Ken Follett - World Without End

She caught his look. “Don’t you touch me,” she said.

If she had not said that, he would probably have lain down and gone to sleep. But her swift rejection stung him. “I’m the earl of Shiring and you’re my wife,” he said. “I’ll touch you any time I like.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, and she turned away to put on the gown.

That angered him. As she lifted the garment to put it on over her head, he slapped her bottom. It was a hard slap on bare skin, and he could tell that it hurt her. She jumped and cried out. “So much for not daring,” he said. She turned to him, a protest on her lips, and on impulse he punched her in the mouth. She was knocked back and fell to the floor. Her hands flew to her mouth, and blood seeped through her fingers. But she was on her back, naked, with her legs spread, and he could see the triangle of hair at the fork of her thighs, with its cleft slightly parted in what looked like an invitation.

He fell on her.

She wriggled furiously, but he was bigger than she, and strong. He overcame her resistance effortlessly. A moment later he was inside her. She was dry, but somehow that excited him.

It was all over quite quickly. He rolled off her, panting. After a few moments he looked at her. There was blood on her mouth. She did not look back at him: her eyes were closed. Yet it seemed to him that there was a curious expression on her face. He thought about it for a while until he worked it out; then he was even more puzzled than before.

She looked triumphant.

Merthin knew that Philippa had returned to Kingsbridge, because he saw her maid in the Bell. He expected his lover to come to his house that night, and was disappointed when she did not. No doubt she felt awkward, he thought. No lady would be comfortable with what she had done, even though the reasons were compelling, even though the man she loved knew and understood.

Another night went by without her appearing, then it was Sunday and he felt sure he would see her in church. But she did not come to the service. It was almost unheard-of for the nobility to miss Sunday mass. What had kept her away?

After the service he sent Lolla home with Arn and Em, then went across the green to the old hospital. On the upper floor were three rooms for important guests. He took the outside staircase.

In the corridor he came face to face with Caris.

She did not bother to ask what he was doing here. “The countess doesn’t want you to see her, but you probably should,” she said.

Merthin noted the odd turn of phrase: Not ‘The countess doesn’t want to see you,’ but ‘The countess doesn’t want you to see her .’ He looked at the bowl Caris was carrying. It contained a bloodstained rag. Fear struck his heart. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing too serious,” Caris said. “The baby is unharmed.”

“Thank God.”

“You’re the father, of course?”

“Please don’t ever let anyone hear you say that.”

She looked sad. “All the years you and I were together, and I only conceived that one time.”

He looked away. “Which room is she in?”

“Sorry to talk about myself. I’m the last thing you’re interested in. Lady Philippa is in the middle room.”

He caught the poorly suppressed grief in her voice and paused, despite his anxiety for Philippa. He touched Caris’s arm. “Please don’t believe I’m not interested in you,” he said. “I’ll always care what happens to you, and whether you’re happy.”

She nodded, and tears came to her eyes. “I know,” she said. “I’m being selfish. Go and see Philippa.”

He left Caris and entered the middle room. Philippa was kneeling on the prie-dieu with her back to him. He interrupted her prayers. “Are you all right?”

She stood up and turned to him. Her face was a mess. Her lips were swollen to three times their normal size, and badly scabbed.

He guessed that Caris had been bathing the wound – hence the bloody rag. “What happened?” he said. “Can you speak?”

She nodded. “I sound queer, but I can talk.” Her voice was a mumble, but comprehensible.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“My face looks awful, but it’s not serious. Other than that, I’m fine.”

He put his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder. He waited, holding her. After a while, she began to cry. He stroked her hair and her back while she shook with sobs. He said: “There, there,” and kissed her forehead, but he did not try to silence her.

Slowly, her weeping subsided.

He said: “Can I kiss your lips?”

She nodded. “Gently.”

He brushed them with his own. He tasted almonds: Caris had smeared the cuts with oil. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

“It worked. He was fooled. He will be sure it’s his baby.”

He touched her mouth with his fingertip. “And he did this?”

“Don’t be angry. I tried to provoke him, and succeeded. Be glad he hit me.”

“Glad! Why?”

“Because he thinks he had to force me. He believes I would not have submitted without violence. He has no inkling that I intended to seduce him. He will never suspect the truth. Which means I’m safe – and so is our baby.”

He put his hand on her belly. “But why didn’t you come and see me?”

“Looking like this?”

“I want to be with you even more when you’re hurt.” He moved his hand to her breast. “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

She took his hand away. “I can’t go from one to the other like a whore.”

“Oh.” He had not thought of it that way.

“Do you understand?”

“I think so.” He could see that a woman would feel cheap – although a man might be proud of doing exactly the same thing. “But how long…?”

She sighed, and moved away. “It’s not how long.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve agreed to tell the world that this is Ralph’s baby, and I’ve made sure he’ll believe that. Now he’s going to want to raise it.”

Merthin was dismayed. “I hadn’t thought about the details, but I imagined you would continue to live in the priory.”

“Ralph won’t allow his child to be raised in a nunnery, especially if it’s a boy.”

“So what will you do, go back to Earlscastle?”

“Yes.”

The child was nothing yet, of course; not a person, not even a baby, just a swelling in Philippa’s belly. But all the same Merthin felt a stab of grief. Lolla had become the great joy of his life, and he had been looking forward eagerly to another child.

But at least he had Philippa for a little while longer. “When will you go?” he asked.

“Immediately,” she said. She saw the look on his face, and tears came to her eyes. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am – but I would just feel wrong, making love to you and planning to return to Ralph. It would be the same with any two men. The fact that you’re brothers just makes it uglier.”

His eyes blurred with tears. “So it’s over with us already? Now?”

She nodded. “And there’s another thing I have to tell you, one more reason why we can never be lovers again. I’ve confessed my adultery.”

Merthin knew that Philippa had her own personal confessor, as was appropriate for a high-ranking noblewoman. Since she came to Kingsbridge, he had been living with the monks, a welcome addition to their thinned ranks. So now she had told him of her affair. Merthin hoped he could keep the secrets of the confessional.

Philippa said: “I have received absolution, but I must not continue the sin.”

Merthin nodded. She was right. They had both sinned. She had betrayed her husband, and he had betrayed his brother. She had an excuse: she had been forced into the marriage. He had none. A beautiful woman had fallen in love with him and he had loved her back, even though he had no right. The yearning ache of grief and loss he was feeling now was the natural consequence of such behaviour.