The Miracle at St. Bruno's (40 page)

“But….”

“But you do not believe me. You have ever tried to throw doubts on all that I have told you. I should never have chosen you.”

Truly he frightened me. I thought: There is a madness in him! And I was ever afraid of the mad.

I cried: “So, you made one mistake. Your judgment was wrong. You chose me and you should never have done so.”

He turned to me suddenly. I was sitting up in bed and he gripped my arm. It was a painful grip but I did not cry out; I met the blazing fanatical light in his eye with what I believed was calm good sense.

Then I said, “It
was
a mistake, was it not?”

“It need not have been. At that time it was not a mistake. You trusted me then.”

“Yes, I trusted you then. And I believed that we should build a wonderful life together. But you deceived me from the start, did you not? You told me you were poor and humble.”

“Humble…when was I ever humble?”

“You are right. Never were you humble. And the test you put me to, that was arrogant, was it not? You did not woo me as any other man would have done. You must feign poverty lest you fear I marry you for your estates.”

He released my arm with an impatient gesture.

“You are hysterical. Rupert has been frightening you and although you have no faith nor truth in me you are very ready to believe him.”

“I believe him because what he says makes sense. The Reformed party is in power. The King is a Protestant. Northumberland is a Protestant and they rule the country. Have we not seen the tragedy that can come to those who do not conform to the doctrines laid down by our rulers?”

“And you think
I
would be ruled by these inferior people?”

“Have a care what you say, Bruno. Who knows what may be heard and reported? It is clear to me that you would be ruled by none but your own overweening pride…your desire to prove that you are not as other men.”

“And am I? Have you forgotten my coming?”

I thought of Keziah on that memorable night and her tenor because she had betrayed that which should never have been betrayed; I thought of Brother Ambrose walking across the grass with Bruno and Rolf Weaver coming upon them, taunting. Bruno had seen that. He had seen his father kill the man who had taunted him. Yes, he had seen it and shut his eyes to it because he would not believe Keziah and Ambrose spoke the truth. He could not have it because if it did the image which he had created of himself would be destroyed. In this lies madness, I thought.

“I forget nothing,” I said.

“It would be well that you remember.”

He stood there beside the bed—tall and straight with the pallor of his face like marble, a contrast to those startlingly violet eyes which were so like Honey’s. I thought: He is as beautiful as a god! And I felt that overwhelming tenderness take possession of me and I could not say to him: Bruno, you are living a lie because you are afraid to face the truth.

He began to speak. “I…I alone came back to the Abbey, did I not? It was lost and I regained it. How was it done?”

“Bruno, please tell me truthfully. How was it done?”

“It was a miracle. It was the second miracle at St. Bruno’s.”

I turned wearily away. There was no reasoning with him.

T
HAT HAPPENED IN THAT
momentous year of 1553. My thirtieth birthday was three months away. Thirty! It was not really old but in my thirty years I had seen events take place which had shattered the peace not only of my own household but of the entire country, I had suffered deep sorrow and known some happiness; and at this stage of my life I had reached a conclusion that I had made one of the greatest mistakes a woman can make in marrying a man who can never give her the rich fulfillment she craved. I had my daughters—my own Catherine and my adopted Honey; they were at that time my life; and when I thought of Rupert’s warning and the dangers which beset us, it was of my children I thought, not of myself nor what might befall my husband and his Abbey.

The religious conflict was the main question of the day. Even my mother did not escape it.

When I visited her as I did not as often as I should have wished to, for I always feared to come face to face with her husband, or when she visited me she would chatter of her twins and their mischief, which seemed a source of great delight to her, her garden, her stillroom, her remedies. Only rarely would she refer to the new religion.

“You should study the new opinions, Damask,” she said. “They are the views of the King and it is good for us all to follow him.”

“Mother,” I replied, “I cannot say, ‘This is the right and that the wrong,’ for it seems to me that there is much to be said for both sides.”

“Nonsense,” said my mother briskly, “how could wrong be right and right wrong? It must either be one or the other. And this is the right, I do assure you.”

“Having been assured by your husband?”

“He has studied these matters.”

“Others have studied them. There are clever people on both sides. You must know that.”

“It is easy for these people to be mistaken and your stepfather has given a
great
deal of time to it.”

I smiled at her indulgently. How try to explain to her! But the fact that she was aware of these matters showed how firmly they must have a hold in my old home.

It was a June night—there was a full moon and I sat at my window and thought of what Rupert had said of our dangers and I wondered whether Bruno would join me that night when I saw dark figures moving toward the church. I knew what this meant. They were going to Mass. Bruno would be with them.

I shivered a little. They knew that if this were known they would be in danger, and yet they continued to act in this way. Perhaps they believed that Bruno with his supernatural powers could save them from any disaster which might threaten them. Some of the ex-monks were simple, I thought. Clement for one had clearly convinced himself that there was no truth in Keziah and Ambrose’s story. Bruno had that power to convince people in the face of facts. The only one with whom he could not succeed was myself.

Clement was happy working in the bakehouse. He would sing Latin chants as he worked. It was clear to me that he almost believed that he had never left the Abbey.

The figures had disappeared into the church and I sat for some time thinking of the significance of this when suddenly I saw another figure. It was not one of the monks this time. I stared for the man who was making his way stealthily toward the church had a look of Simon Caseman.

Impulsively I put a cloak about my nightdress and ran downstairs.

I sped across the grass past the monks’ dorter to the porch of the church. I went in. A figure moved forward. I had not been mistaken. It was Simon Caseman.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“You may well ask.” His eyes were alight with excitement. I had never seen the fox’s mask so clearly.

“Trespassing!”

“In a good cause.”

“You have no right to be here.”

“Yes, every right.”

“In whose name?”

“In the name of the King.”

“You speak fine words.”

“I speak the truth. What is going on in there? This has become a monastery once more. It was dissolved but here it is again.”

“Do you not know, Simon Caseman, that many abbey lands have been bestowed?”

“I know it well. There is, mayhap, always a reason for such bestowals.”

“A very good reason, and one which is the concern only of the bestower and the bestowed.”

“That I agree, but when the place is used to break the King’s law….”

“The King’s law has not been broken here.”

“Not when that which has been abolished is slyly brought back.”

“There are many workmen here, Simon Caseman.”

“There are monks, too. They who have been dispossessed by the Crown now reinstate themselves against the laws of the land.”

“What is happening here?” A voice cool, curt and authoritative was demanding. Bruno had come into the porch. From the church came the sound of chanting.

“This is happening,” replied Simon Caseman. “I have witnessed that which could send you to the gallows. Rest assured I shall do my duty.”

“Your duty is to go back to your house and live quietly there—although you do not deserve to, having taken that which would never have been bestowed on you but for ill justice.”

“Do not talk of justice, I pray you. What is happening in this place? How is it that you have rebuilt it as you have? Do you think I do not know? Do you think you can draw the wool over my eyes with your talk of miracles? Miracles forsooth! It is clear indeed from what quarter came your wealth.”

I saw that Bruno had turned pale. He was very uneasy.

“Yes,” cried Simon Caseman, “I know full well. Where does the money come from to build a fine Abbey to gather together your monks and lay brothers? Where indeed. From the enemies of England. From Spain and Rome, that is where the money comes from.”

“You lie!” cried Bruno.

“Then if it is a lie, where? Answer that, Bruno Kingsman. Saint Bruno…answer that. From whence came the money to rebuild the Abbey, eh? To start everything in motion, eh? Are you going to tell me it comes from the profit of the farm? I would not believe you. Great riches have been showered on this place and I am asking you whence they came. That is all I want to know.”

The singing in the church had ceased. I saw the figures of the men within the church hovering not far from the porch.

“Lie to me if you wish!” cried Simon Caseman, his face working with passion. “You won’t deceive me. I know. I have always known. The money came from Spain and Rome. It comes from our country’s enemies. It comes from those who would bring the Pope back as Supreme Head of the Church against the laws of this land.”

“You lie,” cried Bruno.

“Then where, eh? Whence came the money to build this place? How much has been spent on it? Who has such money…apart from His Majesty the King and the richest families in the land? Tell us this, Bruno, Saint Bruno…weaver of miracles, tell us! Did it come from on high? Was it poured into your coffers from heaven?”

“Yes,” answered Bruno soberly.

Simon Caseman burst into loud laughter. “You would call it from heaven since it comes from Spain. I and many with me would call it treason.”

There was a hush in the porch at the mention of that dreaded word.

Then Bruno said: “Get you gone from here. We have no need of your kind.”

“Indeed you have not. You would not find me breaking the law of the land. This is meant to be the beginning of the restoration of the monasteries. I know there are such schemes afoot. They come from Rome and Spain…where your masters are. Think not that I shall allow this treason to continue.”

Bruno went back into the church. I drew back into the shadows and Simon Caseman walked past me. I had never seen such a look of set determination in his face. I thought: Tomorrow he will inform on us. Perhaps by tomorrow night Bruno will be in the Tower.

Then my thoughts went to the girls and I wondered what would become of them.

I ran after Simon Caseman.

He heard my footsteps and turned slowly.

“So?” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“My duty.”

“I believe it will not be the first time you have informed.”

He pretended to misunderstand. “It may not be the last, mayhap. I am a dutiful man.”

“Particularly when there is much to be gained.”

“Gained? What should I gain?”

“Revenge.”

“You are dramatic, my dear Damask.” His eyes surveyed me and I remembered that I had only my nightgown under my cloak.

I felt very frightened and that made me reckless, I suppose.

“Is revenge as satisfying as a fine house which you had no hope of attaining while my father was alive?”

“What has that to do with this?”

“A similar situation. You did your gainful duty once before, did you not?”

He was silent, taken aback; and I was certain then that I stood face to face with my father’s murderer for that is what his betrayer would always be to me.

“I know,” I said, “that you informed against my father. You murderer.”

“Is this the way to talk to one who has your life in his hands?”

“I would not think that life worth having if I were not true to myself.”

“You are a firebrand, Damask. You always were. What a reckless little fool! You might have had so much. But you chose him….Is he a man or is he an idol? We shall soon see. He should hang well.”

“You have made up your mind to inform against him as you did against my father.”

“Your father?”

“Don’t try to deceive me further, Simon Caseman. My father took you into his house. You had nothing of your own. All you had was envy, greed, and a sad lack of principles. You had selfishness, wickedness, ingratitude….”

“In fact I was a very sinful fellow.”

“For once you have spoken the truth. You are my father’s murderer, Simon Caseman. You wanted his possessions.”

“I wanted his daughter, I admit. And the fact is that even when she rants and raves I still do.”

“How dare you!”

“As you dare, my reckless beauty. Here is the man who can have you all carried off to the Tower before another day has passed…and you dare abuse him.”

“I would abuse you with my dying breath. Have you ever loved a father?”

“I never knew mine so that was beyond me.”

“I loved my father. I loved him dearly. I saw him in his prison in the Tower. He was taken from there to his place of execution and his head was cut off.
You
cut off that head, Simon Caseman. Do you think I shall ever forgive you for that?”

“Your father was a fool. He should never have harbored the priest. He knew he was breaking the law. People who break the law must expect sudden and violent death. To give a priest shelter, to set up an abbey which has been dispossessed…these acts are breaking the King’s laws and punishable by death. You would do well to remember that while you rant, however prettily, to one who could do you much good or as you wish so much harm.”

“Not content with being my father’s murderer you would murder us all. You want this Abbey, do you not? Is this the price you are asking?”