Chapter 3
The afternoons were exceptionally warm for late March.
They gave Marris a sense of lassitude that seemed to make it impossible to do anything at all.
She knew that she should be making plans for the future – not only her livelihood depended upon it, but so did those of her sisters.
Yet it was as though she was unable to think and plan at all.
She had written to the Duke of Norfolk, enquiring whether he might find a place for Rose and Bridget at the court, but as yet there had been no reply.
She knew it was by no means certain that he would respond at all.
He had never acknowledged them in the past. Nor had she heard further from Sir William Sharington.
Matters of state moved slowly, she knew, but unfortunately, she had to move quickly if they were not to become homeless.
Yet somehow, she could not. Instead, she flitted about the deserted priory like a ghost.
‘She is unable to break free of this place,’ she overheard Bridget whisper to Rose one day. The cloister was always full of echoes. ‘Poor Marris, she has lived ten years of her life here at the priory and does not know what to do now it is over.’
It was true, of course, and Marris hated that Bridget understood.
She was full of regret for her lost independence; as a wife she had had no real authority, but as a prioress there had been no man looking over her shoulder every day, regulating what she could do.
Now there was nothing but uncertainty. She told herself she could forge her own future – she had a small sum of money saved and an equally small pension had been promised by Lord Cromwell’s minions – but it was taking the practical steps that was proving most difficult.
It felt impossible to leave Winterhill whilst the sacred space still stood here, full of silence and shadows.
Sir William Sharington’s agent had been to visit a couple of times, measuring up the space for his wall hangings, Bridget had said sourly, but the man himself had not returned and to Marris it felt almost as though their meeting had never happened.
The agent was a man very much cut from the same cloth as Cromwell’s slippery commissioners, courteous but ruthless, reminding Marris that they planned to start the demolition of the church by Ascension Day, and that she and her sisters needed to be gone.
Marris wondered if he feared that they would simply refuse to leave, as some terrified monks and nuns had done at other religious houses, and he would be obliged to throw them bodily into the street to be rid of them.
She had no intention of creating such a scene, or of departing in so undignified a manner, but equally she felt angry and resentful at their eviction.
It was impossible not to do so, no matter how much the Bible preached acceptance and humility.
That afternoon, with Rose asleep and Bridget having disappeared (Marris knew she should be worried, but couldn’t seem to summon the energy), she went out into the woods, following the chalk path through the trees towards the water.
This was where the River Lynch rose in a series of pools that were fed by springs.
Many villagers considered the waters sacred, though that did not stop them swimming in the pools when the summers were hot.
Now, the trees were showing the faintest of new green leaves, the sun catching them and sparkling on the water.
Marris knew it would be cold – they were barely into spring yet – but some perverse impulse made her strip off her robe and chemise and plunge into the pool, which was full from the winter rains.
She was right; the water was so icy that the first touch of it almost made her cry out.
She gasped as it closed over her head, but already the cold seemed to be lessening, swept away by the pleasure of feeling the sting of awakening.
Suddenly her mind felt sharper and she opened her eyes to appreciate all over again the bright green of the new spring leaves and the dazzling sunlight. It felt like a rebirth.
For a while she swam, across to one side of the pool, then back to the other.
They had all grown up near water and she could not remember a time when they had not paddled and swum, even if it was not an approved activity for ladies.
Who cared? She did not, not when she could feel so free and alive.
Marris dipped her head beneath the surface again, this time deliberately, and when she emerged, she lay on her back, floating like a mermaid, feeling the warmth of the sun on the water.
The sudden crack of a branch and the sound of voices nearby gave her the shock of her life.
Someone was coming; more than one person.
Sanity returned swiftly. What on earth had possessed her to shed her clothes and her modesty in the full daylight?
Scrambling to hide herself behind the bulk of a fallen tree, she crouched low in the water, shivering now, as the steps stopped and the voices grew louder.
‘There is a natural pool here.’ She recognised the voice of the miller, John Jephson. ‘We could extend it and create a mill race for a new wheelhouse below, doubling our output. If you were to invest in the initial outlay, Sir William—’
‘Aye, it’s a good plan,’ Sir William Sharington replied, sounding amused, ‘and you are a persuasive fellow, Jephson. There is no need to show me the site, however. I have no desire for my boots to be coated in mud. Let us discuss the matter further tomorrow.’
Marris held her breath as the footsteps receded.
She was acutely aware of how cold she was now, how chilled her skin, the freeze sinking down to her bones.
She could see her clothes carelessly discarded in a pile across the other side of the pond.
She had no idea how she was going to reach them especially as she felt as though all her limbs had seized up.
‘You must be turned to ice.’ Sir William spoke again, above her head. ‘Jephson has gone. I will pass you your clothes.’
‘Thank you.’ Marris’s teeth were chattering so much she could barely speak.
Looking up, she narrowed her eyes against the shafts of sunlight piercing the leaves.
There was a shadow – Sir William, blotting out the light, directly above her.
With a squeak of mortification, she sank further beneath the water, aware even as she did so that it was crystal clear and her nudity was not even slightly hidden, only distorted.
Sir William was laughing but he made no comment, merely clambering over the fallen branches and rocks to fetch her robe. He did not seem too concerned about the mud on his boots now.
‘Here…’ He held her chemise up like a sheet in front of her. ‘Use this to dry yourself, then I will pass you the robe.’ His tone changed as she made no move. ‘For pity’s sake, get out of the water before it kills you. Do not trouble about me. I have seen a naked nun before.’
Marris gave a snort of disbelief. ‘I sincerely hope that is not true, Sir William.’
He made no reply, only grinned, as she tried to stand up and to grab hold of the chemise that he was holding out to her. Her cramped legs refused to obey her. They buckled and Sir William grabbed her arm to prevent her from tumbling back into the pool.
‘How cold you feel.’ One of his hands was splayed against her naked back, holding her against his body to steady her balance. It felt as though all the heat in the world was suddenly focussed on that one point where he touched her.
Marris tipped her head back a little to look at his face.
She could feel the tension in him but he held himself quite still.
The sun and shade skipped across the hard lines and planes of his face.
His eyes were dark, expression unreadable.
She noticed that he had surprisingly long eyelashes, but they did not soften his face in any way.
In fact, he looked fierce, as though he was holding himself on a very tight leash.
She had had very little interaction with men for the past decade, and certainly not in any romantic sense, but she had been married once, and she understood that look in his eyes.
He was waiting for her to make a decision. If she stepped back, he would let her go. If she pressed even an inch closer, he would kiss her.
The thought cut through the rush of heat and desire she was feeling and gave her a strange flutter of the heart to think that such a powerful man would be so careful of her feelings.
She stood on tiptoe, tilted her head back a little more, and felt his lips brush hers.
That was sufficient to make her drop the crumpled chemise and reach for him, sliding her hands over his chest. She felt all fiery and alive, and she was not going to stop now.
She had all but forgotten how it felt to be wanted, and it was a heady sensation, like drinking too much fine wine which, she remembered, she had also done with him.
He was so gentle. He cupped her face between his palms and kissed her, parting his lips over hers, touching his tongue to them so that she felt another rush of need, hotter and stronger than the first.
‘Marris—’ His voice was a rough whisper. ‘I burn for you. I have from the first.’
‘We have only met once.’ Her voice was a thread even to her own ears.
‘It was enough to know. Why do you think I stayed away from you? It was not because I did not wish to see you again, I assure you.’
She smiled against his mouth to hear that; he kissed her again, more deeply.