The Manner of Amy's Death (21 page)

      
We spend Christmas day, as usual, praying and reflecting on the birth of our Saviour.  All the folk from the local community assemble in Cumnor church and we’re fortunate as we have only to walk across the courtyard and through an archway to be in the churchyard.  We lift our gowns above our ankles and tiptoe over the snow-covered ground while poorer families arrive cold and with soaking wet feet after the walk up the hillside.  Gentle folk and landowners travel to church in some style, the women in litters and the men on fine horses, and there is a collection of tethered horses and two carriages on the road outside Cumnor Place.  Sir Anthony’s men bring hay for the waiting animals while we inside are glad of the fur linings inside our gowns and cloaks.  The church is very cold indeed.

     
  A little wooden table stands at the back of the church, instead of the stone altar that stood in the middle of the chancel in Mary’s time, all the paintings on the wall have been white washed out (which is a pity I think because I used to like to study them during the more tedious moments of the service) and there are no statues looking down on us and no ornaments on the altar - candlesticks and crucifixes are things of the past.  When the priest blesses the wine (which we’re now able to share with him) he reminds us that this is an act in remembrance of Christ’s blood shed for us.  These days we’re told to believe that it doesn’t actually change into the blood itself. 

      
For the old folk of Cumnor you can see that this has taken a long time to get used to and they were far more comfortable with the old religion.  Some of them linger after the service to look at the English Bible which is now a feature of every church in the land so that all we who can read can see the word of God for ourselves without the need to be a Latin scholar.  To their delight and amazement Sir Anthony reads to them from the gospels more of the story of the birth of Jesus.

      
The day after Christmas the festivities start with the giving of presents.  Amy loves pretty things and shows child-like delight with her gifts from the Forsters and especially with her gift from Robert, a deep red velvet embroidered hood decorated with pearls.  She wears it immediately and revels in the compliments she receives from Sir Anthony and Mrs Owen.  Amy has a very pretty face when she’s animated, something that did not escape the notice of the Spanish ambassador! 

      
In the afternoon a group of travelling players arrives at Cumnor Place and the excitement mounts.  At this time of year the days are very short and we’re unable to sew or play cards for long in the evenings as our eyes get tired and sore in the dim candle light.  An entertainment of music and story telling is something we all look forward to.

       The five
young men who form the troupe are all from nearby farms and villages.  They bring musical instruments, a lute, a drum, a flute, a shawm and a recorder, and sing to the music they play.  We know the tunes and never tire of them.  One of the men is a local farmer, called Owain, who came originally from Wales.  He is renowned for his stories of the Mabinogi, the amazing tales of the Welsh princes and the knights of King Arthur’s court and Amy is enraptured as she listens intently.  Sitting in the Great Hall with the older ladies of Cumnor, with Sir Anthony, with Amy’s manservant, Mr Bowes, sent by Robert to deliver her letters and attend to her wishes, and with Mrs Picto, there’s a calm warmth that makes us feel we’re among friends.  There’s no sign of Thomas Blount, who’s presumably at court with Robert.  Likewise the odious presence of Richard Verney, presumably celebrating Christmas at Compton Verney, is not missed by Amy!

       The hall looks lush and green with all the tree branches brought in from outside.  Holly and ivy decorate the walls, the lintels above the doors and
the mantelpiece over the fireplace where the flames of a huge log fire leap and crackle casting long dancing shadows on the ceiling.  On the cleanly swept floor the green rushes and evergreen branches give a gorgeous scent of warm pine all mixed with smells of rich cinnamon, cloves and spices.  We’re in a leafy grove, cosy and warm, settled and comfortable, and full of the special food reserved for Christmas treats. 

      
The servants hand round little tartlets filled with sugared fruit and peel and flavoured with spice.  The cook has even placed a tiny figure made of dough underneath each pastry lid to represent the Christ child asleep under his blanket.  There’s every kind of meat and savoury, an abundance of sweet wine and mead, candied preserved fruits, jellies and jams and, brought to Cumnor at great expense and especially for Amy, marzipan!

       Everyone has
been invited into the Hall to partake of the food, after we’ve had our fill, and to watch the entertainment, first the musicians and then the story tellers.  The long table has been moved back and the servants are allowed to sit on it while we’ve seated ourselves beside the fire, Amy sitting on cushions on the floor, the skirts of her favourite russet taffeta gown spread prettily around her, her hair shining golden underneath the new French hood from Robert.  I see the young men in the troupe gazing at her for a little longer than perhaps they should and I cannot help thinking what a fool Robert Dudley is to throw away so rich a treasure.

       The wine is sweet and intoxicating and the musicians are good.  They play all our favourite tunes and even perform danc
es to some of them, just as Queen Elizabeth’s best players would.  When they play the old ballads, we recognise the words and join in, such a pleasant way to pass an evening and such good company.  Amy laughs and claps with delight, her face flushed with pleasure and wine.

       The
n Owain and another Welshman called Rhoddri together tell the stories of the Mabinogi, of Rhiannon on her white horse always evading the knights who pursue her, as if by magic always able to keep three paces ahead, no matter how fast or how slowly their horses go.  But we’re shocked when we hear how she was falsely accused of murdering her child.  The story has a happy ending when she’s proved innocent of any crime.  Amy’s brown eyes grow large with wonder and fill with tears at Rhiannon’s plight.  Then we hear the story of the evil Blodeuwedd turned into an owl and condemned to live in darkness, shunned by the other birds, for her wickedness in plotting the hideous torture of the ruler, Lleu Llaw Gyffes.

       The whole evening ends with the song ‘Good Company’ writ
ten by King Henry so many years ago.  It’s hard to let go after such a wonderful treat and reluctantly we say good night to the players who are shown to their sleeping quarters with the servants while Sir Anthony escorts Amy and Mrs Picto across the snow in the courtyard to the door of the staircase leading to the best chamber in the manor house.  We hear Amy giggling as the wind causes the flame on her candle to flicker and go out.  My small chamber in the southern wing of the house is just a short walk from Amy’s and close to those of the other gentlewomen.  As I undress I can hear the men servants and the musicians, under the effect of the ale they have drunk, talking a little too loudly in the rooms below as they make their way to bed. Soon their conversation and laughter will die down and the only sound will be that of the wind swirling the snowflakes round the sleeping house. 

      
The visitors have to travel back to their farms and cottages the next day but not before Amy and I have time to settle a score with them!  The five young men have said that they cannot imagine that two young ladies would be able to beat them at skittles so Amy has challenged them to a contest before they go home!  Two teams are planned with Amy, Sir Anthony, Owain and me on one side and the other four young men on the other.  I haven’t seen Amy laugh so much for a long time as she does at the prospect of the match.

        From my tiny window
I watch Sir Anthony’s lantern across the court yard, illuminating the door and the double flight of stairs leading to Amy’s chamber.  He pauses at the foot of the stairs to allow Amy to relight her candle from the lantern and then she mounts the first flight, turning on the landing to wave to him before ascending the short second flight of steps.  We’re all well fed, happy and slightly inebriated with the wine so it’s a pity that I cannot laugh and chat with Amy as we once did, sitting on her bed until late at night.  Although her chamber is the largest at Cumnor it’s still not large enough for me to have a bed in there – and Amy’s bed is not large enough for me to share as we did when we were girls. 

       I watch
Sir Anthony’s lantern moving back past the Great Hall which is next to Amy’s chamber.  On the other side of her door lies the garden accessible through the little archway and I have no doubt that, in the morning, we will see the tiny paw prints of night visitors sniffing out any left over scraps outside the kitchen door.

      
While I settle down in my bed on the upper floor, I can still hear the men talking and the sounds of the women busying themselves in the kitchen and the buttery downstairs before they too retire to their own sleeping quarters.  I hear Rhoddri’s voice saying something in his strong Welsh accent and everyone laughs.

       The following morning I’m awakened by a strange sound.  It’s barely light and very, very cold; shivering I pull my cloak around my shift
and put on my sleeping bonnet which has fallen off during the night.  Through the window, illuminated in the dazzling white of the newly fallen snow, I can see the male servants accompanied by Sir Anthony and the five musicians all shovelling snow which has drifted from the north into the south western corner of the court yard totally obscuring Amy’s door and the doors to the Great Hall.  The archway to the garden is lost in a wall of snow.  It occurs to me that the road from Cumnor village, which is on the northern side of the Place will not be passable for some time.  We are completely cut off.

Owain

There
is no game of skittles in the Long Gallery!  All the men are required to clear the snow in the courtyard and to make a path through to the sheds and buildings where the animals and horses are kept.  The milk in the dairy is frozen in the pail and the serving girls hasten to light the fires in the fireplaces around Cumnor Place.  One of the young boys brings in logs and piles them up by the hearths. My bedchamber does not have a fireplace but Amy’s has a warm fire and, of course, we’re always welcome in the warmth of the kitchen with the glowing embers of its bread oven and the roasting spit over a hearty fire.  The Long Gallery and Great Hall take a lot longer to warm through.

       Before dark in the afternoon we all assemble in the Hall and Sir Anthony thanks everyone for their hard work.  The animals are all bedded down for the night, he says, and well supplied with hay and
we can now proceed around the Place thanks to the hard work of the men who have all helped to dig pathways through the snow.  In recognition for such an effort, we will all eat together this evening in the Hall, ladies, gentlemen and servants.

       So
the long table is set for twenty four people. Once again there’s a lavish supply of food, rabbit in a stew, roasted beef and liver, venison and tongue in pies and jellied brawn, tasty bread and pottage of beans and peas, preserved and dried in the summer.

      
After the first courses we have sweet tarts and pastries filled with preserves.  There’s no attempt to ration the food so we can only assume that there’s enough at Cumnor, thanks to Sir Anthony’s careful planning, to last all winter.

       After the meal the servants clear the table and we all settle down again for another evening’s entertainment by our
players.  While the servants busy themselves we talk, shyly at first, to the young musicians.

       “Will your families not be anxious to know where you are?” asks Amy.

       “Oh no,” says Rhoddri, “This has happened before you know.  They will manage at home without us and be grateful for the extra money we bring home.”  He winks.  “Sir Anthony has promised to pay us well for each evening we are delayed here.  You must be a very important lady.”

       John frowns at him.  “You great fool, Rhoddri!
Don’t you know who this lady is?”

       It’s clear from the expression on Rhoddri’s face that he does not.

       “She’s the wife of the most important man at court, idiot.  This is Lady Dudley, wife of Sir Robert Dudley.”

       “So why are you not
at court then?”  Rhoddri blunders on in his sing song voice.  “Had a row with your husband, have you?”  He smiles and winks at John.  “This lad here is always having rows with his wife.”

       There’s a silence that’
s almost audible.

        “What?” says Rhoddri, unabashed, “What did I say then.”

        “Are you married, Rhoddri,” I ask, realising that this sounds a little forward but trying to rescue the situation none the less.

       “No, not I,” says Rhoddri with great emphasis, “And never will be either.
  My mother and father are glad when I come out with the players.  Glad to get rid of me, you see!”

       “And you Owain?”
I ask.

       Now it’s my turn to be embar
rassed, so much so that I want the ground to swallow me up.  After another silence, John says quietly, “Owain lost his wife last summer, of the sweating sickness.  He has two small children to look after.”