Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

But her reaction showed her how unwise it would be to do this. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got so much to do here at the castle.’

Bart’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but his words were clear enough. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Go.’

Margery had to obey her husband.

She ordered her best horse saddled, a big mare called Russet. She summoned the lady-in-waiting and the man-at-arms who usually accompanied her: they should be enough to keep her out of trouble. She changed into travelling clothes, a long blue coat and a red scarf and hat to keep the dust out of her hair. It was a practical outfit, she told herself, and she could not help it if the colours suited her complexion and the hat made her look cute.

She kissed Bartlet goodbye. She whistled for her dog, Mick, who loved to accompany her on a ride. Then she set off.

It was a fine spring day, and she decided to stop worrying and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. She was twenty-seven years old and a countess, rich and healthy and attractive: if she could not be happy, who could?

She stopped at an inn on the road for a glass of beer and a piece of cheese. Mick, who seemed tireless, drank at the pond. The man-at-arms gave each horse a handful of oats.

They reached Wigleigh in the early afternoon. It was a prosperous village, with some fields still cultivated on the old strip system and others belonging to individual farmers. A fast stream drove an old watermill for fulling cloth, called Merthin’s Mill. In the centre were a tavern, a church and a small manor house. Ned was waiting in the tavern. ‘Where’s Bart?’ he said.

‘He’s sick,’ Margery replied.

He looked surprised, then pleased, then apprehensive, all in quick succession, as he digested this news. Margery knew why he might be apprehensive: it was the risk of temptation. She felt the same anxiety.

Ned said: ‘I hope it’s not serious.’

‘No. It’s the kind of illness a man suffers after drinking too much wine.’

‘Ah.’

‘You get me instead — a poor substitute,’ she said with facetious modesty.

He grinned happily. ‘No complaints here.’

‘Shall we go to the site?’

‘Don’t you want something to eat and drink?’

Margery did not want to sit in a stuffy room with half a dozen peasants staring at her. ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

They rode a path between fields of spring-green wheat and barley. ‘Will you live in the manor house?’ Margery asked.

‘No. I’m too fond of the old house in Kingsbridge. I’ll just use this place for a night or two when I need to visit.’

Margery was seized by a vision of herself creeping into Ned’s house at night, and she had to put the wicked thought out of her mind.

They came to the wood. The stream that drove the mill also marked part of the boundary of Wigleigh, and the land beyond belonged to the earl. They followed the stream for a mile, then came to the location in question. Margery could see immediately what had happened. A peasant who was more enterprising than most, or greedier, or both, had cleared the forest on the earl’s side of the stream and was grazing sheep on the rough grass that had sprung up there.

‘Just beyond here is the patch I’m offering Bart in exchange,’ Ned said.

Margery saw a place where the ground on the Wigleigh side was forested. They rode across the stream, then dismounted and walked the horses into the wood. Margery noted some mature oaks that would provide valuable timber. They stopped at a pretty clearing with wild flowers and a grassy bank beside the stream. ‘I can’t see why Bart would object to the exchange,’ Margery said. ‘In fact, I think we’ll be getting a bargain.’

‘Good,’ said Ned. ‘Shall we rest here a while?’

The prospect was delightful. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

They tethered the horses where they could crop some grass.

Ned said: ‘We could send your people to the tavern for food and drink.’

‘Good idea.’ Margery turned to the man-at-arms and the lady-in-waiting. ‘You two, go back to the village. You can walk — the horses need a rest. Fetch a jug of ale and some cold ham and bread. And enough for yourselves, of course.’

The two servants disappeared into the woods.

Margery sat on the grass by the stream and Ned lay beside her. The wood was quiet: there was just the shush of the stream and the breath of a light breeze in the spring leaves. Mick lay down and closed his eyes, but he would wake and give warning if anyone approached.

Margery said: ‘Ned, I know what you did for Father Paul.’

Ned raised his eyebrows. ‘News travels fast.’

‘I want to thank you.’

‘I suppose you supply the sacramental wafers.’ She was not sure what to say to that, but Ned quickly added: ‘I don’t want to know the details, please forget I asked.’

‘Just as long as you know that I would never conspire against Queen Elizabeth.’ Margery wanted him to understand that. ‘She is our anointed ruler. I may wonder why God in his wisdom chose to set a heretic on the throne, but it is not for me to challenge his choice.’

Ned, still lying down, looked up at her and smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He touched her arm.

She stared at his kind, clever face. What she saw in his eyes was a yearning so strong it might have broken her heart. No one else had ever felt like this about her, she knew. At that moment it seemed that the only possible sin would be to reject his passion. She lowered her head and kissed his lips.

She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the love that possessed her, filling her soul as the blood filled her body. She had thought about this ever since the last time they had kissed, though now, after such a long wait, it was even sweeter. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, then teased his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then pushed her tongue into his mouth. She could not get enough of him.

He grasped her shoulders and pulled her down until she was lying on top of him, putting all her weight on him. She could feel his erection through her petticoats. She worried that she might be hurting him, and moved to roll off, but he held her in place. She relaxed into the feeling of being so close that they might melt into one another. There seemed nothing in the world except him and her, nothing outside their two bodies.

Even this did not satisfy her for long: everything they did made her want more. She knelt up, straddling Ned’s knees, and opened the front of his breeches to free his penis. She stared at it, stroking it lovingly. It was pale and slightly curved, springing from a tangle of curly auburn hair. She bent over and kissed it, and heard him gasp with pleasure. A tiny drop of fluid appeared at the end. Unable to resist the temptation, she licked it off.

She could wait no longer. She moved to straddle his hips, tenting the skirt of her dress over the middle of his body, then sank down, guiding his penis inside her. She was impossibly wet, and it slipped in effortlessly. She bent forward so that she could kiss him again. They rocked gently for a long time, and she wanted to do it for ever.

Then he was the one who wanted more. He rolled her over, without withdrawing. She spread her legs wide and lifted her knees. She wanted him deeper inside her, filling her up. She felt him losing control. She looked into his eyes and said: ‘It’s you, Ned, it’s you.’ She felt the jerking spasm and the rush of fluid, and that drove her over the edge, and she felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.

Rollo Fitzgerald would have died rather than change his religion. For him there was no room for compromise. The Catholic Church was right and all rivals were wrong. It was obvious, and God would not forgive men who ignored the obvious. A man held his soul in his hand like a pearl, and if he were to drop that pearl in the ocean he would never get it back.