Queen of Silks. Vanora Bennett

       1

       Spring 1471

      Isabel knelt. She didn't know the church, but she was aware of shadowy people moving round, or kneeling in corners. Not many, though. It was too late for Sext and too early for None. Most people would be out working. She put her hands up to her face, palmer fashion, staring down at the long, undecorated fingers in front of her eyes, shutting everything else out until even her eye's memory of the candle haloes in front of her had faded. Her father couldn't really mean to marry her to Thomas Claver, could he?

      Her lips began to form the Latin words of prayer. She tried to ignore the picture in her mind, of Thomas Claver's thighs spreading on a window bench at the Tumbling Bear, and his mouth forming that slack, leering grin as he and her uncle both lifted their tankards to an embarrassed serving-girl (trying to ignore them, as all servants did) and nudged each other obscenely. She shivered, but perhaps that was just because the prayer that had come to her mind was so sombre. ‘O most sweet lord Jesus Christ, true God,’ she muttered, fixing her eyes on the calluses and needle pricks on her fingers, proof that she, unlike Thomas Claver, wasn't so spoiled by coming from a wealthy family that she wouldn't deign to learn the family business, ‘who was sent from the bosom of the almighty Father into the world to forgive sins, to comfort afflicted sinners, ransom captives, set free those in prison, bring together those who are scattered, lead travellers back to their native land, minister to the contrite in heart, comfort the sad, and to console those in grief and distress, deign to release me from the affliction, temptation, grief, sickness, need and danger in which I stand, and give me counsel.’

      But however hard she concentrated on her fingertips and the movements of her mouth, she couldn't retreat into the muzz of incense and contemplation she was seeking. In her mind's eye, Thomas Claver was coming toward her, with his hands stretched out to grab her. She was frozen into the stillness of panic as he loomed over her; no point in shrinking back, as every fibre of her body was screaming to, because the door was locked and there was no escape.

      Wisps of voices came unbidden into her head. Her father's: ‘an honour for the family …’ and ‘… important for the family to have Alice Claver's goodwill …’ and ‘… an excellent businesswoman; she's well-connected, you know; she'll introduce you to people who can help you in life …’ and ‘… it's not what you know, it's who you know …’ and ‘… I'm relying on you to do the right thing for the family.’ Her nurse's hurried, worried whispering, trying to make peace: ‘at your age you think it's all about love … but all men are the same really … I know he's a bit wild now, but you'll set him right in no time, get him working … the important thing is to be in a good family; once you have babies you'll understand that children are all that matter in life anyway.’ Jane, resigned but still giggling under the bedclothes, somehow managing to be philosophical even in this misery: ‘… well, at least you know your one likes girls. What am I going to do with that