Chapter Ten

It was changing her. She knew it, and she could not seem to stop it.

Her carefully crafted mask began to feel like an impossibility. Not just because he watched her so much more closely now, nor because she became more conscious every day of the great sin she committed in bearing false witness so thoroughly, nor even because it was a wearying thing to do. All of these were known complications, difficulties she had overcome or reasoned away over the years.

But now. Now he held a piece of her. A piece that did not pretend at all, that he coaxed from her every night. It broke free of the lie to meet him, and a new truth was made between them in the dark.

When she had seen him only rarely, those intermittent short bursts of time over the years where they bore one another's presence with little grace, the pretending had been so much easier. A little game. One she almost spitefully enjoyed in those moments when he was especially intolerable and she goaded him with her wide-eyed simpering. But now the thought of playing that game unsettled her in some new and undefined way. Now she would watch him tense in anticipation of devout Lady Margaret's pious bleating – and found she could not do it. She had the appalling feeling that she did not want him to think poorly of her.

She chose simple meekness instead, a retreat into submission. He seemed to love a biddable wife no more than a loudly pious one, but a passive nature meant less confrontation. And she did not feel equal to confrontation with him.

"I leave it to you to choose what decoration is best suited for the chamber given to Stowell," he said to her one day. "Only be sure the heaviest silk is hung as bed curtain, and take care there is no germander among the strewing herbs. He hates the smell of it."

The Bishop of Stowell did not like him. As far as she could see, Lord William was conscious of the mislike and strove to overcome it, and if he too held a secret loathing of the bishop, he hid it well.

Even did he hate the man, he was far too cold and calculated to let anything as inconsequential as emotion impede his ambitions. Instead he learned that his rival hated the smell of germander. The tiny details that might ruin an opponent, and those that might win him over – these were weapons in her husband's hands. There was an art to it, and she had learned a great deal from observing him.

She knew, for instance, that he very much wanted this visit to aid him in gaining Stowell's approval, in hopes of winning his unreserved support for a crusade. Her task as Lady was to ensure the bishop was impressed, to display the power and wealth of Ruardean to its fullest. In other times, with any other courtier, this would be a perfect opportunity for her to quietly undermine Lord William's plans. But now she hesitated to give the bishop any advantage, even over her husband. She resigned herself to careful observation for this visit, though if an opportunity presented itself she would of course take the chance.

Stowell arrived with a retinue much larger than expected, a seemingly endless stream of churchmen. He gave no explanation or apology, but only said, "I hope it is not a burden," between warning the servants to be careful with his baggage and eyeing the silver cup of wine offered to him.

"It is no burden at all, my lord bishop, but a great honor," Margaret assured him, burying her true reaction to this vast flock of clergy descending upon them. "Ruardean is blessed by your presence."

Lord William betrayed no surprise at the size of the party, but Margaret saw the subtle signs of his unease. His weight shifted forward on his feet just barely, his eyes flicking discreetly to the guard stationed on the wall-walk, his mouth unnaturally still to prevent the telltale pinch to his lips. The bishop was too blessedly occupied in sucking down wine to take note of any tension.

"My lady sister regrets she could not be here, but sends you warm greetings," Lord William said. It was truly stunning, how well he lied. No one would ever suspect that Lady Gwenllian had hastened her departure when she learned she might encounter Stowell. "Her son remains and has been most eager to meet you."

Henry stepped forward at this and made his greetings, and it only increased Margaret's sense of foreboding. Perhaps it was only the smoothness with which the boy agreed with the lie about his mother, or his unaccountable warmth toward Stowell. More concerning still was the aura of smugness about the bishop. It put Margaret in mind of a child with a stolen sweet, and she knew with a certainty that Lord William sensed it as well. She could feel the tautness in him, the keen focus.

At the meal, he sat between her and Stowell, a welcome buffer. He spoke most cordially to the bishop about inconsequential things, perfect as ever in his role as gracious lord of the manor. It was so innocuous that she grew bored with their words, and merely watched them while barely listening.

She contemplated her husband's profile, searching for any sign of his true thoughts beneath the polished and practiced demeanor. He was so well known for this inscrutable manner, his cool composure in even the most extraordinary circumstance. Yet she could not forget his face in the moment he saw his sister's wrath. There had been no cool composure when Gwenllian glared at him, believing the worst of him. There had been only a quiet and thorough devastation.

It was hard to believe this was the same man. It was even harder to believe that in his devastation he had come to Margaret, that she had felt the fine tremor that ran through him at her kiss – a fissure in granite, forming beneath her lips.

How much easier it was to hate a far-off villain. How humbling to realize she had never thought of him as simply a man. One with a beating heart, with secret hopes and hurts of his own.

The musicians in the gallery paused midway through the meal, and she looked anxiously up at them until they resumed playing. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. She even sighted Father Benedict further down the hall, his grey head bent to speak to an old woman – Gwladys, the woman who was secretly his wife. The priest usually joined her at the meal, but today he would sit at the higher end of the hall, in the place of greater honor that was reserved for him. He only paused now, discreetly, to greet his wife warmly, and Margaret found herself again in a world of light.

It was sudden, but not startling. One moment she was idly noting the little scene, the next she was breathless with the sight of it.

Everything seemed to have fallen away except the sight of the kindly old priest bending over his secret love, putting a cup before her, a comfortable companionship in their attitude. Margaret stared at Gwladys gently patting his hand in thanks, both of them bathed in a wash of gold and white. She blinked and blinked, but it did not fade. It only seemed to grow, insistent in its beauty for an indefinable length of time. And then it was gone, almost as though it had never been.

She wondered if she was ill. It was far more likely to be illness, she reasoned, than it was some sort of holy vision. That was a foolish girl's imagination, a naivete that should have been lost long ago. It was a little mortifying that she had ever thought it was more than a strange mood. A consequence of too little sleep. A trick of the light.

And besides all that: how mundane was the moment. How very ordinary she herself was. How profane, to think that someone who lied as easily as breathing would be sent holy visions.

"Lady Margaret."

William's voice seemed to come gradually, from a great distance. She only really noticed it when there was a touch at her hand, a sudden shock of awareness, and she turned her eyes to her husband. The light was clinging to him, too, faint but still dazzling. She tried to blink it away.

"Margaret?" he said, and it felt like waking from a dream to hear her name on his lips. She saw first the concern in his eyes, and then the tight set of his mouth. She wasted a moment in trying to make sense of those two opposing things until she remembered who she was, and what she was supposed to be.

"Your pardon, my lord, I was lost in thought."

She had missed something. Probably many things, so great had been her inattention and so obvious was the tension at the table.

"When the meal is done, we will be pleased to give use of the large solar to the bishop and his fellows." His hand still encircled her wrist, and he gave it an almost imperceptible squeeze. "They will have no need of music, nor any other diversion."

She conjured a look of eagerness bright enough to eclipse her unease. "Full well does it please me to do my lord's bidding, no more so than when it is for the comfort of so esteemed a guest."

And so as they ate the final course, she tried to force her sluggish mind to consider what business Stowell might have that would require his unusually large party to have privacy and no diversions. But she found she could not focus her mind, now when she needed it most, and a faint panic began to stir in her. Constance had gone to attend a birth in the village, eager to be away from the bishop, and now Margaret had no calming influence. She only had the growing dread, the frantic pounding of her own heart, the certainty that she was overlooking something vital and all would be lost because of her own stupidity.

She realized her teeth were biting down on her lip and forced herself to stop. It throbbed gently, and she imagined it was red and full, just as it had appeared when she had spread it with the rouge paste. It made her think of Stephan, and that saved her. The memory of her friend came to her like a gift, the image of the paintbrush in his hand, transforming into a new person – and yet the same person – with no doubt about the soul at the center of it all.

It woke her, forced her back into the moment and disciplined her mind. Later she would panic, and let herself think of things other than survival. For now she must wear the mask, and wear it well.

She called the steward to her, and calmly gave instructions to prepare the room for the bishop and his men.

An hour after the meal was done, she joined Lord William in the corridor outside the solar. Their presence had been requested by the bishop, who spoke now with Father Benedict behind closed doors, and bade them wait until he was finished. They stood side by side in silence, waiting.

All of it felt ominous, and worse: unpredictable. As much as she knew of the bishop, she felt utterly ignorant now of his motives, his purpose in this meeting. She was certain that William knew no more than she, and yet there was no dread in him. She looked at his profile. It was calm, poised, utterly confident. Always prepared.

She was not prepared at all. How she hated that.

"Wherefore does Stowell mislike you?" she murmured low, surprising herself.

Never had she asked him such a thing, a bare and honest appeal for information. He betrayed no emotion, yet she could feel his reaction. She did not know if it was surprise at her ability to perceive the mislike, or at her boldness in naming it. The silence seemed alive with possibilities, with thoughts and suspicions and unsaid words. He did not look at her. When he answered, it was not the artful deflection that she had anticipated.

"He is a Mortimer. It is a rancor inherited."

She blinked, confused. It was his mother who had quarreled once with a Mortimer – but not this one, and not when she had ruled Ruardean. It would be strange for that to cause such ill will between these two men. Margaret had opened her mouth to say so, when he spoke again.

"On his part, it is likely not a family feeling, but a bitterness born when my lord father spoke against his appointment to the bishopric." He spared a glance in her direction, an amused curl to his lip. "He did not share your good opinion of Stowell."

She should have made some witless comment in praise of the bishop. Instead she let her thoughts slip into words, and said, "On his part?"

A mistake. She watched it dawn on him that she was capable of detecting the meaning in his offhanded words – that this rancor was mutual, that he returned the bishop's mislike. His look was sharp, as threatening as a knife, the lethal point of it poised to cut her open and expose all.

It was only an instant, no matter that it felt like an eternity, and somehow she kept her eyes on his as her features melted into the vacuous expression that served her so well. A faint doubt had just begun to creep into his face as he observed this, and she was furiously searching for something to say, when one of Stowell's men appeared and beckoned them into the solar.

Her first thought upon entering was of the hundred court, where the constable and his men sat grim-faced in judgment over the accused. Here instead was the bishop, full of his own import, flanked by his many retainers – two of whom sat with pen and parchment at the ready. Father Benedict stood in the furthest corner, a somewhat befuddled look on his face.

"My lord bishop," she said, her voice full of reverence as she bowed her head and bent her knees deeply in courtesy. She asked after the warmth of the fire, inquired at length on the sufficiency and variety of drink, and begged to know what else she could do to ensure his comfort. She was exactly as Lady Margaret should be – solicitous to a fault and eager for approval.

Only Lord William's stony silence beside her stopped her from launching into prayer. He changed the atmosphere. His presence seemed to fill the room, an effortless domination over this gathering. He was lord here, and none could mistake it. Not for an instant.

Obviously affected by this mood, Stowell stood. It was done so that he need not look up at Lord William. He was tall and thin, his face narrow and features sharp, a meat cleaver of a man.

"What know you of a Lady Constance, who has long dwelt in this household?" Stowell asked without ceremony, addressing himself to Lord William.

There was an irrepressible smugness in him. Margaret's belly filled with dread, but her husband was unperturbed.

"Have you some business with her?" William's eyes swept over the assembled party, his brows lifting just barely. "I wonder that you did not send word of it, that she might be here to greet you."

"Without a doubt, she can be found. I ask you again, what know you of her?"

William gave a negligent shrug. "She is widowed. She attends my lady wife." A faint but unmistakable amusement softened his mouth. "Nor would I deny my lord bishop the pleasure of saying what he has learned that we plainly do not know."

Now Stowell turned to Margaret, who had cobbled together an expression of wide-eyed curiosity. He said, "I have prayed in earnest that this Lady Constance has not polluted your own pure faith, for she is accused of spreading foul lies and heresies to innocent souls. What know you of her character?"

She stared in shock for a long moment. Long enough to beat down her panic and gather her thoughts, sparing a brief prayer that only her alarm – and not guilt – showed in her face.

"Whoever would accuse her is surely mistaken, my lord bishop. There can be no one more filled with the grace of the Holy Spirit than Lady Constance," Margaret insisted. "Never would she commit so grave a sin!"

She kept her eyes on his, maintaining the soft pleading look while steeling herself for what was ahead. The moment they had so long feared was here at last, it seemed. She could wish it was not so sudden, or that it was not the bishop who discovered it and confronted her with grim-faced clerics all around, but her wishes did not matter. She knew very well what to say, what to do.

In her mind, she carefully rehearsed her response while the bishop told her of the writings that Constance had given to the beguines. The teachings in the pages were not only heretical, he explained, but worse – they were written in English and French, allowing even commoners with little learning to read whole paragraphs of scripture too. It was an unthinkable transgression.

Here is where she should gasp in dismay. She must feign bewilderment and betrayal, and beg forgiveness for her errant friend.

Instead, she heard herself say, "But Lady Constance knew naught of what was within. She carried the pages at my behest."

The heat of a terrified flush scorched her throat, blessedly hidden by the veil she wore as gorget. Already she could feel the sweat pooling beneath her arms. Lord William's stare burned her, but she did not turn to meet it. She spent all her energy in looking perfectly artless, nothing more than a faint dismay dawning in her eyes as she faced the bishop's amazement.

She did not know why she said it. But she had. It was done now.

The other men were murmuring excitedly, the scribes writing furiously. Stowell did not take his eyes from her. A woman's life is pretending , her mother's long-dead voice reminded her. And it was easy. So very easy to be the empty-headed child they wanted her to be. It was even easy to withstand the bishop's sharp gaze, so accustomed was she to Lord William's far more daunting scrutiny.

" You? " Stowell asked finally, as though he did not dare to hope for so great a prize. "You would associate with these women who call themselves beguines? You would knowingly pass to them and to others the words of this dissenter from Livonia, and let it spread like a cancer through all of England?"

She was appropriately aghast at this. "A dissenter! But my lord bishop, Brother Quinten is a holy man, sworn to the Church. He has taken vows and is a teacher well-known in his land. Wherefore should I doubt his faith?"

"Only by reading his words, lady, in which his offenses are clear."

She ducked her head a touch, a little sign of humility. "In truth, my wits are not equal to his great wisdom and I did struggle to understand much of what he wrote. But I perceived naught that contradicts the teachings of the Church."

"This is your defense? You claim ignorance?"

The triumphant gleam in his eye reminded her of nothing so much as a trap being sprung. But she had no time to think what it meant. She pressed her hands to her heart in a show of great distress and bowed her head.

"I claim the weakness of mind that is every woman's, my lords. Such lofty words did confound me, and defied my poor understanding."

While she considered the merits of flinging herself to the floor and begging forgiveness, he took a paper from one of his men. He held it out to Lord William, who only silently gazed at it. When it was offered to Margaret, she took it in her hand.

Any hope that they had not recovered the exact pages that Constance had carried was lost.

" Let all good priests care for their wives and never cast them off, for their companionship is a comfort beyond compare, and is pleasing to God. " Stowell's finger tapped the page where her own hand had drawn a bracket around those lines. She had even written in the margin that this passage should be shared with priests of Wales especially. "They are very plain words, Lady Margaret. Which of them do you not understand?"

Her lips parted, but no words came. Contentious as it might once have been, the Church had now taught for a hundred years and more that it was forbidden for priests to keep wives. And though the edict was quietly ignored in some corners of Christendom – and in many corners of Wales – none could pretend ignorance of it. Certainly no one of faith could advocate for the practice, and insist it was God's will.

"I…my lord, I thought…"

Her eyes fell on her book of hours, strategically left in the room. It was open to an illumination of Christ on the cross, the paint at his knees worn away by the kisses of the faithful. She had spent hours rubbing with a fingertip to give it that effect. "I thought these words only to be an injunction against the evil of abandoning a woman who is under a priest's protection. That if they cannot live as man and wife, then the woman is yet blameless and should not be cast out but cared for as a child of God."

Belatedly she realized she should have seemed more bewildered, less confident, and certainly less intelligent. But it was too late in any case. Her reasoning was of little consequence; in the eyes of the Church she was guilty. Her only hope was to be seen as a misguided but not malicious soul.

"Are we to believe this defense?" Stowell's expression was a startling mix of affront and glee. "You are very well learned, lady. So well that it beggars belief you could be blind to the true nature of these teachings. There is yet more than that single passage. Indeed, it is heretical in every word."

He was clearly enjoying this. She could only think of mice cornered by cats, of fish caught in nets, of creatures irrevocably trapped with nowhere left to go. And so she hung her head in mortification and did her best to sound abject.

"I do fully repent of my sinful pride, my lord bishop, that ever I would think my wretched self capable of understanding. With all my heart do I repent of my actions in spreading this man's teachings, all unknowing of their foul nature."

"And yet who better to recognize their wickedness?" he persisted, and now there was an edge of viciousness in him. "Who better than one taught from birth by her lord father, through his own shame and repentance, to reject and renounce any such vile teachings?" His voice was rising, the scribes were furiously writing, and her stomach dropped so suddenly at the mention of her father that she thought she might be ill. "I do not forget that hatred and dissent are in your blood–"

"You forget a great many things."

Lord William spoke softly enough, but his voice seemed to reach into every corner of the room. For an instant she felt a rush of cowardly relief, thinking he meant to step before her and shield her from the contempt of these men. But he only moved so that he stood more closely beside her, his broad shoulder looming above hers as he looked steadily at the bishop.

"She is the Lady of Ruardean." He spoke so low that the scribes strained to hear, unconcealed warning in every syllable. When the bishop looked as though he would argue the point, William only lowered his voice further. "Have a care, my lord bishop. You stand on my land, where I rule. Not the Church, nor even the king, but the Lord – and Lady – of Ruardean."

All the room held its breath. Though she could not see Stowell's face, she could feel him absorbing William's words. It was no ordinary wealth and power he faced, but the might and will of a Marcher lord. She felt a stab of longing, a desperate wish to be another kind of lady, a grand and bold one who could lift her chin and stand tall in all her haughty scorn. But she had chosen to be Lady Margaret, and so kept as quiet and still as all the lesser men in the room.

Stowell had his own pride. And his own hatred.

"All are ruled by God, Lord William, and your lady wife is accused of the grievous sin of heresy. She has confessed it. Think you it will be overlooked only because of your name?"

It was laughable. Of course he thought it would be overlooked – everyone did. All her own plans depended on it. Yet she could sense at once that the name of Ruardean alone would not suffice this time. Though she was sure her husband sensed it too, there was nothing but a warm cordiality in his reply. It only made him more menacing, how easily he moved between threatening and amiable, how thoroughly he controlled the mood.

"Nay, I think me you will confer with your fellows, and render judgment, and grant absolution – according to the Church's own teachings and practice." His pleasant tone did not entirely conceal the cynicism behind his words. "Certes I am ever mindful that the debt incurred by the sin must be paid. I ask you now to say me the price of her salvation, and spare us the hours of bargaining."

Margaret bit down hard on the nervous laughter that wanted to burst out of her, but could not stop herself from looking up. There was an unmissable flare of avarice in Stowell's eyes amid all his outrage. Lord William was thoroughly unconcerned, waiting patiently for this little transaction to be complete.

"Penance is given in accordance with the sin, without consideration of the sinner's purse," the bishop spluttered.

Margaret schooled herself not to laugh outright at this blatant falsehood, instead taking private pleasure in seeing the skeptical twist of Lord William's mouth.

"Did not my lord bishop come prepared to lay these charges against Lady Constance?" he asked. "The price of an indulgence cannot have changed so much in an hour. But of course we are not averse to negotiation."

He grinned most agreeably, and it was plain as anything that Stowell was more than prepared to be mollified.

It was a pure and mutual extortion. That's all it was to these men, a game of power and wealth and spite. Her fate would be decided by it.

An indulgence. The ugly charade of promising heaven in exchange for riches on earth. She was caught between relief and disgust. It was one of the worst blasphemies of the Church – forgiveness like any other bit of commerce – and it would be her salvation. The weight of her sin was to be calculated in gold and silver, her redemption purchased like so many pounds of meat.