Chapter Two

Margaret had spent so many hours in the chapel at Ruardean that it truly felt like home now, even more than her solar or bedchamber. The manor's priest was Father Benedict and he tried, once a year or so, to persuade her to moderate her religious fervor. She acted aghast at the mere mention every time, and inwardly admired him for his dogged attempts.

She liked the priest more and more, not only for his kindness towards her, but for his devotion to practicality. It would be easy to call him corrupt or false because he loved his ale and his hunting and his secret wife, and he often quietly waved away the harshest Church teachings as being open to interpretation. But unlike so many other priests, he was not greedy or cruel, nor did he abuse his authority, and so Margaret privately thought very well of him.

He was the one who had put the little pillow on the bench where he saw her praying every day, worried she would catch a chill from spending so many hours sitting or kneeling on the stone. She did use it when she knelt, for his sake. The kneeling itself was for his sake too, but this evening she need not bother. She sat alone as she waited for Constance to arrive, moving her fingers slowly over the string of beads she carried everywhere. It was a mindless habit now, one that worked in her favor: it made her look as though she counted her prayers, when really she only sat deep in thought.

There were many reasons she had consented to this marriage, all those years ago. At the time she had seen it as God's will – the sign that she had so desperately been seeking. Now with six years of cynicism at her back, she wondered if she would have heeded this divine call if it had not also satisfied so many of her own ambitions. How convenient, that God's will had so perfectly aligned with her hopes.

She had wanted to take the veil. But her younger self had easily seen that this marriage would give her more power than she could ever hope to have as a nun, more influence than even a great abbess might dream of. It was a gift, a great prize set before her by unforeseeable circumstance. And all that had been required of her was to marry Lord William of Ruardean.

It might just as easily be the Devil's bargain as divine will. But she was in it now. The deal was long since made, the vows binding.

Never had she entertained any delusions about him. He was wealthy, scheming, corrupt – a man made of vanity and lies. But to be his wife meant she could learn of his schemes. When he proposed they wed, it had come upon her like a vision: she could work in secret against his most wicked endeavors, and use the power that came to her as a great lady to further her own ends. If she could swallow down her loathing then she might become mother to the next lord of Ruardean, whom she would teach to be nothing like his father.

It had seemed to her to be a charge from heaven, laid upon her in the same moment that she had prayed most earnestly to know what she should do. And so she had consented, knowing he married her for his own political uses, and (she almost snorted now at the girl she had been) secretly thinking herself something like a blessed martyr to take on this burden.

Vanity then, and lies ever since. She was not so unlike her husband, perhaps, except in her purpose.

She bowed her head now, knowing she should try to pray for these sins, but could not think past how he had touched her last night. How he would touch her again, and how she must put on a show of pleasure. The prospect was more daunting than anything else this marriage had demanded of her.

"I would not interrupt your prayer, Meg, but the hour is late."

Constance had appeared beside her, startling her out of her reverie. She still wore the plain cloak she always dressed in when she went to meet with the beguines, and her face was fresh and pink from her walk to the village. The last rays of sunlight were slanting through the high windows as she sat beside Margaret and bowed her head.

"Nay, think naught of it, Constance. Tell me how they fare?"

"Very well, now that I have brought them your gift."

They both whispered, letting their voices fall in the gentle cadence of prayer. It was a habit they had adopted years ago, after assuring themselves that this exact place on this exact bench was the safest place to speak their most secret plans. Sound did not carry far from this spot, nor did any stray echoes wander to where they might be overheard. If anyone should come upon them unawares, they would hear only the faint click of prayer beads and the gentle susurrus of women's voices, easily ignored.

"You were cautious?" Of course she had been. It was absurd to ask, but nerves controlled Margaret's tongue tonight. "None saw the pages you carried to them?"

"None," Constance assured her. "I kept them hid beneath my linen."

"And you have warned them of Stowell's suspicions?"

"Aye, though they need no warnings. Full well do they know of the bishop's malice."

Margaret nodded absently. The Bishop of Stowell seemed to hate these women who called themselves beguines. It was because they chose a life of religious devotion, but they took no vows, and swore no formal obedience to any order. He thought them a threat to the Church's authority. This was precisely the same reason that Margaret aided them. Outside of England there were whole communities of beguines who lived together, by their own choice and under no monastic order, living independent lives of service and study. The bishop was determined not to let any such communities form in England – almost as determined as Margaret was to see them established.

They wished to educate themselves, these two young beguines in the nearby village. They were particularly interested, as she was, in the writings of far-flung mystics and reasoned philosophers, especially those who questioned the established customs of the Church. Little wonder the Bishop of Stowell feared their independence, and watched them closely.

"I fear the risk to you is too great," she said to Constance. It had pricked at her conscience. "Nor should I have asked such a task of you. If Stowell's spies–"

"Say no more of the risk, Meg, I beg you." Her friend was struggling to maintain the prayerful tone in her impatience. "It must be me, you know it."

She did know it. Years ago, on the eve of her wedding, they had agreed on what might be achieved and what their roles would be. Constance acted, and Margaret was her shield. If Constance was caught passing the forbidden writings to the beguines, it would be a manageable difficulty. As a widowed attendant to the lady of Ruardean she would be brought to Margaret, who would make a great show of being amazed at this disobedience, and an even greater show of patiently forgiving her wayward friend. If, however, Lady Margaret herself was discovered to have heretical leanings, it would be disastrous to all their hopes. It must not happen. Her own status was irreplaceable.

They had discussed it many times. It was settled. It made perfect sense.

"The Bishop of Stowell is not like my husband," Margaret said now. "He has none of Lord William's caution. He would destroy even himself to destroy his enemy." She reached over and took Constance's hand, and spoke a truth she had been loath to admit to herself. "I fear him. I fear what he might do to those who defy him."

Constance curled her fingers around Margaret's and spoke a string of words that were as well-worn as the rosary beads. "Fear ye not them that kill the body but cannot kill the soul."

It was the refrain of the believer, intended as comfort. But it only made both of them sit in silence and think of the same terrible possibilities. Of lands their families had fled a generation ago, of burning flesh and slaughter in the streets. Nothing that dramatic was like to happen here in England, so far from Rome. Still, the thought of it never left her. Margaret had grown up with tales of her father's terrified escape as a boy from Montségur. There, hundreds of Cathars had been burned alive by the Church. All because they would not renounce their faith, which was as Christian and loving as the faith espoused by their murderers. It was not enough to believe in the Christ, though. Not when men of iniquity and greed ruled in Rome.

Though she was no Cathar, Margaret had no illusions about the consequences of heresy. And while she had only heard her father's whispered stories, Constance had seen her own father and brother hang for their faith. She had said once that when she closed her eyes, she still saw the piazza full of onlookers, the soldiers, the inquisitor's hated face.

All that, and yet Constance did not quail at the risk. She only held Margaret's hand and recited words from scripture to give her courage. If only words held that kind of power for Margaret anymore. At least it gave her heart, as always, to know she had an unshakeable ally.

"What news of the Templar knight?" murmured Constance, returning to the prayerful cadence. "He will come to England?"

"Naught is yet certain. Lord William awaits word from the new Mongol king."

This was her husband's scheme: a new crusade, alliances and politics he thought beyond her comprehension or care. If anything, he would think pious Lady Margaret would welcome any alliance that might allow the Church to reclaim Jerusalem. She had worked hard to make him believe it.

"He is hopeful, my husband. It may be soon… I fear it will be very soon, and then we shall see if this ruse will hold."

"What ails you, Meg?" Constance was frowning in concern. "You are fretful tonight."

Margaret shook her head, denying it. But her friend's eyes were still on her, and she could not hide her mood. She glanced around the chapel, though she knew they were alone.

"He wants an heir most earnestly." It came out all in a rush, like a breath that had been held and then loosed too suddenly. Her courses had come this morning, and soon would be done. "The physician has said that I must take pleasure in it, or there can be no hope of a child. And so Lord William will come to my bed and…" She fought against biting her lip like some reluctant maiden. "I know not if I can pretend such pleasure, Constance. How did you pretend it?"

They had spoken long ago of these matters, when Margaret was first betrothed to another man. Constance had admitted that she'd never delighted in the act, though she had felt a tender love for her own husband. How much more difficult must it be when one detested the man?

"Never had I need of any pretense, Meg." She said it gently, carefully. "My husband understood my heart, and that I much preferred to sleep, or talk. I have struggled to understand why it is such a cherished act – but I knew it gave him joy, and so I was glad of his pleasure."

"But did he never try…" A very faint color was coming into Constance's face. Now Margaret did bite her lips together, and stared at her hands. "Lord William will try to incite my lust, as the physician has advised."

Constance nodded, patient. "So too did my husband do such things as are pleasing to women. The flesh is made for this earthly delight."

"And yet you had none?"

"No such great delight as we are told all women must have. But still I felt a warm affection for him, and happiness in the hope of another child. It would be ill-advised to look to me as a guide in this, Meg. I think I am not like other women, whose fleshly passions are more likely to be inflamed by carnal touch."

Margaret took a deep breath as she considered these words. Constance was older and more experienced in so many ways, and though her extreme piety often irked Margaret, her opinion meant more than anything the Church might ever teach. And unlike so many of Constance's beliefs, in this she seemed refreshingly free of moral judgment. Margaret herself had read the words of many wise and learned people, and had found a seemingly endless stream of differing beliefs on what was sinful and what was sacred, even among those who shared the same faith. She hardly knew what was true, but she secretly believed it was an act no more worthy of deep spiritual study than any other bodily function. She had never said so, to anyone, because she suspected it might be her most heretical belief of all.

As confusing as it all was, Constance had said one thing that she knew for certain was true. Most women did delight in carnal touch. So did most men, she was sure, though their lust rarely merited the same jests and poetry and ribald tales.

"You think I may find true pleasure in it, then, and have no need of pretense?"

"I think it is possible to find pleasure, do you seek it," Constance answered. "And if it might bring you a child and make you mother to the heir of Ruardean, it is a worthy endeavor."

That too was true. Perhaps it only wanted an effort. And a measure of honesty, an hour unguarded and unclothed with him.

After a moment of reflection, Margaret let out a quiet, rueful laugh. "What a task I have set myself. To find pleasure in one so loathsome."

She tried to think of any useful philosophy or teachings that might aid her. It was her usual tactic, but there had been an unfortunate lack of writing on the subject, at least in her experience. She had read once that the Cathars believed that the flesh was a prison for the spirit, that the two had little to do with each other. It might be useful to think of herself in this way, to better bear his company.

But Constance was no more a Cathar than was Margaret, and believed no such thing. Her own faith was far more practical, as her next words proved.

"We are charged to love even the worst among us, Meg. And if you cannot love him, then it is better you dwell on those things you find pleasing in him. At least for the hour he visits your bed."

Margaret nodded in thanks of this counsel, though she wanted to protest its impossibility. For six years she had held her hatred and his contempt as a shield between them. To put it down even for a moment felt like betrayal.

Yet she could not deny there was goodness in him. Glimmers of it, at least, in rare moments. Whenever she witnessed it, she would remind herself of the mountain of gold he had given to the Church while so many of his own people were in need, or the murderous hubris of the crusade he planned. There was more than enough evil to counterbalance the good in him – but the good existed. Even she must admit that.

"Lady Gwenllian will arrive tomorrow," she said to Constance at last. She had met his sister only once before, but remembered well her husband's infectious joy in seeing her. "Ever does she put him in good humor, and that will aid me in putting aside my mislike of him."