Page 147 of A Column of Fire

Barney went to Bacon at the wheel. ‘Where are we heading, Captain?’

‘Home,’ said Bacon. ‘To Combe Harbour.’ When Barney said nothing, he added: ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Barney looked back at Hispaniola, disappearing now into a haze under the Caribbean sun. ‘It was,’ he said.

13

Margery knew she was committing a serious crime when she picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor of the chapel, preparing it for Mass.

The small village of Tench had no church, but this chapel was within the manor house. Earl Swithin rarely went to Tench, and the building was in bad repair, dirty and damp. When Margery had cleaned the floor she opened a window to let in some fresh air, and in the dawn light it began to feel more like a holy place.

Stephen Lincoln put candles on the altar, either side of a small jewelled crucifix he had purloined from Kingsbridge Cathedral, way back in the early days of Elizabeth’s reign, before he had officially left the priesthood. Around his shoulders he was wearing a magnificent cope he had rescued from a Protestant bonfire of priestly vestments. It was gorgeously embroidered with gold and silver thread and coloured silk. The embroidery depicted the martyrdom of Thomas Becket. It also showed random foliage and, for some reason, several parrots.

Margery brought a wooden chair from the hall and sat down to prepare herself for Mass.

There were no clocks in Tench but everyone could see sunrise and, as the pale light of a summer morning crept through the east window and turned the grey stone walls to gold, the villagers came into the chapel in their family groups, quietly greeting their neighbours. Stephen stood with his back to the congregation and they stared, mesmerized, at the colourful images on his cope.

Margery knew how many people lived in Tench, for it was part of the Shiring earldom, and she was pleased to see that every inhabitant showed up, including the oldest resident, Granny Harborough, who was carried in, and was the only other member of the congregation who sat down for the service.

Stephen began the prayers. Margery closed her eyes and let the familiar sound of the Latin words penetrate her mind and submerge her soul in the precious tranquillity of feeling right with the world and with God.

Travelling around the county of Shiring, sometimes with her husband Bart and sometimes without him, Margery would talk to people about their religious feelings. Men and women liked her, and were more willing to open up to her because she was an unthreatening young woman. She generally targeted the village steward, a man paid to take care of the earl’s interests. He would already know that the earl’s family were staunch Catholics and, if handled gently, he would soon tell Margery where the villagers stood. In poor, remote places such as Tench it was not unusual to find that they were all Catholic. And then she would arrange for Stephen to bring them the sacraments.

It was a crime, but Margery was not sure how dangerous this was. In the five years since Elizabeth had come to the throne, no one had been executed for Catholicism. Stephen had the impression, from talking to other ex-priests, that clandestine services such as this one were, in fact, common; but there was no official reaction, no campaign to stamp them out.

It seemed that Queen Elizabeth was willing to tolerate such things. Ned Willard hinted as much. He came home to Kingsbridge once or twice a year, and Margery usually saw him in the cathedral, and spoke to him even though his face and his voice provoked wicked thoughts in her mind. He said that Elizabeth had no interest in punishing Catholics. However, he added, as if warning her personally, anyone who challenged Elizabeth’s authority as head of the Church of England – or, even worse, questioned her right to the throne – would be treated harshly.

Margery had no wish to make any kind of political statement. All the same, she could not feel safe. She thought it would be a mistake to relax vigilance. Monarchs could change their minds.

Fear was always present in her life, like a bell ringing for a distant funeral, but it did not keep her from her duty. She was thrilled that she had been chosen as the agent who would preserve the true religion in the county of Shiring, and she accepted the danger as part of the mission. If one day it got her into serious trouble, she would find the strength to deal with that, she felt sure. Or nearly sure.

The congregation here would protect themselves by walking, later in the morning, to the next village, where a priest would hold a Protestant service using the prayer book authorized by Elizabeth and the English-language Bible introduced by her heretical father, King Henry VIII. They had to go, anyway: the fine for not attending church was a shilling, and no one in Tench could spare a shilling.

Margery was the first to receive Holy Communion, to give courage to the others. Then she stood aside to watch the congregation. Their weathered peasant faces glowed as they received the sacrament that had been denied them for so long. Finally, Granny Harborough was carried to the front. Almost certainly this would be the last time for her here on earth. Her wrinkled visage was suffused with joy. Margery could imagine what she was thinking. Her soul was saved, and she was at peace.

Now she could die happy.

*

ONE MORNING IN BEDSusannah, the dowager countess of Brecknock, said: ‘I’d marry you, Ned Willard, if I was twenty years younger, I really would.’

She was forty-five years old, a cousin of Earl Swithin. Ned had known her by sight since childhood, and had never dreamed that he might be her lover. She lay beside him with her head on his chest and one plump thigh thrown over his knees. He could easily imagine being married to her. She was clever and funny and as lustful as a tomcat. She had ways in bed that he had never heard of, and she made him play games he had not even imagined. She had a sensual face and warm brown eyes and big soft breasts. Most of all, she helped him to stop thinking about Margery in bed with Bart.

She said: ‘But it’s a terrible idea, of course. I’m past the age when I could give you children. I could help a young man’s career, but with Sir William Cecil as your mentor you don’t need any help. And I don’t even have a fortune to leave you.’

And we’re not in love, Ned thought, though he did not say it. He liked Susannah enormously, and she had given him intense pleasure for a year, but he did not quite love her, and he was pretty sure she did not love him. He had not known that a relationship such as this was even possible. He had learned so much from her.

‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure you’ll ever get over poor Margery.’

The one drawback of an older lover, Ned had learned, was that nothing could be concealed from her. He was not sure how she did it but she guessed everything, even things he did not want her to know. Especially things he did not want her to know.

‘Margery is a lovely girl, and she deserved you,’ Susannah went on. ‘But her family were desperate to join the nobility, and they just used her.’

‘The Fitzgerald men are the scum of the earth,’ Ned said with feeling. ‘I know them too damn well.’

‘Doubtless. Unfortunately, marriage is not just about being in love. For instance, I really need to be married.’

Ned was shocked. ‘Why?’