by Anya Seton
She accepted these avidly, her tears dried, and she hurried her husband away, clearly relieved that she had got anything.
Anthony had also been generous with Julian, expressed thanks for his successful doctoring of the house priest, and given him a small purseful of coins, adding kindly that if he ever had influence at Court he would try to temper Edward’s antipathy. “But I walk the edge of a very narrow plank myself, good Doctor, as you must see,” he had said shrugging. Julian nodded, and they shook hands in cordial farewell.
The interview with Lady Ursula had been more disquieting. Anthony was startled, even hurt that members of his household might desire a protracted absence from Cowdray. And he thought Ursula’s plan of journeying to the border wilderness both dangerous and foolish.
“At your age, Lady?” he said sharply, “and with that—that fair young maid? Impossible.” He felt further discomfort in realizing that each day glimpses of the fair young maid—at the foot of his table, or in the garden gathering posies, or playing with the newest litter of puppies—had become pleasing to him.
“Surely Celia doesn’t wish to make this outrageous journey?” he said. “I thought her happy at Cowdray.”
“She does not know yet,” said Ursula. “There are reasons—” and she took a long breath. “Reasons why she must go. Sir Anthony, I humble myself to ask this of you, but I’m Celia’s only relation, and I know what’s best for her. I humble myself further to beg of you horses and an escort.”
“What reasons?” asked Anthony hotly. “Explain yourself, Lady!”
He saw her face fall, but the eyes met his proudly, steadily until he thought of this woman he had long taken for granted as almost formidable. He was also reminded of her lineage. The de Bohun pedigree went back five hundred years to the days of the Conqueror; Bohuns had been the owners of Cowdray and Midhurst until 1528, a scant twenty-four years back, the time of the forced sale to Anthony’s uncle of the half-blood, Lord Southampton. While I, thought Anthony, have lived here but five years myself.
“I can’t give you reasons,” said Ursula quietly, “except that they have to do with the avoidance of a grave threat to Celia’s soul and salvation. I’ve been praying to St. Anthony—your own saint, sir—that he will intercede in this matter. That he’ll give you a sign, as he has me.”
“Sign . . .?” said Anthony slowly. “You’ve had a sign?”
“Aye, last Tuesday, the candle I lit at his feet sent forth a shower of sparks, and flared high, it shone on the face of the Baby Jesus in the saint’s arms, and the Little One smiled.”
“Ah . . . indeed . . .” Anthony was shaken. He could not disbelieve her quiet awed voice, and after all, St. Anthony was known as the saint of wonders. “I accede to your request, my Lady Ursula,” he had said after a moment. “God gi’e you good speed.”
Gerald had been watching his host during Anthony’s reflections, and he now spoke airily. “Ye’re uncommon grave, m’lad, ’tis unhealthy to ponder. Since ye’ll not wench, let’s try our luck at these.” He drew a leather box from his pocket, and rattled the ivory dice.
Seven
THE HAZY RED AUGUST sun had scarcely risen above Trotton forest when the Cumberland-bound party set out from Cowdray.
Anthony, always generous by instinct, had made handsome provision for the expedition. Ursula and Celia were mounted on quiet sturdy geldings. There was a stout mule to carry the coffers and bedding, and there were two escorts—a gangling lad of sixteen called Simkin, and his father, Wat Farrier.
Wat was thirty-nine, a powerful black-bearded man, ruddy-cheeked beneath shrewd little eyes like a bear’s. He had been born near the stables, and raised amongst them, but from childhood had shown so much quick wit and skill at any odd jobs old Sir Anthony wanted done that the elder knight sent Wat to Midhurst Dame School for a year.
Thus, Wat could figure and knew his letters. He was adept at falconry, and supervised the gamekeepers. He was also Cowdray’s Keeper of the Horse, and could tilt at the quintain as well as any knight. During old Sir Anthony’s lifetime Wat had seen a bit of the world while accompanying his master on diplomatic or military missions. He had been north to the Border in 1543 during one of the sporadic attempts to subdue the Scots. He had fought at the siege of Boulogne; he had gone to Cleves with Sir Anthony Browne to bring home Anne, “The Flemish Mare,” whose person had so displeased old King Hal that there were many ticklish moments for Sir Anthony before the marriage was annulled.
During the last five years Wat had chafed at the restricted life of Cowdray, fond as he was of young Anthony, to whom he had taught riding and falconry.
Wat was, therefore, delighted with this mission to the North, and delighted to be free of his wife for a while. Joan, the fair buxom dairy maid of eighteen years past, had somehow turned into a frowzy scold. She had grown bony as a rake, and her tongue sharp as a needle.
Wat had often thought of decamping. There was the war in France which might be joined, or one might enlist in Sebastian Cabot’s expedition, which was even now recruiting men for the three ships that were to search for a northeast passage to India. The western voyages had discovered a new continent but not, after all, the precious Spice Islands.
Loyalty to the Browne family, inherited down the generations, had curbed Wat’s errant wishes. He had solaced himself by galloping off on Feast Days to Portsmouth, where he could watch ships loading and swill down tankards with sailors in The Dolphin.
The escortage of two women on what would certainly be a tedious journey was not quite his fancy, yet there was a secret mission involved which might liven the trip.
Wat turned a minatory eye on Simkin, who was shambling along beside the mule, and for the moment doing nothing to warrant a father’s censure; then he glanced at his charges. The Lady Ursula for all her years rode easily, her back erect, swaying in rhythm to the bay gelding’s brisk walk, her gloved hands loose on the reins.
The girl was another matter. She gripped the pommel, her left foot was turned wrong in the stirrup. She’d take a deal of schooling, Wat thought, being, after all, but a bastard Bohun and a tavern wench. Pretty lass, though, or would be if she didn’t look so stiff and solemn—ill-tempered, like as not. Women—thought Wat—of all ages, they were strange kittle-cattle, you never knew, and better not find out what was irking them. He glanced ahead towards a ridge of dun-colored clouds lying low over the weald to the north. The ways’d likely be muddy after Petworth.
He shrugged his shoulders inside the leather jerkin, which was blazoned on the sleeve with the red buck’s head, and humming a “Hey Nonny Nonny,” nicked a horsefly from his stallion’s neck.
They plodded through Easebourne, past the priory, and Ursula looked again at Celia, who maintained the silence she had held since leaving Cowdray’s gatehouse, when she had responded to Anthony’s “Farewells” with a muffled “Thank ye, sir.” Blessed St. Mary, Ursula thought—the child looks blasted! But ’twill pass. Lauded be St. Anthony I’ve got her away. New sights, new people will soon dispel the gloom—a childish wan hope which could have no real basis, since even last night Celia had been gay, laughing at her own mistakes while young Mabel tried to teach her lute playing, and parrying Lord Gerald’s banter with a light coquetry.
Nothing could possibly have happened since to produce the fixed, stony silence. The girl did not even turn her head for a last glimpse of the castle, nor beyond it St. Ann’s Hill where a plume of blue smoke showed that Brother Stephen must be cooking his breakfast.
Ursula reached across between the horses and put her hand on Celia’s shoulder, “Only think, sweeting!” she said brightly, “London tomorrow night, or next—you’ll see the Bridge, the Tower, the palaces—we’ll go to the bullring if you like. Ah, ’twill be wondrous exciting!”
Celia answered nothing at all, her strained eyes stared at her gelding’s ears.
“Are you queasy, dear? The motion of the horse when you’re not accustomed . . .?”
“No, Aunt,” said Celi
a, at length, turning her head away.
A pox on it, thought Ursula. Sulky children should be chastised. Her own mother had raised her with nips and slaps when she transgressed. But Celia had not transgressed, and she did not seem a child, her little face showed a chill detachment.
Except for the clop-clop of hooves on the dusty highway to Petworth and the barking of farmhouse dogs, there was no further sound for some miles.
Celia had scant awareness of the others, or the road. The tiny fraction of her mind which had responded to her aunt’s question did not ripple the surface of the deep black pond into which she had sunk last night. In her chest she felt the black hollowness. Desolation as an active force, replacing the anger she had felt for a while. The anger was far less miserable, and she willed it to return. I hate him, she thought. I said so, I meant it. I mean it now. But there was the bleak hollowness, sharpened to hurt by little rat-nibbles of humiliation.
Celia had gone to Stephen on Tan’s Hill last evening. Had it not been for that interview, she would not have been riding to London with Ursula today on the way to exile.
Celia had laid careful plans for escape. For the last three days she had secreted bread, cheese, salted fish in a cache under a yew near the close walks, and she had arranged to hide in Molly O’Whipple’s garret until the hue and cry died down. Old Molly, “the wise-woman,” though esteemed by Lady Jane for her herbal remedies, was generally held to be a witch. All the countryside feared her, they would never have looked for Celia at Molly’s. Thus had been Celia’s plans, formed by the frantic desire to remain near Stephen, and the certainty that he wished her to.
After the moment of official farewell in Cowdray chapel yes-termorn when she had knelt for his blessing, it seemed to her that he had asked her to stay. Amidst the shock of sudden bliss when he touched her hair, her neck, she thought she heard him murmur—“Don’t leave me, beloved.” Ursula swept her out of the chapel before she could respond to Stephen, but she had no doubts as to their complete understanding.
Her secret had sustained her through the afternoon and supper. She had been laughing, airy, until they rose from the table after Sir Anthony’s kindly toasts to the voyagers. Then Celia excused herself to her aunt, saying that she wished to bid farewell to Mab’s litter.
Ursula, harassed by a dozen last minute travel details, only smiled tolerantly. Celia’s passion for the new beagle puppies was well known.
Yet once outside in the barnyard Celia paused only a second at the kennel where the puppies were squealing and tumbling over their mother. She sped past the granary, darted around the row of cottages, and down to the meadow. It was near dusk, the cotters were inside getting ready for bed. Nobody saw Celia as she ran across the footbridge over the Rother, plunged into the hillside forest of oaks and elms, and up the rough path to the top. She clambered over the mossy remnants of the old wall, and saw without surprise that Stephen was standing a few yards away from his hut. She had expected him to be waiting for her.
He had been digging a garden plot, where he would sow the herbs Master Julian had listed for him. His habit was kirtled high, looped under the knotted scourge at his waist. His legs were streaked with earth. His face was flushed and glistening. He had taken off the dangling crucifix which knocked against the spade handle. He looked younger, less monk-like than she had ever seen him, and Celia called out a joyous, “Stephen! I’m here, at last!”
She ran to him laughing.
Stephen dropped the spade, turning on her a startled face. The girl was wearing the moss-green woolen traveling dress Anthony had provided and a russet velveteen cloak. The hood had fallen back from her bright hair. Her face shone white in the gloaming, and her appearance to him was so eerie, like a dryad flitting from the forest, that his hand rose to cross himself. The pagans, he thought in confusion, they had held rites on this hilltop. Before the True Faith came to England.
“Ye stare so, love—” cried Celia, still laughing. “But ye knew I’d come to thee.”
Stephen’s intake of breath was clear above the chittering of squirrels and the rustling leaves.
“No,” he said.
He pulled down his habit, and became the tall, black forbidding figure she knew too well. “Celia, why are you here? I said good-bye to you this morning.”
“It was a sham,” she said smiling. “D’ye think I’d leave thee? Go off a thousand miles from thee? I saw the look in your eyes. You touched my neck, you asked me to bide here.”
His flush deepened, and his voice was cutting. “I said naught to you but the Benedicite.” Nor had he, yet all day he had been appalled at the realization that his hand of its own will had caressed her hair, had stroked the petal-smooth white neck as she knelt before him. “To be sure you’re leaving—at sunrise tomorrow—for Cumberland. What else?”
She heard the weakness in the question and laughed again gently.
“Oh, ’tis very simple,” she whispered, bending close to him. “I’ve it well planned. I’ve saved food. I’ll hide awhile at Molly O’Whipple’s and can come to you nights up here. ’Tisn’t far. And Molly’ll not gab.”
“Celia . . .” Stephen knew that the girl was not aware of the full purport of her plan, that her innocence was real, yet he quickly found the needed cold and reasonable words. “This is folly, child! Disobedient and ungrateful folly. You’ve no more wits than a titmouse. How long do you think to hide at Molly’s? What would you do after?”
“Why—” she said, faltering, “after a bit I’d go back to Cowdray. And you’d win them over-Aunt Ursula, Sir Anthony. They’ll listen to you—and we’d be nigh each other.”
“What for?” said Stephen clipping the words. “I don’t want you near.”
She gasped, twisting her hands on a fold of her cloak. “That’s a lie, Stephen,” she whispered, staring up at him. “You do want me nigh!” She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck. He felt the soft pressure of her body, and his own body’s shameful response as she kissed him. Her lips were hot and sweet. The dizzy flame they lit he had felt before only in the wicked dreams from which he awoke shivering and disgusted. He jerked back from her.
“Slut!” he cried, and pushed her so hard that her foot caught on the fallen spade and she fell to the turf. She lay there, her face covered by her hands.
“You’re a little fool, Celia Bohun,” he said, “and by Our Lady, I believe I hate you!”
She did not move, and he stared down with savage joy at her abasement. Stared at the curve of her hips, and the slender naked leg exposed by her rumpled skirt. His chest constricted with a furious pain. “Misericorde,” he said beneath his breath. “These are whorish tricks, Satan’s tricks.”
The eight o’clock curfew bell rang out from Midhurst Church, a sheep bleated in the pasture by the Rother. Two elm branches creaked together as the twilight breeze freshened.
Suddenly Celia leaped to her feet. She confronted him with arms akimbo, her chin high, and spoke with the vulgar intonation of her tavern childhood. “Aye—meaching house priest! Ye’re roight. I’m a fool. I’ve been a lovesick moon calf. I too can hate. ’Tis a far simpler lesson than t’others ye dinned me with. Never fear, I’m off to Cumberland. There’re men there’ll be joyed to see me, no doubt there’ll be many. I bid ye farewell, Brother Stephen!”
She made him a slow sweeping curtsy, smoothed down her skirts, and tossed back her hair. She vanished as she had come, melting into the forest.
“Blessed Jesu—” Stephen whispered. He stood a long time, staring down at the spade. His eyes stung and watered. He walked slowly into the little chapel and knelt on the stone altar slab. “Ave Maria in gratia plena . . .” The words were dry as the rustling leaves. “Pater Noster . . . libera nos a malo . . .”—the meaningless cluttering of squirrels.
He went into his hut, and sat on his stool, his eyes went as always to his picture of the Virgin. The benign, the loving look had gone. It seemed to him that the beautiful face smirked at him with leering reproof. He gaz
ed at it a moment. He got up and covered the picture with the purple linen pall which shrouded Her in Lent. Then he strode out of his hut, and down the hill’s western slope towards the town, away from Cowdray. He walked all night on Midhurst Common.
Wat Farrier, two days later, guided his charges along the Borough High Street into Southwark, while a clamor of church bells rang out for noon.
“Blessed Mary, what a din!” remarked Ursula smiling. “I’d forgot the town was so noisy.”
Below the ding-dongs from parish churches on both sides of the Thames, there was a constant rumbling of carts, horses’ whinneys, barking dogs, shouted orders to porters, and the melodious street cries. “Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?” “What d’ye lack?” “Milk—Country milk . . .!” “Scissors and knives, to grind—to grind!”
The street narrowed, and grew shadowy beneath the overhanging windows from which came periodic shouts—“Onguard below!” while someone flung out the contents of a chamber pot into the gutters. They jogged past old Tabard Inn, and heard pleasanter sounds through the paved courtyard. The plunking of a lute, accompanied by a penny whistle, and someone singing, “Back and side go bare, go bare.”
“Used to be vastly more noise,” remarked Wat, adjusting his felt hat, and winking at a pretty barrowmaid who was trundling baskets full of peaches and apricots. “We had the monastery bells too. Often I thought my ears’d split. Bigod, I did.”
“Aye,” agreed Ursula thoughtfully. She had not been to London in many years, nor ever lodged on the South Bank before. They were to stay in Southwark in Sir Anthony’s town house, which was the former priory of St. Mary Overies. Along with Battle Abbey in Sussex, King Henry had presented this ancient Augustinian priory to the elder Browne. Ursula had, so far, no particular scruples about dispossessed monks, or sacred places turned secular, yet as they neared the great priory’s church, now the parish one-rechristened St. Saviour’s, and therefore spared destruction—she was dismayed by the raffish state of the adjoining chapels. Both had been boarded up, the fair Gothic stonework daubed with plaster, the stained glass splintered and then replaced by tattered paper. The smaller chapel had become a bakehouse, with an oven built on the site of the altar—the Lady Chapel housed a drove of squealing, malodorous pigs.
