Time's Echo (27 page)

She hasn’t invited me to sit, but I am too restless to settle anyway and am wandering around the chamber, touching things, wondering how to extricate my sister from Francis’s
clutches.

‘He told me how you used to meet,’ says Agnes. ‘I know how in love you were with him.’

‘In love with
Francis
?’ I swing round in shock. ‘Never!’

‘You told me so yourself.’

‘What? When?’

She points at the bed. ‘You sat there and told me that you were in love.’

I stare at the bed, remembering that day, remembering how excited and full of hope I was then. How foolish I was. I
did
say that.

‘Agnes, I hadn’t even met him properly then,’ I try to explain. ‘I didn’t know what I was saying.’

She doesn’t listen. ‘It must have been a terrible shock when you saw him last night. I should have warned you, but I was so excited. That was wrong of me.’ She folds her hands
in her lap with a little sigh. ‘I hoped – I
hoped
– that you would care enough for me not to make a scene, but I understand why you were upset, Sister. I know what it is
to love him.’

‘Agnes . . . ’ Helplessly I drop onto a stool and press my fingers to my temples.

‘You don’t need to explain,’ she says. ‘Francis told me how it was with you.’

Ah, yes, he would have done. I should have anticipated that Francis would put his own twist on the tale first.

I lift my head to look at my sister. ‘How was it?’ I ask dully, knowing I am not going to like the answer.

‘He was very wrong to meet you before,’ says Agnes with a suitably sombre expression, but I get the feeling she is enjoying this. ‘He knows he was weak and led astray, and
afterwards he was sorry, but he was unprepared for how forward you were. I understand your desire for him.’ Here my sister lowers her eyes, and a knowing smile trembles on her lips.
‘But Francis is very devout. It pains me to say this to you, Hawise, but he was shocked. He was sorry that you were forced to marry Ned, of course, but I think it was a relief to him, and
then when he met me . . . ’

She trails off with a contented sigh. ‘He didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. That’s why he was determined to woo
me
properly.’

The look that accompanies this is needle-sharp. I haven’t missed the emphasis on that ‘me’. I am the trollop, it says, and she is the pure virgin, worthy to be courted with
respect.

Agnes can’t leave it there, though. ‘
I
am not to be romped in the grass,’ she says sweetly.

I whiten with fury. ‘I
never
—’ I begin, leaping from my stool, but she lifts a hand.

‘We don’t need to speak of it.’ She is all understanding. ‘It is over.’

Francis has played his hand well. Whatever I say, she will not believe me now.

Swallowing my rage, I pace the chamber, as if looking for a door that will let me out of this situation. ‘Tell me something,’ I say, swinging round. ‘Did Francis know you were
my sister when you met?’

‘Not at first, but then when he heard your name mentioned, he guessed, and he told me everything.’ Her smile is smug. ‘He didn’t want there to be any secrets between
us.’

‘Agnes . . . ’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘You don’t understand. Francis is not who you think he is!’

With a sigh, Agnes gets to her feet and smooths down her gown. ‘Francis warned me you might be like this,’ she says, letting disappointment creep into her voice, ‘and I see he
was right. Can’t you just accept that he loves me, Hawise? I do think you might at least
try
to be happy for me. You have had everything – everything! – and I have had to
stay and look after our father.’

I want to say that she hasn’t looked after him, Jennet has, but I don’t. There is truth in what she says. I have been luckier than my sister.

‘Is it so hard for you to believe that a man might be interested in me?’ Agnes sweeps on. ‘That he might actually
prefer
me to you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Or is it that you think I’m not pretty enough for Francis?’

I sigh. ‘It’s not that, Agnes. You know that.’

‘You can’t bear not being the centre of attention, can you? Every man has to look at you, you, you!’

‘What?’ I reel back as if she has punched me. Where has all this come from? ‘No! What do you mean? No one has ever looked at me!’

‘Oh, yes,’ Agnes laughs wildly. ‘Act the innocent! It is what you do best, after all!’ And she throws herself face-down onto the bed.

I stare at her in consternation. This is Francis’s doing. Already he has driven a wedge between me and my sister, already she thinks differently of me.

‘Do you want to know what I think?’ she says, her voice muffled in the coverlet. ‘I think you are jealous just because I will have a young husband and yours is old!’

‘Ned isn’t old,’ I protest, stung.

‘And Francis is handsome and kind.’ Agnes pulls herself up and flings herself back against the pillows. There is a hectic flush in her cheeks, a feverish glitter in her eyes.
‘I cannot believe how lucky I am. This is the first time anything has gone right for me, and you want to spoil it!’

In dismay I watch tears fill her eyes. What can I say? If I persist, if I convince her that Francis tried to defile me and killed Hap, I will destroy her fragile happiness. If I say nothing, I
abandon her to Francis Bewley, a man who would kill a dog without hesitation. He will push himself into her, the way he tried to do with me. I am terribly afraid that he will hurt her and use her
to punish me.

This is the first time anything has gone right for me
. Her words echo around the chamber. I think of my sister, of the years she has spent here in this dreary house, lying abed with the
shutters closed. Now, at last, she has someone paying her attention, someone offering her an escape from this.

I will never be able to convince her that it is a mistake. And I do not want to be the one who makes her unhappy. I will have to accept this, as Ned said, and make the best of it.

‘I won’t spoil it, Agnes,’ I promise her. I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth a strand of hair back under her cap. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

She turns her face away, her lip trembling. ‘How can I be happy when everyone is so unkind? Father says he has no money to pay for a proper wedding feast. We will be lucky if we can offer
our guests a boiled turnip!’

I recognize my cue. ‘My husband and I will give you a feast to remember for your wedding,’ I say, and instantly Agnes is all smiles again.

‘Truly? And you’ll speak to Father about a new gown? I cannot be married in this!’

‘It will be my gift to you,’ I say, and I wonder what else I will have to do to make it up to her.

All week the servants have been busy preparing a lavish wedding feast for Agnes and Francis. Margery is torn. She doesn’t want to be helpful, but her pride is at stake,
and in the end she enjoys showing off her skills as a cook, while Isobel and Alison have swept and polished and scrubbed. There are fresh rushes on the floor of the hall and the waits are tuning up
in the corner, ready to play after the meal. No one will be able to say that I did not honour my sister with the best of everything.

It is late January, and the markets are thin, but I have set a feast fit for a queen before my sister. There are boiled capons and stewed mutton steaks, a roast calf and baked fish. There are
tarts and pies, jellies and custards, sugar comfits and the best manchet bread. And, best of all, a grand centrepiece: a goose stuffed with a pheasant, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed in its turn
with a pigeon, which I have made myself to make up for my ungraciousness when I first heard of her betrothal.

It is the least I can do for my sister, I think guiltily. I am terribly afraid for her, but Agnes herself is ecstatic. She is besotted with Francis and watches him hungrily. I watch him too,
waiting for him to show himself, but he is unctuous in his dealings with her and never less than courteous, I have to admit. So I try to tell myself that I am wrong about the way he looks at me. I
tell myself that I am imagining it and that his obsession with me is over.

I want to believe that it will be all right.

Agnes and Francis sit together in triumph on high table, presiding over the feast. Afterwards there is dancing. I supervise the clearing away of the tables, while Ned moves
among the guests, making sure everyone has had enough to eat, clapping one on the shoulder, beckoning for more wine for another.

I watch him under my lashes. He is so solid, so steady, the calm centre around which the rest of the room swings giddily, and I feel the heat spilling along my veins and pooling in the pit of my
belly. I want to go to him, to my cool, contained husband, wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his throat. I am not the enchantress, whatever the neighbours think. It is Ned who
has enchanted
me
, with the touch of his hands and the feel of his mouth.

Across the hall Ned glances up and sees me watching him. My hunger must show in my face, because he smiles slightly. I smile back. A promise. Later, his eyes say, and I smile again and nod,
suddenly giddy with happiness.
Later
. Later we will lie together between the curtains, and I will forget Agnes and Francis and the distrustful servants and the neighbours who take Ned for
a fool. There will just be the two of us, and the heat and the rush and the certainty that nothing and nobody else matters.

I am in love with my own husband. Agnes is right: I have everything.

I am glowing as I turn away.

‘Dance with me, Sister.’

Francis’s voice is a snail trailing stickily over a perfect rose. All day, in spite of my attempts to convince myself that it will be all right, I have avoided him, and now he is there,
standing too close, and my happiness leaks out of me.

I have been fooling myself. I have been dancing in the dark. Francis has not forgotten me. It is not over.

It will not be all right.

I force a smile while every piece of me screams to step away from him. But it is his wedding, and Agnes’s wedding, and people will be watching.

I glance at Agnes, who is watching us from the table. Beside her, Mistress Beckwith is trying to make conversation with her, but Agnes has no eyes for anyone but Francis.

‘You should dance with your wife,’ I say coldly.

‘I want to dance with you.’

‘But Agnes—’

‘Agnes wants what I want. You cannot refuse me,’ he says.

The waits are all set to play and dancers are taking to the floor. I can make a scene at my sister’s wedding, or I can take Francis’s hand and dance with him. What can he do to me in
front of everyone, after all?

Swallowing my revulsion, I nod tightly and let him take my hand and lead me into the middle of the floor, but my flesh shrinks from his touch. We join a circle and I marvel that the others
cannot see the sickliness of my smile.

The music starts. We hold hands, dance to one side and then the other. We turn to our partners, press our palms together. Francis leans towards me and murmurs close to my ear.

‘I’ll think of you every time I fuck her.’

It is as if he has slapped me. I jerk my head back, unable to believe that he actually said that. I want to believe that I made it up, but I know I didn’t. Francis is smiling. His red
mouth is shiny between his beard and his hands are hot and moist, and I am sick with loathing.

And with fear. Because there is a wrongness in Francis’s eyes that curdles my stomach, a heat and a hunger that raise the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.

‘How dare you say such a thing to me in my husband’s house,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘You are vile!’

Francis continues to smile. He is enjoying my fear and my loathing. ‘I can say what I like to you, Hawise. You won’t tell.’

‘Do not push me!’

The dance sends us out and around in a circle, back again.

‘No,’ he carries on musingly, ‘you won’t say anything. You’re too afraid of upsetting your little sister. Strange how you crave her approval,’ he muses.
‘Why is that? Why do you try and make her like you? You feel you must pay for being beautiful while she is plain, don’t you? For being clever while she is stupid, for being rich while
she is poor.’

‘Agnes is your
wife
,’ I say tautly. ‘How can you speak of her like that?’

‘I can speak of her however I like,’ says Francis. ‘She is my wife, as you say.’

Nobody else can hear our conversation over the music. They are all laughing and talking, as if they are in a different world.

‘Don’t hurt Agnes,’ I say, my voice shaking with hatred. ‘You will regret it if you do. I promise you that.’

‘That is up to you,’ says Francis. ‘If you are kind to me, I will be kind to your sister. That is fair exchange, is it not?’

I stare at him with such disgust that he clicks his tongue. ‘Come, come, Hawise,’ he chides me gently. ‘Smile. You don’t want to spoil Agnes’s wedding day, do you?
Everyone will see you quarrelling with your new brother and wonder what is between us. You know how little it will take for the gossips to cry Ned a cuckold, and Agnes is already suspicious of your
love for me.’