by Anya Seton
“Seldom,” answered Julian slowly. “Seizures may be caused by any disorder of the humors, or even a malign conjunction of the stars—if Saturn be trine to Mars . . .” He stopped. At that moment, while he was groping for a rational explanation of Stephen’s death, inclined to agree with Tom that imagination and apprehension had bred a great deal of unnecessary worry, he felt a clap of certainty. There was death in the hall, murder had been done, and that woman sitting there so complacent, so persuasive, was deluding them all.
“We’ll sing the old riddle song,” said Emma, spitting out a piece of shell. “We all know that, an’ I’m fond o’ it. Get your fiddle,” she said to the serving man. When he returned she led the singing in a hoarse grating voice. “I gave my love a cherry wi’out a stone, I gave my love a chicken wi’out a bone . . .”
Julian did not sing. He felt the weight of tragedy enshrouding him like a sodden cloak, and also felt the futility of trying to understand it. Whatever had happened could never be undone, nor might ever be known. The woman sang her silly riddle song, slyly, while her hands twitched, the jewels glimmered in her rings. She was evil, and would go unpunished. The Devil usually triumphed, much as true Christians tried to persuade themselves that he didn’t. Julian’s gaze passed again to the dark rectangle of plaster on the wall. From it emanated a blackness much darker than the patch of bricks and mortar, though even as he looked, the center of the blackness glowed with a soft yellow light. In the midst appeared Nanak’s face. The ugly froglike face of the man he had met in the flesh so many years ago in Padua. Julian saw the calm heavy-lidded eyes, the saffron-colored eyeballs. There was both compassion and rebuke in the man’s gaze.
Lascia! Julian said to it, in his head. Leave me alone! I’m tired of this coil—tired of frittering, tired of trouble. What would you have me do?
The hallucination vanished. ’Tis the poppy juice and sack, and the days of riding. These people here are nothing to me. I’m cold. And, indeed, he began to shiver with an ague. It was the damp, he thought, the chilly damp and agues of this miserable country.
Emma and the two men finished the riddle song, then Tom burst out irrepressibly, “But I know a better riddle song—we needn’t be too glum—this ’un makes Nan laugh.” He began to bellow in a jovial baritone:
What is a friar wi’ a bald head? A staff to heat a cuckold dead?
What is a gun that shoots point blank, and hits between a maiden’s flank?
Wi’ a humble-drum, drumble-dum, drumble-down-dee.
Emma scraped her chair back and rose. “Enough, Tom! I don’t hold wi’ bawdry in my house, ye forget yourself!”
Tom collapsed at once. He mumbled an apology which Emma received coldly. The party broke up, and Tom, very subdued, went to say a prayer by Stephen’s coffin which lay, properly guarded by tapers, in the chapel.
Emma went to the chapel much later, after everyone had gone to bed. She carried a candlestick through the upstairs passages, the flame wavered, died and leaped up again as her unsteady hand sheltered it from drafts. It flickered on her heavy face, which was set with determination, though the slack mouth drooped at the corners like a clown’s mask.
In the chapel she went to the bier, and slapped her hand on the coffin. “So . . .” she said to it. “Now ye’ve brought danger to me, ye false-hearted monk. Not content wi’ deserting me like this. Ye’ve brought threats to the Mote.”
She carefully put her candlestick down on the lectern, and tapped the coffin’s oaken lid until she began to smile, the color came back in her cheeks. “Curse ye—” she said softly, and heaved a satisfied sigh. Her curses were unneeded, his unshriven soul would pay for its great crime, it would find no rest. There was a faint odor of corruption wafting from the coffin.
“Faugh,” she said, “Ye stink now and I want no more part of ye. It shall be as though I’d never met ye.” She turned and picked up the candlestick, “But, I’ll keep an eye on your whore,” she added. “She’ll not escape.”
Emma returned through the passages to her chamber. She carefully removed her black velvet gown. “I’ll wear no more mourning,” she murmured, and putting on her nightshift clambered into bed next to her sleeping husband.
Early next morning the Medfield company left for Sussex. Emma did not come down, but as the men were sliding the coffin into the hearse, Sir Christopher said to Tom, “Emma, she wants ye to take this ring. Seems ’twas found on Stephen’s little finger, she says ye should have it.”
It was a heart-shaped amethyst ring held by two golden hands. Tom, completely mollified, and relieved that his mission was so easily accomplished this time, took the ring with warm gratitude. He was thirsting to be home with his family, and back to the running of a manor which might soon be as impressive as the Mote.
“Look, Doctor”—he tendered the ring to Julian—“’tis a fine stone, I wonder how Stephen came by it—most unlike him to have such a bauble. I believe I’ll send it to goldsmith at Lewes, have our crest graved on it, an’ the motto—Nan’ll be comforted to wear it, she do like pretty trinkets, an’ in memory of our poor brother.”
Julian stared down at the ring in Tom’s horny palm. He knew what it was—Celia’s wedding ring, the one put on her hand by Sir John Hutchinson at the priory in Southwark five years ago, the one she had worn at Cowdray six months ago.
“I’m sure Mistress Marsdon will be pleased,” Julian said, and turned to the difficult business of mounting his horse. He had definitely caught an ague—chills and burning all night, aches in the bones as well as the familiar ones in his joints. Not fit for riding—but nothing would have induced him to stay another night at the Mote, and he tried to conceal his condition. When they picked up the highway, he would ride eastward alone, must be an inn at Seven Oaks. Hold together until there. And rest . . . rest . . . forget . . .
Sir Christopher stood punctiliously at the moat’s bridge, his hand on his chest, his uncovered head bowed in respect for the hearse and its contents. The cortege plodded down the drive, while the manor folk who were not at work lined the way, hushed, murmuring, staring with thrilled awe at the four black horses and the shabby black ostrich plumes fixed to their bridles. Gape-mouthed they crossed themselves as the hearse passed them. There were a few “God rest his soul’s” but many faces showed avid curiosity. Alice, the nursery maid, was known to have found the priest dead, and though she wouldn’t talk of it, there was that in her behavior which caused conjecture. The girl had obviously been frightened—cowed—during her brief remaining stay at the Mote.
By the gate near the pond they turned on the lane to climb towards Ivy Hatch, where they would pick up the highway, and Tom was halted by an old man who had been sitting on a stump, mumbling a hunk of bread and honey. He came forward nimbly and tugged at Tom’s foot.
“Ye got her in there?” He stabbed a bony finger towards the hearse. “The poor fair maidy—so ye got her outa the wall?”
Tom looked down from his horse, saw the matted gray hair, milky white eyes peering up at him. “Nay, nay, gaffer,” he said kindly but brisk. “’Tis my brother Stephen Marsdon’s body I’m taking home.”
“I didn’t do it, ye know,” said the old man earnestly. “M’lady did, I swore I wouldn’t speak of it, an’ I haven’t. I didn’t know what we brought up from the old dungeon, ’twasn’t hardly breathin’ anyways, m’lady’d wrenched her good.”
Tom made an exasperated sound, Julian behind him clutched his pommel.
“Loose my rein, gaffer,” said Tom, for the old man had now seized it. “Go back to your staybite, we must hasten.”
The old man shook his head and held on tighter. “I’m Steward Larkin,” he said with a trace of anger. “An’ sence ye’ve come to bring her home I simply want ye to know I didn’t do it. I never would, e’en if she was the monk’s whore.”
Tom started. Julian saw scarlet flame up on his neck.
“Ye’re daft,” Tom growled. “Whoever tends ye should be here.” He gave Larkin a mild kick in the che
st. “Loose rein or I’ll hurt ye!”
“She were wi’ child, too,” said Larkin, dropping his hand. “Sech wickedness oughter be punished. M’lady said so. But I didn’t do it, mind ye, I didn’t rightly know what we brought up from the dungeon that night and set i’ the wall. But I’m glad she’s gettin’ Christian burial so her soul can rest. Was glad w’en I saw the hearse stop by to fetch her.”
“By God, ye’re brains’re addled as a mashed egg, ye old turdy-gut!” Tom spurred his horse, and galloped ahead. Julian continued with the procession at a pace scarcely faster than oxen.
In a while he caught up with Tom, who was waiting on the brow of the hill. The two men looked in each other’s eyes. Julian gave a sad shrug. And said nothing.
“Did ye hear that old bustard, that madman?” cried Tom, whose face was still purple. “The terrible things he said.”
Julian shrugged again. “I heard, Master Marsdon. You must make what you like of it . . .” He paused a moment. “After all, the man’s senile, I suppose.” He saw that Tom did not understand, and simplified. “In his dotage, maundering. I suggest that you give no weight to his words.”
Tom gazed hard for a moment at the Italian doctor, whom he had come to respect. “Aye, to be sure,” he said. “Dotage . . . maunderings is all.” He glanced down at the Mote, shimmering and calm in its hollow. He slapped the reins against his horse’s neck. “There’ll be the tavern at Ivy Hatch—well stop an’ get us a bit o’ cheer, shall we?”
“If you wish,” said Julian. “’Tis a long road ahead, a very long journey.” He glanced at the hearse which had also paused, while the black-plumed horses panted and wheezed on the hilltop.
“All the same—” he added softly, “I believe there was truth in what the steward said.”
Tom heard him, and clamped shut his mind, just as wooden shutters are slammed against night-time windows to keep out the cold and fearsome dark. “These hops,” he said, pointing to a field full of shriveling vines, already stripped by the pickers, “they do well here. I’ve a mind to plant ’em at Medfield, the soil’s not so different. I vow they might make me a mint—”
“Da vero,” said Julian, “we should all plan for our future comforts, and not permit disquiet to enter our lives.”
PART THREE
1968
Nineteen
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK on the second June morning following her admission to the London Clinic, Sir Arthur Moore swept past the tight-lipped matron and nurses to Celia Marsdon’s door. He banged on it thundrously. “Open up, Dr. Akananda! This nonsense has gone on long enough!”
He was relieved to hear the lock turn, and have the door open at once, then startled to see that the Hindu’s face had a gray tint under the dark skin, and there were furrows which had not been there before; the man had aged ten years.
“God, you look terrible!” said Sir Arthur. “How’s the patient? Whole bloody hospital’s buzzing. Think I’ve gone mental m’self to permit these shenanigans.”
Akananda drew aside and pointed to the bed.
Sir Arthur went and gaped at Celia. “I’ll be damned! Brought her round, have you?” He bent over Celia, fingers on pulse. He put his hand on her chest, which rose and fell slowly. He pinched her cheek and watched the blood flow back. “She’s alive all right,” he said, “but what’s the brain doing? You never know with these cataleptics.”
“Her mind . . . will gradually clear,” said Akananda. He swallowed, and poured himself a drink of water from the carafe. He swayed, clutched the bed rail, then collapsed into the armchair. “It’s been a struggle,” he said faintly.
Sir Arthur looked at his colleague with sudden sympathy. “Don’t know what you did, Jiddu, but the woman’s come out of the grave. Good show. You have a thing or two to teach me.” He laughed. “Have you got some secret pill—or was it hypnotism? Damn thing’s coming back in fashion. Seems to work sometimes. Lot of mysteries, even now with all our knowledge . . . You need a bracer, my boy.” He turned to the matron, who was hovering in the doorway. “Lady Marsdon’s much improved—get some brandy for Dr. Akananda. He deserves it.”
“No—thank you, Arthur,” said Akananda slowly. “I’d like a cup of tea—Indian,” he added, smiling a little. “As for this one . . .” he indicated Celia with a motion of his slim brown hand, “there’s more to be done—not medically, just now. Later we might try the H.C.G. test.”
“What?” said Sir Arthur. “D’ye think the girl’s pregnant?”
“Yes,” said Akananda.
“But the mother said . . .” Sir Arthur shrugged. “Well, she’s in a dither naturally, badgering me, and back and forth to Sussex where the husband’s gone round the bend, I gather. Mrs. Taylor’s waiting outside now, by the way, and so are an odd collection. Duchess of Drewton, Sir Harry something, and that ‘queer,’ Igor—that dressmaker the rich women are so crazy about.”
“So . . .” said Akananda thoughtfully. He leaned his head back, and sighed. “They were all close to her once. Though I wouldn’t have expected Igor. He was Simkin, I suppose—still he loved her in his way . . . and these things, we can’t see clearly . . . the bonds of love and hate . . . the interplay . . . the compensations . . .”
“Look here, old boy,” said Sir Arthur, frowning. “You’ve had it. Go home and sleep after you get your cuppa. Or shall I give you a shot—tranquilizer. I’ll take over from here.”
“I shall be tranquilized,” said Akananda, “when the divine spiral has ascended another coil, or, if you like, when I’ve finished achieving a balance for those to whom I owe it.”
Sir Arthur gave him a startled anxious glance. The man made no sense—well, different race after all, not “quite”—and whatever he’d done had apparently saved the patient. One wouldn’t have believed it forty-eight hours ago . . . look at her—plenty of color, and it had been ashen, and sleeping like a healthy baby. “Dammitall,” said Sir Arthur, “really a miracle. Ought to write it up—give you full credit, of course. Hard to, though, when I don’t know what you did.”
“Very,” said Akananda. His exhaustion was passing, and a gleam of humor returned to his eyes. “You can hardly write that with the help and guidance of my Master, who was once a Sufi named Nanak, Celia Marsdon has just lived through a former life in Tudor times, and I with her.”
Sir Arthur cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. He tried to laugh, but there was something about Akananda—a sureness, a composed detachment, that was impressive. “No,” he said, “all that stuff, my wife used to dabble in it, and you were raised to it of course, but I don’t see—medically speaking—no, I don’t see at all.”
“Perhaps you will . . . someday,” said Akananda softly. “And though she will recover, freed from the past, the end is not yet, for the others—for redress, for redemption.”
Sir Arthur snorted. “Those are very ‘pi’ sentiments. There was a preacher in Staffordshire—I was raised chapel, though’ve tried to forget it—he talked that way . . . redemption and the lot.”
“Truth is naturally universal,” said Akananda, “and shines into many different windows, though some of them are clouded. Arthur, we should summon Mrs. Taylor, poor lady—and I can see that the nurse is waiting to tend her patient and freshen the room.”
“Indeed, yes,” said the other doctor, thankfully abandoning metaphysics. “Room smells queer . . . no air, of course—there’s a flowery smell though—but something else. Patient begun to void again?”
Akananda nodded. “Body functions returned to normal. Send for Mrs. Taylor, and reassure the others! She shouldn’t see them for quite a while.”
Lily Taylor came in fearingly. She dared not believe Sir Arthur, who had gripped her hand and said, “Trouble’s all over. She’ll do now.” But when Lily saw Celia—sleeping sweetly as she had in childhood, one hand curled under the pillow, the other cuddling a fold of sheet as it had once cuddled a little stuffed bear—Lily could not restrain a sobbing choke. She kissed her daughter on the cheek, then s
moothed the matted, curls.
Celia opened her eyes. “Aunt Ursula?” she said. “Have I been ill?”
“No, no, darling,” Lily cried. “I’m your mother . . .”
Celia considered this, and nodded. “Aye, to be sure—you almost were—you wanted to be . . . and I, too, starting at Cowdray. And Sir John, he was my father this time, and got what he wanted—riches. He died saying ‘silver’ you know, but he didn’t get the son, only me.”
Lily looked anxiously to Akananda, who stood by the chest of drawers sipping his tea; his eyes met hers with smiling sympathy.
“She seems—oh—she looks normal,” Lily whispered, “but she’s delirious. Oh, Doctor, will her mind be all right?”
He nodded. “She has almost made the transition.”
“From what?” Lily asked sharply.
“From the far past and its evils.”
Lily, whose blue eyes were haggard, and who, like Akananda, had not slept for two nights, cried, “The evil’s now! I mean, I guess my baby’s come through the worst, and I pray you’re right. But Richard . . .”
Akananda put down his cup. He frowned. “Yes, there’s still Sir Richard, who has a worse Karma to understand and expiate. I’ll go to him tomorrow, after I’ve rested and, with God’s help, regained my own strength.”
“Thank you . . .” Lily said. “I don’t understand. And I don’t understand what makes you help us, except you’re a doctor, and they do help people . . .”
“Usually,” said Akananda in a lighter tone. “They vow to do so. Vows are important, Mrs. Taylor. I rather failed in mine four hundred years ago—failure all the worse because in my soul I knew better. Ignorance can sometimes be excused. You know I died back then with only one desire. Sun, warmth . . . and I most certainly got it. I was reborn sixty-two years ago in Madras.” He gave a rueful laugh.
“Oh, were you . . .?” said Lily blankly. She was too harassed and tired to follow him. She jumped as there was a movement on the bed, a groping hand. She took it in hers, and felt the fingers cling. Lily put her cheek down on the little hand, and began to cry softly.
