by Anya Seton
On the next following dawn which was Childermas—that evil, ill-omened day commemorating the slaughter of the Holy Innocents by Herod—Celia’s certainty was confirmed.
It was a boisterous night of sea winds roaring down the Solway through Carlisle and over all the Western Marches. Amidst whistling wind and driving hail nobody but blind Janet heard the commotion in the bedchamber where Thomas slept with Lady Bess. They did not hear his shout, nor later, Janet’s wild scream. When Janet, moaning and staggering, managed to grope her way and arouse the Dacres, it was almost too late to save Thomas. And Bess was dead, lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. She had fumbled her attack on her husband and had only slashed his upper arm, but the knife which she had plunged into her own breast—precisely at the spot on which she always made the bloodcross mark—that had pierced straight to her heart.
Celia and Magdalen learned of the tragedy after going down to the chapel for Mass. The chapel was empty. Puzzled, they went to the Hall where some servants were huddling, frightened, murmuring, crossing themselves.
The girls, aware of bad trouble, grabbed each other’s hands.
“What can be amiss . . .” Magdalen whispered. “What can it be?”
She saw her brother George come in and make for the whisky keg. “Geordie!” she cried, “is somebody deed?”
George drank a noggin and walked to the girls. He was blanched; there was sweat on his forehead. “Aye—Bess is. Tam near so, but our mother says he’ll do. She’s stopped the bleeding, and we’ve sent to Brampton for the leech.”
Magdalen gasped. Celia drew herself in, very quiet and still. “Lady Bess is dead?” She crossed herself, as did Magdalen.
“Aye—she turned Tam’s dirk on ’em baith. She fooled us these twa neets, ’tis sick’ning.” He glanced at Celia with a touch of his usual malice. “There’ll be na wedding fur ye the morrow, m’lass! Funeral instead.”
“Yes,” said Celia. “Oh, poor, poor thing.”
Magdalen gasped again, gave a sob and threw her arms around Celia. They wept together, but it was Celia who comforted.
Later they breakfasted with the appalled family and Ursula. She had been helping Lady Dacre staunch Tom’s wound, and decently arranging Lady Bess’s body on the bed, and had had no time for thought as yet.
The Brampton leech came, poulticed Tom’s wound with cobwebs, and approved Lady Dacre’s tourniquet. He was given no explanation for the savage cut on the young heir’s arm, and nothing was said about Lady Bess except that she had had some fatal attack. The Dacre family knew that there would be speculations and rumors to ignore, and would ignore them.
They had consulted with the priest, who was as anxious as they to avoid consigning a Neville-Dacre to a suicide’s grave at a crossroads, which even her known madness would not have precluded.
So by evening, when many shocked wedding guests had arrived, Bess’s body lay in state before the alter in Lanercost Church. Above the embroidered black velvet pall her waxen face looked serene and lovely. Tall flickering tapers illumined the faint smile often seen on newly dead lips. A smile of secret knowledge, of remote compassion. All night and all the next day mourners filed by and knelt by Lady Bess’s bier, while the priest intoned prayers for the dead. When Celia’s turn came and she knelt on the hard bench, she wept like the others, but unlike the other mourners her pitying sorrow was tinged by gratitude. Awe-ful as the tragedy was, it had been the means of Celia’s release, and Bess, so gently asking in the courtyard—“What troubles you, poor maiden?”—was after all the helping angel Celia had mistaken her for.
Ten
AT THE BEGINNING of June in that year of grace 1553, Celia and Ursula, accompanied only by Simkin Farrier, set out for Cowdray, as unsure of their welcome as they had been of the welcome at Naworth eight months ago.
In March, Ursula had first written to Sir Anthony Browne, requesting permission to return home. She had outlined the Dacre tragedy, hinted that the continuing visit to Cumberland was becoming awkward and burdensome, and asked if Wat might be sent to fetch them now that the spring thaws had begun.
When she received no answer, Ursula decided that the peddler to whom she had consigned her letter had been unreliable, and sent another by the official courier bound from Carlisle to London with Lord Dacre’s report on the state of the Western Marches.
Still no answer came from Cowdray, nor any return courier to Lord Dacre. There was fearful unrest on the Border, alarms and excursions daily, many panic-stricken rumors. The old Baron mobilized his sons and all his clansmen to combat another attack on Carlisle, leaving Naworth so vulnerable that he sent his remaining household to the greater safety of Dacre keep. The warning beacons burned nightly on the hilltops. Provisions ran short, and though Lady Dacre was too kindhearted to say so, it was obvious that the Southerners were a nuisance. Food became scarce, they slaughtered the cattle; lambing was late this year; moreover, many ewes were sickly and dropped malformed little fetuses on the scarcely thawed ground. Tempers grew short, and when George Dacre, racked by fever and a bloody flux, suddenly turned shrilly delirious and cried that Simkin Farrier was really a “barguest,” or werewolf, Ursula made up her mind.
She approached Lady Dacre and said that they were leaving. The unhappy baroness did not protest. Magdalen, too, was relieved. She had much affection for Celia, but she agreed with her mother that the guests had stayed overlong, and brought ill luck.
There was no reason to blame the girl for any of the troubles which had assailed them after Mad Bess’s suicide, yet nothing had gone right since with the Dacres, and it was natural that one should resent dependent aliens.
The girls kissed good-bye outside the great postern at Dacre.
“Matters dinnet tur-rn oot as we hoped, hinny,” said Magdalen, sadly. “Na doot ’twasn’t God’s will—I’ll send ye a bit o’ prayer noo an’ agen.” But her eyes were peering over Celia’s shoulder to see if that puff of dust on the Graystoke road was made by the eagerly awaited flock from the Newbiggin pasture. Otherwise, there would again be no meat for dinner.
“Farewell, Maggie dear,” whispered Celia, sighing, yet glad that the past months of sorrow and strain were over. Neither girl expected that they would ever meet again.
Ursula had hoarded ten shillings all during the Cumberland stay. She had meant them for Celia as a bridal gift, but after the wedding was so definitely canceled, she had saved the coins for the journey home, once Sir Anthony had given permission. Since none ever came, they must manage without, and did so. Simkin, though taciturn, his pitted face set in an habitual scowl, proved as good a guide as his father. And they all remembered the way south. Celia kept gazing steadfastly ahead, nor looked back to the mountains and the moors which she had thought so excitingly beautiful last year. She had learned much in those months, learned ugly fearsome things. Lust, madness, violence—all those had touched her close in Cumberland. There was also that other thing, the scene in the stable loft between Simkin and George—part of the chilling strangeness, which her mind refused to dwell on.
By the time they reached London—and the sun shone on tender green leaves, the hedgerows were dappled with wild roses, healthy lambs frisked in the meadows, and birds trilled night and day—Celia had begun to laugh once more. Ursula, though worried, smiled sometimes, and even Simkin brightened, and took to playing a willow pipe he had made for himself.
They went straight to Southwark and the Priory of St. Mary Overies where they expected to lodge. But Sir Anthony’s town house was shuttered and barred. The cloister garth was filled with rubbish, weeds and a litter of runty piglets.
Simkin banged on the doors, he shinnied up to a window and peered through a broken pane. “Nobuddy within,” he reported. “Dust thick as me hand, cobwebs like curtains.”
Ursula looked anxiously at Celia. They had no money left, and she had been so sure of finding Brother Anselm, at least. “The neighbors . . .” she murmured.
Simkin nodded and hurried out of the cloist
er. He came back shortly. “I found an old besom down the street,” he said. “She didn’t want to talk, but says Brother Anselm’s dead—last winter. Sir Anthony’s never been here at all. She seemed afraid.”
Ursula frowned, then her face cleared. “Master Julian!” she cried. “He’ll help us! Simkin, go to St. Thomas’s Hospital, they’ll know where he lives . . . wait, we’ll all go!”
They prodded the weary horses. Simkin thwacked the mule as they went down the Borough High Street. As they came up to the hospital’s dingy gray pile they saw Julian striding toward the portal, clutching his staff and bag. He turned at Celia’s happy cry; gave a grunt of astonishment as he recognized the women.
“Mirabile!” he said. “Where did you drop from?” And he frowned.
Ursula and Celia explained their plight together, while Julian listened, his eyes grave.
“Then you know nothing of the news,” he said. “Times are very bad . . . some plague around, but that’s not it . . . other matters . . .” He glanced over his shoulder nervously. “Can’t talk here—you’ve no money at all?”
Ursula shook her head, humiliated by Julian’s dismay, by his gruffness.
“Well,” said Julian coldly. “I can lend you a few pence to get you to Cowdray.” He fumbled in his bag. “I am straitened . . . at present. You don’t know of the marriage? The King’s condition?” he finished very low.
They shook their heads, staring at him.
Julian flushed, again he glanced round and examined Simkin. The boy wore the Browne’s buck’s head badge on his arm. “You can water the horses yonder,” Julian said, pointing to the stone trough by the hospital wall. “And you, m’lady, will not be seen in here.” He shoved the two women through a noisy fetid hall lined with pallets and stretchers where the sick lay waiting for admission to the wards.
“Listen,” said Julian, when they were sheltered by an alcove, “a fortnight ago, on May twenty-first, the Duke of Northumberland married off his second son, Guilford, to Lady Jane Grey, Edward’s half cousin. The King has altered his will in the Lady Jane’s favor. Twenty-six peers have signed Edward’s new Devise for the succession. Northumberland commanded Anthony Browne to sign, but Sir Anthony sent word that he could not leave Cowdray. Edward is said to be furious. And, I’ve been summoned at last to His Majesty,” added Julian with a sudden gleam of triumph. “John Cheke—Sir John he is now, has prevailed on the royal lad to see me. I go to Greenwich tomorrow, and by Aesculapius, I’ll cure him yet!”
“By Our Blessed Lady, I’m sure you will,” said Ursula, slowly, “but I don’t understand. What has this marriage to do with anything, and what is this ‘Devise’ Sir Anthony would not sign?”
“Sh-h—” said Julian. “Nobody knows of it yet—I mean the people, but it’s clear enough. If Edward should die, the crown goes to Lady Jane Grey . . . and thus, in effect, to her father-in-law, Northumberland.”
“Impossible,” said Ursula roundly. “What of the Princesses? What of Mary?”
Julian shrugged. “The Lady Mary is a Catholic, the Lady Elizabeth’s true religion is uncertain, but either one might marry a foreign prince, and that would be the ruin of England.”
“You approve this monstrous plan!” Ursula cried, her eyes indignant.
Julian stiffened. “I am a physician, Lady Southwell, an Italian physician, I’ve nothing to do with moral judgments. Sir John Cheke is my friend and patron, so I think as he does. I shall most certainly cure the King, whereupon these worldly complications will not arise.”
“Oh dear . . .” whispered Ursula, suddenly wilting. The chill in Julian’s voice hurt her. She felt old, confused and weary. She saw why Julian did not want to be seen with those connected to Sir Anthony, and looked unhappily down at the pennies Julian had put in her hand.
“I’m sorry we bothered you,” she said, “but there’s nobody else in London. I can see that you mustn’t offend the Duke . . . or the King.”
Julian bowed. “As you say, madam.” He gave her a faintly apologetic smile. “Hasten to Cowdray, and as you wish your patron well, talk submission to him, for he has totally lost the King’s favor.” He turned on his heel and hurried down the hall to enter the wards and leave instructions for the care of certain patients in his absence.
“Whew . . .” said Celia. “He’s grown very curt. I thought he liked us!” She made little sense of this pother about the King’s Devise, signing or not signing, and growing hunger fogged her thoughts. They had bought the last pasty and ale yesterday. “Well, he lent us enough to eat on,” she said. “Aunt, there was a cookshop across the High!”
Ursula nodded sighing. They retrieved Simkin and the horses, then presently proceeded towards Sussex.
At five the next morning Julian rode down the Thames to the royal palace at Greenwich. John Cheke had left orders, and Julian was at once admitted to the presence chamber. It was beginning to fill with solemn-faced courtiers, some of whom Julian recognized—Lord Clinton, Lord Bedford, John Ridley—the fanatically Protestant Bishop of London. There were also the watchful ambassadors, the French Theligny, the Spaniard, de Schevye, sent by King Philip.
“Cock’s bones . . .” cried Clinton in disgust as Julian was ushered in, “Yet another doctor—we’ve had quacks enough lately, the Duke had far better get back Owen and Butts!”
John Cheke stepped forward and shook Julian’s hand. “I brought this one,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine and has excellent training at Padua. He cured me of the sweating sickness.”
“Indeed,” said Clinton shrugging. “That fellow Cardano was Italian, wasn’t he? A lot of good he was. Said the King’s Grace’d be hale in a few days and live to be fifty—hocus pocus with a horoscope!” Clinton winked and chortled at his own wit.
The French ambassador laughed politely.
John Cheke gave Lord Clinton a stern look, compressed his lips and drew Julian into a smaller chamber off the sickroom.
“His grace is worse,” said Cheke rapidly, “yet there was so much improvement last month when the Duke brought in that midwife from Cheapside. She gave him potions which bettered him, but now he vomits incessantly—yet he coughs less.”
Julian nodded. He had followed details of the King’s illness as best he could when Cheke had time to recount them, and thought the case very grave, though he had faith in himself and had brought various substances in his bag which he knew had not been tried. Now that the longed—for examination had arrived, he felt a great surge of hope. He heard already in his ears the murmurs of gratitude, of admiration. He saw himself triumphant and secure, at last.
He followed Cheke into the King’s room, and looked down at the bed. Edward lay flaccid with his cheek on Henry Sidney’s hand. The harsh difficult breathing filled the room, and the stench was so unpleasant that even Julian faltered. The serene greeting he had intended died unuttered.
Edward’s eyes were glazed, the lids were lashless, the chicken-claw hands which plucked incessantly at the velvet coverlet had lost their nails, the finger tips were gangrenous. The boy’s belly was so swollen that it humped up like pregnancy. The bloated face was a patchy bronze.
Julian stared down, while all his hopes collapsed and a great anger replaced them. “Il ragazzo e avellenato!” he shouted furiously.
Cheke and Sidney both knew Italian, and they both recoiled.
“Poisoned . . .?” Cheke cried, then checked himself. “You’re mad, Master Julian, wickedly mad!”
But Sidney bowed his head closer to the pathetic, monstrous body on the bed which was shivering and barely conscious. Sidney’s eyes filled with tears. He had suspected this for some days. “What kind is it?” He formed the question soundlessly, looking up at Julian.
“Arsenicum,” Julian answered curtly, and turned away. He had seen several cases of arsenic poisoning while living with the Medicis; Edward’s condition was unmistakable whatever his previous illness had been, and the story of the recent great improvement, the sudden collapse, was explained. That midwife
from Cheapside brought in by the Duke, and her magic potions which had given the little King new energy and vigor—for a month—just long enough for Edward to alter his succession and disinherit his sisters.
“Well, what can you do?” John Cheke jerked at Julian’s sleeve. “I’ll not believe—what you said—’tis impossible—must never be mentioned—’tis too monstrous.” Besides real anxiety for the boy whom he had taught and so long guided, stark personal fear showed in Cheke’s eyes.
“I can make him more comfortable,” said Julian tonelessly. “Fetch hot bricks, well padded, and there’s this.” He untied his bag and brought out a vial containing syrup of mandragora, which he held to Edward’s blue lips. The boy obediently tried to swallow, then retched. Suddenly, he raised on his elbow and spoke to the three men in a sharp, stern voice, though his unfocused eyes looked past them at a tapestry.
“Oh, my Lord God,” he said, “defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true religion, that I and my people may praise Thy Holy Name . . .”
“Aye, aye—my dearest chuck,” Sidney murmured, stroking the King, who had begun to quiver. “He will. Be sure that He will—”
Edward subsided a moment, he looked from Cheke to Sidney; his wandering gaze lit on Julian. “That spy!” he cried, jumping half out of bed, “He’s a foreigner—a papist! What does he here! Have we not enough torment—Guard! Ho, the guards!” A convulsion seized him, black froth dribbled on his chin.
Julian quickly picked up his bag and staff; he did not need the dismissing signals from the two men by the bed. He withdrew from the sickroom, nor looked behind him as he left.
He rode slowly back to town along the river bank on the bony hired nag, which he had thought never to see again. He had expected to be mounted in future on one of the royal horses. Now his situation was far worse than it had been. John Cheke would never forgive that shocked cry he had made. Northumberland would never forgive it when he heard, as he certainly would. There had been yeomen hovering near the door of the sickroom. When Edward dies, Julian thought, I’ll be in grave danger. I am so now. I do not wish to be hanged, or more likely, assassinated—a dagger in the back, a convenient fire at my lodging. As he entered Southwark and made, as usual, for London Bridge, the full blow of his predicament hit him like a bludgeon.
