by Anya Seton
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Preface
Prologue
PART ONE
One
Two
Three
PART TWO
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
PART THREE
Nineteen
Twenty
About the Author
Copyright © 1972 by Anya Seton Chase
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Seton, Anya.
Green darkness / Anya Seton.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-544-22556-5 (pbk.)
1. Reformation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3537.E787G74 2013
813'.52—dc23
2013026759
eISBN 978-0-547-52397-2
v3.0814
Preface
THE THEME OF THIS BOOK is reincarnation, an attempt to show the interplay—the law of cause and effect, good and evil, among certain individual souls in two periods of English history.
I happened to be raised to this doctrine in which both my parents believed. Mother was a Theosophist long before I was born; indeed she had my horoscope cast when I was a month old. (It did not turn out to be a very accurate forecast!)
As a child I grew fascinated by the multitudinous volumes in our home treating of mysticism, occultism, astrology and the like. In my teens the study of comparative religion engrossed me, nor has that interest ever waned. Reincarnation still seems to me the only logical explanation for life’s inequities, and half the world believes in some form of it today.
However, for those who do not believe this theory, I would hope that Green Darkness may be read for the story and the historical reconstruction and the theme accepted as a sort of science fiction convention, like the “time-drugs” or indeed the intricate flashbacks used throughout the last hundred years by many eminent writers.
Medfield Place (and its 1968 inhabitants and friends) is perforce fictional. Though anyone who knows the countryside near the Cuckmere in East Sussex may be able to guess at the prototype.
On the other hand the Tudor portion, 1552–1559, is solidly rooted in historical fact. Anthony Browne (Viscount Montagu) and Lady Magdalen Dacre are presented in whatever exact chronology I have been able to find during three years of research that included many months in England. So, of course, is the depiction of national affairs during that period, and the Tudor reigns.
Celia and Brother Stephen are naturally harder to document, but they existed. The Italian physician, Giuliano di Ridolfi, was an astrologer connected with the Duke of Norfolk’s household, as I present him.
The first quiver of interest began for me during a visit to Ightham Mote in 1968, with an offhand mention of the “walled-up girl” and the viewing of the niche from which she was “exmured” in the 1870’s. And here I must tender my gratitude to the American owner of the lovely and mysterious “Mote” in Kent—C. Henry Robinson, who welcomed me there many times and permitted free use of private notes and his excellent library.
The Cowdray sections of this book have resulted from long stays at the Spread Eagle in Midhurst, frequent examination of the Cowdray ruins, and study of the local literature.
The personal history of the de Bohuns, the Brownes, and all their relations has been correlated with the help of Collins’s Complete Peerage and as always the Dictionary of National Biography.
Source books make tedious listing, but for the Tudor period I have tried to consult all the pertinent ones.
Oddly enough recent events are often as elusive as Tudor documentaries. One small example. Though I crossed on her, neither I nor my friends retained any idea of the dates for the Queen Mary’s last sailings. I had to check with the Cunard Line. This may have some bearing on the peculiarities of memory in general, and therefore on the book’s theme.
My warm thanks to the present Howard family in Cumberland, and particularly to the Earl and Countess of Carlisle who welcomed me at Naworth Castle and were most patient with my endeavors to resurrect the lives of their Dacre ancestors.
Several kindly physicians, British and American, have helped me with the medical aspects for 1968. To one physician in particular I owe very special gratitude.
I am, in fact, indebted to a great many people who have shown an interest in this book, but especially to Geoffrey Ashe, the erudite English writer, who took time from his own work to make suggestions and unearth for me specific data which I could not find myself.
Prologue
IN THE ANCIENT MANOR of Medfield Place in Sussex there is a huge vellum-bound book containing entries made by the Marsdon family from A.D. 1430 until September 15, 1967, when the death of Sir Charles Marsdon is noted. All but one of the entries are terse dates of births, marriages and deaths.
The exception takes up the whole fifth page of the Chronicle, and is as follows:
All Hallowes Eve. Ye 30. yeare of hir Majesties reine, & a tyme of rejoicingye since our fleete has sunk ye wickede Spaniarde. Englande may now with God His Will live in peace under oure most vertuous Queene.
My selfe Thos. Marsdon Esq. beinge yet quite younge hut mortal sicke with a wasting melancholy coffing & sore paine in my chest desire to writ in oure familye cronickle of a byegone tragick matter scamped here by my Father for shame—he tolde me of yt on his dethbedde. I have tryed to discover the bodye of the wretched girle which is for certaine welle hid atte Ightham Mote but Sir Chris: Allen & his vexatious ladye heatedlye denye all knowledg—his aged wittes are addled, but she hath a mad wolfishe eye. I wisht to give the girle a Christian berial since it was bye my unckle Stephen she was brote incontinent to her doome. He too suffered grievous paine and dyed in violence I knowe not how. Which unshriven deeds bringe sorrowe to our house. My little sonne when growne enuf to continue the annales must know the event.
Mine unckle Stephen was monke of Benedict Order in the troubled reines of King Edward & Queene Marye (God rest their souls) he was house priest first at Cowdraye Castle in West Sussex, after at Ightham Mote in Kent.
A terrible lust was sente him bye the Devil, and he broke his sacred vowes. God punished him & the partner of his downfalle. Yet myselfe havinge known deepe tragical love, can find in me naught but pitye for those tormented souls. Mine unckle is not at reste. I did question an old sheepherd in the pasture near Ightham after Ladye Allen so cholerickally bade me leave: the sheepherd said that the spectre of a black-habited monke was seen both at Cowdraye & Ightham & that he hadde yt from his granddam the poore girle was put away alive, & quick with childe.
I am feable and can no more. I command my heires on fear of damnation yet, God his wille permiting, to take measures of layinge the ghoste and to finde the murdered girle for Xtian berial.
Medfeilde—Ann. Dom. 1588
PART ONE
1968
One
CELIA MARSDON, YOUNG, rich and unhappy, sat huddled in a lounge chair at the far end of the new swimming pool vaguely listening to the chatter of their weekend guests.
Across the pool, above the privet hedge and the rose-laden pergola, sprawled the cluttered roof line of the Suss
ex manor house, Medfield Place. Richard’s home. Her home, now. “Lady of the manor,” a manor which had seen centuries of these ladies.
In the 1200’s some Marsdon—Ralph, was it?—had built himself a small stone keep close by the River Cuckmere. The stones he used were still incorporated in the walls of what looked to be a Tudor mansion of gables, twisted chimney pots, blackened oak half-timbering amongst peach-toned bricks. But there were later touches, too, a Georgian bay window added to the dining room, improbable fanlights cut over doorways, and—most shocking of all to the humorless young architect who had come down from London to supervise repairs—two crassly Victorian additions. Sir Thomas, the only Marsdon baronet who could be called wealthy, had prospered during Queen Victoria’s reign owing to his wife’s inheritance of collieries in County Durham. During this brief period of affluence, Sir Thomas had tacked on a large pseudo-Gothic library wing, as well as a glass garden room which the young architect had wished removed at once.
Richard had been adamant. No matter the period, every brick and beam of Medfield Place was dear to him, and, indeed, the house triumphed over any architectural incongruity. It nestled placidly, as it always had, between two spurs of the South Downs—those quiet, awesome hills looming purplish-green against the East Sussex skies.
Celia, who was wearing a discreetly cut turquoise bikini, took off her dark glasses, shut her eyes and tried to relax in the sunlight while fighting off a fresh attack of anxiety.
Why should one be frightened? Why again, as often of late, a lump in her throat which could not be swallowed, and also a sense of suffocation?
This was one of England’s rare perfect June days, fluffy clouds scudding across the blue, a faint breeze riffling the leaves, and, said Celia to herself, You have everything a woman could ask for.
She had been told this a hundred times, especially by her mother, Lily. Celia opened her eyes and glanced along the pool-side towards her mother, who was rapt in conversation with one of those exotic characters she was always finding.
Yet, this particular find was different. True, he was a Hindu and practiced Yoga, but he had firmly refused to allow Lily to introduce him as a guru; he was a doctor of medicine and wished no other title. He had pleasant, modest manners unlike that dreadful, lecherous swami Lily had briefly lionized in the States. This Hindu, whose name was Jiddu Akananda, did not wear bunchy robes; his English clothes were well tailored; he had studied at Oxford and then at Guy’s Hospital, so long ago that he must be sixty. Yet his brown face was ageless, and his lean, supple body as now revealed by swimming trunks was like that of a young man. Celia had had little chance to talk with Dr. Akananda after his arrival the night before at the manor, but she had noted wise, kindly eyes and a sense of humor.
I rather admire him, Celia thought in astonishment. She had not admired most of her mother’s collection of swamis, numerologists, astrologers and mediums. Lily was given to sudden enthusiasms and had a certain naivete which her daughter regarded with indulgence.
Lily Taylor was past fifty and did not look it. Expert tinting kept her hair blond, while constant dieting kept her natural plumpness from spreading to fat.
When excited, Lily lost her unconscious attempt at an English accent, and her Midwestern voice rose now in emphatic agreement with something the Hindu said. “But, of course,” Lily cried. “Every intelligent person believes in reincarnation!”
“Well, I don’t,” remarked the elegant Duchess of Drewton, fitting a slim cigarette into a white jade holder. “Lot of nonsense,” she added with her usual smiling assurance.
Celia felt suddenly chilly. She shivered and pulled on her gold beach robe while examining the Duchess. Dowager Duchess, actually, though Myra was barely thirty; her old Duke had recently died of a coronary and the title had passed to a nephew. Myra’s willingness to combat anyone’s statement, as she had Lily’s, was one of her ways of being provocative. And she was provocative, Celia admitted, that long gleaming auburn hair caught back in an amber clasp, and the wide sensual mouth. Celia noted that Myra glanced often towards Richard.
Celia, too, with an indrawn breath looked at her husband. He had just executed a perfect swan dive and was toweling himself while blandly ignoring the guests’ applause.
Yet, perhaps, with a sidelong glance he did respond to Myra?
One never knew with Richard any more. He had stopped showing any emotions, especially towards her. The world, and Lily, who had come over on an extended visit, thought Richard a model of charming courtesy. He also had a beautiful smile. It seemed to occur to nobody but Celia that the smile never reached his long-lashed hazel eyes, which remained aloof, a trifle wary.
I love him so desperately. Celia’s hands clenched on the chromium armrests. I think he still loves me, though something has gone wrong, very wrong.
Her heart gave one of its unpleasant thumps as she forced herself to examine what had happened.
It seemed to begin with a visit to Midhurst last fall. Hallowe’en it was; in the woodlands, the leaves had turned yellow and russet—so much quieter than the blaze of American maples—and the roads were dappled with fallen leaves and rolling acorns. A smoky violet haze drifted through the folds of the Downs; there was a tang in the air. She and Richard had been so happy that afternoon as they set forth in the new Jaguar to meet acquaintances of his at the Spread Eagle Inn.
They had made love the night before, with ecstatic fulfillment even more joyous than during their honeymoon in Portugal, where for all her inexperience Celia sensed something withheld in Richard, the faintest lack of total involvement. But their mutual love last night had been flawless. Especially the aftermath, when she lay naked in his arms, her head on his shoulder, both of them murmuring contentment and watching the starlight filter through the mullioned window.
The glow still enclosed them as they left Medfield and started towards Lewes. Richard drove slowly, for him, and after a while remarked lazily, “I’ll be glad to see old Holloway again, friend of my father’s, and your romantic little American heart will be charmed by the Spread Eagle.” He swerved into a hedge-lined byway to avoid the main road. “It’s frightfully ancient, all half-timbering, dim passages and smugglers’ hideaways.”
“My romantic heart is charmed by Sussex, by England, and especially by my husband,” Celia said, laughing. She cuddled against him.
He rested his cheek against the top of her curly brown hair for a second. “Foolish poppet,” he said. “It’s not quite the thing to be in love with a husband, not done, my dear.”
“Too bad,” she murmured. “Oh, look, darling, there’s a bonfire on that hill. Is it for Hallowe’en?”
“I suppose so,” he said, “though we usually reserve those for Guy Fawkes Day. ‘Pray you remember the fifth of November, with gunpowder, treason and plot; The King and his train were like to be slain; I hope this day’ll ne’er be forgot.’”
“Who did what to whom?” asked Celia eagerly. “Was it the ‘wicked’ Catholics again?”
Richard did not speak for a moment, then he said, “It was. The papists, led by one Guy Fawkes, tried to blow up Parliament. They were foiled. Then, beheadings and hangings all around. We’ve been celebrating the happy outcome ever since.”
“You sound a bit ironic.” She looked up at his dark profile.
“Atavism, no doubt.” He lit a cigarette and turned the car into another byway. “The Marsdons were staunch Roman Catholics in those days. We didn’t become meekly Protestant until the eighteenth century—the age of reason.”
“And you regret the conversion?”
“Good Lord no! Who bothers one way or the other nowadays? Though sometimes I’ve had strange—well, dreams.”
She pounced on this, for he rarely made a personal admission. “Dreams? What kind of dreams?”
He withdrew a trifle. “Lunatic fancies, not worth recalling.”
She sighed, always the door slammed shut before she could quite get inside.
“You make rather a fuss over
Hallowe’en in the States,” he continued conversationally. “It’s odd how many of our old customs were exported by the Puritans, and linger on across the water.”
“Yes, I guess so,” Celia answered. “The kids dress up in costumes; they go trick-or-treating; there are pumpkins carved for Jack-o’-lanterns—cider and apple-bobbing.”
“On All Hallow’s Eve,” said Richard slowly, “when wicked witches ride their broomsticks, and the grave gives forth its wormy dead.”
“Ugh,” she said, “how gruesome. In the States, we just have fun.”
“Yes, new and careless race.” Richard sighed. Her head was on his shoulder and she could feel the sigh. “I envy you. You’re almost untouched by the ancient Evil, which yet casts its shadow on us all.”
She was silent, never knowing quite what he meant when he talked this way.
At dusk they were driving through the village of Easebourne, and Richard said, “That building to your left was a nunnery in early Tudor times. The church has some rather good effigies of Cowdray Castle’s former owners.”
“Oh,” she said, “who were they?” English history had always interested her, but now that passionate love had made her part of England and its past, she had begun fascinated research, particularly on Sussex, which had become her home.
“Sir Davy Owen,” answered Richard, “bastard son of Owen Tudor. He married a Bohun, the knightly owners of Midhurst in the fifteenth century. There is also an imposing marble effigy of Anthony Browne, the first Lord Montagu, kneeling above his two wives; one wife I don’t remember, but the other was a Lady Magdalen Dacre, who must have been remarkably tall to judge by her statue.”
“Do you go around like an American tourist exploring churches?” she asked laughing. “I’d never have guessed it.”
