The Miracle at St. Bruno's (21 page)

It was more than I could bear. I was in such despair that only my anger could rouse me from it. I would in my present mood have gone to the King himself and told him what a cruel and wicked thing this was to harm a good man who had done nothing but what he believed to be right.

There on the bank were the towers of Hampton Court. I shivered as we passed it. Work was still being done on it, I remembered inconsequentially. My father had mentioned only the last time we had passed that a great astronomical clock was being erected in one of the courtyards and that the lovers’ knots with the King’s and Jane Seymour’s initials which had been put into the great hall were already out of date since there had been another Queen since and talk of yet another. The towers which had always seemed so enchanting to me, now seemed menacing.

How slowly Tom Skillen rowed, I thought impatiently. But it was not true that he did. Poor Tom, he also had changed from the carefree young man who had crept into Keziah’s bedroom by night.

We had arrived. The barge was tied to the privy stairs and I scrambled out and ran across the lawns into the hall, where I found my mother. I threw myself into her arms and she kept repeating my name. Then she said: “You shouldn’t have come. He didn’t wish it.”

“But I am here, Mother,” I said. “No one could stop my coming.”

Simon Caseman appeared. He stood a little apart from us, a woebegone expression on his face. He looked strong and powerful so I appealed to him.

“There must be something we can do,” I said.

He took both my hands in his and kissed them. “We will never give up hope,” he said.

“Is there some way of getting to him?” I asked.

“I am trying to find out. It may be possible for you to see him.”

I was so grateful that I pressed his hand warmly.

He said: “You may rely on me to explore every path.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

“My dearest child,” said my mother tearfully. “You will be so worn out with the journey. Let me get something. I have heard that the juice of the pimpernel will raise the spirits when one is melancholy.”

“Oh, Mother,” I said, “nothing could raise my spirits except to see him come through the door a free man.”

Simon had edged Rupert aside. Rupert had done his task in bringing me home and he could only now regard me with sorrowful eyes which told me how well he understood my pain and would willingly bear it for me. There was something very good about Rupert. He reminded me of my father.

“What can we
do?
” I demanded of Simon, for he seemed more capable than any.

He said: “I am going to one of the jailors. I know him well. I did a little business for him and he owes me something. It may well be that he could let us through so that you might see your father.”

“If that could only be.”

Simon pressed my shoulder. “Rest assured,” he said, “that if this cannot be brought about it will be due to no lack of effort on my part.”

“When?” I demanded.

“Stay here with your mother. Comfort her. Go into the gardens with her. Behave as though it were any day and this had not happened. Try please. It is the best. And I will get Tom to row me to a tavern I know and there I may well discover something. I will see if I can find my warder friend and I’ll make him see that he can do no harm in allowing you and your father to see each other.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“You know,” he said quietly, “that my greatest pleasure is to please you.”

I was so grateful to him that I felt a little ashamed for not really liking him in the past. Rupert was good and kind, I knew, but he accepted disaster. Simon was ready to fight against it.

“First the pimpernel,” said my mother.

Simon said: “Take it. It will do you good to do so and your mother good to prepare it. Try to sleep a little. Then go into the garden with your mother. Take the flower basket and gather roses. Rest assured I shall be back with news soon. You must get through the time till my return as best you can.”

I thought how much he understood my grief and I warmed toward him still further. I allowed my mother to take me to her room and there she brought me the potion brewed from the juice of the pimpernel and what other ingredients I knew not.

She made me lie down and she sat by my bed and she talked of it, that terrible day when they had been at dinner—as they had so many times before and how they had been eating one of the mutton pies which Clement made so well, when the King’s men came in. I could see it all so clearly. I might have been there. I could almost taste the mutton pie garnished with my mother’s herbs; I could feel the terrible fear in my stomach and the dry constriction of my throat. And I saw his dear face so calm, so resigned. He would be as though he had almost known it must come. And he would have gone with them quietly, sitting there in the barge while the oars dipped in the water and they came through the Traitors’ Gate.

I slept for many hours. It was the pimpernel perhaps and other herbs which my mother had given me. I suppose she thought the only way in which I could forget my misery for a short while was in sleep.

To my joy the meeting was arranged. Simon came to my room and asked to be allowed in. He stood there smiling at me and as the light which came through leaden panes was not great it threw shadows and again I saw the fox’s mask and was ashamed for thinking of it in the face of all his consideration for me.

“Tomorrow I shall take you to your father,” he said.

The relief was great. I felt almost happy. Yet I knew that I must be stealthily let into his cell, that the meeting would be brief. Yet somehow I felt that by seeing him I could achieve something.

“How can I thank you?” I said.

He replied, “My reward is to do everything in my power to help you.”

“You have my gratitude,” I told him.

He bowed his head and taking my hand, raised it to his lips. Then he left me.

How I lived through the rest of that day and the night I cannot be sure. The next day I put on doublet and hose which belonged to Rupert. My hair betrayed me as a woman. Without a moment’s hesitation I had seized it in my hand and cut it off. It was thick and I cut it to hang almost to my shoulders. Now with a cap set on it I might have been a boy.

When he saw me Simon stared. “Your beautiful hair!” he cried.

“Doubtless it will grow. And I could not look like a boy with it so I must needs cut it.”

He nodded. Then he said: “You will soon be seventeen, Mistress Damask. You have made yourself look like a boy of twelve.”

“So much the better,” I replied, “for since you thought I should wear doublet and hose, you must believe I shall have a greater chance of seeing my father if I am believed to be a boy.”

“So you would sacrifice your beautiful hair for a few brief moments with him.”

“I would sacrifice my life,” I said.

“I have always admired you, as I believe I have made you aware—but never so as at this moment.”

And we went down the river together and I shall never forget seeing that grim gray fortress rise before us. How many, I wondered, had looked up at it knowing that somewhere within it lay a loved one? I had heard much of it—of the dungeons from which it was impossible to escape, the dark torture chambers; I had many times seen the great Keep and I knew the names of the many towers—the White Tower, the Salt Tower, the Bowyer Tower, the Constable Tower and the Bloody Tower in which, not so long before, the two little sons of King Edward IV had been murdered as they slept and their bodies buried, some said, under a secret stair in that very fortress. I had seen the church of St. Peter ad Vincula before which was Tower Green, the grass of which four years before had been stained by the blood of Queen Anne Boleyn, her brother and those men who were said to be her lovers.

And now my own beloved father might be destined to join the band of martyrs.

It was growing dark as we rowed upriver. Simon had said this was the best time to go. In the Lantern Turret lights burned. They were lighted at dusk and kept burning through the night to act as river signals. The river smelled dank and evil. We were now close to the stone walls.

At last we came to rest, the barge was tied to a stake and Simon helped me out.

His warder friend came out of the shadows.

“I’ll wait here,” said Simon.

The warder said: “Watch your step, boy.” And I wondered whether he was pretending to think me a boy or knew who I was. My heart was beating wildly but not with fear. I could think of only one thing: I was going to see my father.

The warder thrust a lantern into my hand.

“Carry that,” he said, “and say nothing.”

The stone was damp and slippery. I had to watch my steps carefully. I followed him through a passage and we came to a door. He had a bunch of keys and using one of these he opened it. It was iron studded, and consequently heavy. It creaked as it opened. He carefully locked the door behind us.

“Keep close,” he said.

I obeyed, and we went up a stone spiral staircase. We were in a stone-floored corridor. It was very cold. Here and there a lantern burned on the wall.

Before a heavy door the warder paused. He selected a key from his bunch and opened the door. For the moment I could scarcely see anything and then I gave a cry of joy for there he was. I put down the lantern and clung to him.

He said: “Damask. Oh, God, I am dreaming.”

“No, Father. Did you think I would not come?” I seized his hand and kissed it fiercely.

The warder stepped outside the door and stood there; my father and I were alone in the cell.

In a broken voice he said: “Oh, Damask, you should not have come.”

I knew that his joy in seeing me was as great as mine in seeing him, but that his fear for me was even greater.

I laid my cheek against his hand. “Do you think I would not have come? Do you think I would not do anything…anything….”

“My beloved child,” he said. Then: “Let me look at you.” He took my face in his hands and said: “Your hair.”

“I cut it off,” I said. “I had to come here as a boy.”

He held me against him. “Dearest child,” he said, “there is much to say and little time to say it in. My thoughts are all for you and your mother. You will have to take care of her.”

“You are coming back to us,” I said fiercely.

“If I do not….”

“No, don’t say it. You are coming. I will consider nothing else. We will find some way….How could you have done anything wrong? You who have been so good all your life….”

“What is right for some of us is wrong in the eyes of others. That is the trouble in the world, Damask.”

“This man…he had no right to come to you….He had no right to ask you to hide him.”

“He did not ask. I offered. Would you have me turn away a friend? But let us not talk of what is past. It is the future I think of. Constantly I think of you, my dearest child. It gives me great comfort. Do you remember our talks…our walks….”

“Oh, Father, I cannot bear it.”

“We must needs bear what God has decided we must.”

“God! What has God to do with this? Why should wicked murderers prosper while saints are done to death? Why should they dance in their castles…a new wife every….”

“Hush! What talk is this! Damask, I beg of you have a care. Do you want to please me? Do you want to bring me happiness?”

“Father, you know.”

“Then listen to me. Go back home. Comfort your mother. Watch over her. When the time comes marry and have children. It can be the greatest joy. When you have little ones you will cease to mourn for your father. You will know it is the rule of life—the old pass on and make way for the young.”

“We are going to take you back home, Father.”

He stroked my hair.

“We shall find a way. We must. Do you think I can endure to be there without you! You have always been there. All my life I have looked to you. I never thought till now that there would come a time when you…would not…be there.”

“My love,” he said, “you distress yourself…and me.”

“Let us be practical then. We shall try to get you out of here. Why should you not change clothes with me now….You could go and I could stay here.”

He laughed tenderly. “My dearest, do you think I would look like a boy? Do you think you could be mistaken for an old man? And do you think I would leave here one who is more dear to me than my own life? You talk wildly, child, but your talk pleases me. We have loved each other truly, we two.”

The warder was at the door.

“You’ll have to come away now. It’s dangerous to stay longer.”

“No,” I cried, and clung to my father.

He put me from him gently. “Go now, Damask,” he said. “I shall remember as long as I live that you came to me, that you cut off your beautiful hair for the sake of a few brief moments.”

“What is my hair compared with my love for you?”

“My child, I shall remember.” Then he caught me to him and held me tightly. “Damask, take care. Watch your tongue. You must know we are in danger. Someone betrayed me. Someone could betray you. That is something I could not endure. If I know that you are safe and your mother is safe…I can be content. To be careful, to care for each other, to live in peace…that could be the greatest thing you could do for me.”

“Come now,” growled the warder.

One last embrace and there I was standing in the dank passage, that heavy door between him and me.

I was unaware of the journey to the barge. I only vaguely saw the rat that scuttled across our path. There was Tom Skillen waiting to help me into the barge.

And as we rode along the dark river, guided by the lights from the Lantern Turret, one thing my father had said kept recurring in my mind. “Someone betrayed me.”

I did not see him again. They took him out on Tower Hill and that noble head was severed by the ax.

On the day it happened my mother, on Simon Caseman’s advice and without my knowledge until afterward, gave me a draft which she had made with poppy juice. It sent me into a deep sleep from which I did not awaken until I was fatherless.

I rose from my bed, heavy eyed but heavier hearted; I went downstairs and found my mother seated in her room, her hands in her lap, staring blankly before her.