Still passionate, but more measured, she said: ‘I’m not a princess! We’re gentry, not aristocracy. My marriage isn’t a political alliance. I’m the daughter of a merchant. People like us don’t have arranged marriages.’
That angered Sir Reginald, and he flushed under his freckles. ‘I am a knight!’
‘Not an earl!’
‘I am descended from the Ralph Fitzgerald who became earl of Shiring two centuries ago – as is Bart. Ralph Fitzgerald was the son of Sir Gerald and the brother of Merthin the bridge-builder. The blood of the English nobility runs in my veins.’
Margery saw with dismay that she was up against not just her father’s inflexible will but his family pride as well. She did not know how she could overcome that combination. The only thing she was sure of was that she must not show weakness.
She turned to Bart. Surely he would not want to marry an unwilling bride? She said: ‘I’m sorry, Lord Shiring, but I’m going to marry Ned Willard.’
Sir Reginald was startled. ‘No, you’re not, by the cross.’
‘I’m in love with Ned Willard.’
‘You’re too young to be in love with anyone. And the Willards are practically Protestants!’
‘They go to Mass just like everyone else.’
‘All the same, you’re going to marry Viscount Shiring.’
‘I will not,’ she said with quiet firmness.
Bart was recovering. He muttered: ‘I knew she’d be trouble.’
Sir Reginald said: ‘She just needs a firm hand.’
‘She needs a whip.’
Lady Jane intervened. ‘Think of it, Margery,’ she said. ‘You will be the countess one day, and your son will be the earl!’
‘That’s all you care about, isn’t it?’ Margery said. She heard her own voice rising to a defiant yell, but she could not stop. ‘You just want your grandchildren to be aristocrats!’ She could see from their faces that her surmise had touched the truth. With contempt she said: ‘Well, I will not be a broodmare just because you have delusions of nobility.’
As soon as she had said it she knew she had gone too far. Her insult had touched her father where he was most sensitive.
Sir Reginald took off his belt.
Margery backed away fearfully, and found herself up against the writing table. Sir Reginald grabbed her by the back of her neck, using his left hand. She saw that the tongue end of the belt had a brass sleeve, and she was so scared that she screamed.
Sir Reginald bent her over the table. She wriggled desperately, but he was too strong for her, and he held her easily.
She heard her mother say: ‘Leave the room, please, Lord Shiring.’ That scared her even more.
The door slammed, then she heard the belt whistle through the air. It landed on the backs of her thighs. Her dress was too thin to give her any protection, and she screamed again, in pain this time. She was lashed again, and a third time.
Then her mother spoke. ‘I think that’s enough, Reginald,’ she said.
‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ said Sir Reginald. It was a grimly familiar proverb: everyone believed that flogging was good for children, except the children.
Lady Jane said: ‘The Bible verse actually says something different. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” It refers to boys, not girls.’
Sir Reginald countered with a different verse. ‘Another biblical proverb says: “Withhold not correction from the child”, doesn’t it?’
‘She’s not really a child any more. Besides, we both know this approach doesn’t work on Margery. Punishment only makes her more stubborn.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘Leave her to me. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmed down.’
‘Very well,’ Sir Reginald said, and Margery thought it was over; then the belt whistled again, stinging her already painful legs, and she screamed once more. Immediately afterwards she heard his boots stamp across the floor and out of the room, and it really was over.
*
NED WAS SURE he would see Margery at Earl Swithin’s feast. Her parents could hardly keep her away. It would be like an announcement that something was wrong. Everyone would be talking about why Margery was not there.
The cartwheel ruts in the mud road were frozen hard, and Ned’s pony picked her way daintily along the treacherous surface. The heat of the horse warmed his body, but his hands and feet were numb with cold. Beside him his mother, Alice, rode a broad-backed mare.
The earl of Shiring’s home, New Castle, was twelve miles from Kingsbridge. The journey took almost half a short winter day, and made Ned mad with impatience. He had to see Margery, not just because he longed for a sight of her, but also so that he could find out what the devil was going on.
Ahead, New Castle appeared in the distance. It had been new a hundred and fifty years ago. Recently the earl had built a house in the ruins of the medieval fortress. The remaining battlements, made of the same grey stone as Kingsbridge Cathedral, were adorned today with ribbons and swags of freezing fog. As he drew near, Ned heard sounds of festivity: shouted greetings, laughter, and a country band – a deep drum, a lively fiddle, and the reedy whine of pipes drifting through the cold air. The noise bore with it a promise of blazing fires, hot food and something cheering to drink.
Ned kicked his horse into a trot, impatient to arrive and put an end to his uncertainty. Did Margery love Bart Shiring, and was she going to marry him?
The road led straight to the entrance. Rooks strutting on the castle walls cawed spitefully at the visitors. The drawbridge had gone long ago, and the moat had been filled in, but there were still arrow-slit windows in the gatehouse. Ned rode through to the noisy courtyard, bustling with brightly dressed guests, horses and carts, and the earl’s busy servants. Ned entrusted his pony to a groom and joined the throng moving towards the house.
He did not see Margery.
On the far side of the courtyard stood a modern brick mansion, attached to the old castle buildings, the chapel on one side and the brewery on the other. Ned had been here only once in the four years since it had been built, and he marvelled again at the rows of big windows and the ranks of multiple chimneys. Grander than the wealthiest Kingsbridge merchants’ homes, it was the largest house in the county, although perhaps there were even bigger places in London, which he had never visited.
Earl Swithin had lost status during the reign of Henry VIII, because he had opposed the king’s breach with the Pope; but the earl’s fortunes had revived five years ago with the accession of the ultra-Catholic Mary Tudor as queen, and Swithin was once again favoured, rich and powerful. This promised to be a lavish banquet.
Ned entered the house and passed into a great hall two stories high. The tall windows made the room light even on a winter day. The walls were panelled in varnished oak and hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Logs burned in two huge fireplaces at opposite ends of the long room. In the gallery that ran around three of the four walls, the band he had heard from the road was playing energetically. High on the fourth wall was a portrait of Earl Swithin’s father, holding a staff to symbolize power.
Some guests were performing a vigorous country dance in groups of eight, holding hands to form rotating circles then stopping to skip in and out. Others conversed in clusters, raising their voices over the music and the stomping of the dancers. Ned took a wooden cup of hot cider and looked around the room.