Authors: Ken Follett
The tones of voice within the room changed. Elizabeth began to sound commanding. Swithin went the other way, countering her coldness with a voice so amiable it was almost lecherous.
If something unpleasant should happen, Elizabeth could shout for help. Except that she never admitted needing help. And Swithin might be able to silence her anyway.
Nell reappeared carrying a tray with a jug of wine, two goblets, and a plate of cakes. Ned held up a hand to stop her entering the room. ‘Not yet,’ he murmured.
A minute later Elizabeth made a noise that was almost a scream. It was followed by a crash and a tinkling sound that Ned guessed was a bowl of apples being knocked to the floor. He hesitated, waiting for Elizabeth to shout. But there followed a silence. Ned did not know what to do. He found the silence more sinister than anything.
Unable to bear the suspense, he threw open the door, seized the tray from Nell, and stepped inside.
On the far side of the room, Earl Swithin held Elizabeth in a bear hug, kissing her. Ned’s worst fears had been justified.
Elizabeth turned her head from side to side, trying to escape his mouth, and Ned saw her small fists beating ineffectually on Swithin’s broad back. Clearly she was unwilling. But this would be Swithin’s idea of courtship, Ned thought. He would imagine that a woman might be overcome by the strength of his passion, yield to his embraces, and fall in love with him for his forceful masculinity.
Elizabeth would not be won that way if Swithin were the last man on earth.
In a loud voice Ned said: ‘Some refreshments for you, Earl.’ He was shaking with fear but he managed to make his voice jovial. ‘A glass of sherry wine, perhaps?’ He put the tray down on a table beside the window.
Swithin turned to Ned but kept tight hold of Elizabeth’s slim wrist in his deformed left hand. ‘Get out of here, you little turd,’ he said.
His persistence shocked Ned. How could Swithin continue now that he had been seen? Even an earl could be executed for rape, especially if there were three independent witnesses – and both Tom and Nell were in the doorway, watching, though too terrified to enter.
But Swithin was nothing if not headstrong.
Ned realized he could not leave now, no matter what.
With an effort he controlled the shaking of his hands enough to pour wine into a goblet. ‘And the kitchen has kindly sent some cakes. You must be hungry after your journey.’
Elizabeth said: ‘Let go of my arm, Swithin.’ She tugged, but even though he was holding her with his mutilated hand, the one that had lost two and a half fingers, she could not free herself.
Swithin put his hand on the dagger at his belt. ‘Leave the room instantly, young Willard, or by God I’ll slit your throat.’
Ned knew he was capable of it. At New Castle, in his rages, he had injured servants in several incidents that had been smoothed over, later, with a combination of threats and compensation. And if Ned defended himself, he could be hanged for wounding an earl.
But he could not leave Elizabeth now.
The mention of a knife inspired him. ‘There’s been a fight in the stables,’ he said, extemporizing. ‘Two of your companions got into an argument. The grooms managed to pull them apart, but one seems badly injured – a knife wound.’
‘Bloody liar,’ said Swithin, but clearly he was not sure, and the indecision cooled his ardour.
Behind Ned, Nell and Tom at last came hesitantly into the room. Nell knelt down and started to pick up pieces of the broken fruit bowl. Tom cottoned on to Ned’s story and said: ‘Your man is bleeding quite badly, Earl Swithin.’
Common sense began to prevail. Swithin seemed to realize that he could not stab three of Elizabeth’s servants without getting into trouble. And his plan of seduction had collapsed. He looked furious, but let go of Elizabeth. She immediately moved away from him, rubbing her wrist.
With a grunt of frustration, Swithin strode from the room.
Ned almost collapsed with relief. Nell began to cry. Tom Parry took a gulp of sherry directly from the jug.
Ned said: ‘My lady, you should go to your private chamber with Nell and bar the door. Tom, you and I should vanish too.’
‘I agree,’ said Elizabeth, but she did not leave immediately. She moved closer to Ned and said quietly: ‘There was no fight in the stables, was there?’
‘No. It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment.’
She smiled. ‘How old are you, Ned?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘You risked your life for me.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips briefly but tenderly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Then she left the room.
*
M
OST PEOPLE BATHED
twice a year, in spring and autumn, but princesses were fastidious, and Elizabeth bathed more often. It was a major operation, with maidservants carrying big two-handled laundry tubs of hot water from the kitchen fire to her bedchamber, hurrying up the stairs before the water cooled.
She took a bath the day after Swithin’s visit, as if to wash away her disgust. She had said no more about Swithin, after kissing Ned, but Ned thought he had won her trust.
Ned knew he had made an enemy of a powerful earl, but he hoped it would not last: Swithin was quick-tempered and vengeful but, Ned thought, he had a short attention span. With luck he would nurse his grudge against Ned only until a better one came along.
Sir William Cecil had arrived shortly after Swithin left, and next morning he got down to work with Ned. Cecil’s office was in the same wing as Elizabeth’s private suite. He sent Ned to Tom Parry’s office to fetch a ledger of expenditure for another house Elizabeth owned. Coming back with the heavy book in his hand, Ned walked along Elizabeth’s corridor, where the floorboards were puddled with water spilled by the maids. As he passed her suite, he saw that the door was open, and – stupidly – he glanced in.
Elizabeth had just got out of her bath. The tub itself was screened off, but she had stepped across the room to pick up a large white linen sheet with which to dry herself. There should have been a maid waiting beside the tub holding the towel, and of course the door should have been shut; but someone had been dilatory, and Elizabeth was impatient with dozy servants.
Ned had never seen a woman naked. He had no sisters, he had never gone that far with a girlfriend, and he had not visited a brothel.
He froze, staring. The hot bathwater, steaming faintly, ran from her dainty shoulders down her small breasts to her rounded hips and her strong thighs, muscular from riding. Her skin was creamy white and her pubic hair was a wonderful red-gold. Ned knew he should look away instantly, but he was enchanted, and could not move.
She caught his eye and was startled, but only for a moment. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.
Then she smiled.
A moment later she slammed the door.
Ned hurried along the corridor, his heart beating like a big drum. For what he had just done he could be sacked from his job, put in the stocks, or flogged – or all three.
But she had smiled.
The smile had been warm, friendly, and a little coquettish. Ned could imagine a naked woman smiling like that at her husband or lover. The smile seemed to say that this glimpse of forbidden loveliness was a boon she was happy to grant him.
He told nobody what had happened.
That evening he waited for an explosion of anger, but none came. Elizabeth did not mention the incident, to him or anyone else. Slowly Ned became sure he was not going to be punished. Then he began to doubt whether it had really happened. It was more like something he might have dreamed.
But he would remember that vision for the rest of his life.
*
M
ARGERY WAS KISSED
by Bart for the first time in the new house, Priory Gate.
Sir Reginald Fitzgerald, Lady Jane and Rollo were proudly showing Earl Swithin around. Margery followed with Bart, who was back from his posting to Combe Harbour now that the threat of a French invasion seemed to have faded. Margery knew that Reginald had sold the rest of the priory back to the cathedral chapter, as promised. The price had been low, but enough to pay for the building work on the new house to be completed.
It was a grand, impressive modern structure on the market square, made of the same pale limestone as the cathedral. It had rows of large windows and tall clustered chimneys. Inside there seemed to be staircases everywhere and dozens of fireplaces. It smelled of new paint, some of the chimneys smoked, and several of the doors would not close properly, but it was habitable, and servants were already moving furniture here from the old house on the high street.
Margery did not want to live here. For her, Priory Gate would always smell of bloodshed and fraud. Philbert Cobley had been burned to death and Alice Willard had been ruined so that this house could be finished. Philbert and Alice had committed sins, of course, and so had to be punished, but Margery’s sharp moral discrimination would not permit her to content herself with such blurring of distinctions: the severe sentences had been prompted by impure motives. Bishop Julius had got the priory back for the cathedral and Margery’s father had gained a lot of money that was not really his.
A mere girl had no business thinking such thoughts, but she could not help it, and it made her angry. Bad behaviour by bishops and leading Catholics was part of what drove Protestantism – could they not see that? However, there was nothing she could do but seethe.
As the party entered the Long Gallery, Bart lagged behind, grabbed Margery’s elbow, and pulled her back; then, when the others were out of sight, he kissed her.
Bart was tall and handsome and well dressed, and Margery knew that she must love him, for he had been chosen as her husband by her parents, who had been set in authority over her by God. So she kissed him back, opening her mouth, and let him explore her body, feel her breasts and even press his hand between her legs. It was difficult, especially as she kept remembering that Ned had kissed her in this house when it was half built. She tried to summon the feelings that used to come over her with Ned. It did not really work, but it made the ordeal a little easier to bear.
She broke the embrace and saw Swithin watching them.
‘We were wondering where you two had got to,’ he said, then he gave a conspiratorial grin and a lascivious wink. Margery found it creepy that he had stood there, watching, until she had noticed him.
The party sat down in the room designated as Sir Reginald’s parlour to talk about the wedding. It was just a month away. Margery and Bart would be married in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and there would be a banquet here in the new house. Margery had ordered a dress in pale blue silk and an elaborate headdress in the jaunty style she loved. Earl Swithin wanted to know all the details of her outfit, almost as if he would be marrying her himself. Her parents had to have new clothes, too, and there were a hundred other decisions to be made. There would be entertainment as well as food and drink for the guests, and Sir Reginald would have to provide free beer for all comers at the gate.
They were discussing what play would be appropriate to finish the festivities when the head groom, Percy, came in followed by a young man with the dust of the road on his clothes. ‘A courier from London, Sir Reginald,’ said Percy. ‘He assures me you would not want to delay hearing his news.’
Sir Reginald looked at the courier. ‘What is it?’
‘I bring a letter from Davy Miller, sir.’ Miller was Reginald’s business representative in London. The courier held out a slim leather wallet.
‘Tell me what it says, man,’ said Sir Reginald impatiently.
‘The queen is ill.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘The doctors say there is a malignant growth in her female parts that is causing her belly to swell.’
Rollo said: ‘Ah. Those false pregnancies . . .’
‘It is so bad that she sometimes falls unconscious.’
‘The poor queen,’ said Margery. She had mixed feelings about Mary Tudor. The queen was an admirably strong-willed and devout woman, but the burnings of Protestants were wrong. Why could people not be devout and merciful at the same time, like Jesus?
Rollo said worriedly: ‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘We understand that she may take some months to die, but she will not recover.’
Margery saw Rollo turn a little pale, and a moment later she understood why. ‘This is the worst possible news,’ he said. ‘Mary Tudor has no child, and young Mary Stuart has made herself a less attractive successor by marrying the wretched French boy. That makes Elizabeth Tudor the leading candidate – and all our efforts to bring her under control have failed.’
Rollo was right. Margery had not seen it as quickly as he had, but as soon as he said it she understood, and so did her father and the earl. England was in danger of falling back into the swamp of heresy. She shivered.
Swithin said: ‘Elizabeth must not become queen! That would be a catastrophe.’
Margery looked at Bart, but he seemed bored. Her husband-to-be was impatient with politics. He preferred to talk about horses and dogs. She felt annoyed with him: the topic was their future!
Reginald said: ‘Mary Stuart is married to a French prince, and the English people don’t want another foreign king.’
‘The English people will have no say in the matter,’ Swithin grunted. ‘Tell them now that their next monarch will be Mary Stuart. By the time it happens they will have got used to the idea.’
Margery thought that was wishful thinking, and her father showed, by his next remark, that he agreed. ‘We can tell them anything,’ said Reginald. ‘But will they believe us?’
Rollo answered the question. ‘They might,’ he said with a speculative air. He was thinking on his feet, Margery could tell, but what he was saying made sense. ‘Especially if the announcement was endorsed by King Felipe.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Sir Reginald. ‘First we would have to get King Felipe to agree.’
Margery began to see a glimmer of hope.
Rollo said: ‘Then we will go and see King Felipe.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In Brussels, leading his army against the French. But that war is almost over.’