Roses in the Tempest (8 page)

My cheeks burned, but I solemnly nodded. “Yes, Madam. Much to the disdain of my own family.”

“Do you miss them?” asked Elizabeth.

Once the dike was opened it seemed the flood was upon me. “In all honesty,” I said with a nod to the prioress, “no, I do not.”

“Were they cruel to you?” asked Elizabeth.

“No. Not cruel. Simply that…they did not see me. I was part of the wall, or the hedge. Not that I desired to be the center of attention, never that! But the mere fact that I was seldom visible gave me pause. So you see, there was very little resistance at my decision to come here.”

“It was not imposed upon you, then?”

Prioress Margaret looked up at that, measuring me with her small eyes.

“It was my decision, Dame,” said I.

“Then this desire to become a nun was made by reason, much like my own,” said Elizabeth.

“Tell me, Dame. I long to hear your tale.”

“There is little to tell. I was the middle daughter of five siblings. Our mother was very pious and I saw in her devotions something quite dear to my heart. I was quite young—fifteen—and my mother did not wish to give me up to a convent. She tempted me with a parade of bridegrooms and promises of such household treasures I could expect as the wife of a good burgess. But I could not see myself as a wife. My conscience was aimed toward the crucifix and the passion of our Lord, how God Himself died for our sins to bring us salvation and everlasting life. That was a treasure that could not be bought with household goods. It touched me. Strange that it should touch only me and not my sisters nor brothers. Finally, my mother capitulated, somewhat proudly, I think. Her other daughters fulfilled her desires to see them wedded well and with grandchildren aplenty, but she seemed most pleased by her middle daughter’s choice. I think it gave her comfort to know that prayers were said in constant for her family. She died a good and happy death. My one regret was that I was not with her.”

“Yes,” I said, comparing Dame Elizabeth’s honest devotion to my empty one. “We are locked within these gates.”

The prioress lowered her mending in her lap, and gazed at me fondly. “It is not that we are locked in, but that the world is locked out. Does that notion alarm you, Isabella?”

“No, Lady Prioress. It is not alarming, but comforting. I was not a woman who enjoyed dancing and country beguilements. I seldom left the confines of my father’s grange. I worked in my garden. Within this cloister, I continue in this enterprise. I hope my work has proved satisfactory.”

“Indeed. The garden has never looked healthier. You have a way with it.”

“By the grace of God, Madam.”

“Of course,” she answered. “Then you are pleased to be in the company of nuns?”

“Yes, Madam,” I said carefully.

“There is hesitation in your voice.” Picking up her mending again, she peered at her stitches and placed the needle with care. “Could it have to do with our other dear sister?”

“I do not wish to criticize—”

“But, indeed, I can count upon you to do so.”

She said it with a grin, and by that I knew she held for me no ill will. “As you say, Madam. Cristabell seems vexed by the mere mention of me, and I know not why.”

“Know you not? It is simple—”

Cristabell entered at that moment and we all fell silent, picking up our stitchery where we left off. Cristabell, too, picked up her mending, and as she glanced toward me I offered her a cheerful smile.

To me she gave a cursory look of indifference and set to the task before her. We stitched quietly, each with her own thoughts, until Dame Elizabeth began to hum, and soon we all took it up.

All except for Cristabell.

Autumn, 1515

Chillington Hall, Brewood

VIII

“There is no more lovely, friendly and charming a relationship,

Communion or company than a good marriage.”

–Martin Luther, 1569

Father suggested we come to Chillington, and I clutched at the idea, grateful for its fond familiarity. For a brief time, I could forgo the anger at my father for having arranged my marriage without informing me, for my loss of freedom, and the unwanted attention of Dorothy Montgomery, my wife. But I warmed to the situation as any courtier must. It meant a great amount of land to the Giffard coffers, making us quite the wealthiest family in the county of Stafford.

After leaving court we all rode on to Brewood, trotting through this fine little village to Chillington. I even pointed out my favorite childhood haunts to Dorothy.

“And that?” she asked, lifting a silk and velvet-clad arm as we made the juncture of Port Lane and Upper Chillington.

I looked and saw the oaken cross. “That is Giffard’s Cross, madam. Shall I recount the story of its raising?” She inclined her blonde head to me, the heavy dark blue veil of her kennel headdress fluttering in thebreeze. “Years ago, my father saved a woman with babe in arms from the deadly jaws of his own panther, which escaped from the menagerie at Chillington Hall. He and I pursued the beast and felled it with one arrow, and hence the family motto
Prenez haleine, tirez fort
: “‘Take breath and pull strong,’ words I myself whispered into Father’s ear for encouragement.”

She stared at the cross and followed it with her gaze as we passed it. Then she turned a wry eye to me. “Tell me husband, did this truly happen?”

I smiled and adjusted my seat on the worn saddle. My horse chuckled, mouthing his bit. “They erected a cross on the spot, did they not?”

It was more companionable between us from then on. Though it was true I was not a chaste man before marriage (Jesu grant me mercy for that) I made my vows to my wife in the presence of God, and I intended to keep them well. She was a comely woman, and so it was not difficult fulfilling my obligations of the nuptial bed. I even looked forward to it. It is a man’s way. Does not the cockerel sire his brood over the hen? And even should he long for a hen in another barnyard, he continues his duties as is his nature. So it is my nature, indeed the nature of men, that they seek their solace from whatever their distress in the mindless abyss of the sexual act.

When I entered the chamber that evening, Dorothy sat enthroned upon the bed, a dour expression marring her blushing cheek. Immediately I sat upon the bed’s corner. Petulance of this sort usually meant my imminent purchase of some bauble, and so I played my part. “Madam,” I offered in my most endearing voice, “is there something amiss?”

It took a long moment for her gaze to slide toward me. Her blue eyes settled on mine. At our first strained meeting, I reckoned those eyes might offer a warm haven, as the sky is warm on a midsummer’s day, but I have since learned that it was rather the blue of oceans, deep, cold, and unfathomable.

“I do not mind your having past lovers, husband. An eagle flies far afield before he settles, after all. But I do mind when they follow you.”

“Surely you are mistaken, madam.” I chuckled, but the thought, and the fact of her uttering it, aroused me. I took her hand and stroked the velvety skin. “I keep no cote of doves, neither here nor north in Caverswall.”

“Then I must be mistaken,” she said, enduring my touch, “for I have heard talk of you and your farm whore.”

It is true what they say. The blood does drain from one’s face. It pooled in my chest and burnt, while my cheeks grew cold. I withdrew from her hand. “Be careful what you say, madam.”

“Very well, husband.” Coyly she smoothed the coverlet over her lap. Her gold hair lay unbound down her back, her head covered by a tight white cap. “In faith, I knelt with you before God’s altar, and I was declared your lawful wife. I did not foreswear myself before God, hiding behind a veil.”

“Madam.” I gritted my teeth. “I have not the least idea what you are talking about, but I might suggest you leave it at that.”

“Leave it? Surely I would, if the very idea of this disguising were not an affront to me as a Christian woman. But I have been told that this fornicator calls herself a novice at your Blackladies priory.”

“What?” Now the burning in my chest went cold. Farm whore? Surely not… “I know not of what you speak—”

“Isabella Launder. That is her name, is it not? It is free talk amongst your servants, Thomas, and even they are appalled.”

Astounded, I muttered, “You are mistaken about us. You do not know how much.” It was all I could reply to her. I could not trouble myself to explain to her the chasteness of that dear lady, nor of her humor, her kindness... But did Dorothy say she was now ensconced at Blackladies? As a novice?

Anger flared again within me, at that coney Dorothy and at Father. I left her in the chamber as soon as I might the next morning, and stalked down the stairs of Chillington Hall, my father’s pride and joy even above that of Caverswall...that is, until the Montgomery lands caught his eye and his ambition.

I raised my eyes to the main hall’s familiar arches uplifting the roof several stories high, like the ribs of a whale. Like Jonah we were, swallowed up in this monster of a house. My eyes traveled back up the oaken staircase, and I could not help but snarl at the thought that my wife was somewhere up there. I could not go to her. Not with pricking thoughts of convents fresh in my mind. I strode through the hall, the feeling of friendliness dissipating. I felt as if my chest were gouged out, like a hollow trunk of a dead tree. I sought the solitude of the parlor, but stopped at the arched doorway. Father was there, but did not see me.

Do I let him exile me from all those places I find consolation
? I took a deep breath and muttered, “Take breath and pull strong,” before striding forward into the room. I took a goblet from beside the jug and poured the wine myself. Then, without acknowledging him, I plopped down into my favorite chair.

I felt his glare upon me, but I continued to ignore it. Nudging my shoulder near the flickering hearth, I warmed the dark velvet of my pleated jerkin, and burrowed further into the cushions. I knew my brooding silence would wear on him, and his irritation pleased me immensely. Not once did Father ever mention Isabella Launder. It galled that he somehow knew about her nonetheless.

“I have arranged a meeting with the Brewood council today, Thomas.”

“Have you not arranged enough?” I muttered. Still he heard it, and scowled.

“And what is it that so berates your brow?”

“Blackladies.”

He made a sound in his throat at that, but said nothing. I turned to him. His face was red but neutral.

“Is she there? Did you machine that as well?”

“You are not too old for a strop, my lad. That is what is needed!”

“I have endured your arrangements and plots all my life, Father. Have I not earned the right to an honest sulk?”

“Not in my house!”

“Then I will leave your house!” Bounding to my feet, I glowered nose to nose with him. He glared at me for a long moment until a smile turned up his mustache, and he suddenly laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. Taken aback, I could do nothing to solace my anger.

“Oh, Thomas. Sit down!” He forced me back to the seat and then sat opposite, a smile still spread on his face. “Oft I speak, but rarely do you listen to me. I wish your mother had lived. It would have spared me years of your abuse.”

“Do you blame me for that too? It is not my fault she died in childbed, as much as you would have me believe it were so.”

He canted back, lips parted. “Do you truly think that, my son? When have I ever blamed you for that which was God’s will alone?”

“All my life, sir. ‘If only your mother were here, she would set you on the right path,’” I said mockingly. “‘I know not what to do with you, Thomas. Your mother would have known.’”

“By the blessed Virgin. And you interpreted that as my blaming you? You are a spoiled child, Thomas. And I know not what your—Hmm. I know not what I am to do with you.”

“You have done it. I am married.”

“And high time. At your age I was married, sired three living children, been knighted by the king, appointed sheriff and joint bailiff of Wolverhampton, besides being a trusted member of the king’s household. What have you accomplished?”

“Precious little, Father,” I grumbled, arms firmly crossed over my chest. “But I shall.”

“Of course you shall. You are a Giffard.”

“Then explain this to me. Last year you made all your conniving intrigues to gain the wardship of Sir John’s daughter and heir Dorothy. You obtained the license to marry her yourself. Why then did you marry her mother instead?”

He smiled, brushing up the tips of his mustache with a finger. The rings on his hand flashed in the fire glow. “The Montgomery lands are ours, Thomas, through my marriage and yours. The late Sir John—God rest his soul—made his daughters co-heirs. Naturally I saw an opportunity and moved on it with all haste. Dorothy was an obedient thing and would have married an old creature such as myself, as her mother no doubt ordered her to do. The Giffards are no country fools, after all. But the thing of it is…well…I became acquainted with her mother, the widow Elizabeth…and…”

I glared at my father and snatched the goblet of wine sitting beside me. I gulped a dose and licked my lips before the obvious thought finally occurred. “God’s teeth, Father! Did you fall in love? Is that why you married her?”

Father’s cheeks grew crimson spots and he shifted in his seat, adjusting the furred collar of his jerkin against the over-stuffed doublet. “Well…an alliance is an alliance.”

“Father! By God’s body! A man your age…”

“Keep a civil tongue. I am a man, and your mother died over twenty years ago.”

I toyed nervously with the cords of my shirt collar. “And you gave up all that land for love.”

“I gave up nothing. You have married it.”

“Yes. I see. It must have cost you a considerable sum to gain a new license to marry a ward of the king that quickly.” He did not answer, and after a while I raised my head. “Did you hear me, Father? I said it must have cost you dearly—”

“As I am a Gentleman Usher of the Chamber I was certain our gracious majesty would excuse a fleeting misjudgment based on the heart, while making certain the original license was sufficiently carried out.”

“You mean to say,” I said with lowered voice, “you married her without the king’s permission? That was a dangerous game to play, Father, gambling on the king’s good humor. He has a terrible temper when provoked.”

“I was gambling on it. He is a good Christian and a young romantic himself. He was lenient with me, praise God.”

“You…you surprise me, Father. I was certain your motives lay elsewhere.”

“Can a man not look upon his life and decide on better things? Land is land, but a proper woman to run it is another thing. Elizabeth, your stepmother, is well trained, well prepared, Thomas, as is your wife, Dorothy. She, too, will be the chatelaine a Giffard man needs. A strong woman, Thomas…a highborn lady.”

I swallowed another dose. “The integrity of the lowborn must not be underestimated,” I said softly.

“Neither should the importance of being a Giffard.” Rising, he straightened his jerkin and adjusted the thick gold chain arcing over his breast. “I will see that the horses are saddled. I will await you at the stables.”

“
Was
it you who sent her to Blackladies?”

He stopped and swayed for a moment, but he did not turn to me. “It was her choice, Thomas.”

“How can I believe that?” All the hurt was back, all father’s schemes flitting through my mind, like a whirl of leaves in an autumn storm. “By the Mass! A convent! Is she a nun, then?”

“I do not know. She asked for my counsel, and I provided a place.”

“So you sent her to a convent. Did you think she disgraced the Giffard name? Soiled it? You have a crippled mind, Father. You cannot recognize that which is pure!”

“It was her choice.”

“You coerced her!”

“It was her choice to marry or choose this. Those were her only choices. I see now what a wise decision it was if your heart burns with such jealousy!”

“You do not know what you are talking about! She is the most chaste of women…”

“If that is true then she belongs where she bides.” With that, he stomped away, and I, suddenly irritated beyond speaking, sunk deeper into the chair.

A log in the hearth spit out an ember with a loud report and it glowed and simmered on the planks. I watched as the warmth in it died, greying to ash, only a changeling of itself.
As am I, the wedded husband
. I brought the cup to my lips and drank the rest. My fingers wiped the wet from the fringe of my mustache as I clutched the goblet and scowled into the hearth. Isabella shut in a cloister, a ghastly, simpering nun! Why did she do it? Why not marry? Surely any husband would have suited better than that.

Yet even at this quite ordinary thought, an entirely extraordinary sensation welled in me. For the notion of Isabella wed, with a man touching her as I touched my wife, sent a jolt of revulsion throughout my core. Oh I knew it was selfishness, for I wanted her to myself as my apparently not-so-secret friend. But why such revulsion?