Page 188 of A Column of Fire
‘Just as long as you know that I would never conspire against Queen Elizabeth.’ Margery wanted him to understand that. ‘She is our anointed ruler. I may wonder why God in his wisdom chose to set a heretic on the throne, but it is not for me to challenge his choice.’
Ned, still lying down, looked up at her and smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He touched her arm.
She stared at his kind, clever face. What she saw in his eyes was a yearning so strong it might have broken her heart. No one else had ever felt like this about her, she knew. At that moment it seemed that the only possible sin would be to reject his passion. She lowered her head and kissed his lips.
She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the love that possessed her, filling her soul as the blood filled her body. She had thought about this ever since the last time they had kissed, though now, after such a long wait, it was even sweeter. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, then teased his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then pushed her tongue into his mouth. She could not get enough of him.
He grasped her shoulders and pulled her down until she was lying on top of him, putting all her weight on him. She could feel his erection through her petticoats. She worried that she might be hurting him, and moved to roll off, but he held her in place. She relaxed into the feeling of being so close that they might melt into one another. There seemed nothing in the world except him and her, nothing outside their two bodies.
Even this did not satisfy her for long: everything they did made her want more. She knelt up, straddling Ned’s knees, and opened the front of his breeches to free his penis. She stared at it, stroking it lovingly. It was pale and slightly curved, springing from a tangle of curly auburn hair. She bent over and kissed it, and heard him gasp with pleasure. A tiny drop of fluid appeared at the end. Unable to resist the temptation, she licked it off.
She could wait no longer. She moved to straddle his hips, tenting the skirt of her dress over the middle of his body, then sank down, guiding his penis inside her. She was impossibly wet, and it slipped in effortlessly. She bent forward so that she could kiss him again. They rocked gently for a long time, and she wanted to do it for ever.
Then he was the one who wanted more. He rolled her over, without withdrawing. She spread her legs wide and lifted her knees. She wanted him deeper inside her, filling her up. She felt him losing control. She looked into his eyes and said: ‘It’s you, Ned, it’s you.’ She felt the jerking spasm and the rush of fluid, and that drove her over the edge, and she felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.
*
ROLLOFITZGERALDwould have died rather than change his religion. For him there was no room for compromise. The Catholic Church was right and all rivals were wrong. It was obvious, and God would not forgive men who ignored the obvious. A man held his soul in his hand like a pearl, and if he were to drop that pearl in the ocean he would never get it back.
He could hardly believe that Elizabeth Tudor had lasted twelve years as the illegitimate queen of England. She had given people a measure of religious freedom and, amazingly, her religious settlement had not yet collapsed. The Catholic earls had failed to overthrow her and all the monarchs of Europe had hesitated while she pretended she might marry a good Catholic. It was a terrible disappointment. Rollo would have believed that God was asleep, were it not a blasphemous thing to say.
Then, in May of 1570, everything changed, not just for Rollo but for everyone in England.
Rollo got the news at breakfast in Priory Gate. Margery was at the table. She was paying an extended visit to Kingsbridge to look after their mother, Lady Jane, who had been ill. Mother had recovered somewhat and was now at breakfast with them, but Margery seemed in no hurry to go home. The maid Peggy came in and handed Rollo a letter, saying a courier had brought it from London. It was a large piece of heavy paper, folded corners-to-middle and closed with a blob of red wax impressed with the Fitzgerald seal. The handwriting was that of Davy Miller, the family’s man of business in London.
Davy’s letters were normally about the price of wool, but this one was different. The Pope had made a formal announcement, called a Papal Bull. Such messages were not circulated in England, of course. Rollo had heard rumours about it, but now, according to Davy, someone had daringly nailed a copy to the gate of the bishop of London’s palace, so everyone knew what was in it. Rollo gasped when he read Davy’s summary.
Pope Pius V had excommunicated Queen Elizabeth.
‘This is good news!’ Rollo said. ‘The Pope describes Elizabeth as “the pretended queen of England and the servant of crime”. At last!’
‘Elizabeth must be furious,’ Margery said. ‘I wonder if Ned Willard knows about this.’
Lady Jane said darkly: ‘Ned Willard knows everything.’
‘It gets better,’ Rollo said jubilantly. ‘Englishmen are released from their allegiance to Elizabeth, even if they have sworn oaths.’
Margery frowned. ‘I’m not sure you should be so pleased,’ she said. ‘This means trouble.’
‘But it’s true! Elizabeth is a heretic and an illegitimate queen. No one should obey her.’
Lady Jane said: ‘Your sister’s right, Rollo. This may not be good news for us.’
Rollo carried on reading. ‘In fact, people are commandednotto obey her, and anyone who does obey is included in the sentence of excommunication.’
Margery said: ‘This is a catastrophe!’
Rollo did not understand them. ‘It needs to be said, and the Pope is saying it at last! How can this be bad news?’
‘Don’t you see what it means, Rollo?’ said Margery. ‘The Pope has turned every English Catholic into a traitor!’
‘He’s only making plain what everyone knows.’
‘Sometimes it’s better not to say what everyone knows.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘Everyone knows that Father Paul celebrates Mass for us, and Stephen Lincoln too, and all the other secret priests – but no one says it. That’s the only reason we get away with it. Now it’s under threat. We’re all potential traitors.’
