Page 326 of A Column of Fire
‘A pity,’ one of the men said. ‘I’d like to beat him to death.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ned. ‘In a few hours’ time he’ll be stretched on the rack. He’ll suffer screaming agony before he betrays his friends. And when he’s done that he’ll be hung, drawn and quartered.’ He stared at the man on the floor for a long moment. ‘That’s probably punishment enough,’ he said.
*
ROLLO RODE THROUGHthe night, changing horses when he could, and reached New Castle on the morning of Tuesday, 5 November. There he and Earl Bartlet waited anxiously for the messenger from London who would bring them the joyous news of the death of the king.
In the chapel that was part of the castle complex were dozens of swords, guns and armour. As soon as he heard that the king was dead, Bartlet would summon loyal Catholics and arm them, and they would march on Kingsbridge, where Rollo would hold a Latin Mass in the cathedral.
If something went wrong, and the news from London was not what Rollo expected, he had an alternative plan. A fast horse was standing by, and a pair of saddlebags packed with a few essentials. He would ride to Combe Harbour and take the first ship to France. With luck he would escape before Ned Willard closed England’s ports in his hunt for the gunpowder plotters.
It was almost impossible that they would hear anything on the Tuesday, but all the same Rollo and Bartlet stayed up late just in case. Rollo spent a restless night and got up at first light on the Wednesday. Had the world changed? Was England in the midst of a revolution? They would surely know the answers before the sun went down today.
They found out earlier than that.
Rollo was at breakfast with Bartlet and the family when they heard hoofbeats pounding into the compound. They all jumped up from the table, rushed through the house and ran out of the main door, desperately eager to know what had happened.
A dozen men and horses milled around the courtyard. For a moment it was not clear who was in charge. Rollo scanned the faces, looking for someone familiar. All the men were heavily armed, some with swords and daggers, others with guns.
Then Rollo saw Ned Willard.
Rollo froze. What did that mean? Had the plan gone wrong? Or had the revolution begun, and was Ned part of a desperate rearguard action by the tattered remains of the Protestant government?
Ned gave the answer immediately. ‘I found your gunpowder,’ he said.
The words hit Rollo like bullets. He felt shot in the heart. The plot had failed. Rage boiled up in him as he thought how Ned had frustrated him again and again through the years. He wanted more than anything else to get his hands around Ned’s throat and squeeze the life out of him.
He tried to suppress his emotions and think straight. So Ned had found the gunpowder – but how had he known that Rollo had put it there? Rollo said: ‘Did my sister betray me?’
‘She kept your secret thirty years longer than she should have.’
Betrayed by a woman. He should never have trusted her.
He thought of the waiting horse. Did he have a slim chance of escaping from this crowd of strong young men, reaching the stable, and riding away?
Ned seemed to read his mind. He pointed at Rollo and said: ‘Watch him carefully. He’s been slipping through my hands for thirty years.’
One of the men lifted a long-barrelled arquebus and aimed it at Rollo’s nose. It was an old gun with a matchlock mechanism, and he could see the glowing match ready to be touched to the firing pan.
At that point Rollo knew it was all over.
Earl Bartlet began a blustering protest, but Rollo felt impatient for the end. He was seventy years old and he had nothing more to live for. He had spent his life trying to destroy England’s heretical monarchy, and he had failed. He would not get another chance.
Sheriff Matthewson, grandson of the sheriff Rollo remembered from his youth, spoke to Bartlet in a firm but calm voice. ‘Let’s have no trouble, please, my lord,’ he said. ‘It won’t do anyone any good.’
The sheriff’s reasonable tones and Bartlet’s ranting both seemed to Rollo like background noise. Feeling as if he was in a dream, or perhaps a play, he reached inside his doublet and drew his dagger.
The deputy holding a gun on him said in a panicky voice: ‘Drop that knife!’ The arquebus shook in his hands, but he managed to keep it pointing at Rollo’s face.
Silence fell and everyone looked at Rollo.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Rollo said to the deputy.
He had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but he raised the knife high, careful not to move his head and spoil the deputy’s aim.
‘Prepare to die,’ he said.
Behind the deputy, Ned moved.
