Page 165 of A Column of Fire

‘Just the same, you must recognize a few.’

‘I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s because all my friends are Catholics.’

Titelmans was stumped, and Ebrima was relieved. He had survived the interrogation.

Then he heard a voice cry out, in the local Brabant Dutch dialect: ‘Carlos! Ebrima! Good day!’

Ebrima spun around to see Albert Willemsen, his brother-in-law, the iron maker who had helped them when they first came to Antwerp six years ago. Albert had built a blast furnace just like theirs, and all had done well. With Albert were his wife, Betje, and their daughter, Drike, now fourteen, a slim adolescent with an angelic face. Albert and his family had embraced Protestantism.

‘Don’t you think this is great?’ Albert enthused. ‘All these people singing God’s word, and no one to tell them to shut up!’

Carlos said quietly: ‘Careful what you say.’

But the ebullient Albert had not noticed Titelmans or his cross. ‘Oh, come on, now, Carlos, you’re a man of tolerance, not one of those hardliners. You can’t possibly see anything here that would displease the God of love.’

Ebrima said urgently to Albert: ‘Shut up.’

Albert looked hurt and puzzled, then Betje pointed to the Grand Inquisitor, and Albert turned pale.

But others were noticing Titelmans, and most of the nearby Protestants had now turned away from the preacher to stare. Matthus and his friends were approaching, clubs in hands. Ebrima called out: ‘Stay back, you boys, I don’t want you here.’

Matthus ignored his stepfather and stood close to Drike. He was a big lad who had not yet grown used to his size. His adolescent face wore a look that was part threatening, part fearful. However, his attitude to Drike seemed protective, and Ebrima wondered if the boy might be in love. I must ask Evi, he thought.

Father Huus said: ‘We should return to the city now, Dean Pieter.’

Titelmans seemed determined not to go away empty-handed. Pointing to Albert, he said: ‘Tell me, Father Huus, what is that man’s name?’

Huus said: ‘I’m sorry, dean, I don’t know the man.’

Ebrima knew that was a brave lie.

Titelmans turned to Carlos. ‘Well,youobviously know him – he speaks to you like an old friend. Who is he?’

Carlos hesitated.

Titelmans was right, Ebrima thought: Carlos could not pretend not to know Albert, after such an effusive greeting.

Titelmans said: ‘Come, come! If you’re as good a Catholic as you claim to be, you’ll be glad to identify such a heretic. If you don’t, you shall be questioned in another place, where we have means of making you honest.’

Carlos shuddered, and Ebrima guessed he was thinking of Pedro Ruiz undergoing the water torture in Seville.

Albert spoke bravely. ‘I shan’t allow my friends to be tortured on my account,’ he said. ‘My name is Albert Willemsen.’

‘Profession?’

‘Iron maker.’

‘And the women?’

‘Leave them out of this.’

‘No one is left out of God’s mercy.’

‘I don’t know who they are,’ Albert said desperately. ‘They’re two prostitutes I met on the road.’

‘They don’t look like prostitutes. But I shall learn the truth.’ Titelmans turned to Huus. ‘Make a note of the name: Albert Willemsen, iron maker.’ He gathered up the skirts of his robe, turned, and walked back the way he had come, followed by his little entourage.

The others watched him go.