Green Darkness (64 page)

Ursula started up in the bed. “It
is
a sin!” she cried. “It’s forbidden by our faith!
Celia.
John Rogers was the first to burn! Bishop Gardiner tried him with some of the others at our own St. Saviour’s in Southwark. Rogers was a heretic, a turncoat priest, and married, too! The book is an abomination; I was mad to keep it. Hide it under your cloak; throw it into the Rother. Blessed Mary, if they knew
you
had read it—that I had such a thing here—”

“Hush,” said Celia. Ursula was wringing her hands, the weak voice shrilled with hysteria. “Be calm, I’ll rid you of the Book when I can.”

Celia placed the Bible gently back in its hiding place, rearranged the rushes, and took Ursula’s frail body in her arms.

Ursula soon fell into exhausted sleep, while Celia tried to assemble her wits. The disposition of the Bible was unimportant at present, it could stay where it was. But she now had serious doubts as to her own reception by the lord of Cowdray.

She heard the old familiar thump of cantering horses on the Easebourne road, and looked out of the same window where she had once seen King Edward arriving with his cortege. It was undoubtedly the Montagus. Celia saw the flashing plumes and brooches on the conical brimmed hats introduced by King Philip, the crimson, yellow and azure of velvet riding capes. The tall figures ahead must be Anthony and Magdalen, followed by their squires, equerries and grooms.

Several yelping hounds bounded along beside the horses, and Celia was reminded of Taggle. He must still be in the basket, at the porter’s lodge.

She murmured an apology to the dozing Ursula, ran down the turret stairs, and released Taggle before the Montagus had come up the avenue. Celia clutched the reproachful, squirming little dog tight to her breast, and gained a measure of courage. She went to stand, her chin high, just within the courtyard, while the lodge bell rang out. There was a trumpet flourish; the porter and his assistant gatewards ran around bowing, and the steward, Mr. Hawkes, waddled majestically from the main wing to greet his returning master.

Having dismounted, Anthony and Magdalen hurried through the portal. Magdalen saw Celia first, and said to Anthony, “What’s this, my lord? Some puir widow inside o’ Cowdray? The almoner should ’a dealt wi’ her.”

“So he should,” said Anthony irritably. “The servants’re growing lax. What d’ye want, mistress? Alms’ll be doled on the morrow. If ye be in dire need of a bed tonight, there’s always one at the guesthouse in Easebourne.”

Celia moved forward, the afternoon sun shown hazily across the battlements, but left her face in shadow.

“God’s greeting, my Lord and Lady Montagu,” she said curtsying, “I
have
need of a bed, but not at Easebourne. With your permission I will share that of my aunt, Lady Southwell, who is very ill.”

Anthony looked blank. He had slept badly at Arundel Castle; he had ridden hard to get home; he was weary and distressed. The Queen was again sickly, with intermittent chills and fever, after another false pregnancy. She was swollen with dropsy, and her condition had worsened since Anthony and Magdalen’s marriage, when Master Julian, now one of the royal physicians, had secretly told Anthony there was scant hope.

This visit to Arundel Castle had been dismal. Instead of the usual summer sports and merriment, there had been nothing but gloomy conferences amongst the Fitzalans and Howards. The Queen had definitely named her slyly Protestant sister Elizabeth as her successor. After a fit of jealous rage at the ever-absent Philip, Mary had slashed his portrait, and thereafter spent all her days on her knees, praying, or crouched and peering through near-blind eyes at her missal.

She refused to see either Anthony or Magdalen, sending a message by young Thomas, the new Duke of Norfolk, that she knew the Montagus served her with devotion, but that she had amply rewarded them and now wished for solitude.

Anthony’s heart was heavy, fears for the future weighted it for the first time in five years.

Magdalen, however, recognized Celia after a moment of astonished inspection. “Begock!” she cried. “’Tis Celia Bohun! Weel-a-day—I niver thought ye’d coom—ah, widow’s weeds? That man is deed? Anither o’ those crazy Lollards gan to his judgment, God be thanked. He didn’t infect ye wi’ his wickedness, lass?”

Celia shook her head, gazing up into the stern little leaf-brown eyes which no longer were loving as they used to be. “Lady Magdalen, you know why I’m here, that my poor Aunt sent for me. I don’t wish to be a nuisance.”

“Nay, nay, niver think that!” A trace of Magdalen’s old warmth softened her gaze, though she hesitated. There had been some cloud of misbehavior over Celia—Anthony had made vague allusions but had never said what it was. And then that disastrous marriage! Magdalen remembered how shocked all the Cumberland Dacres had been when they heard of it. “Ye’re welcome back ta Cowdray, for the nonce, is she not, my lord?” Magdalen said slowly.

Anthony roused himself and gazed at the widow. She had been a very pretty girl, she was now a beautiful woman. He had forgotten her during these years, as completely as Celia had guessed, and the last emotions he had felt about her streaked through his preoccupation. She had been a troublemaker . . . she had encouraged Wyatt; shamefully caused Stephen’s departure. She had wed a Protestant, though not without his approval
then
—one must be just—but he wished very much that Celia had stayed in Lincolnshire. Still, no call upon his hospitality had ever been refused.

“Aye, my Lady Hutchinson,” he said, unsmiling, “you’re welcome, of course. What have you brought with you in the way o’ household. Children, no doubt?”

“No babes, my lord,” said Celia. “I’ve borne none. And no household—except my little dog and Juno, the mare you gave me. Sir John died a ruined man.”

“
Misericorde,
I’m sorry for your sake to hear so,” said Anthony coldly. He tossed his plumed hat and riding gloves to a page. “My lady, you will attend to this?” he said to his wife, and finally acknowledged the bowing steward. “Hawkes, tell my yeoman of the chamber I want a bath and drink. By the Mass, I’m parched wi’ Sussex dust.”

Magdalen turned majestically to Celia. “We will gan in, my dear, and tak’ some wine. Ha’ ye seen Lady Ursula?”

Celia nodded and her control wavered. She could see so little in this Magdalen of the affectionate lass dressed in russet wool, smelling of peat smoke, who had stood by this very fountain five summers ago, or who had romped with her in Cumberland. During their brief meetings in London, Celia had attributed the change in Magdalen to fashionable attire and the girl’s new position at Court. Now, the change went deeper. The Viscountess Montagu appeared formidable. Her great height was extended by the tall green velvet hat. She had grown stouter, under several gold chains her breasts jutted out like melons. Her freckles were hidden by powder, her Northern accent had lessened, yet it was not these things which daunted Celia, it was some subtle interior hardness, and an aura of power which Celia—unhappily aware that she was again a beggar—thought that she apprehended.

The impression faded somewhat when they were installed upstairs in Magdalen’s parlor off the great octagonal bedchamber she shared with Anthony.

The parlor was a charming apartment, fresh-paneled in creamy oak, picked out with touches of gilt. Along the molding ran a frieze of scarlet animal heads, the Dacre bull, the Browne buck, fantastically entwined by carved ribbons and garlands. Anthony had refurbished Cowdray for his bride. Magdalen’s two ladies in waiting curtsied as their mistress entered, and stared curiously at Celia, then resumed their occupations at a gesture from Magdalen. The younger one, a squire’s daughter, tinkled softly on the virginals—an instrument Celia had never heard The other, who was the widow of a knight killed in France during Anthony’s brief campaign there was stitching on an altar cloth.

A serving man hurried in with a tray bearing a flask of sugared claret. He poured out two goblets.

Magdalen frowned slightly and said to Celia, “You may sit and drink wi’ me. We’ll chat a bit. I do not weesh to hear of your time wi’ that heretic—very unfortunate—but ’tis past. Where’s your beads?” she added sharply, looking at Celia’s girdle.

“In my bundle,” answered Celia, though her heart jumped. “They’re broken—they just broke.” She could feel herself flush. She had not told her beads in years.

Magdalen nodded. “The smith’ll mend them. What’re your plans, Celia? After your puir aunt goes to God.” She crossed herself.

Celia flushed deeper. “I—I haven’t thought, Lady—all so fast.”

“Ye’ve no money at all? . . . 
Jesu
, that’s bad. Still, I believe we can get ye into Syon! Aye, that’ll be best.”

“Syon . . .?” repeated Celia faintly.

“The nunnery near Richmond the Queen has re-established. That’ll be best.” Magdalen’s sandy brows relaxed, and having found a solution to the unforeseen problem, she became freer. She chuckled suddenly. “That’s a comical wee dog nestling in your skirts. Do they grow lak that in Lincolnshire?”

Celia tried to smile and explain Taggle over a wave of despair. Syon? A convent? Cloistered, shut away forever. Surely they had not the power to do it against her will. Yet, the alternative? She knew that this same decision had been offered to Ursula many years ago. Ursula refused, and where had the refusal brought her? To eternal dependence on patronage, to dying in a filthy room in a neglected corner of a castle where she had lived on sufferance, her times of past usefulness—forgotten.

Celia thought of Edwin Ratcliffe. Aye, that would be better, so much better, and at least I’d not die a virgin, she thought, with a dark flame of contemptuous rage which darted up from a smoldering cavern she had never explored.

“Ye may gan back to your aunt now, Celia,” said Magdalen, tempering the dismissal with a kindly smile. “In truth, I’m glad for sweet pity’s sake, she’s got ye her-re. Ye may order what ye like to mak’ her passing easier, ask the housekeeper. If Lady Ursula pines to see the twins, ye mun tell me. Though my lord forbade it when he thought her unfit. There was a coil about a serving maid—some damned Protestant wretch, two years back. I knaw lettle about it. An’ I’d no be har-rd on the puir owld lady. I’ll talk Anthony round if he questions, which I doot. He has much else on his mind!”

This speech was more like the old Maggie, and Celia was slightly relieved. She smiled, curtsied, and gathering up Taggle, left the parlor and entered into another phase of her life.

She slept that night in the big bed next to Ursula, who seemed the better for it. She looked to Ursula’s comfort, and greatly improved the condition of their chamber. She dined in the Hall each noontime, though the Montagus no longer did. They ate separately from their retinue now. And she encouraged Edwin when she saw him. Anthony, having thrown off his despondency, plunged into a whirlpool of manly sports. Edwin was constantly commandeered for tilting, or shooting at the butts, or tennis. He was sent on errands to the neighboring manors.
He
was invited to dine privately with the Montagus.

Ursula never asked for the twins, and when Celia finally encountered them playing outside the maze, she did not wonder. Little Anthony and Mary, albeit only five years old, were a surly, snotty-nosed pair of children. Physically, they resembled Lady Jane, their mother, which meant they were meager, yet little Anthony was already aware of his rank.

In response to Celia’s courteous greeting, he stared at her with hostile eyes and addressed her like a servant. “Get thee gone, thou great black flapping wench! Nobody wants thee here. I’m the heir o’ Cowdray and I say
begone!
”

Celia saw their new governess sitting on a bench by the privet hedge. The lady was as inimical as her charges. “Here is private,” she said, rising angrily. “Intruders’ll be punished.”

Celia found neither wish nor courage to explain. She left. How different those two might be could my aunt have continued to govern them, she wondered. And realized that there was no answer. As there were no real answers in her life. She was in abeyance. Stuck in a pattern of waiting for a future she could not guess.

One night when Ursula slept—as she almost constantly did—Celia rose and lit a candle at the brazier, which was now well supplied with charcoal. Magdalen had kept her word and Celia’s requests for the sickroom were promptly met. A bitter November wind blew off the downs bringing a swish of sleet against the windows, but Ursula had, after all, survived the summer. Celia lit her candle and looked towards the crucifix. Once, she had prayed to it, passionately—the time when Stephen was imprisoned in the cell below them. She sat down on Ursula’s X-shaped folding chair and considered that far-off pain until it suddenly invaded her again. How strange that there should still be pain. She wrenched herself from it and considered Edwin. He had found means to waylay her today in the Hall, where the steward at dinner always seated her precisely in line with the saltcellar, betokening her present position at Cowdray.

In two months Edwin’s passion for her, though constantly thwarted, seemed to have grown. But she knew more of his situation than she had on their journey south. Edwin was betrothed. He had not yet dared break the news of his new intentions to his parents, though he
had
put off the marriage plans with Anne, saying that Yuletide would be more festive. He awaited his majority on November 20, when he might do as he wished.

Celia gave him kind words; when he drew her into an alcove near the chapel she let him kiss her mouth, which fired him to a stammering ecstasy, unshared by Celia who found the contact merely pleasant.

Her eyes roamed idly around the chamber, and were drawn to the spot under the fresh rushes where the Bible lay. Ursula had forgotten it was there, as increasing weakness dimmed her mind, and Celia thankfully ignored her agreement to get rid of it. She knew that its presence was a danger, yet disinclination to touch it, a superstitious awe mixed with rebellion, had kept her from action.

She went to the window, and pushed up the concealing plank.
John
had found guidance, solace, even predictions in his Bible. Agnes Snoth had found the same, and all those other burned Protestants. What inspiration had they found to give them the courage to endure the most terrible of deaths?