by Ken Follett
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 b
ed: 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.’
‘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?’