“He is a heretic,” he replied.
“He is my mother’s husband.”
“Have you forgotten that one night he would have done the same to me?”
“It is revenge then,” I said.
“It is justice.”
“Oh, God!” I cried. “It will be Smithfield for him.”
“The heretic’s reward.”
I covered my face with my hands because I could not bear to go on looking into Bruno’s. “So much grief for your father’s murderer!” I turned and ran to my room.
The girls came to me.
“Mother, is it true then?” cried Catherine, her face working with emotion. “They have taken him. What will they do to him? What are they doing now?”
“He will die,” said Honey. “He will die at the stake.”
Catherine’s face puckered. “They can’t do it, can they? They can’t…to him! He is your stepfather.”
“That fact will not deter them,” I said sadly.
Catherine cried: “And they will burn him to death simply be cause he believes God should be worshiped in a certain way? I know he is a heretic and heretics are wicked, but to burn him”
“To death,” said Honey somberly.
They were too young to know of such horrors. I said: “It may be that it will not happen. I am going to bring the twins over here. You will be very kind to them. You will remember that it is their father….”
They nodded.
Then I went back to my old home to look after my mother.
I sat with her and we tried to talk of other things: of her garden, of her stillroom. But all the time her ears were alert for the sound of a barge at the privy stairs, for the voice which I knew she would never hear again.
It was no use. We must talk of him, because it was of him that she was thinking. She told me how good he had always been to her; how happy had been her years with him.
“He was the perfect husband,” she told me; and I thought of that good man, my father, and asked myself if she had mourned him like this, although I knew the answer to that.
“He was so clever,” she said. “He wanted to know what people were writing…what people were thinking.”
Ah, poor Simon Caseman, he should have known that one must not display interest even where our rulers had decided that we should not.
“They should have kept Queen Jane on the throne. This wouldn’t have happened then.”
No, Mother, I thought, not to you. But to others. Perhaps to Bruno.
Then I remembered that it was Bruno who had brought this about. He had done to Simon Caseman what Simon had tried to do to him.
I thought: I shall remember it forever. I had loathed the man but it sickened me to think that he had been betrayed by my husband.
The day had come. My mother wanted to go to Hampton Court, there to see the Queen and beg her to pardon her husband.
He was a heretic, proved to be a heretic, and so I heard would not diverge from his opinions. A strange man—so much that was evil in him and yet my mother thought him the perfect husband and he remained true to his belief in face of death.
I quieted my mother that day with her poppy juice and she slept.
I went out into the garden and looked toward the city. A pall of smoke was drifting down the river. The Smithfield fires were burning.
Then I went in and sat by my mother’s bed that I might be there to comfort her when she awakened.
Death of a Witch
A YEAR HAD PASSED since Simon Caseman suffered the heretic’s death. My mother seemed to have aged ten years. Caseman Court had been returned to its rightful owner—myself—for as the wife of a good Catholic who had defied the reign of heretics and in some measure reformed the old Abbey, I was in high favor.
I did not tell my mother that the house had been returned to me. Her grief was too great for her to be concerned with such matters. She went on living there. It was a sad and sorry household.
Rupert was often there; he had offered to help with the estate and this he had done. I saw him frequently and his gentleness to my mother moved me deeply.
I loved Rupert. It was no wild passion—just a gentle enduring affection. Since the betrayal of Simon Caseman I had felt a kind of revulsion toward Bruno. He knew this and hated me for it. Honey was right when she said he wanted admiration all the time. I would say he wanted adoration.
In spite of her shock over Simon Caseman’s death Catherine’s devotion toward her father had intensified. They were often together and I believe that Bruno found pleasure in turning her from me. I was hurt that my years of love and devotion could be so easily undermined. But she was bemused by him, as others had been before her, and still were. God knows I could understand that. Was I not once as bemused as any?
Honey watched Catherine’s growing devotion to her father and her estrangement from me with a satisfaction which could only alarm me.
The times were sickeningly melancholy; but never before had there been such discord in my own family circle.
I was turning more and more to my old home, where my mother was always glad to see me. Rupert was often there and we would all three sit together finding some consolation in talking of the old days.
It was a terrible year. I remember when Archbishop Cranmer was burned at the stake on a bitter March day in front of Baliol College in Oxford. They said that he held out his right hand first to meet the flames because it was with that hand that he signed a document recanting his beliefs.
Ninety-four people were burned that year—forty-five of them women; and there were even four children.
I found it difficult to go about my ordinary affairs. Whenever I went out of doors I seemed to smell the Smithfield fires. I dreamed of Simon Caseman writhing in agony, and I could not help remembering that Bruno had sent him to that fate.
Kate wrote from Remus. Carey would soon be sixteen years of age and she wanted to give a ball to celebrate his birthday.
The young people were excited. We lived in melancholy times and it was wise no doubt to get away from the news of arrests and dire consequences for a while; and Kate was the one to arrange such an occasion.
Honey, Catherine and I traveled to Remus with the twins and a few servants. Bruno refused the invitation and my mother preferred to stay at home; and as our barge took us downriver farther away from Smithfield and the Tower I felt my spirits rising a little.
I was amused by Catherine who could not hide her excitement at the prospect of the ball and at the same time wondered whether she ought not to have stayed behind to be with her father. The dress I had had made for her was of golden-colored velvet from Italy. The bodice was stiffened and the front opened to show a beautifully embroidered brocade kirtle—also from Italy. Honey’s dress was similar but of blue velvet. Honey was nearly seventeen years old, Catherine fifteen. I thought with a pang: They are growing up. Soon it will be a case of finding husbands for them.
It was pleasant to be with Kate again. Even though she was past thirty, she was no less attractive than she had been at seventeen. I often wondered why she had not married again. It was certainly not due to a devotion to Remus.
She entertained a good deal in Remus Castle. Now her guests would be Catholic families. Kate was too wise to be embroiled in politics; she was one who would sway with the wind.
As soon as we arrived she carried me off for a private talk, and her first words were to compliment me on the looks of the girls.
“It should not be difficult to find husbands for them. They are an attractive pair. Catherine should have a good dowry. What of Honey?”
“I shall see that she is adequately provided for.”
“Ah, yes, Caseman Court is yours now.” A shadow crossed her face. “A bad business. How is your mother?”
“She has aged ten years. She works in her garden. Thank God she has that. Oh, Kate, what a melancholy country this has become!”
“It was more gay, was it not, under Henry when we were girls? I have a fee
ling, though, that this will not last. The Queen is a sick woman.” She lowered her voice. “One must be careful how one speaks. Poor woman! She has brought misery to thousands.”
“Is it the Queen? Or is it her ministers?”
“Ah, there you have it. She is a fanatic surrounded by fanatics.”
“These burnings at the stake. There was never such horror here before.”
“You forget those who were hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
“There are those too and in addition that fearsome pall of smoke that seems to hang forever over Smithfield. I wonder what is coming to us all.”
“There is the great consolation that it cannot last. It is the Spanish influence. These burnings of which you speak have been a feature of Spanish life since Torquemada and Isabella revived the Inquisition in Spain. If the Spaniards should get a hold on England it would be the same story here.”
“God forbid!”
“Have a care, Damask. It is better to speak only of these things to those whom you trust—and whom can one trust?”
“All this in the name of religion!” I cried.
“In the name of envy, malice and covetousness perhaps. Many men go to their death sent by someone who covets an estate, a woman—or even desires revenge. Who sent Simon Caseman to his death, think you?” I was silent and she went on: “Bruno? Such a short time ago he threatened Bruno.”
“Only a lucky chance prevented Bruno’s being taken, I am sure.”
“A miracle?” she said mockingly. “With Bruno there must always be miracles.”
We were silent for a while and then she went on: “It will not last, Damask. It is said that the Queen cannot live long. She is the most unhappy woman in England. Her husband does not love her. She is distasteful to him, they say. He prefers to roam far from her and they say he is happier spending a night in an inn with the landlord’s daughter than with her. I have heard some of our servants singing a rhyme which would no doubt cost them their lives if they were overheard in some quarters. I’ll whisper it to you:
‘The baker’s daughter in her russet gown
Better than Queen Mary without her crown.’
There. But is it true? He is a strange, cold man, and we shall never understand these Spaniards.”
“I am sorry for her but I deplore this sorry state into which we have fallen. It seems one is a heretic if one as much as discusses a new idea.”
“Ah, we have a hint—and only a hint—what religious persecution can mean. But there is a growing resentment in the people. It might well be that if Wyatt had waited a few years…if he had risen now he might have had enough support to put Elizabeth on the throne.”
“You think life would be different under her?”
“Who can say? She is young. She is clever. How many times do you think she has come within an inch of losing her head? The Queen has a softness for her sister though. She would rather remove her from the succession by giving birth to a child.”
“Can she do this?”
“You will have heard of those supposed pregnancies which were not pregnancies at all. Poor woman. She suffers from dropsy, they say, and so great is her desire to bear a child that she believes she is about to do so. Imagine her grief when she discovers it is a false pregnancy.”
“Poor lady. It is no great good fortune to be a Queen.”
“It is no great good fortune to be any of us in this age,” said Kate with a laugh. “Unless of course you are as clever as I am. Tomorrow at the ball you will meet good Catholic families most fervently loyal to the Queen and those who, like myself, reserve their judgment. They are the wise ones. They are poised…watchful of events and ready to leap to the appropriate side a moment before the rest of the country realizes what is happening. The wise ones are like me. They take their religion mildly; they are not fanatical or fervent…calmly swaying with the wind. Remember this, my dear Damask, and you will enjoy my ball.”
The ballroom of the castle was decorated with leaves and flowers and the musicians were in the minstrels’ gallery, almost hidden from view by the heavy curtains on either side of it.
At six o’clock we feasted in the great hall and I had rarely seen such elaborate dishes. I thought how Clement would have loved to examine the contents of those massive pies and to test the quality of the crust. The leading families present had the pleasure of seeing their coats of arms and crests on the pies; the sucking pigs were brought in steaming hot on dishes which were carried around the tables by Kate’s servants in the Remus livery; and when the sirloin was brought in we all stood up and made obeisance to the dish which had been knighted by King Henry.
Cakes had been baked and topped with ginger; in one of these cakes was a tiny figure in the shape of a king. These were distributed among the men; and the one to find the king in his cake was elected King of the Revels for the night or Lord of Misrule.
There was a great deal of amusement when Carey found the king’s figure; it was clear that he was hoping that a very pretty girl, Mary Ennis, daughter of Lord Calperton, who was a guest with her father and her brother Edward, would win the queen’s figure. He was well mannered enough to hide his dismay when Catherine won it.
Catherine laughed with delight and I could not help smiling, recalling how solemn she had been when wondering whether she ought to leave the Abbey and join in our frivolity.
She and Carey must needs now put their heads together and plan games and antics for our amusement; and this they did. There were charades and guessing games and we became very merry.
Carey and Catherine must lead us in the dance and they did so with some decorum though I overheard Catherine whisper to Carey fiercely: “And I’m almost as old as you in any case and everybody knows that girls grow up more quickly than boys.”
I found myself dancing with Rupert.
“It is pleasant to be here,” he said.
“I have not felt so content for a long time,” I told him.
“This is how life should always be,” he said. “Not just a little oasis of pleasure. But families gathering together like this.”
“And yet, Rupert,” I said, “even on such an occasion we must guard our tongues lest we betray something which could bring harm to us. It is only with our nearest and our trusted friends that we can be frank.”
“Damask,” he said, “how frank are you prepared to be?”
“In what way?”
“I wonder about you so much. I think of you constantly. Sometimes I brood on what it might have been if everything had turned out differently. Then I think of you at the Abbey there.”
“Yes, Rupert.”
“A strange life,” he said. “How is it there, Damask? Are you happy?”
“I have the girls,” I said.
“And they suffice?”
“They mean a great deal to me, but they will marry and have lives of their own. You should have married, Rupert. Then you would have had children.”
“Who would marry and have lives of their own. But I should like children.”
“You are young yet. Who knows, perhaps at this very gathering you will meet someone. You are in your thirties…some say it is the prime.”
“Let us sit down,” he said. “This conversation interests me so much that I prefer not to fit it to the dance.”
So we sat and I watched my girls. Honey, breathtakingly lovely as all must think her, dancing with Edward Ennis, and Catherine with Carey, scowling at him now and then when he trod on her toe and yet her eyes aflame with excitement, for she loved to dance. And how well it suited her, far better than brooding on whether she should go into a convent, if, now that we were under a rigorous Catholic rule, one could be found for her.
“You know I shall not,” said Rupert.
“What was that? I was thinking of Catherine.”
“Marry and settle. And you know why.”
I looked at him and seeing the expression in his eyes I was amazed that he had remained faithful all those years. I could not help my p
leasure, which was wrong for it was no life for him to hope for a woman who was married to someone else.
“And Bruno?” he said.
“What of him?”
“He is all that you hoped he would be?”
“We generally ask too much of people, do we not?”
“And you asked too much?”
I hesitated and then I said: “Sometimes I wonder about our life at the Abbey. Sometimes it takes on the quality of a dream. It is so…unreal. We are living in an Abbey…. Many of those who live there were once monks. They had services in the church and those services are openly now the same as those which were conducted there long ago. As you know the Abbot’s Lodging was made into a castle not unlike this. But there are the monks’ dorter and refectory which still stand. I believe many of them behave just as they used to. We are an abbey which is not an abbey. Bruno is an abbot with a wife and family. Since King Edward died it has become more openly so. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the Queen were to die. Simon Caseman was about to betray us at the time of the King’s death. Poor man, it was he who met his death. It is a strange life.”
“If you were happy you would think it worthwhile. You are not happy, Damask.”
“What is happiness? Just a day or so here and there…a moment perhaps…. How often can anyone say, ‘Now I am completely happy’?”
“That should not be so. A life of contentment should be within our reach.”
“With the uncertainty which surrounds us! When we know not from one day to the next when some misguided word or act could lead us to the death!”
“All the more reason to take happiness when we can.”
I sighed. “I saw my father taken. My mother has lost two husbands. By a quirk of fate I am not a widow now. Oh, it is a violent world we live in. Will it always be so?”
“It will change. Change is inevitable.”
Suddenly I touched his arm. “Rupert, take care. Do not lean one way or the other for how do we know from one week to the next which is the safe way?”
“I am not a fanatical man, Damask. I keep a steady road…quiet, unexciting, I suppose.”
I said: “I think we should dance.”
The Miracle at St. Bruno's Page 36
