by Anya Seton
On May 27, 1538, after vespers, Abbot Hammond assembled his community in the church and made a speech from the pulpit, during which his voice trembled and slow angry tears dropped down his sagging cheeks, his thin white hands shaking the lectern in helpless rage.
The Abbot said that by royal command His Gracious Majesty, King Henry the Eighth, Defender of the Faith, having decreed that all the monasteries were to be dissolved, that this most monstrous decree now seemed to affect Battle Abbey too. Perpetual prayer and intercessions had already begun; it was unthinkable that Battle Abbey, which had been founded in holy thanksgiving by William the Conqueror on this exact miraculous site, should be dissolved like lesser foundations, that St. Martin and the Holy Blessed Virgin would never permit such devilish wickedness. Whereupon Abbot Hammond glared at Richard Layton, the King’s commissioner, who was sitting imperturbably in the church.
The boys discussed the extraordinary announcement later in their dorter. They spoke at first in nervous whispers, though the monk who usually kept order was absent, praying with his brothers.
One of the boys, of the famous Sackville family in Kent, spent more time at home and so had greater knowledge of outside events than the others. His name was Hugh, and he had never intended to take vows anyway. He spoke jubilantly of the matter, and professed great admiration for the King.
“Now there’s a man who knows what he wants and gets it! Wanted a divorce to wed that black-haired witch Nan Bullen. Wanted a son and wouldn’t let the Pope gainsay him. But Nan could offer no better than a girl—the Princess Elizabeth, y’know. So King Harry chopped Nan’s head off, and wed our late queen. Now he has his son but wants something else as well.”
“What’s that?” asked Stephen still unable to grasp what the Abbot had told them.
Hugh noisily rubbed his forefingers and thumb together. “Gold, m’lad,” he answered. “Riches. Property, like every other man. Now he’ll get ’em.”
“What do you mean . . .” faltered Stephen. “How will he get them?”
“Why, from the monasteries, you dolt. The abbeys, the convents, where else?”
“But he can’t,” Stephen cried. “He can’t just grab for himself what belongs to God.”
“Oh, can’t he just!” Hugh guffawed. “By cock’s muddy bones you’ll soon see, ye poor innocent.”
And Stephen soon did see. Inexorably, magnificent Battle Abbey was dissolved, as were all the other religious foundations. The monks were evicted. The church and sacristy, the Abbot’s lodgings were methodically stripped. Gold and silver plate, furniture, even the marble from the high altar were all carted away. Kitchens and cellars were emptied. Some of the aging hams and all flasks of the secret aromatic Benedictine liqueur, so carefully distilled each year by Brother Sebastian, the cellarer, came to rest in the royal palaces of Greenwich, Windsor and Whitehall.
In November, King Henry bestowed Battle Abbey upon Sir Anthony Browne, Master of the Horse, member of the Privy Council, Knight of the Garter. This rich grant was all the more infamous because Sir Anthony was a papist.
Stephen had been sent home like the other boys when the monastery was dissolved, and his father shared in the stunned indignation but dared not show it. Peers were beheaded, gentlemen and lesser folk were hanged for criticizing the King.
But Robert Marsdon was sympathetic to his son and agreed on the only course now open to a youth with a true vocation: Stephen should enter the novitiate in France. They chose the Benedictine Abbey of St. Martin at Marmoutier, near Tours.
It happened that Stephen rode back to Battle to say farewell to the old Abbot on the very day that Sir Anthony Browne was holding revels to celebrate his new ownership. Stephen reined in his horse, astonished when he saw that the doors in the noble Gothic gateway were flung wide open, that the courtyard was crammed with horses and lackeys. He heard raucous shouts, screams of laughter and strident dance music emerging from the great refectory, where even six months ago there had been no sounds but gentle scriptural reading as the assembled monks ate together in silence. Scarlet and gold banners embroidered with the buck crest flaunted from many windows. And as Stephen watched, increasingly pained and indignant, a giggling kitchen wench scuttled towards the cloisters, which were filled with hay for the horses. She was tripped up by one of the noblemen’s lackeys, who threw her down on a pile of hay and pulled up her skirt in full view of the other servants who cheered and applauded.
Nor could Stephen look away, though his gorge rose in a spasm of disgust. He watched the man’s heaving buttocks between the stout red naked thighs—shameless in their lust as dogs, as goats.
In two or three minutes the man finished and got up, wiping himself, as his companions jeered. “So soon done, weakling?”
“I’ll warrant the wench is barely warmed, and we’ll not deny her remedy!” Another lackey threw himself down on top of the woman, whose lewd, excited laugh Stephen plainly heard.
He jerked his bridle, and kicked in the spurs. The startled gelding broke into a gallop and they fled down the Hastings road. After a mile or so Stephen pulled up his horse and retched. His heart was pounding, sweat trickled on his neck. Every fiber in him was revolted, yet he could not stop seeing those pumping buttocks, those spread fat thighs.
Stephen flung himself off the horse and doused his head in the wayside brook, then rode soberly back—avoiding the Abbey—and inquired at a tavern where the former Abbot might be found. The old man’s lodging was in the next street; he had not been willing to leave the town he loved so well and where he had once been supreme. He opened the door himself to Stephen’s knock.
“Ah, my son,” he cried and embraced Stephen. “Benedicite! So there is someone who still cares to see me?”
“Oh, Reverend Father,” Stephen cried, “I’ve come for your blessing, since I go next week to France. Holy Mother of God,” he added, beginning to tremble. “What that renegade monster, that devil has done to our Abbey, and . . .” Stephen choked, went on in a whisper, “they were even fornicating in the cloister. I s-saw it.”
“Ah . . .” said John Hammond with a heavy sigh. His wise eyes examined the boy. “You watched, my son?”
A dark flush ran up to Stephen’s curly black hair. “I could not look away. Give me penance, Father! Harsh penance.”
“Did you wish to do likewise, my son? Did you feel a stirring in that part of you, for you’re not over-young for that.”
“By God’s blessed wounds—no,” Stephen cried. “It was bestial, disgusting.”
“True,” the Abbot nodded, “unless it is sanctified by marriage for the procreation of Christians. I understand you still wish to take the vows?”
“Aye,” said Stephen, “I was born to be a monk, and I wish no other life but that which I saw you and the brethren leading at Battle. Peaceful, beautiful, each action performed for the glory of God.”
The old eyes misted; the boy’s sincerity gave the Abbot his first gleam of relief in weeks. But he had not risen to his abbacy without knowledge of human nature, as well as the crosses sent to try the most enlightened souls, and he issued a warning.
“You will have struggles, my son—many a battle to wage with the Tempter. These battles may not be against chastity, I think you have not a lascivious nature. Certainly not against poverty; during your years here I had no report on you concerning undue selfishness, or attachment to personal possessions. But—” He paused.
“Oh,” said Stephen tossing his head, “I’ll never fail in obedience to my superiors, Reverend Father. Never.”
The Abbot smiled ruefully. “The test may come in a form hardest for you to endure.” He paused. “You hate Sir Anthony Browne, don’t you?”
“Why, to be sure, Father. I detest him and all his line. He’s a traitor to the Church, to God. An antichrist. A fawning lickspittle heretic, no matter what he calls himself.”
“Strong words, my child, I am inclined to agree. In fact, the day he took possession of the Abbey, I made a direful prophecy to him.
”
“What prophecy, Reverend Father?”
“That his line, his house, all his pride would perish . . . That fire and water would destroy them. I saw this in a vision.”
“May it happen on the morrow, then!” Stephen cried. “What did he say?”
“He was affrighted, his cheeks went white. His lady fell to her knees and wept.”
“Then they should give back the Abbey,” Stephen said sternly.
“That is not so simple,” said the old man. “The King gave it to him. And Sir Anthony is servant to the King. Also, I believe the knight has found a way to ease his conscience.”
“There can be none!” Stephen cried. “None but restitution!”
“You may have to change this opinion someday,” said the Abbot with a faint smile, “when your vow of obedience is tested.”
Stephen, as he ate his mutton stew in the little hut on St. Ann’s Hill, thought ruefully of that day with the Abbot fourteen years before. He had not suspected what the Abbot meant. Though later in France news filtered across the Channel that the Brownes had taken one of Battle’s evicted monks as chaplain, or house priest, that they had found positions for as many of the other monks as they could.
Today, Stephen knew that Sir Anthony had long ago thought of Stephen for that position once he had taken his vows. This choice had been based on reports given him, first from the dispossessed English Abbot and then from the Abbot at Marmoutier. Sir Anthony favored Sussex men and knew of the Marsdons, who came from long established Saxon blood as the Brownes did not. He admired lineage.
In 1548 the elder Sir Anthony died, and his son inherited a great deal of property, which by now included Cowdray.
The younger Anthony had great respect for his father, who had managed to outlive the unpredictable monarch, and he did all he could to carry on his father’s policies.
It was thus that the horrified Stephen was sent by his Order to Cowdray last summer—and found himself fully as rebellious as Abbot Hammond had foreseen. He had loved the cloisters and the companionship of his fellows, he had loved his recent appointment as precentor of the choir, for he had a fine baritone voice and a true ear.
He enjoyed the rich ceremonies of the Church Year, the changing festivals with the emotions they engendered, and their colors: the purples of penitence, the reds or white and golds of celebration.
At his ordination three years ago he had experienced mystical rapture. And in his heart he had always expected to fulfill Abbot Hammond’s long-ago prophecy of orderly progression up the Church scale, and finally, an abbacy somewhere. In France, just possibly—by now he spoke perfect French. In Scotland, perhaps, or—if the entire Benedictine Order’s prayers were finally granted—in a once more Catholic England.
Instead, there was Cowdray, and a halfhearted, half-patronizing, almost entirely frivolous household to be ministered to as house priest in a family that had so wickedly profited by the dissolution of the monasteries.
It would be a grave sin to pray for the fulfillment of Abbot Hammond’s other erroneous prophecy—the destruction of the Brownes by fire and water, and Stephen did not, but he did pray for release if it were God’s will. He tried not to realize that he was not only bored but lonely. And there was a further distress, quite unexpected.
Before he took up his duties at Cowdray he had gone to visit his family at Medfield. Both his parents were dead, and his brother Tom had married a charming, gentle Kentish cousin and already fathered a tiny son—little Thomas.
Stephen had forgotten his childhood home, and was startled to discover how dearly he loved it. The medley of warm cluttered rooms, the teeming dovecote, the duck pond, the view of the Downs, all awakened nostalgic memories. He celebrated Mass for his brother’s household in their tiny private chapel, and could scarcely keep his mind on the miracle of transubstantiation because of the warm family glow which filled him. He had never been close to his elder brother, nor did he feel so now. He was amazed at Tom’s lack of book learning, but he saw pleasant resemblances to their father, and admired Tom’s openhearted hospitality, his vivid interest in each happening on his manor. Tom supervised everything: the repair of a leaky thatch on a tenant’s cottage, the installation on the pond of an Aylesbury drake to improve the flavor of the ducklings, the erection of a tighter fence to keep out the stray sheep from the Downs, the daily welfare of his three horses, his oxteams and his kennel of hounds. Tom was every inch the budding squire—strict yet kindly, according to his principles. He was also very fond of his young wife Nan and their infant son.
Stephen felt an uncomfortable pang one twilight when Nan was suckling the baby. Casually she unlaced her bodice as they sat in the Hall after dinner sipping the fragrant mead Nan brewed from Medfield honey. Stephen saw the full creamy breast, and the erect rosy-brown nipple before the baby’s mouth covered it with a hungry gulp. He looked hastily down at his tankard and asked Tom an abrupt question about the enclosure of common lands.
“Aye . . .” Tom crossed his stout legs, considering. “’Tis a bad thing fur poor folk. I’ve took me a bit o’ grazing land here an’ there, but I’ve caused no hardship i’ the village. They’ve plenty o’ commons. ’Tis different wi’ the great lords, they grab miles fur their sheep, or even pleasure—the stag hunts; they close the rivers so they may glut on fish, which was once plenty for all; they’ve hanged many an honest man for snaring a rabbit that his fathers took freely.”
“Unfair,” remarked Stephen bitterly, though his mind was fighting the shamed fascination. He had seen French peasant women suckling babies when they came to the Abbey for alms, and had been quite as unmoved as when he saw any female animal giving suck to its young. Why then this disquiet because of Nan? Because the child is of my own blood, the nearest I can ever have to a son? he thought. And because, to his dismay—accustomed as he had been to conscience searching—he identified the other emotion, envy. Tom had suffered no sudden wrenches in his life, he was the secure owner of Medfield Place, master of its gentle beauty, its comfort and abundance; a contented husband with a pretty woman to warm him and care for him, and a hearty boy to carry on after him.
“Ye look a bit grim, brother,” said Tom chuckling. “I’d forgot ye’re off to serve the son o’ the very lord who turned ye out o’ Battle Abbey. Ye must think us simple folk here, after all your travels. Now me—a jaunt to Lewes, market days every six month’ll do me. Medfield’s m’ whole satisfaction.”
“I know,” said Stephen, sighing.
Tom looked at him shrewdly. “Ye doan’t regret ye’re priesting, do ye? Now ye’ve come back to a mighty unsettle country, where the cat jumps to the right today and the left tomorrow. Mebbe ’twill be better when King Edward takes the reins, but now that he’s ridding himself o’ Seymours, he’s got himself a worse master—Dudley! That arse-proud Dudley, or Dook o’ Northumberland as he is now. He’s no friend to us Catholics, an’ ye may have a spot o’ trouble where ye’re going. I look for none here, we’re a quiet lot at Medfield, not worth anyone’s bother, though we do follow the old ways and the old religion best we can.”
“I’m not afraid of trouble,” said Stephen stiffly, “and I never could regret my joining the Order. Never.”
Two days later Stephen left Medfield for Cowdray knowing that they were relieved to have him go, though Nan, all smiles, gave him the baby to hold and bless. A Benedictine monk in long black robes, tonsured, with a knotted scourge around his waist and a wooden crucifix on his chest embarrassed them. Not because of the tenantry or villagers—the Marsdons always did as they pleased and were well liked. But Stephen seemed to be a discordant note in the Medfield harmony.
They were slightly in awe of him, his learning, his travels, his cultured speech. Tom was a great one for bawdy jokes and rough horseplay, but felt he must suppress these during his august brother’s visit. Nan intuitively knew that in some way she disturbed her brother-in-law. She stopped suckling little Tom in front of him. She stopped leaning on his shoulder when she p
ut down his plate, or giving him the smacking kisses with which one greeted relatives, or even strangers, in England. And as both Marsdons had in childhood got out of the habit of daily Mass, they found Stephen’s insistence a bore.
Yet he thought back to the warm glowing week at Medfield with longing, and did penance for those moments of envy. A more poignant sorrow discomfited him when he let himself think of the cloistered years at Marmoutier, the dreamlike sheltered years when, he realized now, he had been completely secure and admired, doing what he most enjoyed.
Stephen finished his mutton and then, because it was Candlemas Day, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin, he added a daub of honey to his loaf of white wheat bread, and drank a mugful of ale. His provisions came from the Cowdray kitchen; a scullion ran up the hill daily with a hamperful. Stephen might have eaten in the Great Hall had he wished but he seldom did. He knew that his presence was as constraining as it had been at Medfield. He was not yet accustomed to the ribaldry and gluttony he saw around him nor the drunkenness nor the little plots and counterplots for preference nor the brawls which often broke out between visiting knights nor the constant and apprehensive court gossip.
He smarted that the usual Candlemas procession at Vespers was forbidden. King Edward had so decreed. Lighted candles were too papist, and Sir Anthony, though privately observant of the sacraments, saw no reason to cause unwelcome comment by disobeying the King in a minor ritual.
Stephen performed it alone tonight. He carried his little painting of the Virgin into the crumbling drafty chapel next door, placed it on the bare stone altar, and reverently lit three candles to Her.
He knelt for the devotions, and in the wavering light Her mysterious smile widened, there appeared to be a dimple near Her mouth; he thought She looked down on him with tenderness. As he finished the last Ave he felt a bursting love in his chest, and an ecstasy of devotion almost like that he had felt during his ordination. His discontent and loneliness dissolved in a flood of healing balm—surrender, and joyous submission.
