‘I’ll tell him,’ Sylvie said, wide-eyed. ‘But why do you want your sons arrested?’
‘So that they won’t have to fight. Better in prison than in the graveyard.’
Sylvie appeared startled by that thought. Perhaps she had not imagined that children might bring pain as well as joy.
Margery glanced at Bart. He had not yet noticed her. If she parted from Sylvie now he would not know that they had been talking. ‘Thank you,’ Margery said, and she walked away.
She did see Ned the following day, in the cathedral at the Easter service. His familiar slim figure was dear to her still, after all these years. Her heartbeat seemed to slow, and she was suffused by a mixture of love and regret that gave her joy and pain in equal measure. She was glad she had put on a new blue coat this morning. However, she did not speak to him. The temptation was strong: she longed to look into his eyes and see them crinkle at the corners when he said something wry. But she resisted.
She left Kingsbridge and returned to New Castle with her family on the Tuesday after Easter. On the Wednesday, Ned Willard came.
Margery was in the courtyard when a sentry on the battlements called out: ‘Horsemen on the Kingsbridge road! Twelve . . . fifteen . . . maybe twenty!’
She hurried into the house. Bart, Bartlet and Roger were in the great hall, already buckling on their swords. ‘It’s probably the sheriff of Kingsbridge,’ Bart said.
Stephen Lincoln appeared. ‘The hiding place is full of weapons!’ he said in a frightened voice. ‘What am I to do?’
Margery had thought about this in advance. ‘Take the box of sacramentals and leave by the back gate. Go to the tavern in the village and wait until you hear from us that the coast is clear.’ The villagers were all Catholic, and would not betray him.
Stephen hurried away.
Addressing the boys, she said: ‘You two are to say nothing and do nothing, do you hear? Leave it to your father to speak. Sit still.’
Bart said: ‘Unless I tell them otherwise.’
‘Unless your father tells you otherwise,’ she repeated.
Bart was not the father of either boy, but she had kept that secret well.
She realized it was thirty years since she and Ned had met in this hall after he returned from Calais. What was the play they had seen?Mary Magdalene. She had been so excited after kissing him that she had watched the performance without taking any of it in. She had been full of hope for a happy life with Ned. If I had known then how my life was going to turn out, she thought, I might have thrown myself from the battlements.
She heard the horses enter the courtyard, and a minute later the sheriff walked into the great hall. It was Rob Matthewson, the son of old Sheriff Matthewson, who had died. Rob was as big as his father and equally determined not to be ordered around by anyone but the queen.
Matthewson was followed by a large group of men-at-arms, Ned Willard among them. Seeing Ned up close, Margery noticed that his face was beginning to show lines of strain around the nose and mouth, and there was a touch of grey in his dark hair.
He was letting the sheriff take the lead. ‘I must search your house, Earl Bart,’ Matthewson said.
Bart said: ‘What the devil are you looking for, you insolent dog?’
‘I have information that there is a Catholic priest called Stephen Lincoln here. You and your family must stay in this room while I look for him.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Bart said. ‘This is where I live.’
The sheriff went out again, and his entourage followed. Ned paused at the door. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened, Countess Margery,’ he said.
She went along with his act. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said, as if angry with him.
He went on: ‘But with the king of Spain getting ready to invade us, no one’s loyalty can be taken for granted.’
Bart gave a disgusted grunt. Ned said no more and went out.
A few minutes later, they heard shouts of triumph, and Margery guessed that Ned had guided Matthewson to the hidey-hole.
She looked at her husband, who had obviously made the same guess. Consternation and anger appeared on Bart’s face, and Margery knew there was going to be trouble.
The sheriff’s men began to drag the weapons into the great hall. ‘Swords,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dozens of them! Guns and ammunition. Battleaxes. Bows and arrows. All tucked away in a little secret room. Earl Bart, you are under arrest.’
Bart was apoplectic. He had been found out. He stood up and began to rage. ‘How dare you?’ he yelled. ‘I am the earl of Shiring. You cannot do this and expect to live.’ Red in the face, he raised his voice even more. ‘Guards!’ he shouted. ‘In here!’ Then he drew his sword.
