Green Darkness (53 page)

“He wouldna mind, he’s mebbe heedless,” said Magdalen, “bein’ sae caught oop wi’ great matters, yet did he think on it, he’d na want ye droopin’ lak this. Forebye the palace’s open wide this neet. There’ll be a thousand or more. I’ll send a groom fur ye, at three. ’Tis settled then . . . an’ no mincing aboot.”

She bestowed another hug on Celia, a smile on Ursula and hurried off.

Mabel, when she finally arose—she customarily slept the morning away quite indifferent to Mass now that Brother Stephen no longer disciplined his household—was vaguely pleased, though taking Ursula and Celia to Whitehall would never have occurred to
her.
Mabel was out a great deal herself now, had often been to Court where Anthony had presented her to the Queen in November, under the aegis of the Countess of Arundel.

“Fitzgerald’ll be there tonight, of course,” said Mabel smugly. “He’s asked me to sup beside him. I’ll wear my new Brussels lace ruff. Pray, Lady,” she turned to Ursula, “can you make that Agnes sew the wires more firmly? I wonder you hired her, she’s clumsy and mute as a mole. Soon I’ll have tiring women of my
own,
though!” Mabel’s plump face brightened, she smiled in a way that made her pretty.

“Aye, child, ’twould seem you will.” Ursula tried to keep the tartness from her voice. For Mabel life had grown sweet. She was transformed, like all women, by a successful love affair, a
suitable
one, which Ursula considered that she had done nothing to deserve; except, possibly, the accident of birth when Jupiter and Venus were both ascendant. But
why
was she born just then?
Why
did her horoscope indicate a long and prosperous life, largely passed in a foreign land? And destiny was indeed unfolding such a life. It was forbidden to question God’s justice, forbidden to a devout woman—yet through Ursula’s mind there darted a memory of talks with Master Julian at Cowdray. Speaking in his ironic way, he had seemed to voice an explanation that events surrounding us in this life might be predicated on behavior in past ones. That events in this life might also influence future lives on earth. He had quoted from the ancients, from Plato and Cicero and Ovid—names she barely knew—but when she timidly objected that these men were pagans, he had laughed and said, “
Da vero
—so you may have Church Fathers then,” and mentioned St. Gregory and Origen, and even the Bible.

Ursula caught herself up. She had no wish to think of Julian and the hurt he had dealt her by refusing to come to Southwark on the night of Celia’s strange illness. There was much to be done to prepare Celia’s clothes—and her spirits—for the appearance at Whitehall. Perhaps tonight, she thought with the perennial upsurge of hope,
tonight
will bring the change in Celia’s fortunes which Julian himself had foretold.

The palace at Whitehall was jammed on that Twelfth Night. Queen Mary was happier than she had ever been in her life. She sat on her throne in the presence chamber, graciously nodding to each one of the indeterminate file of faces whose owners dropped to one knee as they were hurried along by the Lord Chamberlain. She glittered with jewels, and her pinched little face, sandy-browed, thin-lipped, was transfigured into comeliness by the same alchemy which had improved Mabel.

Close beside her stood Count Egmont, the Spanish emissary who had just brought confirmation from Prince Philip of her heart’s desire—the marriage contracts. She giggled and blushed when Lord William Howard—who had replaced Clinton as Lord High Admiral—whispered daring remarks in her ear. That soon he would share her throne, and her
bed—
the wonderful young Spanish Prince. Soon, after years of neglect and thwarted virginity, she would have someone worthy to love. She loved him already. True, he was over ten years younger than she, but Count Egmont assured her that Philip was grave and sedate, far older than twenty-seven in his ways, and that he doted on her portrait, as she did on his.

Mary’s rapture infected her guests. They milled through the state chambers, enjoying a courtly freedom reminiscent of King Henry’s best years. It was cold outside, the Thames was partially frozen, the sleet had turned first to snow and then to a cracking frost, but the Palace was warm from the sconces, the roaring fires and the heat of so many velvet and fur-clad bodies.

Anthony was standing near the throne conversing warily with the haughty and immensely rich Earl of Pembroke, whose views on the Spanish marriage were known to be adverse. Pembroke had been friend to Northumberland, had signed for Queen Jane, then retracted like so many others whom Mary forgave. He was the most powerful peer after the Duke of Norfolk, he was sternly anti-Catholic, and had never been civil to Anthony until the last weeks, when Mary’s approval of Cowdray’s owner had been so marked.

“Disgusting rabble here tonight,” Pembroke observed. “Our poor young King’d never have permitted such a throng. Some o’ these folk are
commoners!
I wonder at Her Majesty!”

Anthony raised his eyebrows and said, “True, my lord, and did you mean
me
especially?”

The Earl glanced at him, “Nay, nay, my good knight, I referred to”—he waved a thin veined hand—“well, to such as those near the doorway.”

Anthony looked and saw Master Julian standing with the Allens and a young man in doctoral robes. “I know them,” he said. “All but the youngest man. They’re entirely respectable.”

The Earl snorted. “So is a quarter of England, I warrant—and the youngest man is John Dee, whom I do
not
consider respectable, for all he calls himself a doctor, and has set up as Astrologer Royal.”

“Oh . . .?” said Anthony, slightly amused by the Earl’s venom. “I have heard of him.”

“Dangerous fellow,” said the Earl. “Black magic, alchemy, witchcraft, two-faced as Janus. Can’t have that sort of villain at Court!” Pembroke snapped his turtle mouth shut and walked off to greet young Courtenay, the Earl of Devonshire, who was languidly approaching.

Cotsbody, what a coil! Anthony thought amused. The maligned John Dee had a pleasant intelligent face, and baseless slander was a frequent pastime amongst the nobility. However, as he was dedicated to the Queen and her welfare, he thought that he had better join the foursome by the doorway and inspect Dee. He was checked by the sight of Magdalen Dacre towering over the crowd and shepherding two women whom he recognized with astonishment as Lady Ursula and Celia. He rushed forward, beaming and contrite.

“Aye,’ sir,” said Magdalen, seeing the contrition. “Since ye prove sae neglectful o’ your womenfolk, others maun recall your duties this Twelfthneet.”

Anthony laughed, and thumped his breast. “
Mea culpa,
my ladies, I’m glad to see you,” and he was, though he did not know what to do with them. Lady Ursula had her own handsome dignity; Celia was always pretty, yet tonight she seemed small and uncertain next to Magdalen. Fond as he was of them, Anthony perceived that they were both of the class which Pembroke had contemptuously dismissed as “commoners”! They were not actual kin of his, and by no stretch of propriety might they be permitted to sup in the banqueting hall, much less the high table where he had been allotted a place near the Queen.

Magdalen quickly saw his dilemma, even though she was, as yet, unused to Court. She herself must eat amongst the maids of honor, and it was all very unlike the easy ways at Naworth Castle. She exchanged a look of rueful understanding with Anthony and said cheerfully, “I could show ’em aboot the Palace, then there’ll be food i’ the back rooms. They’ll have a cake ther-re, too, hinny.” She smiled at Celia. “God-a-mercy, ye maught cut it reet an’ get the bean, then ye’d be a queen fur the neet, same lak Her Majesty . . .”

“Thank you, Maggie,” said Ursula briskly, “Celia and I will fend for ourselves. You were good to bring us.” She put her hand on Celia’s arm, understanding the embarrassment Magdalen’s invitation had caused, and appreciative of the girl’s good heart. She pulled Celia away.

“Not over there . . .” said Celia in a toneless voice.

Then Ursula saw Julian standing with the Allens.

“Yet, why not?” added Celia suddenly. She raised her chin, her voice hardened. “No use milling around amongst the peacocks like a couple o’ draggle-tail sparrows, and at least, they’ll be somebody to talk to.”

Ursula nodded, relieved by a show of spirit, and glad that the girl had conquered her aversion to Mistress Allen.

But when they had threaded their way through the horde of chattering strangers, the Allens had drifted off in pursuit of more interesting company, and Julian was alone with Dr. Dee.

“
Benvenuto
. . .” cried Julian, kissing Ursula’s hand. “We meet always by chance, fortunate chance.”

“Evidently,” said Ursula, removing her hand coldly, though the touch of his lips had sent a tingle through her, “since you do not choose to visit us, even after an urgent summons.”

Julian started, then laughed. “Dear Lady Southwell, my apologies—Wat said there was no need, and I see that Celia has recovered, a trifle pale and thin, perhaps . . .”

“We might give the young mistress a sample of our
elixer vitae
,” interrupted John Dee bowing sedately towards Celia. “’Twould be wise before we try it—elsewhere.”

Celia stared, suppressing a desire to giggle, her first in weeks. She saw a lean man in his late twenties, he had a long hooked nose, gaunt cheekbones and a straggling sparse beard. He had lost much of his hair, and wore a black skullcap embroidered with mystical symbols. His eyes were brown, solemn and completely lacked the sardonic twinkle which always lurked behind Julian’s gaze.

“
What
do you want to try on me, sir?” she asked. “It sounds fearsome.”

Julian laughed. “
Elixer vitae
, little one—‘water of life’—Dr. Dee and I have been concocting it—in our spare moments. We now share a laboratory on Paternoster Row. You and Lady Southwell must visit it; you’d be amazed at the retorts and crucibles and the ‘shew stone’ where Master John can see angelic beings floating in the crystal.”

“Magic . . .?” whispered Ursula, her eyes lighting up. “But surely . . .”

Julian answered her unfinished question. “
White
magic, Lady, no hint of witchcraft. Alchemy’s but an extended part of medicine.”

“Aye, to be sure,” Ursula agreed quickly. “Would I knew more of those arts. Can you gentlemen tell me if my brimstone purge should be distilled i’ the full o’ the moon, and should I put in egg white? I’ve no luck with it, ’twon’t come clear.”

John Dee answered her thoughtfully. He always gave serious attention to such queries. He was indeed a serious man.

Julian respected him. He was grateful for the new friendship between them, and the invitation to share Dee’s lodgings. He had moved in by Christmas, glad to have found a companion who had traveled widely on the Continent, whose scholastic background was sound, and—more important—a man whom Queen Mary respected for his astrological skills, which Julian admitted were superior to his own. Dee had cast the Queen’s horoscope. He had, however, also cast that of the banished Princess Elizabeth, who had known him from childhood—his cousin Blanche Parry had been Elizabeth’s nurse and was now confidential maid of honor to the Princess. Julian had examined the forecasts, which confirmed his own opinion that of the two royal sisters the younger was the one to support.
Not
an opinion to be voiced in any quarter. Neither Dee nor he discussed it even privately. Elizabeth had quickly fallen from favor and retired to Ashbridge. By December, Mary’s brief warmth had chilled to suspicion and jealousy of the brilliant, fascinating rival.

Celia listened vaguely to her aunt’s animated questions. Her head throbbed again, she wished they had not come. She wished that she had not worn the red and yellow gown. It seemed to bring ill luck. Fleetingly, she wondered what had happened to Simkin. He had disappeared from Cowdray before they came to London, just vanished one night, and Wat now turned surly at the mention of his son’s name. But I’m
here,
at Court, amongst the greatest in the land, Celia said to herself. I should be happy. Yet she felt neglected and forlorn.

A man touched her arm, saying, “Mistress de Bohun?”

She turned and looked up at Sir John Hutchinson. “Blessed
Jesu
!” she said. “By the Mass, sir, you startled me,” and she smiled. Celia’s smile with the dimple at one corner of her lips and the little teeth like daisy petals was so radiant that the stout knight inhaled quickly. He thought the gladness was for him, his heart thumped. Whereas Celia smiled only in relief at the sight of a familiar face who approached her with obvious admiration.

“I m-meant to see you sooner,” said Hutchinson, stammering like a lad. “I’ve thought o’ ye so much, Mistress Celia, but I fell ill after the n-night I met ye . . .” He paused. Actually, he had been laid up with a ferocious attack of gout which had spread from his right great toe to all his joints, but he did not wish to admit to a disease of the elderly.

“Did ye think at all o’ me?” he added, touching her cheek.

“Once and again,” she said, lying kindly. “I’ve been ill, too.” The reminder brought on a brief spasm of coughing.

“Ye shouldn’t be abroad in this weather,” cried the knight, instantly alarmed. “Ye should be cared for, cosseted . . . your Lady Aunt’s neglectful.” He looked angrily at Ursula, who was by now aware of the addition to their group, though quite unable to remember Hutchinson, except that he had been at the priory.

“My aunt’s
not
neglectful,” Celia cried. “She’s kind and careful of me always!”

“What’s all this?” Ursula came forward. “Have you need to defend me, sweeting? Sir, I know we’ve met, but confess I’ve not your name.”

“John Hutchinson, knight, from Boston i’ Lincolnshire, widower, clothier, member o’ the Merchant Adventurers’ Company, kin by m’late wife to Lord Clinton, worth about ten thousand pounds, even at the present sorry rate if more o’ my cargoes to Calais don’t sink.”

“Welladay . . . God-a-mercy—” said Ursula. “Whate’er you be, Sir John, you’ve enough breath in your lungs.”