16
When his mother died, Ned felt sad and bereft and alone but, most of all, he felt angry. Alice Willard’s last years should have been luxurious and triumphant. Instead, she had been ruined by a religious quarrel, and had died thinking herself a failure.
It was Easter 1570. By chance Barney was at home, in a short break between sea voyages. On Easter Monday the brothers celebrated the resurrection of the dead in Kingsbridge Cathedral, then the next day they stood side by side in the cemetery as their mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave where their father already lay. There was hot resentment in Ned’s stomach, bilious and sour, and he vowed again to spend his life making sure that men such as Bishop Julius would not have the power to destroy honest merchants like Alice Willard.
As they walked away from the grave, Ned tried to turn his mind to practical matters, and he said to Barney: ‘The house is yours, of course.’
Barney was the elder son. He had shaved off his bushy beard to reveal a face that was prematurely aged, at thirty-two, by cold saltwater winds and the glare of the unshaded sun. He said: ‘I know, but I have little use for it. Please live there whenever you’re in Kingsbridge.’
‘Is seafaring going to be your life, then?’
‘Yes.’
Barney had prospered. After leaving the Hawk, he had been made captain of another vessel, with a share in the profits, and then he had bought his own ship. He had their mother’s knack for making money.
Ned looked across the market square to the house where he had been born. He loved the old place, with its view of the cathedral. ‘I’ll be glad to take care of it for you. Janet and Malcolm Fife will do the work, but I’ll keep an eye on them.’
‘They’re getting old,’ Barney said.
‘They’re in their fifties. But Eileen is only twenty-two.’
‘And perhaps she might marry a man who would like to take over Malcolm’s job.’
Ned knew better. ‘Eileen will never marry anyone but you, Barney.’
Barney shrugged. Many women had fallen hopelessly in love with him; poor Eileen was just another one.
Ned said: ‘Aren’t you ever tempted to settle down?’
‘There’s no point. A sailor hardly ever sees his wife. What about you?’
Ned thought for a minute. The death of his mother had made him aware that his time on earth was limited. Of course he had known that before, but now it was brought home to him; and it made him ask himself if the life he led was the one he really wanted. He surprised himself with his answer to Barney’s question. ‘I want what they had,’ he said, looking back at the grave where both parents lay. ‘A lifelong partnership.’
Barney said: ‘They started early. They were married at twenty, or thereabouts, weren’t they? You’re already ten years behind schedule.’
‘I don’t live the life of a monk . . .’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘But somehow I never come across a woman I want to spend my life with.’
‘With one exception,’ said Barney, looking over Ned’s shoulder.
Ned turned and saw Margery Fitzgerald. She must have been in church during the service, but he had not seen her in the crowd. Now his heart faltered. She had dressed sombrely for the funeral, but as always she wore a hat, today a purple velvet cap pinned at an angle to her luxuriant curls. She was speaking earnestly to old Father Paul, a former monk at Kingsbridge Priory, now a canon at the cathedral, and probably a secret Catholic. Margery’s obstinate Catholicism should have repelled Ned, but on the contrary he admired her idealism. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one of her, and she married someone else,’ he said. This was a fruitless subject of discussion, he thought impatiently. He said: ‘Where will your next sea voyage take you?’
‘I want to go to the New World again. I don’t like the slave trade – the cargo is too liable to die on the voyage – but over there they need just about everything, except sugar.’
Ned smiled. ‘And I seem to remember you mentioning a girl . . .’
‘Did I? When?’
‘That sounds to me like a yes.’
Barney looked bashful, as if he did not want to admit to a deeper feeling. ‘Well, it’s true that I’ve never met anyone like Bella.’
‘That was seven years ago.’
‘I know. She’s probably married to a wealthy planter by now, with two or three children.’
‘But you want to find out for sure.’ Ned was quite surprised. ‘You’re not very different from me after all.’
They drifted towards the ruined monastery. ‘The Church never did anything with these old buildings,’ Ned said. ‘Mother had a dream of turning them into an indoor market.’
‘She was smart. It’s a good idea. We should do it one day.’
‘I’ll never have enough money.’
‘I might, though, if the sea is kind to me.’
Margery approached, followed by a lady-in-waiting and a man-at-arms: she rarely went anywhere alone, now that she was the countess of Shiring. Her little retinue stood a few yards off as she shook Barney’s hand, then Ned’s, and said: ‘What a sad day.’
Barney said: ‘Thank you, Margery.’
‘But a wonderful crowd for the funeral. Your mother was very much loved.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Bart begs your pardon for not being here – he had to go to Winchester.’
Barney said: ‘Will you excuse me? I have to speak to Dan Cobley. I want him to invest in my next voyage – to spread the risk.’ He moved away, leaving Ned alone with Margery.
Margery’s voice changed to a low, intimate tone. ‘How are you, Ned?’
‘My mother was sixty, so it wasn’t a shock to me,’ Ned said. That was what he told everyone, but it was glib, and he felt an urge to say more to Margery. He added bleakly: ‘But you only get one mother.’
‘I know. I didn’t even like my father, especially after he made me marry Bart, but still I cried when he passed away.’
‘That generation has almost gone.’ Ned smiled. ‘Remember that Twelfth Night party, twelve years ago, when William Cecil came? In those days they seemed to rule the world: your father, my mother and Bart’s father.’
Margery’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Of course I remember.’
Ned knew she was thinking of the fevered minutes they had spent kissing in the disused bread oven. He smiled at the memory. On impulse he said: ‘Come to the house for a cup of wine. Let’s talk about old times. This is a day for remembering.’
They threaded their way slowly through the market. It was crowded: business did not stop for a funeral. They crossed the main street and went into the Willard house. Ned showed Margery into the little front parlour, where his mother had always sat, with the view of the west front of the cathedral.
Margery turned to the two servants who had followed her in. ‘You two can go to the kitchen.’
Ned said: ‘Janet Fife will give you a mug of ale and something to eat. And please ask her to bring wine for your mistress and me.’
They went away, and Ned closed the door. ‘How is your baby?’ he said.
‘Bartlet isn’t a baby any longer,’ she said. ‘He’s six years old, walking and talking like a grown-up, and carrying a wooden sword.’
‘And Bart has no idea . . .’
‘Don’t even say it.’ Margery lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Now that Swithin’s dead, you and I are the only people who know. We must keep the secret for ever.’
‘Of course.’
Margery was quite sure that Bartlet had been fathered by Swithin, not Bart; and Ned thought she was almost certainly right. In twelve years of marriage she had conceived only once, and that was when her father-in-law raped her.
He said: ‘Does it change how you feel?’
‘About Bartlet? No. I adored him from the moment I saw him.’
‘And Bart?’
‘Also dotes on him. The fact that Bartlet looks like Swithin seems quite natural, of course. Bart wants to turn the boy into a copy of himself in every way . . .’
‘But that’s natural, too.’
‘Listen, Ned. I know men think that if a woman conceives that means she enjoyed it.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Because it isn’t true. Ask any woman.’
Ned saw that she was desperate for reassurance. ‘I don’t need to ask anyone. Really.’
‘You don’t think I lured Swithin, do you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I hope you feel sure.’
‘I’m more sure of that than of my own name.’
Tears came to her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Ned took her hand.
After a minute she said: ‘Can I ask you another question?’
‘All right.’
‘Has there been anyone else?’
He hesitated.
The pause was enough for her. ‘So there has,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not a monk.’
‘More than one, then.’
Ned said nothing.
Margery said: ‘Years ago, Susannah Brecknock told me she had a lover half her age. It was you, wasn’t it?’
Ned was amazed by the accuracy of her intuition. ‘How did you guess?’
‘It just seems right. She said he didn’t love her, but she didn’t care, because he was such fun to lie with.’
Ned was embarrassed that two women had discussed him in this way. ‘Are you angry?’ he said.
‘I have no right to be. I lie with Bart, why should you be celibate?’
‘But you were forced to marry.’
‘And you were seduced by a woman with a warm heart and a soft body. I’m not angry, I just envy her.’
Ned raised her hand to his lips.
The door opened and Ned hastily pulled his hand away.
The housekeeper came in with a jug of wine and a plate of nuts and dried fruits. Margery said kindly: ‘This is a sad day for you, too, Janet.’
Janet burst into tears and left without speaking.
‘Poor thing,’ said Margery.
‘She’s worked for my mother since she was a girl.’ Ned wanted to hold Margery’s hand again, but he restrained himself. Instead, he brought up a new topic. ‘I need to talk to Bart about a small problem.’
‘Oh? What?’
‘The queen has made me lord of Wigleigh.’
‘Congratulations! Now you’ll be rich.’
‘Not rich, but comfortable.’ Ned would collect rents from all the farmers in the village. It was how monarchs often paid their advisors – especially penny-pinching rulers such as Elizabeth.
Margery said: ‘So now you’re Sir Ned Willard of Wigleigh.’
‘My father always said Wigleigh traditionally belonged to our family. He thought we were descended from Merthin the bridge-builder. According to Timothy’s Book, Merthin’s brother, Ralph, was lord of Wigleigh, and Merthin built the watermill that is still there.’
‘So you’re descended from nobility.’
‘Gentry, at least.’
‘So what’s the problem you need to discuss with Bart?’
‘One of my tenants has cleared some of the forest beyond the stream, on land that belongs to you. He had no right, of course.’ Tenants were always trying to increase the size of their holdings surreptitiously. ‘But I don’t like to punish enterprise, so I want to work out some agreement that will compensate Bart for the loss of a couple of acres.’
‘Why don’t you come to New Castle for dinner one day next week, and talk to him?’
‘All right.’
‘Friday at noon?’
Suddenly Ned felt happy. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Friday is fine.’
*
MARGERY WAS ASHAMED of how excited she felt about Ned’s visit.
She believed in fidelity. Even though she had been forced to marry Bart, her duty was to be loyal to him. It made no difference that he was growing more like his late father, oafish and bullying and promiscuous. There were no excuses for Margery: sin was sin.
She was embarrassed by the flush of desire that had overwhelmed her when Ned promised to visit New Castle. She vowed to treat him with careful courtesy, and no more warmth than any polite hostess would show a distinguished guest. She wished he would fall in love and marry someone else, and lose interest in her. Then perhaps they could think of one another calmly, as old flames that had sputtered out long ago.
The day before she had ordered the cook to kill and pluck a pair of fat geese, and in the morning she was heading for the kitchen to give instructions for the cooking when she saw a girl coming out of Bart’s room.
It was Nora Josephs, she saw, the youngest of the housemaids at fifteen. Her hair was untidy and she had evidently dressed in haste. She was not pretty, but she had the plump kind of young body that appealed to Bart.
They had had separate bedrooms for about five years now. Margery preferred it this way. Bart still came to her bed now and again, but less and less often. She knew that he had other women but, she told herself, she did not care, because she did not love him. All the same, she wished with all her heart that she could have had a different kind of marriage.
As far as she knew, none of his mistresses had ever become pregnant. However, Bart seemed never to question why. He did not have a very logical mind, and if he thought about it at all he probably told himself it was God’s will.
Margery was prepared to pretend she had not noticed, but young Nora gave her a saucy look, and that was a bad sign. Margery was not willing to be humiliated, and she decided she had better deal with Nora immediately. It was not the first time she had found herself in this situation, and she knew what to do. ‘Come with me, girl,’ she said in her most authoritative voice, and Nora did not dare to disobey. They went into Margery’s boudoir.
Margery sat down and left Nora standing. The girl looked scared now, so perhaps there was hope for her. ‘Listen to me carefully, because the whole of the rest of your life depends on how you behave now,’ Margery said. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘If you choose, you may flaunt your relationship with the earl. You can touch him in front of the other servants. You can show off the gifts he gives you. You can even shame me by kissing him in my presence. Everyone in this house and half the people in the county of Shiring will know that you are the earl’s mistress. You will feel proud.’
She paused. Nora could not meet her eye.
‘But what will happen when he tires of you? I will throw you out, of course, and Bart won’t care. You will try to find work as a maid in another house, and then you’ll realize that no woman is going to take you on, because they’ll all think you’re going to seduce their husbands. And do you know where you’ll end up?’
She paused, and Nora whispered: ‘No, madam.’
‘In a waterfront brothel at Combe Harbour, sucking the cocks of ten sailors a night, and you’ll die of a horrible disease.’
Margery did not really know what went on in brothels, but she managed to sound as if she did, and Nora was fighting back tears.
Margery went on: ‘Or you can treat me with respect. If the earl takes you to his bed, leave him as soon as he falls asleep, and return to the servants’ quarters. Refuse to answer the questions the others ask you. In the daytime, don’t look at him or speak to him, and never touch him in front of me or anyone else. Then, when he tires of you, you will still have a place here, and your life will return to normal. Do you understand the choice in front of you?’
‘Yes, madam,’ Nora whispered.
‘Off you go.’ As Nora opened the door, Margery added bitterly: ‘And when you take a husband for yourself, pick one who is not like mine.’
Nora scurried away, and Margery went to see about the cooking of the geese.
Ned arrived at midday, wearing a costly black coat and a white lace collar – an outfit that was becoming the uniform for affluent Protestants, Margery had noticed. It looked a bit austere on Ned: she liked him in warm colours, green and gold.
Margery’s dog, Mick, licked Ned’s hand. Bart, too, welcomed Ned in a friendly way, getting out the best wine for the midday dinner. That was a relief. Perhaps Bart had forgotten that Margery had wanted to marry Ned. Or perhaps he did not care, because he had got her anyway. To men such as Bart, winning was all-important.
Bart was not a deep thinker, and he had never suspected Ned of planning the downfall and execution of Swithin. Bart had a different theory. He was convinced that Dan Cobley, the leader of the Puritans, had set the trap, as revenge on Sir Reginald and Rollo for the execution of his own father. And it was true that Dan still bore a poisonous grudge against Rollo.
Margery also felt nervous about Stephen Lincoln, who joined them at table. Ned would guess Stephen’s role in the earl’s household, but he would not say anything. The presence of priests in the homes of Catholic noblemen was universally known but never acknowledged. Margery usually frowned on hypocrisy: the orphan whose father was known but never named; the nuns who shared a passionate love that everyone pretended not to notice; the unmarried housekeeper who bore a series of children all resembling the priest who employed her. But in this case, the pretence worked in Margery’s favour.
However, she was not sure that Stephen would be as tactful as Ned. Stephen hated Queen Elizabeth, to whom Ned owed his entire career. And Ned had reason to hate the Catholic Church, which had punished his mother so cruelly for usury. It might be a tense dinner.
Bart said amiably: ‘So, Ned, you’re one of the queen’s most important advisors now, people tell me.’ There was only a touch of resentment in Bart’s tone. He thought the queen’s counsellors should be earls, not the sons of merchants; but he also knew in his heart that he could never give the queen guidance on the intricacies of European politics.
‘I work with Sir William Cecil, and have done for twelve years,’ Ned said. ‘He is the important one.’
‘But she has made you a knight, and now lord of Wigleigh.’
‘I’m very grateful to her majesty.’
An unaccustomed feeling crept over Margery, sitting at the table and watching Ned as he talked. He had a quick intelligence, and his eyes crinkled with humour frequently. She sipped wine and wished this dinner could go on forever.
Stephen Lincoln said: ‘What, exactly, do you do for Elizabeth, Sir Ned?’
‘I try to give her early warning of burgeoning problems.’
Margery thought this sounded pat, as if Ned had been asked the question many times and always trotted out the same answer.
Stephen gave a twisted grin. ‘Does that mean you spy on people who disagree with her?’
Margery groaned inwardly. Stephen was going to be combative and spoil the atmosphere.
Ned sat back and squared his shoulders. ‘She doesn’t care if people disagree with her, as long as they keep their views to themselves. I would have expected you to know that, Stephen, as Earl Bart regularly pays the fine of one shilling a week for not going to church.’
Bart said grumpily: ‘I go to the big events at Kingsbridge Cathedral.’
‘And very wise you are, if I may say so. But in Elizabeth’s England no one is tortured for their religion, and no one has been burned at the stake – a stark contrast with the reign of her predecessor, Queen Mary.’
Bart spoke again. ‘What about the Northern Rebellion?’
Margery knew what he was talking about. Just before Christmas a group of Catholic earls had taken up arms against Queen Elizabeth in the only rebellion of her reign so far. They had celebrated a Latin Mass in Durham Cathedral, occupied several other towns in the north, and marched towards Tutworth, where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned, with the evident intention of freeing her and proclaiming her queen of England. But the uprising had gained little support, the queen’s forces had put it down quickly, and Mary Stuart remained a prisoner.
Ned said: ‘It fizzled out.’
‘Five hundred men have been hanged!’ Bart said indignantly. ‘By the queen who complains of Mary Tudor’s cruelty!’
Ned said mildly: ‘Men who try to overthrow the monarch are generally executed, in every country in the world, I believe.’
Bart was a poor listener, like his father, and he responded as if he had not heard Ned. ‘The north is poor enough already, but it has been looted mercilessly, lands confiscated and all the livestock seized and driven south!’
Margery wondered whether this reminded Ned of how his own family had been mercilessly plundered by her father; but if he thought of that he hid his pain. He was not flustered by Bart’s tactless tirade, and Margery supposed that, spending his life among the queen’s advisors, Ned had learned how to remain calm during angry arguments. ‘I can tell you that the queen has not received much booty,’ he said in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘Certainly nothing approaching the cost to her of putting down the insurrection.’
‘The north is part of England – it should not be plundered like a foreign country.’
‘Then its people should behave like Englishmen, and obey their queen.’
Margery decided that this was a good moment to change the subject. ‘Ned, tell Bart about the problem in Wigleigh.’
‘It’s quickly stated, Bart. One of my tenant farmers has encroached on your land, and has cleared a couple of acres of forest on your side of the river.’
‘Then throw him off it,’ Bart said.
‘If you wish, I will simply tell him to stop using that land, of course.’
‘And if he disobeys?’
‘I’ll burn his crop.’
Margery knew that Ned was pretending to be harsh in order to reassure Bart.
Bart did not realize he was being manipulated. ‘It’s what he deserves,’ he said in a tone of satisfaction. ‘These peasants know the boundaries better than anyone: if he has encroached, he’s done so deliberately.’
‘I agree, but there might be a better solution,’ Ned said as if he hardly cared one way or the other. ‘After all, when peasants prosper, their landlords do too. Suppose I give you four acres of woodland somewhere else, in exchange for the two already cleared? That way, we both gain.’
Bart looked reluctant, but clearly could not think of a counterargument. However, he temporized. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Wigleigh together,’ he said. He was not good at abstract thinking, Margery knew: he would much prefer to make a decision while looking at the land in question.
Ned said: ‘Of course, I’d be glad to, especially if we can do so soon – I need to get back to London, now that my mother is buried.’
Margery felt a stab of disappointment, and realized she had been hoping that Ned would stay in Kingsbridge longer.
Bart said: ‘How about next Friday?’
Ned felt impatient, but suppressed the feeling: Margery could tell by his face, though probably no one else noticed. Clearly he would have preferred to settle this trivial matter right away so that he could get back to great affairs of state. He said: ‘Could you make it Monday?’
Bart looked annoyed, and Margery knew he was offended that he, an earl, should be asked to hurry up by a mere knight. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said mulishly.
‘Very well,’ said Ned. ‘Friday it is.’
*
IN THE DAYS following the funeral, Ned thought ahead to the time when he would meet his maker, and asked himself whether he would be proud of the life he had led. He had dedicated himself to a vision – one he shared with Queen Elizabeth – of an England where no one was killed for his religion. Could he say he had done everything possible to defend that ideal?
Perhaps the greatest danger was King Felipe of Spain. Felipe was constantly at war, often over religious differences. He fought the Ottoman Muslims in the Mediterranean Sea and the Dutch Protestants in the Netherlands. Sooner or later, Ned felt sure, he would turn his attention to England and the Anglican Church.
Spain was the richest and most powerful country in the world, and no one knew how to defend England.
Ned shared his worry with his brother. ‘The only thing Queen Elizabeth will spend money on willingly is the navy,’ he said. ‘But we’ll never have a fleet to match King Felipe’s galleons.’
They were sitting in the dining room, finishing breakfast. Barney was about to leave for Combe Harbour, where his ship was taking on stores for the next voyage. He had renamed the vessel Alice after their mother.
‘England doesn’t need galleons,’ said Barney.
Ned was startled by that. He was in the act of giving a sliver of smoked fish to Maddie, the tortoiseshell cat – daughter or perhaps granddaughter of his childhood pet – but he froze, looked up at Barney and said: ‘What do we need, in your opinion?’
‘The Spanish idea is to have big ships to transport hundreds of soldiers. Their tactic is to ram, so that the soldiers can board the enemy ship and overwhelm the crew.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘And it often works. But galleons have a high after-castle with cabins for all the officers and noblemen on board. That structure acts like a sail that can’t be adjusted, and pushes the ship in the direction of the wind, regardless of where the captain wants to go. In other words, it makes the ship harder to steer.’
The waiting cat made a plaintive noise, and Ned gave her the fish, then said: ‘If we don’t need galleons, what do we need to protect ourselves?’
‘The queen should build ships that are narrow and low, and therefore more manoeuvrable. An agile ship can dance around a galleon, firing at it without letting the galleon get close enough for all those soldiers to board.’
‘I have to tell her this.’
‘The other main factor in sea battles is speed of reloading.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s more important than having heavy guns. My sailors are trained to clean out the barrel and recharge the cannon rapidly and safely. With practice they can do it in under five minutes. Once you’re close enough to hit the enemy ship with every shot, it’s all about the number of times you can fire. A relentless barrage of cannonballs will demoralize and devastate the enemy very quickly.’
Ned was fascinated. Elizabeth had no standing army, so the navy was England’s only permanent military force. The country was not wealthy, by European standards, but such prosperity as it had came from overseas trade. The navy was a formidable presence on the high seas, making others hesitate before attacking English merchant ships. In particular, the navy gave England dominance in the Channel, the waterway that separated the country from Europe. Elizabeth was parsimonious, but she had an eye for what was really important, and she paid careful attention to her ships.
Barney got up. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again,’ he said.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, Ned thought. He picked up Barney’s heavy travelling coat and helped him on with it. ‘Be safe, Barney,’ he said.
They parted company with little ceremony, in the manner of brothers.
Ned went into the front parlour and sat at the writing table his mother had used for so many years. While the conversation was fresh in his mind he made a note of everything Barney had said about the design of fighting ships.
When he had finished, he looked out of the window at the west front of the cathedral. I’m thirty years old, he thought. When my father was this age he already had Barney and me. In another thirty years I may be lying in the cemetery next to my parents. But who will stand at my grave?
He saw Dan Cobley approaching the house, and put morbid thoughts out of his mind.
Dan walked in. ‘Barney’s just left,’ Ned said, assuming that Dan was here to talk about his investment in Barney’s voyage. ‘He’s taking the barge to Combe Harbour. But you might catch him at the dock, if you hurry.’
‘My business with Barney is settled, to our mutual satisfaction,’ Dan said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘In that case, please sit down.’
At thirty-two Dan was plumper than ever, and still had a know-all air that struck Ned as adolescent. But Dan was a good businessman, and had expanded the enterprise he had inherited. He was now probably the richest man in Kingsbridge. He was looking for a bigger house, and had offered a good price for Priory Gate, though Rollo did not want to sell. Dan was also the undisputed leader of the town’s Puritans, who liked to worship at St John’s church in the suburb of Loversfield.
As Ned feared, Dan had come to talk about religion.
Dan leaned forward dramatically. ‘There is a Catholic among the clergy at Kingsbridge Cathedral,’ he said.
‘Is there?’ Ned sighed. ‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’
Dan answered a different question. ‘His name is Father Paul.’
Paul Watson was a gentle old priest. He had been the last prior of Kingsbridge, and he had probably never accepted the reformed religion. ‘And what is Father Paul’s crime, exactly?’
Dan said triumphantly: ‘He celebrates Mass, secretly, in the crypt, with the doors locked!’
‘He’s an old man,’ Ned said wearily. ‘It’s hard for such people to keep changing their religious convictions.’
‘He’s a blasphemer!’
‘Yes, he is.’ Ned agreed with Dan about theology; he differed only about enforcement. ‘You’ve actually witnessed these illegal rites?’
‘I have watched people creeping furtively into the cathedral by a side door at dawn on Sunday – including several I’ve long suspected of backsliding into idolatry: Rollo Fitzgerald, for one, and his mother, Lady Jane, for another.’
‘Have you told Bishop Luke?’
‘No! I’m sure he tolerates it.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘Bishop Luke has to go.’
‘And I suppose you want Father Jeremiah from St John’s to be made bishop.’
Dan hesitated, surprised that Ned had read his intentions so easily. He cleared his throat. ‘That is for her majesty to decide,’ he said with insincere deference. ‘Only the monarch can appoint and dismiss bishops in the Anglican Church, as you know. But I want you to tell the queen what is going on – and if you don’t, I will.’
‘Let me explain something to you, Dan – though you’re not going to like it. Elizabeth may dislike Catholics but she hates Puritans. If I go to her with this story she’ll have me thrown out of the presence chamber. All she wants is peace.’
‘But the Mass is illegal, as well as heretical!’
‘And the law is not strictly enforced. How could you not have noticed?’
‘What is the point of a law if it’s not enforced?’
‘The point is to keep everyone reasonably content. Protestants are happy because the Mass is illegal. Catholics are happy because they can go to Mass anyway. And the queen is happy because people are going about their business and not killing one another over religion. I strongly advise you not to complain to her. She won’t do anything about Father Paul, but she might do something about you.’
‘This is outrageous,’ said Dan, standing up.
Ned did not want to quarrel. ‘I’m sorry to send you away with a dusty answer, Dan,’ he said. ‘But this is the way things are. I’d be misleading you if I said anything else.’
‘I appreciate your frankness,’ Dan said grudgingly, and they parted with at least the semblance of cordiality.
Five minutes later, Ned left the house. He walked up the main street, past Priory Gate, the house he would always think of as having been built with money stolen from his mother. He saw Rollo Fitzgerald emerge. Rollo was in his middle thirties now, and his black hair was receding, giving him a high forehead. When Sir Reginald died, Rollo had applied to take his place as Receiver of Customs at Combe Harbour, but such plum posts were used by the sovereign to reward loyalty, and it had gone to a staunch Protestant, not surprisingly. However, the Fitzgerald family still had a large business as wool brokers, and Rollo was running that well enough, more competently than his father ever had.
Ned did not speak to Rollo but hurried on across the high street and went to a large old house near St Mark’s church. Here lived what remained of the Kingsbridge monks. King Henry VIII had granted a small stipend to some of those he dispossessed, and the few still alive continued to receive their pensions. Father Paul came to the door, a bent figure with a red nose and wispy hair.
He invited Ned into the parlour. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost your mother,’ Paul said simply. ‘She was a good woman.’
The former bishop, Julius, also lived here, and he was sitting in a corner, staring at nothing. He was demented, and had lost all speech, but his face wore a furious expression, and he mumbled angry gibberish at the wall.
‘It’s good of you to take care of Julius,’ Ned said to Father Paul.
‘It’s what monks are supposed to do – look after the sick, and the poor, and the bereaved.’
If more of them had remembered that we might still have a monastery, Ned thought, but he kept it to himself. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The legendary Caris, who founded the hospital, was a nun at Kingsbridge.’
‘Rest her soul.’ Looking hopeful, Paul said: ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’
Ned hated the fuddling effect of wine in the morning. ‘No, thank you. I won’t stay long. I came to give you a word of warning.’
An anxious frown crossed Paul’s lined face. ‘Oh, dear, that sounds ominous.’
‘It is, a little. I’ve been told that something is going on in the crypt at dawn on Sundays.’
Paul paled. ‘I have no idea—’
Ned held up a hand to stall the interruption. ‘I’m not asking you whether it’s true, and there’s no need for you to say anything at all.’
Paul was agitated, but quieted himself with a visible effort. ‘Very well.’
‘Whoever is using the crypt at that hour, for whatever purpose, should be warned that the town’s Puritans are suspicious. To avoid trouble, perhaps the services – if that is what they are – should be moved to a different venue.’
Paul swallowed. ‘I understand.’
‘Her majesty the queen believes that religion was given to us for consolation in this life and salvation in the next, and that we may disagree about it, but we should never let it be a cause of violence between one Englishman and another.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I don’t need to say any more.’
‘I think I understand you perfectly.’
‘And it might be best if you don’t tell anyone that I came to see you.’
‘Of course.’
Ned shook Paul’s hand. ‘I’m glad we had a chance to talk.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Goodbye, Father Paul.’
‘God bless you, Ned,’ said Paul.
*
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Margery’s husband felt ill. This was not unusual, especially after a good supper with plenty of wine the night before. However, today Earl Bart was supposed to go to Wigleigh and meet Sir Ned Willard.
‘You can’t let Ned down,’ Margery said. ‘He’ll have ridden there specially.’
‘You’ll have to go instead of me,’ Bart said from his bed. ‘You can tell me what it’s all about.’ Then he put his head under the blanket.
Margery’s spirits lifted at the prospect of spending an hour or two with Ned. Her heart seemed to beat faster and her breath came in shallow gasps. She was glad Bart was not looking at her.
But her reaction showed her how unwise it would be to do this. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got so much to do here at the castle.’
Bart’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but his words were clear enough. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Go.’
Margery had to obey her husband.
She ordered her best horse saddled, a big mare called Russet. She summoned the lady-in-waiting and the man-at-arms who usually accompanied her: they should be enough to keep her out of trouble. She changed into travelling clothes, a long blue coat and a red scarf and hat to keep the dust out of her hair. It was a practical outfit, she told herself, and she could not help it if the colours suited her complexion and the hat made her look cute.
She kissed Bartlet goodbye. She whistled for her dog, Mick, who loved to accompany her on a ride. Then she set off.
It was a fine spring day, and she decided to stop worrying and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. She was twenty-seven years old and a countess, rich and healthy and attractive: if she could not be happy, who could?
She stopped at an inn on the road for a glass of beer and a piece of cheese. Mick, who seemed tireless, drank at the pond. The man-at-arms gave each horse a handful of oats.
They reached Wigleigh in the early afternoon. It was a prosperous village, with some fields still cultivated on the old strip system and others belonging to individual farmers. A fast stream drove an old watermill for fulling cloth, called Merthin’s Mill. In the centre were a tavern, a church and a small manor house. Ned was waiting in the tavern. ‘Where’s Bart?’ he said.
‘He’s sick,’ Margery replied.
He looked surprised, then pleased, then apprehensive, all in quick succession, as he digested this news. Margery knew why he might be apprehensive: it was the risk of temptation. She felt the same anxiety.
Ned said: ‘I hope it’s not serious.’
‘No. It’s the kind of illness a man suffers after drinking too much wine.’
‘Ah.’
‘You get me instead – a poor substitute,’ she said with facetious modesty.
He grinned happily. ‘No complaints here.’
‘Shall we go to the site?’
‘Don’t you want something to eat and drink?’
Margery did not want to sit in a stuffy room with half a dozen peasants staring at her. ‘No, thank you,’ she said.
They rode a path between fields of spring-green wheat and barley. ‘Will you live in the manor house?’ Margery asked.
‘No. I’m too fond of the old house in Kingsbridge. I’ll just use this place for a night or two when I need to visit.’
Margery was seized by a vision of herself creeping into Ned’s house at night, and she had to put the wicked thought out of her mind.
They came to the wood. The stream that drove the mill also marked part of the boundary of Wigleigh, and the land beyond belonged to the earl. They followed the stream for a mile, then came to the location in question. Margery could see immediately what had happened. A peasant who was more enterprising than most, or greedier, or both, had cleared the forest on the earl’s side of the stream and was grazing sheep on the rough grass that had sprung up there.
‘Just beyond here is the patch I’m offering Bart in exchange,’ Ned said.
Margery saw a place where the ground on the Wigleigh side was forested. They rode across the stream, then dismounted and walked the horses into the wood. Margery noted some mature oaks that would provide valuable timber. They stopped at a pretty clearing with wild flowers and a grassy bank beside the stream. ‘I can’t see why Bart would object to the exchange,’ Margery said. ‘In fact, I think we’ll be getting a bargain.’
‘Good,’ said Ned. ‘Shall we rest here a while?’
The prospect was delightful. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.
They tethered the horses where they could crop some grass.
Ned said: ‘We could send your people to the tavern for food and drink.’
‘Good idea.’ Margery turned to the man-at-arms and the lady-in-waiting. ‘You two, go back to the village. You can walk – the horses need a rest. Fetch a jug of ale and some cold ham and bread. And enough for yourselves, of course.’
The two servants disappeared into the woods.
Margery sat on the grass by the stream and Ned lay beside her. The wood was quiet: there was just the shush of the stream and the breath of a light breeze in the spring leaves. Mick lay down and closed his eyes, but he would wake and give warning if anyone approached.
Margery said: ‘Ned, I know what you did for Father Paul.’
Ned raised his eyebrows. ‘News travels fast.’
‘I want to thank you.’
‘I suppose you supply the sacramental wafers.’ She was not sure what to say to that, but Ned quickly added: ‘I don’t want to know the details, please forget I asked.’
‘Just as long as you know that I would never conspire against Queen Elizabeth.’ Margery wanted him to understand that. ‘She is our anointed ruler. I may wonder why God in his wisdom chose to set a heretic on the throne, but it is not for me to challenge his choice.’
Ned, still lying down, looked up at her and smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He touched her arm.
She stared at his kind, clever face. What she saw in his eyes was a yearning so strong it might have broken her heart. No one else had ever felt like this about her, she knew. At that moment it seemed that the only possible sin would be to reject his passion. She lowered her head and kissed his lips.
She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the love that possessed her, filling her soul as the blood filled her body. She had thought about this ever since the last time they had kissed, though now, after such a long wait, it was even sweeter. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, then teased his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then pushed her tongue into his mouth. She could not get enough of him.
He grasped her shoulders and pulled her down until she was lying on top of him, putting all her weight on him. She could feel his erection through her petticoats. She worried that she might be hurting him, and moved to roll off, but he held her in place. She relaxed into the feeling of being so close that they might melt into one another. There seemed nothing in the world except him and her, nothing outside their two bodies.
Even this did not satisfy her for long: everything they did made her want more. She knelt up, straddling Ned’s knees, and opened the front of his breeches to free his penis. She stared at it, stroking it lovingly. It was pale and slightly curved, springing from a tangle of curly auburn hair. She bent over and kissed it, and heard him gasp with pleasure. A tiny drop of fluid appeared at the end. Unable to resist the temptation, she licked it off.
She could wait no longer. She moved to straddle his hips, tenting the skirt of her dress over the middle of his body, then sank down, guiding his penis inside her. She was impossibly wet, and it slipped in effortlessly. She bent forward so that she could kiss him again. They rocked gently for a long time, and she wanted to do it for ever.
Then he was the one who wanted more. He rolled her over, without withdrawing. She spread her legs wide and lifted her knees. She wanted him deeper inside her, filling her up. She felt him losing control. She looked into his eyes and said: ‘It’s you, Ned, it’s you.’ She felt the jerking spasm and the rush of fluid, and that drove her over the edge, and she felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.
*
ROLLO FITZGERALD would have died rather than change his religion. For him there was no room for compromise. The Catholic Church was right and all rivals were wrong. It was obvious, and God would not forgive men who ignored the obvious. A man held his soul in his hand like a pearl, and if he were to drop that pearl in the ocean he would never get it back.
He could hardly believe that Elizabeth Tudor had lasted twelve years as the illegitimate queen of England. She had given people a measure of religious freedom and, amazingly, her religious settlement had not yet collapsed. The Catholic earls had failed to overthrow her and all the monarchs of Europe had hesitated while she pretended she might marry a good Catholic. It was a terrible disappointment. Rollo would have believed that God was asleep, were it not a blasphemous thing to say.
Then, in May of 1570, everything changed, not just for Rollo but for everyone in England.
Rollo got the news at breakfast in Priory Gate. Margery was at the table. She was paying an extended visit to Kingsbridge to look after their mother, Lady Jane, who had been ill. Mother had recovered somewhat and was now at breakfast with them, but Margery seemed in no hurry to go home. The maid Peggy came in and handed Rollo a letter, saying a courier had brought it from London. It was a large piece of heavy paper, folded corners-to-middle and closed with a blob of red wax impressed with the Fitzgerald seal. The handwriting was that of Davy Miller, the family’s man of business in London.
Davy’s letters were normally about the price of wool, but this one was different. The Pope had made a formal announcement, called a Papal Bull. Such messages were not circulated in England, of course. Rollo had heard rumours about it, but now, according to Davy, someone had daringly nailed a copy to the gate of the bishop of London’s palace, so everyone knew what was in it. Rollo gasped when he read Davy’s summary.
Pope Pius V had excommunicated Queen Elizabeth.
‘This is good news!’ Rollo said. ‘The Pope describes Elizabeth as “the pretended queen of England and the servant of crime”. At last!’
‘Elizabeth must be furious,’ Margery said. ‘I wonder if Ned Willard knows about this.’
Lady Jane said darkly: ‘Ned Willard knows everything.’
‘It gets better,’ Rollo said jubilantly. ‘Englishmen are released from their allegiance to Elizabeth, even if they have sworn oaths.’
Margery frowned. ‘I’m not sure you should be so pleased,’ she said. ‘This means trouble.’
‘But it’s true! Elizabeth is a heretic and an illegitimate queen. No one should obey her.’
Lady Jane said: ‘Your sister’s right, Rollo. This may not be good news for us.’
Rollo carried on reading. ‘In fact, people are commanded not to obey her, and anyone who does obey is included in the sentence of excommunication.’
Margery said: ‘This is a catastrophe!’
Rollo did not understand them. ‘It needs to be said, and the Pope is saying it at last! How can this be bad news?’
‘Don’t you see what it means, Rollo?’ said Margery. ‘The Pope has turned every English Catholic into a traitor!’
‘He’s only making plain what everyone knows.’
‘Sometimes it’s better not to say what everyone knows.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘Everyone knows that Father Paul celebrates Mass for us, and Stephen Lincoln too, and all the other secret priests – but no one says it. That’s the only reason we get away with it. Now it’s under threat. We’re all potential traitors.’
Rollo saw what they meant, but they were wrong. People were stupid and freedom was dizzyingly perilous. Men had to fight against Elizabeth’s heresy, even if it made life uncomfortable or even dangerous. ‘You women don’t understand politics,’ he said.
Margery’s son, Bartlet, came into the room. Rollo looked at the boy with pride. Bartlet was his nephew, and would one day be the earl of Shiring.
‘Can we play with the kittens today?’ Bartlet said.
‘Of course, my darling,’ said Margery. She explained: ‘Ned’s tortoiseshell cat has had kittens, and Bartlet’s fascinated by them.’
Lady Jane said: ‘I wouldn’t stay too long at the Willard house, if I were you.’
Rollo wondered why his mother’s tone was so frosty, then he recalled the struggle to make Margery marry Bart rather than Ned. That was ancient history, but perhaps Lady Jane feared people would think Margery had an ulterior motive in going to Ned’s house.
Perhaps she did.
Rollo dismissed the thought: he had more important things on his mind. ‘I’ve got to go to a meeting of the borough council,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you all at dinner.’ He kissed his mother and went out.
Kingsbridge was ruled by a council of twelve aldermen, all local merchants, chaired by the Mayor. Rollo had taken his father’s place as an alderman when he inherited the family’s wool business, but the current mayor was Elijah Cordwainer, a crony of Dan Cobley’s. The council met in the Guild Hall, as they had for hundreds of years.
Rollo walked up the main street to the crossroads, went into the Guild Hall, and climbed the stairs to the council chamber, conscious that he was about to take part in a venerable tradition. The room was panelled in smoke-blackened wood. Leather chairs were arranged around a conference table that was scored with ancient graffiti. On a sideboard was a round of beef and a jug of ale, for anyone who had not had time for breakfast.
Rollo took his place. He was the only Catholic in the room: none of the other aldermen had ever appeared at one of Father Paul’s clandestine services. Rollo felt vaguely intimidated, as if he was a spy among enemies. He had not felt this way before, and he wondered if that was because of the Papal Bull. Perhaps Margery was right. He hoped not.
The council regulated commerce and industry in the city, and the morning’s business was about weights and measures, wages and prices, masters and apprentices. It was reported that some visiting tradesmen at the market were using the banned Tower Pound, which was lighter than the approved Troy Pound. They discussed a rumour that Queen Elizabeth might standardize a mile at 5,280 feet instead of 5,000. They were about to break up for midday dinner when Mayor Cordwainer announced a last-minute addition to the agenda: the Papal Bull.
Rollo was puzzled. The council never discussed religion. What was this about?
Cordwainer said: ‘Unfortunately, the Pope in Rome has seen fit to order Englishmen not to obey her majesty Queen Elizabeth.’
Rollo said irritably: ‘What has that to do with this council?’
Cordwainer looked uncomfortable and said: ‘Well, er, Alderman Cobley feels it may raise questions . . .’
So Dan Cobley was up to something, Rollo thought. That made him anxious. Dan still blamed him for the execution of Philbert, and lusted for vengeance.
Everyone looked at Dan.
‘It would be a bad thing if the shadow of treason were to fall on the borough of Kingsbridge,’ Dan said, clearly making a rehearsed speech. ‘I’m sure you all agree.’
There was a mutter of agreement around the table. Margery had said at breakfast that the Bull made traitors of all Catholics, and Rollo now felt a dark foreboding.
‘To avoid all suspicion,’ Dan went on, ‘I have a simple suggestion: all Kingsbridge merchants should swear to the Thirty-Nine Articles.’
The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. It was a direct attack on Rollo. The Thirty-Nine Articles defined the doctrine of the Anglican Church. Any Catholic who accepted them would be betraying his faith. Rollo would die rather than take such an oath.
And everyone in the room knew that.
Not all Kingsbridge Protestants were as hard-line as Dan. Most of them wanted nothing more than to do business in peace. But Dan could be slyly persuasive.
Paul Tinsley, the lawyer who was clerk of the peace for the town, said: ‘There have been several attempts by Parliament to make all public officials take an oath affirming the Articles, but Queen Elizabeth has always refused to ratify any such legislation.’
Dan said: ‘She won’t refuse next time it comes up – not after this Bull. She’s going to have to clamp down.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Tinsley. ‘But we could wait until Parliament makes a decision, rather than take the matter into our own hands.’
‘Why wait?’ said Dan. ‘Surely there is no one in this room who denies the truth of the Articles? And if there is, should he be allowed to trade in Kingsbridge after this Papal Bull?’
Tinsley persisted in his mild tone of voice. ‘You may well be right, Alderman Cobley. I’m suggesting merely that we should not act in haste.’
Rollo spoke up. ‘Alderman Tinsley is right. I for one will not sign a religious declaration put in front of me by Alderman Cobley.’ Untruthfully he added: ‘If her majesty the queen should ask for it, that would be a different matter.’ It would not, but Rollo was desperate: his livelihood was at stake.
Dan said: ‘What if word got around that we have had this discussion and decided not to act? Won’t that put us under suspicion?’
Around the table there were several reluctant nods, and Rollo began to think Dan would get his way.
Cordwainer said: ‘I think we must take a vote. Those in favour of Alderman Cobley’s proposal, please raise your hands.’
Ten hands went up. Only Rollo and Tinsley were against.
Cordwainer said: ‘The resolution is passed.’
Rollo stood up and left the room.
*
MARGERY LAY in bed at New Castle early on a July morning, listening to the birds. She felt happy, guilty and scared.
She was happy because she loved Ned and he loved her. He had stayed in Kingsbridge all through May, and they had met several times a week. Then he had been ordered to report on south-coast defences. It was Margery’s normal practice to go with Stephen Lincoln at least once a week to celebrate Mass clandestinely in remote villages and suburban barns, and she and Ned contrived to make their paths cross. They would manage to spend a night in the same town, or nearby villages. After dark, when most people had gone to bed, they would rendezvous. If she was staying in a tavern, Ned would creep into her room. On warm nights they sometimes met in woods. The secrecy made their meetings almost unbearably thrilling. Right now he was only a few miles from New Castle, and she was hoping to slip away on some pretext and see him today. She lived in a state of continuous excitement that made it almost impossible for her to eat. She lived on wheat bread with butter and watered wine.
Bart seemed oblivious. It would never occur to him that his wife might be unfaithful, any more than he would expect his own dog to bite him. Margery’s mother, Lady Jane, probably had her suspicions, but would not say anything for fear of causing trouble. However, Margery knew she and Ned could not get away with this behaviour indefinitely. It might take a week or a year, but sooner or later they would be found out. Nevertheless, she could not stop.
She was happy, but at the same time tortured by guilt. Often she thought back to where she had gone wrong. It had been the moment when she ordered her lady-in-waiting and man-at-arms to walk back to Wigleigh for food. She must have known, in her heart, that she was going to lie with Ned among the wild flowers beside the stream; and the prospect had been too sweet to resist. She had seen the steep and thorny way to heaven, but had chosen the primrose path of dalliance. She was committing a sin, enjoying it, and repeating it. Every day she vowed to end it, and every time she saw Ned her resolution evaporated.
She was afraid of the consequences, both now and in the afterlife. God would surely punish her. He might afflict her with a terrible disease, or drive her mad, or strike her blind. She sometimes gave herself a headache thinking about it. And she had additional reasons for fear. Her foreboding about the effects of the Papal Bull had turned out to be tragically accurate. Puritans could now gleefully point to Catholics as a danger to national security. Intolerance had gained a pretext.
Bart now had to pay the large sum of a pound a week, instead of a shilling a week, for not going to church. A pound was the price of a musket, a fancy shirt or a small pony. It made a dent in Bart’s income from rents, which came to about fifty pounds a week. The parish churchwarden was naturally afraid of the earl, but summoned up the courage once a week to come to the castle and ask for the money, and Bart had to pay.
Much worse was the effect on Rollo. He had lost his business because he would not swear to the Thirty-Nine Articles. He had been forced to sell Priory Gate, and Dan Cobley had exultantly bought it. Lady Jane was now living at New Castle with Margery and Bart. Rollo himself had gone away, and even his mother did not know where.
Ned was incandescent with rage. Queen Elizabeth had risked everything for the ideal of religious freedom, and had maintained it for a decade, proving that it could be done; but now, he fumed, she was being undermined – by the Pope, of all people. Margery did not like to hear him criticizing the Pope, even though she secretly agreed with him, so she just tried to avoid the topic.
In fact, she avoided all serious thoughts as much as she could, and let her mind dwell on love. When she was not with Ned, she daydreamed about the next time they would meet, and what they would do. Now, as her imagination began to depict them together, and she heard, in the ear of fantasy, the intimate words he would murmur to her as he touched her, she felt the familiar sensation in her loins, and her hand drifted to the place between her legs where delight arose. Strangely, her meetings with Ned did not quench this desire: in fact, she did it more now, as if one sin fed the other.
Her dog, Mick, lying beside the bed, woke up and growled. ‘Hush,’ she murmured, but then he barked. A moment later, there was a hammering at the door of the house.
The sound itself told Margery that trouble had arrived. The knocking was loud, repeated, demanding, authoritative. Few people dared to knock on an earl’s door in that aggressive, arrogant manner. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Outside she saw Sheriff Matthewson with a group of nine or ten men.
She could not guess exactly what the sheriff wanted, but she had no doubt it had to do with religion.
She ran from the room, pulling a wrapper over her nightdress. Along the corridor, Bart looked out of his room. ‘What is it?’ he said thickly.
‘Don’t open the door,’ Margery said.
The knocking continued.
Margery hurried across the landing to Stephen Lincoln’s room. She burst in: there was no time for niceties. But he was up and dressed and kneeling at his prie-dieu. ‘The sheriff is at the door,’ she said. ‘Come with me. Bring the sacramentals.’
Stephen picked up a box containing all they needed for the Mass and followed Margery out.
She saw Bartlet, in his nightshirt, followed by a sleepy young nurse. ‘Go back to your room, Barty,’ she said. ‘I’ll come for you when breakfast is ready.’ She ran down the stairs, praying that the servants had not already let Matthewson in. She was almost too late: young Nora Josephs was in the act of unbarring the door, shouting: ‘All right! All right! I’m coming!’
‘Wait!’ Margery hissed.
All the servants were Catholic. They would understand what was happening and keep silent about what they knew.
With Stephen close behind, Margery ran along the corridor and through a storeroom to a spiral staircase. She went up the stairs and then down a shorter flight into a dead-end passageway that was the bakery of the old castle, now disused. She pulled open the iron door to the massive bread oven where she had kissed Ned all those years ago. ‘In here!’ she said to Stephen. ‘Hide!’
‘Won’t they look here?’
‘Go all the way to the back and push against the wall. It leads to a secret room. Quickly!’
Stephen climbed inside with his box, and Margery shut the door.
Breathing hard, she retraced her steps to the front hall. Her mother was there, hair in a nightcap, looking worried. Margery pulled the wrapper more closely around her, then nodded to Nora. ‘Now you can open up.’
Nora opened the door.
Margery said brightly: ‘Good morning, Sheriff. How hard you knocked! Are you in a hurry?’
Matthewson was a big man who had a brusque way with malefactors, but he was uneasy confronting a countess. He tipped up his chin defiantly and said in a loud voice: ‘Her majesty the queen has ordered the arrest of the Catholic priest Stephen Lincoln, suspected of treasonously conspiring with the Queen of the Scots.’
The charge was ridiculous. Stephen had never met Mary Queen of Scots, and anyway he would not have the nerve for a conspiracy. The accusation was malicious, and Margery suspected that Dan Cobley was behind it. But she smiled and said: ‘Then you needn’t have woken us up so early. Stephen is not a priest, nor is he here.’
‘He lives here!’
‘He was the earl’s clerk, but he has left.’ Improvising desperately, she added: ‘I think he may have gone to Canterbury.’ That was enough detail, she decided. ‘Anyway, I’m quite sure he has never had anything to do with the Queen of the Scots. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. But now that you’re here, would you and your men like some breakfast?’
‘No, thank you.’ He turned to his men. ‘Search the house.’
Margery heard Bart say: ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ She turned to see him coming down the stairs. He was wearing his sword as well as his breeches and boots. ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to, Matthewson?’
‘Carrying out orders from the queen, my lord, and I hope you won’t offend her majesty by obstructing me.’
Margery stood between Bart and the sheriff and spoke in a low voice. ‘Don’t fight him. Don’t be executed like your father. Let him search the house. He won’t find anything.’
‘To hell with that.’
The sheriff said: ‘You’re suspected of harbouring a Catholic priest called Stephen Lincoln who is a traitor. It will be better for you to give him up now.’
In a louder voice, Margery said to Bart: ‘I’ve already explained that Stephen is not a priest and is no longer here.’
Bart looked mystified. He stepped closer to Margery and whispered: ‘But what about—’
‘Trust me!’ she hissed.
Bart shut up.
Margery raised her voice again. ‘Perhaps we should allow the sheriff to satisfy himself that we’re telling the truth. Then everyone will be content.’
Enlightenment dawned on Bart. He mouthed: ‘In the old oven?’
Margery said: ‘Yes, that’s what I think, let him search.’
Bart looked at Matthewson. ‘All right, but I won’t forget this – especially your part in it.’
‘It’s not my decision, my lord, as you know.’
Bart grunted contemptuously.
‘Get going, men,’ said the sheriff. ‘Pay special attention to the remains of the old castle – it’s sure to be full of hiding places.’ He was no fool.
Margery said to Nora: ‘Serve breakfast in the dining room – just for the family, no one else.’ There was now no point in pretending to be hospitable.
Bart went with ill temper to the dining room, and Lady Jane followed, but Margery could not summon enough sang-froid to sit and eat while the men looked for Stephen, so she followed the sheriff around the house.
Although his men searched the halls and parlours of the new house, he was more interested in the old castle, and carried a lantern to light dark places. He examined the church first. The tomb of a forgotten ancestor caught his eye, and he grasped the effigy of the knight on top and tried to move it, to test whether it might have been opened. It was firm.
The bakery was almost the last place he tried. He opened the iron door and shone his lamp inside, and Margery held her breath and pretended insouciance. He leaned forward, head and shoulders in the oven, and waved the lamp around. Was the door at the back as invisible as Margery remembered? Matthewson grunted, but she could not interpret the sound.
Then he withdrew and slammed the door.
Margery said gaily: ‘Did you think we might keep priests in the oven?’ Then she hoped he had not noticed the slight tremor in her voice.
He looked annoyed and did not trouble to answer her facetious question.
They returned to the entrance hall. Matthewson was angry. He suspected he had been hoodwinked but he could not figure out how.
Just as he was about to leave, the front door opened and Sir Ned Willard walked in.
She stared at him in horror. He knew the secret of the old bakery. Why was he here?
There was a light film of perspiration on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily: clearly he had been riding hard. She guessed that somehow he had heard about the sheriff’s mission. But what was his purpose? No doubt he was worried about Margery. But he was a Protestant, too: would he be tempted to flush out the fugitive priest? His loyalty to Queen Elizabeth was profound, almost like love: would it be outweighed by his love for Margery?
He gave Matthewson a hostile glare. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said.
The sheriff repeated his explanation. ‘Stephen Lincoln is suspected of treason.’
‘I haven’t heard of any such suspicion,’ Ned said.
‘As I understand it, Sir Ned, you haven’t been in London since before Easter, so perhaps you haven’t heard.’ The sheriff’s words were polite, but he said them with a sneer.
Ned felt foolish, Margery could tell by his face. He prided himself on knowing everything first. He had slipped – and undoubtedly it was because of her.
Margery said: ‘Stephen Lincoln is not here. The sheriff has searched my house very thoroughly. If we’d had a Catholic mouse in the pantry I believe he would have found it.’
‘I’m glad to hear the queen’s orders are being carried out so meticulously,’ Ned said, apparently changing sides. ‘Well done, sheriff.’
Margery felt so tense she wanted to scream. Was Ned about to say But did you find the secret room behind the old oven? Controlling her voice with an effort she said: ‘If that’s all, sheriff . . .’
Matthewson hesitated, but he had nothing left to do. Looking like thunder, he walked away, rudely without saying farewell.
One by one his men followed him through the door.
Bart came out of the dining room. ‘Have they gone?’ he said.
Margery could not speak. She burst into tears.
Bart put his arms around her. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You were magnificent.’
She looked over his shoulder at Ned, who wore the face of a man in torment.
*
ROLLO WAS GOING to have his revenge.
He was weary, dusty, and seething with hatred and resentment when he arrived at the university town of Douai, in the French-speaking south-west of the Netherlands, in July of 1570. It reminded him of Oxford, where he had studied: there were many churches, gracious college buildings, and gardens and orchards where teachers and students could walk and talk. That had been a golden age, he thought bitterly; his father had been alive and prosperous, a strong Catholic had sat on the throne of England, and Rollo had seemed to have an assured future.
He had walked a long way across the flat landscape of Flanders, but his feet were not as sore as his heart. The Protestants were never satisfied, he thought furiously. England had a Protestant queen, compliant bishops, an English Bible and a reformed prayer book. The paintings had been taken down, the statues beheaded, the golden crucifixes melted down. And still it was not enough. They had to take away Rollo’s business and his home, and drive him out of his own country.
One day they would regret it.
Speaking a mixture of French and English, he found his way to a brick town house, large but not beautiful, in a street of shops and tenements. All his hopes were now invested in this disappointingly ordinary building. If England was to return to the true faith, and if Rollo was to be revenged on his enemies, it would all start here.
The door was open.
In the hall he met a lively pink-faced man about ten years his junior – Rollo was thirty-five. ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ he said politely.
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ said the other man.
‘Is this the English College?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Thank God.’ Rollo was relieved. It had been a long journey, but he had arrived. Now he had to find out whether it would live up to his hopes.
‘I’m Leonard Price. Call me Lenny. What are you doing here?’
‘I lost my livelihood in Kingsbridge because I wouldn’t sign the Thirty-Nine Articles.’
‘Good man!’
‘Thank you. I’d like to help restore the true faith in England, and I’ve been told that’s your mission here.’
‘Right again. We train priests then send them back home – clandestinely, of course – to bring the sacraments to loyal Catholics there.’
This was the idea that thrilled Rollo. Now that Queen Elizabeth was beginning to reveal her true, tyrannical nature, the Church would fight back. And so would Rollo. His life had been ruined, so he had nothing to lose. He should have been a prosperous Kingsbridge alderman, living in the best house in the city, destined eventually to be mayor like his father; but instead he was an outcast, walking the dusty roads of a foreign land. However, he would turn the tables one day.
Lenny lowered his voice. ‘If you ask William Allen – that’s our founder – he’ll say that training priests is our only mission. But some of us have bigger ideas.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Elizabeth must be deposed, and Mary of Scotland must be queen.’
That was what Rollo wanted to hear. ‘Are you really planning that?’
Lenny hesitated, probably realizing he had been indiscreet. ‘Call it a daydream,’ he said. ‘But it’s one shared by a lot of people.’
That was indisputable. Mary’s right to the throne was a constant topic of discussion at Catholic dinner tables. Rollo said eagerly: ‘Can I see William Allen?’
‘Let’s go and ask. He’s with a very important visitor, but perhaps they’d both like to talk to a potential new recruit. Come with me.’
Lenny led Rollo up the stairs to the next floor. Rollo was full of excitement and optimism. Perhaps his life was not over after all. Lenny tapped on a door and opened it onto a spacious, light room lined with books, and two men deep in conversation. Lenny addressed one of them, a thin-faced man a few years older than Rollo, untidily dressed in a way that reminded Rollo of his Oxford teachers. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but I thought you might like to meet someone newly arrived from England.’
Allen turned to his guest and said in French: ‘If you permit . . . ?’
The second man was younger, but more richly dressed, in a green tunic embroidered with yellow. He was strikingly good-looking, with light-brown eyes and thick blond hair. He shrugged and said: ‘As you wish.’
Rollo stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘My name is Rollo Fitzgerald, from Kingsbridge.’
‘I’m William Allen.’ He shook hands then indicated his guest with a gesture. ‘This is a great friend of the college’s, Monsieur Pierre Aumande de Guise, from Paris.’
The Frenchman nodded coldly to Rollo and did not offer his hand.
Lenny said: ‘Rollo lost his livelihood because he refused to sign the Thirty-Nine Articles.’
‘Well done,’ said Allen.
‘And he wants to join us.’
‘Sit down, both of you.’
Monsieur Aumande de Guise spoke in careful English. ‘What education do you have, Rollo?’
‘I was at Oxford, then I studied law at Gray’s Inn, before entering my father’s business. I did not take holy orders, but that is what I want to do now.’
‘Good.’ Aumande was thawing a little.
Allen said: ‘The mission that awaits our students, at the end of their training, is to risk their lives. You do realize that? If caught you could be put to death. Please do not join us if you are not prepared for that fate.’
Rollo considered his answer. ‘It would be foolish to treat such a prospect lightly.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing Allen nod approvingly. He went on: ‘But with God’s help I believe I can face the risk.’
Aumande spoke again. ‘How do you feel about Protestants? I mean personally.’
‘Personally?’ Rollo began to compose another judicious answer, but his emotions got the better of him. He clenched his fists. ‘I hate them,’ he said. He was so moved he found it hard to get the words out. ‘I want to wipe them out, destroy them, kill every last one of them. That’s how I feel.’
Aumande almost smiled. ‘In that case, I think you may have a place with us.’
Rollo realized he had said the right thing.
‘Well,’ said Allen more cautiously, ‘I hope you will stay with us for a few days, at least, so that we can get to know each other better; then we can talk some more about your future.’
Aumande said: ‘He needs an alias.’
‘Already?’ said Allen.
‘The fewer people who know his real name, the better.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Call him Jean Langlais.’
‘John the Englishman – in French. All right.’ Allen looked at Rollo. ‘From now on you are Jean Langlais.’
‘But why?’ said Rollo.
Aumande answered him. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘All in good time.’
*
ENGLAND WAS IN the grip of invasion panic that summer. People saw the Papal Bull as an incitement to Catholic countries to attack, and any day they expected to see the galleons come over the horizon, teeming with soldiers armed to the teeth, eager to burn and loot and rape. All along the south coast, masons were repairing age-crumbled castle walls. Rusty harbour-mouth cannons were cleaned, oiled and test-fired. Sturdy farm lads joined the local militia and practised archery on sunny Sunday afternoons.
The countess of Shiring was in a different kind of fervour. On her way to meet Ned, Margery visualized the things they would do together, and she felt the anticipatory moisture inside her. She had once heard someone say that French courtesans washed their private parts every day and perfumed them, in case men wanted to kiss them there. She had not believed the story, and Bart had certainly never kissed her there; but Ned did it all the time, so now she washed like a courtesan. She knew, as she did so, that she was getting ready to commit mortal sin, again; and knew, too, that one day her punishment would come; but those thoughts gave her a pain in her head, and she thrust them away.
She went to Kingsbridge and stayed in the house Bart owned on Leper Island. Her pretext was seeing Guillaume Forneron. A Protestant refugee from France, Forneron made the finest cambric in the south of England, and Margery bought shirts for Bart and, for herself, chemises and nightdresses.
On the second morning, she left the house alone and went to meet Ned at the home of her friend Susannah, now Lady Twyford. She still had the house in Kingsbridge that she had inherited from her father, and she usually stayed there when her husband was travelling. Ned had proposed this rendezvous, and both he and Margery felt sure they could trust Susannah to keep their secret.
Margery had got used to the knowledge that Susannah had once been Ned’s lover. Susannah had been bashful when Margery revealed that she had guessed the truth. ‘You had his heart,’ Susannah had said. ‘I just had his body, which, fortunately, was all I wanted.’ Margery was living in such a daze of passion that she could hardly think straight about that or anything else.
Susannah received her in her parlour, then kissed her on the lips and said: ‘Go on up, you lucky girl.’
An enclosed staircase led from the parlour up to Susannah’s boudoir, and Ned was waiting there.
Margery threw her arms around him and they kissed urgently, as though starved of love. She broke the kiss to say: ‘Bed.’
They went into Susannah’s bedroom and pulled off their clothes. Ned’s body was slender, his skin white, with thick dark hair on his chest. Margery loved just looking at him.
But something was wrong. Ned’s penis was unresponsive, limp. This happened quite often with Bart, when he was drunk, but it was the first time with Ned. Margery knelt in front of him and sucked it, as Bart had taught her to do. It sometimes worked with him, but today with Ned it made no difference. She stood up, put her hands to his face, and looked into his golden-brown eyes. He was embarrassed, she saw. She said: ‘What is it, my darling?’
‘Something on my mind,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘What are we going to do? What is our future?’
‘Why think about it? Let’s just love each other.’
He shook his head. ‘I have to make a decision.’ He put his hand into the coat he had thrown aside and took out a letter.
‘From the queen?’ Margery asked.
‘From Sir William Cecil.’
Margery felt as if the summer day had been blasted by a sudden winter wind. ‘Bad news?’
Ned threw the letter onto the bed. ‘I don’t know if it’s bad or good.’
Margery stared at it. The letter lay on the counterpane like a dead bird, its folded corners sticking up like stiffening wings, the broken red wax seal like a spatter of blood. Intuition told her that it announced her doom. In a low voice she said: ‘Tell me what it says.’
Ned sat up on the bed, crossing his legs. ‘It’s about France,’ he said. ‘The Protestants there – they’re called Huguenots – seem to be winning the civil war, with the help of a huge loan from Queen Elizabeth.’
Margery knew this already. She was horrified by the relentless success of heresy, but Ned was pleased about it; Margery tried not to think about this or any of the things that divided them.
Ned went on: ‘So, happily, the Catholic king is holding peace talks with the Protestant leader, a man called Gaspard de Coligny.’
At least Margery could share Ned’s approval of that. They both wanted Christians to stop killing each other. But how could this blight their love?
‘Queen Elizabeth is sending a colleague of ours called Sir Francis Walsingham to the conference as a mediator.’
Margery did not understand that. ‘Do the French really need an Englishman at their peace talks?’
‘No, that’s a cover story.’ He hesitated. ‘Cecil doesn’t say more in the letter, but I can guess the truth. I’ll happily tell you what I think, but you can’t tell anyone else.’
‘All right.’ Margery took part listlessly in this conversation, which had the effect of postponing the dreaded moment when she would know her fate.
‘Walsingham is a spy. The queen wants to know what the king of France intends to do about Scottish Mary. If the Catholics and the Huguenots really do make peace, the king might turn his attention to Scotland, or even England. Elizabeth always wants to know what people might be plotting.’
‘So the queen is sending a spy to France.’
‘When you put it like that, it’s not much of a secret.’
‘All the same I won’t repeat it. But please, for pity’s sake, what has this got to do with you and me?’
‘Walsingham needs an assistant, the man must speak fluent French, and Cecil wants me to go. I think Cecil is displeased with me for staying away from London so long.’
‘So you’re leaving me,’ Margery said miserably. That was the meaning of the dead bird.
‘I don’t have to. We could carry on as we are, loving one another and meeting secretly.’
Margery shook her head. Her mind was clear, now, for the first time in weeks, and she could think straight at last. ‘We take terrible risks every time. We will be discovered one day. Then Bart will kill you and divorce me and take Bartlet away from me.’
‘Then let’s just run away. We’ll tell people we’re married: Mr and Mrs Weaver. We can take a ship to Antwerp: I have a distant cousin there, Jan Wolman, who will give me work.’
‘And Bartlet?’
‘We’ll take him with us – he’s not really Bart’s son anyway.’
‘We’d be guilty of kidnapping the heir to an earldom. It’s probably a capital offence. We could both be executed.’
‘If we rode to Combe Harbour we could be at sea before anyone realizes what we’ve done.’
Margery yearned to say yes. In the past three months she had been happy for the first time since she was fifteen. The longing to be with Ned possessed her body like a fever. But she knew, even if he did not, that he could never be happy working for his cousin in Antwerp. All his adult life Ned had been deeply engaged in the government of England, and he liked it more than anything. He adored Queen Elizabeth, he revered William Cecil, and he was fascinated by the challenges facing them. If she took him away from all that she would ruin him.
And she, too, had her work. In recent weeks she had, shamefully, used her sacred mission as a cover for adulterous meetings, but nonetheless she was dedicated to the task God had assigned her. To give that up would be a transgression as bad as adultery.
It was time to end it. She would confess her sin and ask God’s mercy. She would rededicate herself to the holy duty of bringing the sacraments to deprived English Catholics. Perhaps in time she would come to feel forgiven.
As she reached her decision, she began to cry.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘We can work something out.’
She knew they could not. She embraced him and pulled him to her. They lay back on the bed. She whispered: ‘Ned, my beloved Ned.’ Her tears wetted his face as they kissed. His penis was suddenly erect. ‘Once more,’ she said.
‘It’s not the last time,’ he said as he rolled on top of her.
Yes, it is, she thought; but she found she could not speak, and she gave herself up to sorrow and delight.
*
SIX WEEKS LATER, Margery knew she was pregnant.