Page 151 of A Column of Fire

‘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 bed: 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.’