by Anya Seton
“I have seen no priest,” said Celia slowly. “This is a Protestant household.”
Wat frowned. “Bigod, I’d forgot that! But ye tell Sir John he’d better change his tune, or he’ll no prosper long. England’s gone papist all the way, now that it’s gone Spanish too.”
He made a wry face, belched, then suddenly brought out the name Celia would never have mentioned. “Brother Stephen’d have a fit, did he know ye was turnin heretic. He’s a proper godly young man, a good priest, I’d allus a likin’ fur him.”
Celia clenched her hands beneath the table. “Did he officiate at Mabel’s—at Lady Kildare’s wedding?” she asked in a cool, offhand voice.
“Bigod . . .” said Wat, again startled by her complete ignorance. “How could he? He left fur France, two, mebbe three days arter the Rebellion. Ye must know that, ye was there at the priory still. Afore ye’re weddin’.”
“Oh, to be sure . . .” said Celia. “It slipped my mind, I knew he’d moved to Winchester Palace.”
Actually, nobody had mentioned Stephen’s name to her after the night of Ursula’s anguished reproaches. She knew nothing of him but his own note.
“Went to some place called Marmateer, his old abbey. Her Majesty’s orders, I believe . . . she wants St. Bennet’s monks back i’ Westminster. I’ll wager he rises high i’ the Church, bishop, I wouldn’t wonder, even . . .” said Wat, high-flown with strong ale and exuberant at all the rank and preferment which had lately gilded everyone near Anthony Browne, “even Archbishop o’ Canterbury, who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
Celia’s heart gave a hurtful bump against her ribs. “Who knows?” she echoed. She got up and moved jerkily across the rushes to snuff a candle which was guttering. Amidst the pain so long suppressed there was bitter relief. He was far off in a different country; he had taken no part in the glittering festivities at Cowdray. She would never have to think of him again—as he had commanded.
When John finally came home to his supper, Celia greeted him with unusual warmth. She kissed him sweetly on the lips, and presented Wat so tactfully that her husband, at first resentful, soon grew genial and allowed himself an interest in Wat’s budget of news. He especially enjoyed Wat’s wry description of the royal marriage John so heartily disapproved.
“It rained,” said Wat, “from the minute the Prince—as ’e was—set foot on Sou’ampton dock, and him a little bandy—legs, green from pukin’ his way over. He had a scowl on his face would scare St. James hisself, ’oos Feast Day it was—the Queen’s Grace would have it so in compliment to Spain, but that foreign saint couldn’t do nothin’ ’gainst our St. Swithun an’ his downpours. We was all drenched. I was wi’ the horses—Lord Montagu bein’ royal Master o’ them, and I’d a task, bigod—to curry an’ groom the dainty genet Her Majesty had ready fur her betrothed. Shiverin’ an’ steamin’ was that poor little filly. We had to get a stouter mount fur the Prince, who wrapped hisself in a great cloak, an’ ne’er spoke except ter those yellow-faced Spaniards he brought. Seems he don’t talk no English.”
“But the wedding itself?” asked Celia eagerly. “That must’ve been splendid? How looked the Queen?”
“Like a small tuffet o’ gold cloth an’ sparklin’ gems from where I was perched. The King was in white an’ ne’er took off his comical cap, e’en at the elevation of the Host—must be odd habits in Spain—but the Queen is besotted, can’t keep her hands off ’im.”
“Faugh—” said John. “This poor land o’ ours. Run by Spain through a lickerous old bitch. I’ll not knuckle under.”
“Shush!” said Wat sharply. “’Ware such speeches, Sir John, plenty men in jail fur less.” He munched thoughtfully on an excellent saddle of hare, while considering the tavern talk he had heard in Boston when he stopped at the Red Lion to ask his way. There had been a group of weavers and sheep owners in the taproom. They were wary of Wat, but he had gathered that Sir John was heavily in debt, and under a boycott, largely induced by disasters to his shipments of cloth to Calais, by the excessive amount of foot-rot amongst his sheep, and by his outspoken Protestantism. Wat sensed that Sir John was considered unlucky, and well knew how a prejudice of this kind blighted a man’s prosperity. During these hours at Skirby Hall, Wat felt considerable pity for his host, especially in view of Celia’s sad admission, and he now brought out a topic which he thought would hearten Sir John.
“Ye must be gladdened, sir, by Richard Chancellor’s safe return from Muscovy, an’ the opening up o’ the Eastern trade.”
John started and flushed. “He got back? He brought the Bonaventure home again? I wasn’t sent the news.”
“Well, ye’re a bit out o’ things here,” said Wat ruefully. “Chancellor got back last month, an’ brought a Russian envoy along from Tsar Ivan, or wotever their king calls hisself, ye ne’er saw such furs as they brought, too. Bales o’ ermine, an’ some saint’s pictures framed in rubies big as my thumb. The Queen’s Grace was well pleased. They’re starting a Muscovy company in Lunnon, an’ expect to open up trade routes far as Cathay. It’ll be one i’ the eve fur them Spaniards an’ their boasted gold from the West.”
“Aye . . .” said John sighing. “I’d go back to London, see if I could buy into the new company, only . . .” He stopped. He knew that he no longer had sufficient cash to interest them. “My health’s none too good,” he said, “been ailing o’ late . . .”
Wat jerked his head sympathetically. “Ye can be cured, sir, I’ll warrant! Ye’re clever little ladyship here’ll cure ye, she’ll make ye a potion or mithradate”—he winked largely at Celia—“havin’ learned much from her Lady Aunt ’oos most apt i’ the stillroom.”
Sir John did not notice the wink, nor see Wat’s bearded lips forming the word “water-witch” for he was listlessly mopping a morsel of hare in the gravy, but Celia understood, and gave a small excited sound. Why not? It would be an adventure, something to vary the sameness of her days . . . and if the venture might restore Sir John, if at last it brought him the son he had so desperately wanted . . . Aye, Wat was right. It was worth a try.
Celia underwent one of her lightning changes of mood, she sparkled and she laughed. She twined her arms around John’s neck and coaxed him into singing a nonsense catch with her and Wat who was delighted.
“Oh merry are we met, an’ merry let us be,
for we’ll sing all night i’ the low countree.
Hey nonny nonny but care will flee, as we caper and we jest
wi’ a riddle me ree, caper and jest i’ the low countree.”
The sound of their blended voices, the bell-like harmonies they produced on the long notes pleased even John who had a good voice, though unused since his grammar school days in Boston.
They sang other glees, while the astonished servants listened and giggled behind the buttery screen.
Wat departed dutifully next morning for Sempringham, bearing a warm message back to Ursula from Celia. And a more reluctant one from Sir John that Lady Southwell, could she bear the winter journey, was invited to Skirby Hall for Christmastide. Wat’s visit had made him realize how little company he had provided for the girl-wife after all, and his conscience awoke.
Though his business worries continued, he took Celia to the Boston mart and bought her pretty fairings, he took her to a bearbaiting and even overnight to Lincoln, where they stopped with more of his Hutchinson cousins who bored her, though she politely admired the honey-colored minster, and longed to get back so that she might consult the water-witch.
She knew that she dare not mention such a visit to John, who had never heard of the woman’s existence—the servants did not gossip in his presence, but from the nightly Bible readings she had realized his scorn and detestation of witchcraft. He admitted that there was such a thing, the Bible was explicit on the subject, but any such demonic incongruity near his own regulated homelands would never occur to him.
Celia bided her time, and found sudden opportunity when John grimly announced that his ov
erdue ship, the White Fleece, had been blown off course and wrecked on the Yorkshire coast. He would have to travel there, even though there was scant hope of salvage, and he would be gone a week.
Though Celia had no awareness of how close to ruin this disaster brought her husband, she used comforting words, and tried to soothe him. He put her aside impatiently, and went into one of his fits of silent brooding.
An hour after John left with a pack horse and his groom, Celia summoned her chambermaid, a garrulous woman of forty who had mentioned the water-witch in the first place. The maid’s name was Kate and she had been born in the fens. She was stupid and slow at her duties, but Celia, who had learned higher standards at Cowdray and the priory, was forced to put up with her. Kate had been chambermaid to the deceased Lady Hutchinson, and it never occurred to anyone but Celia that a better servant might be found. Traditional posts were never altered.
Kate showed no curiosity about her mistress’s questions, which she accepted as another vagary of the foreign lady’s, but she willingly described the water-witch’s habitat on the edge of Frampton Marsh and the sea. Her directions were so confused that Celia knew she would never find the place without guidance, even though it seemed to be only some ten miles away. She asked if Kate knew of a guide.
For the first time Kate’s stolid face showed fear. “Nabody here goos nigh there, nor should.”
“But,” said Celia patiently, “you say somebody brings her food on Fridays, otherwise she might raise the tides and flood us.”
Kate’s chapped red hands worked on her apron, her big loose mouth set like a trap, yet her habit of obedience finally prevailed.
“’Tis Daft Dickon from Frampton parish,” she said sullenly. “He’s too witless for fear.”
“Aye, so. Thank you, Kate,” said Celia with her charming smile.
Into the woman’s dull little eyes came a spark of feeling. “Mistress, doan’t meddle, pray doan’t meddle . . .” she said. “’Twill bring ill luck on Skirby Hall!”
Celia shook her head. “Be easy, Kate—’tis good luck I’ll bring, and you must forget we’ve spoken of this. Means naught anyhow.”
Kate looked relieved, bobbed a curtsy and left the room.
Celia curled up on her window seat and began to plan—confidently, excitedly. Through her lattice window the noontime sun reduced the fens to a vast fawn color, for the sedges were browning with autumn. They were laced by ribbons of greenish water. In the far distance the sky and sea met—an indeterminate blue. The only landmark in her window view was the nearest manor windmill, which still ground woad for shipping abroad to dye European cloth. The sails were still, the sheep on their pastures were tranquil little blobs repeated in the sky by a few white cloud puffs. The flat bright landscape held no mystery, the manor itself was soundless, the hounds and horses quiet, the undoubted bustle in the kitchen could not be heard from her chamber. Celia was conscious that only her own excitement jangled the tranquillity and felt obscurely guilty. And then an odd thing happened.
She heard voices. They spoke in accents unfamiliar to her. Yet it was English. There was a woman’s voice, clipped, authoritative. It said: “Lady Marsdon’s getting worse, I doubt she’ll last much longer, Doctor, I think we must call Sir Arthur back. I’ve kept away all night, according to my orders, but at the clinic here, we don’t like ’em to die on account of laxness and outlandish methods. Excuse me speaking plain, sir, but I’ve seen some cases like this, and what she needs is proper medical procedure, another electroencephalogram, then shock treatment.”
There was a male voice answering, but Celia could not quite hear it. It seemed to her that it said, “Wait!” Then it said, “She has certainly reached a crossroad; the outcome is in the hands of God.”
Celia sat in Skirby Hall and briefly considered the voices, which seemed to come neither from her familiar chamber nor from the quiet sunlit air outside. Some of the words were gibberish, which vexed her. “Electroencephalogram”—and why should she fancy a reference to God? It occurred to her that the man’s voice reminded her of Master Julian. She wondered vaguely what had happened to him, the whole episode caught her attention for only a moment; then it slid away as Taggle, who had been sitting with his head on her lap, gave a sharp yelp, bounded to the floor and began to shiver, while his neck fur rose.
“What ails thee, sweet?” said Celia laughing. She stooped to pat him, but he cringed. He gave a pulsating howl, then hid under her bed, emitting whimpering snarls. He snapped at her when she tried to catch him.
Perhaps he wants a purge, Celia thought disconcerted. I’ll give him some cassia tonight. He’s never acted like this. She resumed her plans for finding Daft Dickon.
Two days later Celia had arranged everything, having ridden Juno to Frampton where she easily found Dickon. He was a scrawny little man with a shock of straw-colored hair, vacant eyes and a foolish grin. His age might have been anything from twenty to forty, and he lived in a cot with his grandmother who snatched at Celia’s proffered shilling, then hid it in the bony recesses beneath her shawl. She shrugged her humped shoulders when Celia explained her errand. “Thou canst goo the morrow, being Friday, wi’ Dickon . . .” she mumbled through toothless gums, “the more fule thee. Effen thee looks on her, thou’rt lost . . . ’tis a monster—a fish ’oman.”
“A mermaid?” cried Celia, who had been fascinated by the inn sign in London. She plied the crone with questions, but from the reluctant mumbling answers got little satisfaction.
The water-witch had been there many years. Before Dickon, a “simple” lass from Wyberton parish had brought the offerings.
The dimwitted were naturally selected for the task, since God in his mercy protected such from witchcraft. Throughout the conversation Dickon squatted on a stool, grinning and nodding, while he plaited long reeds into tough withes to be sold locally for halters.
Celia left when the old woman drowsed into the sudden sleep of age, then she spent the ensuing night in a mixture of apprehension and the childish pleasure of undertaking a prank of which nobody approved. Even Wat, she thought, would now have dissuaded her. The water-witch, monster, or mermaid was so vastly unlike Molly o’ Whipple or any wise-woman Wat could have known. At the last moment before mounting Juno, Celia had a rather shamefaced impulse. She ran upstairs to her chamber, opened her coffer and fished her silver beads from the bottom corner where they had lain since her marriage. She barely glanced at the ivory crucifix as she threw the beads in her pouch amongst an assortment of shillings, ha’pennies and farthings. Sir John was generous with pocket money to give to peddlers selling trinkets she might covet.
The weather held fair, and Dickon was waiting outside his cot in Frampton, a great woven hamper at his feet.
“G’day, mistuss,” he said giggling, and to her surprise, for she had thought him dumb. “Geese be flyin’, winter’s nighin’.” He jerked his thumb up towards the sky, where she saw a long streaming wedge of wild geese heading south.
“Aye, to be sure,” she said, relieved that Dickon was not entirely witless.
“Mun goo quick, ussen,” he said, “or her’ll raise th’ floods.”
Celia glanced at the hamper of propitiatory offerings, and lifted the lid. There were thirteen eggs nestled in straw, three brown cottage loaves of fresh bread, a little crock of butter, and a mammoth pike wiggling feebly on top. The donations came from the entire district and had been packed in the hamper as usual this morning by Dickon’s grand-dam.
“What’s that?” Celia asked, seeing a large brown homespun packet tucked in a corner.
Dickon stared at it vaguely, but his grandmother who had come bustling out said, “Hemp leaves. We’ve a deal o’ trouble gettin’ ’em each week, they coom from beyond Skirlbeck at the rope walk, but onct they was forgot an’ we had a tempest. Seven kine an’ a milkmaid droonded.”
“What does she want them for?” asked Celia half laughing.
The old woman said, “Witchery,” and snapped her gums shut.
Celia and Dickon started out, she on Juno and he ahead with the hamper slung over his back.
There was no road; there was seldom a discernible path, but Dickon knew his way with the certainty of any primitive. He skirted the worst drains, though they sloshed through others; he avoided the quivering bogs, and finally led her along a sandy ridge until she could hear the lapping of sea water on the shingle.
“Yon’s witch hut,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Dickon goos no furder.” He dumped the hamper down by a large clump of samphire.
She stared at the bushes, at the sandy dune beyond them, then saw a thin trickle of gray smoke. “The witch lives down there?”
Dickon gave his odd cackle, which meant assent. “Dickon goos hoom,” he said, “Gran’s a-waitin’. Her got a rasher o’ bacon fur me.”
Celia’s good sense suddenly asserted itself. “Look, Dickon,” she said. “You bide here. Stop here until I come back. You’re clever—I’m not. I’ll be lost in those fens. I need you to guide me.”
She saw that she had not reached him.
“Gran’s a-cookin’ me bacon,” he said, “an’ dumplin’s to goo wi’ it.”
He turned and began to walk.
Celia was seized by panic. She slid off Juno, and twined the bridle quickly around a hunk of driftwood. She ran after Dickon. “Halt!” she said grabbing his arm. He looked at her in alarm.
“Have I doon wrang?”
“Aye—” she said, “nay, not if you stay here! You shall have bacon, a whole flitch to yourself at Skirby Hall, I vow it. If you do as I say . . .” She saw that this did not reach him either, yet as she stood there holding his arm, pressing against him in her urgency, she saw something flicker in his blank eyes. His lids narrowed, and his nostrils distended. She pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips. “See, you can have more o’ these, if you wait for me!”
