Chapter Thirteen

Ruardean was not necessarily full of secrets. But what secrets it held, it kept well.

There were the untold stories of William's father, the true extent of his visions and his rumored madness. The whispers about his uncle who had ruled in name only, too weak-willed to be of any real use. There were indications – conversations hastily ended, careless slips of the tongue – of other hidden things. How Lady Gwenllian had studied with the guardsmen in her youth. How Lady Eluned had, when she ruled, been planning something portentous that was somehow thwarted in the end. Even Father Benedict's secret wife was never once named as such, though all within these walls knew what she was.

Margaret only barely discerned the edges of these hidden things, and only because she had spent years in the effort. No matter how closely she looked, no matter how intently she listened, she discovered next to nothing. She only learned that Ruardean did not betray its own.

Now she felt that protection like an embrace. They did not reject her for her heresy. Not a word was said and no overt gestures were made – yet she felt something shift. A space was made for her among the secrets. This was a place that approved of unbearably human flaws, and the silent acceptance seemed to claim her as one of them at last.

It was a feeling that seemed proven by Johanna's unexpected visit.

"The understeward recognizes me," Johanna murmured in her ear as they greeted one another in the ornamental garden. "He knows I am Stephan too."

Margaret's heart seemed to beat outside her chest, already alarmed at this unprecedented visit and what it might mean. Her friend had never come to Ruardean, either as Johanna or Stephan. It was too perilous, a thing to be risked only for a matter of great urgency. Margaret looked to the edge of the garden where the understeward now lingered. But even as she watched, he prevented a curious Brother Matthew from entering, ensuring a privacy she had not requested. He kept the cleric from coming close enough to see Johanna clearly.

"I think me he will not make trouble," she said to her guest, and then moved away from the patch of rue where she had been clearing weeds and calling it penance. She wiped the dirt from her hands, trying to calm her heart, and led them to a willow seat in the farthest corner of the garden. "Now, what news is so grave that you would take such a risk upon yourself to come here?"

"We both know the risk is greater to you, my little heretic," Johanna said as they sat. "But I would not come did I not have faith in both our wits – and did I not know your lord husband is away this morning. Tell me, how vicious is Stowell's spy?"

She asked it easily, without even glancing to the place where Brother Matthew still stood in conversation with the understeward.

"Not vicious at all." Margaret looked toward him. He only seemed disappointed to be kept from her visitor, and perhaps a little worried for the errant lady of Ruardean. "In truth his kindness shames me. His loyalty lies less with the bishop, I think, than with goodness and the Lord's commandments."

Johanna raised a skeptical brow. "Sweet Meg of the soft heart. You speak as though you almost trust him."

Margaret gave a gratified smile, entirely at odds with the turmoil in her breast. "How glad I am that it appears so. Will you tell me why you have come now, or will you wait until the dread has stopped my soft heart?"

"It will take a great deal more than dread to kill you," Johanna retorted, and then lowered her voice. "A messenger has been dispatched to Venache as you requested. He is loyal to none but his own purse, so we must pray your words will confound any who might intercept them. It should be delivered by Michaelmas."

Margaret nodded, impatient. Constance had delivered the messenger's payment to Stephan weeks ago, and all this was no more than confirmation that the plan was carried out.

"Aye," she said as calmly as she could. "And what else? Speak quickly, while we are yet alone here."

"The holy man of Livonia comes to London soon. Next week, even." At Margaret's startled gasp, Johanna took her hand in reassurance, holding it low so that no onlookers would see. "Aye, far earlier than expected. There is trouble there."

Margaret's limbs felt cold. Quinten had been so hesitant to come to England at all. No doubt he would have been yet more hesitant, had he known the Church's recent judgment on Margaret.

"What trouble?" she breathed, her mind racing to anticipate the answer. "What can be so grave that it drives him here?"

"I can tell you only what I suspect, for I know naught with any certainty. I think me he has fled in fear. The good father whose bed I keep warm, he has said there is much talk of those writings that were given in evidence against you. Though your actions are your own, this man's teaching causes great concern. There are men in Rome who are determined to put an end to him."

How detached she seemed. Margaret looked at the patch of withering sweet violet blooms near her feet, and felt the coldness creep from her limbs toward her heart.

"Which men of Rome?"

"That is far out of my humble reach. Better you look to your lord husband for such intelligence."

Margaret nodded, and thought immediately of how William's rivals might use this against him. It was so much easier to oppose the great lord of Ruardean when his name was associated with an enemy of the Church. A weakness at last, a chink in the armor to be exploited to the fullest. It undermined him. It might even end his hopes of a crusade once and for all.

Such an outcome should please her. Even a month ago she might have thrilled to the prospect. Now she shied away from it, as from a fire that raged too near.

Instead she turned her mind to Johanna, who now suggested they find a place for Brother Quinten. Somewhere far from the reach of the Bishop of Stowell – and from Margaret, for that matter. His presence must remain discreet, at least for now. After much discussion they agreed it would be safest to find a house not too far from London, private and inconspicuous.

"I would send my beguines away from here, for their safety," Margaret said. The bishop's men had questioned the women so harshly, and watched them so closely, that they were rightly terrified of stepping a foot wrong. "Perhaps they will care to keep house for Quinten for a time. They admire his teachings. And there is great risk to you, my friend."

"Aye, and it is mine to consider, not yours," Johanna shrugged, and despite Margaret's protests, she would not admit any real danger in the task. She refused even to consider the potential consequences of aiding a known heretic in support of a man hunted by the Church.

The scheme required more funds, however, and when Margaret said so, a mischievous spark came to Johanna's eye.

"Ah, how clever I am to have brought you a gift, dear Meg." She patted the little bundle beside her that Margaret had barely noticed. "It will serve as explanation for my visit, should your watchdog ask any troublesome questions. And you will find a useful token within."

She handed it to a curious Margaret, who loosened the string that bound the package. Inside was a woven garment, drab in color and so rough to the touch that she was sure it was sackcloth.

"It is… is it a hair shirt ?"

It was. She pressed her lips together to stifle the disbelieving laughter that almost escaped. Her fingers brushed against the coarse surface of the hair shirt in morbid fascination. She tried for a moment to imagine the kind of person who would wear it – who thought that she should wear it – and suppressed a disgusted grimace.

"Take care to look delighted, my lady. It is the finest goat hair, fit for the most noble penitent to punish herself," Johanna assured her, clearly enjoying this. "And as I have said, there is a token within, though better you wait to remove it when you are alone."

Margaret let her hand move down the front of the folded shirt, knowing what she would find, feeling the scratch of the fibers against her fingertips until she reached a hard lump beneath the fabric. It was a square nearly as large as her palm, a replica of the bejeweled piece it would replace – except that this was a square of lead painted with gold leaf and studded with colored glass, not real gems on solid gold.

There were eighteen such golden squares linked together to form the girdle she rarely wore, and only when she was called upon to showcase the wealth of Ruardean. Now six of those eighteen would be fake. They had exchanged them out slowly over the years.

"I will send Constance to bring the true piece to you soon," she murmured.

"Tell her she is more like to find me in town this next month." Johanna nodded down at the hair shirt and gave a barely perceptible wink. "Slip your hand within. See how it will feel to wear this hair shirt."

Margaret eased her fingers just under the edge of the collar and pressed her lips hard together again, to suppress her laughter. It was lined with a fur so soft that she had to resist plunging her hand into it.

"As I said, fit for a noble penitent." Johanna said with a smile. "I took it off a merchant of Dalmatia in a game of chance. All that prickly piety on the outside, for show – it put me in mind of you."

Of course it did, and Margaret was not sure whether to laugh or cry at that. She thanked her friend and they said a farewell that was solemn and sedate, for the benefit of any who might watch them.

Brother Matthew found her at the appointed time for her daily confession of sins. As she expected, he was gentle in how he inquired after her visitor, asking if her spirit had been disturbed by it in any way, or if it had weakened her resolve to sin no more.

She took the opportunity to invent some shame over a virtual stranger being so good as to bring her a hair shirt to aid her in doing penance. A fair amount of breath was spent in her explanation that she was undeserving of such benevolent gestures.

It had become a burden, thinking of nonsense to confess. And though he did nothing intentionally to cause it, Brother Matthew engendered a genuine feeling of contrition in her. He was so very patient and solicitous. Even more, he could speak endlessly on such topics as science and astrology and medicine, which made him a great favorite with the old physician and young Henry.

In short, Brother Matthew reminded Margaret of all the reasons she had once thought to live out her life in an abbey. So much learning, such wonder, such worthy discourse – and all of it fostered and encouraged by the liveliest minds from all over Christendom. It was like a cave filled to overflowing with riches, and she had spent too long looking only at the cruel beasts that guarded the treasure. She had forgotten they were not all odious, that even the bishop's man might have a fine mind and a good heart.

Only a week ago, when she had searched her mind desperately for anything to confess, he had proven it. Her courses had come, a jarring reminder that the time spent in bed with her husband was meant to serve a purpose beyond carnal pleasure.

"It is God's judgment upon me," she had said to Brother Matthew, because it seemed a suitably ludicrous thing to say. "He will not let a child grow inside a womb so poisoned by sin."

A deep distress was in his eyes as he implored her never to imagine such a thing. "I think me God must weep to know the cruelties we invent, and then name them His works. That is the true work of the Fiend, to persuade us we know aught of God's ways, or that we will know His judgment before death."

Then he patted her hand and assured her she would be blessed with a child whenever God deemed it time, and not before. His compassion made her ashamed of her own harsh judgment of him.

Only Constance, so wounded by Margaret's action in claiming the heresy as her own, could make her feel more wretched.

Never did her friend reproach her. She had prayed alone for two days, and finally came to Margaret to say she had begged God's forgiveness for her own pride. "For I see now I wanted to take all the blame as though to make a martyr of myself," she had said, and Margaret resisted the impulse to roll her eyes at this excessive humility. "Plainly it was the Holy Spirit that inspired you to speak as you did. It gives us such advantage in our purpose that I must believe it was divine intent."

To prevent a new crusade, she meant. That was the imperative they had agreed upon all those years ago, when Margaret had dared to take the power this marriage offered her. Above all else, prevent another bloodthirsty crusade. Now the Templar knight made his way to England and would find his chief champion, Lord William, weakened by rumors of his wife's heresy.

How flattering it was, to think it was divine intent. How much easier to believe, as Constance did, that it was God at work and not simply Margaret's own willful impulse.

It all made her selfishly glad that Johanna had come to her, despite the risk. More and more, she was eager for moments of laughter, for conversations that did not include tedious musings on God's will. To have spoken freely with a friend about practical matters, no matter how dangerous, had left her a little giddy. The visit had so delighted and relaxed her that she was completely unprepared later that evening when William leaned in after the meal.

"I would speak to you alone," he said, in his most deceptively bland manner.

She watched his eyes fix on the place in her throat where her pulse jumped. He had never made such a request. In another time, good Lady Margaret would have insisted such a meeting be delayed so that it would not interfere with the evening prayer, and beg him to join her in the chapel. Now such a performance seemed entirely beyond her reach. Still, her penance could not be neglected.

"Brother Matthew will expect me–"

"He will see you at morning prayer. And at mid-morning prayer, and afternoon prayer." His lips pressed together briefly, a sure indicator that he held back sharper words. "I ask but a few moments, lady."

Only a few moments. Not time enough to ravish her, presumably, a thought that caused intense waves of relief and disappointment to collide in the center of her chest. She stood, and to her mild surprise he steered her away from the small room behind the dais, where he invariably conducted his private meetings. He went instead to the stair and led her to the solar above. Perhaps he did mean to ravish her.

The heavy tapestry that closed off the room had barely fallen into place when he spoke.

"Quinten of Livonia has been named heretic, and all his teachings condemned by Rome."

It stunned her into silence. She could only blink at him as her mind raced with a hundred thoughts, a thousand new calculations – and none of them concerned what a proper reaction to this news should look like. She felt sick, and dimly supposed that was as appropriate a reaction as she could hope for. There was a sudden weakness in her knees, and she abruptly sat.

"You know this for a certainty?" she asked, staring at her hands against her skirt. They were trembling.

"Aye, and soon all the churchmen in England will know it."

Of course he knew before they did. The fruits of a life spent in gaining every possible advantage. Such knowledge was why she had married him, after all.

So she listened to him explain that Quinten had fled Livonia to avoid trial, making his intentions all the more suspect and the Church all the more determined to find him. She listened as her husband wondered whether Quinten was cunning and ambitious, or only a fool.

She listened to it all while she thought of something else, something far more relevant, until he fell silent. Then she raised her eyes and asked, "Wherefore do you make haste to tell me this news?"

Because there was purpose in everything Lord William did – in every when and every why, in every word. He must mean to catch her off guard. Or to warn her, or upbraid her. Or protect her.

He held her look, pinned her there so that she could not escape. "That you may prepare your response when Brother Matthew tells you of it." There was an unmistakable hint of amusement just beneath the surface of his words. "You will want to appear more abject, Lady Margaret. Tears would not be amiss, I think."

She forced herself to breathe very steadily. This was a gentle trap, set in such a way that she could easily betray herself. If she objected, he would see the lie, and never again believe her pretending. Right now he had only suspicions. She must not confirm them.

"I… Can I not say the truth, that you have given me this news already?"

"Forsooth, an honest response?" His lip curved in a momentary grin before dissolving into a thoughtful look. "Aye, you can say it. It will serve you well, and do no damage to me."

She nodded, and turned her face down again. He almost seemed to be counseling her, as though he was her advocate in deception, and she could not decide what to make of it. The best she could do was to conjure a question that might invite him to reveal how much damage she had done, perhaps which of his foes were moving against him, and how.

"Nor would I wish to give further injury to your good name," she began, "or to Ruardean."

But he seemed not to hear her. He was looking at her as closely as ever he had done. So closely that she must remind herself to breathe, to forget the way his mouth felt on her, how easily he made her go weak with want.

He knew so much of her now. And yet it was not enough, never enough, for him.

"What is his hold on you, this man from Livonia?" His look warned her against objecting to this characterization, as indeed she was preparing to do. "Nor do I wish to hear of your sinful pride, or your repentance. Tell me – of all the men in all the world who preach countless things, this is the one whose words have held your interest. I would know why."

Her fingers wanted to twine and twist, and she must not let them. He spoke with certainty, as though he knew her correspondence with Quinten had gone on for years. Likely her lord husband had discovered much in these last weeks. It was what he did best, after all.

Her scattered wits could not find a reason to hide this truth from him. Nor could she think, when he studied her so closely, of anything to answer but the truth.

"He writes in such a way that invites deeper thought," she said at last. It was a struggle to explain it. She had never put words to it until now. "Most great scholars pose questions with the purpose of teaching the proper answers. But Quinten… He offers only the questions. They are fashioned as a challenge to complacency and assumption, not as a tool of rhetoric. It incites the mind and the soul to look to God for answers."

"He teaches doubt," William observed. Which was precisely what she had tried not to say. "He venerates the philosophers of old, and favors the discipline of logic over that of faith." His look swept over her, thoughtful. "Never would I expect you to value such a thing."

No, obedient Lady Margaret should not value it. But she had said it anyway, and could find no way to take it back. "Have you never found your faith strengthened by doubt?" she ventured to ask.

"Already have I admitted that I do not concern myself with questions of faith." The corner of his mouth lifted. "And certes you have seen that doubt is not a frequent visitor to my thoughts."

"I have seen that you question without ceasing," she countered. "Never do you act before you have interrogated the least detail, from every angle of attack. You question the advantages of an action, the consequences, your intentions, your assumptions, your very self – and then you commit to the course that can best withstand the many doubts. This is how all belief is made strong."

She could not decipher his look at first. Her throat was tightening in alarm, and she swallowed hard against it. Foolish impulse, to say so much and reveal how closely she had observed him, how very much was in her head.

"This is his hold on you, then? You are so indebted to him for making you question your faith that you will spread the doubts to others?"

"He has no hold on me," she insisted. "Do you never feel your heart filled with a certainty, and are compelled to speak your belief to others?"

He answered her with a long silence, a considering look. She steeled herself for his judgment, though she could feel no contempt from him. It was a strange absence, so accustomed had she become to his disgust whenever she spoke of faith.

His response, when it came, only disoriented her further.

"What know you of my father, Margaret?"

She did not answer, because she did not know how. Overzealous. A fool and a wastrel. Mad. There were many opinions of the previous Lord of Ruardean and though some were couched in compassion, none were flattering. All agreed that he had spoken of naught but God and Satan, angels and devils. All agreed he was rather useless because of it.

William did not wait for her response.

"He sought the light of Heaven and in finding it, was made mad by it." His eyes were on the embroidery frame, the half-finished stitches of Saint Martin's miraculous cloak. "Or it had naught to do with God or madness, but was only a willful rejection of duty and honor. I know not. I care not. I say no prayers except to ask that never again will the Lord of Ruardean abandon reason."

His hand curled into a fist and relaxed, slowly, over and over again. She tried to imagine him as a boy in this place. How the stone walls would have dwarfed him once, how he would have watched someone else rule, how he would have heard the same whispers about his father.

"You speak as though God and reason cannot dwell in the same breast," she said.

"Oh, they can." It seemed to amuse him, though he did not smile. "But one will always win out over the other. And in men of power, it is never the word of God that is victorious."

This was so like her own thinking that she might have said it herself. She looked at the cynical twist to his mouth and wondered if he had ever struggled, as she had, to reconcile faith and logic. It was very strange, to think he might have.

"Some would say that your father chose godliness over reason, though he was a man of great power."

"Aye, he was a man of great power. Was." He said it in a voice as calm and cold as a winter morning. "He died mocked and reviled. And weak."

"And so you are moved to be strong, and esteemed, and ruled by naught but reason. But are we not meant for more?" She swallowed against the nervous flutter in her throat, and met his startled gaze. "I think me that life is not breathed into a soul only so it might fashion itself into a rebuke of a dead man."

For one long and breathless moment, he looked at her as he had weeks ago, when she had so carefully kissed his bruised face. His eyes moved over her now as then, soft mysteries unfolding in the air between them.

Then his glance moved to the space beside her, and it all changed. His expression turned grim. She looked where he did and saw the forgotten hair shirt. She had removed the lining and hidden it away, planning to give the valuable fur to the beguines to fund their journey. The remaining shell was carelessly tucked at the corner of the padded bench where she sat.

Her face grew hot as he stepped forward and picked it up. There was something new in him that she had never truly seen: pure anger. He was enraged. And he did not hide it, or control it. One ferocious look at her and then he was at the hearth, flinging the shirt into the fire with a force that sent sparks into the air. He grasped the fire iron and gave it a vicious stab, pushing the fabric deep into the embers as flames leapt up.

He had moved so quickly, with such force, that her hand covered her mouth in shock – then moved to her nose to shield it from the smell of the acrid smoke, the burning hair. He flung the fire iron away and turned to her.

"Mark well these words, Margaret, or you will sore regret the day you forget them." His anger was tightly controlled now, the air charged with it as after the sear of a lightning flash. "I will not risk losing Ruardean to another holy fool, not even if she is my wife."

He did not wait for any response. In an instant he was gone, and she was left with only the foul smell of the burning shirt. It mingled perfectly with the bitter aftertaste of his wrath.