Chapter Twenty-Four

Her days were blurring together, the weeks, the hours. Time seemed to have become just a gray illusion – one that held meaning in faraway places, and not here. But she thought it had been not quite a month when Brother Matthew first came to her.

He was very eager for Margaret to unburden her soul to him, to confess her many sins. It was as if he thought she could forget that he was the bishop's man.

"All that you say to me is held beneath the sacramental seal," he constantly reminded her. He leaned in close and spoke low, as though his reassurances might be overheard. "For my own hope of eternal life, I can betray no word you speak as your confession. To anyone."

She often reflected that this was true enough. Of course she did not trust him to keep her confidence, but if she confessed he could not use her words as evidence against her. That was a simple fact. Betrayal of the confessional seal was forbidden. To do it – openly, at least, in court – would only result in his own ruin and disgrace. He could not destroy her without destroying himself, and though he served the bishop she did not think him quite that devoted.

But what was she to confess? He would expect her to lament her heresies, that he might comfort her in her shame over her great sin against the Church. And those things did not trouble her at all. She could not speak of the things that truly troubled her. She could not even think of them. Of him.

Instead she placed careful stitches into snowy linen, for hours. It was one of her duties that she liked best, this never-finished altar cloth, the hours spent vaguely listening as one of the sisters read aloud to the small group gathered around the embroidery frame. Margaret did not even have thoughts, really, as she mindlessly moved the needle in and out. It was part of the design of this place: routine duties and steady repetition, an hour of prayer and an hour of work, these hours for sleep and those hours to eat and these others reserved for song or service.

Every day was the same, over and over, until she hovered perpetually between boredom and madness and epiphany. Her right forefinger was sore from the hours with the needle, a little punishment for which she was strangely thankful.

"Once I thought to live as a sister," she said to Brother Matthew. That was on his third visit, or perhaps the fourth, when she could not bear the silence anymore. "I thought it was what God wanted of me."

"You wished to devote yourself to the Church?" His eyes brightened with curiosity, thrilled at last that she confided something. "Why then did you choose marriage instead?"

She trained her eyes on the psalter he held and tried to imagine what it was worth, with all the jewels on the binding and the rare pigments within. How much if it was sold whole, how much if broken down to its valuable bits. She filled her head with numbers and sums, useless facts and figures that failed to drown out the sorrow.

"Arrogance," she said, and that did dull the ache a little. The truth sometimes did. "Like all who are given great power and wealth, I told myself it was God's will. That I was chosen to have more, and be more."

"There are not many who would call it arrogance," he replied. But he did not chide. He only seemed interested in the novelty of her thought. "Marriage is no less a holy sacrament when it comes with riches. Does it weigh heavy on you, that you chose against a life of devotion?"

It almost made her laugh. Almost. "Nay."

He looked back at her with a tender compassion. This poor man. Even if he was the bishop's tool, he did truly want to minister to her ragged soul. "Then what troubles you, Lady Margaret? For I see plainly the unease of your spirit."

She turned her eyes away so he would not see. Never would she confess that. Never would she give them access to the part of her that ached every night and day, that whispered that he had not come. He would not come.

No word. Nothing. For weeks as one hour bled into the next, there was only William's meticulous silence, his thorough absence. They had told her the king sent a force to quell a rising in Wales, that men from Ruardean were sent there – and she knew, from the way it was said, that William had gone with them to battle. Almost in the same hour that she had been confined here, he had run a hundred miles in the opposite direction.

"I am troubled only that my prayer is interrupted," she finally managed, a peevish reply. She meant to employ her most cloying and pious tones, but they seemed utterly lost to her. As so much was lost.

Brother Matthew only offered to join her in prayer. She did not respond, but watched him absently as he bowed his head. How she envied him his serenity, his dogged and unrelenting faith. She had had that once, hadn't she? She was sure she did. She must have.

He came to her every few days, sitting in the early morning light of the cloister when she emerged from attending the morning prayer. She made herself observe the changes around him each time, watching summer grow old, breathing the crisp air of autumn, observing how the green faded, how the frost replaced the dew.

"A guest has come to speak with you," said Sister Bernice one afternoon as winter was creeping into the air. She was stiff, formal. It was obviously not Brother Matthew this time. "In your chambers."

Margaret's heart fluttered in her throat as she fairly ran there. And for an instant, when she opened the door and saw broad shoulders, dark hair, a man's height filling the space, she was sure it was him.

But then he moved and spoiled the illusion. Too thin, too young, too uncertain.

"Henry."

She strove to keep the disappointment from her face. She must not show it, especially when she saw there were others in the room.

In a corner the abbess stood with Lady Eluned, the two of them looking for all the world like old friends reunited in the happiest of circumstance.

"Ah, Lady Margaret, there you are." Lady Eluned gave her a brief nod of greeting before turning to speak warmly to the abbess. "Come, I would see these new tapestries you have hung."

She took that lady's arm quite firmly and exited the room. Before Margaret understood anything that was happening or why, she was left alone with Henry.

The silence was absolute. She started to offer him refreshment, but saw he held a drink already. After an awkward greeting and mutual confirmation that they were both in good health, he put down the cup with an air of determination.

"I have come because…" He stopped and swallowed. "My grandmother has – Lady Eluned, she says I must tell you…everything."

She felt rather faint. "Everything?"

"For the trial," he said. "What I have told the bishop's men, that they are like to use as evidence. It will aid you as you prepare to meet their charges."

It took a moment to make sense of this. When she did, all the breath left her lungs in a loud rush. The sound seemed to startle him, but she could not care about that. She sat down, staring, as the faint hope that he brought a message from William died a swift and painful death.

"You," she finally said. "It was you who betrayed me to the bishop?"

Splotches of red appeared in his face. He nodded once, quick. "You did not know?"

She had not. If she thought of it at all, she assumed Lady Eluned might have done it. But in truth she had thought it far more likely that there had been no deliberate betrayal, that it was only simple misfortune.

Henry cleared his throat again. Twice.

"Stowell promised much in return for…for information. And I thought it was right, because it was a grave sin you committed." He looked away just a little, his eyes trained on some spot an inch from her face. Each word seemed a little torture for him. "But I knew what it meant. What would happen to you. And I did not care. That is… what I did." He swallowed again, and his little resolve faltered. His voice turned small when he asked, "Do you hate me?"

She looked at the patchy red mortification of his face, the stiff shoulders, the sad eyes. He was so painfully young, yet grown. Perfectly balanced between childhood and adulthood – exactly as she had been when she had accepted an offer of marriage, when she had been so certain of the righteousness of her thinking.

"Nay," she answered, because this much was true. "I do not hate you."

His shoulders slumped. "At least there is one person who does not despise me." He cast a sullen look at the door where his grandmother had left, a resentful child again. "Uncle Will has sent me from him. I will be compelled to give testimony and even do I twist it so that it gives no aid to the bishop's cause, I think he will not forgive me." He swallowed. "He will never forgive me."

She could not have answered that even if she had command of her tongue. So she did not even try.

Instead, she listened as he told her how he had seen Johanna visit her at Ruardean, how he had learned this mysterious woman worked in the stews for a man named Stephan – which statement made Margaret smile to herself, until he explained that the bishop's men still searched in vain for both Johanna and Stephan. They had discovered some people who had carried messages for Stephan, though, and that was likely to prove even more damning. They would very much like to find Constance, too, as they were certain she was never ignorant of Margaret's actions.

Perhaps worst of all was that Henry had seen her speaking with the beguine, Agnes. That woman was questioned and had told everything she knew. So too had Brother Quinten confessed every detail when they found him; he hid nothing, and proclaimed his actions and beliefs without reservation.

In short, there was evidence against her in plenty. Henry had gladly pointed them to it.

At least he seemed ashamed when he informed her that the bishop had been very pleased. "He does verily believe you are a danger to innocent souls. I have thought long on the matter and I believe that though he is eager to protect the power of Church and king, his deepest motive is one of faith. He is driven by his righteousness, lady, unto obsession."

Margaret did not doubt it. She never had.

At precisely the moment when it was clear Henry had no more to tell her, Lady Eluned reappeared as if by magic. She gave a sharp look to her grandson before telling him to go with the abbess. There was barely time to thank him and bid him farewell before Lady Eluned was waving him out the door.

She received a look of askance from the abbess, but her only response was a dismissive, "I am sure you have some interesting treasure you may show him. He likes books," she suggested. "Go you now, we will not be long here."

The abbess left without another word, and Margaret struggled to stifle her laughter at this exchange. Transparent bribery should be appalling, not amusing. Yet she could not help but admire the way Lady Eluned moved through this world, bending individuals and entire systems to her will. No apology. Only pragmatism. Rather like her son.

Lady Eluned had immediately set about examining the rooms, her keen eye taking in every detail. They were not quite sumptuous accommodations, but they were far larger and more luxurious than a nun's plain cell.

"Good," she said as she surveyed the inner chamber where Margaret slept. "It is as comfortable as it can be, I think, though I will have them bring a thicker tapestry to hold out the winter air. You will tell me if there is aught else you require."

Margaret glanced around the well-appointed space. She should have guessed. "This is your doing?"

"They meant to put you in the east chambers, where there is the smell of mildew and little light. But I reminded them that you are no friendless wretch." Lady Eluned had crossed to the little table where refreshments were laid out. She did not reach for them, but began removing one of her veils. "You would do well to do the same. In faith, there is no defense you may offer in your trial that will serve as well as reminding them of who and what you are."

She had removed the splendid gold cloth from her hair and set it on the table. From her fingers she pulled two heavy rings to add to it, and then the gem-studded girdle from her waist. She even unpinned a brooch from her mantle and put it with the rest. When this was done, she cast an assessing eye on Margaret's dress.

"That gown will serve," she sniffed, "if you will stand tall in it and raise your chin. Add this finery to it, of course. You must let them know they contend with wealth and power. With Ruardean."

She sounded so sure. So heartbreakingly sure, as though it were an unquestionable truth.

"Do they contend with it?" Margaret asked. Her throat closed around the sudden emotion, and she longed for the cold detachment that had held her only an hour ago. But she would not weep. She was determined not to weep in front of this woman. "It would seem I am abandoned by Ruardean."

Lady Eluned's brows shot up. "Abandoned? Am I naught but a fevered vision?" she asked. "I may no longer claim that title or estate, but never forget my son is Ruardean."

As though she could. She watched the lady sit down, apparently in no hurry to say more.

When Margaret could bear it no longer, she finally asked, "Do you bring a message from him?"

The answering pinch to her lips was so telling, so reminiscent of William, that it sent a bright pain through Margaret's chest.

"Nay." Lady Eluned looked down, engrossed in an examination of her fingernails. "I am here of my own accord. He is much occupied of late with the fight in Wales." She paused, waiting for a response. When there was none, she carried on brusquely. "But Lady Nan of Aderinyth has bid me send you her greetings. She has told me that she did offer shelter to two travelers who journey to the mountains of Venache. Knowing your uncle dwells there, it put her in mind of you. She wished you to know she prays for you."

So bland, so mild was her demeanor that Margaret could only admire her skill. She herself wanted to collapse in a babbling heap of relief. Instead, she gripped her hands together and strove to find the same natural, almost careless attitude.

"You must give Lady Nan my deepest thanks and highest regard," she managed. "They… These travelers have left Aderinyth?"

"Oh, they are long gone from England. I would venture to say they have crossed France by now, with the armed guard that was sent with them. You need not worry for them."

Margaret let the relief course through her, steadfastly ignoring the prick of tears behind her eyes. They were away. They were safe. As safe as she could make them, anyway. They would not be imprisoned and dragged before inquisitors. Only she would have to face the questioning and the accusations. Alone.

"The abbess will soon feel her conscience and return." Lady Eluned's very practical tone cut across her thoughts, clearly concerned with more pressing matters. "If Henry has told you all he knows of the case against you, then all that is left for me is to warn you that you must handle the bishop with great care. Never think your wits alone are enough against such a man, do you understand? And never forget that he is backed by the Mortimers, who will not turn from the opportunity this presents them."

Margaret nodded vaguely in response. Never forget. Take care. Think. The words were urgent, trying to break through. Yet she seemed capable only of absorbing the fact that her friends were safe, her husband absent, her time dwindling. Beyond that her mind was sluggish, ill-equipped to anticipate what might happen or to calculate her best course. All her days here had been spent avoiding the thought of what was coming, and she much preferred to hide from it as long as she might.

But Lady Eluned would not allow that.

"How blithe you are," she noted with a raised brow at Margaret's silence. "You know, I hope, that the Church may find you guilty, but they will not bloody their hands with your punishment. That decision will be given to the king, who has been primed to see treachery in your heresy."

Margaret swallowed. Already they had questioned her about why she sent Quinten to Wales, if she had done it at someone else's behest. She understood what their accusations would be, so she only nodded again.

"Do you know aught of this king, girl?" Lady Eluned's voice had grown hard, her face full of warning. "For I know him well, and though his heart may soften to see a lady sinner, you may be assured it turns to sharpest steel when he perceives a traitor."

At last, she had found the words that broke through all Margaret's numb indifference.

"He was meant to be in France!" she burst out, fear and outrage seizing her tongue. It was not fair. All of it was so unfair. "Never did I even think Quinten knew where Wales was, much less that he would journey there. I have no care for these politics of crown and church and Wales and England! I swear to you, lady, I sent him away. I will swear so to the bishop and the king, do you think it will placate them."

Lady Eluned's eyes brightened at this outburst. She leaned closer, her voice low and urgent, an intensity of focus that almost made Margaret flinch away.

"Come, you have more wit than that. It is not your guilt or innocence that will move Edward, but what he must do to maintain his grasp on every corner of his kingdom. And hear me now: the bishop will not be placated. Never. You know this."

She did know it. This was why she would be found guilty, and why she had thought it useless to attempt a defense when the evidence was so abundant and so clear.

But now Lady Eluned's eyes bored into her and forced her to imagine the outcome, the implications – the consequences, to everyone associated with her. It woke her up, and her mind at last began to piece it together.

"So I must…I must be sure that I am only a sinner, and no threat to the king." She said it with brow furrowed, trying to grasp the way of it. "A heretic without power may be allowed to live."

"Aye, as I have had certain cause to know," Lady Eluned said, and it gave Margaret a jolt to realize she spoke of her dead husband. But if it troubled her to speak of him, she gave no indication of it. She merely said, "It is a fine needle you must thread."

Margaret struggled to follow her meaning until she caught a glimmer of the gold from the finery on the table, and understood. A fine needle indeed: remind them of the power of Ruardean, but ensure it did not threaten. Use the status afforded by her title even as she divorced herself from the source of it.

It was possible to prevent herself from drowning completely, but still she would sink. And anything tied fast to her would sink too, unless she cut it – cut him – free.

She pressed a thumbnail into the pad of her forefinger, past the scant callous that had formed and into the patch of flesh made sore by the hours of stitching. It was comforting, to have a pain that came when she called it, and would leave when she let it. She looked at the pile of gold and gems, and imagined Lady Eluned dressing herself this morning, choosing each piece with careful intent.

"Why do you aid me, lady?" she asked, because it would have been much easier and surer to have simply denounced Margaret, and let her languish in numb ignorance.

"It pleases me," was the dismissive reply.

Margaret only looked at her, steady and unblinking. "It is more than that."

Lady Eluned gave a slight smile, a nod of acknowledgment, and a long moment of silence before she answered. "Many reasons. Because I loathe the Mortimers. Because if not for my actions long ago, they would not seek to harm Ruardean, and you." She looked at Margaret, met her eyes. "Because you love my son."

Margaret turned her face down, unable to bear the eyes so full of feeling. She watched Lady Eluned's fingers drum lightly on her knee, as though considering if there was more to say. When she spoke again, it was almost in the tone of one confiding a secret.

"And because I admire your conviction." She fairly snorted at Margaret's startled look. "Not your faith in God; that is as common as rain. It is not what you believe, but how deeply you believe it and the ways you choose to act on that belief. I am old, you see," she explained, with something like a wistfulness. "And the world is not the bright place it seemed in my youth. In faith, it is so dark that it is no wonder we stumble and fall so very much." She shrugged. "Mayhap I am too filled with witless sentiment, but I cannot help but be warmed to see one heart burning bright amid the all darkness."

Margaret gave a forlorn little laugh, too surprised by this unlikely praise to make sense of it. Still she saw the irony.

"Does not the bishop burn with conviction too?" she asked.

Lady Eluned stood, smoothing her hands over her gown as she did so. "He does. But his fire is fueled by a belief in his own relevance. He cannot fathom that God can succeed without him. It is a very different thing, and it is why he is to be feared."

This was not the moment to confess her own lack of humility, so Margaret only nodded again. She stood too, a panic beginning to stir at the thought that soon Lady Eluned would go, and Henry, and any link to William.

"Will you tell –" She stopped, unable to say his name. But she must say something, no matter how her throat swelled, or her hands shook. It may be her only chance. "I beg you will tell my lord husband that I sought only to protect him from my folly. Naught but my great fear for him could compel me to hide such a thing."

"Well do I know it," was Lady Eluned's dry response. "Think you I forget it was I who said he should be kept ignorant?" She sighed. "But he can expect no less of us, when he has only scorn for those who dare to let feeling dictate action."

"But you will tell him?" Margaret swallowed. "I know not what may become of me, lady, and I would not die without… I would have him know I meant to shield him from harm, not cause it."

There was a sound in the corridor, the abbess returning. As the door opened, Lady Eluned nodded. "I will tell him."

She looked at Margaret, who could not look back. If she did, she would surely begin weeping. The abbess stood at the open door, murmuring something about the need for guests to leave before the call to prayer.

On her way out the door, Lady Eluned paused beside Margaret and put a hand to her shoulder.

"My son does not abandon what is his," she said, a soft reassurance.

She left, and Margaret stood alone, waiting for the warmth to recede from the place where her hand had briefly rested. She felt the cold creep in and thought of William, and duty. It was true. He would not abandon what was his.

When there was complete silence, when there was no one to hear even the echoes of her voice, she whispered, "Ruardean is his, too."