Chapter Six

"I must tell the bees of their new princess," Lady Gwenllian had whispered, a rare hint of a smile at her lips as she left them. She would go behind Lord Gruffydd, who visited the nearby tenants to thank them for their prayers and their gifts to his wife and child. Gwenllian would gather honey to replace what had been used as medicine. "The hives will not produce, do we fail to tell them of the great event."

She left mother and child to rest, with only Margaret and the little dog as company. The dog sat guard before the door, glancing anxiously back at them from time to time, and Lady Nan gazed at the tiny new daughter who lay against her breast. It was a wonderfully peaceful scene.

The awkwardness that might have been between them had burned away in the hours of labor and the joy of a healthy birth. It was one of Margaret's favorite things: the fleeting intimacy of the birthing room, the sense of camaraderie that lingered between women afterwards, no matter that they had started as strangers. They might speak as friends, in such a moment.

"What name will you give her?" she asked finally, curious to know.

"We'll call her Eluned."

"A Welsh name? Is it for a saint?"

Lady Nan smiled softly, fondly. "For your Lord William's mother." She bent close to the tiny ear and whispered. "May you grow even half as strong, little one."

Margaret swallowed her amazement. Lord William's mother was rather terrifying. Margaret had met her only once, and had seen immediately that this was where all her husband's cunning had come from. She was so sharp that a single glance might cut open the best-told lie, so clever and so easy with power that Margaret occasionally felt a cold dread to think of her. Just one misstep in that lady's presence would be a fatal mistake, for unlike her son she was not foolish enough to underestimate a woman.

This revelation that Nan so admired Lady Eluned, though, was unexpected. Sister , Gwenllian had called her. It was as though Nan, and not Margaret, were a part of Lord William's family.

She looked at the baby, so tiny that she almost disappeared beneath Nan's hands, and decided it was good to choose so formidable a namesake in the hopes of lending strength. Not that it was especially needed – the birth was only a little early, and the baby had cried with an astonishing volume and eaten with such enthusiasm that there could be no doubt of her good health. But it was a pleasant thing, to imagine something so small growing fierce.

They had settled into a comfortable silence again as the baby drifted to sleep. Now Margaret's mind was clear enough to consider the strange vision that had come upon her. Was it a vision? That seemed too serious a word, too full of portent. But the light that had seemed to fill the air and pierce her heart as she watched the women clasp hands – it meant something. At least she thought it did.

It was a worthy topic of study, one that immediately made her think of Brother Quinten. He was a scholar and philosopher, a holy man who had written at length on the nature of visions. In her correspondence with him, she had often urged him to come to England, and now she imagined telling him about that moment of light. There was no one she trusted as well as him to interpret what she had seen. He would not twist it to his own purpose, as other men of the Church might.

"Well." Lady Nan's voice broke through these musings. "I have thought on it and there is no way but to say it plain."

She was reclined against the cushions with the baby sleeping on her chest, and looked almost shyly at Margaret.

"What would you say plainly, Lady Nan?" she asked, when the silence stretched too long.

"Just Nan, if you please." The shyness was gone, replaced with a solid determination. "I weren't raised a lady, as I'm sure you'll know."

Margaret nodded, though she knew only that Nan had not brought a great name or any wealth to her marriage. "Nan, then, if you will call me Meg." There was no acknowledgement or agreement. Only stubborn silence. "What would you say plain to me, Nan?"

She took a breath, as though steeling herself. "The holy women, those who serve the poor outside the command of the Church. Them that are not ashamed to be friend to whores. Know you any in Lincoln, or near to it?"

It served Margaret very well that her natural reaction was a stunned stare. A good and godly lady would be shocked at the accusation that she consorted with such people. Margaret put her energy into maintaining that expression while her mind reeled.

"I… I know no one… Outside the Church , Lady Nan! Never would I–"

"Just Nan," she insisted. She was unfazed by Margaret's stammering protestations. "I mean no offense, and I would not dare to say it did I not know it's your hand behind it. The boys of Chepstow, and the woman and child in Worcester last year – I know they were helped by your good women there. And I'm told there are others as far north as Birmingham. Anyone who wishes to leave a whore's life may ask them for refuge and they will give it as far as they are able. I know it's you who gives them money to do it."

Margaret pressed her damp palms against her skirt. She put on a concerned face. "I pray always for the souls of those who are so lost in sin and despair that they will sell their virtue in defiance of God's commandment. But I have given no refuge. Nor would I ever do so." But the other woman only persisted in looking certain, so Margaret shook her head and said, "I fear you are fevered. We must send for Lady Gwenllian–"

"I'm not fevered, and I don't speak idle words." Her manner was impatient, refusing to be deterred. "Ain't it true you gave aid to the sisters of the Magdalene? And it's them that want to build a house to welcome any whore looking to repent."

Margaret hesitated before giving a nod. She could not deny this truth. "Aye, I did pledge funds to their order in hopes they may establish their mission here in England. But my lord husband commanded me to abandon their support, and engage instead in works more pleasing to him." It came out too sharp, too bitter, and she hastily amended her words. "More pleasing to the Church, and to God."

More pleasing to the Bishop of Stowell, that was the truth of it. The bishop objected to the Magdalene mission not because of any sense of righteousness. Indeed, all people of sense acknowledged that a woman could not be enticed away from a life of sin if she was not given another way to feed herself and her children. The Magdalene sisters promised to provide that – shelter and sustenance, a way to safely leave an unwanted profession.

But the Bishop of Stowell thought it all too sordid for the Church to commit itself to such a cause. Even more than that, he did not want his local prostitutes to have an easy way to a new life. He made too much profit from taxing the brothels that stood in his jurisdiction. For the glory of God, he would likely say, because the money he gained was used to build and furnish his precious cathedral.

And thus are the streets to their Heaven paved with misery, stone by stone . She had written that to her husband, in reply to his letter that commanded her to stop giving money to the Magdalene sisters. Then she had remembered herself, and burned the page unsent.

In truth, perhaps the bishop would not have objected. Who could say with certainty? Lord William had been sure to kill the plan before it risked the bishop's displeasure.

"It's not to do with the Magdalene sisters, then, but some other good women." Lady Nan was quietly dogged, and absolutely sure. "Will you not tell me? I were trusted to keep your secret safe or I would not know to ask you."

"But there is no secret. Who has told you to come to me ?" Margaret asked, half-afraid to know how her name had ever become connected to the work.

She was not the only one afraid. Caution came into Lady Nan's face. It was like a door that did not slam shut, but drifted almost closed, only a sliver left open.

"Them that told me never said your name outright. But people will talk in whispers when they trust. Among the poor and especially among the women – if you're in need, and you're trusted, you'll be given a whisper." She paused, obviously waiting to see if Margaret would demand names. It seemed to prove something when she did not. "And then I did some thinking of my own. It's you, I know it. Will you not help?"

"May God forgive me if ever I fail to give aid where it is needed," Margaret insisted, because she must. "But I cannot, for I know naught of this business. You are mistook."

She took care to look at Lady Nan with a vaguely pained expression. Eyes wide, a slight furrow to her brow, a gentle dismay. She'd spent years perfecting it. It even worked on Lord William.

Lady Nan was having none of it.

"There's a bawd outside the walls of Lincoln," she plowed on, as though Margaret had not spoken at all. "Bargate Bettie is what she's called, and her place is well known. Any child that goes to Bettie in search of work, I'd have them taken in by good people instead. And anyone at her place, child or grown, who wants out – them too. I'll give what's needed to set them up, but it needs eyes on the place to watch for any children. I'm asking if your women are living near, and if you'll tell them to watch."

It was more difficult than it had ever been, to keep the mask in place. Never before had she needed to baldly and repeatedly lie to someone she did not dislike – someone who only asked to do a good deed. But the risk was so very great.

"I cannot help." Margaret did not stop the note of apology in her voice. "You would do well to ask someone more likely to know these things."

Nan only looked at her for a very long and searching moment. She gave a faint, rueful shake of her head before she spoke again.

"Bargate Bettie was born my sister." Her jaw was tight, her whole face tense as a soft flush of mortification crept up her throat. "What harm she causes, it's for me to set right. And I cannot do it without you aid me."

Margaret felt the confession settle in the air between them, a little sliver of shame offered as a token of trust. What a pair they were. The beautiful lady with a bawd for a sister. The obedient and pious lady who secretly loathed the bishop and defied the Church.

She considered the danger. How much she trusted this woman. What the consequences might be. Who might be helped, and who must be risked. And then she looked at the fresh new life that slept beneath Nan's hand. Those sweet, soft cheeks. The tiny fingernails. So fragile, so suddenly exposed to this pitiless world.

A woman's life is pretending. Yes. But they need not always pretend to each other. And what use all their work, in the end, if it did not serve those in need?

"There are some near to Lincoln," Margaret found herself whispering. Her heart seemed to pound out of her chest. "They are not my women, but I know how to send word to them." She looked instinctively towards the door, only to see the dog standing guard, unperturbed. "Lord William cannot know. Nor can anyone, ever. Not a word. I beg you."

Nan put a hand to hers, a soft squeeze of reassurance and thanks, her face flooded with gratitude. "And who would tell him? It's none of his affair." Her eyes were clear, honest, full of relief. "God bless you for it. I tell you true, I've seen much evil done in this world. I cannot stop it all, but by the grace of God, I can do this."

Absurd tears were suddenly pressing behind Margaret's eyes. She was not accustomed to simple goodness, really. Just the wish to ease suffering, with no calculation or grand vision behind it.

She blinked away the emotion, and nodded. Now was the moment to put this dangerous business away, to talk of normal, harmless matters. Her eyes rested again on the sleeping child. "We should not speak of these things before a babe's innocent ears."

"Should we not?" Nan took her hand off Margaret's and cupped the downy little head beneath her chin. She pressed a soft kiss there. There seemed to be a soft light, an echo of that earlier vision, around them as she spoke. "I can think of no better thing for her to hear, that there are good women in the world who will care for each other."