The Miracle at St. Bruno's (36 page)

“It would have been a little boy,” said the midwife. I did not entirely believe her; she was one of those lugubrious women who liked a tragedy to be of the first magnitude. She knew that we had wanted a boy.

It was great good fortune, she implied, that I had survived at all and it was in fact due to her great skill. I was confined to my bed for a week and during this time I had time to think. I could not forget Bruno’s face when he knew what had happened. The precious child lost! Surely the King himself had not looked more thunderous when he had stood over his sad Queen’s bed. I even imagined I saw hatred in his face then.

I thought a good deal about Bruno. I recalled seeing him at night from my window. He had been coming from the tunnels then. And why should he have been in the tunnels on that day when I had gone to look for Honey? If there was a danger of the earth collapsing it could do so at any time, and it was no safer for him than for anyone else.

By April of the following year I knew that I was again with child. The change in Bruno when he knew this was astonishing. Passionately he wanted children and yet when they arrived he was indifferent to them…at least he was to Catherine. Honey of course he had always resented. If my child was a boy how would he be? Would he try to take him from me?

Sometimes I would grow oddly apprehensive.

What did I know of this strange man who was my husband? What had I ever known? During those years when he had lived in the Abbey—the child who had been sent to them from heaven for some purpose—his character had been formed. Then rudely he had been awakened to the truth; and now it seemed he would spend his life proving that he was indeed apart from other men.

I felt I understood him; and for this reason I could feel tender toward him; but I was beginning to see how happy we might have been. This rebuilding of our little world was a fascinating project. We were giving work to many people and the neighborhood was becoming prosperous again; people were now beginning to look to the Abbey almost as they had in the old days. What happy useful lives we could have led if Bruno had not been possessed by a need to prove himself superhuman.

I saw less of him during my pregnancy. He worked as though in a frenzy. We had moved from the Abbot’s Lodging to the monks’ frater while the lodging was being rebuilt. Bruno had designed the house in the old Norman style, like a castle.

There was something eerie about the monks’ quarters. There was no room large enough for us to share and we occupied separate bedchambers. Honey and Catherine had one of the cells for theirs; they could have had separate ones—there were enough cells, heaven knew—but I feared they might be frightened. I myself used to fancy I could hear slow stealthy footsteps in the night and often coming up the winding staircase I would think I saw a ghostly shape. It was imagination of course; but I used to lie awake and think of the monks who had lived in this place for two hundred years and wondered what they had thought as they lay in their cells at night. I grew fanciful as women will when pregnant and I asked myself whether when people died they left something behind them for those who came after. I thought more often than before during that period of the terrible day when Rolf Weaver had come; and I could imagine the terror of the monks when they knew that he and his men were in the Abbey.

Sometimes I would get up in the night and look through the grille in the door at the children, just to make sure that they were safe. I should be glad when we could move back to our completed house. But when I was with child what happened outside my little world was of a minor importance. I was the kind of woman who was first a mother; even my feelings for Bruno were maternal. Perhaps if this had not been so I might have been more aware of what was happening about me.

There was a change in Caseman Court.

I did not visit the house often because I did not wish to see Simon Caseman, but there was little that was subtle about my mother and she dropped scraps of information. She told me that some of the ornaments that used to be in the chapel had been sold; and she let out once that there was a copy of Tyndale’s translation of the Bible in a secret place in the chapel.

If Simon Caseman was embracing the doctrines of the Reformed Church, he was in as great a danger as I feared Bruno might be in bringing back monks to the Abbey. I used to argue with myself as I might have done with my father. Of what importance was it in what manner one worshiped God as long as one obeyed the tenets of Christianity, which I believed were summed up in the simple injunction to love one’s neighbor?

It was a strange summer; through the long days the sound of workmen laying bricks could be heard. I saw less and less of Bruno, and I often thought that while the men built up the walls of our grandiose castle he was fast building a wall between us which was becoming so high that it threatened to shut him off from me altogether.

Occasionally I heard news from outside. The King had been declared by Parliament King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Supreme Head of the Churches of England and Ireland. That he had become war-minded and carried the war into France meant little to me. There was rejoicing when we heard on one September day that he had taken Boulogne and had actually marched into the town at the head of his troops in spite of the sickness of his body. Prayers were said in churches throughout the country and Archbishop Cranmer, who leaned toward the Reformed religion, pointed out to the King that if people could pray in English they would understand for what they prayed and their prayers would be more fervent. Simple people wishing well to the King would not understand for what they prayed in Latin. The King saw the point of this and allowed the Archbishop to compose a few prayers in English and these were said in all churches.

I could imagine the jubilation at Caseman Court. It was the reverse in our household. Even Clement was slightly downcast.

Had I not been so absorbed in my children I might have been more aware of the growing conflict in a country when it could be so definitely felt between two houses.

Then we heard that the Dauphin of France had brought an army against the King, and recaptured Boulogne, and the King and his men were forced to retire to that old English possession of Calais so that there had been little point in the venture.

“It might have been a different story,” I had heard Clement say. “If Master Cranmer had not tried to bring in his Reformed notions. God was clearly displeased.”

In the old days my father would have discussed the changes with me. We would have considered the virtues of the old and new Church. Doubtless we would have defied the law and had a copy of Tyndale’s Bible in the house. I knew that there was one in Caseman Court. I trusted it would not be discovered because I knew what this could mean to my mother and the twins. For Simon Caseman I could feel no concern.

As my time grew near I began to feel wretchedly ill.

November was a dark and dreary month and I was not looking forward to spending Christmas in the monks’ quarters. I watched the transformation of the Abbot’s Lodging and it seemed to me that each day it grew more and more like Remus Castle—but grander in every way.

Then one day two months before my time my child was born—a stillborn boy.

I did not know of this until a week later. I myself had come near to death.

Bruno wrote to Kate asking her to nurse me. Lord Remus was now in Calais with the forces there who were protecting the town for the King. Kate came without delay.

She was shocked to see me. “Why, you’ve changed, Damask,” she said. “You’ve grown thinner and sharper of face. You have grown up. You look as though you have passed through experiences which have changed the Damask I used to know.”

“I have lost two children,” I said.

“Many women lose children,” she said.

“Perhaps it changes them all.”

“If they are as you. You are the eternal mother. Damask, has it struck you how different we all are, and how each of us has distinct characteristics?”

“You mean all people?”

“I mean us…the four of us…those of us on that branch I told you of before. There were four of us…you, myself, Rupert and Bruno…all children together.”

“Bruno was not one of us.”

“Oh, yes, he was. Not under our roof but he was part of our quartet. You are the eternal mother; I the wanton; Rupert the good steady influence.”

She paused. “And Bruno?”

“Bruno is the mystery. What do you know of Bruno? I should love to discover.”

“I seem to know him less and less.”

“That is how it is with mysteries. The deeper one penetrates the maze the more lost one becomes. You should not have become involved in this particular mystery. You feel too keenly. You should have married Rupert. Did I not always tell you so?”

“How could you know what I should do?”

“Because in some things I am more learned than you, Damask. I lack your knowledge of Greek and Latin but I know of other things which are more important. You have been very ill. When I heard I was distraught as never before. There! What do you think of that?”

“Dear Kate.”

“No, I am not your dear Kate. I am a designing woman, as you well know. Nothing changes me. Now I shall cheer you…not with possets and herb drinks. I leave that to your mother. I shall enliven you with my incessant chatter.”

“I am glad to see you. Lying here I have been passing through the strangest fantasies. I have imagined that I am trapped in a monastery.”

Kate grimaced. “That is easy to understand. Whatever made you choose this place for your lying-in?”

“We had to move out of the Lodging for the rebuilding.”

“But you have such a vast estate. Why not choose something more fitting than these dreary cells? They give me the creeps.”

“I have dreamed that I have been a prisoner here…that Rolf Weaver’s men were here…that someone was trying to kill me.”

“Now that I am here you will get well.”

“Bruno is so strange.”

“Does he not love you?”

“He does not love as other people do.”

“Bruno loves passionately…himself.”

“How should you know?”

“I know that he has great spiritual pride. So he will build a great castle; he will have a son to follow him. He will be lord of his enclosed world. He will restore the Abbey.”

“No!”

“Not yet. In time perhaps.”

“It would be treason.”

“Kings do not live forever. But our conversation grows dangerous, and speaking of Kings, before Remus set out for Calais he was most graciously received by the Queen.”

“Tell me of her.”

“A kind and calm lady, with a different sort of beauty from that of the English ladies who had previously caught the King’s fancy. Such an excellent nurse she is. I have heard that none can dress his leg as she can. She has a deft and gentle touch and if any other do it he will scream with pain and throw the nearest stool at them ere they have time to retreat. But she dabbles with the Reformed religion.”

“Kate, how many people are dabbling with it, think you?”

“More and more each day. And I will tell you that the King’s sixth wife has recently been in danger of losing her head through it.”

“But I thought she was such a good nurse to him.”

“Doubtless that saved her. Bishop Gardiner has been working against her. You have heard of Anne Askew?”

I had assuredly heard of Anne Askew who had declared herself publicly in favor of the Reformed ideas and for this had been sent to the Tower. She had been racked cruelly and finally consigned to the flames.

“It is known,” went on Kate, “that while Anne Askew lay in prison the Queen sent her food and warm clothing.”

“An act of mercy,” I said.

“To be construed by those who upheld the old faith as an act of treason. It is said that the King’s wife has come within hours of losing her head.”

I often wondered how Kate was so conversant with Court gossip. But she told her stories of the Court with such verisimilitude that one completely believed her.

She made me see the serious-minded Queen who was so interested in the new ideas that she even talked of them to the King. She made me see cruel Wriothesley, the King’s Lord Chancellor, who had determined to bring her to the block. I could hear his insinuating voice asking the King if the Queen had so far forgotten her place as to seek to teach the King religion. And the poor Queen’s ignorance of what was happening until the King had signed the order to commit her to the Tower.

But the King was weary of hunting for a new wife. It was true the Queen had not given him a son; but she was a good nurse and if she were a headless corpse who would dress his leg? And the Queen, suddenly being aware of imminent danger, had used all her wits to extricate herself. She had become ill with anxiety but recovering in time she had told the King that she would never learn from any except God and himself.

As she had when a child, Kate assumed the parts of the people in her stories. Now she struck an attitude; she strutted—she would have made a good mummer. She seemed to grow large and royal; she narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips and she was the King.

“And he said to her—for I have it from one who overhears—‘Not so, by Saint Mary. You have become a doctor, wife, to instruct us and not to be instructed of us, as oftentime we have seen.’

“At this,” went on Kate, “the Queen trembled, because she saw the hand of Wriothesley in this and the ax very close and turned toward her.”

Kate was the Queen now. “ ‘Indeed if Your Majesty have so conceived then my meaning has been mistaken, for I have always held it preposterous for a woman to instruct her lord; and if I have ever presumed to differ from Your Highness on religion it was partly to obtain information and sometimes because I perceived that in talking you were able to pass off the pain and weariness of your present infirmity.’

“With which clever reply His Majesty was pleased and he said, ‘And is it so, sweetheart. Then we are perfect friends.’

“And when they came to arrest her they found her in loving discourse with them in the gardens, at which His Majesty vented his fury on them. So you see the King’s sixth Queen came very near to losing her head and we might well be asking ourselves who the seventh was to be.”