by Anya Seton
He was silent as Kate shuffled in with a flagon of ale, and glanced at him incuriously.
“Yaw rung fur this, Lady,” Kate said glumly. “Nigh bottom o’ keg. Yaw’ll hove ter wait fur th’ bread, not riz yet—butter’s gawn tew.”
Celia bit her lips, then said with a gallantry which Edwin thought adorable, “Lackaday, and such it be. As Job said, We are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.’”
She did not continue the quotation, “I would seek unto God, and unto God commit my cause,” because the whole passage reminded her painfully of John who had often read it to her. Since he preferred the Old Testament, and often read Job, she had come to view God as a fearsome unpredictable deity, alternately warring with Satan or enlisting him as a superior correction officer. Yet John seemed to find increasing comfort in his readings, and during the endless evenings before his final seizure, while she stitched and listened, she had gradually absorbed most of the Bible.
Edwin, of a Catholic family, had no idea who this Job could be, nor cared. He gazed at Celia, moonstruck.
She poured him a flagon of ale. “Wassail—God give you grace,” she said, sitting on the bench and motioning him beside her. “I know not your name, sir.”
“Edwin Ratcliffe, my lady,” he said thickly.
Her skin was luminous, like a golden pearl. She smelled of beramot and lavender water. He wondered what her slender body was like under all that swathing black, then blushed again to have had such a thought. He did not touch his drink.
She slowly broke the seal on Lord Montagu’s letter and gazed at the elaborate Italianate flourishes which had been made by Anthony’s new secretary.
“I can not read this, it is too hard,” she pushed it ruefully towards him. “Can you, sir?”
Edwin could have, since he had suffered through some years of tutoring and an unsatisfactory year at Oxford, but he knew the contents.
“It is addressed to Sir John Hutchinson,” he said, crossing himself, “may God rest his soul. And to you, Lady, it announces the marriage of my lord the Viscount Montagu and Lady Magdalen Dacre at the Chapel Royal on the fifteenth of July. The Queen’s Grace was present, and as her health is so poor, the wedding was exceeding small, and hurried. My lord and lady present their apologies to all their friends who were on their country estates.”
“Ah-h,” said Celia. She rose from the bench and stooped to pick up Taggle who was making imploring whines. So Anthony and Maggie were married. Those two who had meant so much to her once, and who had receded into the void of the past four years.
“I’m pleased that I—that we were remembered,” she said.
“There’s an enclosure,” said Edwin. “’Tis in a different hand, and signed ‘Ursula Southwell.’”
Celia swallowed. Bittersweet pain, resentment, even anger caused her eyes to narrow. “Let me see it,” and she pulled the piece of vellum towards her. The handwriting was so shaky that though the words were few, she could read it no better than the official missive. “Can you read this?” she demanded. “’Tis from my aunt.”
Aunt? thought Edwin. How extraordinary. He did not know that Lady Hutchinson had any relations at Cowdray. He squinted at the note. “I believe it says, ‘Celia, I implore you, come to me. I pray Sir John will permit. So I may die in peace.’”
“She is dying?” Celia whispered.
“I know naught, Lady, I’ve ne’er seen her. She keeps to her chamber at Cowdray. She was not in London for the wedding.”
Celia was silent so long that he saw she had forgotten him.
She leaned against the embrasure of the window. The murky latticed panes permitted flickering sunlight to shine on her face through a split in the black curtains. She pushed a curtain aside and looked out over the fens. She had shut Ursula from her heart, long ago, as her aunt had seemed to shut hers. Ursula had not come that Yuletide when she was invited to Skirby Hall. Instead there had been a curt note, casually sent via common carrier to Boston so that it had not reached the Hutchinsons by Christmas. The note said only that the Lady Southwell could not be spared from Cowdray, and was signed by an unknown name, as Lord Montagu’s secretary.
John had been both resentful and relieved, she remembered.
“So much for your great kin and connections, m’ girl,” he cried. “Can’t be bothered wi’ us. Ye’re well rid o’ them—two-faced, black-hearted papist lot. Forget that false aunt. You cleave to your husband like the Book says!”
Aye, she had thought—cleave to the husband who is no husband, and who was forced on me by an aunt who pretended to love me—for thus, by then, did she see her marriage. It became a relief to hate Ursula.
Edwin walked timidly up behind Celia, and said, “Lady . . .?”
She let her hand fall from the curtain, the brilliant sea-blue eyes met his imploring look. “Aye . . .?”
“You’ll want to go to her—Lady Southwell—’tis a piteous plea and I—I can escort you. Back to Cowdray. It would—would pleasure me. And, in truth,” added Edwin who was fundamentally sensible, “wi’ matters here as they are, what else can you do?”
Celia hesitated only a moment, then she gave him the dimpled smile, though her eyes remained sober. “You are courteous, sir. I thank you, and I will go with you.”
Celia left Skirby Hall forever, five days later. Edwin came back for her after delivering his other announcements. The heir from Alford did not conceal his relief as he speeded them from the gatehouse.
Celia rode Juno, and carried Taggle in a little basket behind the cantle. Her only other possessions, the contents of her coffer, made a bundle so small that Edwin was able to lash them to his own horse.
Sir John had not meant it so. In his will written immediately after the marriage he had left her the manor, all his chattels, an interest in his ships, and property in Calais. These were gone; how completely vanished even his heir-at-law did not know until the death.
On that Saturday when he died, John had suddenly grown lucid, had looked up at Celia and said thickly, “Dearling . . . I’ve done wrong by ye, by God I didn’t mean to. If ’twas in my power, I’d make thee rich. Money—” he cried in a strong voice. “I’d gi’e thee gold enough to glut a hundred o’ those damned Spanish ships! . . . Kiss me, child—forgive my lacks—stupidities.”
She had kissed him tenderly on the pain-wrinkled forehead. His eyelid fell, his breathing grew stertorous, but he spoke once more. “Yea, the Almighty shall be my defense, and I shall have plenty of silver.”
Celia had shed tears for him, but she left Skirby Hall dry-eyed. At last she let joy come through. She was going home to Midhurst. She was only twenty, and she knew again that she was desirable. Edwin’s every glance told her so.
As they passed through straggling Frampton Village she looked away from the cot where Dickon had lived with his grandmother. She did not know if they were still there, but beyond the marshes on the rocky dune she knew that the water-witch was not. Melusine and her hut had been washed away on the Hallowe’en tide that year, exactly as Melusine had predicted. It had been a tremendous tide blown higher by an easterly gale. Celia had heard the servants whispering about it. Better so, Celia thought, and kicked Juno into a trot, eager to reach Peterborough where they would stop for the night.
Edwin had a fat purse at his belt, and brushed aside her embarrassed demurs by saying that Lord Montagu was always generous, and would certainly not begrudge her travel expenses. Celia agreed; she knew that both Anthony and Maggie were generous, or had been, but it galled her to be once more dependent. She had been her own mistress in Lincolnshire; during Sir John’s last months, she had been in complete charge and found it sweet, although she had not known of the ruinous state of her husband’s affairs.
By the time Celia and Edwin reached Easebourne and could see Cowdray’s crenelated roof looming through the park trees, Edwin was thoroughly besotted. She had not kept him at a distance during the journey; she had given him smiles, sweet words. She had even allowed him to squeez
e her waist as he helped her dismount, responding with a melting quiver against his chest. When they rode through Petworth, Edwin did not look down the road which led to his own home, and he had begun to make feverish plans for breaking his betrothal. The fury of his parents, and Anne’s, seemed unimportant. When he reached his majority, surely they could not stop his maternal inheritance. They might disown him, Anne’s parents might sue—what matter? Once they met Celia they would give in. Nobody could fail to find her irresistible. And, she loved him. He was sure she loved him, yet her so recent bereavement kept her shamefast. He should wait a little.
Edwin did not like to wait, and though the frenzy of his feelings had kept him tongue-tied so far, as they reached Cowdray’s avenue he realized how soon she would be swallowed up in the Castle, and suddenly burst out, “Lady! I love thee—I want thee, I must have thee!”
Celia reined in Juno and turned in mild astonishment. “What’s this, sir?” she said smiling. “You ask me to be your leman? I find you forward.”
“Nay, nay, Lady,” cried Edwin, yanking at his horse’s bridle so hard that it started and lunged. “I mean no dishonor. I wish thee for my wife!”
Celia bent her head and fingered Juno’s mane. Then she raised her eyes to Edwin’s reddened young face. “You are kind, sir,” she said softly. “I’m not ungrateful . . .” her voice trailed off.
“I did not mean to speak so soon,” Edwin gulped. “Celia . . . Celia, give me hope—love like mine must breed love.”
“Alack, not always,” Celia said beneath her breath, while she kept her face downcast, nearly hidden by the widow’s coif. She liked Edwin, but for all his seven months seniority, she knew him to be years younger than she in feeling and experience. Calf love, she thought, and yet . . . She had no plans for the future, no certainty of what awaited her in the beautiful tawny-gold palace at the end of the avenue. And was not any love better than none?
“I can not answer yea or nay,” she said, and touched his gloved hand at the stricken disappointment in his face. “And we will see one another, since my lord is in residence.” Until Edwin burst out with his declaration, she had been watching the buck-head banner fluttering from Cowdray’s flagpole.
He reached over and bent from his horse, taking her own gloved hand and kissing it. The glove was one of those Magdalen had sent for Celia’s wedding, the fine French leather was worn thin, the embroidery darkened and frayed, but Edwin noticed nothing except the whiff of rose petals from the sachet where Celia had stored her few treasures.
He is a gallant lad, she thought, moved by the silent kiss. Perhaps—then she forgot Edwin as they drew up to the porter’s lodge and her heart began to quake.
The porter did not know her—most of Anthony’s household had been changed through the years, but he was respectful to a widowed “Lady Hutchinson,” and greeted Edwin jovially. “Been quite a journey, eh, sir? Is’t true the natives in them parts swim e’en afore they suck?” He chorded and said to Celia, “Ye can wait in the presence room, Lady. Master Ratcliffe’ll show ye where, though ’tis like to be a while. M’lord an’ lady rode to Arundel three days agone, and not expected back ’til supper.”
“’Tis Lady Ursula Southwell I came to see,” said Celia evenly.
“Aye, indeed?” The porter looked puzzled. He had been at Cowdray only two months. “Is’t the old dame up i’ the south wing? I mind the new page was a-bringin’ ’er a posset last week. She’s bedrid.”
“Aye,” said Celia, “and I can find my way. Nay, sir,” she said to Edwin who was hovering, patently unwilling to leave her, “I must go alone.”
He submitted unhappily, and watched the slender black figure walk lithely across the side of the courtyard.
The porter chuckled again. “Smitten by Dan Cupid’s darts, eh?” He thumped his hand dramatically over his heart. “By St. Valentine, I don’t blame ye, sir, she’s a tasty morsel, and no doubt a good in’eritance from her late husband? I’m partial to widows m’self.”
Edwin gave him a cold look and headed for the noisy Hall which was, as usual, crowded with Anthony’s retainers, some dicing, some playing primero and all drinking.
Celia went into the south wing through a turret and up the old winding stone staircase. She found the familiar room. She knocked twice before there was any answer within. A feeble sound. Celia entered.
The woman lying propped on pillows in the bed was so altered that Celia stopped dead, clenching her hands. Ursula was wizened, her determined rugged face had shrunk to a pale wedge from which the hollow eyes looked out sadly, with resignation. Her lips were bluish, the only color in the transparent whiteness. Her grizzled hair hung down over the coverlet in a thin plait which gave her a ghastly air of youth—marred.
She stared at Celia, breathing fast, then held out a fleshless hand. “So you came, my darling, my child,” she whispered. “I’ve made six novenas to St. Anthony. You must reward him for me tomorrow.”
Celia ran across the room and knelt by the bed. She put her forehead silently on Ursula’s quivering hand which moved to caress the girl’s face.
“In black?” said Ursula in a wondering voice as her fingers touched Celia’s coif. “Not Sir John?”
Celia’s slight motion gave assent, and she gulped—it was half a sob. “Oh, why did you send me away? Why did you never come? I thought I hated you.”
“I know . . .” Ursula whispered. Through her rapture of relief a gray mist swirled, the faintness she had come to know so well. She gestured to the tabouret beside the bed and a glass vial of liquid. “The drops, sweetheart—the cordial! I must gain strength enough to talk.”
Celia poured a few drops into the cordial and held the cup to Ursula’s mouth. She waited, tears brimming, until she saw a tinge of color on the pallid cheekbones and heard the gasping breaths grow softer. The chamber smelt sour; there were cobwebs in the corner; fleas jumped amongst the moldy straw on the floor; the bed linen was stained and damp. None of this was unaccustomed—Celia had slept in many a worse room, but here there was an aura of neglect and loneliness that smote her.
“Who cares for you, Aunt?” she cried, using indignation as a shield against the crowding sorrow. “Have you no chamber woman?”
“Why, they come . . . now and again . . . the servants.” Ursula shook her head with a touch of the old impatience at so trivial a question. “There used to be Agnes Snoth, d’you remember her, dear? At the priory? She was good to me.”
Celia remembered the neat country maid with the clubfoot who had made sacrilegious statements about the Mass and the sacraments, one wintry morning long ago. “Aye, what happened to her?”
“She was burned for heresy,” said Ursula sighing. “So many burnings, they sickened me, but Sir Anthony—I mean, his lordship, always agrees with the Queen’s Grace. Heretics must burn. I went back once to the priory whilst I could still travel. The stench of charring flesh from Smithfield reached even across the river. When I ventured into Cheapside I could hear their screams.”
Celia winced. “Don’t,” she said. “My Lady Aunt, forget!”
I can’t forget,” said Ursula petulantly. “Don’t you see . . . ’tis the reason—the very meaning of—my silence?”
Celia frowned, shaking her head. “Pray don’t excite yourself, dear Aunt,” for Ursula had begun to shiver, her sunken eyes grew intense, the effort she was making obviously exhausted her. She gestured again towards the cordial.
In a few minutes she spoke more quietly and from what she said, assisted by Celia’s pitying, then appalled, efforts to understand, the girl perceived a situation she had had no inkling of during the isolated years at Skirby Hall.
The Queen had thought herself with child. Her courses stopped, she swelled up like a keg, but in the end no babe came forth, naught but a bladderful of wind and putrid matter. King Philip had contemptuously returned to Spain, and the Queen saw this as punishment upon her, as clear evidence of Divine Wrath that she had been too lax with heretics. So the burnings began.
Not only were the great folk burned, the Bishops Latimer and Ridley, the Archbishop Cranmer, but much smaller fry in all the southerly counties. Not age, blindness, sickness, nor humble station saved anyone so misguided as to utter a word of doubt against any tenet of the Holy Catholic Faith.
At Cowdray, Agnes Snoth had been caught reading her Bible, and when brought for questioning before Hawkes, the horrified steward, she had gushed forth a stream of heresy. The steward had locked her in the old cell off the latrines until Lord Montagu should deal with this viper in his nest. Anthony, who was about to embark for Picardy as a general in the new French war, had wanted no such sordid and dangerous annoyance on his estate. He sent Agnes under armed guard back to her original home at Smarden in Kent, where he alerted the authorities. Agnes, Protestant to the end, had been burned with others at Canterbury.
“After that,” said Ursula, “I was shunned. They could not openly doubt my piety”—she turned her weary eyes towards the crucifix in her alcove—“but Agnes had been dear to me, and there were suspicions—suspicions,” she repeated. Her head went limp against the pillow.
Celia’s mouth tightened as she wiped Ursula’s damp forehead with a corner of the sheet. So Anthony abetted these burnings, he had virtually sent a crippled serving maid to the stake.
“How Lord Montagu must have altered,” said Celia, “and to think he gave me in marriage to a Protestant, even entertained them at his table!”
“Aye . . .” Ursula found breath again. “Much altered, but remember, that was all before the Queen’s wedding, before King Philip became his master and England was received back by His Holiness the Pope, before the Queen grew fanatic. Celia, at the beginning, when you went to Lincolnshire I did not write to you because I felt you didn’t wish it. When Wat brought back your message, Montagu forbade me the slightest communication with you—I was still in charge of the twins—and since the discovery of Agnes’s heresy, I’ve been almost a prisoner. Now do you forgive me?”
