If more of them had remembered that we might still have a monastery, Ned thought, but he kept it to himself. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The legendary Caris, who founded the hospital, was a nun at Kingsbridge.’
‘Rest her soul.’ Looking hopeful, Paul said: ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’
Ned hated the fuddling effect of wine in the morning. ‘No, thank you. I won’t stay long. I came to give you a word of warning.’
An anxious frown crossed Paul’s lined face. ‘Oh, dear, that sounds ominous.’
‘It is, a little. I’ve been told that something is going on in the crypt at dawn on Sundays.’
Paul paled. ‘I have no idea—’
Ned held up a hand to stall the interruption. ‘I’m not asking you whether it’s true, and there’s no need for you to say anything at all.’
Paul was agitated, but quieted himself with a visible effort. ‘Very well.’
‘Whoever is using the crypt at that hour, for whatever purpose, should be warned that the town’s Puritans are suspicious. To avoid trouble, perhaps the services – if that is what they are – should be moved to a different venue.’
Paul swallowed. ‘I understand.’
‘Her majesty the queen believes that religion was given to us for consolation in this life and salvation in the next, and that we may disagree about it, but we should never let it be a cause of violence between one Englishman and another.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I don’t need to say any more.’
‘I think I understand you perfectly.’
‘And it might be best if you don’t tell anyone that I came to see you.’
‘Of course.’
Ned shook Paul’s hand. ‘I’m glad we had a chance to talk.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Goodbye, Father Paul.’
‘God bless you, Ned,’ said Paul.
*
ONFRIDAY MORNING, Margery’s husband felt ill. This was not unusual, especially after a good supper with plenty of wine the night before. However, today Earl Bart was supposed to go to Wigleigh and meet Sir Ned Willard.
‘You can’t let Ned down,’ Margery said. ‘He’ll have ridden there specially.’
‘You’ll have to go instead of me,’ Bart said from his bed. ‘You can tell me what it’s all about.’ Then he put his head under the blanket.
Margery’s spirits lifted at the prospect of spending an hour or two with Ned. Her heart seemed to beat faster and her breath came in shallow gasps. She was glad Bart was not looking at her.
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.
