Page 283 of A Column of Fire

There was no Spanish armada in 1587 but, as summer turned to autumn, Margery and everyone else realized that they had celebrated too soon. They had imagined that Drake had prevented the invasion. But the raid on Cádiz had only postponed it. King Felipe was so rich that, to the consternation of the English, he simply started building new ships and buying replacement supplies.

Queen Elizabeth and her government began to prepare for a fight to the death.

All along the coast, defences were repaired that winter. Castles were reinforced, and new earth ramparts were thrown up around towns that had not seen battle for centuries. The walls of Kingsbridge were rebuilt, the old ones having long ago disappeared into a suburban sprawl. The rusting old cannons at Combe Harbour were cleaned and test-fired. Chains of hilltop beacons were built, from the coast to London, ready to transmit the dreadful news that the galleons had been sighted.

Margery was aghast. Catholics were going to slaughter Protestants, and vice versa. But being a follower of Jesus Christ was not supposed to be about cannons and swords, killing and maiming. In the gospel story only the enemies of Jesus shed blood.

Margery could not help brooding over the fact that Ned believed as she did, that Christians should not kill one another over doctrine. He claimed that Queen Elizabeth believed it too, even though he admitted that she had not always been true to her ideals.

Margery suffered agonies in the early months of 1588, as details trickled through of the size and strength of the new armada. It was rumoured to have more than one hundred ships, a figure that terrified the English, whose entire navy consisted of thirty-eight vessels.

The Government began interning notorious Catholics as a precaution. Margery hoped the men of her family would be put in prison where they would be safe. However, Bart was not considered dangerous. He had never been part of any conspiracy. It was Margery who had been the secret agent in New Castle, and she had been so careful that no one suspected her.

Then the weapons arrived.

Two carts loaded with hay trundled into the castle, but when the hay was forked off, it was found to conceal half a dozen battleaxes, forty or so swords, ten arquebuses, a sack of bullets and a small barrel of gunpowder. Margery watched the ordnance being carried into the house and stashed in the old bread oven, then said to Bart: ‘What are these for?’

She genuinely did not know. Would her husband fight for his queen and country, or for the Catholic Church?

He quickly set her straight. ‘I will muster an army of loyal Catholic gentry and peasants, and divide them in two. I will lead half of them to Combe Harbour to greet the Spanish liberators, and Bartlet will lead the other half to Kingsbridge where they will take over the town and celebrate Mass in the cathedral – in Latin.’

A horrified protest sprang to her lips, but she suppressed it. If she let Bart know how she felt, he would stop giving her information.

Bart believed she was merely squeamish about bloodshed. But she was more serious than that. She was not content merely to look away. She had to do something to prevent this.

Instead of protesting, she probed. ‘You can’t do all that on your own.’

‘I won’t be on my own. Catholic noblemen all over the country will be doing the same.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Your brother is in charge of it.’

‘Rollo?’ This was news to Margery. ‘He’s in France.’

‘Not any more. He’s organizing the Catholic nobility.’

‘But how does he know whom to organize?’ As she asked the question, Margery realized, with horror, what the answer would be.

Bart confirmed her fear. ‘Every nobleman who has risked his life by harbouring a secret priest is willing to fight against Elizabeth Tudor.’

Margery found herself short of breath, as if she had been punched in the stomach. She struggled to hide her feelings from Bart – who, fortunately, was not observant. ‘So . . .’ She swallowed, took a deep breath, and started again. ‘So Rollo has used my network of secret priests to organize an armed insurrection against Queen Elizabeth.’

‘Yes,’ said Bart. ‘We thought it best not to tell you.’

Of course you did, Margery thought bitterly.

‘Women dislike talk of bloodshed,’ Bart went on, as if he were an expert on feminine feelings. ‘But you were sure to find out eventually.’

Margery was angry and sick at heart, but she did not want Bart to know it. She asked a mundane question. ‘Where will you keep the weapons?’

‘In the old bread oven.’

‘These aren’t enough for an army.’

‘There are more to come. And there’s plenty of room behind the oven.’ Bart turned to give instructions to the servants, and Margery took the opportunity to walk away.

Had she been stupid? She knew perfectly well that Rollo would not hesitate to lie to her, nor would Bart. But she had thought that Rollo, like her, wanted no more than to help loyal Catholics receive the sacraments. Should she have guessed at his real intentions?