by Anya Seton
She urged the mare nearer. Simkin did not notice, as he cradled the shoe in his dirty hands. “Is that what you were looking for?” Celia asked a little nervously. “Why, it’s got stains on it! Looks like—like old blood!”
Simkin tucked the shoe inside his jerkin. “’Tis blood,” he said in a dead voice. “Mine.”
“Your shoe? You hurt yourself . . . but the shoe’s too small for you. At least . . .” She looked down at his mucky, cobbled boots. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor ever will,” said Simkin. He looked up at her on the mare, and she saw hatred in his face. “God rot ye, fur being a woman!” He spoke through his teeth, and so low that for a second she was not sure, then the shock flushed her cheeks scarlet. She lifted her chin and said with dignity, “Mount your horse, Simkin! We’re going home!”
She nudged her mare and set out between the yews, noting from the following hoofthuds that he had obeyed. The first drops of rain spattered down through the tunnel of green darkness, as Simkin rode up beside her.
“Aye,” he said, “I’m naught but an ugly servant, an’ ye’ve become a fine lady—some day ’twill be different. I’ll no have to obey nobuddy, I’ll do as I please—wi’out shame.”
His bitter voice stirred her to some pity, though she rode on steadily, her chin high. “Perhaps you’ll get your wish,” she said coolly, and spurred the mare faster. She was no longer afraid of Simkin. His peculiarities, even his moment of hatred were a matter of indifference to her. She recognized a gulf between them that was far wider than the growing social one. Though the rain came down thicker as they left the close walks, her earlier happy mood returned. She stroked the mare and crooned to it softly, her heart swelling with gratitude to Anthony, to Ursula who had rescued her from the inn and a drudge’s life, even to Mabel who had ceased pouting and whining now that she would have her visit to London, enhanced by the delicious prospect of the coronation.
Even Stephen was going with them, Celia thought. She had put aside the wicked folly of her erstwhile feeling for him, and ignored his startling sweetness by the Rother the morning Lady Jane died. But it was contentful to know that she would still have him near. And it was strange, marvelous that after all the furtive years he might openly accompany them as Sir Anthony’s chaplain. Blessed Mary, but life is good, Celia thought. One has only to wait a while for troubles to cease. She began to hum a gay Sussex tune—“Oh, come ye jolly plow-boys, come listen to my lays . . .”—and was still humming in the stable yard at the mounting block, as Simkin silently took the reins and led the wet mare to her stall.
Twelve
SIR ANTHONY BROWNE arrived at Southwark with his family and some thirty retainers on September 28, the day on which Mary moved down Thames from Whitehall Palace to the Tower, from whence an English monarch always proceeded to Westminster Abbey and coronation.
Anthony’s house, the old Priory of St. Mary Overies, was transformed. A small army of plasterers and laborers had refurbished all the rooms and cells around the cloisters. The monks’ old stables, after sundry vagabonds had been evicted, were as clean as Cowdray’s, though perforce more cramped. Besides the furnishings he brought from Sussex, Anthony had, on his earlier visit to greet Queen Mary, ordered several elaborately carved chairs, stools, tables from a master craftsman in Lombard Street. There were new, painted hangings for the walls.
Anthony was pleased by his womenfolk’s delighted cries, but he dared not tarry for more than a quick welcoming toast with them. He had been sent a summons from the Duke of Norfolk himself, asking his immediate presence at Whitehall.
“And that,” said Anthony, “is not the least of our miracles. Six years imprisoned in the Tower, that poor Duke, and now back in all his former glory as premier Peer of England, and Earl Marshal in charge of the Queen’s coronation.” Anthony added with relish, “While the spurious Duke . . .” Anthony drew his hand sharply across his throat, “is in hell where he belongs!”
“Hush, sir,” said Stephen. “’Tis not Christian to gloat over the death of an enemy, however much deserved.”
“Poppycock and folderol,” cried Anthony, and gave the young monk’s shoulder a resounding thwack. “Ye can be as pious as you like in chapel, but you’re human, too. Come along wi’ me today, see a bit o’ the world. Moreover, I need your brains—there’s still a skein of plots to be unraveled. You can help.”
Stephen hesitated. He looked through the window at St. Saviour’s pinnacled spire. There was much to be done to restore the parish church; his hasty survey on arrival had appalled him. The church was still bleakly barren, niches empty of saints, high altar vanished, dog dung in the chancel.
“Oh!” said Anthony gaily, understanding Stephen’s thoughts, “that’ll all wait. Now Bishop Gardiner’s out o’ jail and back here at his palace, you can get hold of a chaplain, straighten the mess. Come along with me and get a glimpse o’ the real world.”
Celia observed this interchange as she sat beside Mabel at the end of the priory hall. I wish he wouldn’t go, she thought. Stephen, don’t go! She dared not speak, she knew the feeling of fear was unreasonable. What business of hers whether Stephen accompanied Sir Anthony into London, or stayed here to start restoring the church. Yet, during that moment in which Stephen still hesitated she felt dismay.
“What ails you, Celia?” asked Mabel with mild curiosity. “You jumped! Someone treading ’cross your grave?” The girl giggled and crammed another sugar comfit in her mouth. “Anthony,” she cried, “won’t you be seeing Lord Gerald at his grace of Norfolk’s? Tell him I’ve made a purse for him as I promised.”
“Oh-h?” said Anthony, glancing at his sister while he adjusted his court sword. He had barely noted some flirtation between Mabel and the young Irish bantling during the past summer. “I’ll certainly not see Fitzgerald at Whitehall, and you needn’t be setting your cap in that quarter, my girl. Fitzgerald’s cooked his goose along wi’ Clinton and my precious stepmother. He signed for Lady Jane Grey, y’know. Or don’t you?” Anthony made an exasperated sound. He expected little comprehension from women in general, and had no illusions about Mabel’s intellect in particular. “I’ll find you a worthy husband now there’s scope,” he added impatiently, “but it can’t be tomorrow. Come along, Stephen!”
Stephen went. Celia watched through the window while the men mounted their horses in the cloister garth. Stephen’s cowl slipped back as he vaulted lightly into the saddle. The sun brought auburn lights to his thick dark hair, and the tilt of his head almost hid the tonsure. He looked as handsome and arrogant as his master, and she heard his rare laugh ring out at something Sir Anthony said. She hoped that he would look up at the window, and she leaned far out through the casement, staring down with confused, unhappy longing. Stephen did not look up. He cantered from the garth with Anthony. Celia turned slowly back into the hall where Mabel was pouting crossly, and Ursula was giving orders to the bevy of London serving maids Anthony’s steward had just hired.
Two days later, on Saturday, Wat Farrier guided Ursula with Celia and Mabel to places reserved for them on Gracechurch Street in the City. Wooden stages had been erected against the buildings along the route of Mary’s progression from the Tower, and Anthony had picked an excellent site for his womenfolk. This was just below the triumphal arch which a group of Florentine bankers had constructed from thousands of massed lilies, roses and heliotrope. The arch was topped by a fifteen-foot angel with a trumpet, all made from green canvas.
The flower perfume was enchanting, and did much to offset the smells of massed humanity—particularly of vomit, since the conduits at Cornhill and Cheapside began at noon to run with cheap claret for anyone to guzzle as he pleased.
Though the women had long to wait, and dared not quit their places on the scaffold, Celia was so bedazzled by the excitement that time did not drag. This morning, while dressing herself in the splendid new gown of yellow velvet and red brocade, she had felt a momentary misgiving when she thought of Simkin’s ignored advic
e. Seen in Ursula’s new mirror, the effect did seem a trifle garish, and she had to pinch her cheeks hard to bring up their color, but out here amongst the welter of scarlets, greens, golds, amongst the festoons and banners decorating the houses—even the lowliest fishwife or chimney sweep had managed to wear a ribbon or cockade—she merged happily with the pageantry.
Ursula and Mabel were not so happy. The hard wooden bench began to hurt Ursula’s skinny rump, even through her new black velvet skirts. Her back ached, and a nagging discomfort made certain the imminent necessity of relieving herself in the gutter as shamelessly as did the common people. Mabel’s preoccupations were different but equally uncomfortable. Her fashionable steel corset and farthingale were too tight, and she was sweating profusely from the armpits, staining her pale lilac gown. She was also smarting from a further lecture delivered by Anthony before he left for the Tower to join the procession.
No one knew yet how Queen Mary would deal with the traitors who had tried to set aside her claim; everyone expected that they would be imprisoned and many of them thereafter executed. In any case, Fitzgerald had prudently fled, probably to Lincolnshire, with his sister and Lord Clinton. “And I’m fair sick o’ your sulks and naggings, Mabel,” said Anthony angrily. “I’ve far more important things on my mind than this senseless folly in hankering for a disgraced, lack-land, Irish rebel!” He had characteristically tempered his harshness with another gift, an enameled gold brooch which had belonged to Lady Jane, but Mabel’s heart was sore nonetheless. Gerald was the only man who had ever kissed her or made pretty speeches to her, and she had fancied herself practically betrothed.
At two-thirty a wind sprang up, tempering the hot sun and swirling dust into the waiting crowd. Mabel sneezed and Ursula began to cough. The fragrance from the flowery arch blew north, away from them, and was replaced by a stink of chicken dung and decaying poultry from the shuttered stalls below. Most of London’s poultry was sold in Gracechurch Street.
“You look overgrim, Lady, for such a glad occasion,” said a voice behind Ursula, who started. She turned and saw Master Julian wedged into a seat on the tier behind.
“Blessed Jesu!” she cried, at once forgetting her discomforts. “What do you here?”
He wore new doctoral robes, lavishly edged with red squirrel; his four-square cap was pulled down at a rakish angle to prevent it from blowing; his curly beard was very short; his gray eyes twinkled; and she thought how well he looked.
“I am here, Lady Southwell,” he said smiling, “because I helped my fellow Horentines draw plans for yonder arch. We’ll soon see how well the angel performs. I tried to remember the mechanism used by Messer Leonardo da Vinci for a Medici pageant. Good day, Celia, and Mistress Mabel,” he added as the two girls turned.
Celia’s face lit up like her aunt’s. Despite the coldness of their last meeting, she admired the doctor. Moreover, she had learned during the past months how many stresses and dangers had surrounded them, which no doubt Master Julian had shared.
Mabel, who hoped that the voice behind them might belong to some handsome gallant, gave a disappointed nod, then resumed the surreptitious effort to loosen the strings of her corset.
“Oh, sir—” cried Celia, “you joined the Queen’s Grace at Framlingham, didn’t you? Wat was full of the story. And she made you her physician?”
“For a time,” said Julian, “the Queen showed me marks of favor.” He touched a new gold chain from which hung the jacinth stone. “At least I no longer am fleeing for my life, and again have prospects.” He gave the two women his rather sardonic smile. At Framlingham, Mary had been distraught, though gracious enough when he had presented Sir Anthony Browne’s buck-head badge. She had sent Julian off to tend a chamber-woman’s twisted ankle, and asked Henry Jerningham to give the doctor the gold chain—as she indeed frantically tried to reward all the adherents to her cause. On the night they left for London, Mary was suffering from one of her blinding migraines. Julian, again summoned by Jerningham, had, of course, no remedies with him. So he went out to the meadow and picked some cowslips, which made a sufficiently impressive concoction when mashed with cow urine. He gave this to her, saying in his deep, commanding voice, “This will help you, your grace. You will be much better. You will feel well.”
Mary’s headache soon vanished. She gave Julian a gold sovereign, from which he had bought these new robes on his return to London. Then, harassed by a hundred grave problems, Mary had forgotten him. Julian, unwilling to see Alison, and certain now that the future was really brightening, had boldly knocked on the door of a Florentine merchant in Lombard Street and asked for lodging until after the coronation, on the grounds of their common nationality. Heretofore he had had nothing to do with the London Florentines, whom he considered a lowborn, money-grubbing lot, but he had meticulously repaid his host—at the same time hoping to advance himself—by helping to design the triumphal arch and its huge mechanical angel.
“Hark!” he said, jerking his head around to the south. “There go St. Sepulchre’s bells. The procession must be starting from the Tower.”
Another half-hour passed before the vanguard, consisting of yeomen and court messengers, cleared the street, strewing it with grass and fragrant herbs before the mounted esquires came riding up it. The common folk crammed against the walls, every window was jammed with expectant faces, the air resounded with pealing bells and fanfares. The exalted clerks of the Chancery, the Signet, the Privy Seal, the Council, were followed by the lesser knights—bachelors and bannerets—and finally, the Knights of the Bath. Amongst the latter, Celia was the first to pick out Sir Anthony, who turned and waved to them.
“My brother should be amongst the peers,” said Mabel discontentedly. “We have some noble blood.”
“Da vero,” agreed Julian, “and in time I’m sure he will be. The Queen has cause to reward him and his family. Sir Anthony’s grandsire is Sir John Gates, is he not? The Queen has him again as Tower Constable.”
Mabel shrugged. “I’ve never met him. Some stupid quarrel before I was born.”
The stately procession continued to file by. The judges and justices, the Knights of the Garter, the officers of Mary’s household, and then, between repeated trumpet flourishes, the loyal peers, two by two. The Barons, the Bishops, the Viscounts, the Earls. And then the Lord Mayor.
Magnificent as these were, Celia, like everyone else, kept straining to look down the street past them, eager to see the focus of all this grandeur. The crowd hushed as Mary’s splendid chariot approached, drawn by six white palfreys. Mary was effulgent in blue velvet and silver cloth, furred with ermine. Her head was covered by a gold caul, diamond and pearl-studded, and so heavy that she constantly had to stiffen her neck, sometimes easing the weight with a nervous little gesture. Her small pale face was set, her smiles forced, and Julian saw the haggard lines, the twitching muscles of nearly intolerable stress. She seemed older than her thirty-seven years. She has no stamina, he thought gloomily, she’ll not last long—and then what?
The probable answer to his question rode behind the Queen in a crimson velvet chariot. A girl of twenty, chastely dressed in silver white, her Tudor hair uncovered and blazing, an enigmatic little smile on her thin lips and an expression of gentle demureness which did not change as the populace, suddenly magnetized, burst from its awed hush and began to roar out blessings on the Princess Elizabeth.
“Harry’s true daughter!” they cried. “Look at ’er ’air!” “And English, through and through . . . poor Nan Bullen was English, whate’er sorry end she come to.” “God bless Nan Bullen and ’er little Bess!” shouted a drunken voice from a gabled window. Elizabeth looked up slowly to the window, she raised her long delicate hand in a graceful motion of acknowledgement, then resumed her controlled poise.
“So the small moon pales when the sun comes out,” Julian observed, leaning down towards Ursula, who neither quite heard nor understood. She glanced at the sky which had darkened as the wind blew great clouds across it.
“Who can that be next to the Princess in the chariot?” she asked. “Is’t some waiting lady?”
“No,” said Julian, tearing his fascinated gaze from Elizabeth to scan the broad stolid face beside her. “That is a very fortunate woman. King Henry’s only surviving relict, I saw her once at Kenninghall.”
“Who?” said Ursula, astonished.
“The Lady Anne of Cleves.” Julian chuckled.
“Holy St. Mary!” Ursula laughed too. “I’d forgot all about her!”
“As she most wisely wished. The only sensible one of the lot, but she is stepmother to the Queen . . . and to the Princess. Now watch!” Julian added quickly.
Queen Mary had advanced to within a hundred paces of the flowery arch. Julian’s Florentine host darted out, and bowing, rapidly gabbled a laudatory speech. The Queen stopped, seemed rather puzzled, as they could all hear the whirring and buzzings of clockwork and the creak of bellows inside the angel. Julian held his breath. The great green arms quivered and slowly raised the trumpet. It never quite reached the angel’s gaping mouth, but six deafening blasts of compressed air shrilled through the canvas lips. They made a resounding noise far greater than human lungs could manage, and hopefully might be interpreted as shouting, “Ma-ri-a Re-gi-na.”
The horses reared and stamped. Mary herself shrank, and then laughed delightedly, while on the street and from every window there was thundrous applause.
Like all the Tudors, Mary adored boisterous novelties. They could see her thanking the Florentine, then glance up at the stage to Julian, who smiled and bowed low.
“One sure way to the favor of princes,” he murmured, quoting Macchiavelli, “is to combine amusement with flattery.”
Julian sat back, well pleased, especially as he knew that the other diversions arranged along the route must be pallid after this. Some jugglers and morris dancers, a bed of rosemary cunningly grown into the shape of the royal arms. And under a vine in St. Paul’s churchyard John Heywood, the witty poet and jest-maker, was waiting to deliver a eulogy to the Catholic Queen he had always admired. The procession disappeared when it turned left on the Cornhill.
