The Miracle at St. Bruno's (19 page)

“Master Cromwell will have a taste of what he was delighted to do to others. I can see them now at the Abbey. Those laden packhorses! All the riches and treasures of St. Bruno’s.”

Lord Remus again begged his wife to have a care and this time she was silent. I knew she was thinking of Bruno and the anguish he had suffered.

I said to Lord Remus: “How could this man who has worked for the King so suddenly become a traitor? Are not his fortunes linked with those of the King? Is he a traitor then because two Princes of Europe have become enemies when they were friends?”

Lord Remus looked at me gently. There was something very kind about him and he and I had become good friends. I think he liked the deference I always showed him, which I felt was due to his age and position, and in any case I was sorry for the manner in which Kate behaved toward him.

“Why, Damask,” he answered, “the way to the King’s favor is through good fortune and can any man expect good fortune to attend him all the days of his life? There are those who would say that Thomas Cromwell has led a charmed life…until now. They will tell you that Cromwell rose from humble stock to greatness. There again he resembled his master Wolsey. His father, they say, was a blacksmith and a fuller and shearer of cloth, but I have heard that he was a man of some small means having in his possession a hostelry and brewhouse. Cromwell is a man of great ability. Shrewd, cunning, but with little of those graces which would have helped his progress at Court. He was well fitted though to do the work the King gave him to do. But he was never liked. The King was never affectionate toward him as he was toward the Cardinal. While he used Cromwell he despised him. It seems there is little chance for the man now.”

“I wonder any man wishes to serve the King.”

Lord Remus’s eyes opened wide with fear. “It is the duty and pleasure of us all to serve His Majesty,” he said loudly. “And it is wrong to show pity for those who…are traitors toward him.”

I asked of what Cromwell had been accused. Was it bringing a wife whom the King found repulsive? If he had brought a beauty would he have been now living in peace in one of his many mansions?

“He is accused of secret dealing with the Germans. He has failed in his foreign policy, for the alliance he made with the Duke of Cleves is proved a nuisance to the King who wishes now to conclude a treaty with Emperor Charles. Cromwell’s policy has brought no good to the country and in addition it has brought a wife to the King of whom he wishes to be rid.”

“It might so easily have gone the other way.”

Lord Remus bent toward me and said: “There is little sympathy for this man. His actions have not won the love of many. There will be plenty who will not shed a tear when his head rolls—as it surely must.”

Then I thought of my father’s saying that the tragedy of one was the tragedy of us all; and I was very uneasy.

We were all very relieved when Kate’s pains started and her labor was not long. Trust Kate to be lucky.

Remus and I sat in the anteroom of her bedroom in deep sympathy with each other. He was very anxious and I tried to comfort him. He told me all that Kate had meant to him, how life had changed for him since his marriage, how wonderful she was and how terrified he had been when she was at Court lest the King’s eyes stray too often toward her. How grateful he was to Norfolk’s niece, Katharine Howard, who was not nearly so beautiful as Kate (who was?) but had a straying wanton glance which had greatly beguiled the King so that he scarcely saw anyone else. He was sure that as soon as the King was free of his distasteful marriage, he would wish to make Katharine Howard his fifth Queen.

I shuddered and he said quietly, “You may well feel sorry for the poor child. She is so young, so unaware. I trust if it should ever come to a crown for her, fate will not be as unkind as it has been to her predecessors.”

And by fate of course he meant the King.

I tried to make him talk about the affair to keep his mind off Kate, but even at such a time he was too much aware of the dangers to say overmuch.

Then before we dared hope to we heard the cry of a child and we rushed into the room—and there he was, a healthy boy.

Kate lay back in her bed—exhausted and pale, beautiful in a new way, ethereal and triumphant.

The midwife was chuckling.

“A fine boy, my lord. And what a pair of lungs!”

I saw the color flood Remus’s face. I doubt whether he had ever known such a proud moment.

“And her ladyship?” he said.

“It’s rarely been my luck to have such an easy birth, my lord.”

He went to the bed and stood there looking down at her, his expression one of adoration.

Kate was too tired to talk; but she caught my eye and said my name.

“Congratulations, Kate,” I said. “You have a fine boy.”

I saw the smile curve her lips. It was one of triumph.

The child was named Carey which was a family name of the Remuses. Kate affected an indifference to him which I did not believe she really felt. She refused to feed him herself and a wet nurse came in—a plump rosy-cheeked girl who had enough milk and to spare for her own child when Carey had had his fill. Her name was Betsy and I said to Kate that it was a shameful thing that a country girl who had come as the child’s wet nurse should show more affection for him than his own mother.

“He is too young for me yet,” Kate excused herself. “When he grows older I shall be interested in him.”

“Such maternal instincts!” I mocked.

“Maternal instincts are for such as you,” retorted Kate, “who doubtless has not a soul above feeding and cleaning infants.”

I loved the baby. I would nurse him whenever possible and young as he was I was sure he knew me. When he was crying I would rock him in his cradle and never fail to quieten him. Lord Remus used to smile at me.

“You should be a mother, Damask,” he said.

I knew he was right. Being with little Carey made me long for a child of my own. I thought I would like to take the boy home with me, for I said to Kate it was time I went home.

She raised a storm of protests. Why did I constantly talk of going home? Wasn’t I content to be with her? What did I want? I only had to ask and she would see that it was brought to me.

I said I wanted to be with my father. He was missing me. Kate must remember that I only came to be with her until she had her child.

“The baby will miss you,” said Kate slyly. “How shall we keep him quiet when you are not there to rock the cradle?”

“He’d rather have his mother.”

“No, he would not. He prefers you, which shows how clever he is. You’re of much more use to him than I am.”

“You are a strange woman, Kate,” I said.

“Would you have me ordinary?”

“No. But I should like you to be more natural with the child.”

“He is well cared for.”

“He needs caresses and to be made aware of love.”

“This boy will own all these lands. He’s a very lucky baby. He’ll soon grow out of the need for caresses and baby talk when he sees this grand estate.”

“Then he will be like his mother.”

“Which,” said Kate, “is not such a bad thing to be.”

So we bantered and enjoyed each other’s company. I knew that she sought every pretext to keep me there and I was delighted that this should be so. As for myself I thought often of my father and were it not for him I should have been contented enough to stay. I guessed that he must have missed me sorely and now that Kate had her boy, I thought he would write urging me to come back; but his letters to me were accounts of home affairs and there was no urgent request for me to return.

I was a little piqued by this, which was foolish of me; I might have known there was a reason.

Little Carey was a month old. My mother wrote that she had heard that a fruit called the cherry had been brought into the country and had been planted in Kent. Could I please try to find out if this was so? And she had also heard that the King’s gardener had introduced apricots into his gardens and they were prospering well. She would so like to hear if this was the case. Perhaps some of the people who visited Remus Castle and who came from the Court would be able to tell something about these exciting projects.

The people who came from the Court did not talk of apricots. There was about them all a furtive air; they lowered their voices when they talked but they could not deny themselves the pleasure of discussing the King’s affairs.

The King was determined to rid himself of Anne of Cleves. Cromwell, who had made the marriage, was going to unmake it.

I thought of him often in his prison in the Tower—his fate was not unlike that of the great Cardinal, only his lacked the dignity. The Cardinal had had the King’s affection and had died before the ignominy of the Tower and death there could overtake him. I was filled with pity for these men—even Cromwell—and no matter how much I remembered that terrible time when the Abbey had been defiled and violence and misery had prevailed, still I felt pity for the man who had climbed so high only to fall.

I heard now that Cromwell had been forced to reveal conversations which he had had with the King on the morning after the wedding night. During these conversations the King had made it perfectly clear that the marriage had not been consummated.

“Cromwell has admitted,” so said one of our visitors, “that the King told him he found the lady so far from his taste that nothing could induce him to consummate the marriage. If she were a maid when she came, so Cromwell assures us the King said to him, then His Majesty had left her as she was when she came, though as for her virginity, His Majesty was inclined to doubt that she was in possession of such a virtue when she arrived. Now Parliament will bring in a bill to declare that the marriage is null and void and that if a marriage has not been consummated this is a ground for divorce.”

“How unfortunate are the King’s wives,” I said.

“I do not think the lady who will soon become the fifth would agree with this.”

“Poor girl. She is very young, I hear.”

“Aye, and the King is eager for her.”

“Perhaps when he is married to her he will soften toward her and pardon Cromwell.”

“That man has too many enemies. His doom is certain. The King never had any affection for him.”

I shivered.

I shall never forget that July. The scent of roses filled the pond garden and the leaves were thick in the pleached alley. I used to carry the baby out to the seat in his wicker basket and sit him down at my feet while I stitched at some garment for him. Kate would join me. She was planning her next visit to Court.

“They say Katharine Howard is already the King’s wife. I wonder how long she will last.”

“Poor girl,” I murmured.

“At least she will be a Queen, if only for a short time. I have heard it said that in the Duchess of Norfolk’s household she was a very merry little lady at one time.”

“The King would hardly wish for a somber one.”

“Rather free with her smiles and other favors.”

“ ’Tis always better to smile than frown—something which you might remember.”

She laughed. “My mentor!” she murmured. “You always seem to know what is best for me. Why should you think that you are so much wiser than I?”

“Because I should be hard put to it to be less so.”

“Oh, so now we are clever! Go on, clever Damask. I will sit with my hands folded and listen to your sermons.”

We were silent for a while. There was no sound in the garden but the buzzing of the bees in the lavender.

Then she said: “How does it feel to die…to leave all this, I wonder.”

I looked at her in a startled fashion and she went on: “How did Queen Anne feel in her prison in the Tower, knowing that her end was near. It is four years since she died, Damask, and in the month of May, the beauteous month when all nature is reborn…and
she
died. And now that man, who was no friend of hers, is also to die. She was brave. They say she walked most calmly to her death, that she was elegantly attired as always. She was scornful of her fate. That is how I would be. And think of the King, Damask. He heard the death gun booming from the Tower. ‘The deed is done,’ so they tell me he said. ‘Uncouple the hounds and away.’ And to Wolf Hall he went where Jane Seymour was waiting. But she did not long enjoy her crown.”

“Poor soul,” I said.

“Yet she died in her bed and not on a bloody scaffold.”

“Perhaps it was better that she died thus than live to face a worse death.”

“Death is death,” said Kate. “Wherever it is met. But not all die as Anne died. I can picture her lifting her head high as she walked and as calmly laving it down to receive the blow from the executioner’s sword. How different is Cromwell. He begs for his life, they say. He has sworn all that the King asks him to swear. He declares the King confided to him on the wedding night…because that is what the King wishes. He begged for mercy.”

“And will it be granted?”

“Is the King ever merciful?”

“I wonder,” I said.

We were interrupted in the garden by the arrival of a visitor. He came from Court and Kate went out to greet him. That day we dined in the great hall and Kate was animated and I thought that having a child had by no means impaired her beauty. Lord Remus could not take his eyes from her and I marveled at her power to win such devotion without making much effort to do so.

The talk was of the Court as Kate wished it to be.

The fall of Cromwell and the King’s infatuation for Katharine Howard were the topics.

“My Lady of Cleves now passes her time most comfortably at Richmond Palace,” our visitor told us. “Those who have seen her say that a great serenity has fallen upon her. She has many dresses and all of the latest fashion. She walks in the gardens and is most pleasant to all who approach her. The truth is that she has come through a trying ordeal. They say she was terrified when the King showed he would not have her and greatly feared that her head would roll in the dust as had that of Queen Anne Boleyn.”

“What a merciful escape.”

“It is not always judicious to cut off the heads of those who have powerful friends in Europe. Thomas Boleyn was an Englishman, and no powerful monarch. So Anne lost her head.”