Margery turned to the two servants who had followed her in. ‘You two can go to the kitchen.’
Ned said: ‘Janet Fife will give you a mug of ale and something to eat. And please ask her to bring wine for your mistress and me.’
They went away, and Ned closed the door. ‘How is your baby?’ he said.
‘Bartlet isn’t a baby any longer,’ she said. ‘He’s six years old, walking and talking like a grown-up, and carrying a wooden sword.’
‘And Bart has no idea . . .’
‘Don’t even say it.’ Margery lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Now that Swithin’s dead, you and I are the only people who know. We must keep the secret for ever.’
‘Of course.’
Margery was quite sure that Bartlet had been fathered by Swithin, not Bart; and Ned thought she was almost certainly right. In twelve years of marriage she had conceived only once, and that was when her father-in-law raped her.
He said: ‘Does it change how you feel?’
‘About Bartlet? No. I adored him from the moment I saw him.’
‘And Bart?’
‘Also dotes on him. The fact that Bartlet looks like Swithin seems quite natural, of course. Bart wants to turn the boy into a copy of himself in every way . . .’
‘But that’s natural, too.’
‘Listen, Ned. I know men think that if a woman conceives that means she enjoyed it.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Because it isn’t true. Ask any woman.’
Ned saw that she was desperate for reassurance. ‘I don’t need to ask anyone. Really.’
‘You don’t think I lured Swithin, do you?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I hope you feel sure.’
‘I’m more sure of that than of my own name.’
Tears came to her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Ned took her hand.
After a minute she said: ‘Can I ask you another question?’
‘All right.’
‘Has there been anyone else?’
He hesitated.
The pause was enough for her. ‘So there has,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not a monk.’
‘More than one, then.’
