by Anya Seton
On the seventh of August he had a dream entirely unlike the arid fantasies which followed after medication. It was a stifling nightmare in which he thought himself bound in a dark hole with Celia, struggling to escape, and heard her muffled voice moaning his name. The horror of this nightmare was tinged by guilt, and remained for some time after he woke.
He meditated awhile on the senseless folly of dreams. He had not thought of Celia since she had run away, possibly in lewd pursuit of her monk, though Brother Stephen was said to be at Ightham Mote with the Allens, and why should he dream of Celia with a literally suffocating remorse, almost as though he had wilfully wronged her? Celia, he thought, shaking himself impatiently—ragazza testarda—a headstrong girl who had thrown away a good marriage, loving friends, and even admitted to witchcraft, all for one obstinate and shameful desire. Though, the chances were that she had found herself a protector in London, and had embarked on what seemed to be her inevitable career as a courtesan. Good fortune to her, he thought, and laughed dryly. She’d do well at that game in Italy, where she might even have her precious monk on the side—or be a cardinal’s mistress—that should suit her tastes! Julian was aware of anger that Celia had been the cause of such an unpleasant dream. All the same, when he finally got up he went down across the court to the kitchens and inquired for the page Robin. When the lad came, Julian said, “That foolish little dog of Lady Hutchinson’s, are you caring for it properly?”
“Aye, sir.” Robin looked startled, then excited. “Is my lady coming back? Have they heard aught?”
Julian shook his head. “You were fond of her, weren’t you?”
The boy blushed. “Aye, sir. An’ Taggle, he mopes. Last night he howled so much, horse-master himself wanted to gi’e him a beating. But I stopped it. I wouldn’t let even Master Farrier harm Taggle.”
Julian patted Robin on the shoulder. “Ah—you have a heart . . .” he said with a sigh. “Mine has gone withered and sapless.”
Robin gaped at him; Julian, turning on his heel, left the boy abruptly.
Since then Julian had been troubled by no more nightmares, and he had not asked again about the dog. He grew increasingly morose, and viewed the day’s festivities with a sour eye, though the weather was sunny and warm for a change. The instant the christening in the chapel ended he left to find a sunlit bench in some private place and bask. There were no private spots today. The manor grounds, the pleasaunces, bowling green, tilting grounds, even the herb garden, all swarmed. Outside the great gate milled the beggars—they had come from as far as Southampton or Chichester to line up for the generous dole dispensed by Lord Montagu’s almoners—bread, beef, ale and christening pennies. One tattered old man had an enormous growth on his neck; it was shiny red, pulsating, and the size of a stool ball. What sort of tumor? Julian thought, wrong place for a goiter, doesn’t look like a carbuncle—but his curiosity flickered out at once.
The stench from the beggars revolted him, he who had once ministered to countless foul-smelling mortals. The thought of the banquet which would soon start in the Great Buck Hall also revolted him. Those lords and their ladies, the knights and the squires—silks, satins, velvets, laces—gorging and guzzling. They smelled somewhat sweeter than the beggar horde, but he felt no kinship with them either.
He had his staff, and he leaned on it heavily as he walked away from the gatehouse down the avenue of oaks towards the highway. He was heading for a bench near the water tower, which he knew would be sunny, and hopefully unoccupied, since it was far from the castle. As he limped along he drew irritably aside to make way for a party of galloping horsemen, and was astonished to have one of them draw rein and hail him. “Master Julian, bigod, good day ter ye!”
Julian looked up and recognized Wat Farrier’s twinkling little eyes. Wat was a trifle drunk. He had been celebrating at the Spread Eagle in Midhurst.
“Good day, Wat,” Julian answered, and hobbled on.
But Wat dismounted and approached the doctor. “Ye’re the very man, now I think on it! I’ve the joustin’ to arrange this arternoon, as m’lord has commanded—all the trappin’s for the hosses, an’ wouldn’t want to plague m’lord on sech a day, noways. Ye can pick the right time.”
“What do you speak of?” said Julian scowling. “I wish to be quite alone in the sunlight, while we have some.”
“Aye, sir, to be sure.” Wat did not question eccentricities. “An’ ’tis a smallish matter, though maught gi’e m’lord a pang, seein’ how he used ter feel, even in Spain he mentioned the monk couple o’ times.” Wat had accompanied his master on the brief journey to the Spanish court.
“The monk? What monk?” Julian was exasperated. “You’re dithering—go see to your tournament!”
Wat nodded affably. “I’ll so do. Brother Stephen’s the monk, o’ course. He’s dead, God rest him.” Wat crossed himself. “His brother, Squire Marsdon, he’s at the Eagle, an’ wants m’lord’s advice. Rid over from East Sussex. Didn’t know about the christening, to be sure.”
Julian clenched his staff, his knees weakened. He had seen thousands of deaths, he expected his own before long, why then should the news of Stephen’s death be a shock, and bring with it the return of the stifling miasma he had felt in his nightmare of Celia?
“When did he die?” asked Julian.
“Dunno. Last month, I think. Master Marsdon didn’t say much, but I got the feel there’s summat fishy. Leastways ’twas sudden.”
Julian compressed his lips, his knees stopped quivering. “I’d better see Marsdon,” he said, and cast a sad glance at the sunny bench. “May I have your horse?”
“Surely,” said Wat. “Good idea. He’s gentle, an’ wearied from galloping. I’ll give ye a hoist . . . There ye be!” Wat strode vigorously towards the castle.
Julian rode towards Midhurst, wondering at this impulse and vexed by it.
In the once familiar stable yard at the Spread Eagle he found an ostler to help him down and look to the horse. After inquiring of old Potts the landlord, he located Tom Marsdon in the taproom, sitting alone in a corner, grim-faced beside an untouched tankard.
Julian explained his presence, and Tom said, “Aye—my poor brother mentioned ye when he came to Medfield last spring. When d’ye think it’ll be seemly to see my Lord Montagu?”
“What for?” asked Julian gently enough. “If Brother Stephen’s dead—for which I’m sorry—he must be buried long since.”
“That’s just it,” said Tom. “He’s not buried at Medfield wi’ all the Marsdons, they’ve got the coffin at Ightham Mote, an’ my sister-in-law, Emma Allen, won’t give it up. Keeps it i’ the chapel. I rode to the Mote when Sir Christopher notified us, had hired a hearse too, but I got no satisfaction. Emma ’ouldn’t see me, and old Kit, he didn’t want her disturbed. Said she was ill an’ must be humored. I can have the law on ’em, I believe, but don’t rightly know, bein’ ’tis not this county. I thought m’lord Montagu might write a word to Lord Cobham, who is Lord-Lieutenant o’ Kent.”
“I see . . .” said Julian slowly. “What did your brother die of?”
Tom’s face set, his hazel eyes, so like Stephen’s, grew more somber. “I don’t think Christopher knows. He just said ’twas unexpected . . . but I saw the nursery maid who was watching the boy Charles while he caught frogs in the moat. I asked her, an’ she gave a kind o’ shriek, turned gray as glass, then had hysterics. She knows sompthin’ ain’t right, an’ so do I. M’heart’s heavy, an’ Nan, m’wife, she weeps a lot an’ won’t be comforted. She had a fear o’ Stephen’s going as chaplain to her sister. Still an’ all—” added Tom with an attempt at a smile, “women’s fancies don’t mean much. Nan’s breedin’, too. On’y the whole business ain’t right somehow, an’ I want m’brother buried proper wi’ his forefathers.”
“So he should be,” said Julian. Intuition, which had served him so well for diagnoses, seeped through his wall of inert resistance. He was certain that far more was wrong at Ightham Mote than a menopausal w
oman’s idiotic refusal to part with a coffin.
“Was there any mention of a girl called Celia, or did your brother ever speak of her?” Julian asked quietly.
Tom blinked and frowned. “Nay, never heard of such. What’d she have to do wi’ Stephen? He was a godly monk, we was proud o’ him. There’d he no girl in his life—an’ by the Blood o’ Christ I’d kill anybody who said so!” His heavy-boned face reddened as he grabbed his dagger hilt.
“Softly, softly,” said Julian with a faint smile, stepping back. “Don’t make mincemeat of me, my friend, I but asked.”
Tom’s face cleared, he looked sheepishly at the gaunt dignified doctor with his gray beard, his gnarled hands. “I be hotheaded,” he said apologetically. “Us Marsdons’re proud, there’s bin no slur on the family sence ’twas founded afore the Normans come.”
Julian inclined his head. “I understand, Master Marsdon, and will approach Lord Montagu for you tomorrow.”
He silently acknowledged Tom’s thanks, and returned to Cowdray.
The next morning he waited until Anthony had recovered from the previous day’s revels, and caught him in the privy parlor, just before he set out stag hunting with some of his guests.
“Will you spare me a moment, my lord?”
Anthony did not conceal impatience. The huntsmen had reported four fat stags running in the park, the hounds were already baying below, the horses were waiting, the horns a-winding. Indeed, he had forgotten that Master Julian was still at Cowdray, not having seen him in days. “What is it?” he said, settling his big shoulders in the new sapphire-colored velvet hunting costume, and pulling his plumed cap firmer on his head. Besides the blood sport there was other sport to pursue. The Fitz-Allans had brought with them an uncommonly toothsome young cousin who was to join the hunt. Anthony had enjoyed a few kisses the night before when Magdalen had gone upstairs to see how the baby did.
“’Tis Brother Stephen, my lord—he’s dead.”
Anthony, who had been motioning an usher to bring the quiverful of yew arrows, let his hand drop, and after a moment crossed himself. “How—how can that be?”
Julian told him briefly of his talk with Tom Marsdon.
“Shocking . . .” said Anthony. “Truly regrettable. Must’ve been plague for them to act that way at Ightham. I’ll have Dr. Langdale say a Mass.”
Magdalen came out from the bedchamber. “Did ye say ‘plague’?” she said in a whisper, her amber eyes rounded. “Where?”
She was dressed in a bed gown—she did not care for hunting, her coarse red hair hung in a plait, and her robe was milk-stained owing to her insistence on feeding the baby herself, despite the wet nurse who had been hired. “Not at Cowdray?” Her plump cheeks whitened.
Julian reassured her. “And I do not believe it was plague, Lady.”
“Weel, then . . .” she said, and accepted the silver mug of breakfast ale one of the hovering servitors offered her. “’Tis sorry news. He should niver ha’ left my lord when he was begged to stop on.”
“Aye,” said Anthony, his boot tapping as the horns let forth another blast below. “He would’ve been useful to me i’ Spain, yet I found other men to serve me . . . Oh,” he went on, in response to Julian’s reproachful look, “tell the secretary to write a line to Cobham. You’ll know what to say, give it to the Marsdon brother, tell him there’ll be a Requiem Mass here soon, after all the guests’ve left.” He hurried from the parlor.
“Si, Excellenzia, como vuole,” said Julian under his breath: Magdalen did not understand the words, but she caught the bitterly sarcastic tone, and saw the look in the Italian doctor’s eyes.
“I’ll thank ye not ta mutter,” she said coldly. “My lord ha’ gr-ranted your r-request—an’ iffen ye be discontent at Cowdray—Och, ye’ve altered, Doctor—last week I asked ye ta look at wee Mary’s foot . . . ye didna coom nigh her, nor ha’ ye been ta Mass lang time I hear-r.” Magdalen’s northern burr got harsher when she was angry. Her ire now was straightforward. Julian had brought a note of death into the house; he had seemed to reproach Anthony. Though well recompensed for his piddling services, he yet was malcontent and lazy.
Less clear to Magdalen was her resentment of Julian’s presence during the time of Celia’s wicked behavior—her flight, her shameful treatment of poor Edwin Ratcliffe—and of the unease she had felt about Anthony and Celia.
Julian bit his lips and shut his eyes a moment. “You will no longer have to suffer me, Lady,” he said. “I regret—I regret—” he did not finish.
Magdalen stared after his departing back, which was slightly bowed under the furred doctoral robes. She noticed his limp. He was old. A momentary qualm of pity passed into relief. She had never much liked the doctor. She went to the nursery to see her baby and give it suck.
A week later, Julian and Tom Marsdon descended the hill into the demesne of Ightham Mote. Tom was armed with an order from Lord Cobham, and the hearse, again hired in Ightham, rattled behind them.
They all drew up before the moat bridge. The porter lumbered out to inquire their names and wishes. Tom had expected the same vaguely hostile reception of his first visit but they were readily admitted.
Sir Christopher and Lady Allen were at supper, and would certainly be glad to receive anyone sent from Lord Cobham.
Julian, though stiff from days in the saddle, felt better than he had in months, and Tom had been glad of his company on the dreary mission.
They crossed the courtyard and entered the Hall, which contained only the Allens and a lanky young servitor hired at Wrotham Village by Sir Christopher himself. Dickon had vanished weeks ago; the scullery maid—so briefly at the Mote after Lammas—had also disappeared. Doubtless they had gone together, Emma said. On top of that, old Larkin the steward had taken to muttering and weeping and soiling himself when he wasn’t in sodden sleep. He had had to be banished to a cottage near the blacksmith’s, and tended by one of the dairymaids.
What with Brother Stephen’s inexplicable death, and Emma’s sullen refusal to leave her bed, or speak for days, except to demand another flask of the fiery-smelling drink brought up from the cellar, Christopher had been forced into command. He was now seeking a new steward, and expected one from London shortly.
He was pleased to receive the visitors, and relieved that Emma was greatly improved. “Welcome—hearty welcome, my brother Tom,” he said to Marsdon as the two men entered. “And—Doctor . . .? I remember ye kindly . . . at King’s Head, wasn’t it—time o’ Queen Mary’s procession and before that at Midhurst. Emma, m’dear, ye remember Master Julian, the physician?”
“Aye . . .” said Emma. She was dressed in black velvet, and much bejeweled. She had been cracking hazelnuts and eating them—carefully, because they hurt her loosened crooked teeth. “Pray sit down,” she said, and turned to the servitor. “Bring sack.”
“Glad to see ye better, Sister Emma,” said Tom uncertainly. “I fear I’ve returned on no pleasant errand. There’s a hearse a-waitin’ at the bridge—for Stephen’s coffin. I—I’ve an order from Lord Cobham.”
Christopher looked anxiously at his wife, but she smiled the same bland half-smile with which she had greeted the visitors. “Lackaday,” she said. “To be sure. Ye needn’t have troubled Lord Cobham. ’Tis natural, dear, ye’d want the poor priest buried at Medfield. How fares Nan—and the babes?”
So reasonable a speech at once reassured Tom, but Julian looked at Emma and saw the tremor of her square muscular hands as she pried out a hazelnut with a silver pick. He saw the dilation of pupil in the strange eyes. And he felt an emanation of ancient evil—not entirely from her, though he felt she was its focus.
The Hall was commonplace—small applewood fire burning pleasantly—the October night was chill—carved oak table and benches, the twin high chairs, the court cupboard, garish painted wall hangings, a greyhound curled up on the rushes near the fire, pewter plates and flagons on the board, the silver saltcellar—all details to be found in any well-to-do manor in Engl
and.
What then was wrong? His glance was drawn towards the south end of the Hall, near the entrance. There was a large rectangle of darker plaster there. He frowned at it, wondering, and Sir Christopher, who was animated by company and wishful to be a good host, noticed the doctor’s stare.
“That’s where my lady keeps the strongbox,” he explained. “Newly bricked in, and mars the Hall, but I’ve ordered a Flemish tapestry to cover it. Should arrive any day, but ye know how slow deliveries are from London.”
“I don’t want it covered,” said Emma, “I told ye, Kit, I like to keep an eye on it.”
“But my dear,” her husband expostulated, “ye said ’twould be a safe place for Charles’s inheritance. ’Twould take hours to chip through it again, no thief’d try. Tis a fine device—but Hall’d look better wi’ a hanging there.”
Emma glanced at Tom, then at Julian. She turned to her husband. “As ye like,” she said, and reached for another hazelnut.
The supper continued, the fare provided was poor. Christopher apologized for it, and Julian, baffled and uneasy, could find no reason for the formless suspicions he had arrived with. The sack came and Julian allowed the sweet heady liquor to warm his stomach. They were invited to spend the night, and Tom, who was naturally convivial and had begun to think he had made too much ado in running to Lord Montagu and then Lord Cobham, turned back to his natural hearty self.
He was delighted when his brother-in-law said, “Ye know—that long-faced youth I hired at Wrotham can play the fiddle, it seems. Shall we have a round, something merry?”
“Why not,” said Emma, “though too merry’d not be seemly, would it—wi’ our poor brother a-laying i’ the chapel. Struck down so sudden i’ the very flower o’ his manhood—’twas like a fit took him. Are the Marsdons given to fits, dear?” she asked Tom.
“Not as I know of.” Tom looked worried, and turned to Julian. “Does it run in families, Doctor?”
