"But Francis . . ."
"I know. He's sweet, and I love him, but to lie down in a bed with him, and, you know . . ."
Alison nodded vigorously. "It hardly bears thinking about."
"Perhaps Francis and I could get married and just pretend."
Alison shook her head. "Then the marriage might be annulled."
"And I would no longer be queen."
"Exactly."
Mary said: "Why now? What brought this on?"
Alison had been told by Queen Caterina, the most well-informed person in France. "Scarface suggested it to the king." The duke of Guise was Mary's uncle, her mother's brother. The family was riding high after his victory at Calais.
"Why does Uncle Scarface care?"
"Think how the prestige of the Guise family would be boosted if one of them became queen of France."
"Scarface is a soldier."
"Yes. This was surely someone else's idea."
"But Francis . . ."
"It all comes back to little Francis, doesn't it?"
"He's so little," Mary said. "And so ill. Is he even capable of doing what a man is supposed to do with his wife?"
"I don't know," said Alison. "But you're going to find out on the Sunday after Easter."
3
Margery and her parents were still deadlocked when January turned into February. Sir Reginald and Lady Jane were determined that Margery should marry Bart, and she had declared she would never utter the vows.
Rollo was angry with her. She had a chance to take the family into the Catholic nobility, and she wanted instead to ally with the Protestant-leaning Willards. How could she contemplate such a betrayal--especially under a queen who favored Catholics in every way?
The Fitzgeralds were the leading family in town--and they looked the part, Rollo thought proudly as they stood in the hall putting on their warmest clothes, while the great bell in the cathedral tower boomed its summons to mass. Sir Reginald was tall and lean, and the freckles that marred his face also gave him a kind of distinction. He put on a heavy cloak of chestnut-brown cloth. Lady Jane was small and thin, with a sharp nose and darting eyes that did not miss much. She wore a coat lined with fur.
Margery was also short, but more rounded. She was in a furious sulk, and had not been allowed out of the house since the earl's party; but she could not be held incommunicado forever, and this morning the bishop of Kingsbridge would be at mass, a powerful ally whom the family could not risk offending.
Margery had clearly decided not to look as miserable as she felt. She had put on a coat of Kingsbridge Scarlet and a matching hat. In the past year or so she had grown up to be the prettiest girl in town--even her brother could see that.
The fifth member of the family was Rollo's great-aunt. She had been a nun at Kingsbridge Priory, and had come to live with the Fitzgeralds when the priory was shut down by King Henry VIII. She had turned her two rooms on the top floor of the house into a little nunnery, the bedroom a bare cell and the parlor a chapel; Rollo was awed by her devotion. Everyone still called her Sister Joan. She was now old and frail, and walked with two sticks, but she insisted on going to church when Bishop Julius was there. The maid Naomi would carry a chair to the cathedral for Sister Joan, for she could not remain standing a whole hour.
They stepped outside together. They lived at the crossroads at the top of the main street, opposite the guildhall, a commanding position, and for a moment Sir Reginald paused and looked down over the close-packed streets descending like stairs to the river. A light snow was falling on the thatched roofs and smoking chimneys. My town, his expression said.
As the mayor and his family made their stately procession down the slope of the main street their neighbors greeted them respectfully, the more prosperous ones wishing them good morning, the lower classes silently touching their hats.
In the daylight Rollo noticed that his mother's coat was slightly moth-eaten, and he hoped no one would notice. Unfortunately his father had no money for new clothes. Business was bad in Combe Harbour, where Sir Reginald was receiver of customs. The French had captured the port of Calais, the war dragged on, and Channel shipping was minimal.
As they approached the cathedral, they passed the other cause of the family's financial crisis: the new house, to be called Priory Gate. It stood on the north side of the market square, on land that had been attached to the prior's house in the days when there had been a priory. Construction had slowed almost to a stop. Most of the builders had gone elsewhere, to work for people who could pay them. A crude wooden fence had been erected to discourage curious people from entering the unfinished building.
Sir Reginald also owned the complex of priory buildings on the south side of the cathedral: the cloisters, the monks' kitchen and dormitory, the nunnery, and the stables. When Henry VIII had dissolved the monasteries, their property had been given or sold to local magnates, and Sir Reginald had got the priory. These mostly old buildings had been neglected for decades and were now falling down, with birds' nests in the rafters and brambles growing in the cloisters. Reginald would probably sell them back to the chapter.
Between the two shabby lots the cathedral stood proud, unchanged for hundreds of years, just like the Catholic faith it represented. In the last forty years Protestants had tried to alter the Christian doctrines that had been taught here for so long: Rollo wondered how they had the arrogance. It was like trying to put modern windows in the church walls. The truth was for eternity, like the cathedral.
They went in through the great arches of the west front. It seemed even colder inside than out. As always, the sight of the long nave with its ordered lines of precisely repeated columns and arches filled Rollo with a reassuring sense of a systematic universe regulated by a rational deity. At the far end, winter daylight faintly lit the great rose window, its colored glass showing how all things would end: God sitting in judgment on the last day, evildoers being tortured in hell, the good entering heaven, balance restored.
The Fitzgeralds moved down the aisle to the crossing as the prayers began. From a distance they watched the priests perform the service at the high altar. Around them were the other leading families of the town, including the Willards and the Cobleys, and of the county, notably the earl of Shiring and his son, Bart, and Lord and Lady Brecknock.
The singing was mediocre. Hundreds of years of thrilling choral music at Kingsbridge Cathedral had come to an end when the priory closed and the choir disbanded. Some of the former monks had started a new choir, but the spirit had gone. They were not able to re-create the fanatical discipline of a group whose entire lives were dedicated to praising God with beautiful music.
The congregation was still for the dramatic moments, such as the elevation of the Host, and they listened politely to Bishop Julius's sermon--on obedience--but for much of the time they talked among themselves.
Rollo was annoyed to see that Margery had slyly slipped away from the family and was talking animatedly to Ned Willard, the plume on her cap bobbing vigorously with emphasis. Ned, too, was dressed up, in his blue French coat, and he was clearly thrilled to be with her. Rollo wanted to kick him for insolence.
To compensate, Rollo went and spoke to Bart Shiring, and told him it would come right in the end. They spoke about the war. The loss of Calais had damaged more than just trade. Queen Mary and her foreign husband were increasingly unpopular. Rollo still did not think England would ever have another Protestant monarch, but Mary Tudor was doing no good to the Catholic cause.
As the service came to an end, Rollo was approached by Philbert Cobley's plump son, Dan. The puritanical Cobleys were here unwillingly, Rollo felt sure; he guessed they hated the statues and the paintings, and would have liked to hold their noses against the whiff of incense. Rollo was driven mad by the idea that people--ignorant, uneducated, stupid ordinary people--had the right to make up their own minds about religion. If such a naive idea ever gained currency, civilization would collapse. People had to be told what to do.
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With Dan was a wiry, weather-beaten man called Jonas Bacon, one of the many sea captains employed by Kingsbridge merchants.
Dan said to Rollo: "We have a cargo that we want to sell. Might you be interested?"
Ship owners such as the Cobleys often sold their cargoes in advance, sometimes offering quarters or eighths to multiple investors. It was a way of raising the money to finance the voyage and, at the same time, spreading the risk. Stakeholders could sometimes get back ten times the cost of their share--or they could lose it all. In more prosperous days Sir Reginald had made huge profits this way.
"We might be interested," Rollo said. He was being insincere. His father had no cash to invest in a cargo, but Rollo wanted to know about it anyway.
"The St. Margaret is on her way back from the Baltic Sea, her hold crammed with furs worth more than five hundred pounds landed," Dan said. "I can show you the manifest."
Rollo frowned. "How can you know this if she's still at sea?"
Captain Bacon answered the question in a voice hoarse from years of shouting into the wind. "I overtook her off the Netherlands coast. My ship, the Hawk, is faster. I hove to and took the details. St. Margaret was about to go into harbor for minor repairs. But she will be in Combe in two weeks."
Captain Bacon had a bad reputation. Many captains did. There was no one to witness what sailors did at sea, and people said they were thieves and murderers. But his story was credible. Rollo nodded and turned back to Dan. "So why would you sell the cargo now?"
A sly look appeared on Dan's round white face. "We need the money for another investment."
He was not going to say what. That was natural: if he had come across a good business opportunity he would not give others the chance to get in first. All the same Rollo was suspicious. "Is there something wrong with your cargo?"
"No. And to prove it we're prepared to guarantee the value of the furs at five hundred pounds. But we'll sell the cargo to you for four hundred."
It was a large sum. A prosperous farmer owning his land might make fifty pounds a year; a successful Kingsbridge merchant would be proud of an annual income of two hundred. Four hundred was a huge investment--but a guaranteed profit of a hundred pounds in only two weeks was a rare opportunity.
And it would pay off all the Fitzgerald family's debts.
Unfortunately they did not have four hundred pounds. They did not have four pounds.
Nevertheless Rollo said: "I'll put it to my father." He was sure they could not make this deal, but Sir Reginald might be offended if the son claimed to speak authoritatively for the family.
"Don't delay," Dan said. "I came to you first out of respect, because Sir Reginald is the mayor, but there are other people we can go to. And we need the money tomorrow." He and the captain moved away.
Rollo looked around the nave, spotted his father leaning against a fluted column, and went over. "I've been talking to Dan Cobley."
"Oh, yes?" Sir Reginald did not like the Cobleys. Few people did. They seemed to think they were holier than ordinary people, and their walkout at the play had annoyed everybody. "What did he want?"
"To sell a cargo." Rollo gave his father the details.
When he had done, Reginald said: "And they're prepared to guarantee the value of the furs?"
"Five hundred pounds--for an investment of four hundred. I know we don't have the money, but I thought you'd like to know about it."
"You're right, we don't have the money." Reginald looked thoughtful. "But I might be able to get it."
Rollo wondered how. But his father could be resourceful. He was not the kind of merchant to build up a business gradually, but he was an alert opportunist, keen to grab an unforeseen bargain.
Was it possible he could solve all the family's worries at a stroke? Rollo hardly dared to hope.
To Rollo's surprise Reginald went to speak to the Willards. Alice was a leading merchant, so the mayor often had matters to discuss with her; but the two did not like one another, and relations had not been improved by the Fitzgeralds' rejection of young Ned as a potential son-in-law. Rollo followed his father, intrigued.
Reginald spoke quietly. "A word with you, Mrs. Willard, if I may."
Alice was a short, stout woman with impeccable good manners. "Of course," she said politely.
"I need to borrow four hundred pounds for a short period."
Alice looked startled. "You may need to go to London," she said after a pause. "Or Antwerp." The Netherlands city of Antwerp was the financial capital of Europe. "We have a cousin in Antwerp," she added. "But I don't know that even he would want to lend such a large sum."
"I need it today," Sir Reginald said.
Alice raised her eyebrows.
Rollo felt a pang of shame. It was humiliating to beg a loan from the family they had scorned so recently.
But Reginald plowed on regardless. "You're the only merchant in Kingsbridge who has that kind of money instantly available, Alice."
Alice said: "May I ask what you want the money for?"
"I have the chance to buy a rich cargo."
Reginald would not say from whom, Rollo guessed, for fear that Alice might try to buy the cargo herself.
Reginald added: "The ship will be in Combe Harbour in two weeks."
At this point Ned Willard butted into the conversation. Naturally, Rollo thought bitterly, he would enjoy the sight of the Fitzgeralds asking for help from the Willards. But Ned's contribution was businesslike. "So why would the owner sell it at this point?" he said skeptically. "He only has to wait two weeks to get the full value of the landed cargo."
Reginald looked irritated at being questioned by a mere boy, but curbed his displeasure and replied: "The vendor needs cash immediately for another investment."
Alice said: "I can't take the risk of losing such a large amount--you'll understand that."
"There's no risk," said Reginald. "You'll be repaid in little more than two weeks."
That was absurd, Rollo knew. There was always risk.
Reginald lowered his voice. "We're neighbors, Alice. We help each other. I ease the way for your cargoes at Combe Harbour, you know that. And you help me. It's how Kingsbridge works."
Alice looked taken aback, and after a moment Rollo realized why. His father's emollient words about helping neighbors actually constituted a backhanded threat. If Alice did not cooperate, it was implied, then Reginald might make trouble for her in the harbor.
There was an extended silence while Alice considered this. Rollo could guess what she was thinking. She did not want to make the loan, but she could not afford to antagonize someone as powerful as Reginald.
At last Alice said: "I would require security."
Rollo's hopes sank. A man who has nothing cannot offer security. This was just another way of saying no.
Reginald said: "I'll pledge my post as receiver of customs."
Alice shook her head. "You can't dispose of it without royal permission--and you don't have time for that."
Rollo knew that Alice was right. Reginald was in danger of revealing his desperation.
Reginald said: "Then how about the priory?"
Alice shook her head. "I don't want your half-built house."
"Then the southern part, the cloisters and the monks' quarters and the nunnery."
Rollo was sure Alice would not accept that as security. The buildings of the old priory had been disused for more than twenty years, and were now beyond repair.
Yet, to his surprise, Alice suddenly looked interested. She said: "Perhaps . . ."
Rollo spoke up. "But, Father, you know that Bishop Julius wants the chapter to buy back the priory--and you've more or less agreed to sell it."
The pious Queen Mary had tried to return all the property seized from the church by her rapacious father, Henry VIII, but members of Parliament would not pass the legislation--too many of them had benefited--so the church was trying to buy it back cheaply; and Rollo thought it was the duty of good Catholics to help
that process.
"That's all right," said Reginald. "I'm not going to default on the loan, so the security will not be seized. The bishop will have what he wants."
"Good," said Alice.
Then there was a pause. Alice was clearly waiting for something, but would not say what. At last Reginald guessed, and said: "I would pay you a good rate of interest."
"I would want a high rate," said Alice. "Except that to charge interest on loans is usury, which is a crime as well as a sin."
She was right, but this was a quibble. Laws against usury were circumvented daily in every commercial town in Europe. Alice's prissy objection was only for the sake of appearances.
"Well, now, I'm sure we can find a way around that," said Reginald in the jocular tone of one who proposes an innocent deception.
Alice said warily: "What did you have in mind?"
"Suppose I give you use of the priory during the term of the loan, then rent it back from you?"
"I'd want eight pounds a month."
Ned looked anxious. Evidently he wanted his mother to walk away from this deal. And Rollo could see why: Alice was going to risk four hundred pounds to earn just eight pounds.
Reginald pretended to be outraged. "Why, that's twenty-four percent a year--more, compounded!"
"Then let's drop the whole idea."
Rollo began to feel hopeful. Why was Alice arguing about the rate of interest? It must have meant she was going to make the loan. Rollo saw that Ned was looking mildly panicked, and guessed he was thinking the same, but regarding the prospect with dismay.
Reginald thought for a long moment. At last he said: "Very well. So be it." He held out his hand, and Alice shook it.
Rollo was awestruck by his father's cleverness. For a man who was virtually penniless to make an investment of four hundred pounds was a triumph of audacity. And the cargo of the St. Margaret would revive the family finances. Thank heaven for Philbert Cobley's sudden urgent need for money.
"I'll draw up the papers this afternoon," said Alice Willard, and she turned away.
At the same moment, Lady Jane came up. "It's time to go home," she said. "Dinner will be ready."