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 D’Arvall,’ said Sir Jon, unused to being lectured by a woman, ‘I am aware of their worth. But when the king gives me an order through 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