by Anya Seton
Ursula and the girls rose thankfully; Julian helped them down to the street. Ursula murmured an apology, and darted up an alley to a recessed privy. When she came back she found Julian and the girls standing near the arch talking to a middle-aged couple with a child in tow. She was faintly surprised since they knew nobody in London, and also surprised that her Celia’s face looked wary. “Wary” was the only word for the set of the lovely little features, the watchful gleam in the sea-blue eyes.
“Ah . . .” said Julian as Ursula came up to them. “Here we meet by hazard some acquaintances. Lady Southwell, these are Squire and Mistress Allen from Kent, and their son—Charles, I believe?”
Ursula nodded politely, while Emma Allen curtsied. The squire uncovered and gave a nervous head jerk.
“Oh, we met at Cowdray,” said Emma in her loud Kentish twang, “when we were there last summer to see Brother Stephen who is a relation.”
Ursula looked at the woman with more attention. She was handsome in a florid way. Her slanting black eyes were a bit strange. But she seemed a typical and prosperous provincial matron, up from the country to see the goodly show.
“Will ye all sup wi’ us?” cried Emma heartily. “King’s Head’s not far in Fenchurch, an’ they’ll have drawn the October ale. There’ll be aldermen there we’re to meet. M’ good husband’s father was Lord Mayor some twenty year back. High time we saw something o’ London again. We’ve not come near this sewer o’ stinking heresy since Edward’s coronation.”
“Your lofty sentiments do you proud, madam,” said Julian, smiling. What’s she after now, he thought, remembering her tenacity at Cowdray, and her vehement assertion to him at the Spread Eagle: “When I want a thing ’tis good as done . . . God heeds me when I speak.” He felt an echo of his repulsion then, and he, too, noticed that Celia had turned away, and was absently fingering a lily in the triumphal arch, her profile was stony.
“These your daughters, m’lady?” Emma gave Ursula an ingratiating smile. “Such pretty young maids.”
Ursula realized that the woman had no idea to whom she was speaking, she had heard only the title, and when Ursula explained, an opaque, considering look dulled the black eyes. Mistress Allen had obviously hoped to have netted bigger game, but she repeated her invitation though less ebulliently.
“Welladay, ye must drink to the Queen’s Grace wi’ us—and tell me news o’ my good brother-in-law at Cowdray.”
“If you mean Brother Stephen,” answered Ursula, “he’s here in London with Sir Anthony, for whom he is acting as secretary. Your invitation is most kind . . .”
Ursula, who had decided to accept it, thinking how flat the evening might be for the girls after all this excitement, was interrupted by Celia. “My head aches, Aunt,” she said abruptly. “I see Wat over there. He’ll take me back to the priory.”
“Oh, sweeting—” cried Ursula, instantly apprehensive, “we’ll all go back.”
“No,” protested Mabel, flouncing. “I don’t want to be herded to that stuffy hole in Southwark.” Angry tears brimmed over onto her plump cheeks.
“If you will permit it, Lady Southwell,” said Julian with some amusement, “I’ll escort Mistress Mabel, and return her at a proper hour.”
Ursula immediately acquiesced, and sent Julian so warm a look of gratitude that he was half ashamed of its trivial cause. She’s truly good, that lady, he thought, and marveled again at the feeling of protection both Ursula and Celia sometimes aroused in him. Standing there on grass-trampled Gracechurch Street, jostled by the milling Cockneys, he again received, as he had in Midhurst, the impression that all this had happened before. That he had been confronted by the baleful force of Emma Allen, and savored the appealing sweetness of the aunt and niece, in Greece—Grecia, the word said itself in his mind. Ridiculous, he thought impatiently, and turned his mind to his real interests. Mistress Allen was not the only one who could play the game of power climbing. That she had a knighthood in mind for her skimpy little husband, he did not doubt. There would be aldermen at the King’s Head. They had scant influence at Court, but one never knew what coattails might be worth perching on. And after the coronation I’ll see Norfolk, Julian thought, I’ll remind him of the “wheel of fortune” I made for him at Kenninghall. There’s been a sudden spin to that wheel. And I spin with it. The arrow now points to fame and riches. But one proceeds cautiously, poco a poco.
Back at the priory in Southwark, Ursula was anxious. Celia’s whiteness alarmed her. She thought of the sudden pests, plagues, distempers which struck so fast, especially in London. She sent a varlet to the nearest apothecary for camphor and spirits of wine to make a poultice for Celia’s forehead. She made the girl drink a whole mug of heather mead which she always kept by her for emergencies. After that potent drink Celia gained a little color, and also the use of her tongue which had been silent ever since they left Gracechurch Street.
“I don’t think I’m ill, dear Aunt . . .” she whispered. “I was affrighted.”
“Frightened . . .?” said Ursula tenderly. “By what, my poppet?”
“By that woman . . .” said Celia in a remote listless voice.
Ursula frowned. This seemed very near to the maunderings which accompanied fevers. “You don’t mean Mistress Allen?”
Celia shuddered and nodded. “I saw an adder last year. ’Twas near the footbridge o’er the Rother. It had those eyes. I ran.”
“My dear child,” said Ursula briskly, “what nonsense . . . are your courses due? Women get peculiar fancies . . .”
Celia shook her head. “There’s danger,” she said flatly. She put her hand to her throat. “Stifling . . . Master Julian speaks to me; he says, ‘Wake up, Celia! Celia, come back!’”
Ursula swallowed as a chill ran up her spine. She glanced at the silver mug. “I’ve given you too much mead,” she said. “Master Julian is at the King’s Head with the Allens and Mabel, don’t you remember?”
The girl sighed, her hand fell limply from her throat in a defenseless little gesture. Suddenly she opened her eyes and stared imploringly at Ursula. “Must it happen, Mother?” she whispered in a piteous voice. “Can’t we stop it? Don’t you see, I love Stephen! But I’m so afraid. Make Doctor—Doctor—the doctor understands.”
Ursula quivered; panic clutched at her. But the girl’s lids fell, she began to breathe gently, deeply.
“Holy Blessed Mary—” Ursula reached for her rosary. She held the crucifix tight in her hand. “Wat!” she called. “Wat! Come here!”
Wat was dicing with the butler in the Hall. He had just thrown, and was considering his chances, but he heard the fear in Ursula’s voice. He hurried into the bedchamber. “Aye, Lady?”
“Mistress Celia—she’s taken very ill, get Master Julian—King’s Head in Fenchurch. Hasten!”
Wat clucked sympathetically, he glanced at the sleeping girl and thought that she looked entirely healthy, rosy cheeks, soft regular breathing. But he obeyed. He galloped across London Bridge to the King’s Head—a superior tavern for the gentry. He found Julian in earnest conversation with a younger man in doctoral robes, and Mabel sitting disconsolately alone, making pictures on the oaken table with a finger dipped in ale.
The Allens were part of a noisy group on the other side of the parlor.
“You’re wanted, master—” said Wat, touching Julian on the shoulder.
Julian looked up, annoyed. His companion was Dr. John Dee, alchemist and astrologer, whom he had met at John Cheke’s. Dee was a man of shrewd intelligence, with interests like his own, and he was propounding some very shrewd ideas on personal advancement.
Julian listened to Wat’s explanation of the summons, and shook his head. “You say Mistress Celia sleeps sweetly—bah! ’Twas naught but a green girl’s attack of megrims. Lady Ursula dotes and frets overmuch. Now you’re here, Wat, take Mistress Mabel home. I’ve important matters to discuss.”
Wat nodded in complete agreement. Women and their sudden alarums were tiresome. He resented
this errand himself. “Come along, mistress,” he said to Mabel, who was sniveling from disappointment. There were young gallants in the tavern pot room, but none had noticed her. Mistress Allen, flanked by her husband and son, was quaffing ale and dominating a party of boisterous aldermen. Master Julian gave the girl no more than an absent-minded nod of farewell. Upon her dejected return to the priory she found Celia asleep and Lady Ursula so unstrung by Master Julian’s refusal that she flew into a temper.
“How dared you come back without him?” she cried furiously. “Did you tell him how ill Celia is, and calling for him? You scurvy horse-churl, I see you didn’t! May the Saints punish you!”
Wat lifted one eyebrow, and escaped rapidly back to the Hall and his dice game, but Mabel burst into hiccupping sobs.
Ursula turned on her. “What are you blubbering for? There’s naught wrong wi’ you! I vow y’ must ’a kept Master Julian from coming!”
At this injustice Mabel stopped in mid sob, her brown eyes snapped. “How dare you talk to me that way! ’Tis only by my brother’s charity that you’re here, Lady Southwell, ye’ve no more right here than a church mouse, you and your precious meaching Celia you’re so besotted over!”
Ursula stiffened, then slapped Mabel’s plump cheek. They stood aghast, staring at each other.
Mabel had been used to her stepmother’s tantrums, and had always despised Lady Ursula’s control, which she put down to weakness. Slaps, pinches, even beatings were expected from one’s elders, and this slap—so unforeseen—served to jolt her from dejection. She tossed her head slightly, then walked to the center table where there was a platter full of candied apple slices. She took one and crunched it greedily.
With Ursula it was different. She found herself trembling, and her eyes were full of scalding tears. “Forgive me, Mabel . . .” she said after a moment. “It’s true that we owe everything to Sir Anthony.” She looked down at the bed where Celia still slept. It was useless to explain the terror Celia’s incomprehensible ramblings had provoked, especially that one sinister reference to Stephen; useless to explain that Master Julian’s refusal to come to them had hurt her and frightened her into fury.
This day was all awry, she thought, as her common sense gradually returned. She sat down on a stool, and drank some of the mead. The sweet liquor heartened her tired body. She reached out and put her hand on the sleeping girl’s arm. The flesh was warm and softly vibrant. She called me “Mother,” Ursula thought, while love gathered itself into a wave and flowed down to the girl’s arm. For the first time Ursula thought about Alice Bohun, the real mother who had borne this child alone in a tiny attic at the Spread Eagle. And knew that it was jealousy which had prevented the natural mention of Alice to Celia, and had discouraged Celia’s few attempts to talk about her mother after Ursula had, last year, brought the girl to Cowdray.
Ursula sat long on the stool, clinging to contrition and guilt to counteract the eeriness of Celia’s semiconscious words. She had said, “Must it happen? Can’t we stop it?”
“Stop what?” Ursula whispered, then shook herself. The ramblings of an overwrought girl after a day of great excitement. Ursula rose and went to the little alcove where the crucifix and priedieu had been replaced. Tapers lit this morning for the intention of Queen Mary had long since burned out. Ursula looked at them and then, under Mabel’s curious eyes, brought an ember from the fireplace and lit two fresh candles. She knelt on the priedieu and bowed her head. No set words came. No Paters, no Aves . . . nothing but a tremendous surge of invocation. She tried with all her strength to draw down some comfort, some assurance. She stared at the tiny silver figure nailed to the cross until it shimmered, blurred and went blank.
While she knelt, St. Saviour’s rang out for Compline. Her weary mind listened carefully to the melodious bongs of the old bell.
I’ll go to Mass at six, Ursula thought, I’ll find comfort there, but at once the momentary solace was canceled by dismay. Brother Stephen would be celebrating the first Mass tomorrow. She had heard Sir Anthony suggest it, since the Bishop of Winchester himself had requested Stephen’s presence in the Abbey for the coronation.
I’m going mad, Ursula thought, my brain softens to mush! She got up off the priedieu and began to unhook her bodice with firm sharp tugs. She had seen Brother Stephen celebrate Mass a thousand times at Cowdray. That he was now becoming immersed in the great world, and had won instant favor with Bishop Gardiner, the new Chancellor, diminished any threat to Celia. There was no threat. It was wicked, blasphemous to think so. Ursula undressed without calling for the chamber-woman, then lay down carefully beside Celia.
Mary was crowned next day, on October 1, by Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, since no other loyal Catholic prelate could be found. Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had been imprisoned for heresy the instant Mary gained control. Nobody blamed the Queen. Old Cranmer had inveigled for her mother’s divorce, he had declared the validity of King Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn—thus bastardizing Mary—he had written the Prayer Book, he had renounced the Pope, and finally, signed Edward’s Devise, proclaiming Lady Jane Grey as Queen. He was, forthwith, sent to join Lady Jane and her husband Lord Guilford in the Tower, which was now packed with Protestant faces.
Yet there were no more executions after Northumberland. Those close to Mary considered her temperate, the people called her “Merciful Mary” and continued throughout October to give her admiring support. Her first Parliament was a benign sun of clemency and justice. Her father’s outrageous penal laws were greatly softened, especially when Mary herself realized that there had been 72,000 executions during his and Edward’s reigns—hangings and beheadings for offenses ranging from an unproven whisper of treason to the stealing of a hawk’s egg. Her reign began with festivals and rejoicings. The more fanatic Protestants sailed unhindered for Lutheran or Calvinistic centers on the Continent; most of those who remained bowed to the restored regime and waited hopefully for the prosperity Mary promised her country.
She forbore to persecute her enemies; even the unwilling usurper, Jane Grey, might hope for pardon. She forgave Henry Sidney at once when he penitently rushed to join her at Framlingham; she forgave Lord Clinton his defection, depriving him only of his post as Lord High Admiral.
During this month, the little household at the priory in Southwark enjoyed itself. Anthony came home nightly from attendance at Court, and he brought company with him. There was music and dancing; his supper tables were almost as lavish as at Cowdray. Ursula and the two girls savored a gaiety they had never known. Celia had entirely recovered from her attack on the night of the procession; she did not even remember it. She bloomed, while discovering the delights of airy dalliance. Every man who came to the priory showed his admiration; Celia was always sought first as a partner in the galliard, or La Volta, though she ignored coarse advances with the ease born of her tavern years.
Mabel might well have been jealous, except that her stars also turned favorable. On the feast of All Saints, November 2, Anthony brought new guests home. Amongst them was Gerald Fitzgerald. Anthony had had the brotherly kindness to warn Ursula before the young Irishman arrived. “Tell Mabel to wear her best gown, forbear pourings, and speak softly. I’ve invited her young sprig, Lord Fitzgerald, who is no longer disgraced.”
“Mass!” cried Ursula. “Here’s a surprise! I thought he’d fled to Ireland! Didn’t he sign for Lady Jane Grey?”
“Aye,” said Anthony shrugging, “but our gracious Queen is pardoning ’em all, or most. Especially the Catholics. And the ‘fair Geraldine,’ after suffering sharp pangs of dread as the result of a wrong guess, is now plotting even more cannily on behalf of her brother and husband.”
“Indeed,” Ursula nodded thoughtfully. “So you no longer oppose Mabel’s inclination?”
Anthony laughed. “I don’t oppose the inclination, but I doubt very much that Fitzgerald will rise to that lure. If it could be Celia, now—a thousand pities that she’s not better born.”
Ursula flushed. They both looked at the girl, who was sitting on a cushioned window seat, and laughing at her mistakes as the Kentish knight, Sir Thomas Wyatt, tried to teach her correct fingering on the lute. She wore the lilac gown Mabel had discarded after the royal procession. Celia was so much slimmer that the sweat stains could be completely cut out. She wore a new French-style white lace cap, stiffened and dipped in the front. It framed her little square-chinned face. The golden hair waved loose, and she kept tossing it back out of the lute strings, and also away from Wyatt’s caressing fingers.
“Can’t you bring some man here who isn’t married?” Ursula asked irritably, for she noted a narrowing of Sir Anthony’s eyes, and heard his indrawn breath. “Surely Celia’s beauty, her sweet nature and her Bohun lineage make her a proper match for some gentleman?”
“Aye, aye—” said Anthony hastily, “I’ll look to the matter. I’ve not forgot my promise—there are doubtless many esquires could be found; no hurry, is there?”
Celia felt them looking at her from beside the door. She raised her cleft chin in her own pert, half-teasing way, smiled, showing the beautiful small teeth and the dimple beside her rich mouth. She gave them an affectionate wave with a hand no longer roughened and red, but of a velvety whiteness.
Anthony swallowed. “She grows daily in charms,” he said in a harsh voice which he redeemed by an uncomfortable laugh.
Ursula glanced at him sidewise. Was it possible? Widower of four months . . . yet no new wife in contemplation . . . at least she’d heard none mentioned, and no eligible young women had as yet appeared at his parties. Anthony’s attitude, the look he had sent the girl, surely there was love in it—stranger matches had been made. After all, Anthony was not a nobleman, he was again rich enough to forgo a dowry.
