Green Darkness

by Anya Seton

  Celia was incapable of saying anything. She continued to clutch the table edge. She felt sick; bitter fluid rose in her throat.

  Magdalen and Anthony were unaware, too much shaken by their own troubles. Anthony’s fleeting thought of the priory scene years ago seemed so trivial and long past that it had no application now to these two. Stephen had spent much time in France, much in Westminster’s Benedictine Abbey as Abbot Feckenham’s able junior and was now a man of such suavity and yet rectitude that Anthony had submitted to his judgment. As for Celia, she would be married Sunday to the man of her choice, and showed pleasure at the prospect. It did not even occur to Anthony that this meeting might be embarrassing. Youthful follies came—and went. There were many really pressing matters.

  “Stephen,” he said, “you’ll come with me to Spain, as my confessor? I need you. You’ve the Latin and the French, you’ll pick up the Spanish in a trice. ’Tis a dolt’s errand. But ye got me into it, and if I acquit myself well the Queen’s Grace may be mollified.”

  The young monk shook his head. “Perhaps . . .” he said. “’Twould be an agreeable diversion, but there are stauncher ways for me to serve my faith. And though the abbeys are dissolved again, Abbot Feckenham is still my superior. He has other plans for me.”

  “Bah! Cotsbody!” cried Anthony, annoyed. “He wants company i’ the Tower, where he’s surely bound. What good’ll that do your faith?”

  “It may yet be the Tower,” said Stephen flushing. “At present he wishes to send me into Kent, to Sir Christopher and Lady Allen who have great need of a chaplain, and who have applied to him direct.”

  Celia shivered. She raised her eyes once more to Stephen’s face, then lowered them. She could not stop herself from shivering.

  “The Allens!” cried Anthony. “Not that vulgar, wheedling couple who came to Cowdray during Edward’s visit. Mass! Did our poor deluded Queen knight him? The Allen woman was odious. Sorry, Stephen, she’s some kin o’ yours, I believe, but that’s no reason to bury yourself in a forgotten rustic hole. Feckenham has no judgment. Why, you can come back here if you yearn to be a simple house priest.”

  “You have two chaplains already, my lord,” said Stephen. “They’ll suit you far better than I. They’re conformable. I know their records. My superior sends me to a house where there is no trace of compromise or heresy. Such few homes left in England must be supported.”

  “The good Brother maught be reet, my lord,” said Magdalen softly. “An’ he mun follow his conscience, lak’ he made ye to do.”

  “Bosh!” said Anthony, but he nodded reluctantly. “How long can ye stay wi’ us? Help me ready my papers as ye used to. My secretary’s a fool.”

  “I’ve a fortnight’s leave . . .” said Stephen slowly, “but I wish to see my brother Tom at Medfield.”

  “Och, then,” Magdalen cried, “yell assist at Celia’s wedding Sunday! That’ll please ye, eh, hinny? Since the Brother’s an ould friend?”

  Stephen spoke quickly before Celia need respond. “I must leave here Saturday, but I wish Lady Hutchinson the greatest happiness.”

  Celia made a faint mewing sound, the parlor tapers wavered and blackened around her. She slumped down, and would have fallen if Julian had not caught her.

  “Some little faintness,” said Julian in response to Magdalen’s cry of concern. “Transient disorder of the belly. ’Tis warm in here, and I thought she ate the stuffed pork too fast.” He dipped his napkin in the wine and pressed the drenched linen under Celia’s nose. “She wants a blood-letting, I’ll do it anon.”

  “I’m all right,” Celia murmured. “’Tis naught.” She sat up straight and looked at Stephen. “I believe brides are given to vapors,” she said with a choked laugh. “Haven’t you heard that, Brother Stephen?”

  He could not answer her, though Magdalen said, “Verra true. M’sel’, I’d a qualm or two afore our marriage! Brother Stephen, ye may tak’ the blue chamber whilst ye’re wi’ us.”

  “Most kind of you, my lady, but I’ve a fancy to go back to my old quarters on St. Ann’s Hill, if you permit, a nostalgic wish.”

  “They’re tumblin’ doon,” protested Magdalen. “No guid shelter for ye. Weel,” she added seeing his determination, “I’ll send a page wi’ a new-stuffed pallet, candles an’ a jug o’ ale, at the least.”

  Stephen bowed his thanks and begged to be excused as he wanted to say the prayers for Compline in the deserted chapel of St. Ann. He would report to Anthony on the morrow. He blessed them all, while avoiding any glance towards Celia.

  “Yon’s a guidly priest,” cried Magdalen warmly, “fur a’ he looks lak Bonnie Black Will, the lustiest man an’ best fighter on the Borrder . . .”

  “My lady Maggie,” interrupted Celia, “I’m yet queasy, may I go to my chamber . . .?” She darted out even as Magdalen gave sympathetic assent.

  No, carina, no mi povera. No! thought Julian looking after Celia. He half rose to follow her. He had said she needed a blood-letting. I could stop her, he thought, whatever her mad plan. I could detain her. But his thickly cushioned chair was comfortable. He had not finished the delicious marchpane tart, garnished with orange rind—a confection he loved. Besides, Anthony’s chief minstrel came in with his lute and began singing “Da Bel Contrada,” an Italian madrigal Julian had himself introduced at Cowdray. He settled back to enjoy the music.

  Celia ran down the great staircase, through the porch and into the courtyard. She saw Stephen striding towards the gatehouse. She ran around in front of him, so that he halted. “Stephen, I must speak with you. I must. Dear God, I never knew ’twould be like this again. Torment, anguish.”

  He raised his chin, staring down at the lovely face dimly seen by the courtyard torches. “We’ve naught to say to each other.”

  “We have. I saw it in your eyes! I must talk to you. Only talk—” she stammered. “I need counsel. I’ll come later up Tan’s Hill.”

  “Nay!” he cried in a great voice. “I forbid it. Leave be, Celia!” He pushed her aside, and strode with rapid, almost running steps through the gatehouse into the darkness.

  Celia stood quiet for a moment on the cobbles. “I must talk with him,” she whispered. “Only to see him alone again. ’Tis not wrong. Blessed Jesu help me!” She clamped shut her lips at the instinctive supplication. How stupid it was!

  Her wits cleared, and the top of her mind thought with cool precision.

  She went to the scullery and soon found Robin. She beckoned to him. “Which page is to carry the requirements to Brother Stephen, the stranger monk, on Tan’s Hill tonight?”

  Robin looked at her adoringly, and said he would find out. He came back in a few minutes to report that the order had only just come down to the servants. But the yeoman who brought it said that Robin might as well go himself.

  “Very good,” said Celia stroking his cheek. “Bring the tankard of ale to my chamber. I wish to taste of it before it goes to the holy Brother. It should not be too sour.”

  Robin nodded. He did not dream of questioning. He brought up the tankard brimming with foamy ale, and waited like a good dog in the passage while Celia bolted her door, and ransacked the store coffer. She found the vial the water-witch had given her nestled beneath an old linen shift she had brought from Skirby Hall.

  Celia, breathing hard, took a brand of dead charcoal from the brazier. She pushed aside the rushes and drew on the wooden planks the five-pointed star as Melusine had showed her. She put the vial in the central pentagon.

  “Ishtareth,” she said, three times, staring at the vial. She took it up and poured the brown powder into the tankard. She opened the door and said to Robin, “This will do.”

  He bobbed his head and took the tankard. “Dear Robin,” she said. “My sweet, pretty lad, you’re a great comfort to me.”

  He blushed, and kissed her cold hand. Even his youthful self-absorption was pierced by her wild look. Her beautiful eyes glittered like the sapphire in Lady Montagu’s ring. “Are ye well, m’lady?�
� he faltered.

  “Aye, aye,” she said impatiently. “Go!”

  She knew that she must wait awhile until the castle quieted down, until Stephen finished his evening office, and might have drunk the ale. She flung off her widow’s robes, hurled the frilled coif in a corner, and arrayed herself in the bridal dress. She let down her hair, combed it into a cascade of gold. She peered in the mirror, and pinched her pale cheeks to bring up the color. She opened a little silver bottle Edwin had brought her, amongst other gifts, saying that he loved the essence of gillyflower and hoped she would use this on her bridal day. She rubbed the spicy scent on her neck and arms.

  “Ishtareth . . .” she said and laughed. The laugh sounded strange to her, as though someone else had made it. For a moment she looked at the bed where Ursula had lain. It was empty, its brocaded coverlet as smooth as when the chambermaid had finished this morning, except that Taggle was curled up at the foot, his chin on his paws his brown staring at her under the fringe of bristles. He did not try to follow her, as he always did, when she put on her black cloak. He did not move he stared at her unblinking

  Celia pulled the hood close around her face. She left the chamber, ran down the turret stairs and into the courtyard. She was now beyond caution, and when the porter said uncertainly, “What ho, Lady! Ye’re late abroad,” she did not answer, leaving him to think what he would. She ran through the pasture and over the Rother’s footbridge. She climbed the path up St. Ann’s Hill and scrambled across the rubble of the old Bohun stronghold. A candle was lit in the hut—so Robin had been there. The door was on the latch, and she went in. Stephen stood by the little chapel door, his head bent, his breviary in his hand.

  She let her cloak slip down, and advanced slowly, holding out her arms to him.

  “Celia . . . I forbade this . . .” he cried. His book dropped to the earthen floor. “What in the devil’s name are you wearing? Don’t look at me like that!” He put his hand over his eyes and whispered, “Maria Beata—Miserere mei.”

  “Ah—” Celia said sweetly, softly. “She’s not here now.” Celia pointed to the rotting wall where the Virgin’s picture had used to hang. “I am, Stephen. And I wear my bridal gown for you. None but you.”

  “Christ!” he cried. “My God, why did I come back to Cowdray!”

  “You’ve drunk but little of your night ale,” she said quickly looking into the tankard. “We’ll drink together, a loving cup. Here, my dearest.”

  She took a sip and held the tankard to his mouth. He pushed it away.

  “I don’t love thee,” he cried. “I don’t want thee. I quelled that wicked passion long ago. When I went back to Marmoutier and confessed all to the Abbot, I grew content. I wore the hair shirt, I scourged myself. Celia, I’ve made my vows to God, and to Her. There can be nothing but hell for us, if we should commit so—so horrible a sin.”

  “Ah, indeed?” she said. “At least, you’ll not refuse to drink to my bridal, you’d not be so discourteous, good Brother Stephen.” She pointed to the pallet. “Nor will it harm your soul to sit wi’ me a short while. I’m a-weary. You know that I felt ill at supper.”

  “Aye,” he said after a moment. “I’m sorry for that. I’d not be churlish to you.” He had achieved a polite, nearly normal tone. He sat down gingerly beside her on the edge of the pallet, and quaffed the ale. “To your health, and that of your bridegroom. I’ll pray for you both.” He stared rigidly at the wall.

  “I thank you,” said Celia. “How good it smells in here. The pallet is new-stuffed with meadow grass and thyme, and do you smell another fragrance that I am wearing?” She leaned near him. “’Tis carnation and woos the heart to languorous ease . . . Stephen, look at me!”

  He turned slowly, against his will. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Crystal drops glistened on her cheeks. Her pink lips quivered like a child’s. He had resisted her voice, her fragrance, her feminine lure, but her tears astounded him.

  “Nay, darling, don’t weep,” he whispered. His arms raised of themselves, he pulled her close, kissing her wet face. He kissed her mouth gently. Gently it opened beneath his.

  Soon they lay naked together on the pallet, and she spoke but once. “Love so wondrous sweet can not be wrong.”

  He did not listen. Through the last shattered barrier came only dark flooding triumph.

  The honeyed fire consumed them both, until they lay quiet, her head buried on his shoulder. Outside from the ash tree a lark began his dawn—greeting warble. Wind sprang up and rustled the new beech leaves. The Midhurst church bell rang out for six o’clock Mass.

  Stephen said, “My God . . .” He turned away from her and groaned.

  “Nay, love—don’t turn away,” she said piteously. “Now that we are one, as it was always meant to be. Stephen, that first day we met—here on Tan’s Hill, think how it was even then.”

  “I can’t think—” he cried, yet he remembered how she had stood beside his picture of the Blessed Virgin, and he had seen resemblance—how it had sickened him—and now, the ultimate betrayal of Her.

  He sprang up from the pallet, yanked his habit around his nakedness and ran outside into the grove of oaks beyond the chapel. Early sunlight shimmered on the dark tree trunks. Mist swirled up from the bed of last year’s fallen leaves. He stood, a black figure as stiff as the tree trunks, his unseeing eyes fixed on a clump of green spears which were piercing through the leaves. A song thrush hopped along a bough near Stephen’s head, it chirped tentatively, then trilled out its melodious little notes in which the country people always heard a question, “Did he do it? Did he do it? For sure he did.”

  Stephen looked up at the bird. “You may well mock me,” he said, and laughed as he beat his clenched fist against a tree trunk. The thrush flirted its tail and flew away. And so the Devil’s familiar jeers at me, Stephen thought. The Devil was in this grove where the Druids used to worship. There, lurking behind a gnarled old oak, something moved. It was black and scarlet, a glimpse of horns, and a hideous leering mouth with fangs. Stephen stared again, and there was nothing there but an elm tree stump, blasted long ago by lightning. I’m going mad, he thought. He went to the well; though choked by leaves the spring rains had brimmed it. He sluiced his head and neck.

  His wits cleared, the horror vanished, leaving behind only dullness encased by a sense of doom.

  He went back in the hut. Celia lay as he had left her, huddled and naked, looking up at him with frightened eyes.

  “You must go, dear,” he said gently. “At the castle we’ll hope they haven’t missed you. Make some excuse. I’ll leave today myself.”

  From the anguish of panic she cried, “You can’t! You can’t leave me again! Not now!”

  “What else is there?” he asked. “In time you’ll be happy in your new life with Edwin Ratcliffe.”

  “And you?” she cried. “You’ll be happy in your new life? You can forget this night?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t expect happiness. When I dare pray again ’twill be for mercy, forgiveness. Our carnal love . . .”

  “Carnal love!” she interrupted fiercely. “Is that all it means to you? All that I mean?”

  She saw the flicker in his eyes, and that he bit his lips as though to hold back something. He touched the gleaming tendril of hair which partly covered her left breast, then snatched his hand away.

  “Go, Celia!”

  “Aye,” she said. She sat up and pulled on her shift, then the crumpled bridal gown. “This can not be the end for us. I won’t permit it. If I didn’t love thee, I could hate thee, Stephen Marsdon!”

  He did not watch as she slipped out of the hut. He sat on the pallet, his face in his hands, the tonsure gleaming white on his bowed head.

  Julian awakened that Friday morning in a very bad mood. All his joints were stiff. It took him several minutes even to reach for the chamber pot. There was also a darting pain behind his eyes. He had remedies in his coffer, but felt too wretched to get them. By the time a servitor came up to his
room with the breakfast ale, early sunlight had vanished and an east wind had started to blow, bringing with it more rain. Drafts whistled around the window.

  “Clima sporco,” said Julian crossly to the servant, whose broad Saxon face showed mild surprise.

  “Sir,” he asked, “d’ye lack somep’n?”

  “I merely remarked that this was a swinish climate,” said Julian, massaging his swollen fingers. “’Tis chill as a tomb in here. Make me a fire!”

  The man waggled his shock of hair. “’Tis April! No orders ta light chamber fires in April . . . I dunno . . .”

  “Bring me wood and tinder, you dolt,” cried Julian. “I want a small fire, at least.”

  “Jest a liddle fire?” The man looked unconvinced. He went out muttering to himself.

  Sancta Maria, Julian thought, and he pulled the blankets close around his shoulders, craving Italian sunlight, craving heat with a passion nothing else could rouse in him now. Once Lady Montagu was delivered and he had received the ten gold angels which he expected, he’d try to sell the miserable little properties his wife had left him, and he’d go home. To Florence? No, that too would be chilly. South! South! Calabria, Sicily, what matter if he could find no rich patron there? Lie in the brilliant sunlight and gladly starve, or he could beg. “Signori, gentile signori—per pietá . . .”

  He looked around hopefully at a knock on his door. So, the simpleton had come with the wood after all. “Enter!” he cried, and was bitterly disappointed to see Celia walk in.

  “F-forgive me, Master Julian,” she said, taken aback by his angry face. “I asked where your chamber was . . .” she swallowed and paused.

  “Chiaro! Obviously . . . but why?”

  “I—I thought you might—that you would . . . help me. There’s nobody else. You’ve often seemed fond of me . . .” her voice trailed off.

  Julian crouched in his blankets and looked at her with displeasure. The egotistical arrogance of the young! And of beauty. Some subtle change in that beauty; loss of the plaintive aura of innocence. The long sea-blue eyes were heavy, dark-circled; her mouth looked bruised; there was a red mark on her neck which he very well recognized. He had made many such marks himself on young, lovely flesh in the long ago.