Page 164 of A Column of Fire
D’umbre de mort, rien de mal ne craindroye . . .
Ebrima understood the French words and recognized them as a translation from the familiar Latin of the twenty-third psalm, which he had heard in church – but not like this. The sound seemed a mighty phenomenon of nature, making him think of a gale over the ocean. They really believed what they were singing, that as they walked through the valley of the shadow of death they would fear no evil.
Ebrima spotted his stepson, Matthus, not far away. Matthus still worshipped with his mother and stepfather every Sunday but, lately, he had started to criticize the Catholic Church. His mother urged him to keep his doubts to himself, but he could not: he was seventeen, and for him right was right and wrong was wrong. Now Ebrima was troubled to see him with a group of youths, all carrying unpleasant-looking clubs.
Carlos saw him at the same time. ‘Those boys seem to be looking for a fight,’ he said anxiously.
But the atmosphere in the meadow was peaceful and happy, and Ebrima said hopefully: ‘I think they’ll be disappointed today.’
‘What a lot of people,’ Carlos said.
‘How many, do you think?’
‘Thousands.’
‘I don’t know how we’re going to count.’
Carlos was clever with numbers. ‘Let’s say there’s half this side of the stream and half the other. Now imagine a line from here to the preacher. How many in the near quarter? Divide it into four again.’
Ebrima took a guess. ‘Five hundred in each sixteenth?’
Carlos did not respond to that, but said: ‘Here comes trouble.’
He was staring over Ebrima’s shoulder, and Ebrima turned to look for the cause. He saw at once what had alerted Carlos. Coming along the road through the wood was a small group of clergy and men-at-arms.
If they had come to break up the meeting, they were too few. This armed crowd, full of righteousness, would wipe them out.
In the centre of the group was a priest in his mid-sixties wearing an ostentatious silver cross outside his black robe. As he came closer, Ebrima saw that he had dark, deep-set eyes either side of a high-bridged nose, and a mouth set in a hard, determined line. Ebrima did not recognize the man, but Carlos did. ‘That’s Pieter Titelmans, dean of Ronse,’ he said. ‘The Grand Inquisitor.’
Ebrima looked anxiously at Matthus and his friends. They had not yet spotted the newcomer. What would they do when they realized that the Grand Inquisitor had come to spy on their meeting?
As the group approached, Carlos said: ‘Let’s stay out of his way – he knows me.’
But he was too late. Titelmans met his eye, registered surprise, and said: ‘I’m disappointed to see you in this nest of ungodliness.’
‘I’m a good Catholic!’ Carlos protested.
Titelmans tilted back his head, like a hungry hawk spotting movement in the grass. ‘What would a good Catholic be doing at a Protestant psalm-singing orgy?’
Ebrima answered him. ‘The city council needs to know how many Protestants there are in Antwerp. We’ve been sent here to count them.’
Titelmans looked sceptical and spoke to Carlos. ‘Why would I take the word of that Ethiopian? He’s probably a Muslim.’
If only you knew, thought Ebrima. Then he recognized one of Titelmans’s entourage, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and the flushed complexion of one who loves wine. ‘Father Huus, there, knows me,’ he said. Huus was a canon of Antwerp Cathedral.
Huus said quietly: ‘Both these men are good Catholics, Dean Pieter. They go to St James’s parish church.’
The psalm came to an end and the preacher began to speak. Some people pressed closer to hear his words shouted across the field. Others noticed Titelmans with his big silver cross, and there were angry mutterings.
Huus said nervously: ‘Sir, there are more Protestants here than we imagined possible and, if violence were to break out, we have too few men to protect you.’
Titelmans ignored him. Looking sly, he said: ‘If you two are what you claim to be, you can tell me the names of some of these wicked men.’ He indicated the congregation with a wide sweep of his arm.
Ebrima was not going to betray his neighbours to a torturer, and he knew Carlos would feel the same. He saw that Carlos was about to make an indignant protest, and forestalled him. ‘Of course, Dean Pieter,’ he said. ‘We’ll be glad to give you names.’ He made a pantomime of looking around, then said: ‘At the moment I don’t see anyone I know, unfortunately.’
‘That’s unlikely. There must be seven or eight thousand people here.’
‘Antwerp is a city of eighty thousand inhabitants. I don’t know them all.’
