his secretary, Sir Thomas Cromwell, I tend not to question it unless I want to lose my job. Which I do not. The priory must be emptied, and Father Spenney understands that it must be done efficiently and quickly. We don’t have time to find buyers for individual items, however precious. As I have said, if His Majesty were to start making exceptions, we should be here for ever. He needs the funds rather urgently, you see.’
Father Spenney was more resigned. ‘I think you may be on a loser here, Mistress D’Arvall. Don’t pursue it. It’s useless.’
Sir Walter disagreed. ‘Does Cromwell know exactly what happens to every item, Sir Jon?’ he said. ‘If not, then I have a suggestion that might find favour with you and our beloved prior. Would you care to hear it?’
The silence in the room, padded by shelves of books and manuscripts, was almost tangible as Sir Jon absorbed the implications of a scheme as yet unspoken, while the noble head turned to look at Ginny with a sweeping survey that she thought he might have used on a piece of prime bloodstock. It both infuriated and excited her. Then, ushering his neighbours to one side for a more personal discussion, he said, ‘Shall we talk about this, Sir Walter? And my lord prior? What exactly do you...?’
Ginny and Ben remained to draw some comfort from a hurried conversation and a privacy they had not thought likely to happen. How would they manage once the priory was closed down, emptied, sold off, and re-used for secular purposes? Where would Ben go? What could he do? How would he earn a living? Her father, Ginny was sure, would not allow them to be homeless. Ben would not now be taking vows. His pleasant face softened as he drew on that hope, while the thought of seeing more of her than before would mean more to him than food. Even so, as plans were tossed to and fro within Sandrock Priory on that autumn morning, Ben sensed that something had already happened to Ginny that she herself would find impossible either to admit or explain. And although she spoke oftener and kindlier to Ben than to Sir Jon, it was the young gallant with the authority over people’s livelihoods and the manners of an arrogant courtier that held her attention on a knife-edge, as if she would keep every detail of him in her memory to sustain her in the days, weeks, months ahead. His place was at court. Hers, by her own choosing, was at D’Arvall Hall. They were unlikely ever to meet again.
Ben, however, was a known quantity, nearby and adoring, the very antithesis of Sir Jon Raemon with his royal connections and ambitions. Not that she and Ben could ever have become marriage partners: Ben’s orphaned state and lack of prospects excluded him completely from her father’s list of potential sons-in-law. Her affection for the gentle, scholarly, young novice would never soften her father’s heart, nor would it be encouraged.
So when Ben backed away before the approach of Sir Jon, it was with a combination of regret and excitement that Ginny ceased to hear Ben’s last few words to her and instead felt the presence of the man who was already forcing an entry into her heart as Ben had never done. Sir Jon glanced briefly at Ben’s departure, then at Ginny’s wary expression as if to discover the exact depth of the affection remaining in her eyes, a look she felt was too invasive by half. ‘We have known each other since we were small,’ she said before he could ask. ‘I believe he will be a physician one day.’
‘Is that so?’ Sir Jon replied, without enthusiasm. ‘So you have spent some time with the Nortons up in Northumbria, your father tells me. I know that family well. Is that where you learned to have opinions, mistress? Or were you always strong-minded?’ His eyes continued to roam at leisure over her, taking in every detail of her face and hair, her slender waist and the hands holding leather gloves, and she wished she had worn her new French hood instead of letting her hair loose like a girl.
‘Strong-minded, Sir Jon? Is that what you call it when a woman is able to express herself on matters other than the price of fish? The Nortons, as you should know, encourage the young women in their care to speak for themselves and to contribute to discussions. I thank God I can do more than sew aglets on a man’s points, sir.’ She saw the flicker of a smile tweak at the corners of his wide mouth and knew that her choice of dress accessories was open to more than one interpretation, his points being the cords that kept his breeches tied to his shirt, amongst other places.
The blush that stole upwards into her cheeks showed him that she was not a young woman, like so many others, who would fall at his feet so easily. Spirited and intelligent, how many hearts had she broken up in the north? he wondered. ‘I’m sure you can, mistress,’ he said, ‘if ever you stay silent for long enough.’
‘Long enough to what, Sir Jon?’
‘To allow your husband a word in edgeways, mistress.’
‘Husbands and their requirements are not on my mind, nor am I yet ready to saddle myself with a life of silent obedience. I’d have gone into a nunnery if I’d wanted that, sir.’
‘Then that would have been a great waste, Mistress D’Arvall, after all those years of training. Did they teach you anything else other than how to express yourself, and to sew, and to appreciate books?’
‘Many things. Including how to hold on to one’s conscience and not to confuse it with duty. ’Tis sometimes difficult to know the difference, Sir Jon. Have you not found it so?’
The twinkle of laughter in his brown eyes disappeared as he detected her disapproval of the work he was doing for his royal master. It was a brave man, these days, who could afford to heed his conscience on every matter. Brave men’s heads had rolled, including those of abbots and priors. ‘No, I have not. Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘I am quite clear about which is which. And if I may offer you a word of advice, Mistress D’Arvall?’
‘Certainly. Please do.’
‘Then I suggest you confine your opinions to what you understand best. Things are rarely as clear-cut as they seem to be.’
His words of advice were courteously spoken and Ginny had the sense to accept them without taking offence. ‘I shall take your advice, Sir Jon,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I tend to see things from one angle instead of from several.’
‘I did, too, at your age.’
Inwardly, Ginny smiled at this as though he exceeded her years by decades instead of a mere eight.
* * *
That same evening, at home, Ginny obeyed a summons to her father’s room where he and Lady Agnes D’Arvall sat beside a roaring fire, their faces flushed by good food, wine, and warmth. Here they told her that Father Spenney and young Ben had been offered the position of chaplain and assistant with them, since the office had been left vacant for a year after the death of the previous one. He and Ben would live with them as part of the household. Not only would it solve their problem, but it would look good for Sir Walter and Lady Agnes to have a properly staffed chapel once more, with perhaps a choir, too. Such details mattered in society.
Sir Walter had apparently discussed it with his wife, although the decision was his. Lady Agnes had never been required to agree with anything Sir Walter said, except as a formality. The next thing they told her, however, concerned Ginny even more personally than Ben being part of their household. It was to do with Sir Jon Raemon.
‘Sir Jon has agreed,’ said Sir Walter, ‘to consider my offer of your hand in marriage.’ He continued before she could make a sound. ‘He has also agreed to allow me possession of the priory library, for a considerable sum of money, I might add, so you’ll be pleased to hear that the books will be spared from destruction.’
Having one’s marriage prospects mixed up with a library of rare books was not something Ginny had ever anticipated, nor could she help wondering which was most important
