Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

She was embarrassed by the flush of desire that had overwhelmed her when Ned promised to visit New Castle. She vowed to treat him with careful courtesy, and no more warmth than any polite hostess would show a distinguished guest. She wished he would fall in love and marry someone else, and lose interest in her. Then perhaps they could think of one another calmly, as old flames that had sputtered out long ago.

The day before she had ordered the cook to kill and pluck a pair of fat geese, and in the morning she was heading for the kitchen to give instructions for the cooking when she saw a girl coming out of Bart’s room.

It was Nora Josephs, she saw, the youngest of the housemaids at fifteen. Her hair was untidy and she had evidently dressed in haste. She was not pretty, but she had the plump kind of young body that appealed to Bart.

They had had separate bedrooms for about five years now. Margery preferred it this way. Bart still came to her bed now and again, but less and less often. She knew that he had other women but, she told herself, she did not care, because she did not love him. All the same, she wished with all her heart that she could have had a different kind of marriage.

As far as she knew, none of his mistresses had ever become pregnant. However, Bart seemed never to question why. He did not have a very logical mind, and if he thought about it at all he probably told himself it was God’s will.

Margery was prepared to pretend she had not noticed, but young Nora gave her a saucy look, and that was a bad sign. Margery was not willing to be humiliated, and she decided she had better deal with Nora immediately. It was not the first time she had found herself in this situation, and she knew what to do. ‘Come with me, girl,’ she said in her most authoritative voice, and Nora did not dare to disobey. They went into Margery’s boudoir.

Margery sat down and left Nora standing. The girl looked scared now, so perhaps there was hope for her. ‘Listen to me carefully, because the whole of the rest of your life depends on how you behave now,’ Margery said. ‘Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘If you choose, you may flaunt your relationship with the earl. You can touch him in front of the other servants. You can show off the gifts he gives you. You can even shame me by kissing him in my presence. Everyone in this house and half the people in the county of Shiring will know that you are the earl’s mistress. You will feel proud.’

She paused. Nora could not meet her eye.

‘But what will happen when he tires of you? I will throw you out, of course, and Bart won’t care. You will try to find work as a maid in another house, and then you’ll realize that no woman is going to take you on, because they’ll all think you’re going to seduce their husbands. And do you know where you’ll end up?’

She paused, and Nora whispered: ‘No, madam.’

‘In a waterfront brothel at Combe Harbour, sucking the cocks of ten sailors a night, and you’ll die of a horrible disease.’

Margery did not really know what went on in brothels, but she managed to sound as if she did, and Nora was fighting back tears.

Margery went on: ‘Or you can treat me with respect. If the earl takes you to his bed, leave him as soon as he falls asleep, and return to the servants’ quarters. Refuse to answer the questions the others ask you. In the daytime, don’t look at him or speak to him, and never touch him in front of me or anyone else. Then, when he tires of you, you will still have a place here, and your life will return to normal. Do you understand the choice in front of you?’

‘Yes, madam,’ Nora whispered.

‘Off you go.’ As Nora opened the door, Margery added bitterly: ‘And when you take a husband for yourself, pick one who is not like mine.’

Nora scurried away, and Margery went to see about the cooking of the geese.

Ned arrived at midday, wearing a costly black coat and a white lace collar — an outfit that was becoming the uniform for affluent Protestants, Margery had noticed. It looked a bit austere on Ned: she liked him in warm colours, green and gold.

Margery’s dog, Mick, licked Ned’s hand. Bart, too, welcomed Ned in a friendly way, getting out the best wine for the midday dinner. That was a relief. Perhaps Bart had forgotten that Margery had wanted to marry Ned. Or perhaps he did not care, because he had got her anyway. To men such as Bart, winning was all-important.

Bart was not a deep thinker, and he had never suspected Ned of planning the downfall and execution of Swithin. Bart had a different theory. He was convinced that Dan Cobley, the leader of the Puritans, had set the trap, as revenge on Sir Reginald and Rollo for the execution of his own father. And it was true that Dan still bore a poisonous grudge against Rollo.

Margery also felt nervous about Stephen Lincoln, who joined them at table. Ned would guess Stephen’s role in the earl’s household, but he would not say anything. The presence of priests in the homes of Catholic noblemen was universally known but never acknowledged. Margery usually frowned on hypocrisy: the orphan whose father was known but never named; the nuns who shared a passionate love that everyone pretended not to notice; the unmarried housekeeper who bore a series of children all resembling the priest who employed her. But in this case, the pretence worked in Margery’s favour.

However, she was not sure that Stephen would be as tactful as Ned. Stephen hated Queen Elizabeth, to whom Ned owed his entire career. And Ned had reason to hate the Catholic Church, which had punished his mother so cruelly for usury. It might be a tense dinner.

Bart said amiably: ‘So, Ned, you’re one of the queen’s most important advisors now, people tell me.’ There was only a touch of resentment in Bart’s tone. He thought the queen’s counsellors should be earls, not the sons of merchants; but he also knew in his heart that he could never give the queen guidance on the intricacies of European politics.

‘I work with Sir William Cecil, and have done for twelve years,’ Ned said. ‘He is the important one.’

‘But she has made you a knight, and now lord of Wigleigh.’

‘I’m very grateful to her majesty.’

An unaccustomed feeling crept over Margery, sitting at the table and watching Ned as he talked. He had a quick intelligence, and his eyes crinkled with humour frequently. She sipped wine and wished this dinner could go on forever.

Stephen Lincoln said: ‘What, exactly, do you do for Elizabeth, Sir Ned?’

‘I try to give her early warning of burgeoning problems.’

Margery thought this sounded pat, as if Ned had been asked the question many times and always trotted out the same answer.

Stephen gave a twisted grin. ‘Does that mean you spy on people who disagree with her?’

Margery groaned inwardly. Stephen was going to be combative and spoil the atmosphere.

Ned sat back and squared his shoulders. ‘She doesn’t care if people disagree with her, as long as they keep their views to themselves. I would have expected you to know that, Stephen, as Earl Bart regularly pays the fine of one shilling a week for not going to church.’

Bart said grumpily: ‘I go to the big events at Kingsbridge Cathedral.’

‘And very wise you are, if I may say so. But in Elizabeth’s England no one is tortured for their religion, and no one has been burned at the stake — a stark contrast with the reign of her predecessor, Queen Mary.’

Bart spoke again. ‘What about the Northern Rebellion?’

Margery knew what he was talking about. Just before Christmas a group of Catholic earls had taken up arms against Queen Elizabeth in the only rebellion of her reign so far. They had celebrated a Latin Mass in Durham Cathedral, occupied several other towns in the north, and marched towards Tutworth, where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned, with the evident intention of freeing her and proclaiming her queen of England. But the uprising had gained little support, the queen’s forces had put it down quickly, and Mary Stuart remained a prisoner.