Page 309 of A Column of Fire

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IT WAS ALREADYdark on a rainy evening, but the London taverns and shops were lit up with lanterns and blazing torches, and Margery knew she was not mistaken when she saw her brother across the street. He was standing outside a tavern called the White Swan, apparently saying goodbye to a tall man who Margery thought she recognized.

Margery had not seen her brother for years. That suited her: she did not like to be reminded of the fact that he was Jean Langlais. Because of this terrible secret she had almost turned down Ned’s proposal of marriage fifteen years ago. But if she had done so, she would never have been able to tell him why. She loved him so much, but in the end what tipped the balance was not her love for him but his for her. He longed for her, she knew, and if she had turned him down, without plausible explanation, he would have spent the rest of his life being mystified and wounded. She had power over his life and she was unable to resist the temptation to make him happy.

She could not be comfortable with her secret, but it was like the backache that had afflicted her ever since the birth of Roger: it never ceased to hurt, but she learned to live with it.

She crossed the street. As she did so the second man left, and Rollo turned to go back into the tavern. ‘Rollo!’ she said.

He stopped suddenly at the door, startled, and for a moment he looked so fearful that she felt concerned; then he recognized her. ‘It’s you,’ he said warily.

‘I didn’t know you were in London!’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that Thomas Percy you were talking to?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘I thought so. I recognized his prematurely grey hair.’ Margery did not know what religion Percy adhered to, but some of his famous family were Catholic, and Margery was suspicious. ‘You’re not up to your old tricks, are you, Rollo?’

‘Certainly not. All that is over.’

‘I hope so.’ Margery was not fully reassured. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I’m handling a protracted lawsuit for the earl of Tyne. He’s in dispute with a neighbour over the ownership of a watermill.’

That was true, Margery knew. Her son Roger had mentioned it. ‘Roger says the legal fees and bribes have already cost more than three watermills.’

‘My clever nephew is right. But the earl is obstinate. Come inside.’

They went in and sat down. A man with a big red nose brought Rollo a cup of wine without asking. His proprietorial air suggested to Margery that he was the landlord. Rollo said: ‘Thank you, Hodgkinson.’

‘Something for the lady?’ the man asked.

‘A small glass of ale, please,’ Margery said.

Hodgkinson went away, and Margery said to Rollo: ‘Are you lodging here?’

‘Yes.’

She was puzzled. ‘Doesn’t the earl of Tyne have a London house?’

‘No, he just rents one when Parliament is sitting.’

‘You should use Shiring House. Bartlet would be happy for you to stay there.’

‘There are no servants there, just a janitor, except when Bartlet comes to London.’

‘Bartlet would gladly send a couple of people up here from New Castle to look after you, if you asked him.’

Rollo looked peeved. ‘Then they would spend his money on beef and wine for themselves and feed me bacon and beer, and if I complained, they’d tell Bartlet I was too high-handed and demanding. Frankly, I prefer a tavern.’

Margery was not sure whether he was irritated by her or by the thought of dishonest servants, but she decided to drop the question. If he wanted to stay in a tavern, he could. ‘How are you, anyway?’ she said.

‘The same as ever. The earl of Tyne is a good master. How about you? Is Ned well?’

‘He’s in Paris right now.’

‘Really?’ said Rollo, interested. ‘What’s he doing there?’

‘His work,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’m not really sure.’