Page 83 of A Column of Fire
Ned studied Margery’s expression as she came across the square, looking tiny and helpless as she approached the massive stones of the west front. What was she thinking? Her lips were set in a half-smile, and she looked from side to side, nodding at friends. She seemed confident and proud. But Ned knew her better. Serenity was not her mode. The natural Margery was playful, mischievous, amused and amusing. There was no laughter in her today. She was putting on an act, like the boy impersonating Mary Magdalene in the play.
As she passed where he stood, she caught his eye.
She had not known he would be here, and she was shocked. Her eyes widened in dismay. She looked away from him immediately, but she had lost her self-possession. Her fixed smile faltered, and a moment later she stumbled.
Ned stepped forward automatically to help her, but he was five yards away. Sir Reginald, next to her, caught her arm. But his reaction was late and his arm was not strong enough to save her. She lost her balance and went down on her knees.
The crowd gasped. It was bad luck. A fall on the way to your wedding was the worst possible omen for your married life.
Margery remained on her knees for a few seconds, catching her breath and trying to regain her composure, while her family clustered around her. Ned was one of many people trying to look over their shoulders to see if she was all right. Those farther away in the crowd were asking each other what had happened.
Then Margery stood upright again, and seemed steady enough on her feet. Her face assumed the same controlled expression. She looked around, smiling ruefully as if at her own clumsiness.
At last she stepped forward, and continued towards the cathedral porch.
Ned stayed where he was. He did not need to see the ceremony close up. The woman he loved was committing her life to another man. Margery was serious about promises: for her, a vow was sacred. When she said: ‘I do,’ she meant it. Ned knew he was losing her permanently.
After the exchange of vows, everyone proceeded into the cathedral for the wedding Mass.
Ned intoned the responses and looked at the sculpted pilasters and soaring arches, but today the timeless rhythm of the repeated columns and curves failed to soothe his wounded soul. Bart was going to make Margery miserable, Ned knew that. The thought that kept recurring, and that Ned could not completely suppress no matter how hard he tried, was that tonight Bart, that wooden-headed fool in a yellow doublet, would lie in bed with Margery and do with her all the things Ned himself longed for.
Then it was over, and they were husband and wife.
Ned left the cathedral. Now there was no uncertainty and no hope. Ned was going to spend his life without her.
He felt sure he would never love anyone else. He would be a lifelong bachelor. He was glad that at least he had a new career that engaged him so powerfully. His work for Elizabeth quite possessed him. If he could not spend his life with Margery, he would dedicate himself to Elizabeth. Her ideal of religious tolerance was outrageously radical, of course. Almost the whole world thought that the notion of letting everyone worship as they wished was disgustingly permissive and completely mad. But Ned thought the majority were mad, and people who believed as Elizabeth did were the only sane ones.
Life without Margery would be sad, but not pointless.
He had impressed Elizabeth once, by the way he had dealt with Earl Swithin, and now he needed to do it again, by recruiting Dan Cobley and the Kingsbridge Protestants as soldiers in her army.
He stopped in the windy square and looked around for Dan, who had not come into the cathedral for the wedding Mass. Presumably Dan had spent the hour thinking about Ned’s proposition. How long did he need? Ned spotted him in the graveyard, and went to join him.
Philbert Cobley had no grave, of course: heretics did not benefit from Christian burial. Dan was standing at the tomb of his grandparents, Adam and Deborah Cobley. ‘We gathered some ashes, furtively, after the burning,’ Dan said. His face was wet with tears. ‘We brought them here that evening and dug them into the soil at dusk. We’ll see him again, on the Last Day.’
Ned did not like Dan, but could not help feeling sad for him. ‘Amen,’ he said. ‘But it’s a long time until Judgement Day, and in the meantime we have to do God’s work here on earth.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Dan said.
‘Good man!’ Ned was happy. His mission had been accomplished. Elizabeth would be pleased.
‘I should have said yes right away, but I’ve become cautious.’
Understandably, Ned thought. But he did not want to dwell on the past, now that Dan had committed himself. He adopted a briskly practical tone. ‘You’ll need to appoint ten captains, each in charge of forty men. They won’t all have swords, but tell them to find good daggers or hammers. An iron chain can make a useful weapon.’
‘Is this the advice you’re giving to all the Protestant militias?’
‘Exactly. We need disciplined men. You need to take them to a field somewhere and march them up and down. It sounds stupid, but anything that gets them used to moving in unison is good.’ Ned was not speaking from his own knowledge or experience: he was repeating what Cecil had told him.
‘We might be seen, marching,’ Dan said dubiously.
‘Not if you’re discreet.’
Dan nodded. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘You want to know what Swithin and the Fitzgeralds do.’
‘Very much.’
‘They went to Brussels.’
