‘He’ll retire sooner or later.’ He would be glad to do so, Margery guessed, if he could hand over to his son.
They all heard sudden loud voices downstairs. Roger stepped out and came back to say: ‘Uncle Rollo just arrived.’
Margery was shocked. ‘Rollo?’ she said incredulously. ‘He hasn’t come to New Castle for years!’
‘Well, he’s here now.’
Margery heard glad cries down in the great hall as Bartlet greeted his hero.
Cecilia spoke brightly to her two children. ‘Come and meet your great-uncle Rollo,’ she said.
Margery was in no hurry to greet Rollo. She handed Swifty to Roger. ‘I’ll join you later,’ she said.
She left the nursery and walked along the corridor to her own rooms. Her mastiff, Maximus, followed at her heels. Bartlet and Cecilia had naturally moved into the best rooms, but there was a pleasant suite of bedroom and boudoir for the dowager countess. Margery went into her boudoir and closed the door.
She felt a cold anger. After she had discovered that Rollo was using her network to foment a violent insurrection, she had sent him one short, coded message to say that she would no longer help smuggle priests into England. He had not replied, and they had had no further communication. She had spent many hours composing the outraged speech she would make if she ever saw him again. But now that he was here she suddenly did not know what to say to him.
Maximus lay down in front of the fire. Margery stood at the window looking out. It was December: servants crossed the courtyard muffled in heavy cloaks. Outside the castle walls, the fields were cold, hard mud, and the bare trees pointed forked limbs at the iron-grey sky. She had wanted this time to regain her composure, but she just continued to feel shocked. She picked up her prayer beads to calm herself.
She heard the sound of servants carrying heavy luggage along the corridor outside her door, and guessed that Rollo would be using his old bedroom, which was opposite her new one. Soon afterwards there was a tap at her door and Rollo came in. ‘I’m back!’ he announced cheerily.
He was bald now, she saw, and his beard was salt-and-pepper. She looked at him stone-faced. ‘Why are you here?’
‘And it’s lovely to see you, too,’ he said sarcastically.
Maximus growled quietly.
‘What on earth do you expect?’ said Margery. ‘You lied to me for years. You know how I feel about Christians killing one another over doctrine – and yet you used me for that very purpose. You’ve turned my life into a tragedy.’
‘I did God’s will.’
‘I doubt it. Think of all the deaths your conspiracy caused – including that of Mary Queen of Scots!’
‘She’s a saint in heaven now.’
‘In any event, I will no longer help you, and you can’t use New Castle.’
‘I think the time for conspiracy is over. Mary Queen of Scots is dead, and the Spanish armada has been defeated. But, if another opportunity should arise, there are places other than New Castle.’
‘I’m the only person in England who knows that you are Jean Langlais. I could betray you to Ned Willard.’
Rollo smiled. ‘You won’t, though,’ he said confidently. ‘You may betray me, but I can betray you. Even if I didn’t want to give you away, I probably would under torture. You’ve been concealing priests for years, and it’s a capital crime. You would be executed – perhaps in the same way as Margaret Clitheroe, who was slowly crushed to death.’
Margery stared at him in horror. She had not thought this far.
Rollo went on: ‘And it’s not just you. Both Bartlet and Roger helped smuggle the priests. So, you see, if you betray me, you would cause the execution of both your sons.’
He was right. Margery was trapped. Wicked though Rollo was, she had no choice but to protect him. She felt mad with frustration but there was nothing she could do. She glared at his smug expression for a long moment. ‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Damn you to hell.’
*
ON THE TWELFTHday of Christmas there was a big family dinner at the Willard house in Kingsbridge.
The tradition of an annual play at New Castle had fallen away. The earldom had become less and less rich through the years of anti-Catholic discrimination, and the earl of Shiring could no longer afford lavish banquets. So the Willard family had their own party.
They were six around the table. Barney was at home, flush with the triumph against the Spanish armada. He sat at the head of the table, with his wife Helga on his right. His son Alfo sat on his left, and Sylvie noticed that he was becoming plump with prosperity. Alfo’s wife, Valerie, had a baby in her arms, a little girl. Ned sat at the end opposite Barney, and Sylvie sat beside him. Eileen Fife brought in a huge platter of pork roasted with apples, and they drank Helga’s golden Rhenish wine.
Barney and Ned kept recalling episodes from the great sea battle. Sylvie and Valerie chatted in French. Valerie breastfed the baby while eating pork. Barney said the child was going to look like her grandmother Bella: that was unlikely, Sylvie thought, for only one of the child’s eight great-grandparents was African, and at present she had unremarkable light pinky-tan skin. Alfo told Barney about further improvements he planned for the indoor market.
