Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Ned said: ‘My lady, you should go to your private chamber with Nell and bar the door. Tom, you and I should vanish too.’

‘I agree,’ said Elizabeth, but she did not leave immediately. She moved closer to Ned and said quietly: ‘There was no fight in the stables, was there?’

‘No. It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment.’

She smiled. ‘How old are you, Ned?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘You risked your life for me.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips briefly but tenderly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Then she left the room.

Most people bathed twice a year, in spring and autumn, but princesses were fastidious, and Elizabeth bathed more often. It was a major operation, with maidservants carrying big two-handled laundry tubs of hot water from the kitchen fire to her bedchamber, hurrying up the stairs before the water cooled.

She took a bath the day after Swithin’s visit, as if to wash away her disgust. She had said no more about Swithin, after kissing Ned, but Ned thought he had won her trust.

Ned knew he had made an enemy of a powerful earl, but he hoped it would not last: Swithin was quick-tempered and vengeful but, Ned thought, he had a short attention span. With luck he would nurse his grudge against Ned only until a better one came along.

Sir William Cecil had arrived shortly after Swithin left, and next morning he got down to work with Ned. Cecil’s office was in the same wing as Elizabeth’s private suite. He sent Ned to Tom Parry’s office to fetch a ledger of expenditure for another house Elizabeth owned. Coming back with the heavy book in his hand, Ned walked along Elizabeth’s corridor, where the floorboards were puddled with water spilled by the maids. As he passed her suite, he saw that the door was open, and — stupidly — he glanced in.

Elizabeth had just got out of her bath. The tub itself was screened off, but she had stepped across the room to pick up a large white linen sheet with which to dry herself. There should have been a maid waiting beside the tub holding the towel, and of course the door should have been shut; but someone had been dilatory, and Elizabeth was impatient with dozy servants.

Ned had never seen a woman naked. He had no sisters, he had never gone that far with a girlfriend, and he had not visited a brothel.

He froze, staring. The hot bathwater, steaming faintly, ran from her dainty shoulders down her small breasts to her rounded hips and her strong thighs, muscular from riding. Her skin was creamy white and her pubic hair was a wonderful red-gold. Ned knew he should look away instantly, but he was enchanted, and could not move.

She caught his eye and was startled, but only for a moment. She reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.

Then she smiled.

A moment later she slammed the door.

Ned hurried along the corridor, his heart beating like a big drum. For what he had just done he could be sacked from his job, put in the stocks, or flogged — or all three.

But she had smiled.

The smile had been warm, friendly, and a little coquettish. Ned could imagine a naked woman smiling like that at her husband or lover. The smile seemed to say that this glimpse of forbidden loveliness was a boon she was happy to grant him.

He told nobody what had happened.

That evening he waited for an explosion of anger, but none came. Elizabeth did not mention the incident, to him or anyone else. Slowly Ned became sure he was not going to be punished. Then he began to doubt whether it had really happened. It was more like something he might have dreamed.

But he would remember that vision for the rest of his life.

Margery was kissed by Bart for the first time in the new house, Priory Gate.

Sir Reginald Fitzgerald, Lady Jane and Rollo were proudly showing Earl Swithin around. Margery followed with Bart, who was back from his posting to Combe Harbour now that the threat of a French invasion seemed to have faded. Margery knew that Reginald had sold the rest of the priory back to the cathedral chapter, as promised. The price had been low, but enough to pay for the building work on the new house to be completed.

It was a grand, impressive modern structure on the market square, made of the same pale limestone as the cathedral. It had rows of large windows and tall clustered chimneys. Inside there seemed to be staircases everywhere and dozens of fireplaces. It smelled of new paint, some of the chimneys smoked, and several of the doors would not close properly, but it was habitable, and servants were already moving furniture here from the old house on the high street.

Margery did not want to live here. For her, Priory Gate would always smell of bloodshed and fraud. Philbert Cobley had been burned to death and Alice Willard had been ruined so that this house could be finished. Philbert and Alice had committed sins, of course, and so had to be punished, but Margery’s sharp moral discrimination would not permit her to content herself with such blurring of distinctions: the severe sentences had been prompted by impure motives. Bishop Julius had got the priory back for the cathedral and Margery’s father had gained a lot of money that was not really his.

A mere girl had no business thinking such thoughts, but she could not help it, and it made her angry. Bad behaviour by bishops and leading Catholics was part of what drove Protestantism — could they not see that? However, there was nothing she could do but seethe.

As the party entered the Long Gallery, Bart lagged behind, grabbed Margery’s elbow, and pulled her back; then, when the others were out of sight, he kissed her.

Bart was tall and handsome and well dressed, and Margery knew that she must love him, for he had been chosen as her husband by her parents, who had been set in authority over her by God. So she kissed him back, opening her mouth, and let him explore her body, feel her breasts and even press his hand between her legs. It was difficult, especially as she kept remembering that Ned had kissed her in this house when it was half built. She tried to summon the feelings that used to come over her with Ned. It did not really work, but it made the ordeal a little easier to bear.

She broke the embrace and saw Swithin watching them.

‘We were wondering where you two had got to,’ he said, then he gave a conspiratorial grin and a lascivious wink. Margery found it creepy that he had stood there, watching, until she had noticed him.

The party sat down in the room designated as Sir Reginald’s parlour to talk about the wedding. It was just a month away. Margery and Bart would be married in Kingsbridge Cathedral, and there would be a banquet here in the new house. Margery had ordered a dress in pale blue silk and an elaborate headdress in the jaunty style she loved. Earl Swithin wanted to know all the details of her outfit, almost as if he would be marrying her himself. Her parents had to have new clothes, too, and there were a hundred other decisions to be made. There would be entertainment as well as food and drink for the guests, and Sir Reginald would have to provide free beer for all comers at the gate.

They were discussing what play would be appropriate to finish the festivities when the head groom, Percy, came in followed by a young man with the dust of the road on his clothes. ‘A courier from London, Sir Reginald,’ said Percy. ‘He assures me you would not want to delay hearing his news.’

Sir Reginald looked at the courier. ‘What is it?’

‘I bring a letter from Davy Miller, sir.’ Miller was Reginald’s business representative in London. The courier held out a slim leather wallet.

‘Tell me what it says, man,’ said Sir Reginald impatiently.

‘The queen is ill.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’