Margery had a last flash of defiance. ‘My hair’s fine,’ she said, and before her mother could argue she left the room.
Bart was in the hall, wearing new yellow hose. He was teasing one of the dogs, offering a piece of ham then snatching it away at the last moment.
Lady Jane followed Margery down the stairs and said: ‘Take Lord Shiring into the library and show him the books.’
‘He’s not interested in books,’ Margery snapped.
‘Margery!’
Bart said: ‘I’d like to see the books.’
Margery shrugged. ‘Follow me, please,’ she said, and led the way into the next room. She left the door open, but her mother did not join them.
Her father’s books were arranged on three shelves. ‘By God, what a lot of them you have!’ Bart exclaimed. ‘A man would waste his life away reading them all.’
There were fifty or so, more than would normally be seen outside a university or cathedral library, and a sign of wealth. Some were in Latin or French.
Margery made an effort to play host. She took down a book in English. ‘This isThe Pastime of Pleasure,’ she said. ‘That might interest you.’
He gave a leer and moved closer. ‘Pleasure is a great pastime.’ He seemed pleased with the witticism.
She stepped back. ‘It’s a long poem about the education of a knight.’
‘Ah.’ Bart lost interest in the book. Looking along the shelf, he picked outThe Book of Cookery. ‘This is important,’ he said. ‘A wife should make sure her husband has good food, don’t you think?’
‘Of course.’ Margery was trying hard to think of something to talk about. What was Bart interested in? War, perhaps. ‘People are blaming the queen for the war with France.’
‘Why is it her fault?’
‘They say that Spain and France are fighting over possessions in Italy, a conflict that has nothing to do with England, and we’re involved only because our Queen Mary is married to King Felipe of Spain and has to back him.’
Bart nodded. ‘A wife must be led by her husband.’
‘That’s why a girl must choose very carefully.’ This pointed remark went over Bart’s head. Margery went on: ‘Some say our queen should not be married to a foreign monarch.’
Bart tired of the subject. ‘We shouldn’t be talking of politics. Women ought to leave such matters to their husbands.’
‘Women have so many duties to their husbands,’ Margery said, knowing that her ironic tone would be lost on Bart. ‘We have to cook for them, and be led by them, and leave politics to them . . . I’m glad I haven’t got a husband, life is simpler this way.’
‘But every woman needs a man.’
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘I mean it.’ He closed his eyes, concentrating, then came out with a short rehearsed speech. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I love you. Please be my wife.’
Her reaction was visceral. ‘No!’
Bart looked baffled. He did not know how to respond. Clearly he had been led to expect the opposite answer. After a pause he said: ‘But my wife will become a countess one day!’
‘And you must marry a girl who longs for that with all her heart.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’ She tried not to be harsh. It was difficult: understatement was lost on him. ‘Bart, you’re strong and handsome, and I’m sure brave too, but I could never love you.’ Ned came into her mind: with him she never found herself trying to think of something to talk about. ‘I will marry a man who is clever and thoughtful and who wants his wife to be more than just the most senior of his servants.’ There, she thought; even Bart can’t fail to understand that.
He moved with surprising speed and grabbed her upper arms. His grip was strong. ‘Women like to be mastered,’ he said.
‘Who told you that? Believe me, I don’t!’ She tried to pull away from him but could not.
