St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  “Your mother—? Oh no, no. I’ve finished my rounds today and wondered if you might come on a ride to the wood…”

  Mary glanced round Nathaniel at the horse nibbling on the dried grass in front of the cottage. “Had I known you would come to call, I would have arranged my day accordingly. This afternoon I must go to Saltfield to bring samples of linen to Jane.”

  “Then perhaps another time.”

  “Yes,” Mary said, again eyeing the horse that was now sampling her roses. “Until next week? We can walk up to the castle, if you’d like.”

  “The castle it shall be. Farewell, Mistress Burnley.”

  Another week passed and it happened that when Nathaniel arrived at Street End Cottage, Mary had decided to wait at St. Ælfgyva’s. Nathaniel wheeled about and ran back to the church and found Mary sitting on a bench under one of the great oak trees near the porch. She stood and nodded hello.

  “Mrs. Burnley,” Nathaniel sputtered from his exertion.

  “Oh dear, I think you have taken the greater part of exercise today!” Mary said, trying not to smile at his eagerness. “The fulfillment of your obligations does you great credit.”

  “I must apologize; I should have made myself clear as to where we would meet. Well, shall we on?”

  By the time they were on the path to the castle ruins, Nathaniel’s heart had stopped racing from his sprint and now raced from being in Mary’s presence. They scaled the hill and the staircase to the bailey, pausing a moment to admire the greenwood and in the distance the misty purple hills of Gwynedd.

  “How could you forsake such beauty?” Nathaniel murmured, taking in the magnificent view.

  “Pardon?” Mary asked, her own thought interrupted.

  “That was unkind and insensitive of me—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Burnley.”

  “You may call me Mary, Mr. Godwin,” she said, smiling.

  “Mary, then. And you must call me Nathaniel.”

  “It is easy to forsake all this,” and here Mary gestured gracefully with a hand towards the Welsh border, “when there is so much ugliness hidden beneath the gaud. Surely you have seen it?”

  Nathaniel nodded, ducking his head so that she wouldn‘t see the flush of embarrassing color over his face. “When I heard that you quarreled with your mother and that you had moved to Bottle Street of all places—”

  “Of all places?” Mary exclaimed. “Bottle Street is a street like any other but it has its merits; the tenants are not so full of self-importance and have no lack of compassion or consideration. Because their pockets are not lined with pound notes nor heavy with coin—!”

  “I have offended you. Again, I must beg your pardon,” Nathaniel murmured. “I am forever caught up by my tongue and assumption. Is it any wonder the Archbishop sent me here?” This last was spoken in almost a whisper, as if he wanted and did not want at the same time Mary to hear it. Mary had seated herself on what used to be a stone bench built into a wall of the donjon and glanced up.

  “I did wonder,” she said. “Would someone choose to come to a place like Knowstone?” Now she met him, eye to eye. “Or is this your desert wilderness? Is this your Gethsemane?”

  Nathaniel shrugged and sat next to her, but kept his distance. “Where but a place like this is there a greater need for the Word of God and the blessing of Christ’s example? You asked me once if I believed what I prayed and preached. Yes, though the belief comes from struggle and much difficulty.”

  “Grace shines through you, Nathaniel,” she almost whispered, offering another beautiful smile.

  “Only because—” he paused and shook his head.

  “What, sir?”

  “Because of the brightness of your own grace.”

  Expecting a modest blush or a downcast gaze, Nathaniel was surprised by the unwavering hold she kept with her eyes. The bright crystal color reflected the sky and showed no coquetry or shyness. There was an independence of spirit and thought. A kindred spirit there with the purest of longing. Not a base carnal desire, but something otherworldly and he cupped her chin in his palm and kissed her without hesitation.

  “I am yours!” Nathaniel whispered into her flower-scented hair; “I am yours with all my heart, my soul, my body. I am yours!”

  Mary put a hand to his lips, which he kissed as she said, “Nathaniel, do not be so easy with your promises.”

  “No promise, but truth.”

  “I have been given assurances and see where I have been led by my belief in them.”

  Nathaniel stood and held out a hand. “Will you walk with me?” When she hesitated, “I see I must prove myself to you. Neither my words nor presence should give you cause to fear or be distrustful. Allow me to plead my case?”At last she rose and after a moment‘s hesitation, placed her hand in his. The grasp was warm and secure, strong. Nathaniel led her down to the village and they walked Whitecastle Street and east towards St. Edmund Wood, where they paused in conversation and in their walk at the abbey gate. He noticed Mary’s reluctance to go forward and swung the gate closed again, leaning upon the post.

  “A beautiful place, this,” Nathaniel said, smiling down at her.

  “I played here as a girl.”

  “Not so long ago, I should think!”

  “There is the queen’s throne.” Mary pointed to the ruins of the chapter house where the abbot’s stone bench still stood against the remains of a wall. “I spent many afternoons hiding and playing there,” she remembered, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “I did not have poppets to play with as other girls in the village, so I brought my books and gave them names—Shakespeare was Jane, the Prayer Book was Patience, the Bible was Anna. I would arrange them around the throne and offer royal decrees. They were my ladies in waiting.” Now Mary laughed softly and put a hand to her cheek, looking away. “Ah, you must think me strange!”

  Nathaniel gently turned her face towards him and was glad that she smiled, but was surprised by the tears in her eyes. “Would your grace have time in your appointment book for an audience with a poor priest?” He gestured past the gate and could see how Mary tensed as he slowly pushed at the gate. Nathaniel waited until she finally nodded and drew her into the abbey precincts.

  The sound of their boots scuffing across the autumn leaves and bracken, the wind rustling the trees, were the only sounds as they approached the chapter house. Once there, Nathaniel led Mary to the ‘throne’ and ceremoniously placed her and offered a courtly bow. They both laughed and Mary laughed even harder when Nathaniel picked three large stones from the ground and kneeling put them before her, saying, “The ladies Jane, Patience and Anna, Your Grace! They wait upon you as the poor priest begs a favor of the Queen of Hearts.”

  “What does the good reverend require of his Queen?” Mary laughed softly, extending her hand for a kiss.

  “My lady, all that I require is your acceptance of my love, for I do love you.”

  The playful moment turned serious when Mary leaned forward and bestowed a kiss on Nathaniel’s brow. She held his face in her hands and studied its beauty, remembering every line and mark, color, for her sleep that night. “Nathaniel I will grant this petition, but you must take it as a promise. Give me time to think.”

  “As much as you desire,” he said hopefully.

  Mary kissed him gently and he drew her into his arms and there they embraced in the ruined abbey with the late afternoon throwing down ribbons of light through the trees and columns of stone.

  They walked to Bottle Street arm in arm as sweethearts are wont to do and whispered endearments as Nathaniel strode off, leaving with a promise to call on the morrow and looking back more than once.

  “He’s a kind and thoughtful man,” Cora commented as she stood with Mary on the doorstep and watched him go. “Why he should come to a place like this…”

  “To do some good, I think,” Mary answered. “Shall we have supper?”

  There was no ceremony in Street End Cottage. Mary and Cora shared their duties and meals; Cora’s posi
tion was more of a companion and sister than service. The only parting of the ways came when supper was done and Mary went out to the shed where she kept the loom and worked well into night while Cora looked to all things domestic. And so it was that evening, when all things took a turn.

  Chapter 8

  The pattern was coming along nicely. Mary‘s delicate fingers traced the lilies and Lamb of God centered on the hem of the pure white linen. She rose from the loom to retrieve another spool of linen thread and to stretch her back and find her sewing shears. When she stood a small stone fell from a pocket. Mary rescued it from the shed floor and smiled, remembering her afternoon with Nathaniel. ‘Queen‘s Gold,’ he called it and pressed it with a kiss into her palm. It wasn‘t a true pebble but a shard of blue window glass worn smooth from years of exposure to the elements.

  A blue the color of Nathaniel‘s eyes.

  How could life suddenly find so much brightness, she wondered, after so much misery? While she pondered this new-found happiness that was symbolized by this pebble, Mary was lost in daydreams and didn‘t hear the knocking. Only when she heard the shout did she pick up a lamp and go to the door, throwing back the bolt and pulling the door open just a bit to peer out.

  Erland stood on the other side.

  “No welcome for a friend?” he demanded after seconds of silence passed and Mary only glared at him.

  “The hour is late, Erland. You shouldn‘t be here.”

  “I‘m certain Mr. Godwin received a warmer welcome!” he sneered.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do. I saw you walking down from the castle.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We had a misunderstanding and I’ve come to make amends.”

  “Call tomorrow; I will be at my leisure—”

  Erland shoved past her into the cottage and Mary backed away as he came slowly forward, offering his arms for an embrace, a drunken grin screwing up his mouth. He lunged and caught her, nuzzling and licking at her face and neck, like an excited puppy, his hands wandering inside her skirts until she violently pushed him away and he stumbled against the hearth table. Mary noticed the sewing shears on the table and slipped them into her apron pocket while Erland staggered toward the bench at Mary’s loom and threw himself down.

  “Still playing the virgin of the greenwood, Mary?” he laughed. “Why don’t we settle our differences man to wife?”

  “We’re not man and wife.”

  “Aren’t we? Didn’t we pledge ourselves before the parson at Watting?”

  “You’re a fool to think that a childhood promise would be legally binding in this day and age. Get up, and leave. Leave me alone.”

  “God forbid I should disturb your idyllic life here in Elysium!” he mocked. “When I suggested that you leave, I did not mean to the poorest neighborhood in the village. If you insist on staying in Knowstone at least have enough regard for your mother to live in a better place.”

  “It is no business of yours where I live. How strange that you should come to call and champion my mother!”

  “She made me see reason, if you must know.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I’ve come to ask you to make good on our promise and marry me. No! Wait before you speak. You know that had circumstances not been so…contrary to our desires, you would be wife to the heir of the Frankewell estate and a great lady in your own right.”

  “Do you think that is my chief desire, Erland? To be ornamental? To suffer through interminable afternoon teas and social calls, to wait at half-past three of an afternoon to receive callers and talk about, what? The latest fashions from London? The polish on the young lord’s boots? What her ladyship said to his lordship and how it scandalized court? Your opinion of my worth as a wife, a help mate and a woman is very low!” Mary snapped.

  “You’re mistaken. I hold you in very high regard, Mary. You know. You of all people know what I have sacrificed!”

  “I must be grateful, I understand this much, but I did not ask you for those sacrifices.”

  “I am giving up my inheritance, I am forsaking my family,” Erland started, rising to his feet. Mary stepped back and away, fingering the shears in her pocket. “We have nothing to say to one another, Erland. You’d better go. In times past it was a pleasure to have your company. I cannot say the same now.”

  “Hear me out, I beg of you…”

  “No. We’ve nothing more to say. The hour is late and you must go; I will not suffer more scandal and gossip and neither must you. There will be more questions.”

  “Since you are determined to end things, you will give back the necklace that is rightfully mine. my mother’s diamond pendant?”

  Without taking her eyes from him, Mary drew up the necklace from between her breasts and tugged at the chain until it broke. She held it aloft, saying, “Lady Isobel bade me keep it as a token of her friendship with me, not mine with you. But take it.”

  The necklace was thrown at the door.

  It happened so quickly that Mary would later think it a dream.

  Erland leapt up and seized Mary, smothering her with a kiss and tearing at her clothing, pushing her up to a wall of the shed and pinning Mary against him while he tried to force himself on her. The shears came out of her pocket then and sliced his perfect face down the cheek, a scarlet ribbon from the eye to the jaw line.

  “Whore! Bitch!” Erland screamed. When he lunged for Mary again, she raised the shears again but Erland knocked them from her hand. Mary grabbed a vase of flowers and hurled it at his head. The force of the blow made him stagger and he found his way to the door yowling, “You’ll suffer for this! You’ll die, Mary! I hope you rot in hell!”

  Doors opened and closed along Bottle Street as Erland found his horse and made it gallop west to his father’s estate. Mary ignored the stares of the curious neighbors as they peered out from windows and doorways, bolting the shed door quietly. For a moment she stood trembling, breathing deeply and summoning calm. Then she glanced down and saw the blood-stained shears, throwing them down where they clattered under the loom. The metallic ring echoed through the shed.

  “It’s better this way, Mary.”

  Erland staggered to Saltfield, having lost his horse a mile down the road. The beast’s leg was shattered and the poor animal had to be put out. Erland minded not so much the loss of his favorite roan but the walk home that gave his thoughts leave to pierce his drunkenness. They were thoughts of Mary.

  “Sweet, sweet Mary! It’s better this way!”

  His boots crushed the dried autumn grass carpeting the field and made the sound ‘Mary’ as he walked eastward toward the cluster of lights that was his father’s Tudor manor. By the time he reached the gatehouse memories overwhelmed him, and once in his apartments at Saltfield he called for Maeve.

  His mother’s lady’s maid looked severe in her black frock, her hands prim and folded demurely at her small waist, a waist ringed round by a fine leather belt from which hung keys. She was a beautiful woman with the fine features of a porcelain sculpture, pale skin and red lips that would be more desirable and enticing, beautiful, if she smiled. Her dark blue eyes now were cast down in servility.

  “Where is Lady Isobel?” Erland demanded as he poured himself a drink.

  “Asleep, sir.”

  “Lock the door and come here.”

  Maeve frowned and glanced up. “Sir! What happened to your face? Let me clean the wound and bandage—”

  “A brawl in The Castle and Motte. I said, come here! Now!”

  “Sir…”

  “Damn you, woman!”

  Maeve went to the door and locked it. Her prim hands were still clasped demurely at her waist when she stood before Erland’s chair.

  Erland’s hand came up and slowly he unbuttoned her dress. Maeve was surprised at how steady he was for all the drink inside of him. Beneath the black muslin was a white cambric camisole that was unbuttoned with less ease. That which Erla
nd sought was guarded by a new corset and Erland first ran a hand lovingly across the décolleté and then tore at the clothing until she was naked to the waist.

  Maeve made no attempt at modesty for she knew it would anger him. She’d seen these moods before and drink always made it worse. Instead she took a step back when he sought her breasts, and said, “It must be done properly, sir.”

  She first removed the silver cross nestled between her breasts and tossed it indelicately on the desk. Reaching down she stepped out of her slippers and slid her stockings and garters off so that for only a moment her long, shapely legs were revealed. The bodice and camisole were dropped to the carpet with her underpinnings. Finally the skirts and petticoats were lost and Maeve shivered while removing her cap and unpinning the heavy gold hair she wore round her head like a shining rope until it fell past her hips in thick waves that caught the light.

  Erland pulled her closer and sighed, placing his hands on her firm, flat stomach and letting his fingers take measure of her, skimming lightly from stomach to waist, riding over her round, full breasts, up to her neck where he paused and felt her pulse and the quickening of her breath. “God, but you are magnificent!” he exclaimed, and rose, kissing her. “But you’re not her. You’re not Mary, are you? You won’t play cruel games and torment me? You’ll let me love you?”

  “If you’d like, my dear, I can be your Mary—Mary as you’d have her.” Maeve gasped as his caresses were more intimate and exciting. He grew impatient trying to undress and Maeve gently helped him, letting her own caresses and kisses excite and overwhelm. “If you’d like, we can make believe we’re in the abbey where you kissed her first…”

  “Yes…oh, yes!”

  “The grass is soft like swans-down in a feather bed,” Maeve whispered, leading him to the bed. She eased back and he brought her into his arms, feeling her desire mount. She gasped to control the roiling as he began to kiss her and move rhythmically with every caress that was urgent and demanding. “Mary is calling you her dear, sweet, love…she lies back on the ground, her hair barely covering those high, proud breasts that you long for every time you see her; her shapely legs and small waist, the curve of her hips fit with yours.”