Page 53 of A Column of Fire
‘Henry the Eighth was a wicked man.’
‘I want to be your friend and ally, my lord bishop, but not at the price of impoverishing myself and my family. The priory is mine.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Julius. ‘It belongs to God.’
*
ROLLO BOUGHT DRINKSfor all Bart Shiring’s men-at-arms before they embarked for Combe Harbour. He could not afford it, but he was keen to stay on good terms with his sister’s fiancé. He did not want the engagement to be broken off. The marriage was going to transform the fortunes of the Fitzgerald family. Margery would be a countess, and if she gave birth to a son he would grow up to become an earl. The Fitzgeralds would almost be aristocracy.
However, they had not yet made that coveted leap: an engagement was not a marriage. The wilful Margery could renew her mutiny, encouraged by the detestable Ned Willard. Or her ill-concealed reluctance could offend Bart and cause him to break it off in a fit of wounded pride. So Rollo spent money he could not spare to foster his friendship with Bart.
It was not easy. The camaraderie of brothers-in-law had to be mixed with deference and laced with flattery. But Rollo could do that. Raising his tankard, he said: ‘My noble brother! May God’s grace protect your strong right arm and help you repel the stinking French!’
That went down well. The men-at-arms cheered and drank.
A handbell was rung, and they emptied their cups and went on board the barge. The Fitzgeralds waved from the quayside. When the barge was out of sight, Margery and the parents went home, but Rollo went back into the Slaughterhouse.
In the tavern he had noticed one man who was not celebrating, but sitting in a corner on his own looking depressed. He recognized the dark lustrous hair and full lips of Donal Gloster. He was interested: Donal was weak, and weak men could be useful.
He bought two fresh tankards and went to sit with Donal. They were too far apart socially to be close friends, but they were the same age and had attended Kingsbridge Grammar School together. Rollo lifted his beer and said: ‘Death to the French.’
‘They won’t invade us,’ said Donal, but he drank anyway.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘The King of France can’t afford it. They might talk about an invasion, and they could do hit-and-run raids, but a real cross-Channel armada would cost more than they have to spend.’
Rollo thought Donal might know what he was talking about. His employer, Philbert Cobley, was more familiar with the costs of ships than anyone else in Kingsbridge, and as an international trader he probably also understood the finances of the French crown. ‘So we should celebrate!’ he said.
Donal grunted.
Rollo said: ‘You look like a man who has had bad news, old schoolmate.’
‘Do I?’
‘None of my business, of course . . .’
‘You might as well know. Everyone will, soon. I proposed to Ruth Cobley, and she turned me down.’
Rollo was surprised. Everyone expected Donal to marry Ruth. It was the commonest thing in the world for an employee to marry the boss’s daughter. ‘Doesn’t her father like you?’
‘I’d make a good son-in-law for him, because I know the business so well. But I’m not religious enough for Philbert.’
‘Ah.’ Rollo recalled the play at New Castle. Donal had clearly been enjoying it, and had seemed reluctant to join the Cobleys in their outraged walk-out. ‘But you said Ruth turned you down.’ Rollo would have thought Donal was attractive to girls, with his dark, romantic good looks.
‘She says I’m like a brother to her.’
Rollo shrugged. There was no logic to love.
Donal looked at him shrewdly. ‘You’re not very interested in girls.’
‘Nor boys either, if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘No.’ The truth was that Rollo did not know what all the fuss was about. Masturbation for him was a mild pleasure, like eating honey, but the idea of sex with a woman, or another man, just seemed slightly distasteful. His preference was for celibacy. If the monasteries still existed he might have been a monk.
‘Lucky you,’ Donal said bitterly. ‘When I think of all the time I’ve spent trying to be the right husband for her – pretending not to like drinking and dancing and seeing plays, going to their boring services, talking to her mother . . .’
