by Anya Seton
Wat, who shared these startled discoveries, gave his deep chuckle, and said, “Welladay, Lady—times do change—pigs and bread be more useful to a man than a gaggle o’ droning monks, though me old master’d never’ve permitted this. Young master he don’t pay heed to the property here. Forever stuck down at Cowdray.”
Ursula did not answer; even valued servants must be repressed when they spoke too freely, but it occurred to her that in avoiding his London home, Anthony might be showing proper caution. It was from here that he had been hauled off to jail for hearing Mass. And Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, once all-powerful favorite, was now disgraced and imprisoned in the Tower. She glanced at the bishop’s palace close by them. The windows were shuttered; the huge pile had a forlorn neglected look.
It was a dangerous time for Catholics, Ursula thought. At Cowdray she had scarcely realized this, and obeyed Anthony’s orders during the King’s visit simply from fear of displeasing her patron. Larger perils had not seemed real, and, thought Ursula, with an uncomfortable flash of honesty, had she not been secretly relieved when Brother Stephen was shut up in the cellars? Relieved even by the rat bite sickness later?
They approached the river, and Ursula glanced at Celia. “Oh, look, sweeting!” she cried. “There’s London Bridge!”
The girl looked eagerly. During the last days of traveling, as they plodded through heavily mired ways, up and down the Weald, entered and left a score of villages, spent the night at two inns far more luxurious than the Spread Eagle, Celia’s gnawing black hurt had receded. She had walled it off in a secret cell. She knew that it was there, but she could ignore it.
She stared at the bridge. Her mother had told her about it many times, and taught her the childish singing game.
“But, it’s all houses, Aunt,” Celia said frowning. “It looks like a street. I pictured it of marble, like the chimneypiece in the Great Hall at Cowdray!”
“Aye, Maiden,” said Wat, laughing, “dreams’re seldom like the truth. Ye’ll learn that in time.”
“No doubt!” answered Celia pertly, with a slight toss of her head which tickled Wat. He was delighted that the girl had recovered from the dumpish sulks with which she had started the journey. He was amused that his son, young Simkin, had taken to reddening and goggling when he helped Celia down from the saddle. Might be a match one day, Wat thought. When the lad grows up a bit. He’ll not be a stableboy long. I’ll see to that. If I send him a-soldiering he might rise fast i’ the world. Wat understood that Lady Ursula had ambitions for her niece, but he thought they were foolish. Celia was only a tavern wench, with a bastard father from an extinct stock. Steward wouldn’t even seat the girl above the salt. That showed her station! And Lady Ursula herself—her equivocal position at Cowdray was obvious to all.
“’Tis here, Lady,” he said to Ursula, pointing and nudging her horse. “Sir Anthony’s lodging. I trust the caretaker’ll be about since they’ve had no notice.”
Wat showed his party into the erstwhile cloisters. The central garth was planted now with turnips and pot greens. Four of the priory rooms had been sparsely furnished with bedsteads, tables, stools and cupboards, but they were dusty and airless. The caretaker, a doddering monk kept on by old Sir Anthony out of charity, was finally discovered snoring on a straw pallet.
“Wake up, Brother!” cried Wat, shaking the skinny shoulder. “We’ve come from the master at Cowdray!”
The old man jumped. He clutched his tattered habit around him, and peered up with frightened eyes. “I’ve done naught wrong,” he whispered. “There’s been no Masses here. Ye can look for yourselves—there’s naught papist here . . .”
“Nay, nay—” said Wat impatiently. “We ben’t King’s proctors. We come from Cowdray, from Sir Anthony Browne. We’ll stop a bit. Bestir yourself, ye old trout.”
Under the combined reassurances of Wat and Ursula, Brother Anselm lost his fears and brightened into garrulity. He had been alone in the priory rooms for months, suffering from a leg playfully injured by one of the King’s men when they had come to arrest Sir Anthony. “Tripped me up wi’ his pikestaff, did the blackguard,” Brother Anselm explained. “Same one who took an axe to our little altar and crucifix which we thought well hid i’ the old cupboard.”
Celia kept her eyes away from the monk as he rambled on. There was no reminder of the secret blow except the monk’s habit; and being Augustinian as well as filthy, it bore scant resemblance to Stephen’s, but she whisked into practical matters—laying their bedding on the steads, helping Simkin kindle a fire to cook dinner. Food and action keep miseries at bay—this she had learned in childhood.
The next two days were spent in seeing London. Ursula was as excited as Celia as they rode through the city from the sinister Tower to Temple Bar, then gaped at the palaces along the Thames until they reached Westminster. Agog as any country folk they gazed at the Abbey, and set foot in the portal. But Ursula would not attend a service there. Her Catholicism she had taken for granted in Sussex; in London she began to realize how destructive the new religion was. As they rode the streets they constantly encountered ruins. Priories, convents, hospitals and churches (those not rededicated for a parish) all had been torn down the stones carted off to build Protestant mansions The streets seemed very odd without the friars the monks the nuns who used to throne them Their place was taken by starving beggars who lay moaning near the door steps, hopeless and without asylum.
“’Tis horrible—” said Ursula one morning on the Strand, as a tattered scabrous woman suddenly screamed, vomited blood and died before their eyes. “Nobody cares for them now. Nobody cares for the old, the sick, the poor.” She had doled out all she dared from the purse Anthony had given her for expenses, but it did so little good. And prices had doubled since she had been in London years before.
Celia was naturally less appalled. She was not mature enough to understand human suffering in which she had no part. But as Ursula continually exclaimed in pity, Celia was forced to recognize the wickedness in the callous transformations. The Crutched Friars’ Church was now a tennis court where young gallants batted balls. St. Mary’s Hospital of near two hundred beds had been razed; nettles grew in the ruins. The Church of the Knights Hospitallers had been blown up with gunpowder. Everywhere they looked they might see jeweled fragments of stained glass, or broken crosses piled in heaps.
“I didn’t know it was like this,” said Ursula. “The Devil has taken London.”
“Yet, dear Aunt,” Celia ventured as they returned from a ride through the city, “Wat says King Edward is founding a new hospital; that he’s not unmindful of the commons’ good.”
Ursula shook her head. “I doubt that pale spineless lad can help his people, nor will live to do so.”
They were approaching London Bridge, bound back to Southwark when Ursula made this remark in a clear indignant tone. The sudden result of it was like a thunderbolt.
A rough hand clamped down on Ursula’s shoulder, twisting her in the saddle. A sardonic bearded face thrust close to hers. “Back ye go!” said the man, who wore a brass helmet and padded doublet. He yanked the gelding’s bridle. “Thou too, maiden,” he said to Celia. “Both of ye!” He carried a pikestaff, and had a dagger at his belt. “I heard ye plain, Mistress,” he growled, prodding Ursula on the leg with his pikestaff. “An’ ye’ll answer fur it.”
“Heard what? Answer for what?” cried Ursula though her heart beat fast. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Treason, that’s wot.” The guard spat on the paving stones. “An’ ye’ll answer fur it to the Dook. He’s at Durham House the nonce.” He seized the bridles of both geldings, turned them around with a smart blow on their rumps. The bridge traffic had paused, a knot of apprentices and housewives gathered close, gaping, murmuring.
“What is it, Aunt?” Celia whispered. “What’s the man want?”
Ursula heard some of the murmurs—“Duke’s man . . . Northumberland,” while the thickening crowd edged further
away from them, peering curiously but afraid.
“Holy St. Mary,” cried Ursula, “I’m Lady Southwell, this is my niece, we are but passing through London, on the way to the North. We are lodging in Southwark where our supper awaits.”
The guard shrugged contemptuously. “Ye may be Queen o’ Spain fur all I care—an’ calling on the saints, too! I smell a papist. Come along!”
Ursula met Celia’s uncomprehending gaze. “It seems we must go with this knave, my dear,” she said slowly. “’Tis some foolish blunder he’s made.”
The girl nodded, more exhilarated than frightened, and entirely confused. She had never heard the word “treason” and did not know its meaning. She thought vaguely that they must have transgressed some mysterious London law; perhaps they should not have picked the wallflowers which bloomed at the edge of a nobleman’s gate on the Strand. She did understand property rights. The Duke’s henchman herded them back along the Strand to Durham House, where the courtyard was thronged with petitioners and miscreants like themselves, under guard. The Duke’s steward, in maroon velvet cap and gown, walked pompously from group to group inquiring the reason for each one’s presence. His little eyes gleamed, his pursy mouth tightened when he talked to Ursula’s guard. “Well done, Carson,” they heard him say. “Aye, his grace’ll want a look at these.”
There was a further delay in the courtyard, until one of the household guard appeared, told the women roughly to dismount, and hurried them inside the palace. He shoved them along corridors into the presence chamber, which was actually grander and more luxurious than any of Edward’s. John Dudley, recently become Duke of Northumberland, sat on a canopied throne, under an immense shield which he had devised for himself. Even the College of Heralds was not immune to expedience, and since the King had not objected, Dudley had annexed the quarterings of the titles he had accumulated. The Warwick bear and staff were supported by the Percy lions, pending Dudley’s present endeavor to establish a more authentic pedigree for himself.
The presence chamber was filled with sycophants—newly made knights, aspirants to favor, several noblemen who had cannily attached themselves to England’s virtual ruler. A clerk sat at a desk below the dais, his goose-quill pen poised over parchment, in readiness for the next entry. Few even looked around as Ursula and Celia were hustled in, but the Duke straightened and stared keenly at the two women.
The Duke was an ugly man of fifty. His baldness was partly concealed by a discreetly plumed cap. He was, indeed, soberly dressed, as became an exponent of Calvinism. His dark forked beard, lip tuft and drooping mustaches were profuse, around a small pouting red mouth. His eyes, like smoky glass, could be merry on occasion—for Edward they always gleamed with paternal affection. They were often coldly appraising and ruthless—as they were now.
“Good day, Lady,” he said to Ursula; he waved her towards him and waited until she had curtsied. “My guard reports wicked—nay, treasonable—speech from you.”
The clerk wrote busily on the parchment. Ursula stood tall and quiet for a moment. “I remember no such thing, your grace, eavesdroppers and spies oft hear wrong.”
The Duke’s lids fell, and hooded his eyes, for he knew this to be true, and he thought that an elderly provincial widow and a green girl were hardly worth his time. “You made derogations anent the King’s Grace and his health. You spoke of the Devil,” said the Duke, “and you swore by a saint.”
Ursula hesitated, ignored the first accusation, and hurriedly answered the last. “’Twas a slip, your grace. I’m an old lady, and was so startled at disrespectful treatment to one of my rank that I may have forgot and used some words from the old religion.”
Northumberland stiffened, perfectly aware that she had evaded him. He peered harder at her. “What’s that chain around your neck?” He suddenly shouted. “The pendant’s hidden. Pull it out!”
Ursula’s thin cheeks flushed, her lips quivered and she bit them. The clerk raised his head while several of the chatting knights turned to watch. Celia, for the first time, felt danger.
The Duke made a gesture to his guard, who jerked up Ursula’s neck chain, revealing the small ivory crucifix attached to it.
“Ah . . .” said the Duke, smiling gently, and gestured again. The guard, bowing, handed over the gold chain. The Duke with precise deliberation, twisted off the crucifix, broke it in two, then leaned over and dropped the pieces in the clerk’s wooden trash bucket.
“You are indeed forgetful, Lady,” he said to Ursula. “Forgetful of royal decree, of English law.” He suddenly turned on Celia. “And you, too, maiden—have you hid on you these prohibited, idolatrous trinkets?”
She shook her head, her luminous eyes staring blankly. “No, sir . . .”
The Duke absently hung Ursula’s chain over his knee. He smoothed his forked beard, separating the tufts while he appraised the girl. Honest, he thought. He had not risen to power without intuitions. It was near the supper hour, his stomach growled, and he felt that a thorough fright was perhaps enough for these insignificant sprats. A week’s imprisonment in the Marshalsea would certainly curb seditious speech or disobedience of law.
“Where do you live in Southwark, maiden?” He continued to address Celia, because the old lady’s face was angry and mulish. Carson had reported their residence as Southwark, a lowly suburb, and his question was purely formal.
“Sir Anthony Browne’s, in St. Mary Overies’ old priory, just now, my lord,” Celia answered. “But we come from Cowdray.”
The Duke’s nostrils indented. Cowdray! That undoubted nest of papacy, though no evidence of such had been reported after the King had stopped there on the Progress. He had vetoed Edward’s idea of visiting there, and yet permitted himself to be overridden. Anthony Browne’s support would be extraordinarily helpful in the future, if it could be gained. Browne was an uncertain factor. Good-tempered, rich, rather stupid, erstwhile papist of course, but he might be converted like so many others. The Duke peered past Celia towards the far door.
“My Lord Clinton!” The Duke suddenly raised his voice and bawled down the Chamber to a fat grizzling nobleman who had just entered.
The crowd made way for Clinton, who thought that Northumberland again wished to consult on naval matters, since Clinton had arrived from Deptford’s royal dockyards. He stopped, astonished when he saw the two women.
“Aye,” said the Duke, watching, “d’ye know them? Claim they come from Cowdray.”
“Well, I’ve seen them there,” said Clinton, perplexed. He had exchanged a few courtesies with Lady Ursula at table, and certainly noted Celia, as any man would. “What’s amiss? They in trouble?”
“It may be . . .” answered the Duke slowly. “The old lady’s a papist, and was heard speaking very indiscreetly of the King. She may be a bit soft i’ the head, and I’ll let her off if you vouch for her.”
Here the Duke was treading warily. He had but recently gained Lord Clinton to his cause. Clinton, obstinately in love and indecently vocal about it, was to marry Anthony Browne’s stepmother next week in Lincolnshire. The Lord High Admiral was not a man one cared to offend.
“Bah!” said Clinton. “By cock, Northumberland, you waste our time on them, there’re weightier matters—when d’ye join the King at Salisbury?”
Despite the lisp occasioned by his missing teeth, the Admiral spoke with force, and with none of the fawning timidity the Duke was used to.
“Next week,” said the Duke. “But Cheke’s with him now. There’s much business for me here.”
“Aye,” said Clinton impatiently, “much.” He indicated with a shrug while he sent a reassuring smile to Celia’s anxious, lovely face just how niggling he thought the detention of the women.
But the Duke, ever cautious, had a new suspicion.
“D’you soon return to Cowdray?” he asked Celia, who flushed, aware of mysterious tensions. But she could not refuse to answer, and could see no harm in doing so.
“Not soon—” she faltered. “We are b
ound north.”
“Where to—?” said the Duke, and waited, fondling his beard.
“To the—the Dacres, in Cumberland.”
The Duke glanced at Clinton. Here was a surprise! He had just returned from conferences with Lord Dacre at Berwick. Dacre was the feudal overlord of the Western Marches. His barony was vital to the strength of the Border. He was also an entrenched Catholic, but practicality required turning a blind eye to religious differences in the wild North where military strength was the only essential.
“Some Dacres o’ Gilsland were at Cowdray when the King was,” Clinton snapped. “The King’s Grace liked them. A pox on it, John Dudley—there’s Paul’s bells ringing four o’clock—ye’ve grown picky as an old crone!”
The Duke’s lids hid his anger. He resented the use of his original name; he resented Clinton’s words, and later, the Admiral would rue them. He acceded, however, except for one more question, smoothly put.
“Do you call, perchance, at Hunsdon on your way north, maiden?” He looked from the young face to the old one, and saw genuine bewilderment on both.
“What’s Hunsdon, your grace?” asked Celia. “I’ve never left Midhurst before, I know not where we stop on the journey.”
“You, Lady—” he finally turned to Ursula. “You know who resides now at Hunsdon?”
“No, your grace,” said Ursula, with complete truth, “I do not.”
Clinton suddenly guffawed, and slapped the Duke on the arm. “We’ve coils enough, I warrant, wi’out your inventing ’em. Have done, have done!”
The Duke nodded. “You may go—Lady,” he tossed the chain towards her, “but guard your tongue in future, mind the trinkets that you wear, and have no truck wi’ the wicked Bishop o’ Rome—or ye’ll end behind bars, as you would’ve today had not my Lord Clinton seen fit to speak for you.”
