Chapter Twenty-Two

"Is he gone from England?"

Margaret asked it as calmly as she could manage while her fingertips ran lightly over the little phials filled with medicines. They stood in a corner of the almshouse. The sounds of the Welshry could be faintly heard outside, swimming through the hot air of late summer, and her hand paused at the angelica root. It was said to guard against malevolent forces, and she resisted the impulse to douse herself in it.

Perhaps she should have sent Constance to this meeting. Certainly it would have been more prudent. But Margaret knew that she would only rest easy if she heard this herself, and could ask as many questions as she liked.

"It is five days since we parted ways at the crossroad." Agnes was one of the two beguines who had gone to serve Brother Quinten. She had returned to the village outside Ruardean only two days ago, alone. "He goes to France. My cousin has promised to send word when they arrive in Calais."

The air rushed from Margaret's lungs in such a thorough sigh of relief that she thought she might need to sit. Five days ago. They might be on a ship even now, and surely would arrive in Calais before Michaelmas. Where he went from there was not her concern. So long as he stayed out of the reach of the inquisitors, he would be well enough. Or let him face them and repent, as she did. She had little care, really, at least not in this moment. She could only care that the danger was receding. All would soon be well.

After the giddy feeling of relief eased a little she turned to Agnes, who looked troubled still.

"Wherefore did you choose to stay in England," Margaret asked, "and not accompany him as your cousin does?"

The woman did not seem to want to look directly at her. "You know I have no wish to preach, lady, nor commit my service or my life to any order." She hesitated briefly. "Quinten would have me take his words to other villages and devote myself to spreading his philosophy. I am not called to do such work."

Margaret blinked at this startling news. Reckless man. If he sought acolytes even as the Church named him heretic, then it was an even greater relief that he was gone. A dissenter was an annoyance to those in power, but a dissenter who preached was a real danger. One who sought to build his own ministry was intolerable. They would stop at nothing to end such a threat.

"Do you think him false?" Margaret prayed she had not wrongly believed in his good intentions. "Think you he seeks only power, or flattery?"

Agnes shook her head. "Nay. I think me he likes his own philosophy overmuch, but his faith is true and he is not without humility. He is often so deep in reflection and prayer that he must be persuaded to eat and bathe and sleep. Thus does my cousin care for him, though she is no more willing to spread his teachings than I am."

There was some comfort in knowing that at least he would not have help in bringing attention to himself. And so long as he left England, he was welcome to be as absorbed in his philosophies and as heretical as he wanted to be, as far as Margaret was concerned.

"I pray you will tell me as soon as you receive word of them in Calais," she urged. "And if there is aught that you need, only ask it of me."

There was a telling pause. "Lady, I think it better that I do such work as is needed here and in the village, without I turn to you for my support."

The woman was turning red, color spreading out across her forehead and cheeks. Her meaning struck Margaret with a suddenness.

"As you will it," she answered faintly.

The heat was rising in her own face, absurd emotion pressing behind her eyes. It was perfectly reasonable that Agnes should wish to have nothing to do with Margaret – or with heretical teachings, or enemies of the Bishop of Stowell. The poor woman had only wanted to live an independent life, and learn a little of scripture and philosophy.

"Lady Constance will come to you, to look for word from your cousin." She said it fast, eager to be away. "God be with you, and grant you peace."

She barely acknowledged the other woman's farewell in her haste, completely forgetting that she had meant to speak with her of other things, the regular business of the almshouse. Her feet carried her outside, where the sudden appearance of the bright sun made her flinch.

There was an oak tree that spread its branches a few steps from the door. She stood beneath it in the cool shade and tried to bring order to her chaotic thoughts. Quinten was gone from England, that was what mattered. She need no longer worry about Lady Eluned's threat. Gratitude for that soon turned to indecision, though, when she wondered if she should tell William about any of it. There was little reason to tell him now that the danger had passed, but perhaps even less reason to keep it from him. Could she be certain that it was truly safe?

So deep was she in considering it that she did not notice she was watched until she stepped out of the shade. She blinked in the bright sunlight at the tall figure, startled.

"God give you good morn," she said with a nod to young Henry.

Not so very young, really. Not when he looked at her so coldly, as he often did now. It was likely the same reason that Agnes no longer wished to have any dealings with her – but with Henry it was a chilly rejection instead of sheepish avoidance. He seemed to hate her.

It should not matter. It should not cause the little prickling sense of shame, the shrinking sensation in her belly. But she had spent so long concerning herself with how others saw her that it was hard to stop caring. Even if he was just a boy.

Henry barely gave a nod to acknowledge her before turning his eyes to a spot at the far end of the almshouse. Three men stood talking there: William and his steward, speaking to one of the villagers. He had not said he would be here today, and her heart did a pleasant little flip to see him. It seemed to do that all the time, lately.

He turned and saw her, and a happy smile lit up his face. She could not stop the answering smile on her own, and did not bother to try to hide it. The thrill – the unmitigated thrill of not pretending – it coursed through her like a drug, every day now.

"The well will be dug there," he told her when he had crossed the distance and pressed her hand in greeting. It was not even a week since he had learned the Welshry lacked enough water for the number of homes there, and already he was attending to it. "Before winter sets in the work will be done, and your almshouse will not want for water."

"The almshouse is not mine ," she countered, and then frowned in confusion. "I thought you had other business today, and would have the steward attend this later?"

"Aye, but there has been news, and I must find you to tell it." He had tucked her hand in his elbow, and now guided her past the cloud of steam that issued from the blacksmith's workshop. He waved the steward away, but motioned for Henry to join them, before continuing. "Stowell wishes most earnestly that you will visit the cathedral and see the first of the windows that have been your gift to him. And Edward has summoned me to his court."

She concentrated on the pace of her walk, keeping it steady and even, noting the way he shortened his stride for her. Two messages, full of portent, arriving together. By chance, or by design?

"I think me the bishop has spoken to the king," he continued. "They have made us their common concern."

By design, then.

"It does not cause you alarm," she observed.

"Alarm is of little use to me," he answered with a shrug. "Better to keep my wits about me. In that way have I studied the matter and suspect there is little more to it than show. Their common cause is to remind us of their power, I think. What else can it be? Unless you think there is any more likely reason – or you, Henry."

Henry merely gazed down at his feet as they walked. Margaret had no better reason to offer for it, either. She only knew they must obey, and so asked how long the journey would be.

"Not long, I hope," William said. "There is little enough to occupy us. The king will chastise me for being gone from his side, and Stowell will be pleased to daunt you with his cathedral's magnificence. Certes you will be suitably awed."

She mustered a smile. "I will do my best to cower before the golden glories," she assured him.

There could be no avoiding it, and little use in delaying it, so they prepared to leave Ruardean within the week. The king held court just two day's ride from the abbey that the bishop had chosen for Margaret's stay. They decided that William would go on to see the king while Margaret remained at the abbey as a guest, praying and visiting the cathedral and whatever other seemly acts the bishop might expect of her.

To Margaret's surprise, Constance was quite pleased to accompany her on the journey. Rather than lamenting the wealthy excess, she was eager to see the new cathedral windows.

"There is such skill and artistry in the works made to glorify God," she mused as she folded herbs into the clothes she packed. "The Church claims the glory for itself, and that is the true blasphemy. We may love beauty without we approve their greed and idolatry."

Margaret suppressed a sigh. How easy Constance made it seem, to know what was right and good without letting anger or self-interest ruin her judgment.

They traveled together in a sizable party to the abbey, where William would stay only one night before going on to the king. The abbess greeted them warmly and gave them a very creditable meal. It was such a beautiful place that Margaret was glad to go to the evening prayer, the better to examine the very fine murals on the church walls. She was even moved to pray a little – chiefly that William was correct in thinking the bishop was in London and was not likely to come here during her visit. There was nothing else that should worry her. Nothing at all.

And yet in the morning she spent far too much time examining the baggage. She knew very well that the servants had been thorough, but still she peered into every bag, looking to see if anything had been missed. She could not seem to stop herself.

"Do you not trust Henry to see the work done?"

William's voice came from behind her as she was looking through his saddlebags.

"Nay, he is a good and dutiful squire," she protested without turning. She had found the collection of French poems that was to be a gift to the king. "I only thought to wrap these pages in oilcloth, to save them from rain on your journey."

She turned and saw he was ready to leave, fully prepared to mount this very moment. For some reason, it flustered her even further. She busied herself with checking that his baggage was secured tightly, that there was food enough in case they were delayed on the road, that his flask was full – all things she had done an hour ago, but did again. It did not escape his notice.

"Do you worry for me, Margaret?" he asked, as she straightened the tunic over his shoulder where it had caught on his light mail. "Or for yourself?"

Her fingers paused against the fabric. Of course he would see it for what it was.

"Both," she confessed. But even that was only half-true, because she worried more for him.

She kept her face down so only he would know her unease. It would be only a few days apart. Normal business – he at court and she visiting a church – such as they had engaged in separately for all their married life. She knew that. But she did not want to be without him.

"I know well how to manage a king's displeasure," he assured her. He lifted her hand gently from his shoulder and brushed her fingers with his lips – a sweet but brief gesture of farewell, for all the eyes that watched them. "And you have wit enough and more to manage any who dare to be a nuisance to you. Full well can I attest it."

There was a half-wry, half-affectionate smile at the corner of his mouth as he said it, which lightened her mood considerably. He kissed her fingers again, then opened her hand to press his lips against her palm. It was too quick – her heart was still fluttering as he mounted, her thoughts scattered to the winds as she mumbled something about praying for his safe journey.

She watched him ride off, standing in the forecourt long after he had disappeared around a corner of the road, her fingers curled tight to hold his kiss in her hand.

Two days later she walked with Constance in the lush little cloister of the abbey, debating the wisdom of traveling to the cathedral today. It was not yet raining, but soon would – and the clouds had been so heavy these two days that it felt almost like night. Margaret preferred to go and get it over with, but Constance wanted to wait for the sunlight to return, so that they might see the windows in all their glory.

Margaret had just agreed to this when one of the lay sisters appeared, moving toward them with great haste. It was not until she was upon them that Margaret gasped in recognition. "Stephan!"

She could hardly believe it was him. The habit he wore was too short. It showed his muddy shoes and bright hose, as though he had hastily thrown it on to disguise his men's clothes.

"Come, there is no time," he hissed, grasping Margaret's arm. He pulled her, with Constance hurrying along, into the shadow of the covered walkway that surrounded the green. From beneath the habit, he pulled out a bundle of cloth and thrust it at Constance. "Dress your lady, and quickly," he commanded, then fairly ran toward the stone wall which hid the church.

Margaret watched him, stunned, as he peered around the wall. She looked to see that he had given Constance the same simple white tunic and black linen veil that was worn by the sisters here. It was large enough to fit over her own clothes easily, but when Constance tentatively moved toward her, Margaret stepped back, refusing it.

"What madness is on you?" she asked Stephan when he came striding back.

"They come here to imprison you," he said without ceremony. He pushed her deeper into the shadow, looking over his shoulder all the while. "They know you have given aid to the heretic of Livonia, and the bishop has vowed he will see you punished. He will hold you here until you are tried again. You must fly now, before it is too late."

Though the words were plain enough, they seemed impossible to grasp. Imprisonment. A trial. Stephan here, barely bothering to disguise himself in his haste to save her from catastrophe.

He was putting the black veil over her headdress as he spoke. A cold dread was forming in her belly, because he had spoken tersely and handled her carelessly, with fear in his eyes. He who had ever laughed at her worries, and shrugged away all danger – he was panicked.

So it must be real, then. It had happened. Someone – Lady Eluned? – had told the bishop of Margaret's lies. She must think. She must think, think, think, but he moved so swift and sure, a strong current that was dragging her along.

"I cannot flee," she protested, the only scrap of reason her mind offered. "As well confess my guilt as flee." She threw her arms up to block the habit he was trying to pull over her head. "Stephan, I am no common criminal who will be pursued by hue and cry! Be calm, and let us make a plan–"

"There is no plan!" He gripped her shoulders and gave her a firm shake. His eyes bored into her. "He means to end you, Meg. And he has evidence enough to do it."

She stared at him. "What evidence?"

"I know naught, only that he is so confident in it that he does not hesitate to move against you. And it must be grave, for the priest whose bed I have warmed for a decade has said he will not see me again nor offer his protection, if I dare to call you friend."

He was so serious, so urgent. "And yet you came?" she asked, unsure if she was more moved or aghast that Stephan would risk his priest's patronage.

"Aye, and it will be no use if you will not come away. Now. "

As he said it, the sounds of horses at the gate reached them. It was Constance who moved first, grabbing Margaret's hand and running to the opposite corner of the cloister. She pulled them into a dark little alcove beneath a wide staircase. Margaret realized at once that it must be the night stair, the passage used by the sisters to reach the chapel from their dormitory. They should not be here, in the inner sanctum – which was why no one would look for them here. Not yet.

"We must find our way past them, to the stable," Stephan said, his voice low.

He and Constance debated what was best to do next, while the noise at the gate grew and Margaret's mind at last began to work. She barely heard the whispers of her friends over the sounds of the men entering the abbey, the sisters rousing to meet them. She could hear them searching the church now.

Some of the bishop's men entered the cloister, the sharp ring of their heels on the stone reaching into this half-hidden recess. She watched Stephan's eyes go wide with panic, watched the color drain from Constance's face, and knew there was no time to consider anything but the coldest facts.

Evidence. They had evidence against her. That was what mattered most.

"I must stay. It is you who must flee." They only looked at her in horrified confusion, ready to protest what was so plain to her. "Hear me! This is not bravery or sacrifice, but logic. To flee now is to declare my guilt. And the bishop will keep searching for me, unto the very ends of the earth. Nor will he stop so long as he breathes, you know it. Can you say with certainty I will not be caught, or betrayed? Nay, you cannot. And then the consequences fall on us all. Better I face them alone."

Stephan merely grunted a wholesale dismissal of her words. Constance, though, knew her too well. They had spoken of this possibility too many times for her to feign ignorance. She stared at Margaret, and all the blood came back into her face at once.

"Meg," she said, and looked as if she might weep. "Do not ask me to abandon you to them."

Margaret moved close, putting her hands to Constance's shoulders.

"Pray listen. I beg you." Nothing she could say would banish the memories from Constance, of her own family hanging for their crimes as she escaped. But she must make her see reason. "Do I stay and stand trial, I have the name of Ruardean to shield me. But if you are taken, they will surely use you as yet more evidence against me. They will seek and find many who will testify to the work you have done at my bidding, and–"

"But I will–"

"Listen to me, Constance, listen! If you are found with me I cannot say they have mistaken you. Do you understand? And if you are at my side they will seek to learn more of your own family, so to deplore your blood and use it against me too."

She put out a hand to capture Stephan's wrist. His pulse was hammering. "And you." She thought of him painting lamp black on lashes, and ignored the inconvenient press of tears behind her eyes. "Nor can I bear to think what they would do to you." She swallowed down that fear and summoned all her certainty. "You will take Constance away, for your own safety and so that they will not have yet more weapons to use against me. I must trust in my wits and the strength of Ruardean."

Stephan clearly wanted to object, but just as obviously saw the soundness of her reasoning. It was Constance who was weeping and shaking her head. "I will not leave you."

"You will! And you will do it now. I am your lady and I command you."

It came out with such authority that it startled them both. She thought even Lady Gwenllian would obey such a command. The memory of that lady's confidence served to stiffen Margaret's spine further, as it put yet another thought in her mind. "You will go to Aderinyth, only briefly. Stephan, there will you tell Lady Nan of your business with me. She may be trusted, and she will aid you both as I have aided her."

"Aid us?" he echoed.

"In sending you to my uncle's stronghold, in Venache." It seemed as good a plan as any other she might have thought of, given more time. "There you will be safe, but it is a long journey." She spoke in a fierce hissing whisper, because now she could hear the men in the cloister insisting to the abbess that she must send her sisters through the abbey to search out the accused.

"Go you to the guest house as you flee this place. Do not linger, but take anything of worth from my baggage that you can carry." She was already pulling the gold ring off her finger, digging the silver coins from the pouch at her belt, handing it all to him. Acceptance was dawning on their faces, and she wanted them gone before they had second thoughts. "I will show myself in the church, and it will turn their eyes away from your escape."

There were more voices near – some of the sisters gathering in the cloister, wondering aloud at this intrusion. Any moment they might be discovered, and so Margaret threw the habit that had been intended for her onto Constance. Stephan hastily transferred the black veil, and Margaret hissed, "I will go now. Get you gone from here."

But first Constance reached for her, embraced her so strongly that it stole her breath. "No greater love," she whispered into Margaret's ear. She meant the gospel verse, of course: no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends.

Even now, Margaret wanted to roll her eyes at her earnest friend. But she only shook her head, an adamant rejection of such a lofty sentiment. She had no intention of dying. "We will meet again, I swear it."

The voices were growing louder, closer. She could only whisper a hasty thank you in Stephan's direction, hoping he could see it in the shadows. He answered by putting his hands to her face, holding her while he placed a quick, firm kiss squarely on her mouth. "Go with God," he murmured. "Or the devil. I care not which, if they will see you safe."

She fought the violent urge to laugh, and only nodded at him before she stepped out of the alcove. She moved swiftly, mounting the night stairs and making her way to the church. It led her to the south transept, where she paused to catch her breath and coax a calm into her face.

Simple enough, she told herself. Don the mask. Stand before them with all the power of Ruardean at her back. Be careful, be clever, and she would survive this. They all would, if she kept her wits about her.

She stepped into the nave, and immediately heard someone gasp her name in surprise. It was one of the sisters she had prayed with these last few days, who wasted no time in calling out to the men who stood at the door. The men came to her, led her out of the church to the covered porch at the main entrance. The clouds had opened at last, and the rain pattered all around. She knew she should put some effort into appearing baffled by all this, but her energy went into concealing her relief to see that everyone seemed to be gathered here. The rest of the abbey would be as deserted as she had hoped. She kept her eyes on the ground before her so that she would not be tempted to look toward the route her friends would take to escape.

It would be nothing, she told herself. The bishop would bluster, and she would widen her eyes to dispute whatever the evidence was, then pay yet more profane amounts of gold for it all to be forgotten. This threat of imprisonment, these men sent to take her – it was all for show.

The captain of the bishop's men was almost as tall as William. Ranged out behind him were at least a dozen others, and by his side was a very short, damp-eyed man in the robes of a Benedictine monk. It was the captain who spoke, though, and said she would be held here until her trial for renewed and persistent heresy should take place.

"You may confess now, lady, or wait for the evidence against you."

"Evidence?" She blinked up at him, trying and failing to find her mask of perfect innocence. "What evidence can this be?"

"It is here," said the captain, nodding to the monk at his side. "In the person of Quinten of Livonia."

He gave a bright smile, this heretical little man who was supposed to be far from England's shores, and her stomach turned to lead. "Lady Margaret! How blessed I am to meet my patroness at last."

Patroness. Her mouth opened to deny it, but no words came. She only looked at him, confounded, unable to utter a word in her defense.