Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

After that it did not take long. She endured his thrusts in a daze. Her face hurt so much that she could hardly feel the rest of her body. He finished and rolled off her, breathing hard.

She got off the bed, went into the corner of the room, and sat on the floor, holding her aching head. A minute later she heard him pad out of the room, still panting.

She wiped her face with the handkerchief that was, to her surprise, still clutched tightly in her hand. When she was sure he had gone she returned to the bed. She lay there, crying softly, until at last sleep brought blessed unconsciousness.

In the morning she might have thought she had dreamed it, except that one side of her face was agony. She looked in a glass and saw that it was swollen and discoloured. At breakfast she made up a story about having fallen out of bed: she did not care whether anyone believed it, but for her to accuse the earl would get her into even more trouble.

Swithin ate a hearty breakfast and acted as if nothing had happened.

As soon as he left the table, Margery told the servant to leave the room and went to sit next to Stephen. ‘Swithin came to my room last night,’ she said in a low voice.

‘What for?’ he said.

She stared at him. He was a priest, but he was twenty-eight years old and had been a student at Oxford, so he could not be completely innocent.

After a moment he said: ‘Oh!’

‘He forced himself on me.’

‘Did you struggle?’

‘Of course, but he’s stronger than I am.’ She touched her swollen face with her fingertips, careful not to press. ‘I didn’t fall out of bed. His fist did this.’

‘Did you scream?’

‘I threatened to. He said he would tell everyone that I seduced him. And that they would believe him and not me. He was right about that — as you must know.’

Stephen looked uncomfortable.

There was a silence. At last Margery said: ‘What should I do?’

‘Pray for forgiveness,’ said Stephen.

Margery frowned. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Ask forgiveness for sin. God will be merciful.’

Margery’s voice rose. ‘What sin? I haven’t committed a sin! I am the victim of a sin — how can you tell me to ask forgiveness?’

‘Don’t shout! I’m telling you that God will forgive your adultery.’

‘What about his sin?’

‘The earl’s?’

‘Yes. He has committed a sin much worse than adultery. What are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m a priest, not a sheriff.’

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Is that it? Is that your response to a woman who has been raped by her father-in-law? To say that you’re not a sheriff?’

He looked away.

Margery stood up. ‘You worm,’ she said. ‘You utter worm.’ She left the room.

She felt like renouncing her religion, but that did not last long. She thought of Job, whose tribulations had been a test of his faith. ‘Curse God, and die,’ his wife had said, but Job had refused. If everyone who met a pusillanimous priest rejected God, there would not be many Christians. But what was she going to do? Bart was not due back until tomorrow. What if Swithin came again tonight?

She spent the day making her plans. She ordered a young maid, Peggy, to sleep in her room, on a palliasse at the foot of her bed. It was common for single women to have a maidservant with them at night, though Margery herself had never liked the practice. Now she saw the point.

She got a dog. There were always a few puppies around the castle, and she found one young enough to be taught to be loyal to her personally. He had no name, and she dubbed him Mick. He could make a noise now, and in time he might be trained to protect her.

She marvelled over Swithin’s behaviour during the day. She saw him again at dinner and supper. He hardly spoke to her, which was normal; and he talked to Stephen Lincoln about current affairs: the New World, the design of ships, and Queen Elizabeth’s continuing indecision about whom she should marry. It was as if he had forgotten the wicked crime he had committed during the night.

When she went to bed, she closed her door firmly, then, with the help of Peggy, dragged a chest across the doorway. She wished it was heavier, but then they would not have been able to move it.

Finally, she put a belt on over her nightdress and attached a small knife in a sheath. She resolved to get herself a bigger dagger as soon as she could.

Poor Peggy was terrified, but Margery did not explain her actions, for that would require that she accuse the earl.

She got into bed. Peggy blew out the candles and curled up on her mattress. Mick was evidently puzzled by his new quarters but took the change with canine stoicism, and went to sleep in front of the fireplace.

Margery got into bed. She could not lie on her left side because contact, even with a feather pillow, hurt her bruised face too much. She lay on her back with her eyes wide open. She knew she was not going to sleep, as surely as she knew she was not going to fly out of the window.

If only she could get through tonight, she thought. Tomorrow Bart would be home, and after that she would make sure she was never left alone with Swithin. But even as she said that to herself she realized it was not possible. Bart decided whether or not she would accompany him, and he did not always consult her wishes. Probably, he left her behind when he planned to see one of his mistresses, or to take all his friends to a brothel, or to indulge in some other entertainment at which a wife would be an embarrassment. Margery could not go against his wishes without a reason, and she could not reveal her reason. She was trapped, and Swithin knew it.

The only way out was for her to kill Swithin. But if she did so, she would be hanged. No excuses would help her escape punishment.

Unless she could make it look like an accident...

Would God forgive her? Perhaps. Surely he did not intend her to be raped.

As she contemplated the situation, the door handle rattled.

Mick barked nervously.

Someone was trying to get in. In a frightened voice Peggy said: ‘Who can it be?’

The handle was turned again, then there was the sound of a bump as the door hit the chest that was an inch away.

Margery said loudly: ‘Go away!’

She heard a grunt outside, like that of a man making an effort, and then the chest moved.

Peggy screamed.

Margery leaped off the bed.

The chest scraped across the floor, the door opened wide enough for a man to enter, and Swithin came in in his nightshirt.

Mick barked at him. Swithin kicked out and caught the dog’s chest with his foot. Mick gave a terrified whimper and darted out through the gap.

Swithin saw Peggy and said: ‘Get out, before I give you a kicking too.’

Peggy fled.

Swithin stepped closer to Margery.

She drew the knife from her belt and said: ‘If you don’t go away, I’ll kill you.’

Swithin lashed out with his left arm, a sweeping motion that struck Margery’s right wrist with the force of a hammer. The knife went flying from her grasp. He grabbed her upper arms, lifted her off the floor effortlessly, and threw her back onto the bed. Then he climbed on top of her.

‘Open your legs,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’

‘I hate you,’ she said.

He raised his fist. ‘Open your legs, or I’ll punch you in the same place again.’

She could not bear for her face to be touched, and she felt that if he punched her she would die. She began to weep, helplessly, and parted her thighs.

Rollo Fitzgerald did all he could to keep tabs on the Kingsbridge Puritans. His main source of information was Donal Gloster, Dan Cobley’s chief clerk. Donal had a dual motivation: he hated the Cobley family for spurning him as a suitor for their daughter, and he was greedy for Rollo’s money because Dan underpaid him.