13
Margery knew she was committing a serious crime when she picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor of the chapel, preparing it for Mass.
The small village of Tench had no church, but this chapel was within the manor house. Earl Swithin rarely went to Tench, and the building was in bad repair, dirty and damp. When Margery had cleaned the floor she opened a window to let in some fresh air, and in the dawn light it began to feel more like a holy place.
Stephen Lincoln put candles on the altar, either side of a small jewelled crucifix he had purloined from Kingsbridge Cathedral, way back in the early days of Elizabeth’s reign, before he had officially left the priesthood. Around his shoulders he was wearing a magnificent cope he had rescued from a Protestant bonfire of priestly vestments. It was gorgeously embroidered with gold and silver thread and coloured silk. The embroidery depicted the martyrdom of Thomas Becket. It also showed random foliage and, for some reason, several parrots.
Margery brought a wooden chair from the hall and sat down to prepare herself for Mass.
There were no clocks in Tench but everyone could see sunrise and, as the pale light of a summer morning crept through the east window and turned the grey stone walls to gold, the villagers came into the chapel in their family groups, quietly greeting their neighbours. Stephen stood with his back to the congregation and they stared, mesmerized, at the colourful images on his cope.
Margery knew how many people lived in Tench, for it was part of the Shiring earldom, and she was pleased to see that every inhabitant showed up, including the oldest resident, Granny Harborough, who was carried in, and was the only other member of the congregation who sat down for the service.
Stephen began the prayers. Margery closed her eyes and let the familiar sound of the Latin words penetrate her mind and submerge her soul in the precious tranquillity of feeling right with the world and with God.
Travelling around the county of Shiring, sometimes with her husband Bart and sometimes without him, Margery would talk to people about their religious feelings. Men and women liked her, and were more willing to open up to her because she was an unthreatening young woman. She generally targeted the village steward, a man paid to take care of the earl’s interests. He would already know that the earl’s family were staunch Catholics and, if handled gently, he would soon tell Margery where the villagers stood. In poor, remote places such as Tench it was not unusual to find that they were all Catholic. And then she would arrange for Stephen to bring them the sacraments.
It was a crime, but Margery was not sure how dangerous this was. In the five years since Elizabeth had come to the throne, no one had been executed for Catholicism. Stephen had the impression, from talking to other ex-priests, that clandestine services such as this one were, in fact, common; but there was no official reaction, no campaign to stamp them out.
It seemed that Queen Elizabeth was willing to tolerate such things. Ned Willard hinted as much. He came home to Kingsbridge once or twice a year, and Margery usually saw him in the cathedral, and spoke to him even though his face and his voice provoked wicked thoughts in her mind. He said that Elizabeth had no interest in punishing Catholics. However, he added, as if warning her personally, anyone who challenged Elizabeth’s authority as head of the Church of England – or, even worse, questioned her right to the throne – would be treated harshly.
Margery had no wish to make any kind of political statement. All the same, she could not feel safe. She thought it would be a mistake to relax vigilance. Monarchs could change their minds.
Fear was always present in her life, like a bell ringing for a distant funeral, but it did not keep her from her duty. She was thrilled that she had been chosen as the agent who would preserve the true religion in the county of Shiring, and she accepted the danger as part of the mission. If one day it got her into serious trouble, she would find the strength to deal with that, she felt sure. Or nearly sure.
The congregation here would protect themselves by walking, later in the morning, to the next village, where a priest would hold a Protestant service using the prayer book authorized by Elizabeth and the English-language Bible introduced by her heretical father, King Henry VIII. They had to go, anyway: the fine for not attending church was a shilling, and no one in Tench could spare a shilling.
Margery was the first to receive Holy Communion, to give courage to the others. Then she stood aside to watch the congregation. Their weathered peasant faces glowed as they received the sacrament that had been denied them for so long. Finally, Granny Harborough was carried to the front. Almost certainly this would be the last time for her here on earth. Her wrinkled visage was suffused with joy. Margery could imagine what she was thinking. Her soul was saved, and she was at peace.
Now she could die happy.
*
ONE MORNING IN BED Susannah, the dowager countess of Brecknock, said: ‘I’d marry you, Ned Willard, if I was twenty years younger, I really would.’
She was forty-five years old, a cousin of Earl Swithin. Ned had known her by sight since childhood, and had never dreamed that he might be her lover. She lay beside him with her head on his chest and one plump thigh thrown over his knees. He could easily imagine being married to her. She was clever and funny and as lustful as a tomcat. She had ways in bed that he had never heard of, and she made him play games he had not even imagined. She had a sensual face and warm brown eyes and big soft breasts. Most of all, she helped him to stop thinking about Margery in bed with Bart.
She said: ‘But it’s a terrible idea, of course. I’m past the age when I could give you children. I could help a young man’s career, but with Sir William Cecil as your mentor you don’t need any help. And I don’t even have a fortune to leave you.’
And we’re not in love, Ned thought, though he did not say it. He liked Susannah enormously, and she had given him intense pleasure for a year, but he did not quite love her, and he was pretty sure she did not love him. He had not known that a relationship such as this was even possible. He had learned so much from her.
‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure you’ll ever get over poor Margery.’
The one drawback of an older lover, Ned had learned, was that nothing could be concealed from her. He was not sure how she did it but she guessed everything, even things he did not want her to know. Especially things he did not want her to know.
‘Margery is a lovely girl, and she deserved you,’ Susannah went on. ‘But her family were desperate to join the nobility, and they just used her.’
‘The Fitzgerald men are the scum of the earth,’ Ned said with feeling. ‘I know them too damn well.’
‘Doubtless. Unfortunately, marriage is not just about being in love. For instance, I really need to be married.’
Ned was shocked. ‘Why?’
‘A widow is a nuisance. I could live with my son, but no boy really wants his mother around all the time. Queen Elizabeth likes me, but a single woman at court is assumed to be a busybody. And if she’s attractive, she makes the married women nervous. No, I need a husband, and Robin Twyford will be perfect.’
‘You’re going to marry Lord Twyford?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Does he know about this?’
She laughed. ‘No, but he thinks I’m wonderful.’
‘You are, but you might be wasted on Robin Twyford.’
‘Don’t condescend. He’s fifty-five, but he’s sprightly and smart and he makes me laugh.’
Ned realized he should be gracious. ‘My darling, I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘Bless you.’
‘Are you going to the play tonight?’
‘Yes.’ She loved plays, as he did.
‘I’ll see you then.’
‘If Twyford is there, be nice to him. No silly jealousy.’
Ned’s jealousy was focussed elsewhere, but he did not say so. ‘I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ She sucked his nipple.
‘That feels good.’ He heard the bell of St Martin-in-the-Fields. ‘But I have to attend upon her majesty.’
‘Not yet, you don’t.’ She sucked the other nipple.
‘But soon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, rolling on top of him. ‘I’ll be quick.’
Half an hour later, Ned was walking briskly along the Strand.
Queen Elizabeth had not yet appointed a new bishop of Kingsbridge to replace Julius, and Ned wanted the dean of Kingsbridge, Luke Richards, to get the job. Dean Luke was the right man – and also a friend of the Willard family.
Everyone at court wanted jobs for their friends, and Ned hesitated to pester the queen with his own personal preferences. He had learned, during five years in Elizabeth’s service, how quickly her amity could turn sour if a courtier lost sight of who served whom. So he had bided his time. However, today the queen planned to discuss bishops with her secretary of state, Sir William Cecil, and Cecil had told Ned to be there.
The palace called White Hall was a sprawl of dozens of buildings, courtyards and gardens, including a tennis court. Ned knew his way to the royal apartment and went quickly through the guardroom to a large waiting room. He was relieved to find that Cecil had not yet arrived. Susannah had been quick, as promised, and she had not delayed Ned too much.
Also in the outer chamber was the Spanish ambassador, Álvaro de la Quadra. He was pacing restlessly and looked angry, though Ned suspected the emotion might be at least partly faked. An ambassador’s job was difficult, Ned reflected: when his master was impassioned he had to convey that emotion, whether he shared it or not.
It was only a few minutes before the secretary of state came in and swept Ned along with him to the presence chamber.
Queen Elizabeth was now thirty, and she had lost the girlish bloom that had once made her almost beautiful. She was heavier, and her fondness for sugary treats had damaged her teeth. But she was in a good mood today.
‘Before we get on to bishops, let’s have the Spanish ambassador in,’ she said. Ned guessed that she had been waiting for Cecil, not wanting to be alone for a confrontation with Quadra, who represented the most powerful monarch in Europe.
Quadra’s greetings to the queen were so brisk as to be almost offensive, then he said: ‘A Spanish galleon has been attacked by English pirates.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said the queen.
‘Three noblemen were killed! Several sailors also died, and the ship was severely damaged before the pirates fled.’
Reading between the lines, Ned guessed that the galleon had got the worst of the encounter. King Felipe’s pride was hurt, hence his ire.
Elizabeth said: ‘I’m afraid I can’t control what my subjects do when they’re at sea and far from home. No monarch can.’
What Elizabeth said was only half the truth. It was difficult to control ships at sea, but the other side of the story was that Elizabeth did not try very hard. Merchant ships could get away with murder, often literally, because of the role they played in the security of her kingdom. In times of war the monarch could order merchant ships to join forces with the royal navy. Together they formed the main defence of an island nation with no standing army. Elizabeth was like the owner of a vicious dog that is useful in scaring off intruders.
Elizabeth went on: ‘Anyway, where did this happen?’
‘Off the coast of Hispaniola.’
Cecil, who had studied law at Gray’s Inn, asked: ‘And who fired the first shot?’
That was an astute question. ‘I do not have that information,’ said Quadra, and Ned took that to mean the Spaniards had fired first. Quadra came close to confirming his suspicion when he blustered: ‘However, a ship of his majesty King Felipe would be entirely justified in firing on any vessel involved in criminal activity.’
Cecil said: ‘What sort of crime are we talking about?’
‘The English ship did not have permission to sail to New Spain. No foreign ships may do so.’
‘And do we know what the captain was up to in the New World?’
‘Selling slaves!’
Elizabeth said: ‘Let me make sure I understand you,’ and Ned wondered if Quadra could hear, as clearly as Ned could, the dangerous note in her voice. ‘An English vessel, innocently doing business with willing buyers in Hispaniola, is fired upon by a Spanish galleon – and you are complaining to me because the English fired back?’
‘They were committing a crime just by being there! Your majesty is well aware that his holiness the Pope has granted jurisdiction over the entire New World to the kings of Spain and Portugal.’
The queen’s voice became icy. ‘And his majesty King Felipe is well aware that the Pope does not have the authority to grant this or that part of God’s earth to one monarch or another at his pleasure!’
‘The holy father in his wisdom—’
‘God’s body!’ Elizabeth exploded, using a curse that deeply offended Catholics such as Quadra. ‘If you fire upon Englishmen just for being in the New World, your ships must take their chances! Don’t complain to me of the consequences. You are dismissed.’
Quadra bowed, then looked sly. ‘Don’t you want to know the name of the English ship?’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was the Hawk, based at Combe Harbour, and its captain is Jonas Bacon.’ Quadra looked at Ned. ‘The master gunner is someone called Barnabas Willard.’
Ned gasped. ‘My brother!’
‘Your brother,’ said Quadra with evident satisfaction, ‘and, by generally accepted laws, a pirate.’ He bowed again to the queen. ‘I humbly bid your majesty good day.’
When he had gone, Elizabeth said to Ned: ‘Did you know?’
‘Some of it,’ said Ned, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘Three years ago, my uncle Jan in Antwerp wrote to say that Barney was on his way home aboard the Hawk. We guessed that he got diverted. But we had no idea that he might have crossed the Atlantic!’
‘I hope he gets home safely,’ the queen said. ‘Now, speaking of Kingsbridge, who can we have as bishop?’
Ned missed his cue, still being dazed by the news of Barney; but after a pause Cecil prompted him by saying: ‘Ned knows of a suitable candidate.’
Ned shook himself. ‘Luke Richards. Aged forty-five. He’s already the dean.’
‘A friend of yours, I suppose,’ the queen said sniffily.
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘A moderate man. He is a good Protestant – although honesty compels me to tell your majesty that five years ago he was a good Catholic.’
Cecil frowned in disapproval, but Queen Elizabeth laughed heartily. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘That’s just the kind of bishop I like!’
*
MARGERY HAD BEEN married for five years, and every day of those years she had thought about running away.
Bart Shiring was not a bad husband by general standards. He had never beaten her. She had to submit to sex with him now and again, but most of the time he took his pleasure elsewhere, so in that respect he was like most noblemen. He was disappointed that they had no children, and all men believed that such a failure was the woman’s fault, but he did not accuse her of witchcraft, as some husbands would have. All the same, she hated him.
Her dream of escape took many forms. She thought about entering a French nunnery, but of course Bart would find her and bring her back. She could cut her hair, dress as a boy, and run away to sea; but there was no privacy on a ship and she would be discovered within a day. She could saddle her favourite horse one morning and just never come back, but where would she go? London appealed, but how would she make a living? She knew a little of how the world worked, and it was common knowledge that girls who fled to the big city usually ended up as prostitutes.
There were times when she was tempted to commit the sin of suicide.
What kept her alive was her clandestine work for England’s deprived Catholics. It gave meaning to her existence, and in addition it was exciting, though frightening. Without it she would have been nothing more than a sad victim of circumstance. With it she was an adventurer, an outlaw, a secret agent for God.
When Bart was away from home she was almost happy. She liked having the bed to herself: no one snoring, belching or lurching out of bed in the middle of the night to piss in the pot. She enjoyed being alone in the morning while she washed and dressed. She liked her boudoir, with its little shelf of books and sprays of greenery in jugs. She could come back to her room in the afternoon, to sit alone and read poetry or study her Latin Bible, without being asked scornfully why any normal person would want to do such a thing.
It did not happen often enough. When Bart travelled it was usually to Kingsbridge, and then Margery went with him, taking the opportunity to see friends and connect with the clandestine Catholics there. But this time Bart had gone to Combe Harbour, and Margery was enjoying her own company.
She appeared at supper, of course. Earl Swithin had married a second time, to a girl younger than Margery, but the teenage countess had died giving birth to her first, stillborn child. So Margery was again the lady of the house, and meals were her responsibility. Tonight she had ordered mutton with cinnamon and honey. At table were just Earl Swithin and Stephen Lincoln, who now lived at New Castle: officially he was the secretary, but in fact he was the earl’s priest. He said Mass in the chapel for the family and their servants every Sunday, except when he and Margery were away doing the same thing somewhere else.
Although everyone was discreet, such a practice could not remain hidden for ever. By now a lot of people knew or guessed that Catholic services were going on at New Castle and, probably, all over England. The Puritans in Parliament – all men, of course – were infuriated by this. But Queen Elizabeth refused to enforce the laws. It was a compromise that Margery was beginning to recognize as typical of Elizabeth. The queen was a heretic, but she was also a sensible woman, and Margery thanked God for that.
She left the supper table as soon as it was polite to. She had a genuine excuse: her housekeeper was ill, and probably dying, and Margery wanted to make sure the poor woman was as comfortable as possible for the night.
She made her way to the servants’ quarters. Sal Brendon was lying in an alcove to one side of the kitchen. She and Margery had got off to a rocky start, five years ago, but Margery had slowly made an ally of her, and eventually they had run the house as a team. Sadly, Sal had developed a lump in one of her ample breasts, and over the past year had been transformed from a fleshy middle-aged sexpot into a skeleton with skin.
Sal’s tumour had broken through the skin and spread to her shoulder. It was heavily bandaged in an attempt to suppress the bad smell. Margery encouraged her to drink some sherry wine, and sat talking to her for a while. Sal told her, with bitter resignation, that the earl had not bothered to come to see her for weeks. She felt she had wasted her life trying to make an ungrateful man happy.
Margery retired to her room and cheered herself up with an outrageously funny French book called Pantagruel, about a race of giants, some of whom had testicles so large that three would fill a sack. Stephen Lincoln would have disapproved of the book, but there was no real harm in it. She sat by her candle for an hour, chuckling now and again; then she undressed.
She slept in a knee-length linen shift. The bed was a four-poster, but she kept the curtains tied back. The house had tall windows, and there was a half-moon, so the room was not completely dark. She climbed under the bedclothes and closed her eyes.
She would have liked to show Pantagruel to Ned Willard. He would delight in the author’s fantastic comic inventions the way he had in the Mary Magdalene play here at New Castle. Whenever she came across something interesting or unusual she wondered what Ned would have to say about it.
She often thought of him at night. Foolishly, she felt that her wicked ideas were more secret when she was lying in the dark. Now she remembered the first time Ned and she had kissed and petted, in the disused old oven, and she wished they had gone farther. The memory made her feel warm and cosy inside. She knew it was a sin to touch herself down there, but – as sometimes happened – tonight the feeling came over her without touching, and she could not help pressing her thighs together and riding the waves of pleasure.
Afterwards she felt sad. She thought about Sal Brendon’s regrets, and she pictured herself on her own deathbed and wondered if she would feel as bitter as Sal. Tears came to her eyes. She reached out to a small chest beside the bed where she kept her private things and took out a linen handkerchief embroidered with acorns. It was Ned’s: she had never given it back. She buried her face in it, imagining that she was with him again, and he was gently touching it to her cheeks, drying her tears.
Then she heard breathing.
There were no locks at New Castle, but she normally shut her door. However, she had not heard it open. Perhaps she had left it ajar. But who would enter silently?
The breathing could come from a dog: the earl’s hounds were allowed to roam the corridors at night, and one might have nosed in curiously. She listened: the breathing was restrained, like that of a man trying to be quiet – dogs could not do that.
She opened her eyes and sat upright, her heart beating fast. In the silver moonlight she made out the figure of a man in a nightshirt. ‘Get out of my room,’ she said firmly, but there was a tremor in her voice.
A moment of silence followed. It was too dark to identify the man. Had Bart come home unexpectedly? No – no one travelled after dark. It could not be a servant: one of them would risk death entering a noblewoman’s bedroom at night. It could not be Stephen Lincoln, for she felt sure he was not drawn to women’s beds – if he were to sin in that way it would be with a pretty boy.
The man spoke. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
It was Swithin.
‘Go away,’ said Margery.
He sat on the edge of her bed. ‘We’re both lonely,’ he said. His speech was a little slurred, as it always was by the end of the evening.
She moved to get up, but he stopped her with a strong arm.
‘You know you want it,’ he said.
‘No, I don’t!’ She struggled against his grip, but he was big and powerful, and had not drunk enough to weaken him.
‘I like a bit of resistance,’ he said.
‘Let me go!’ she cried.
With his free hand he pulled the bedclothes off. Her shift was rucked up around her hips, and he stared hungrily at her thighs. Irrationally, she felt ashamed, and tried to cover her nakedness with her hands. ‘Ah,’ he said with pleasure. ‘Shy.’
She did not know what to do to get rid of him.
With surprising swiftness he grabbed her by both ankles and pulled sharply. She was dragged down the bed and her shoulders fell back onto the mattress. While she was still shocked he jumped onto the bed and lay on her. He was heavy and his breath was foul. He groped her breasts with his mutilated hand.
Her voice came out in a high squeal. ‘Go away now or I’ll scream and everyone will know.’
‘I’ll tell them you seduced me,’ he said. ‘They’ll believe me, not you.’
She froze. She knew he was right. People said that women could not control their desires, but men could. Margery thought it was the other way round. But she could imagine the scenes of accusation and counter-accusation, the men all siding with the earl, the women looking at her with suspicion. Bart would be torn, for he knew his father well, yet in the end he might not have the courage to go against the earl.
She felt Swithin fumble to pull up his nightshirt. Perhaps he would be impotent, she thought in desperate hope. It happened sometimes with Bart, usually because he had drunk too much wine, though he always blamed her for putting him off. Swithin had certainly drunk a lot.
But not too much. She felt his penis pushing against her and that hope faded.
She pressed her legs close together. He tried to force them apart. But it was awkward: he had to rest his considerable weight on one elbow while shoving the other hand between her thighs. He grunted in frustration. Perhaps she could make it so difficult that he would lose his erection and give up in disgust.
He hissed: ‘Open your legs, bitch.’
She pressed them closer together.
With his free hand, he punched her face.
It was like an explosion. He was powerfully built, with big shoulders and strong arms, and he had done a lot of punching in his lifetime. She had no idea that such a blow could hurt so much. She felt as if her head would come off her neck. Her mouth filled with blood. Momentarily she lost all power of resistance, and in that second he forced her thighs apart and shoved his penis into her.
After that it did not take long. She endured his thrusts in a daze. Her face hurt so much that she could hardly feel the rest of her body. He finished and rolled off her, breathing hard.
She got off the bed, went into the corner of the room, and sat on the floor, holding her aching head. A minute later she heard him pad out of the room, still panting.
She wiped her face with the handkerchief that was, to her surprise, still clutched tightly in her hand. When she was sure he had gone she returned to the bed. She lay there, crying softly, until at last sleep brought blessed unconsciousness.
In the morning she might have thought she had dreamed it, except that one side of her face was agony. She looked in a glass and saw that it was swollen and discoloured. At breakfast she made up a story about having fallen out of bed: she did not care whether anyone believed it, but for her to accuse the earl would get her into even more trouble.
Swithin ate a hearty breakfast and acted as if nothing had happened.
As soon as he left the table, Margery told the servant to leave the room and went to sit next to Stephen. ‘Swithin came to my room last night,’ she said in a low voice.
‘What for?’ he said.
She stared at him. He was a priest, but he was twenty-eight years old and had been a student at Oxford, so he could not be completely innocent.
After a moment he said: ‘Oh!’
‘He forced himself on me.’
‘Did you struggle?’
‘Of course, but he’s stronger than I am.’ She touched her swollen face with her fingertips, careful not to press. ‘I didn’t fall out of bed. His fist did this.’
‘Did you scream?’
‘I threatened to. He said he would tell everyone that I seduced him. And that they would believe him and not me. He was right about that – as you must know.’
Stephen looked uncomfortable.
There was a silence. At last Margery said: ‘What should I do?’
‘Pray for forgiveness,’ said Stephen.
Margery frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Ask forgiveness for sin. God will be merciful.’
Margery’s voice rose. ‘What sin? I haven’t committed a sin! I am the victim of a sin – how can you tell me to ask forgiveness?’
‘Don’t shout! I’m telling you that God will forgive your adultery.’
‘What about his sin?’
‘The earl’s?’
‘Yes. He has committed a sin much worse than adultery. What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m a priest, not a sheriff.’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Is that it? Is that your response to a woman who has been raped by her father-in-law? To say that you’re not a sheriff?’
He looked away.
Margery stood up. ‘You worm,’ she said. ‘You utter worm.’ She left the room.
She felt like renouncing her religion, but that did not last long. She thought of Job, whose tribulations had been a test of his faith. ‘Curse God, and die,’ his wife had said, but Job had refused. If everyone who met a pusillanimous priest rejected God, there would not be many Christians. But what was she going to do? Bart was not due back until tomorrow. What if Swithin came again tonight?
She spent the day making her plans. She ordered a young maid, Peggy, to sleep in her room, on a palliasse at the foot of her bed. It was common for single women to have a maidservant with them at night, though Margery herself had never liked the practice. Now she saw the point.
She got a dog. There were always a few puppies around the castle, and she found one young enough to be taught to be loyal to her personally. He had no name, and she dubbed him Mick. He could make a noise now, and in time he might be trained to protect her.
She marvelled over Swithin’s behaviour during the day. She saw him again at dinner and supper. He hardly spoke to her, which was normal; and he talked to Stephen Lincoln about current affairs: the New World, the design of ships, and Queen Elizabeth’s continuing indecision about whom she should marry. It was as if he had forgotten the wicked crime he had committed during the night.
When she went to bed, she closed her door firmly, then, with the help of Peggy, dragged a chest across the doorway. She wished it was heavier, but then they would not have been able to move it.
Finally, she put a belt on over her nightdress and attached a small knife in a sheath. She resolved to get herself a bigger dagger as soon as she could.
Poor Peggy was terrified, but Margery did not explain her actions, for that would require that she accuse the earl.
She got into bed. Peggy blew out the candles and curled up on her mattress. Mick was evidently puzzled by his new quarters but took the change with canine stoicism, and went to sleep in front of the fireplace.
Margery got into bed. She could not lie on her left side because contact, even with a feather pillow, hurt her bruised face too much. She lay on her back with her eyes wide open. She knew she was not going to sleep, as surely as she knew she was not going to fly out of the window.
If only she could get through tonight, she thought. Tomorrow Bart would be home, and after that she would make sure she was never left alone with Swithin. But even as she said that to herself she realized it was not possible. Bart decided whether or not she would accompany him, and he did not always consult her wishes. Probably, he left her behind when he planned to see one of his mistresses, or to take all his friends to a brothel, or to indulge in some other entertainment at which a wife would be an embarrassment. Margery could not go against his wishes without a reason, and she could not reveal her reason. She was trapped, and Swithin knew it.
The only way out was for her to kill Swithin. But if she did so, she would be hanged. No excuses would help her escape punishment.
Unless she could make it look like an accident . . .
Would God forgive her? Perhaps. Surely he did not intend her to be raped.
As she contemplated the situation, the door handle rattled.
Mick barked nervously.
Someone was trying to get in. In a frightened voice Peggy said: ‘Who can it be?’
The handle was turned again, then there was the sound of a bump as the door hit the chest that was an inch away.
Margery said loudly: ‘Go away!’
She heard a grunt outside, like that of a man making an effort, and then the chest moved.
Peggy screamed.
Margery leaped off the bed.
The chest scraped across the floor, the door opened wide enough for a man to enter, and Swithin came in in his nightshirt.
Mick barked at him. Swithin kicked out and caught the dog’s chest with his foot. Mick gave a terrified whimper and darted out through the gap.
Swithin saw Peggy and said: ‘Get out, before I give you a kicking too.’
Peggy fled.
Swithin stepped closer to Margery.
She drew the knife from her belt and said: ‘If you don’t go away, I’ll kill you.’
Swithin lashed out with his left arm, a sweeping motion that struck Margery’s right wrist with the force of a hammer. The knife went flying from her grasp. He grabbed her upper arms, lifted her off the floor effortlessly, and threw her back onto the bed. Then he climbed on top of her.
‘Open your legs,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’
‘I hate you,’ she said.
He raised his fist. ‘Open your legs, or I’ll punch you in the same place again.’
She could not bear for her face to be touched, and she felt that if he punched her she would die. She began to weep, helplessly, and parted her thighs.
*
ROLLO FITZGERALD did all he could to keep tabs on the Kingsbridge Puritans. His main source of information was Donal Gloster, Dan Cobley’s chief clerk. Donal had a dual motivation: he hated the Cobley family for spurning him as a suitor for their daughter, and he was greedy for Rollo’s money because Dan underpaid him.
Rollo met Donal regularly at a tavern called the Cock at Gallows Cross. The place was in fact a brothel, so Rollo was able to rent a private room where they could talk unobserved. If any of the girls gossiped about their meetings, people would assume they were homosexual lovers. That was a sin and a crime, but men who were on gossiping terms with prostitutes were not generally in any position to make accusations.
‘Dan is angry about Dean Luke being made bishop,’ Donal said one day in the autumn of 1563. ‘The Puritans think Luke turns whichever way the wind blows.’
‘They’re right,’ Rollo said contemptuously. Changing your beliefs with every change of monarch was called ‘policy’, and people who did it were ‘politicians’. Rollo hated them. ‘I expect the queen chose Luke for his malleability. Who did Dan want for bishop?’
‘Father Jeremiah.’
Rollo nodded. Jeremiah was parson of St John’s in Loversfield, a southern neighbourhood of Kingsbridge. He had always been a reformer, though he had stayed in the Church. He would have made an extreme Protestant bishop, highly intolerant of people who missed the old ways. ‘Thank heaven Dan didn’t get his way.’
‘He hasn’t given up.’
‘What do you mean? The decision is made. The queen has announced it. Luke will be consecrated the day after tomorrow.’
‘Dan has plans. That’s why I asked to see you. You’ll be interested.’
‘Go on.’
‘For the consecration of a new bishop, the clergy always bring out St Adolphus.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Kingsbridge Cathedral had possessed the bones of St Adolphus for centuries. They were kept in a jewelled reliquary that was on display in the chancel. Pilgrims came from all over Western Europe to pray to the saint for health and good fortune. ‘But perhaps Luke will leave the bones where they are this time.’
Donal shook his head. ‘Luke is going to bring them out for the procession, because that’s what the people of Kingsbridge want. He says no one is worshipping the bones, so it’s not idolatry. They are just revering the memory of the holy man.’
‘Always a compromiser, that Luke.’
‘The Puritans think it’s blasphemy.’
‘No surprise.’
‘On Sunday they will intervene.’
Rollo raised his eyebrows. This was interesting. ‘What are they going to do?’
‘When the bones are elevated during the ceremony, they will seize the reliquary and desecrate the remains of the saint – all the while calling on God to strike them dead if he disapproves.’
Rollo was shocked. ‘They would do that to relics that have been cherished by the priests of Kingsbridge for five hundred years?’
‘Yes.’
Even Queen Elizabeth frowned on this kind of thing. A lot of iconoclasm had gone on during the reign of Edward VI, but Elizabeth had passed a law making it a crime to destroy pictures and objects belonging to the Church. However, the ban had been only partially successful: there were a lot of ultra-Protestants. ‘I shouldn’t be so surprised,’ Rollo said.
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
He was right about that. A secret was a weapon. But more than that, the possession of knowledge that others did not share always filled Rollo with elation. He could hug it to himself at night and feel powerful.
He reached into his pocket and handed Donal five of the gold coins called angels, each worth ten shillings or half a pound. ‘Well done,’ he said.
Donal pocketed the money with a satisfied air. ‘Thank you.’
Rollo could not help thinking of Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver. ‘Stay in touch,’ he said, and left.
He crossed Merthin’s bridge to the city centre and walked up the main street. There was a cold autumn bite to the air that seemed to intensify his excitement. As he looked up at the ancient holy stones of the cathedral he thrilled with horror to think of the blasphemy that was planned, and he vowed to prevent it.
Then it occurred to him that he might do more than just prevent it. Was there a way he could turn the incident to advantage?
Walking slowly, thinking hard, he went into Priory Gate, his father’s palace. Building it had almost broken the Fitzgerald family. But, in the end, it was the Willard family who had been broken. Now five years old, the house had lost its brand-new sheen and had mellowed. The pale grey of the stones, from the same quarry as those of the cathedral, had darkened a little in the English rain and the smoke of two thousand Kingsbridge fireplaces.
Earl Swithin was visiting, with Bart and Margery. They had come for the consecration of the new bishop. They were staying at the earl’s house on Leper Island, but spent much of their time at Priory Gate, and Rollo hoped they were here now, for he was bursting to tell Swithin the news he had heard from Donal. The earl would be even more outraged than Rollo himself.
He went up the marble staircase and entered Sir Reginald’s parlour. Although there were grander rooms in the house, this was where people gathered to talk business. Sir Reginald, old enough now to be sensitive to cold weather, had a fire blazing. The guests were there, and a jug of wine stood on a side table.
Rollo felt proud to see the earl of the county making himself comfortable in the house. Rollo knew that his father was equally proud, though he never said so – but in Swithin’s presence he became more restrained and judicious in his conversation, presenting himself as a wise and experienced counsellor, repressing the impulsive, belligerent side of his character.
Bart was by Swithin’s side, physically a younger version of the earl, though not such a strong character. Bart revered his powerful, assertive father, but he might never match him.
The old guard are still here, Rollo thought, despite Elizabeth. They had suffered reverses but they were not beaten.
He sat next to his sister, Margery, and accepted a cup of wine from his mother. He was vaguely worried about Margery. She was only twenty, but looked older. She had lost weight, there was no colour in her cheeks, and she had a bruise on her jaw. She had always been proud of her appearance, to the point of vanity, in his opinion, but today she wore a drab dress and her hair was greasy and unkempt. He had no doubt that she was unhappy, but he was not sure why. He had asked her directly whether Bart was cruel to her, but she had said firmly: ‘Bart is a decent husband.’ Perhaps she was disappointed that she had not yet conceived a child. Whatever the reason for her unhappiness, he just hoped she was not going to cause trouble.
He took a gulp of wine and said: ‘I’ve got some disturbing news. I’ve been talking to Donal Gloster.’
‘Despicable character,’ said Sir Reginald.
‘Contemptible, but useful. Without him we would not know that Dan Cobley and the Puritans are planning an outrage on Sunday, at the consecration of Luke Richards, whom they find insufficiently heretical for their taste.’
‘An outrage?’ said his father. ‘What are they going to do?’
Rollo dropped his bombshell. ‘Desecrate the bones of the saint.’
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Margery whispered: ‘No.’
Earl Swithin said: ‘I’ll stick my sword in his guts, if he tries it.’
Rollo’s eyes widened. The violence might not be one-sided: he had not thought of that.
His mother spoke up feistily. ‘If you kill a man in church, Swithin, you’ll be executed. Even an earl can’t get away with that.’ Lady Jane’s perky charm allowed her to speak bluntly.
Swithin looked downcast. ‘You’re right, damn it.’
Rollo said: ‘I think she may be wrong, my lord.’
‘How?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Jane, arching her eyebrows. ‘Tell us how I’m wrong, my clever son.’
Rollo concentrated, the plan forming in his mind while he spoke. ‘Committing a premeditated murder in a church: yes, even an earl might be executed for that. But think on. The mayor of Kingsbridge could tell a different story.’
Swithin looked baffled, but Reginald said: ‘Go on, Rollo – this is interesting.’
‘Any event may be good or evil, depending on the point of view. Consider this: a group of armed toughs enter a city, kill the men, rape the women, and make off with all the valuables; they are wicked criminals – unless the city is in Assyria and the victims are Muslims, in which case the armed men are not criminals but Crusaders and heroes.’
Margery said disgustedly: ‘And you’re not even being satirical.’
Rollo did not understand that.
Sir Reginald said impatiently: ‘So what?’
‘What will happen on Sunday is that the Puritans will attack the clergy and attempt to steal the relics, contrary to the law passed by Queen Elizabeth. Then faithful Christians in the congregation will leap to the defence of Elizabeth’s new bishop and save the bones of the saint. Even better if no swords are used, though, naturally, men will have with them the everyday knives they use to cut their meat at table. Sadly, in the ensuing melee the leader of the Kingsbridge Puritans, Dan Cobley, will be fatally stabbed; but, as he is the main instigator of the riot, it will be felt that this was God’s will. Anyway, it will not be possible to determine who struck the fatal blow. And you, Father, as the mayor of Kingsbridge, will write a report to her majesty the queen telling that plain story.’
Sir Reginald said thoughtfully: ‘The death of Dan Cobley would be a godsend. He’s the leader of the Puritans.’
‘And our family’s worst enemy,’ Rollo added.
Margery said severely: ‘A lot of other people could be killed.’
Rollo was not surprised by her disapproval. She was staunch, but she believed that the Catholic faith should be promoted by all means short of violence.
Earl Swithin said: ‘She’s right, it’s hazardous. But we can’t let that stand in our way.’ He smiled. ‘Women worry about such things,’ he said. ‘That’s why God made man the master.’
*
LYING IN BED, thinking over the day’s events, Margery despised Dan Cobley and the Puritans for planning such a dreadful desecration, but she felt almost as much contempt for her father and her brother. Their response was to exploit the sacrilege to strike a political blow.
Both Reginald and Rollo might be hurt in the fracas, but she found herself more or less indifferent to this danger. She had lost all feeling for them. They had used her ruthlessly for their own social advancement – just as they were planning to use the sacrilege of the Puritans. The fact that they had ruined her life meant nothing to them. Their care for her when she was a child had been such as they might have shown for a foal that promised to turn into a useful carthorse one day. Tears came to her eyes when she thought nostalgically of the childhood time when she had thought they really loved her.
She was far from indifferent to the possibility that Swithin might be hurt. She longed with all her heart for him to be killed, or at least maimed so badly that he could never again force himself upon her. In her prayers she begged God to take Swithin to hell on Sunday morning. She went to sleep imagining a time when she was free of her tormentor.
She woke up realizing that it was up to her to make her wish come true.
Swithin was putting himself in danger, but there had to be a way for her to make it more certain that he would suffer injury. Because of her clandestine work with Stephen Lincoln, Rollo and Reginald regarded her as a rock-solid ally, and it never occurred to them to keep anything from her. She knew the secret, and she had to use it.
She got up early. Her mother was already in the kitchen, giving orders to the staff for the day’s meals. Lady Jane was perceptive, so she had to know that something was badly wrong in Margery’s life, but she said nothing. She would give advice if asked, but she would not probe uninvited. Perhaps there were things in her own marriage that she preferred to keep to herself.
She asked Margery to go to the riverside and see whether there was some good fresh fish for sale. It was a rainy Saturday morning, and Margery put on an old coat. She picked up a basket for the fish then went out. In the square, the market traders were setting up their stalls.
She had to warn the Puritans of the trap that awaited them, so that they would go to the cathedral armed to defend themselves. But she could not knock on Dan Cobley’s door and say she had a secret to impart. For one thing, she would be seen by passers-by, and the fact that Margery of Shiring had called on Dan Cobley would be surprising news that went around town in minutes. For another thing, Dan would not believe her, suspecting a trick. She needed some undercover means of warning him.
She could not think of a way out of this dilemma. She was deep in thought as she crossed the square. Her reverie was disturbed by a voice that made her pulse race. ‘I’m very glad to see you!’
She looked up, shocked and thrilled. There, in a costly black coat, looking the same as ever, was Ned Willard. He seemed to Margery to be a guardian angel sent by God.
She realized with dismay that she looked slovenly, her coat unflattering and her hair tied up in a rag. Fortunately, Ned did not appear to care. He stood there as if he would be happy to smile at her for ever.
‘You have a sword, now,’ she said.
Ned shrugged. ‘Courtiers wear swords,’ he said. ‘I’ve even had fencing lessons, just so that I know what to do with it.’
Getting over her surprise, she began to think logically. Clearly this was a chance to use the secret. If people noticed her talking to Ned, they would nod sagely and tell each other that she had never really got over him; and her family would think the same if they got to hear of it.
She was not sure how much to tell him. ‘There’s going to be a fight at the consecration,’ she began. ‘Dan Cobley is going to seize the bones of the saint.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Donal Gloster told Rollo.’
Ned raised his eyebrows. Of course he had not known that Dan Cobley’s right-hand man was a spy for the Catholics. But he made no comment, seeming to tuck the revelation away for future consideration.
Margery went on: ‘Rollo told Swithin, and Swithin is going to use it as an excuse to start a fight and kill Dan.’
‘In the church?’
‘Yes. He thinks he’ll get away with it because he will be protecting the clergy and the relics.’
‘Swithin’s not smart enough to think of that.’
‘No, it was Rollo’s idea.’
‘The devil.’
‘I’ve been trying to figure out how to warn the Puritans so that they can come armed. But now you can do it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’
She resisted the temptation to throw her arms around him and kiss him.
*
‘WE MUST CALL off the ceremony,’ Dean Luke said when Ned told him what was going to happen.
‘But when would you reschedule it?’
‘I don’t know.’
They were in the chancel, standing next to one of the mighty pillars that held up the tower. Looking up, Ned recalled that this was Merthin’s tower, rebuilt by him after the old one caused a collapse, according to the history of Kingsbridge known as Timothy’s Book. Merthin must have built well, for that had been two hundred years ago.
Ned turned his gaze to Luke’s anxious face and mild blue eyes. He was a priest who would avoid conflict at all costs. ‘We can’t postpone the consecration,’ Ned said. ‘It would be a political blow to Queen Elizabeth. People would say that the Kingsbridge Puritans had prevented her from appointing the bishop of her choice. Ultra-Protestants in other cities would think they had the right to say who should be their bishop, and they might start copycat riots. The queen would crucify you and me for letting it happen.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Luke. ‘Then we’ll have to leave the saint inside his railings.’
Ned glanced across at the tomb of St Adolphus. The monument was closed off by locked iron railings. A little group of pilgrims were on their knees, staring through the grille at the reliquary. It was a gold casket in the shape of a church, with archways and turrets and a spire. Set into the gold were pearls, rubies and sapphires, glittering in the watery sunlight that came through the great east window.
‘I’m not sure that will be enough,’ Ned said. ‘Now that they’ve planned this, they may break down the railings.’
Luke looked panicky. ‘I can’t have a riot during my consecration!’
‘No, indeed. That would be almost as bad as cancellation, from the point of view of the queen.’
‘What, then?’
Ned knew what he wanted to do, but he hesitated. There was something Margery was not telling him. She had wanted him to arm the Puritans, not avoid the brawl altogether. It was surprising that she had taken that line, for she was strongly against religious violence of any kind. This thought had occurred to him vaguely while talking to her, but he saw it more clearly now in retrospect. Something else was going on, but he did not know what.
However, he could not base his actions on such nebulous notions. He put thoughts of Margery aside. He needed to offer Luke a safe way out. ‘We have to take the gunpowder out of the cannon,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to get rid of the relics.’
Luke was shocked. ‘We can’t just throw them away!’
‘Of course we can’t. But we can bury them – with all due ceremony. Hold a funeral service tomorrow at first light – just you and one or two priests. Tonight, have George Cox dig a hole somewhere inside the cathedral – don’t tell anyone where.’ George Cox was the gravedigger. ‘Bury the bones, in the golden casket, and let George replace the stones of the floor so that no one can tell they’ve been disturbed.’
Luke was thinking this through with a worried frown. ‘When people arrive for the consecration it will already be done. But what will they say? They will see that the saint has gone.’
‘Put up a notice on the iron railings saying that St Adolphus is buried here in the cathedral. Then explain, in your sermon, that the saint is still here, blessing us with his presence, but he has been buried in a secret grave to protect his remains from people who might wish to violate them.’
‘That’s clever,’ Luke said admiringly. ‘The people will be content, but there will be nothing for the Puritans to object to. Their protest will be like gunpowder that has separated.’
‘A good image. Use it in your sermon.’
Luke nodded.
Ned said: ‘So that’s settled.’
‘I have to discuss it with the chapter.’
Ned suppressed an impatient retort. ‘Not really. You’re the bishop-elect.’ He smiled. ‘You may command.’
Luke looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s always better to explain to people the reasons for commands.’
Ned decided not to fight a hypothetical battle. ‘Do it your way. I’ll come here at dawn to witness the burial.’
‘Very well.’
Ned was not totally sure that Luke would go through with it. Perhaps a reminder of Luke’s debt to him would help. ‘I’m glad I was able to persuade the queen that you’re the right man to be bishop of Kingsbridge,’ he said.
‘I’m deeply grateful to you, Ned, for your faith in me.’
‘I believe we’ll work well together, in years to come, to prevent religious hatred.’
‘Amen.’
Luke could yet change his mind about the whole idea, if one of his colleagues objected to burying the relics, but Ned could do no more for now. He resolved to see Luke again before nightfall and make sure of him.
He took his leave and walked down the nave, between the marching pillars, the leaping arches and the glowing windows, thinking how much good and evil this building had seen in the last four hundred years. When he stepped out of the west door, he saw Margery again, returning to her house with her fish basket over her arm. She caught his eye and turned to meet him.
In the cathedral porch she said: ‘Did you do it?’
‘I think I’ve avoided violence,’ he said. ‘I’ve persuaded Luke to bury the bones clandestinely, tomorrow morning, so that there will be nothing to fight over.’
He expected her to be pleased and grateful, but to his consternation she stared at him in horror for a long moment then said: ‘No! That’s not it.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘There has to be a fight.’
‘But you were always so much against violence.’
‘Swithin has to die!’
‘Hush!’ He took her elbow and led her back inside. In the north aisle was a side chapel dedicated to St Dymphna. She was not a popular figure, and the little space was empty. The painting of the saint being beheaded had been taken down to appease the Puritans.
He stood in front of Margery, holding her hands, and said: ‘You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Why does Swithin have to die?’
She said nothing, but he could see, watching her face, that a struggle was going on inside her, and he waited.
At last she said: ‘When Bart is away from home, Swithin comes to my bed at night.’
Ned stared at her, aghast. She was being raped – by her father-in-law. It was obscene – and brutal. Hot rage possessed him, and he had to quell his emotions and think rationally. Questions leaped to his mind, but the answers were obvious. ‘You resist him, but he’s too strong, and he tells you that if you scream, he will say you seduced him, and everyone will believe him.’
Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
‘The man is an animal.’
‘I shouldn’t have told you. But perhaps God will take Swithin’s life tomorrow.’
And if God won’t, I will, Ned vowed, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said: ‘I’ll talk to Luke again. I’ll make sure there’s a fight.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. I have to think.’
‘Don’t risk your own life. That would be even worse.’
‘Take your fish home,’ he said.
She hesitated for a long moment. Then she said: ‘You’re the only person I can trust. The only one.’
He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Go home.’
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left the cathedral, and he followed her out a minute later.
If he had seen Swithin at that moment, he would have fallen on the earl and got his hands around the man’s throat and choked the life out of him – or, perhaps, been run through by Swithin’s sword, though he was too angry to fear that or anything else.
He turned and looked back at the mighty west front of the cathedral, wet now with the persistent slow English rain. That was the doorway through which people went to find God: how could Ned think of murder there? But he could hardly think of anything else.
He struggled to be cogent. Face it, he said to himself, in a fight with Swithin you might not win, and if you did, you would be hanged for murdering a nobleman. But you are smart, and Swithin is stupid, so come up with a clever way to put an end to him.
He turned away and crossed the market square. It was busy every Saturday, but today it was teeming with all the visitors who had come for tomorrow’s ceremony. Normally, winding his way between the stalls, he would have automatically noted rising and falling prices, shortages and gluts, how much money people had and what they spent it on; but not now. He was aware of acquaintances greeting him, but he was too deep in thought to respond with more than a vague wave or a distracted nod. He reached the front door of the family house and went inside.
His mother had drifted unhappily into old age. Alice seemed to have shrunk inside her skin, and she walked with a stoop. She seemed to have lost interest in the world outside the house: she asked Ned perfunctory questions about his work with the queen and hardly listened to the answers. In the old days she would have been eager to hear about political manoeuvrings, and wanted to know all about how Elizabeth ran her household.
However, since Ned had left the house this morning, something seemed to have changed. His mother was in the main hall with their three servants: Janet Fife, the housekeeper; her husband, lame Malcolm; and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Eileen. They all looked animated. Ned guessed right away that they had good news. As soon as his mother saw him she said: ‘Barney’s back in England!’
Some things went right, Ned reflected, and he managed a smile. ‘Where is he?’
‘He landed at Combe Harbour with the Hawk. We got a message: he’s only waiting to collect his pay – three years of it! – then he’s coming home.’
‘And he’s safe and well? I told you he’d been to the New World.’
‘But he’s come home unhurt!’
‘Well, we must prepare to celebrate – kill the fatted calf.’
Alice’s jubilation was punctured. ‘We haven’t got a calf, fatted or otherwise.’
Young Eileen, who had once had a childish crush on Barney, said excitedly: ‘We’ve got a six-month-old piglet out the back that my mother was planning to use for winter bacon. We could roast it on a spit.’
Ned was pleased. The whole family would be together again.
But Margery’s torment came back to him as he sat down with his mother for the midday meal. She chatted animatedly, speculating about what kind of adventures Barney might have had in Seville, Antwerp and Hispaniola. Ned let her talk flow over him while he brooded.
Margery’s idea had been to warn the Puritans so that they would come armed, and to hope that Swithin would die in the resulting brawl. But Ned had not known the full story, and despite the best of intentions he had put paid to her hopes. There would be no brawl, now: the relics would not be seen in the consecration ceremony, the Puritans would therefore not protest, and Swithin would have no pretext for a fight.
Could Ned now undo what he had done? It was next to impossible. Dean Luke would surely refuse to return to the original timetable in order to guarantee a riot.
Ned realized he could recreate the brawl scenario, simply by telling both sides that the relics would now be buried at dawn. But there was another snag. A brawl was unpredictable. Swithin might be hurt, but he might not. Ned needed to be surer than that, for Margery’s sake.
Was there a way to turn tomorrow’s burial ceremony into a trap for Swithin?
What if Ned could preserve Rollo’s violent plan, but remove the justification?
A scheme began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps he could lure Swithin to the cathedral with false information. But of course the Catholics would not trust Ned. Who would they trust?
Then he remembered what Margery had told him about Donal Gloster being a spy. Rollo would trust Donal.
Ned began to feel hopeful again.
He left his family’s dinner table as soon as he could. He walked down the main street, turned along Slaughterhouse Wharf, and went past the moorings to the Tanneries, a riverside neighbourhood of smelly industries and small houses. There he knocked on Donal Gloster’s front door. It was opened by Donal’s mother, a handsome middle-aged woman with Donal’s full lips and thick dark hair. She looked wary. ‘What brings you here, Mr Willard?’
‘Good afternoon, Widow Gloster,’ Ned said politely. ‘I want to speak to Donal.’
‘He’s at work. You know where Dan Cobley’s place of business is.’
Ned nodded. Dan had a warehouse down by the docks. ‘I shan’t disturb Donal at work. When do you expect him home?’
‘He’ll finish at sundown. But he usually goes to the Slaughterhouse tavern before coming home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What do you want him for?’
‘I don’t mean him any harm.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, but she said it uncertainly, and Ned suspected she did not believe him.
He returned to the waterfront and sat on a coil of rope, gnawing at his plan, which was uncertain and dangerous, while he watched the bustle of commerce, the boats and carts arriving and leaving, loading and unloading grain and coal, stones from the quarry and timber from the forest, bales of cloth and barrels of wine. This was how his family had prospered: by buying in one place and selling in another, and pocketing the difference in the price. It was a simple thing, but it was the way to become rich – the only way, unless you were a nobleman and could force people to pay you rent for the land they farmed.
The afternoon darkened. The hatches were closed and the warehouses locked up, and men began to leave the docks, their faces eager for home and supper, or tavern and song, or dark lane and lover. Ned saw Donal come out of the Cobley building and head for the Slaughterhouse with the air of one who does not have to make a decision because he does the same thing every day.
Ned followed him into the inn. ‘A quiet word with you, Donal, if I may.’ These days, no one refused Ned a quiet word. He had become a man of power and importance, and everyone in Kingsbridge knew it. Strangely, this gave him no great satisfaction. Some men craved deference; others craved wine, or the bodies of beautiful women, or the monastic life of order and obedience. What did Ned crave? The answer came into his mind with a speed and effortlessness that took him by surprise: justice.
He would have to think about that.
He paid for two tankards of ale and steered Donal to a corner. As soon as they sat down, he said: ‘You lead a dangerous life, Donal.’
‘Ned Willard, always the cleverest boy in the class,’ said Donal with an unpleasant twist of his lips.
‘We’re not at the Grammar School any longer. There we were only flogged for our mistakes. Now we get killed.’
Donal looked intimidated, but he put on a brave face. ‘Then it’s a good thing I don’t make any.’
‘If Dan Cobley and the Puritans find out about you and Rollo, they’ll tear you to pieces.’
Donal turned white.
After a long moment he opened his mouth to speak, but Ned forestalled him. ‘Don’t deny it. That would be a waste of your time and mine. Focus on what you have to do to make sure that I keep your secret.’
Donal swallowed and managed a nod.
‘What you told Rollo Fitzgerald yesterday was correct at the time, but it has changed.’
Donal’s mouth dropped open. ‘How—?’
‘Never mind how I know what you told Rollo. All you need to understand is that the relics of the saint will be desecrated in the cathedral tomorrow – but the time has changed. Now it will be done at dawn, with few people present.’
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘So that you will tell Rollo.’
‘You hate the Fitzgeralds – they ruined your family.’
‘Don’t try to figure this out. Just do what you’re told and save your skin.’
‘Rollo will ask how I know about the change.’
‘Say you overheard Dan Cobley talking about it.’
‘All right.’
‘Go and see Rollo now. You must have some means of signalling that you need an urgent meeting.’
‘I’ll just finish my beer.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather be stone cold sober?’
Donal looked regretfully at his tankard.
Ned said: ‘Now, Donal.’
Donal got up and left.
Ned left a few minutes later. He walked back up the main street. He felt uneasy. He had a plan, but it relied on a lot of people doing what he expected: Dean Luke, Donal Gloster, Rollo Fitzgerald and – most important of all, and most wilful – Earl Swithin. If one part of the chain were to break, the scheme would fail.
And now he had to add one more link.
He walked past the cathedral, the Bell inn, and the new Fitzgerald palace called Priory Gate, and went into the Guild Hall. There he tapped on the door of Sheriff Matthewson’s room and went in without waiting for an invitation. The sheriff was eating an early supper of bread and cold meat. He put down his knife and wiped his mouth. ‘Good evening, Mr Willard. I hope you’re well.’
‘Very well, sheriff, I thank you.’
‘Can I be of service to you?’
‘To the queen, sheriff. Her majesty has a job for you to do – tonight.’
*
ROLLO NERVOUSLY TOUCHED the hilt of his sword. He had never been in battle. As a boy he had practised with a wooden weapon, like most sons of prosperous families, but he had no experience of deadly combat.
Sir Reginald’s bedroom was full of people, and unlit, but no one was in bed. From the windows there was a spectacular view of the north and west sides of Kingsbridge Cathedral. It was a clear night, and to Rollo’s dark-adapted eyes the glimmering starlight revealed the outline of the church, faint but clear. Under its pointed arches, all doorways and windows were deep pools of gloom, like the eye sockets of a man blinded for forging money. Higher up, the turrets with their crockets and finials were blackly silhouetted against the night sky.
With Rollo were his father, Sir Reginald; his brother-in-law, Bart Shiring; Bart’s father, Earl Swithin; and two of Swithin’s most trusted men-at-arms. All wore swords and daggers.
When the cathedral bell had struck four, Stephen Lincoln had said Mass and then had given all six of them absolution for the sins they were about to commit. They had been watching since then.
The women of the house, Lady Jane and Margery, were in bed, but Rollo doubted that they were asleep.
The market square, so crowded and noisy in the day, was now empty and silent. On the far side were the Grammar School and the bishop’s palace, both now dark. Beyond them the city sloped downhill to the river, and the close-packed roofs of the houses looked like the tiled steps of a giant staircase.
Rollo hoped that Swithin and Bart and the men-at-arms, whose profession was violence, would do any fighting necessary.
First light cracked the dome of stars and turned the cathedral from black to grey. Soon afterwards, someone whispered: ‘There.’ Rollo saw a silent procession emerge from the bishop’s palace, six dark figures, each carrying a candle lamp. They crossed the square and entered the church by the west door, their lamps vanishing as if extinguished.
Rollo frowned. Dan Cobley and the other Puritans must already be inside the cathedral, he supposed. Perhaps they had crept through the ruined monastic buildings and entered by one of the doors on the far side, unseen by the group in Priory Gate. He felt uneasy, not knowing for sure; but if he said so, at this late stage, his doubts would be attributed to mere cowardice, so he kept quiet.
Earl Swithin murmured: ‘We’ll wait a minute more. Give them time to get started on their satanic business.’
He was right. It would be a mistake to jump the gun, and burst into the church before the relics were brought out and the desecration had begun.
Rollo imagined the priests walking down the aisle to the east end, unlocking the iron railings, and picking up the reliquary. What would they do next? Throw the bones into the river?
‘All right, let’s go,’ said Swithin.
He led the way, and the others followed him down the stairs and through the front door. As soon as they were outside they broke into a run, and their footsteps seemed thunderous in the silence of the night. Rollo wondered if the people inside the cathedral could hear, and whether they would be sufficiently quick-witted to stop what they were doing and flee.
Then Swithin flung open the great door and they drew their swords and rushed in.
They were only just in time. Dean Luke stood in the middle of the nave, in front of the low altar, where a few candles burned. He had the golden reliquary in his hands, and he was holding it aloft, while the others sang something that was no doubt part of their devil-worshipping ritual. In the dim light it was hard to see just how many people stood in the shadows of the vast church. As the intruders ran along the nave towards the startled group at the altar, Rollo noticed that a hole had been dug in the church floor, and a large paving-stone stood to one side, propped against a pillar. Also beside the pillar was George Cox, the gravedigger, leaning on a shovel. This was not quite the scene Rollo had foreseen, but it hardly mattered: Dean Luke’s stance clearly revealed his blasphemous purpose.
At the head of the group, Earl Swithin charged Luke with his sword raised. Luke turned around, still holding the reliquary high.
Then George Cox raised his shovel and ran at the earl.
At that moment, Rollo heard a baffling shout: ‘Stop, in the name of the queen!’ He could not see where the voice came from.
Swithin slashed at Luke. Luke jerked back at the last instant, but the sword struck his left arm, ripping the black of his robe and slicing deep into the flesh of his forearm. He cried out in pain and dropped the reliquary, which hit the floor with a thud and a crash, dislodging precious jewels that rolled across the stone pavement.
Rollo saw, out of the corner of his eye, a dim sign of movement in the south transept. A moment later, a group of ten or twelve men burst into the nave, wielding swords and clubs. They rushed at the intruders. The same voice repeated the order to stop in the name of the queen, and Rollo saw that the man shouting the pointless instruction was Sheriff Matthewson. What was he doing here?
George Cox swung his shovel, aiming at the earl’s head, but Swithin moved and the tool struck his left shoulder. Enraged, Swithin stabbed with his sword, and Rollo was horrified to see the blade pierce the gravedigger’s belly and come out of his back.
The other priests knelt beside the dropped reliquary as if to protect it.
The sheriff and his men were rushing at the earl and his group, and Rollo saw the leather helmet of Osmund Carter among the dim-lit heads. And was that the red-brown hair of Ned Willard?
The earl’s side was outnumbered two to one. I’m going to die, Rollo thought, but God will reward me.
He was about to rush forward into the fray when he was struck by a thought. The surprise presence of Ned Willard made him suspicious. This could not be a trap, could it? Where were the Puritans? If they had been hiding in the shadows, they would by now have charged into the light. But Rollo saw only the earl’s men on one side, the sheriff’s on the other, and the frightened priests between.
Perhaps Donal Gloster’s information had been wrong. But the priests were here at dawn, as Donal had predicted, and they were undoubtedly doing something sinister with the relics. More likely Dan Cobley had changed his mind, and decided that a protest in an empty church was hardly worthwhile. More puzzling, why was the sheriff here? Had he somehow got wind of the earl’s intentions? That seemed impossible: the only people informed, outside the family, had been the two men-at-arms and Stephen Lincoln, all of whom were completely trustworthy. Dean Luke must have decided to be ultra-cautious. A guilty conscience was always full of fear.
A trap, or a foolhardy adventure that had turned into a fiasco? It hardly mattered: the fight was on.
The sheriff and the earl were the first to clash. Swithin was tugging at his sword, trying to pull it out of the body of George Cox, when the sheriff’s weapon came down on Swithin’s right hand. Swithin roared in pain and let go of the hilt of his weapon, and Rollo saw a detached thumb fall to the floor among the scattered jewels.
Ned Willard came out of the crowd of sheriff’s men and dashed at Swithin, sword held high; and Rollo stepped quickly forward and stood in Ned’s way, protecting the injured earl. Ned stopped short, and the two young men faced one another.
Rollo was taller and heavier. At school he had been able to persecute little Neddy Willard, but only until he grew up. Now there was something in the way Ned stood and looked that undermined Rollo’s sense of superiority.
They moved around one another, swords held forward, looking for a chance. Rollo saw something close to loathing on Ned’s face. What have I done to make you hate me? he wondered, and the answers came thick and fast: forcing Margery to marry Bart; the charge of usury that had ruined the Willard family; the failed effort to stop Elizabeth becoming queen; all that on top of school bullying.
Rollo heard a roar behind him and looked over his shoulder quickly. He saw that Earl Swithin was still fighting, despite his injury. He held his sword awkwardly in his left hand but had managed to cut the sheriff’s forehead. The wound was superficial but bleeding copiously, and the blood was interfering with the sheriff’s vision. Both hurt, they were fighting clumsily, like drunk men.
Rollo’s glance behind was a mistake. Ned attacked suddenly and furiously. He came at Rollo fast, the heavy sword flashing in the candlelight as it stabbed and sliced and twisted. Rollo defended himself desperately, blocking the blows and backing away; then something moved under the sole of his right boot – jewels from the reliquary, he realized despite his fear – and his leg slipped from under him. He fell on his back and dropped his sword. Both his arms spread wide, leaving his body undefended; and he foresaw his own death in the next split-second.
To his astonishment Ned stepped over him.
Rollo sprang to his knees and looked behind him. Ned was attacking the earl with even more ferocity, while the sheriff stood aside and tried to dash the blood from his eyes. Swithin backed until a pillar arrested his retreat. A swipe from Ned knocked the weapon from the earl’s left hand, and then suddenly Ned had the point of his sword at the earl’s throat.
The sheriff yelled: ‘Arrest him!’
Ned’s point pierced the skin of Swithin’s throat, bringing a trickle of blood, but Ned restrained himself. For a long moment Swithin was an inch from death. Then Ned said: ‘Tell your men to drop their weapons.’
Swithin shouted: ‘Yield! Yield!’
The noise of fighting died rapidly, to be replaced by the sound of iron swords falling to the stone floor. Rollo looked around and saw that his father, Sir Reginald, was kneeling down, holding his head, which was bloody.
Ned did not take his eyes off Swithin, Rollo saw. Ned said: ‘I arrest you in the name of the queen for blasphemy, desecration and murder.’
Rollo jumped to his feet. ‘We’re not the blasphemers!’
‘No?’ said Ned with surprising composure. ‘But here you are in the church, with your swords unsheathed. You have wounded the bishop-elect and murdered the gravedigger, and you’ve caused the holy relics to be dropped on the floor.’
‘What about yourselves?’
‘The sheriff and his men came here to protect the clergy and the relics, and a good thing we did.’
Rollo was baffled. How had this gone so wrong?
Ned said: ‘Osmund, tie them up, then take them to the Guild Hall and lock them in the jail.’
Osmund promptly produced a roll of stout cord.
Ned went on: ‘Then send for the surgeon, and make sure he treats Dean Luke first.’
As Rollo’s hands were tied behind his back, he stared at Ned, whose face registered a savage kind of satisfaction. Rollo’s mind thrashed about looking for explanations. Had the sheriff been tipped off about Swithin’s intentions, or had the timid Dean Luke summoned them merely out of nervousness? Had the Puritans been warned off, or had they simply decided not to come?
Had Ned Willard planned this whole disaster?
Rollo did not know.
*
Earl Swithin was executed, and I was responsible for his death. I had no idea, then, that he was the first of so many.
Rollo and Bart and Sir Reginald were punished with heavy fines, but one of the group had to die, and the earl had actually murdered a man in church. That was the justification; but what really sealed his fate was that he had tried to defy the will of Queen Elizabeth. The queen wanted England to understand very clearly that she, alone, had the right to appoint bishops, and anyone who interfered with her prerogative risked his life. Shocking though it was to kill an earl, she needed Swithin dead.
I made sure the judge understood her wishes.
As the crowd gathered in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral for the execution, Rollo stared hard at me, and I knew he suspected a trap, but I don’t think he ever worked it out.
Sir Reginald was there, too, with a long scar across his head where the hair never grew back. The wound damaged his brain as well as his hair, and he never quite regained his wits. I know Rollo always blamed me for that.
Bart and Margery watched, too.
Bart wept. Swithin was a wicked man, but his father.
Margery looked like someone released from a horrible dungeon into the sunlight and fresh air. She had lost that sickly look, and she was dressed with her former panache, albeit in sombre mourning colours: on her, a black hat with a black feather could still look playful. Her tormentor was on his way to hell, where he belonged, and she was free of him.
Swithin was brought out of the Guild Hall; and I had no doubt that the worst part of his punishment was the humiliating walk down the main street to the square in front of a jeering throng of people he had always despised as his inferiors. His head was chopped off, decapitation being the mercifully quick death reserved for the nobility; and I imagine the end came as a release.
Justice was done. Swithin was a murderer and a rapist who deserved to die. But I found that my conscience was not untroubled. I had lured him into an ambush. In a way the death of poor George Cox was my responsibility. I had meddled in things that should be left to the law or, failing that, to God.
I may yet go through anguish in hell for my sin. But if I had to live that time again I would do the same, to end Margery’s ordeal. I preferred to suffer myself than to know that her agony continued. Her wellbeing was more important to me than my own.
I have learned, during the course of a long life, that that is the meaning of love.