"It was a day of infamy," Bart raged at the dinner table in New Castle. "No warning, no declaration of war, just outright murder and theft by a group of barefaced pirates."
Bart at fifty reminded Margery painfully of the father-in-law who had raped her, except only that Bart was more red faced and even fatter than his father had been. Now she said waspishly: "Those ships were on their way here to kill us all--including both my sons. I'm glad they were sunk."
Young Bartlet took his father's side, as usual. At twenty-three Bartlet bore a resemblance to Margery's father, being tall and freckled, but he had all Bart's attitudes, unfortunately. She loved him, but he was hard to like, and that made her feel guilty. "King Felipe only wants to return England to Catholicism," Bartlet said. "Most English people would welcome that."
"Many would, but not at the price of being conquered by a foreign country," Margery countered.
Stephen Lincoln was shocked. "My lady, how can you say such a thing? The Pope approved the plan of the Spanish king."
Stephen had proved a poor friend to Margery, but all the same she had some sympathy for him. He had spent thirty years as a secret priest, holding furtive services after dark and keeping the sacramentals in undignified hidey-holes as if they were shameful. He had dedicated his life to God but spent it as a criminal, and that had left his face lined and gaunt and his soul bitter. But he was wrong about this, and so was the Pope. "I think it's a mistake," she said crisply. "An invasion would actually turn people away from Catholicism, by linking it with foreign domination."
"How can you know that?" Stephen meant You, a mere woman, but he did not dare to say it.
Margery replied: "I know because it's what has happened in the Netherlands. Patriotic Dutch people fight for Protestantism, not because they care about doctrine, but because they want independence from Spain."
Roger joined in. He had been such a pretty baby, Margery thought, but now he was seventeen, with a rapidly growing curly dark beard. Margery's impish look was reinterpreted, in her son, as a lively bantam confidence that made people smile. He had the golden-brown eyes of his biological father, Ned. It was fortunate that Bart, like most men of his type, never noticed the color of people's eyes, and that anyone else who suspected Roger's parentage would never say it for fear of being run through by Bart's sword. Roger said: "So, Mother, how do you think we could return our country to Catholicism?"
She was proud to have a son who could ask such a thoughtful and challenging question. He had a lively intellect, and was planning to go to Kingsbridge College, Oxford. Roger was a staunch Catholic and took an active part in the smuggling of the priests. All the same Stephen, who was his tutor, had been unable to suppress the independence the boy had inherited from Ned.
She answered him: "Left alone, English people will slowly and quietly make their way back to the old faith."
However, the English were not destined to be left alone.
There was no Spanish armada in 1587, but as summer turned to autumn, Margery and everyone else realized that they had celebrated too soon. They had imagined that Drake had prevented the invasion. But the raid on Cadiz had only postponed it. King Felipe was so rich that, to the consternation of the English, he simply started building new ships and buying replacement supplies.
Queen Elizabeth and her government began to organize for a fight to the death.
All along the coast, defenses were repaired that winter. Castles were reinforced, and new earth ramparts were thrown up around towns that had not seen battle for centuries. The walls of Kingsbridge were rebuilt, the old ones having long ago disappeared into suburban sprawl. The rusting old cannons at Combe Harbour were cleaned and test-fired. Chains of hilltop beacons were built, from the coast to London, ready to transmit the dreadful news that the galleons had been sighted.
Margery was aghast. Catholics were going to slaughter Protestants, and vice versa. But being a follower of Jesus Christ was not supposed to be about cannons and swords, killing and maiming. In the gospel story only the enemies of Jesus shed blood.
Margery could not help brooding over the fact that Ned believed as she did, that Christians should not kill one another over doctrine. He claimed that Queen Elizabeth believed it too, even though he admitted she had not always been true to her ideals.
Margery suffered agonies in the early months of 1588, as details trickled through of the size and strength of the new armada. It was rumored to have more than one hundred ships, a figure that terrified the English, whose entire navy consisted of thirty-eight vessels.
The government began interning notorious Catholics as a precaution. Margery hoped the men of her family would be put in prison where they would be safe. However, Bart was not considered dangerous. He had never been part of any conspiracy. It was Margery who had been the secret agent in New Castle, and she had been so careful that no one suspected her.
Then the weapons arrived.
Two carts loaded with hay trundled into the castle, but when the hay was forked off it was found to conceal half a dozen battleaxes, forty or so swords, ten arquebuses, a sack of bullets, and a small barrel of gunpowder. Margery watched the ordnance being carried into the house and stashed in the old bread oven, then said to Bart: "What are these for?"
She genuinely did not know. Would her husband fight for his queen and country, or for the Catholic Church?
He quickly set her straight. "I will muster an army of loyal Catholic gentry and peasants, and divide them in two. I will lead half of them to Combe Harbour to greet the Spanish liberators, and Bartlet will lead the other half to Kingsbridge, where they will take over the town and celebrate mass in the cathedral--in Latin."
A horrified protest sprang to her lips--and she suppressed it. If she let Bart know how she felt he would stop giving her information.
Bart believed she was merely squeamish about bloodshed. But she was more serious than that. She was not content merely to look away. She had to do something to prevent this.
Instead of protesting, she probed. "You can't do all that on your own."
"I won't be on my own. Catholic noblemen all over the country will be doing the same."
"How can you know?"
"Your brother is in charge of it."
"Rollo?" This was news to Margery. "He's in France."
"Not anymore. He's organizing the Catholic nobility."
"But how does he know who to organize?" As she asked the question, Margery realized, with horror, what the answer would be.
Bart confirmed her fear. "Every nobleman who has risked his life by harboring a secret priest is willing to fight against Elizabeth Tudor."
Margery found herself short of breath, as if she had been punched in the stomach. She struggled to hide her feelings from Bart--who, fortunately, was not observant. "So . . ." She swallowed, took a deep breath, and started again. "So Rollo has used my network of secret priests to organize an armed insurrection against Queen Elizabeth."
"Yes," said Bart. "We thought it best not to tell you."
Of course you did, Margery thought bitterly.
"Women dislike talk of bloodshed," Bart went on, as if he were an expert on feminine feelings. "But you were sure to find out eventually."
Margery was angry and sick at heart, but she did not want Bart to know that. She asked a mundane question. "Where will you keep the weapons?"
"In the old bread oven."
"These aren't enough for an army."
"There are more to come. And there's plenty of room behind the oven." Bart turned to give instructions to the servants, and Margery took the opportunity to walk away.
Had she been stupid? She knew perfectly well that Rollo would not hesitate to lie to her, nor would Bart. But she had thought that Rollo, like her, wanted no more than to help loyal Catholics receive the sacraments. Should she have guessed at his real intentions?
Perhaps she would have seen through Rollo if she had been able to talk to him. But for years now she had only waved to him across the bea
ch when he brought a new group of priests from the English College. The lack of contact had made it easier for him to fool her.
She felt certain of one thing: she would no longer smuggle priests from Rollo's college into England. She had done so in ignorance of their double role, but now that she knew the truth she would have nothing more to do with the business, nor with anything else her brother wanted. She would send him a coded message to that effect at the first opportunity. He would be furious, and that would give her some small satisfaction.
She lay awake that night and several succeeding nights, then she decided to stop reproaching herself and do something. She was under no obligation to keep Rollo's secrets, nor Bart's. Was there anything she could do to prevent bloodshed and keep her sons safe?
She resolved to speak to Ned Willard.
Easter was a few days away, and as usual she would go to Kingsbridge with Bart and the boys for the Easter Fair. They would all attend the special services in the cathedral. Bart could no longer avoid attending Protestant services: it was too dangerous and too expensive--the fine for not going to church was now twenty pounds.
She suffered a twinge of conscience as the family group approached Kingsbridge and the cathedral tower came into view over the treetops. Should she not be supporting this Spanish invasion and the associated Catholic rebellion? After all, the result might be that England would be Catholic again, and that had to be God's will.
Easter had become a dull affair under the Protestants. No longer were the bones of St. Adolphus carried through the streets of Kingsbridge in a colorful procession. There was no mystery play in the cathedral. Instead there was a troupe of actors in the courtyard of the Bell Inn every afternoon, performing a play called Everyman. The Protestants did not understand people's need for color and drama in church.
But Margery at forty-five no longer believed that Protestantism was evil and Catholicism perfect. For her the important divide was between tyranny and tolerance; between people who tried to force their views on everyone else, and people who respected the faith of those who disagreed with them. Rollo and Bart belonged to the authoritarian group she despised. Ned was one of the rare people who believed in religious freedom. She would trust him.
She did not run into Ned on her first day in Kingsbridge, nor the second. Perhaps he would not come this Easter. She saw his nephew, Alfo, now proudly married to Valerie Forneron. She also saw Ned's German sister-in-law, Helga, but not Barney, who had returned from Cadiz with another small fortune in plunder and had gone back to sea after a short furlough. Margery was reluctant to question the family about Ned's plans. She did not want to give them the impression she was desperate to talk to him. She was, though.
On Easter Saturday she was at the market in the old cloisters, now roofed over. She fingered a length of cloth in a dark wine-red color that she thought might suit her now that she was, well, no longer a girl. Then she glanced across the quadrangle and saw the sturdy short figure of Ned's wife, Sylvie.
Sylvie was like Margery, and both women knew it. Margery did not have to be modest with herself, and she could see that both she and Sylvie were attractive women who were also intelligent and determined--in fact rather similar to Ned's formidable mother. Sylvie was a Protestant, of course, and a crusading one; but even there Margery could see a similarity, for they both took terrible risks for the sake of their faith.
Margery wanted to speak to Ned, not Sylvie; but now Sylvie caught her eye, smiled, and came toward her.
It occurred to Margery that she could give Sylvie a message for Ned. In fact that might even be better, for then no one could cast suspicion on Margery by reporting to Bart that she had been talking to Ned.
"What a pretty hat," Sylvie said in her soft French accent.
"Thank you." Margery was wearing a sky-blue velvet cap. She showed Sylvie the cloth she was contemplating. "Do you like this color?"
"You're too young to wear burgundy," Sylvie said with a smile.
"That's kind."
"I saw your two sons. Roger has a beard now!"
"They grow up too fast."
"I envy you. I have never conceived. I know Ned is disappointed, though he doesn't complain."
Sylvie's intimacy with Ned's unspoken feelings, so casually revealed, caused Margery to feel a hot wave of jealousy. You have no children, she thought, but you've got him.
She said: "I'm worried about my boys. If the Spanish invade us they will have to fight."
"Ned says the queen's ships will try to prevent the Spanish soldiers' landing."
"I'm not sure we have enough ships."
"Perhaps God will be on our side."
"I'm not as sure as I used to be about whose side God is on."
Sylvie smiled ruefully. "Nor am I."
Out of the corner of her eye Margery saw Bart enter the indoor market. She was forced to make a quick decision. "Will you give Ned a message from me?"
"Of course. But he's here somewhere--"
"I'm sorry, there's no time. Ask him to raid New Castle and arrest Bart, Bartlet, and Roger. He will find weapons stockpiled in the old oven--they're to support the invaders." Her plan was risky, she knew, but she trusted Ned.
"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 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 in any of it. 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 fol
lowed 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 gray 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.
Bartlet and Roger followed suit.
Margery screamed: "No!" She had done this to keep her sons safe--but instead she had put their lives in danger. "Stop!"
The sheriff and his men drew too.
Ned did not draw his sword, but held up his arms and shouted: "Hold it, everyone! Nothing will be achieved by a fight, and anyone who attacks the sheriff's men will hang."