by Anya Seton
They danced until at dawn they fell into bed, exhausted. Celia had managed to forget the approaching marriage, and just at cockcrow she dreamed of Stephen. The dream repeated the setting of their farewell on Tan’s Hill, but its outcome did not. In the dream Stephen clutched her hungrily in his arms, saying, “You’ll never leave me, my love,” and when he kissed her they became one being as when two raindrops merge, and they were lying softly together in a golden boat, lulled by the gentle billows beneath them. Shining contentment which lasted until Celia was awakened by Magdalen shaking her shoulder.
“Och, there, slugabed, ’tis late,” said Magdalen laughing. “Were ye dreaming o’ your bridegroom wi’ that daft wee smile on your face?”
“Of Stephen . . .” whispered Celia, half awake and gripped by a sickening sense of loss.
Magdalen nodded. “That’s apt,” she said, “sence ’tis his day. He mun be proddin’ ye ta Mass for his intention.”
Celia’s jaw dropped, she stared at her friend who was dragging a comb through her crackling red hair, sluicing icy water out of a basin onto her face. For a dazed moment Celia thought Magdalen was speaking of Stephen Marsdon, though she knew that the girl had never heard of him. Then she understood. To be sure, this day after Christmas was St. Stephen’s Feast Day—St. Stephen, the first martyr, who had been stoned to death outside Jerusalem by the wicked Jews—then it was also her Stephen’s name day . . .
“Hasten . . .” cried Magdalen. “We’ll be late, an’ ye knaw that fashes Faither, forebye there’s a-mickle ta do fur your weddin’—there’ll be fifty extra ta feed iffen the snaw howlds off, the Musgraves fra Eden Hall an’ the Graham clan’ll be here, na matter what . . .”
“I can’t wed Leonard,” said Celia in a flat voice, her eyes hard as sea ice.
For a second Magdalen was startled. “Whist, hinny!” she pulled Celia off the bed. “Ye’re haverin’, wake oop!” She sloshed water on Celia, ran the comb through the long yellow tangles, flung a hooded cloak over the girl.
Celia allowed herself to be propelled down the stone stairs to the chapel. She said no more. She listened intently when there were references to St. Stephen in the Mass; she murmured responses with the others but her long apathy had vanished. Whatever happened she would not marry Leonard. Two and two made four. Fire burned, snow was cold. The River Irthing flowed south. Cowdray was in Sussex. She could not wed Leonard Dacre.
She glanced down the chapel towards Leonard, whose narrow foxy-colored pate was decorously bowed like his brothers, then at the Baron’s box pew where he and his Lady followed the Mass with brisk devotion while keeping a watchful eye on the younger members of their family.
Celia clenched her hands in a fold of her gown and thought frenziedly of plans. Flat refusal would do no good. The Dacres were kindly, but the Baron never altered his decisions; nor were weddings with unwilling brides unknown in the North. Magdalen had laughed about a Dacre marriage where the bride had been trussed up then carried screaming to the altar and jabbed with a dirk until she panted out the vows.
Feign illness then, thought Celia. But how? Deception clever enough to fool Magdalen or Ursula was beyond her powers. Ursula had loved her once, but to Celia now her aunt seemed an enemy. There was no confidence between them any more.
The girl’s schemes grew wilder. Escape . . . run north to the Border. Those fearsome Scots . . . the Maxwells, the Lowthers . . . would they shelter her—glad of the excuse to annoy Dacres? But how far was the Border, and how to survive in frozen mountains, through icy streams?
As the Lanercost priest made the benediction and said, “he, missa est,” Celia’s cheeks flamed from another idea. If she told them she was not a virgin . . . that she was with child? No, they wouldn’t believe that either. She scarcely understood exactly what kind of act produced a child, but Magdalen’s robust comments had enlightened her on one point. A woman with child ceased to have the monthly courses and Magdalen naturally knew that Celia had just recovered from hers. This event and its precalculation was indeed why the wedding had been set for the twenty-ninth.
Blessed Mother—what can I do? Celia’s heart began thudding, the chapel walls closed around her like a tomb.
“Coom, lass,” said Magdalen nudging her, “we’ll gan out an’ gather fresh greens to mak’ garlands fur the Hall and church, an’ we mun start gildin’ the wheat ears fur your bride crown. Jesu!” she added sharply, “ye’re white an’ wambly as a lamb new born . . . Leonard!” she called to her brother, “Celia’s gan mazy, can ye not gentle her?”
Leonard, who had been hurrying from the chapel intent on a farewell gallop to Gilsland and some pleasing hours of bawdry with the warm Widow Dixon, paused and looked around at the two girls.
It struck him that Celia did indeed look mazy—pale, bewildered and yet sullen. She showed none of the sparkle and provocative challenge which had so attracted him, and he wondered if he were not making a bad bargain after all. This pallid childish lass might be a poor bedmate and breeder, and no dowry either, but he’d never dare own misgivings to his indomitable father who had often berated him for being a shilly-shallying laggard.
“Oh, I’ll gentle her Thursday neet,” he drawled with a halfhearted smirk at his determined sister. “’Tis not seemly aforehand.”
Magdalen snorted then tossed her head. She linked her arm to Celia’s and conveyed her into the Hall to break their fast with ale and a manchet of bread.
Ursula was already in the Hall, seated at a table beside Lady Dacre. The two matrons had become cronies. The wedding plans excited them, and they were busily sorting ribbons—the bride laces which would be attached to Celia’s girdle, wrists and ankles, to be yanked off by the young folk after the ceremony. They were also counting the requisite favors to bestow on the guests. Lady Dacre had raided her coffers and unearthed some gloves, bows, silver-gilt trinkets she had been storing against a daughter’s marriage.
“We’ll send to London fur more when your time cooms, Maggie,” said Lady Dacre, smiling at Magdalen as the girls entered. “Celia’s wedding s’all be like a dotter’s, an’ll not shame us Dacres.”
Ursula murmured her thanks. She was woefully embarrassed by her poverty, and certain that the Dacre generosity must overwhelm Celia with the grateful rejoicing she herself felt. After years of subservience and loneliness, Ursula was blossoming at Naworth, where the servants treated her deferentially and the family included her as an equal. She was unconscious of the mutinous pleading look Celia gave her. She smoothed the last white ribbon and laid it on the pile.
“Should be a-plenty,” Ursula said happily, “unless . . . I suppose none o’ the Nevilles’ll come from Raby, ’tis too far . . .?”
Lady Dacre shook her head, a shadow crossed her florid face. “Only Tam’s puir wife Bess,” she said sighing. “He’s gan ta fetch her fra Dacre. By the Blessed Saints, I hope there’ll be na trooble.”
“Oh, surely not,” said Ursula absently. The strange night at the Dacre keep seemed years past, and she had been so feverish with ague that she barely remembered what had happened. Moreover, it pleased her that young Lady Dacre—wife to the heir—should be brought to Naworth to honor Celia’s wedding.
Magdalen and Celia also heard Lady Dacre’s remark. Magdalen was always optimistic and practical and scarcely noted it. Celia saw the news as yet another nail in her coffin lid.
By twilight Celia’s desperation had induced need for action—any action. She went in search of Simkin, praying that she would find him in the stable. It was not hard to escape from Magdalen, who had been called to her parents’ bedchamber to confer with the elder ladies about a tally of the Graham youngsters whose names Lady Dacre was not sure of.
In the stable, one of the lads quirked his eyebrows at Celia’s question, said that Simkin had watered and curried the Cowdray horses an hour ago, and had probably gone to his loft. Celia nodded, got directions and hurried towards the warren of wooden outbuildings behind the castle’s south wall. She entered the third
door into a dark cavern of oat bins and stored threshing implements. She sought Simkin because there had once been sympathy between them, because she felt that he was unhappy, and because he came from Cowdray.
She saw that there was candlelight flickering above a ladder, and heard male voices from the loft. She called out, “Simkin!” but stopped as she heard a harsh despairing laugh, then a crooning sound, like the sound a mother made to her babe, and yet unlike—for this held a cruel taunting note.
Celia was deeply puzzled, but she slowly mounted the ladder until her head cleared the trap door and she could see. She stared uncomprehending as her eyes strained wide.
In the loft on a pile of sacking there lay two naked men. At once she recognized them. Simkin and George. She saw Simkin’s shaggy black head lying next to George’s finely cut upturned profile. Then Simkin’s harsh voice cried out, “Aye . . . so now ye find me ugly, eh? But where’ll ye get another cotquean to be your slave an’ do your filthy bidding?”
“Ah . . . but ye luv ma bidding, hinny, m’lad,” George crooned in that wooing taunting voice. She saw George’s hand begin to stroke the other youth’s hairy thigh.
Celia clung to the edge of the trap door. Her knees trembled, she nearly retched.
They had not seen her. She crept down the ladder.
“Christ have mercy . . .” she whispered.
She fumbled her way past the oat bins into the air where a fine powdery snow was beginning to fall. She wandered back through the side postern of the castle. So there was nobody to help her. Nobody.
“Christ have mercy . . .” she repeated and leaned on the side of the kitchen wall. Time passed while she stood there in the snow. There was bustle in the kitchens, she heard snatches of laughter, and the preparatory squeals of the bagpipes. Jock the piper was practicing for her wedding. “The bonny bride fra far awa’”—that was the name of the piece.
Celia stood there in the courtyard as her golden hair whitened with snow. She did not raise her head when the courtyard bell clanged out. She did not watch when the gates swung in and a party of horsemen came through them.
She dimly heard voices. “What’s that?” “Why ’tis a lass crouched by the wall!” “Some kitchen wench.”
Blessed Virgin help me . . . Celia prayed with the force of shock and despair, and looking up thought that there had been a miracle. That an angel had come down from heaven to comfort her.
A tall whitish figure stood beside her, the kitchen lights gave it luminescence, and it spoke in a low sweet voice. “What troubles you, poor maiden?”
Celia gave a long shaking sigh and reached out her hands towards the figure. “Help me . . .” she whispered. A hand took hers, but its touch startled her—so clammy cold, yet thickly soft. Celia stared down and saw that the other hand was encased in a drenched velvet glove.
Sir Thomas, having also dismounted, came peering. “Why, ’tis little Celia Bohun!” he cried. “Bess, ’tis the lass who’s to wed Leonard. ’Tis the bride!”
“Ah, so . . .” said young Lady Dacre, “sma’ wonder she shivers an’ hides. Yet the King, my royal father, told me she’d be here.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Thomas sharply. “Coom inside, Bess—all o’ ye!” He waved his arm to the servants who had accompanied him from Dacre, one was leading blind Janet’s horse.
It was cheerful though smoky in the Hall. Pine logs crackled, there were candles as well as rushlights. The Baron and his wife gave Thomas and Bess a hearty welcome, smacked kisses on their daughter-in-law’s cold cheeks, determined to think her better, relieved that there was no strange look in her large dark eyes.
With composure she sat beside Lord Dacre while they supped. She smiled at times. In her plain gown of bleached homespun she dominated all the russets, blues and greens. She did nothing untoward, drank sack delicately, showed no interest in the bloodier hunks of roasted mutton, and by her remote courtesy somewhat subdued the others.
“Eh, there, Tam,” grunted the Baron to his son, while downing an extra noggin of whisky, “I vow Lady Bess’ll gi’e ye anither son yet, ye’ll tak’ a go at it this neet, won’t ye, lad?”
“Aye . . .” answered Tom, but his eyes shifted and the quick glance he gave his wife was uncertain.
“She’ll no ha’e heard o’ your doin’s in Carlisle, she couldna . . .” said Lord Dacre very low. “Not that I blame ye—i’ the saircoomstances—but ye knaw wot happened afore. Keep ye’re snot clean at Na’orth, an’ dinnet go near that Jeannie, the woodcutter’s wench—aye, I’m no’ blind. Her belly’s thickenin’—’tis ye I suppose, ’less ’tis Leonard. Either way we’ll ha’e ta gi’e her faither some siller.”
Tom said nothing. Not for worlds would he have admitted that he was afraid of his wife, that the thought of bedding her again gave him gooseflesh, and yet excited him.
“Bess’s a’reet,” he said curtly. “Janet says she’s drunk no bluid nor sung that song the past month.”
Dacre nodded. “’Twas only her wild fancy made her blame ye fur the death o’ the bairn. She’ll be over it noo.” He signaled to his piper and demanded a merry jig.
Tom felt the old flush of guilty anger. The baby’s death had naught to do with him. A pinprick on the little chest from the knife Tom had left unsheathed at his belt. It cut wee Tammie as his father gathered him up in a boisterous embrace. A scratch—but it did not heal. It puffed and reddened. Some days later it burst, dribbling green pus and blood. It was then that Bess began to suck and lick the wound, insisting that it was the only way to cure her baby. They hid the child from her, but on the second night she stole in and saw the wet nurse they had found. Bess hit the poor wench on the breasts, she pummeled her, screaming that Tom, not content with hurting her baby, had given it to one of his whores. Then she crouched in a corner and began to lick the infant’s chest wound, like any hound bitch or cat mother. Before they could restrain her, her mouth was full of blood. And the baby died next day. Bess’s hoarse screams resonated through the castle. After a week of this they sent her to Dacre. Nigh to a year ago, Tom thought, and the horror faded. She was quiet and courteous to him now; despite the coarse white robe she insisted on wearing, she looked again like the lovely Neville bride he had been so glad to win.
“A wedding,” said Tom to his father, “it’ll gladden the lot o’ us.” He began to bang on the table in time with the piper’s jig. “Where’s Leonard?” he asked.
“A bit late coomin’ heem, but he ha’ business i’ Gilsland, some complaint o’ ma crofters, he’s na guid at handlin’ ’em. I troost he’ll not muck up the manor at Greystoke. I’m sendin’ ’em there ye knaw.”
Tom did know. Lord Dacre had bestowed one of his lesser estates on the young couple.
“We found the lass huddled i’ the courtyard,” said Tom shrugging. “Na doot they’ve had a lover’s tiff.” Both men looked at Celia who was sitting very quietly beside Magdalen. “A bonny beauty,” said Tom appreciatively, “I’d a bedded her mysel’, had she no got betrothed to Len, but I’m no the man ta cuckold ma own kin.”
Dacre nodded again. He and his elder son were always in agreement. They had their code and lived up to it.
“Ye saw Scrope i’ Carlisle?” asked the Baron. “Gi’e me the full account, we mun keep better order i’ the Marches. Scots’ll want a fresh lesson.”
They drifted happily into talk of raids, the fort at Berwick and the need for circumventing the upstart Dudley’s ill-considered directives.
Celia went to bed that night stupefied and hopeless, and yet she dreamed, though not of Stephen.
She dreamed of Master Julian, of whom she had hardly thought since leaving Cowdray. It was the Italian doctor, but did not resemble him. His face peering down into hers had become clean-shaven and lean. He had no four-cornered hat, his hair was smoothly black, and his brown eyes, intense and pleading, were sending a beam of light into her brain. She felt the lightbeam glowing in her head and heard an urgent voice say, “Celia!” Something he wan
ted her to do, something she could not do.
She shut her eyes tighter against the command, while she heard other voices whispering nearby. Somebody said, “I think there was a flicker there,” and she heard a strange distant roar like rushing water mixed with honking or hootings outside, a noise she did not recognize.
“Celia!” Again she heard Master Julian. “Open your eyes!” She struggled this time to obey, but she could not. She woke up instead at Naworth to find that she was trembling, and filled with wondering amazement. She sat up in bed, thereby disturbing Magdalen.
“Wot’s ado? Lay doon fur pity’s sake—Ye’ve jairked the covers off me!”
“Maggie—I’d a dream, it seemed real. Master Julian, that doctor I told you of, the one who tried to see King Edward, but he’d altered . . . Master Julian, I mean. He was trying to help me; his eyes were brown, not gray, but he was real, as real as you . . .” She put her hand on Magdalen’s shoulder.
“Havers!” Magdalen shoved Celia, and pulled up the blankets. “Mun ye waken me fur sech bletherin’?” She turned over and slept.
Celia lay staring up at the beams blackened from peatsmoke. The sensation of the dream’s reality lessened and no longer seemed immediate. It was like a sudden memory from childhood, the day she fell downstairs at the Spread Eagle and twisted her ankle, and her mother carried her to the bench in the courtyard and gave her some raisins to comfort her. She had never remembered it before, but now she could taste the sweetness of those raisins, feel the crunchy seeds between her teeth. A memory—and so had been the dream.
In bed with Magdalen and her prospective marriage two nights away, she could think about it calmly, purged from frenzy and desperation. She made no more plans to escape. There was no need, she had no idea what might happen, she simply knew that the wedding would not take place.
