Ben. He and Ginny had known each other since childhood and, in her absence, they had seen each other only infrequently. There would be some catching up to do. She spurred her horse forwards along the tracks. ‘Is Father Spenney expecting us?’ she said, meaning, Is Ben expecting me? She hoped he had not taken his vows while she’d been away.
‘No,’ said her father. He did not tell her, as perhaps he ought to have done, that the other person he expected to meet at the priory was another neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon, heir to much of the land adjoining his own, and proprietor, for the past three years, of Lea Magna while his father was incarcerated in a French prison. At twenty-four years old, the responsibility for an estate the size of Lea Magna was considerable, more than most young men would have welcomed, but Sir Jon was the kind of man to make a good son-in-law, eager and competent. Now Ginny was back home, he might, God willing, be on the look-out for a well-bred, well-trained young woman to ease his path through life, and even if the dowry would not have set his heart racing, her looks, Sir Walter thought, might make up for what the dowry lacked. Although they might not, if Sir Jon turned out to be as pragmatic as himself. At well-turned sixteen, Virginia D’Arvall had an exceptional beauty, and Sir Walter had never believed he would have the slightest difficulty in finding a husband for her. So far, his theory had not been put to the test but today...today, it might be.
At Sandrock Priory, Sir Walter and Ginny were escorted into the library, where Father Spenney stood at the top of a ladder handing down books to a team of brown-clad monks. Not being a man of expansive gestures, he merely smiled his pleasure and climbed down, holding out his hands to his friend and neighbour. ‘A sorry state you see us in, Sir Walter,’ he said sadly. ‘I never thought to see such a day. Ah, well!’
‘We shall talk,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Then maybe...who knows...?’ He shrugged. ‘But you remember Virginia, Father? She was a lass of twelve or thirteen years when you last met. You see a change?’
‘Father,’ said Ginny, ‘we have all changed, except you.’ Her eyes searched for Ben amongst those monks who had begun a discreet exit. Finding a pair of adoring brown eyes, she smiled at the change in him, too. The same age as Ginny, Father Spenney’s nephew had never been in a position to develop his friendship with Sir Walter’s daughter, but as children there had always been an attraction that they knew could, with more contact, grow into something deeper. Now, with the priory about to be dissolved by Act of Parliament, it looked as if Ben and his uncle might be lost to them altogether unless her father offered them a home.
Father Spenney’s hand smoothed over the leather-bound volume on top of a pile, his fingertips lingering over the gold tooling and heavy jewelled clasp. ‘We’re trying to save them,’ he said. ‘You know what they’ll do with these, Sir Walter, if they get their hands on them? They’ll sell them to grocers and chandlers for wrapping paper. They’re sending books by the shipload to bookbinders for the leather and parchment. They reuse the metal pieces and the pages they’ll use as rags.’ His voice wavered, balking at the images of destruction. ‘Priceless,’ he whispered. ‘Hundreds of years old. Doesn’t he realise what’s happening to them?’
A voice from the archway at the far end of the library turned all heads in his direction. ‘When the king makes a decree,’ the man said, striding forwards, ‘it may mean that something suffers in its wake. If he made exceptions for this, that, and the other, there’d be those who would take advantage. It would be chaos, Father.’ The man came to stand beside Sir Walter, removing his cap and extending his hand in greeting. ‘Sir Walter. Well met, sir. I hope I see you in good health? And your lady wife?’ Taller and broader than the two older men, his athletic frame and easy, graceful bearing would have drawn attention in any crowd, for not only was he perfectly dressed in a black fur-lined mantle over a black brocade doublet, but he was also the handsomest man Ginny had ever seen. So good-looking, in fact, that she could hardly take her eyes off the strongly chiselled features and the thick dark hair that showed the imprint of his cap, before he replaced it. The jaw was square and well defined, the neck muscled and frilled by a delicate linen collar edged with blackwork embroidery, with rows of gold aglets to tie all edges together.
His voice matched the figure, Ginny thought, well modulated and richly dark. And he was working for King Henry VIII to destroy the monasteries. He greeted the prior as though they had already met that morning. ‘My assistants are preparing lists, Father,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for them in here?’
‘A few more minutes, Sir Jon, if you will?’ said Father Spenney. ‘But you recall Mistress D’Arvall, surely?’
Sir Jon swung round to face Ginny and slowly removed his cap again with a graceful flourish and a bow that allowed him to keep his eyes on her until he was upright. ‘Mistress D’Arvall? I thought I knew all your family, Sir Walter. Where have you been keeping this one hidden?’ He made it sound, Ginny thought, as if she was the last of a litter.
‘With the noble Norton family in Northumbria until last week, Sir Jon. Virginia, this is our neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon. I don’t believe you ever met, did you?’
‘No, Father. Sir Jon,’ Ginny said, making her curtsy. Northumbria, her father had said, where she had been introduced to young and not-so-young men by the score, where not one of them had held her interest for more than a day or so, though she’d had to pretend otherwise out of politeness to her hosts. She had learned how to conduct herself in every situation and was now, in theory at least, supposed to be able to handle herself as a lady should. But there were times, she was discovering, when nothing could prepare one for the heart’s response to this kind of thing, when it refused to obey commands to settle back into its rhythm, to beat less loudly, to give her her breath back. Her eyes were held by his, dark and probing, as if he could see that something deep inside her was already changing, writing that life change on her heart for ever. If one believed in love at first sight, then this must be it.
‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ he said, taking in the full picture of her in a pool of bright sunlight. It caught the white-gold mane that fell down her back, lighting up the perfect complexion and the autumn glow in her cheeks and lips. The grey black-rimmed eyes glistened like quartz, incredibly thick lashed. ‘I have met your two brothers often at court. The elder one, Master Elion, assists your father, I believe, in the household offices.’
‘He does, sir. He aspires to be comptroller of the royal household one day, but he’ll have to wait a while.’
Sir Jon smiled. Dead man’s shoes, indeed. ‘And the younger...Paul, is it? What does he aspire to?’
‘To be a gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. The king likes him well.’
‘Hmph! And you, mistress? You seek a place at court, too?’
There were several pairs of ears listening. This was not the moment to be discussing her future and all those clever responses she’d learnt deserted her. ‘No, sir. I am a countrywoman at heart.’ What was she saying? He would think her unlettered and dull, domestic, bovine. She could do better than that. ‘But these books belonging to the priory, Sir Jon. Is there not a better way of disposing of them? Some safe place, perhaps, where they could be kept until...well...I mean, are you not in a position to turn a blind eye to their existence here? Once destroyed, they can never be replaced, can they? As the king’s official, do you condone the destruction of such priceless treasures? Will you allow it?’
Sir Jon’s eyes widened under the welter of questions, but instead of answering them directly, he spoke to her father. Which she resented. ‘What do you have here, Sir Walter? A bookish daughter?’
The quartz eyes glittered hard. ‘I am not bookish, Sir Jon,’ she replied, ‘but I know an irreplaceable item when I see one and there are hundreds here. Individually, they must be worth—’
‘Mistress
