Page 56 of A Column of Fire

The Guild Hall was right across the street. Sheriff Matthewson had a room on the ground floor, with a clerk, Paul Pettit, who wrote letters and kept documents in careful order in a chest. Matthewson could not always be relied upon to do the bidding of the Fitzgerald family: he would occasionally defy Sir Reginald, saying that he served the queen, not the mayor. Happily, the sheriff happened to be away from his room today, and Rollo had no intention of sending for him.

Instead he went down to the basement, where Osmund and the rest of the watchmen were preparing for their Saturday night duties. Osmund wore a close-fitting leather helmet that made him look even more pugnacious. He was lacing up knee boots.

‘I need you to come with me to question someone,’ Rollo said to Osmund. ‘You won’t need to say anything.’ He was going to addJust look menacing, but that would have been superfluous.

They walked down the main street together in late-afternoon light. Rollo wondered whether he had been right to assure his father and the bishop that Donal would crack. If Donal had sobered up by now he might be tougher. He could apologize for talking trash while drunk and deny point-blank that he had ever been to any kind of Protestant service. Then it would be hard to prove anything.

Passing the wharves, Rollo was greeted by Susan White, a baker’s daughter of his own age. She had a heart-shaped face and a sweet nature. When they were both younger they had kissed, and tried other mild experiments. That was when Rollo had realized that sex did not have the power over him that it had over boys such as Donal Gloster and Ned Willard, and his dalliance with Susan had come to nothing. He might marry anyway, one day, in order to have someone to manage his household, but in that event he would hope for someone of higher rank than a baker’s daughter.

Susan bore him no resentment: she had had plenty of boyfriends. Now she looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry you lost your cargo,’ she said. ‘It seems unfair.’

‘It is unfair.’ Rollo was not surprised that the story was getting around. Half of Kingsbridge was involved, one way or another, in trading by sea, and everyone was interested in good or bad shipping news.

‘You’re due for some good luck next,’ Susan said. ‘That’s what people say, anyway.’

‘I hope it’s true.’

Susan looked with curiosity at Osmund, evidently wondering what he and Rollo were up to.

Rollo did not want to have to explain, so he brought the conversation to an end. ‘Forgive me, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Goodbye!’

Rollo and Osmund walked on. Donal lived in the south-west of the city, the industrial quarter known as the Tanneries. The north and east had long been the desirable neighbourhoods. The priory had always owned the land upstream of Merthin’s Bridge, and there the water was clean. The borough council directed industry downstream, and all of Kingsbridge’s dirty enterprises – leather tanning, textile dyeing, coal washing, paper making – sluiced their filth into the river here, as they had done for centuries.

Tomorrow was Sunday, and people would be exchanging news at church, Rollo reflected. By the evening everyone in Kingsbridge would know what had happened to theSt Margaret. They might sympathize, like Susan, or they might think Sir Reginald was a fool to let himself be cheated, but either way they would regard the Fitzgeralds with a mixture of pity and scorn. Rollo could hear them being wise after the event, saying: ‘That Philbert’s a sly one. He never sold anyone a bargain. Sir Reginald should have known that.’ The thought made Rollo cringe. He hated the idea of people looking down on his family.

But they would change their tune when Philbert was arrested for heresy. It would be seen as Philbert’s punishment. People would say: ‘It doesn’t pay to swindle Sir Reginald – Philbert should have known that.’ The honour of the family would be restored, and once again Rollo’s chest would swell with pride when he told people his name.

If he could get Donal to talk.

Rollo led the way to a small house beyond the docks. The woman who opened the door had Donal’s sensual good looks. She recognized Osmund and said: ‘Mercy! What’s my boy done?’

Rollo pushed past her into the house, and Osmund followed.

‘I’m sorry he got drunk,’ she said. ‘He suffered a terrible disappointment.’

Rollo said: ‘Is your husband at home?’

‘He’s dead.’

Rollo had forgotten that. It made things easier. ‘Where’s Donal?’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ She turned away.

Rollo caught her arm. ‘When I speak to you, you must listen to what I say. I didn’t tell you to get him. I asked you where he is.’

Her brown eyes flashed anger, and for a moment R0llo thought she was going to tell him she would do as she pleased in her own house; then she got herself under control, no doubt fearing that defiance would make things worse for her son. Eyes downcast, she said: ‘In bed. First door at the top of the stairs.’

‘You wait here. Osmund, come with me.’

Donal was prone on the bed, fully dressed except for his boots. There was a smell of puke, though it seemed his mother might have cleaned up the worst of it. Rollo shook him awake. He came round blearily. When he saw Osmund he sat bolt upright and said: ‘Jesus Christ save me!’

Rollo sat on the edge of the bed and said: ‘Christ will save you, if you tell the truth. You’re in trouble, Donal.’

Donal was bewildered. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Don’t you recall our talk in the Slaughterhouse?’