by Ken Follett
But here there was something unusual. On the wall opposite the crucifixion was a map of Kingsbridge. Ned had never seen such a thing, and he studied it with interest. It clearly showed the town divided into four by the main street, running north–south, and the high street running east–west. The cathedral and the former priory occupied the south-east quarter; the malodorous industrial neighbourhood the south-west. All the churches were marked and some of the houses too, including the Fitzgeralds’ and the Willards’. The river formed the eastern border of the town, then turned like a dog’s leg. It had once formed the southern border too, but the town had extended over the water, thanks to Merthin’s bridge, and there was now a big suburb on the far bank.
The two pictures represented Margery’s parents, Ned noted: her father, the politician, would have hung the map; and her mother, the devout Catholic, the crucifixion.
It was not Margery who came into the great hall but her brother, Rollo. He was taller than Ned, and good-looking, with black hair. Ned and Rollo had been at school together, but they had never been friends: Rollo was four years older. Rollo had been the cleverest boy in the school, and had been put in charge of the younger pupils; but Ned had refused to regard him as a master and had never accepted his authority. To make matters worse, it had soon become clear that Ned was going to be at least as clever as Rollo. There had been quarrels and fights until Rollo went away to study at Kingsbridge College, Oxford.
Ned tried to hide his dislike and suppress his irritation. He said politely: ‘I see there’s a building site next to the Bell. Is your father putting up a new house?’
‘Yes. This place is rather old-fashioned.’
‘Business must be good at Combe.’ Sir Reginald was Receiver of Customs at Combe Harbour. It was a lucrative post, granted to him by Mary Tudor when she became queen, as a reward for his support.
Rollo said: ‘So, you’re back from Calais. How was it?’
‘I learned a lot. My father built a pier and warehouse there, managed by my Uncle Dick.’ Edmund, Ned’s father had died ten years ago, and his mother had run the business ever since. ‘We ship English iron ore, tin and lead from Combe Harbour to Calais, and from there it’s sold all over Europe.’ The Calais operation was the foundation of the Willard family business.
‘How has the war affected it?’ England was at war with France, but Rollo’s concern was transparently fake. In truth he relished the danger to the Willard fortune.
Ned downplayed it. ‘Calais is well defended,’ he said, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘It’s surrounded by forts that have protected it ever since it became part of England two hundred years ago.’ He ran out of patience. ‘Is Margery at home?’
‘Do you have a reason to see her?’
It was a rude question, but Ned pretended not to notice. He opened his satchel. ‘I brought her a present from France,’ he said. He took out a length of shimmering lavender silk, carefully folded. ‘I think the colour will suit her.’
‘She won’t want to see you.’
Ned frowned. What was this? ‘I’m quite sure she will.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’
Ned chose his words carefully. ‘I admire your sister, Rollo, and I believe she is fond of me.’
‘You’re going to find that things have changed while you’ve been away, young Ned,’ said Rollo condescendingly.
Ned did not take this seriously. He thought Rollo was just being slyly malicious. ‘All the same, please ask her.’
Rollo smiled, and that worried Ned, for it was the smile he had worn when he had permission to flog one of the younger pupils at the school.
Rollo said: ‘Margery is engaged to be married.’
‘What?’ Ned stared at him, feeling shocked and hurt, as if he had been clubbed from behind. He had not been sure what to expect, but he had not dreamed of this.
Rollo just looked back, smiling.
Ned said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Who to?’
‘She is going to marry Viscount Shiring.’
Ned said: ‘Bart?’ That was incredible. Of all the young men in the county, the slow-witted, humourless Bart Shiring was the least likely to capture Margery’s heart. The prospect that he would one day be the earl of Shiring might have been enough for many girls – but not for Margery, Ned was sure.
Or, at least, he would have been sure a year ago.
He said: ‘Are you making this up?’
It was a foolish question, he realized immediately. Rollo could be crafty and spiteful, but not stupid: he would not invent such a story, for fear of looking foolish when the truth came out.
Rollo shrugged. ‘The engagement will be announced tomorrow at the earl’s banquet.’
Tomorrow was the twelfth day of Christmas. If the earl of Shiring was having a celebration, it was certain that Ned’s family had been invited. So Ned would be there to hear the announcement, if Rollo was telling the truth.
‘Does she love him?’ Ned blurted out.
Rollo was not expecting that question, and it was his turn to be startled. ‘I don’t see why I should discuss that with you.’
His equivocation made Ned suspect that the answer was No. ‘Why do you look so shifty?’
Rollo bridled. ‘You’d better go, before I feel obliged to thrash you the way I used to.’
‘We’re not in school any longer,’ Ned said. ‘You might be surprised by which of us gets thrashed.’ He wanted to fight Rollo, and he was angry enough not to care whether he would win.
But Rollo was more circumspect. He walked to the door and held it open. ‘Goodbye,’ he said.
Ned hesitated. He did not want to go without seeing Margery. If he had known where her room was he might have run up the stairs. But he would look stupid opening bedroom doors at random in someone else’s house.
He picked up the silk and put it back in his satchel. ‘This isn’t the last word,’ he said. ‘You can’t keep her locked away for long. I will speak to her.’
Rollo ignored that, and stood patiently at the door.
Ned itched to punch Rollo, but supressed the urge with an effort: they were men now, and he could not start a fight with so little provocation. He felt outmanoeuvred. He hesitated for a long moment. He could not think what to do.
So he went out.
Rollo said: ‘Don’t hurry back.’
Ned walked the short distance down the main street to the house where he had been born.
The Willard place was opposite the west front of the cathedral. It had been enlarged, over the years, with haphazard extensions, and now it sprawled untidily over several thousand square feet. But it was comfortable, with massive fireplaces, a large dining room for convivial meals, and good feather beds. The place was home to Alice Willard and her two sons plus Grandma, the mother of Ned’s late father.
Ned went in and found his mother in the front parlour, which she used as an office when not at the waterfront warehouse. She leaped up from her chair at the writing table and hugged and kissed him. She was heavier than she had been a year ago, he saw right away; but he decided not to say so.
He looked around. The room had not changed. Her favourite painting was there, a picture of Christ and the adulteress surrounded by a crowd of hypocritical Pharisees who wanted to stone her to death. Alice liked to quote Jesus: ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ It was also an erotic picture, for the woman’s breasts were exposed, a sight that had at one time given young Ned vivid dreams.
He looked out of the parlour window across the market square to the elegant façade of the great church, with its long lines of lancet windows and pointed arches. It had been there every day of his life: only the sky above it changed with the seasons. It gave him a vague but powerful sense of reassurance. People were born and died, cities could rise and fall, wars began and ended, but Kingsbridge Cathedral would last until the Day of Judgement.
‘So you went into the cathedral to give thanks,’ she said.
‘You’re a good boy.’
He could not deceive her. ‘I went to the Fitzgerald house as well,’ he said. He saw a brief look of disappointment flash across her face, and he said: ‘I hope you don’t mind that I went there first.’
‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘But I should remember what it’s like to be young and in love.’
She was forty-eight. After Edmund died, everyone had said she should marry again, and little Ned, eight years old, had been terrified that he would get a cruel stepfather. But she had been a widow for ten years now, and he guessed she would stay single.
Ned said: ‘Rollo told me that Margery is going to marry Bart Shiring.’
‘Oh, dear. I was afraid of that. Poor Ned. I’m so sorry.’
‘Why does her father have the right to tell her who to marry?’
‘Fathers expect some degree of control. Your father and I didn’t have to worry about that. I never had a daughter . . . who lived.’
Ned knew that. His mother had given birth to two girls before Barney. Ned was familiar with the two little tombstones in the graveyard on the north side of Kingsbridge Cathedral.
He said: ‘A woman has to love her husband. You wouldn’t have forced a daughter to marry a brute like Bart.’
‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t.’
‘What is wrong with those people?’
‘Sir Reginald believes in hierarchies and authority. As mayor, he thinks an alderman’s job is to make decisions and then enforce them. When your father was mayor he said that aldermen should rule the town by serving it.’
Ned said impatiently: ‘That sounds like two ways of looking at the same thing.’
‘It’s not, though,’ said his mother. ‘It’s two different worlds.’
*
‘I WILL NOT marry Bart Shiring!’ said Margery Fitzgerald to her mother.
Margery was upset and angry. For twelve months she had been waiting for Ned to return, thinking about him every day, longing to see his wry smile and golden-brown eyes; and now she had learned, from the servants, that he was back in Kingsbridge, and he had come to the house, but they had not told her, and he had gone away! She was furious at her family for deceiving her, and she wept with frustration.
‘I’m not asking you to marry Viscount Shiring today,’ said Lady Jane. ‘Just go and talk to him.’
They were in Margery’s bedroom. In one corner was a prie-dieu, a prayer desk, where she knelt twice a day, facing the crucifix on the wall, and counted her prayers with the help of a string of carved ivory beads. The rest of the room was all luxury: a four-poster bed with a feather mattress and richly coloured hangings; a big carved-oak chest for her many dresses; a tapestry of a forest scene.
This room had seen many arguments with her mother over the years. But Margery was a woman now. She was petite, but a little taller and heavier than her tiny, fierce mother; and she felt it was no longer a foregone conclusion that the fight would end in victory for Lady Jane and humiliation for Margery.
Margery said: ‘What’s the point? He’s come here to court me. If I talk to him, he’ll feel encouraged. And then he’ll be even angrier when he realizes the truth.’
‘You can be polite.’
Margery did not want to talk about Bart. ‘How could you not tell me that Ned was here?’ she said. ‘That was dishonest.’
‘I didn’t know until he’d gone! Only Rollo saw him.’
‘Rollo was doing your will.’
‘Children should do their parents’ will,’ her mother said. ‘You know the commandment: “Honour thy father and mother”. It’s your duty to God.’
All her short life Margery had struggled with this. She knew that God wished her to be obedient, but she had a wilful and rebellious nature – as she had so often been told – and she found it extraordinarily difficult to be good. However, when this was pointed out to her, she always suppressed her nature and became compliant. God’s will was more important than anything else, she knew that. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ she said.
‘Go and talk to Bart,’ said Lady Jane.
‘Very well.’
‘Just comb your hair, dear.’
Margery had a last flash of defiance. ‘My hair’s fine,’ she said, and before her mother could argue she left the room.
Bart was in the hall, wearing new yellow hose. He was teasing one of the dogs, offering a piece of ham then snatching it away at the last moment.
Lady Jane followed Margery down the stairs and said: ‘Take Lord Shiring into the library and show him the books.’
‘He’s not interested in books,’ Margery snapped.
‘Margery!’
Bart said: ‘I’d like to see the books.’
Margery shrugged. ‘Follow me, please,’ she said, and led the way into the next room. She left the door open, but her mother did not join them.
Her father’s books were arranged on three shelves. ‘By God, what a lot of them you have!’ Bart exclaimed. ‘A man would waste his life away reading them all.’
There were fifty or so, more than would normally be seen outside a university or cathedral library, and a sign of wealth. Some were in Latin or French.
Margery made an effort to play host. She took down a book in English. ‘This is The Pastime of Pleasure,’ she said. ‘That might interest you.’
He gave a leer and moved closer. ‘Pleasure is a great pastime.’ He seemed pleased with the witticism.
She stepped back. ‘It’s a long poem about the education of a knight.’
‘Ah.’ Bart lost interest in the book. Looking along the shelf, he picked out The Book of Cookery. ‘This is important,’ he said. ‘A wife should make sure her husband has good food, don’t you think?’
‘Of course.’ Margery was trying hard to think of something to talk about. What was Bart interested in? War, perhaps. ‘People are blaming the queen for the war with France.’
‘Why is it her fault?’
‘They say that Spain and France are fighting over possessions in Italy, a conflict that has nothing to do with England, and we’re involved only because our Queen Mary is married to King Felipe of Spain and has to back him.’
Bart nodded. ‘A wife must be led by her husband.’
‘That’s why a girl must choose very carefully.’ This pointed remark went over Bart’s head. Margery went on: ‘Some say our queen should not be married to a foreign monarch.’
Bart tired of the subject. ‘We shouldn’t be talking of politics. Women ought to leave such matters to their husbands.’
‘Women have so many duties to their husbands,’ Margery said, knowing that her ironic tone would be lost on Bart. ‘We have to cook for them, and be led by them, and leave politics to them . . . I’m glad I haven’t got a husband, life is simpler this way.’
‘But every woman needs a man.’
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘I mean it.’ He closed his eyes, concentrating, then came out with a short rehearsed speech. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I love you. Please be my wife.’
Her reaction was visceral. ‘No!’
Bart looked baffled. He did not know how to respond. Clearly he had been led to expect the opposite answer. After a pause he said: ‘But my wife will become a countess one day!’
‘And you must marry a girl who longs for that with all her heart.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’ She tried not to be harsh. It was difficult: understatement was lost on him. ‘Bart, you’re strong and handsome, and I’m sure brave too, but I could never love you.’ Ned came into her mind: with him she never found herself trying to think of something to talk about. ‘I will marry a man who is clever and thoughtful and who wants his wife to be more than just the most senior of his servants.’ There, she thought; even Bart can’t fail to understand that.
He moved with surprising speed and grabbed her upper arms. His grip was strong. ‘Women like to be mastered,’ he said.
‘Who told you t
hat? Believe me, I don’t!’ She tried to pull away from him but could not.
He drew her to him and kissed her.
On another day she might just have turned her face away. Lips did not hurt. But she was still sad and bitter about having missed Ned. Her mind was full of thoughts of what might have happened: how she might have kissed him and touched his hair and pulled his body to hers. His imaginary presence was so strong that Bart’s embrace repelled her to the point of panic. Without thinking, she kneed him in the balls as hard as she could.
He roared with pain and shock, released her from his grasp, and bent over, groaning in agony, eyes squeezed shut, both hands between his thighs.
Margery ran to the door, but before she got there her mother stepped into the library, obviously having been listening outside.
Lady Jane looked at Bart and understood immediately what had happened. She turned to Margery and said: ‘You foolish child.’
‘I won’t marry this brute!’ Margery cried.
Her father came in. He was tall with black hair, like Rollo, but unlike Rollo he was heavily freckled. He said coldly: ‘You will marry whomever your father chooses.’
That ominous statement scared Margery. She began to suspect that she had underestimated her parents’ determination. It was a mistake to let her indignation take over. She tried to calm herself and think logically.
Still passionate, but more measured, she said: ‘I’m not a princess! We’re gentry, not aristocracy. My marriage isn’t a political alliance. I’m the daughter of a merchant. People like us don’t have arranged marriages.’
That angered Sir Reginald, and he flushed under his freckles. ‘I am a knight!’
‘Not an earl!’
‘I am descended from the Ralph Fitzgerald who became earl of Shiring two centuries ago – as is Bart. Ralph Fitzgerald was the son of Sir Gerald and the brother of Merthin the bridge-builder. The blood of the English nobility runs in my veins.’
Margery saw with dismay that she was up against not just her father’s inflexible will but his family pride as well. She did not know how she could overcome that combination. The only thing she was sure of was that she must not show weakness.
