Chapter Twenty-Six

Will never decided it, at least not in the way he had decided everything else in his life. There was no sudden epiphany, no grand moment of insight, no careful weighing of options and consideration of the consequences to all. The path was simply one of many that unfolded in a corner of his mind – and slowly, gradually, like smoke on a breeze, he drifted that way.

Perhaps it was because his sister had written to him in her typically blunt way, saying of Henry, He has come to believe all things might be bought and sold, even honor. Such scruples he has learned while in your care. Will had stared at the page for a very long time, until the daylight faded and he could no longer see the words. Then, because he could not say she was wrong, he tucked the truth of it into the farthest reach of his mind, where it ate at him like a cancer.

Or perhaps it was what Gryff had said when they saw each other one night, somewhere between battles in Wales. Will had begun to feel a weariness in his bones, born of days spent in strategy and combat, the desperate fight to prove the loyalty and value of Ruardean.

Always Ruardean. It felt like he walked through life dragging every stone of it with him – every decision, every move, every thought and hope and desire weighed down until they were flattened to nothing beneath the burden. Duty was a hard master, and tradition a cold companion.

One too many swallows of ale and he said that, or something like it, aloud to his friend. Gryff had merely replied, "Power and joy are rarely bosom friends. Rid yourself of one if you would have more of the other."

The simplicity of it annoyed Will. "And what would have become of you had I rid myself of power and influence, my good prince? And of your people?" he asked, though he had promised himself that he would never say it. "What would become of all who look to Ruardean as ally? If I lose it, then all who are dear to me may be lost too."

Gryff had pulled the cup from his hand, forcing his attention, looking at him with a scowl.

"Think you that when I look at you, I see naught but power and influence?" He shook his head. "I see the boy who was like a brother to me when others scorned me, and has been steadfast through all my travails, even when it has not benefited him. I see a friend, Will, not an advantage." He looked away and reached for his own cup, muttering, "But I am not like you. I am ruled more by sentiment."

The words washed over Will, a wave of warmth and pain. Warmth because it had been his dearest wish as a boy, that Gryff would call him friend – unequivocally, unreservedly, just like this. Pain because in the same breath he uttered, I am not like you .

It had not been said in condemnation, but still he knew it was one. So perhaps that was what did it, in the end.

But he knew that it was mostly her. It was the regret and defiance that joined up in the twist of her mouth as she said, I was so certain sure that I was good. And then, We cannot serve both God and wealth . She had aimed it at herself, but the words would not leave him. They sprang into his mind before his eyes opened in the morning, and whispered to him as he fell into sleep. They were like a curse, an inescapable reminder of how different their desires and purposes had always been.

He went to the cathedral and watched from a shadowed corner when she was brought forth to hear the accusations against her. It went on for hours, for days, but she did not waver. Not when the crowd of spectators doubled in size, nor when the inquisitors went out of their way to cast doubt on her father. It was slyly done – a mention of his lineage, a note that he was not born in the bosom of the Church. It held no relevance at all to the matter at hand, but they could not resist the opportunity to bias the spectators against her.

Yet her answer was calm and firm.

"My father's conviction was proved through a lifetime of obedience to the Church, and that is more than I can say of any man before me," she said, looking squarely at them. "For you belie your own teachings when you dare to damn him for his birth. ‘The father shall not bear the iniquity of the son' – or the daughter," she offered with a lift of her brow. "Or do you seek to put him on trial too?"

Every eye seemed drawn to the sight of the Bishop of Stowell, whose face and neck flushed with a deep red rage. Because of her allegations against him, the inquisitors had ruled that he should not speak, and now his impotent fury was proving a delicious spectacle throughout the trial.

Will, though, watched the inquisitors. They were caught off balance, defending themselves, insisting that no such slander had been intended. Three of them were resentful that she had such confidence, while the other two looked mortified that the subject of her father had ever been introduced.

He had come to know a great deal about these inquisitors, all of whom were from the Dominican order and chosen for their strict and unforgiving interpretation of the faith. No doubt Stowell thought this was to his advantage, but he had not reckoned with Margaret's intelligence, nor her understanding of church doctrine. She was a match for them, and her quick wit was beautiful to behold – for Will, if not for the men who questioned her.

Promisingly, each inquisitor had family and friends, ambitions and fears. Weak points, in short, that Will had searched out and aimed to exploit – only to learn that his adversary had found them first. To a man, they were beholden to Mortimer, who alone had the power to sway them now.

Will's opponents had plotted it all very well. They had planned so far in advance that they were countless steps ahead of him. He could not catch up, but he knew they would turn and meet him. He need only wait.

In the end it was Edmund, the elder and by far the more shrewd of the Mortimer brothers, who finally approached him. Mortimer made it plain that the inquisitors would find her guilty and recommend the harshest punishment, unless he had good reason to convince them to be more lenient.

That good reason, of course, could be bought with no less than the greater part of Will's holdings.

Will's own proposal that a marriage might be arranged between their future children, and property granted in that more agreeable way, was promptly rejected. Edmund Mortimer did not want so great a prize to depend on children that might never be born. Besides that, it was clear he wanted Will's power lessened, not joined with his own. Edmund would buy the property, of course – at a price that was not fair but was not nothing. He was even willing to negotiate on some bits of the land and buildings. But he made it clear he wanted Ruardean above all.

"And if I will give all but that?" Will asked.

"Then you must hope the king is in good humor when he hears of your lady wife's guilt," Mortimer replied simply. "You may judge that risk as well as ever I could."

It was a relief to speak so plainly, that there was no pretending this was anything other than extortion. But it was an alien feeling, this complete lack of advantage, and Will knew there was not time enough to wait for the tides to turn, or to force them to turn. All he could do now was weigh the options, assess the risk, and choose the path of least damage.

The worst of it was that it made him want to ask her counsel. At night he lay alone, staring into the dark, with the shadow of her beside him in the bed. He could imagine how it would be. She would ask her astute questions, listen to his whispered doubts, and he would see things in some a new and unexpected way. You cannot serve both God and wealth , she would inevitably say, because she was a pious, duplicitous burden of a wife. He should put her out of his mind entirely. Imprisoned for life and likely exiled, that was her fate. Or worse.

He did not let himself think of worse. Every day he went to the trial, avoiding notice by lurking in the shadows, to see what evidence they laid out. He held out the futile hope there would be a flaw in it, a weakness he might use to his advantage. But there was nothing.

He watched her listen to their accusations and quietly answer their questions, day after day. Her resolve never wavered, yet something about it seemed to chip away at her strength. Gradually her eyes lowered, her voice becoming dull as she repeated her denials. The fire was still in her, he was sure, only banked, a safe and prudent way to endure the hours. Even when they mentioned Will's own brief testimony, the written denial he had given them, the insistence that he knew his lady wife as nothing other than perfectly pious and devoted to the Church – still it sparked nothing in her.

But on the fourth day they called Quinten of Livonia to speak.

"Nor would I ever have thought to come to these shores, did the lady not urge me to it," the little man said placidly, almost apologetically. Upon request, he presented a letter she had written to him, in which she argued against tithes, questioned the need for a pope, and hoped that Quinten would soon spread his influence to the clerics of England and Wales.

To his credit, Quinten waved away the spectators' gasps and said, "Such questioning is no less and no more than all scholars engage in. Lady Margaret is possessed of a lively mind, and sought guidance and counsel in her study of faith. It is to be commended."

He said also, without prompting, that he had not journeyed into Wales at her direction. But barely had he said it than they dismissed him without another word. When he was gone, one of the inquisitors held up the letter like it was a public declaration of her guilt, and advised her to confess her obvious mortal sin.

The spark appeared in her eye again as she asked, "Are the words of a man named heretic so valued? I marvel you trust the testimony of a man you have denounced."

Her chin was lifted, her eyes alight, the wry curl of irony on her lips. But then they told her what Will had more than half-expected, because it was what he would have done in their place. They informed her that Quinten's heresy was already forgiven, that there had not even been a need for a full trial. He had only been careless in his interpretations, they explained, and he was fully repentant of ever having cast doubt on the teachings of Rome.

Her face remained blank through all of it, until they announced that Quinten had recently been appointed as abbot to some great monastery in Cologne. She flinched a little at that.

Will could almost see the moment when she understood that this man of God she had so admired was as easily bought as any other. Her features hardened minutely in anger, just for a bare instant, before there was nothing in her at all. No more spark in her eye, no more steel in her spine. For all the rest of that day and all the days after, she only looked dully at the floor, waiting for it to be over.

It would haunt him, that empty look. They had finally made her as hollow and lifeless as she had once pretended to be. As they had always wanted her to be.

He went to the church at the abbey where she was confined, barely admitting to himself that he hoped to find her there. But when he arrived one of the sisters told him Lady Margaret had stopped attending daily prayer. He wandered beneath the arched windows, the simple geometry and sparse colors of them, and wondered what it meant that she had stopped coming.

There were endless tasks to attend to and countless people to meet – so much to do if he was to avert disaster for Ruardean. Far too much for him to be wandering an empty church. In a side aisle he found a small stool with an embroidered cushion. He imagined her sitting there, head bent, fingers moving over the smooth beads.

"What do you say when you pray?" he said softly, wishing he had ever asked her. He ran a fingertip over the threads that formed little yellow flowers and blue birds. "How do you do it?"

He had been taught to pray, just as he'd been taught to fight, to read, to mind his manners at table. It had always seemed a childish, rudimentary thing to him, a futile gesture. But even he could see it meant something, to stand here and see the stones shaped and laid, the statues carved with care, the hours of skill and labor in the colored glass windows. Countless working hands had built this place with reverence, their faith made solid, surrounding him.

Because he reasoned it could not hurt and might possibly even help, he knelt beside the little stool that perhaps she had sat on, or perhaps was nothing to do with her at all. God , he thought – because he could not say Father . The word alone confused him, and certainly gave no comfort.

God, he thought again – more of an angry admonition than a prayer, and nothing like a plea. Wasn't that the purpose, to ask for something? For a favor or mercy or wisdom.

He tried to think of what he wanted. Then he tried to think of what was right. How telling, that they were so unlikely to be the same thing.

Maybe this was prayer enough, to kneel in silent turmoil, imagining Ruardean in the hands of a Mortimer. Imagining her before the king awaiting punishment. Trying to find some kind of quiet truth hidden under it all, some divine voice that would tell him what to do – or if he should do anything at all.

Nothing came. It seemed a fairly useless exercise, hardly worth the time and energy that so many gave to it. But he stayed there, and allowed his thoughts to crowd in on him, to merge together and dissolve and come clear. Aimless, perhaps, but not useless, because over time one of his many creeping suspicions became a certainty: Mortimer would not waste his time making offers to Will unless he must, unless it was the only way to get what he wanted. Which meant that Mortimer was sure the king would spare Ruardean and leave it in Will's hands. So even if she were found guilty, Will could be confident that Ruardean would not be damned along with her.

There was relief in that clarity, that certainty. But then there were the freckles that scattered over her cheeks in the morning light – just as clear, just as certain – and the turmoil within him was not lessened.

He might have passed an hour there, or several of them. Long enough that his knees ached and his fingertips had memorized that pattern of stitches on the stool.

In the end it was not a choice. He found it was already decided within him, as inevitable as the dawn. What he wanted had nothing to do with it, and everything. What was it his sister had said? That there were things that not even he could control, or predict.

With the first morning light, he rode away. Before leaving, he paused only to say the briefest of prayers – a real one. It asked for forgiveness as he took the road east, as far as it would take him.