S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Try me.”

“I thought that one day, when he was older, he might somehow be able to find out my name and come looking for me.”

“Who?”

“My son, of course. I had this idea that, when he grew, he would realise he did not look like the people he believed to be his parents, and then the truth would come out, and he might want to learn of his real mother. I didn’t want him to find me dead or living in a bawdy house if that day came. And this Sir Edward seemed affable enough, when he came to visit. The way my aunt fawned on him, you’d have thought he was the Second Coming. So I made my choice. I would swallow my pride and marry a man I did not care for. I would not be the first woman to have done that, in exchange for security and a house to live in.”

She fell silent then, and picked at her bread.

“Tell me about this Sir Edward Kingsley,” I prompted, when it seemed she had become sunk in her own thoughts.

“He was twenty-seven years older than me, for a start.” She curled her lip in distaste. I tried to look as sympathetic as I could, bearing in mind that I was a good sixteen years her senior and had once desired her myself. And did still, if I was honest, despite the alteration in her. I could not help wondering how she would feel about that; would the idea prompt the same disgust that she expressed at the thought of this aging husband?

“He was a magistrate in Canterbury,” she continued. “Do you know the city?”

“I have never been, but of course I know it by reputation—it was one of the greatest centres of pilgrimage in Europe, until your King Henry VIII had the great shrine destroyed.”

“The shrine of Saint Thomas Becket, yes. But the cathedral dominates the city even now—it is the oldest in England, you know. I suppose it would have been a pleasant enough place to live, in different circumstances.”

“What was so wrong with your situation, then?”

She sighed, rearranging her long limbs on the bench in an effort to find a more comfortable position, and leaned forward with her elbows on the table.

“Sir Edward was a widower. He had a son of twenty-three from his first marriage, Nicholas, who still lived at home. They didn’t get along, and he resented me from the outset, as you may imagine. But that was nothing compared to my husband. Sir Edward was of the view that behind closed doors a wife ought to combine the role of maid and whore, to save him paying for either, and do so meekly and gratefully. And if I was stubborn , which was his word for refusing his demands, he whipped me with a horsewhip. In his experience, he said, it worked just as well on women.”

She kept her voice steady as she said this, but I noticed how her jaw clenched tight and she sucked in her cheeks to keep the emotion in check. I shook my head.

“ Dio mio , Sophia—I can’t imagine what you have been through. Was he a drinker, then?”

“Not at all. That made it worse, in a way. There are those who will lash out in a drunken rage—that is one kind of man, and they will often repent of it bitterly the next day. My husband was not like that—he always seemed master of his actions, and his violence was entirely calculated. He used it just as he said, in the same way that you would beat an animal to break it through fear.”

“Did anyone know how he was treating you?”

“His son knew, I am certain, but we detested one another. And there was a housekeeper, Meg, she’d been with Sir Edward for years—I’m sure she must have known, though she never spoke of it. She was afraid of him too. But she showed me small acts of kindness. Other than that, I only had one friend I could confide in.”

“And I suppose she could do little to help you.”

“ He ,” she said, and took another long draught of her ale. Immediately something tensed inside me, a hard knot of jealousy I had no right to, and for which I despised myself. Of course it was absurd to think that Sophia could have lived for months in a new city without attracting the attention of some young man, but whoever this friend was, I resented his invisible presence, the fact that he had been there to comfort her. Had he been a lover? On the other hand, I tried to reason against that voice of jealousy, where was he now, this friend? Had she not found her way to London, in her hour of desperation, in search of me? I composed my face and attempted to look disinterested.

“ He , then. He could not help?”

She shook her head. “What could anyone have done? Olivier listened to me, that was all.”

Was it really, I thought, and bit the unspoken words down. I felt as if I had a piece of bread lodged in my throat.

“Your husband did not mind you having friends who were …?” I left the sentence hanging.

“French?”

“I was going to say, men.”

Sophia’s teasing smile turned to scorn.

“Well, of course he would, if he’d known. He didn’t even like me to leave the house, but fortunately he was out so often at his business that I sometimes had a chance to slip away on the pretext of some chores. Olivier was the son of French weavers—his family came as refugees to Canterbury twelve years ago, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day.”

I shivered, despite the stuffy air; the mention of that terrible event in 1572, when the forces of the French Catholic League rampaged through the streets of Paris, slaughtering Protestant Huguenot families by the thousand until the gutters ran scarlet with their blood, never failed to chill me to the bones. The memory of it was kept fresh in England, as a warning of what could be expected here if a Catholic force were ever to invade.

“I had heard that many Huguenots came to England to escape the religious persecution,” I said.

“Canterbury is one of their largest communities. They are really the best of people,” she added warmly, and instantly I disliked this Olivier all the more.

“But tell me how your husband died, then,” I said, wanting to change the subject.

Sophia passed a hand across her face and held it for a moment over her mouth, as if gathering up the strength for this part of the story. Eventually she laid her hands flat on the table and looked me directly in the eye.

“For six months, I endured this marriage, if that is what you want to call it. I was known as Kate Kingsley, and my official history was that my father, a distant cousin of Sir Edward’s, had recently died, leaving me an orphan with a useful parcel of land in Rutland. I suppose he thought that was far enough away that no one would be likely to check. When I appeared with him in public, I was demure and well turned out, which was all anyone seemed to expect of me. And at home, I was regularly beaten and forced to endure what he called my wifely duty, which he liked to perform with violence, though he was always careful never to leave marks on my skin where it might show.” She flexed her hands, trying to keep her expression under control.

“How did you bear it?”

She shrugged.

“It is surprising how much you can bear, when you are obliged to—as you must know, Bruno. My greatest fear was that I would get another child, he forced himself on me so often, and I knew I could never love any child of his. With every month that passed, I worried my luck would not hold. Lately I had started to think about running away. Olivier was going to help me.”

I’m sure he was, I thought, uncharitably.

“Did your husband suspect?”

“I don’t think so. He was always preoccupied with his own business. In fact, from the first days in that house, I’d begun to notice odd things about my husband’s behaviour.”

“Aside from his violent streak, you mean?”

“Odder than that, even. He was often out of the house at strange hours, leaving in the dead of night and returning towards dawn. Once I asked him where he’d been when he got into bed with the cold air of night still on him, and he fetched me such a slap to my jaw that I feared I would lose a tooth.” She rubbed the side of her face now at the memory of it. “After that, I always pretended to be asleep when he came in.”