Page 179 of A Column of Fire

‘I don’t live the life of a monk . . .’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘But somehow I never come across a woman I want to spend my life with.’

‘With one exception,’ said Barney, looking over Ned’s shoulder.

Ned turned and saw Margery Fitzgerald. She must have been in church during the service, but he had not seen her in the crowd. Now his heart faltered. She had dressed sombrely for the funeral, but as always she wore a hat, today a purple velvet cap pinned at an angle to her luxuriant curls. She was speaking earnestly to old Father Paul, a former monk at Kingsbridge Priory, now a canon at the cathedral, and probably a secret Catholic. Margery’s obstinate Catholicism should have repelled Ned, but on the contrary he admired her idealism. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one of her, and she married someone else,’ he said. This was a fruitless subject of discussion, he thought impatiently. He said: ‘Where will your next sea voyage take you?’

‘I want to go to the New World again. I don’t like the slave trade – the cargo is too liable to die on the voyage – but over there they need just about everything, except sugar.’

Ned smiled. ‘And I seem to remember you mentioning a girl . . .’

‘Did I? When?’

‘That sounds to me like a yes.’

Barney looked bashful, as if he did not want to admit to a deeper feeling. ‘Well, it’s true that I’ve never met anyone like Bella.’

‘That was seven years ago.’

‘I know. She’s probably married to a wealthy planter by now, with two or three children.’

‘But you want to find out for sure.’ Ned was quite surprised. ‘You’re not very different from me after all.’

They drifted towards the ruined monastery. ‘The Church never did anything with these old buildings,’ Ned said. ‘Mother had a dream of turning them into an indoor market.’

‘She was smart. It’s a good idea. We should do it one day.’

‘I’ll never have enough money.’

‘I might, though, if the sea is kind to me.’

Margery approached, followed by a lady-in-waiting and a man-at-arms: she rarely went anywhere alone, now that she was the countess of Shiring. Her little retinue stood a few yards off as she shook Barney’s hand, then Ned’s, and said: ‘What a sad day.’

Barney said: ‘Thank you, Margery.’

‘But a wonderful crowd for the funeral. Your mother was very much loved.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Bart begs your pardon for not being here – he had to go to Winchester.’

Barney said: ‘Will you excuse me? I have to speak to Dan Cobley. I want him to invest in my next voyage – to spread the risk.’ He moved away, leaving Ned alone with Margery.

Margery’s voice changed to a low, intimate tone. ‘How are you, Ned?’

‘My mother was sixty, so it wasn’t a shock to me,’ Ned said. That was what he told everyone, but it was glib, and he felt an urge to say more to Margery. He added bleakly: ‘But you only get one mother.’

‘I know. I didn’t even like my father, especially after he made me marry Bart, but still I cried when he passed away.’

‘That generation has almost gone.’ Ned smiled. ‘Remember that Twelfth Night party, twelve years ago, when William Cecil came? In those days they seemed to rule the world: your father, my mother and Bart’s father.’

Margery’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Of course I remember.’

Ned knew she was thinking of the fevered minutes they had spent kissing in the disused bread oven. He smiled at the memory. On impulse he said: ‘Come to the house for a cup of wine. Let’s talk about old times. This is a day for remembering.’

They threaded their way slowly through the market. It was crowded: business did not stop for a funeral. They crossed the main street and went into the Willard house. Ned showed Margery into the little front parlour, where his mother had always sat, with the view of the west front of the cathedral.