A Column of Fire by Ken Follett
"What will you do?" said Davison.
"Me?" said Ned. "I'm going to hire an executioner."
The only member of Mary Stuart's little court who was not crying was Mary herself.
The women sat around her bed all night. No one slept. From the great hall they could hear the banging of carpenters who were undoubtedly building some kind of scaffold. Outside Mary's cramped suite of rooms, heavy boots marched up and down the passage all night: the nervous Paulet feared a rescue attempt and had posted a strong guard.
Mary got up at six o'clock. It was still dark. Alison dressed her by candlelight. Mary chose a dark red petticoat and a red satin bodice with a low neck. She added a black satin skirt and an over-mantle of the same fabric with gold embroidery and sleeves slashed to show a purple lining. She had a fur collar to combat the chill of bleak Fotheringhay. Alison helped her don a white headdress with a long lace veil that fell down her back to the ground. It reminded Alison of the gorgeous train of blue-gray velvet she had carried at Mary's wedding in Paris, so many sad years ago.
Then Mary went alone into the little oratory to pray. Alison and the others stayed outside. Dawn broke as they waited. Alison looked out of a window and saw that it was going to be a fine, sunny day. Somehow that trivial detail made her angry.
The clock struck eight, and soon afterward there was a loud and insistent knocking at the door of Mary's quarters. A man's voice called out: "The lords are waiting for the queen!"
Until this moment Alison had not really believed Mary would be killed. She had imagined it might all be a sham, a play put on by Paulet for some spiteful purpose; or by Elizabeth, who would issue a last-minute reprieve. She recalled that William Appletree, who had shot at Elizabeth while she was on a barge on the Thames River, had been dramatically reprieved as he stood on the scaffold. But if the lords were here to witness the execution, it must be real. Her heart seemed to turn into a lead weight in her chest, and her legs felt weak. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes and fall asleep forever.
But she had to look after her queen.
She tapped on the door of the chapel and looked inside. Mary was on her knees in front of the altar, holding her Latin prayer book. "Give me a moment longer, to finish my prayers," she said.
Alison passed this message through the closed door, but the men outside were in no mood for concessions. The door was flung open, and the sheriff walked in. "I hope she won't make us drag her there," he said in a voice tinted with panic, and Alison sensed, in a moment of compassion that surprised her, that he, too, was distressed.
He opened the chapel door without knocking. Mary rose to her feet immediately. She was pale but calm, and Alison--who knew her well--felt reassured, at that moment, that the queen would maintain her regal bearing throughout the ordeal to come. Alison was relieved: she would have hated to see Mary lose her dignity as well as her life.
"Follow me," said the sheriff.
Mary turned back momentarily and took an ivory crucifix from its hook on the wall over the altar. With the cross pressed to her heavy bosom and the prayer book in her other hand she walked behind the sheriff, and Alison followed.
Mary was inches taller than the sheriff. Illness and confinement had made her portly and round shouldered, but Alison saw, with grieving pride, that she made a point of walking upright, her face proud, her steps unfaltering.
In the little antechamber outside the hall they were stopped. "The queen goes alone from here," said the sheriff.
Mary's servants protested, but the man was adamant. "Orders from Queen Elizabeth," he said.
Mary spoke in a high, firm voice. "I do not believe you," she said. "As a maiden queen, Elizabeth would never condemn a fellow woman to die without any ladies to attend her."
The sheriff ignored her. He opened the door to the hall.
Alison glimpsed a temporary stage about two feet high, draped with a black cloth, and a crowd of noblemen around it.
Mary passed through the doorway, then stopped, so that the door could not be closed, and said in a carrying voice that rang in the hall: "I beg your lordships, allow my servants to be with me, so that they may report the manner of my dying."
Someone said: "They might dip their handkerchiefs in her blood, to be used as blasphemous relics by superstitious fools."
Someone was already worried about how to manage public reaction to this execution, Alison realized. No matter what they did, she thought savagely, those who took part in this vile performance would be regarded with hatred and loathing for all eternity.
"They will not do any such thing," said Mary. "I give you my word."
The lords went into a huddle, and Alison heard murmured words, then the voice said: "Very well, but only six."
Mary gave in, pointed one by one at the people she wanted--starting with Alison--then walked forward.
Now Alison could see the entire hall. The stage was in the middle. Sitting onstage, on two stools, were men she recognized as the earls of Kent and Shrewsbury. A third stool, with a cushion, was clearly intended for Mary. In front of it, also draped in black, was the chopping block, and on the floor lay a huge woodcutter's axe, its blade freshly edged by the grindstone.
In front of the stage were two more seats, one occupied by Paulet and the other by a man Alison did not know. Standing to one side was a burly fellow in the clothes of a workingman, the only person in the room dressed so; and after a moment's puzzlement Alison realized he must be the executioner. A heavy contingent of armed soldiers formed a circle around the stage. Outside the circle stood a large crowd of spectators: an execution had to be witnessed.
Among the crowd Alison spotted Sir Ned Willard. He had done more than anyone else to bring about today's horror. He had outwitted Elizabeth's enemies at every turn. He did not even appear triumphant. In fact he looked aghast at the sight of the stage, the axe, and the doomed queen. Alison would have preferred him to gloat: she could have hated him more.
Logs blazed in the massive fireplace, but failed to have much effect, and it seemed to Alison that the hall must be colder than the sunlit courtyard visible through the windows.
Mary approached the stage. As she did so, Paulet stood up and gave her his hand to help her up the steps. "Thank you," she said. But the cruel irony of his courtesy was not lost on her, for she then added bitterly: "This is the last trouble I shall ever give you."
She climbed the three steps with her head held high.
Then she calmly took her place on the execution stool.
While the commission for her execution was read out she sat motionless, her face without expression; but when a clergyman began to pray, loudly and pompously, asking God to convert her to the Protestant faith at the last minute, she protested. "I am settled in the ancient Catholic Roman religion," she said with queenly decisiveness, "and I mean to spend my blood in defense of it."
The man took no notice, but carried on.
Mary turned sideways on her stool, so that she had her back to him, and opened her Latin prayer book. She began to read aloud in a quiet voice while he ranted on, and Alison thought proudly that Mary was indisputably the more gracious of the two. After a minute, Mary slid off her stool to her knees, and continued to pray facing the execution block, as if it were an altar.
At last the prayers ended. Now Mary had to remove her outer garments. Alison went onto the stage to help her. Mary seemed to want to undress quickly, as if impatient to get this over with, and Alison removed her over-mantle and skirt as rapidly as possible, then her headdress with its veil.
Mary stood there in her blood-red underclothes, the very picture of a Catholic martyr, and Alison realized she had chosen the color for exactly that effect.
Her servants were weeping and praying loudly, but Mary reproved them, saying in French: "Don't cry for me."
The executioner picked up the axe.
Another of the women brought a white blindfold and covered the queen's eyes.
Mary knelt down. Unable to see the block
In a loud voice Mary cried in Latin: "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit."
The executioner lifted the axe high and brought it down hard.
He missed his mark. The blow did not sever Mary's neck, but bit into the bony back of her head. Alison could not contain herself and let out a loud sob. It was the most awful sight she had seen in a long life.
Mary did not move, and Alison could not tell whether she was still conscious. She made no sound.
The executioner lifted the axe and brought it down again, and this time his aim was better. The steel edge entered her neck at just the right place and went through almost all the way. But one sinew remained, and her head did not fall.
Horribly, the executioner took the head of his axe in both hands and sawed through the sinew.
At last Mary's head fell from the block onto the mat of straw that had been placed to receive it.
The man picked up the head by the hair, held it up for all to see, and said: "God save the queen!"
But Mary had been wearing a wig, and now, to Alison's horror and revulsion, wig and head separated. Mary's head fell onto the stage, and the executioner was left holding her curly auburn wig. The head on the floor was revealed to be covered with short, gray hair.
It was the final terrible indignity, and Alison could do nothing but close her eyes.
25
Sylvie felt sick when she thought about the Spanish invasion. She imagined another St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre. In her mind she saw again the piles of naked corpses showing their hideous wounds on the streets of Paris. She had thought she had escaped from all that. Surely it could not happen again?
Queen Elizabeth's enemies had changed tactics. Instead of secret conspiracies they now favored open action. King Felipe of Spain was assembling an armada. Felipe had long mooted this plan, but the beheading of Mary Stuart gave the invasion total legitimacy in the eyes of European leaders. The miserly Pope Sixtus had been so shocked by the execution that he had promised a million gold ducats toward the cost of the war.
Ned had known about the armada early, but by now it was the worst-kept secret in Europe. Sylvie had heard it discussed in the French Protestant church in London. King Felipe could not conceal the gathering of hundreds of ships and thousands of soldiers in and around the jump-off point of Lisbon. Felipe's navy was buying millions of tons of provisions--food, gunpowder, cannonballs, and the all-important barrels in which to store everything--and Felipe's purchasing agents were forced to scour Europe for supplies. They had even bought stores in England, Sylvie knew, because a Kingsbridge merchant called Elijah Cordwainer had been hanged for selling to them.
Ned was desperate to learn the Spanish king's battle plan. Sylvie had asked her contacts in Paris to be alert for any clues. Meanwhile they heard from Barney. His ship, the Alice, had anchored briefly at Dover on its way to Combe Harbour, and Barney had taken the opportunity to write to his brother to say that he would be in Kingsbridge within a few days, and he had a special reason to hope he might see Ned there.
Sylvie had a competent assistant who was able to run the bookshop in her absence. Ned, too, was able to leave London for a few days. They reached Kingsbridge ahead of Barney. Not knowing exactly when he would arrive, they went to the waterfront every day to meet the morning barge from Combe Harbour. Barney's son, Alfo, now twenty-three, went with them. So did Valerie Forneron.
Alfo and Valerie were a couple. Valerie was the attractive daughter of the immigrant Huguenot cambric maker Guillaume Forneron. She was one of numerous Kingsbridge girls who had been attracted to Alfo's Barney-like charm and exotic good looks. Sylvie wondered whether Guillaume had any misgivings about a suitor who looked so different from everyone else. However, it seemed that all Guillaume cared about was that Alfo was a Protestant. If Valerie had fallen for a Catholic boy there would have been an explosion.
Alfo confided in Sylvie that he and Valerie were unofficially engaged to be married. "Do you think the Captain will mind?" Alfo asked anxiously. "I haven't been able to ask him."
Sylvie thought for a minute. "Tell him that you're sorry you haven't been able to ask for his approval, because you haven't seen him for three years, but you know he's going to like her. I don't think he'll mind."
Barney arrived on the third morning, and he had a surprise for them. He got off the barge with a rosy-cheeked woman of about forty with a mass of curly fair hair and a big smile. "This is Helga," he said, looking pleased with himself. "My wife."
Helga immediately homed in on Alfo. She took his hand in both of hers and spoke in a German accent. "Your father has told me all about your mother, and I know I will never replace her. But I hope you and I will learn to love each other. And I will try not to be like the wicked stepmother in the stories."
It was just the right thing to say, Sylvie thought.
The story came out in fits and starts. Helga was a childless widow from Hamburg. She had been a prosperous dealer in the golden German wine the English called Rhenish. Barney had been first a customer, then a lover, then a fiance. She had sold her business to marry him, but she planned to start a new enterprise here in Kingsbridge, importing the same wine.
Alfo introduced Valerie, and as he fumbled for the right words to say they were engaged, Barney forestalled him by saying: "She's marvelous, Alfo--marry her, quick."
Everyone laughed, and Alfo was able to say: "That's what I'm planning, Captain."
Sylvie enjoyed the occasion hugely: everyone hugging and shaking hands, news pouring out, several people talking at the same time, laughter and delight. As always on such occasions, she could not help contrasting Ned's family with her own. They had been just three, her parents and herself, and then two. At first she had been bewildered by Ned's crowd, but she loved it now, and it made her original family seem limited.
At last they all began the short walk uphill along the main street. When they reached the house, Barney looked across the market square and said: "Hullo! What's happened to the monastery ruins?"
Alfo said: "Come and see."
He led the party through the new entrance in the west wall of the cloisters. He had paved the quadrangle, so that the crowds would not make it muddy. He had repaired the arcades and the vaulting, and now there was a market stall in each bay of the cloisters. The whole place was busy with shoppers.
Barney said: "Why, this is my mother's dream! Who did it?"
"You did, Captain," said Alfo.
Ned explained. "I bought the place with your money, and Alfo turned it into the indoor market that Mother planned nearly thirty years ago."
"It's wonderful," Barney said.
Alfo said proudly: "And it's making you a lot of money."
Sylvie, who knew a great deal about the needs of shopkeepers, had given Alfo much advice on the indoor market. In the manner of young men, Alfo was not saying a lot about the help he had received; and, in the manner of kindly aunts, she did not remind him.
In fairness, Alfo had good commercial instincts. Sylvie assumed he had inherited them from his enterprising mother, who had apparently made the best rum in New Spain.
"The place is packed," Barney said.
"I want to expand into the monks' old refectory," Alfo said. Hastily he added: "That is, if you approve, Captain."
"It sounds like a good idea," Barney said. "We'll have a look at the numbers together later. There's plenty of time."
They returned across the square and at last entered the house. The family gathered around the dining table for the midday meal, and inevitably the talk turned to the coming Spanish invasion.
"After all we've done," Ned said with a gloom that tugged painfully at the strings of Sylvie's heart. "We just wanted to have a country where a man could make his own peace with God, instead of mouthing prayers like a parrot. But they won't let us."
Alfo said to Barney: "Do they have slavery in Spain, Captain?"
Now, where did that come from? Sylvie thought. She recalled the moment when Alfo became aware of slavery. He had been around thirteen or fourteen. His mother had told him that his grandmother had been a slave, and that many slaves were dark skinned, as he was. He had been reassured to learn that slavery was not legally enforceable in England. He had not mentioned the subject since then, but Sylvie now realized that it had never left his mind. To him, England meant freedom; and the prospect of a Spanish invasion had renewed his fears.
"Yes," Barney said. "Spain has slavery. In Seville, where I used to live, every wealthy family had slaves."
"And are the slaves dark skinned?"
Barney sighed. "Yes. A few are European prisoners of war, usually oarsmen in the galleys, but most are African or Turkish."
"If the Spanish invade us, will they change our laws?"
"Most certainly. They will make us all Catholic. That's the point."
"And will they permit slavery?"
"They might."
Alfo nodded grimly, and Sylvie wondered if he would have the possibility of slavery hanging over him all his life. She said: "Can't we do something to prevent the invasion?"
"Yes," said Barney. "We shouldn't just wait for them to arrive--we should hit them first."
Ned said: "We've already put this proposal to the queen: a preemptive strike."
"Stop them before they start."
Ned was more moderate. "Attack them before they set sail, aiming to do at least enough damage to make King Felipe think again."
Barney said eagerly: "Has Queen Elizabeth agreed to this?"
"She has decided to send six vessels: four warships and two pinnaces." Pinnaces were smaller, faster craft, often used for reconnaissance and messages, not much use in a fight.
"Four warships--against the richest and most powerful country in the world?" Barney protested. "It's not enough!"
"We can't risk our entire navy! That would leave England defenseless. But we're inviting armed merchant ships to join the fleet. There will be plunder, if the mission is successful."
"I'll go," Barney said immediately.
"Oh," said Helga, who had hardly spoken until now. She looked dismayed. "So soon?"