‘I’m not asking you to marry Viscount Shiring today,’ said Lady Jane. ‘Just go and talk to him.’
They were in Margery’s bedroom. In one corner was a prie-dieu, a prayer desk, where she knelt twice a day, facing the crucifix on the wall, and counted her prayers with the help of a string of carved ivory beads. The rest of the room was all luxury: a four-poster bed with a feather mattress and richly coloured hangings; a big carved-oak chest for her many dresses; a tapestry of a forest scene.
This room had seen many arguments with her mother over the years. But Margery was a woman now. She was petite, but a little taller and heavier than her tiny, fierce mother; and she felt it was no longer a foregone conclusion that the fight would end in victory for Lady Jane and humiliation for Margery.
Margery said: ‘What’s the point? He’s come here to court me. If I talk to him, he’ll feel encouraged. And then he’ll be even angrier when he realizes the truth.’
‘You can be polite.’
Margery did not want to talk about Bart. ‘How could you not tell me that Ned was here?’ she said. ‘That was dishonest.’
‘I didn’t know until he’d gone! Only Rollo saw him.’
‘Rollo was doing your will.’
‘Children should do their parents’ will,’ her mother said. ‘You know the commandment: “Honour thy father and mother”. It’s your duty to God.’
All her short life Margery had struggled with this. She knew that God wished her to be obedient, but she had a wilful and rebellious nature – as she had so often been told – and she found it extraordinarily difficult to be good. However, when this was pointed out to her, she always suppressed her nature and became compliant. God’s will was more important than anything else, she knew that. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ she said.
‘Go and talk to Bart,’ said Lady Jane.
‘Very well.’
‘Just comb your hair, dear.’
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 is The 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 out The 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.
He drew her to him and kissed her.
On another day she might just have turned her face away. Lips did not hurt. But she was still sad and bitter about having missed Ned. Her mind was full of thoughts of what might have happened: how she might have kissed him and touched his hair and pulled his body to hers. His imaginary presence was so strong that Bart’s embrace repelled her to the point of panic. Without thinking, she kneed him in the balls as hard as she could.
He roared with pain and shock, released her from his grasp, and bent over, groaning in agony, eyes squeezed shut, both hands between his thighs.
Margery ran to the door, but before she got there her mother stepped into the library, obviously having been listening outside.
Lady Jane looked at Bart and understood immediately what had happened. She turned to Margery and said: ‘You foolish child.’
‘I won’t marry this brute!’ Margery cried.
Her father came in. He was tall with black hair, like Rollo, but unlike Rollo he was heavily freckled. He said coldly: ‘You will marry whomever your father chooses.’
That ominous statement scared Margery. She began to suspect that she had underestimated her parents’ determination. It was a mistake to let her indignation take over. She tried to calm herself and think logically.