Chapter 3 #2
It was such a strange thing, she thought as he slid off his cloak and made a bed for them, and she sank down onto it, pulling him to her with eager hands.
She barely knew him and yet she, too, had felt their bond from the very beginning, despite the conflict between them.
The blazing heat of his body warmed hers through and through; where his hands moved over her, she felt her skin respond instantly to his touch.
She had no thought to deny either of them this pleasure.
She had been starved of physical passion for years – all of her life, in truth, for her marriage had not offered any sensual enjoyment; quite the opposite.
This sense of losing herself in desire was completely blissful.
She had had no idea she could feel like that.
His hand slid up her hip and pulled her gently into place.
He eased back from kissing her just long enough to ask: ‘May I?’ Her answer, she suspected, was inarticulate with need but he entered her slowly and tenderly, until she was obliged to resort to a wildness of her own to push him past his self-control.
Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms in a tumbled heap, wrapped in the cloak, and Marris breathed in the scent of his body and listened as his breathing slowed and he slipped into sleep.
She did not want to move; the intimacy of their situation seemed even more remarkable than what had gone before.
Eventually Marris started to notice the aches in her chilled body and extricated herself, slipping back into her chemise and her robe.
Her skin still felt sensitised, the touch of the linen making her shiver, but the robe was like a straightjacket, so heavy and constricting.
Throughout it all, William did not stir.
Asleep, he looked defenceless – younger, gentler, almost boyish, and she felt her heart twist with emotion.
This had been a foolish dalliance. She had put everything in danger, from her good name to her heart.
She could see Sir William’s purse lying discarded in the grass beside his sword belt, a glint of gold catching her eye. For a moment she was tempted to steal it. It looked so fat and rich, and would make all the difference to her plans for the future.
She repressed the impulse. What was happening to her? She had committed enough sins for one afternoon. Besides, that would make her feel as though she had sold herself for money when it had not been like that.
She tiptoed away on bare feet, holding her sandals in one hand. Suddenly she felt the need to pack her bags, to leave Lambourn and forge a new path. The sense of lassitude that had dogged her for weeks was gone now, replaced by a new sense of purpose. There was not a moment to lose.
* * *
May 1539 – Two Months Later
Winterhill Priory fell on Saturday 16 May.
Sir William Sharington’s men had brought gunpowder that day; Marris thought that it felt as though they needed to invoke the most destructive worldly force that they could against the enduring spirit of the church as represented by those soaring pillars that had stood for centuries.
She stood with a vast press of people in the street beyond the gates.
The priory grounds had been forbidden to the townspeople once it had been sold and there were chains across the gates to make the point even clearer.
She was standing beside a large woman with a market basket, who was breathing heavily with excitement and dripping with sweat; on her other side, a bunch of youths joked and jostled whilst around them the more superstitious crossed themselves.
Within the grounds they had seen men running around like ants, heard the shouts and the creak of ropes, the grind and groan of stone on stone.
There had been a sick sense of dread in the pit of Marris’s stomach as the final act in that part of her life unfolded.
Perhaps for as long as the priory had remained standing, she had had hope of a reversal of fortune. She had desired it, prayed for it.
When the gunpowder first ignited, it was more sudden and startling than the loudest thunderclap.
Women screamed, men swore with shock, street sellers dropped their panniers, fruit and flowers rolling across the cobbles.
Marris drew back instinctively, sheltering behind the pediment of the nearest doorway.
There was a moment of stillness and then a distant rumble heavy with menace, different from the sharp crack of the gunpowder, longer and deeper.
The priory walls began to crumble and fall, disintegrating as though in slow motion, veiled in a cloud of dust that looked like mist.
The screams turned to gasps; someone sobbed.
Marris was afraid it might be her. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound and try to keep in the grief that was rising within her.
Her ears rang with noise and then there was a chaotic swirl of dust and stone that blinded everyone about her, setting them coughing.
Rubbing her streaming eyes, she saw Sir William Sharington at the gate, shaking dust from his hat and laughing as he spoke to some of the workmen.
That laughter sparked a fierce anger in her alongside the hot attraction that clearly had not been quenched by two months without seeing him.
Hastily she stepped back into the inn doorway to escape his gaze and to allow the crowds of onlookers to pass.
She had not seen him since she had abandoned him that afternoon in the woods; she had heard that he had come to the priory later that afternoon, but by then she and Bridget and Rose were gone, jolting over the chalk tracks towards the town of Wantage, in search of new lodgings.
She wondered how she was supposed to feel now, seeing him again, after what had happened between them.
In truth, she was not sure how she felt at all.
An odd sort of quiet had come over the town now the priory walls had fallen.
Even the noisiest of fellows seemed stunned into silence by the destruction of something that had seemed so permanent.
Where a moment before there had been the tower of the church, now there was nothing but empty space with a few gaping walls like broken teeth.
The pigeons had risen in a flapping cloud above the trees and were now calling frantically as they wheeled overhead.
‘I did not expect to see you here, madam.’ Sir William appeared by her side, making her jump.
So much for avoiding him by skulking in the darkness of the inn, Marris thought.
He was still liberally doused in chalk dust. It streaked his face and dusted the shoulders of his jacket.
His boots were white. He looked like a labourer.
The sight of all his elegance and finery ruined made her want to laugh all over again, which felt inappropriate in a number of ways.
The destruction of the church had clearly disturbed her mind.
She still felt off kilter, upset and on edge.
‘Good day, Sir William,’ she said politely, trying to master her feelings, and she saw his expression change from pleasure to wary formality. ‘I thought it would be cowardly to avoid the fall of my priory,’ she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze directly. ‘I needed to know it was truly over.’
Her heart gave a little lurch as she saw the conflict in his eyes.
He did not like to be cast as the villain.
Perhaps he was even sorry that his actions had hurt her.
Yet it was not in his nature to apologise for his actions and ambitions.
She understood that about him and had a grudging respect for it.
Nor were his next words in any way conciliatory.
‘You were not so eager to confront matters when last we met, madam,’ he said. He gave a derisive grunt. ‘You lay with me then ran away and hid—’ he gestured to the dark corner she was standing in ‘—as you are doing now.’
‘Sir William!’ Colour flared into her cheeks and she glanced quickly around to check whether anyone had overheard them. ‘Yes, pray do inform the entire town of Winterhill that its former prioress is now a wanton!’
He took a step closer to her, speaking in her ear. His breath stirred her hair. The edge of anger to his voice stirred her feelings. ‘That was not what I meant, and you know it.’
She did know. He had not spoken to insult her. He had been hurt that she had walked away from him without a word, she realised. Worse, he was correct; she had not wanted to face him, had not wanted to discuss what had happened between them, and so she had taken the easy way out in avoiding him.
‘I was certainly trying to hide from you today,’ she corrected him tartly. ‘Unfortunately, you found me.’
She saw the anger in his eyes melt into amusement. ‘Ah, Marris,’ he said, ‘that is very like you to meet fire with fire. Yes, I have found you and now that I have—’ he inclined his head, making the words a request rather than an order ‘—I would like to speak with you.’
Someone jostled them, spilling beer on Marris’s gown. It was one of the drunken apprentices who had come to watch the downfall of the priory for sport and who were now pouring back into the taproom. Sir William’s hand went to his sword hilt. ‘Knave!’ he said. ‘Look where you are going!’
The man turned white and stumbled away, muttering apologies.
‘We cannot talk here,’ Sir William said impatiently. ‘Would you join me in a meal? John Taverner has given me the use of his house whilst I am in town – we can eat there.’
John Taverner was one of the most prominent local wool merchants, who retained property in Winterhill whilst spending most of his time in London.
Of course he would have hastened to oblige Sir William, Marris thought bitterly.
Once he had been a generous benefactor to the priory.
Now he had new loyalties. Like so many men, he bent with the wind.