Kate was amused. “Of course he wanted the Princess Elizabeth but she was too dangerous so he took Queen Katharine instead. A King’s widow instead of a Princess who thinks she might have a claim to the throne! Anne Boleyn’s daughter.” She was pensive, thinking of the glittering, elegant woman whom she had so admired.
Kate giggled over the scandals of the Dower House where the Queen and Seymour lived, for the young Elizabeth was under the Queen’s care and there were rumors of a far from innocent relationship between the Princess and Seymour.
On the day when the Queen Dowager died in childbed I returned to the Abbey.
There followed what I thought of afterward as the quiet years. There were changes but they were so gradual that I scarcely noticed them. There were many workers on the Abbey estate now and always great activity on the farm for more workers had joined us. More building had been done. There had even been extensions to our mansion. Bruno never seemed to be satisfied with it. Tapestries adorned many of our rooms. Now and then Bruno made trips abroad and often returned with treasures.
Honey was now eleven and she had lost none of her beauty. Catherine, more than two years younger, was more vivacious and independent. They were both bright and intelligent children and I was proud of them. Valerian had now taken over the control of their studies and each day they took lessons in the scriptorium. It was a disappointment to me that I had no other child. My mother, who imagined that she was learned in such things, said that perhaps I desired one too passionately. She was always concocting potions for me but nothing happened. Sometimes I had the notion that Mother Salter had indeed put a curse on me because she had feared I did not care sufficiently for Honey.
I often visited Kate and she came now and then to the Abbey. She had not married although she had been betrothed twice, but had decided against marriage before the ceremony was performed. She told me that she liked her freedom and since she was rich she had no need to marry for what she called the usual reasons.
The children now looked forward to their reunions. Catherine and Carey quarreled a good deal. Honey was aloof; she always seemed much older than Carey. Little Colas was always ignored by the others and only allowed to play with them if he took the minor parts in games—the usual fate of the youngest.
Sometimes the twins came to us, but my mother liked best for me to take the children to Caseman Court. On several occasions she talked to me of the Reformed religion. She would like to see me embrace it. I asked her why.
“Oh, it’s all in the books,” she said.
I smiled at her. One faith was as good as another to her. She would be ready to follow her husband in all ways.
We seemed to have passed into a different era. The young King was as different from his father as a king could be. The times had changed. It was no longer dangerous to show an interest in the Reformed faith. King Edward himself was interested in it; so were those who surrounded him. The Princess Mary, who was the next in succession to the King, would be very different, for she was fiercely Catholic; but it would only be if the King were to die without heirs that she would have a chance of ascending the throne.
He was sickly, it was true, but they would marry him young and according to Kate he had already chosen the little Lady Jane Grey, a choice greatly approved by those who wished to see the Reformed faith flourish.
Rumors came to us over those years but they did not seem of such significance as they had when the old King was alive.
The Lord High Admiral, Thomas Seymour, had lost his head; and sometime later his brother Somerset had followed him to the scaffold.
Politics! I thought. They were so dangerous and devious and the man in high favor one day was he whose head rolled in the straw the next.
But lightly these things seemed to touch us at this time.
Now that the Seymour brothers were dead the Duke of Northumberland was in control and he had married his son Lord Guildford Dudley to the little Jane Grey.
“He had a purpose,” Kate said, during one of my stays at Remus. “If the King were to die Northumberland would try to make Jane Queen for that would mean that Guildford Dudley, Northumberland’s son, were King—or as near as makes no difference.”
“And what of the Princess Mary? Would she stand aside to see Jane Grey Queen of England?”
“It is to be hoped that the King will go on living, for if he did not there could be war in England.”
“A war between the supporters of Jane and those of Mary would be a war between those of the old faith and the new.”
“We must pray for the King’s good health for that is to pray for peace,” said Kate.
I did not know it but the quiet years were coming to an end.
The Abbey flourished. The old guesthouses were occupied by workers; and in the midst of this activity was the castlelike residence known as St. Bruno’s Abbey. We were supplying corn to the surrounding districts; our wool was bringing in big prices. We had more animals than we needed for our own consumption and these were slain and salted down and sold.
I had discovered that no less than twenty of our workers were men who had been attached to the Abbey before the dissolution—some monks, some lay brothers. It seemed inevitable that they should band together and remember the customs of the old days.
The church was intact. It was used at night. Frequently I saw from my window after the household had retired, men making their way there. I believed they celebrated the Mass as they had in the Abbot’s day.
Rupert had extended his lands; he visited us now and then and when he came Bruno took a certain pleasure in conducting him around our estate. There was no envy in Rupert; he admired everything and seemed genuinely pleased to see such prosperity.
One day he rode over. It was during one of Bruno’s trips to the Continent and I knew as soon as I saw him that something had happened. Strangely enough the first thing I thought of was: He has come to tell me that he is about to marry. I was surprised at the feeling of depression that gave me.
It was not that I had a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward him; but I had come to regard him as very important in my life, and I suddenly realized what comfort the devotion he had shown me for so long had meant to me. Sometimes when I had been deeply perplexed I had thought of his existence, a close neighbor, someone to whom I could turn in trouble—always there, always delighted to be called on.
If he married, he would remain so—but I knew it would be different. I used to tell myself perhaps overemphatically how pleasant it would be if he married and had children. Some of the happiest times were when I had all the children at the Abbey—my own two girls, Kate’s two boys and my mother’s twins. I loved to hear their noisy games and sometimes join in. Kate watched me with cynical amusement, but these were some of the happiest hours of my life at that time.
I faced the fact now that my marriage was not what I had dreamed of. I looked around and wondered whose was. Kate’s and Remus’s—my parents, my mother’s with Simon Caseman? I verily believed that my mother was the happiest wife I knew. But I had Catherine and I must be grateful to the union which had brought me her.
I took Rupert into my winter parlor and sent for wine and the cakes we served with it. Clement always had a batch fresh from the oven.
“You have news, I can see,” I said.
He looked at me earnestly. “Damask,” he said, “how much do you know of what is going on?”
“Here, you mean? In the Abbey?”
“Here and in the country.”
“Here. Well, I live here. I know they are always busy producing something and we would seem to be prospering. In the country? Well, Kate keeps me informed, you know, and I hear many rumors. Travelers are constantly bringing news. The last I heard was that the poor King was very ill with the smallpox and measles and although he recovered it has left him with consumption.”
“It will be a miracle if he lasts out the year.”
“Then it will be a new Queen. It will be a Queen, won’t it? Queen Mary, I
suppose.”
“There is always danger in the air when a monarch dies at such an age as to leave no heirs of his body.”
“Is this what concerns you, Rupert?”
“You concern me,” he answered.
I averted my eyes. I did not want a declaration of his devotion which I knew full well existed. It would have been an embarrassment to us both. I think I realized then that I loved Rupert. Oh, it was no wild searing passion. It was not like that which I had felt and could still feel for Bruno. Rupert had not that strange beauty which Bruno possessed; there was no mystery surrounding Rupert. He was just a good man. I loved him differently from the manner in which I loved Bruno. It was as though love were a fruit to be divided into half—one half gave passion and excitement, the other enduring love and security. I could see that what I longed for was both.
My thoughts were running on and I wanted to know what anxiety had brought Rupert here.
“There are rumors about this place,” said Rupert. “You are unaware of this. The last to hear rumors are those whom they most concern. As yet they are whispers but many people are watching St. Bruno’s Abbey. There is a mystery surrounding this place.”
“It is prosperous because we have worked hard here.”
“I want you to be on your guard, Damask. If there should be danger, stop for nothing. Take the girls and ride over to me. If need be I could hide you.”
“The children are in danger?”
“When a house is in danger all the inmates could well be.”
“What is this danger, which has suddenly loomed up?”
“It is not sudden, Damask, it has been there for a long time. Ever since Bruno came back and took the Abbey it has been said that the place is being reformed….It is known that many of the monks have returned. Talk to Bruno. There should be no assemblies…no private services…no monkly practices. It is inevitable that people will say that the monastery has been reformed in defiance of the law.”
I said: “The King is sick, is he not? I hear that the Lady Mary when she is Queen may well restore the monasteries.”
“It would not be possible, but she would certainly not frown on those who practiced the monastic way of life. Remember though, Damask, she is not Queen, and in some quarters it is said she never will be.”
“She is the heir to the throne.”
“Is she? Was not her mother’s marriage to King Henry declared to be no marriage? In which case she is a bastard.”
“The King is not dead and we should not be talking of his death. Would that not be construed as treason?”
“We wish him no ill. We wish him long life. But if we must talk dangerously then so we must, for you could well be in danger. Lord Northumberland has just married his son to the Lady Jane Grey. For what purpose think you? Edward supports the Reformed faith; so doth Lady Jane. If Lady Jane became Queen with Lord Guildford Dudley as her consort the Reformed religion would prevail and those who were suspected of Papistry and living the monastic life would be regarded as enemies of the state.”
“Rupert, it is good of you so to concern yourself for us.”
“No, not good, for there is nothing I can do to stop myself.”
“But how could this be? Who would accept the Lady Jane as Queen? Who now believes that the late King’s marriage to Katharine of Aragon was no marriage? We know full well that it was declared so that he might marry Anne Boleyn and for this he had to break with the Church, which is where all our troubles started.”
“Forget not Guildford Dudley’s powerful father. Northumberland could bring force of arms to support the claims of his daughter-in-law.”
“But he could not succeed, for surely Mary has the true claim.”
“How much will true claims count against a force of arms? Who do you think is the most powerful man in our country today? It is not the King. He is but a child in the hands of Northumberland, and if Northumberland succeeds in putting Jane Grey on the throne the danger you are now in would not be diminished, I do assure you. But I think of now. There are enemies of St. Bruno’s Abbey very close to you, Damask.”
“I believe you are thinking of my mother’s husband.”
“He is an ambitious man. From humble beginnings he has become the owner of your father’s house. He has done you a great wrong and people who do wrong very often bear great resentment against those whom they wrong.”
“You think that he would wish to take revenge on me for the wrong he did me? You believe then, Rupert, that he was in truth the man who betrayed my father?”
“I think it likely. He profited much. He could only have been in his present position through marriage with you and you made it clear, did you not, that that was out of the question?”
“You know so much, Rupert.”
“I have concerned myself closely with all that touches you.”
“What should I do now?”
“Warn your husband. Beg him to stop these men who were once monks and lay brothers assembling together. It would be better if he sent them away.”
“To where could he send them?”
“He could separate them. Perhaps I would take one or two. Kate could have more at Remus…anything rather than that it should be seen that a community of men who were once monks still live at St. Bruno’s Abbey.”
“I will speak to him on his return, Rupert.”
He was very anxious but that satisfied him a little.
I sent for the girls and I was so proud of them. Honey was now thirteen years old and a real beauty; she had outgrown that acute jealousy of Catherine; and Catherine was of course my precious darling, my own child, and I loved her as I had not loved any since my father. My feelings for Bruno I set apart—I knew it now for a bemused fascination. It could have grown into overwhelming love, perhaps greater than anything, but I had for some time now realized that was not to be so.
Rupert was a favorite of the girls. They liked to visit his farm; it was he who had taught them to ride and they felt they had more freedom on his farm than they had at the Abbey. Bruno’s indifference to Catherine and his resentment of Honey was noticed by the girls. They accepted it as children do and did not seek to change it. But I often thought that to Rupert they gave some of the love that might have been their father’s. He was something between a highly favored uncle and father.
They chattered away, asking about the animals on his farm, some of which had been given names by them.
They embraced him warmly when he went and his eyes warned me: Do not forget our conversation. The danger is here. It could flare up at any moment.
Bruno returned in good spirits. He was always in an exultant mood after his visits to the Continent. “Did you do good business?” I asked him. He assured me that he had.
“What did you bring home this time? Anything new? My mother always wants to know what new flowers and vegetables have been produced in other countries.”
He said he had brought a fine tapestry which would hang in the hall.
When we were alone in our bedchamber that night I told him of Rupert’s visit and the warning he had given me.
“Rupert!” cried Bruno scathingly. “What is he hinting at?”
“He is truly concerned. We are in danger. I sense it.”
He looked at me impatiently. “Have I not told you that you should trust me in all things? You doubt my ability to manage my affairs.” He went to the window and looked out. He turned to me. “All this,” he said, “is mine. I have rebuilt it. It rises like the phoenix out of the ashes. I did this and you doubt my ability to manage my affairs!”
“I don’t doubt for one moment, but it often happens that some are more aware of danger than others. And there is danger in the air.”
“Danger?”
“Many of the old monks and lay brothers are here. They are living a life which is very close to that which they led in the monastery.”
“Well?”
“It has been noticed.”
He laughed. “You have alway
s sought to bring me down. You have always resented the fact that I am not as other men. Understand now, that I am not as other men. By God, do you believe that any other could have come to this place, taken it in the first place, and raised it up to what it is now if there had not been some superior power within him?”
I said: “It is certainly very mysterious.”
“Mysterious! Is that all you have to say of it?”
“How did you acquire the Abbey, Bruno?”
“I have told you.”
“But….”
“But you do not believe me. You have ever tried to throw doubts on all that I have told you. I should never have chosen you.”
Truly he frightened me. I thought: There is a madness in him! And I was ever afraid of the mad.
I cried: “So, you made one mistake. Your judgment was wrong. You chose me and you should never have done so.”
He turned to me suddenly. I was sitting up in bed and he gripped my arm. It was a painful grip but I did not cry out; I met the blazing fanatical light in his eye with what I believed was calm good sense.
Then I said, “It was a mistake, was it not?”
“It need not have been. At that time it was not a mistake. You trusted me then.”
“Yes, I trusted you then. And I believed that we should build a wonderful life together. But you deceived me from the start, did you not? You told me you were poor and humble.”
“Humble…when was I ever humble?”
“You are right. Never were you humble. And the test you put me to, that was arrogant, was it not? You did not woo me as any other man would have done. You must feign poverty lest you fear I marry you for your estates.”
He released my arm with an impatient gesture.
“You are hysterical. Rupert has been frightening you and although you have no faith nor truth in me you are very ready to believe him.”
“I believe him because what he says makes sense. The Reformed party is in power. The King is a Protestant. Northumberland is a Protestant and they rule the country. Have we not seen the tragedy that can come to those who do not conform to the doctrines laid down by our rulers?”
The Miracle at St. Bruno's Page 31
