Page 158 of A Column of Fire

He stood in front of Margery, holding her hands, and said: ‘You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Why does Swithin have to die?’

She said nothing, but he could see, watching her face, that a struggle was going on inside her, and he waited.

At last she said: ‘When Bart is away from home, Swithin comes to my bed at night.’

Ned stared at her, aghast. She was being raped – by her father-in-law. It was obscene – and brutal. Hot rage possessed him, and he had to quell his emotions and think rationally. Questions leaped to his mind, but the answers were obvious. ‘You resist him, but he’s too strong, and he tells you that if you scream, he will say you seduced him, and everyone will believe him.’

Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘The man is an animal.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you. But perhaps God will take Swithin’s life tomorrow.’

And if God won’t, I will, Ned vowed, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said: ‘I’ll talk to Luke again. I’ll make sure there’s a fight.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I have to think.’

‘Don’t risk your own life. That would be even worse.’

‘Take your fish home,’ he said.

She hesitated for a long moment. Then she said: ‘You’re the only person I can trust. The only one.’

He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left the cathedral, and he followed her out a minute later.

If he had seen Swithin at that moment, he would have fallen on the earl and got his hands around the man’s throat and choked the life out of him – or, perhaps, been run through by Swithin’s sword, though he was too angry to fear that or anything else.

He turned and looked back at the mighty west front of the cathedral, wet now with the persistent slow English rain. That was the doorway through which people went to find God: how could Ned think of murder there? But he could hardly think of anything else.

He struggled to be cogent. Face it, he said to himself, in a fight with Swithin you might not win, and if you did, you would be hanged for murdering a nobleman. But you are smart, and Swithin is stupid, so come up with a clever way to put an end to him.

He turned away and crossed the market square. It was busy every Saturday, but today it was teeming with all the visitors who had come for tomorrow’s ceremony. Normally, winding his way between the stalls, he would have automatically noted rising and falling prices, shortages and gluts, how much money people had and what they spent it on; but not now. He was aware of acquaintances greeting him, but he was too deep in thought to respond with more than a vague wave or a distracted nod. He reached the front door of the family house and went inside.

His mother had drifted unhappily into old age. Alice seemed to have shrunk inside her skin, and she walked with a stoop. She seemed to have lost interest in the world outside the house: she asked Ned perfunctory questions about his work with the queen and hardly listened to the answers. In the old days she would have been eager to hear about political manoeuvrings, and wanted to know all about how Elizabeth ran her household.

However, since Ned had left the house this morning, something seemed to have changed. His mother was in the main hall with their three servants: Janet Fife, the housekeeper; her husband, lame Malcolm; and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Eileen. They all looked animated. Ned guessed right away that they had good news. As soon as his mother saw him she said: ‘Barney’s back in England!’

Some things went right, Ned reflected, and he managed a smile. ‘Where is he?’

‘He landed at Combe Harbour with theHawk. We got a message: he’s only waiting to collect his pay – three years of it! – then he’s coming home.’

‘And he’s safe and well? I told you he’d been to the New World.’

‘But he’s come home unhurt!’

‘Well, we must prepare to celebrate – kill the fatted calf.’

Alice’s jubilation was punctured. ‘We haven’t got a calf, fatted or otherwise.’

Young Eileen, who had once had a childish crush on Barney, said excitedly: ‘We’ve got a six-month-old piglet out the back that my mother was planning to use for winter bacon. We could roast it on a spit.’

Ned was pleased. The whole family would be together again.

But Margery’s torment came back to him as he sat down with his mother for the midday meal. She chatted animatedly, speculating about what kind of adventures Barney might have had in Seville, Antwerp and Hispaniola. Ned let her talk flow over him while he brooded.