Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [431]
The meeting went well, and after less than an hour, Forest concluded the deal. Its terms were simple. The Fleming was to act as exclusive agent for the new venture; Forest would finance any other dealings he wished to undertake. He would also pay off the merchant’s debts, taking his house in Antwerp as security. In effect, by the end of the afternoon, Forest owned him.
“And the secret of him is,” young Shockley had confided to Forest before hand, “he likes to live well and he spends his money as fast as he makes it: he’ll never pay off his debt to you.”
When the matter was satisfactorily clinched, the three men fell to talking of general matters.
Sitting comfortably in the big panelled hall the merchant grinned knowingly at them both and asked:
“So – you English are Protestant this year, like us. Soon you will change your minds again, ya?”
Shockley opened his mouth to protest, but to his surprise Forest made only a sign of caution.
“In Antwerp there is a rumour that your boy king is sick. He will die soon. What then?”
“Nonsense,” Shockley protested. Only the previous year the fifteen-year-old king had passed through Sarum and he had seen him with his own eyes: the boy had looked pale, but he had smiled and acknowledged the loyal cheers of the crowd with every sign of healthy enjoyment. It was true that there had been news of a temporary sickness that February, but a London merchant had told him the young king was better now.
To his surprise, once again, Forest did not deny the charge.
“The country will follow the religion of the monarch,” he told the Fleming quietly.
“Whatever it is?” Shockley asked sharply.
“I think so.”
The Fleming laughed.
“It’s true what they say then – you English believe in nothing.” And he slapped his knee in amusement.
Hearing these words, Shockley’s face clouded. He remembered Abigail and Peter Mason that morning. He thought of his own, foolish admission of his Protestantism to Katherine a little earlier. Could it really be, now, that the country would change religion again?
As he left, he asked Forest anxiously:
“So you really think the king is so ill?”
Forest took his arm confidentially:
“Concentrate on the new business, Shockley. Don’t worry about politics or religion. Just follow Bishop Capon.” He gave him a warning look. “If trouble comes, keep your head down, that’s all.”
The Fleming was in a boisterous mood as they rode back to the city. He understood perfectly the hold Forest now had over him, but he was relieved at the same time to be free of his debts. As they passed the old castle hill and approached the city gates he blew out his cheeks and demanded:
“So where are the girls in Sarum?”
Abigail Mason’s face was always perfectly still. Edward had noticed that for a long time.
Her broad, pale brow was always placid; her brown hair pulled tightly back; her face, which receded to a firmly chiselled angle at the chin, was never allowed to give way to any animation.
It was as though a Tudor painter had depicted her face and body in severe, chaste lines on a wooden panel before she had been allowed to step into the world and assume a life in the flesh. Her mouth was carefully held in a modest line. Was there a hint of bitterness there he sometimes