an authoritative witness who will testify that this is usury.’
Ned was bewildered. What was he talking about?
The two justices seemed equally puzzled. Tilbury said: ‘An authoritative witness? Who do you have in mind?’
‘The bishop of Kingsbridge.’
A murmur of surprise went up from the watching crowd. No one had anticipated this. Justice Tilbury looked as startled as anyone. However, after a few moments he said: ‘Very well. What have you got to say, my lord bishop?’
Ned was dismayed: everyone knew whose side Julius was on.
Julius walked slowly to the front, his bald head high, making the most of the dignity of his office. As expected, he said: ‘The so-called rent is clearly disguised interest. Sir Reginald did not use the land and buildings during the period in question, and had never intended so to do. This was nothing but a flimsy cover for the sin and crime of usury.’
Alice said: ‘I protest. The bishop is not an unbiased witness. Sir Reginald has promised the priory to him.’
Rollo said: ‘Surely you do not accuse the bishop of dishonesty?’
Alice replied: ‘I accuse you of asking the cat whether the mouse should be allowed to go free.’
The crowd laughed: they appreciated wit in argument. But Justice Tilbury did not. ‘This court can hardly contradict the bishop on a question of sin,’ he said severely. ‘It seems the jury will have to rule that the contract is invalid.’ He looked unhappy about it, for he knew as well as anyone that many contracts made by Kingsbridge traders might be undermined by such a ruling; but Rollo had backed him into a corner.
Now Rollo said: ‘It is no longer a matter merely of invalidating the contract, your worships.’ The look of malicious satisfaction on his face worried Ned. Rollo went on: ‘Alice Willard has been proved guilty of a crime. I submit that it is the duty of the court to impose the punishment laid down in the Act of 1552.’
Ned did not know what punishment was specified by the law.
Alice said: ‘I will plead guilty to usury – on one condition.’
Tilbury said: ‘All right, what?’
‘There is another person in this court who is as guilty as I am, and he must be punished too.’
‘If you’re referring to Sir Reginald, the crime attaches to the lender, not the borrower—’
‘Not Sir Reginald.’
‘Who, then?’
‘The bishop of Kingsbridge.’
Julius looked angry. ‘Take care what you say, Alice Willard.’
Alice said: ‘Last October you pre-sold the fleeces of a thousand sheep to Widow Mercer for ten pence each.’ Widow Mercer was the biggest wool dealer in town. ‘The sheep were sheared this April, and Mrs Mercer sold the fleeces to Philbert Cobley for twelve pence each, two pence more than she paid you. You forfeited two pence per fleece in order to have your money six months earlier. You paid forty per cent annual interest.’
There was a mutter of approval. Most of the leading citizens were traders, and they understood percentages.
Julius said: ‘I am not on trial here, you are.’
Alice ignored that. ‘In February you bought stone from the earl’s quarry for the extension to your palace. The price was three pounds, but the earl’s quarrymaster offered you a reduction of a shilling in the pound for advance payment, which you accepted. The stone was delivered by barge a month later. In effect, you charged the earl sixty per cent interest on the money you paid early.’
The crowd were beginning to enjoy this, and Ned heard laughter and a ripple of applause. Pettit shouted: ‘Silence!’
Alice said: ‘In April you sold a flour mill in Wigleigh—’
‘This is irrelevant,’ Julius said. ‘You cannot excuse yourself by claiming, plausibly or otherwise, that other people have committed similar crimes.’
Tilbury said: ‘The bishop is right about that. I direct the jury to declare Alice Willard guilty of usury.’
Ned harboured a faint hope that the businessmen in the jury might protest, but they did not have the nerve to challenge such a clear direction from the justices, and after a moment they all nodded agreement.
Tilbury said: ‘We will now consider the question of punishment.’
Rollo spoke again. ‘The Act of 1552 is very clear, your worships. The culprit must lose both interest and principal of the loan and, in addition, “fines and ransom at the king’s will or pleasure”, to quote the exact words of the law.’
Ned shouted: ‘No!’ Surely his mother could not forfeit the four hundred pounds as well as the interest?
The Kingsbridge folk felt the same, and there was a mutinous hubbub. Paul Pettit had to call for silence again.
The crowd eventually went quiet, but Tilbury did not immediately speak. He turned to his fellow justice, Seb Chandler, and they held a murmured conversation. Then Tilbury summoned Pettit to join them. The silence grew tense. The justices talked to Pettit, who was a qualified lawyer, as were all Clerks of the Peace. They appeared to be arguing, with Pettit shaking his head in negation. Finally, Tilbury shrugged and turned away, Seb Chandler nodded agreement, and Pettit returned to his seat.
At last Tilbury spoke. ‘The law is the law,’ he said, and Ned knew at once that his mother was ruined. ‘Alice Willard must forfeit both the amount of the loan and the additional rent or interest demanded.’ He had to raise his voice over the noise of protest. ‘No further punishment will be necessary.’
Ned stared at his mother. Alice was stricken. Until now she had been defiant. But she had been up against the full power of the Church, and her resistance had been hopeless. Now she was suddenly diminished: dazed, pale, bewildered. She looked like one who has been knocked off her feet by a charging horse.
The clerk said: ‘Next case.’
Ned and his mother left the court and walked down the main street to their house without speaking. Ned’s life had been turned upside down and he could hardly digest the implications. Six months ago he had been sure of spending his life as a merchant, and almost sure of marrying Margery. Now he had no employment and Margery was engaged to Bart.
They went into the parlour. ‘At least we won’t starve,’ Alice said. ‘We’ve still got the houses in St Mark’s.’
Ned had not expected his mother to be so pessimistic. ‘Won’t you find a way to start again?’
Alice shook her head wearily. ‘I’ll be fifty soon – I haven’t got the energy. Besides, when I look back over the past year, I seem to have lost my judgement. I should have moved some of the traffic away from Calais when the war broke out last June. I should have developed the Seville connection more. And I should never have lent money to Reginald Fitzgerald, no matter how much pressure he put on me. Now there’s no business left for you and your brother to inherit.’
‘Barney won’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘He’d rather be at sea anyway.’
‘I wonder where he is now. We must tell him, if we can locate him.’
‘He’s probably in the Spanish army.’ They had received a letter from Aunt Betsy. Barney and Carlos had got into trouble with the Inquisition and had been forced to leave Seville in a hurry. Betsy was not sure where they had gone, but a neighbour thought he had seen them listening to a recruiting captain down at the dockside.
Alice said glumly: ‘But I don’t know what you’ll do, Ned. I’ve brought you up to be a merchant.’
‘Sir William Cecil said he needed a young man like me to work for him.’
She brightened. ‘So he did. I had forgotten.’
‘He may have forgotten, too.’
Alice shook her head. ‘I doubt he ever forgets anything.’
Ned wondered what it might be like, working for Cecil, being part of Elizabeth Tudor’s household. ‘I wonder if Elizabeth will be queen one day?’
His mother spoke with sudden bitterness. ‘If she is, perhaps she’ll get rid of some of these arrogant bishops.’
Ned began to see a glimmer of hope.
Alice said: ‘I’ll write to Cecil for you, if you like.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ned said. ‘I might simply show up on his doorstep.’
‘He might simply send you home again.’
‘Yes,’ said Ned. ‘He might.’
*
T
HE REVENGE OF
the Fitzgeralds continued the next day.
The weather was hot, but the south transept of Kingsbridge Cathedral was cool in the afternoon. All the leading citizens were there for the Church court. The Protestants arrested in Widow Pollard’s barn were on trial for heresy. Few people were ever found not guilty, everyone knew that. The main question was how harsh the punishments would be.
Philbert Cobley faced the most serious charges. He was not in the cathedral when Ned arrived, but Mrs Cobley stood there weeping helplessly. Pretty Ruth Cobley was red-eyed, and Dan’s round face looked uncharacteristically grim. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother were trying to give comfort.
Bishop Julius was in charge. This was his court. He was prosecutor as well as judge – and there was no jury. Beside him sat Canon Stephen Lincoln, a young sidekick, handing him documents and making notes. Next to Stephen was the dean of Kingsbridge, Luke Richards. Deans were independent of bishops and did not always follow their orders: Luke was the only hope for mercy today.
One by one the Protestants confessed their sins and recanted their beliefs. By doing so they escaped physical punishment. They were given fines, which most of them paid to the bishop immediately.
Dan Cobley was their deputy leader, according to Julius, and he was given an additional, humiliating sentence: he had to parade through the streets of Kingsbridge wearing only a nightshirt, carrying a crucifix, and chanting the paternoster in Latin.
But Philbert was the leader, and everyone was waiting to see what his sentence would be.