The Miracle at St. Bruno's (53 page)

In November of the glorious year 1558, the old Queen had died and everywhere there was great rejoicing because new hope had come to England. We had suffered through Bloody Mary’s reign and because the Abbey was not far from the river and a mile or two away from the Capital the pall of smoke from Smithfield would drift our way when the wind was in a certain quarter. My mother used to feel ill at the sight of it and she would shut the windows and refuse to go out.

When the smoke was no longer visible my mother would go into the garden and gather flowers or fruit or herbs, whatever was in season, and send me with them over to my grandmother’s house, which bordered on the Abbey.

My mother’s stepfather had been burned at the stake as a heretic in the reign of Queen Mary; that was why the fires of Smithfield were particularly poignant to us. But I don’t think my grandmother continued to suffer as much as my mother believed she did. She would always be very interested in what I brought and she would call the twins in to talk to me. Peter and Paul were a year older than I—my mother’s half brothers and therefore my uncles. We were a complicated family. It seemed strange to have uncles a year older than oneself, so we never considered the relationship. I was fond of them both; they were identical twins—always together and looking so alike that few could tell them apart. Peter wanted to go to sea, and as Paul followed Peter in everything he wanted to go too.

When Aunt Kate arrived at the Abbey I would go to my room, lock myself in and stay there until my mother came to persuade me to go down. Then I would do so just to please her. I would sit at my window and look out at the old Abbey church and the monks’ dorter, which my mother was always talking of turning into a buttery; and I remembered how Honey used to tell me that if you listened in the dead of night you heard the chanting of the monks who had lived here long ago and the screams of those who had been tortured and hanged at the gate when King Henry’s men had come to dissolve the monastery. She used to tell me these stories to frighten me because she was jealous on account of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter. I retaliated, though, when I heard rumors about Honey. “You,” I had said, “are a bastard and your mother was a serving girl and your father a murderer of monks.” This was cruel of me because it upset Honey more than anything. It was not so much that she minded being a bastard as not being my mother’s own child. At that time her first possessive love had been centered on my mother.

My nature was to let my temper flare up, to make the most wounding comments I could think of and very soon after hate myself for doing so and try hard to make up for my cruelty. I would say to Honey: “It’s just a tale. It’s not true. And in any case you’re so beautiful that it wouldn’t matter if your father was the devil, people would still love you.” Honey didn’t forgive easily; she went on brooding on insults; she knew that her mother had been a serving woman and that her great-grandmother had been known as a witch. She didn’t mind the latter at all. To have a witch for a great-grandmother gave her some special power. She was always interested in herbs and how they could be used.

Honey came to the Abbey for the Coronation. When I asked my mother if my father would be home by then her face became a mask and it was impossible to know what she was feeling.

She said: “He’ll not be back.”

“You seem so sure,” I replied.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “I am.”

We went to London to see the Queen’s entrance into her Capital in order to take possession of the Tower of London. It was exciting to see her in her chariot with Lord Robert Dudley, one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, riding beside her. He was her Master of Horse and they had, I heard, become acquainted when they were prisoners in the Tower during the reign of the Queen’s sister, Mary. It was thrilling to hear the tower guns boom out and listen to the loyal greetings which were delivered to the young Queen as she rode along. We had taken up our position close to the Tower and we saw her clearly as she rode in.

She was young—about twenty-five years old—with fresh-colored cheeks and reddish hair; she sparkled with vitality; yet there was a great solemnity about her which was very becoming and greatly admired by the people.

We were all very moved when we heard her speak as she was about to enter the Tower.

“Some,” she said, “have fallen from being princes of this land, to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being prisoner in this place to be prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of his mercy; as they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful for the other.”

This was a speech of wisdom and modesty and determination which was greatly applauded by all who heard it.

I was thoughtful as we rode back to the Abbey, thinking of Queen Elizabeth—not so very much older than myself—who now bore a great responsibility. There was something inspiring about her and I fell to thinking of her remark about the imprisonment she had suffered and how God had been merciful and brought her from her troubles to greatness. I pictured her as a prisoner entering the Tower by the Traitors’ Gate and wondering, as she must have, when she would be taken out to Tower Green—as her mother had been—and commanded to lay her head on the block. How would one so young feel with death imminent? Would she, this bright young woman burning with zeal for her great task, have felt as wretched at the prospect of losing her life as I did at the loss of Carey?

But she had come through her troubles. God had been merciful; out of the great shadow of the Tower she had walked, to return as mistress of everyone and everything in this land.

Witnessing the entry of the new Queen into her Capital had lifted my spirits.

I listened to the conversation at dinner, which was led by Kate. She scintillated, and hating her as I did, I had to admit to her undeniable charm. She was the center of attraction at the table. She chattered on indiscreetly, for who could be sure what the new reign would bring forth and what servants who listened would report? At least they had during the reign of Mary. Why should we all think that Elizabeth’s was going to be so different?

“So at last she has safely reached the throne,” Kate was saying. “Anne Boleyn’s daughter! Mind you, she has a look of her royal father. The same high temper. It’s in the color of their hair. It’s almost identical. I once danced with His Majesty, her royal father, and do you know I verily believe that if he had not at that time been absorbed by the charms of Catherine Howard he would have cast his eyes on me? How different everything might have been if he had!”

My mother said: “Your head and shoulders might have parted company by now, Kate. We’d rather have you in one piece.”

“I was always fortunate. Poor Catherine Howard! It was her head instead of mine. What a man that was for dispossessing himself of wives.”

“You speak too freely, Kate,” said her brother Rupert.

Kate lowered her voice and looked conspiratorial. “We must remember,” she said, “that this is Harry’s daughter—Harry’s and Anne Boleyn’s, what a combination!”

“Our last Queen was his daughter too,” put in Kate’s son Nicholas, whom we called ’Colas.

“Oh, but then,” said Kate, “all that mattered was that one was a good Catholic.”

My mother tried to change the subject and asked my grandmother about some herbs she wanted. Grandmother was very knowledgeable about anything that grew and she and my mother were immediately deep in a horticultural discussion, but Kate’s voice soon rose above theirs. She was talking about the dangers through which the new Queen had passed, how when her mother had gone to the scaffold her future had been in great danger, how she had been declared illegitimate, and how with the death of Jane Seymour she had been kindly treated by the King’s three last Queens and had lived at the Dower House with Queen Catherine Parr after the death of the King.

“And I think,” said Kate mischievously, “it would be unwise to discuss what happened there. Poor Thomas Seymour! I met him once. What a fascinating man! It’s small wonder that our little Princess … but of course that is gossip. Of course she never really permitted him to enter her bedroom. That was all gossip about the Princess’ being delivered of a child. Who would believe such nonsense … now! Why, those who perpetrated such evil tales should be hung, drawn and quartered. It would be treason to repeat them now. Imagine when they brought the news to her that he had died on the block. ‘This day died a man with much wit and very little judgment,’ she said. And she said it calmly as though he were just an acquaintance. As if there could have been anything deeper between them!”

Kate laughed and her eyes sparkled, “I wonder what it will be like at Court now. Gayer than under Mary. That much is certain. Our Gracious Lady will be so eager to show her gratitude to God, to her people and to Fate for preserving her for this great destiny. She will want to be gay. She will want to forget the alarms of the past. Mercy me, after the Wyatt rebellion she came as near to the block as I am to you now.”

“It’s all in the past now,” said my mother quickly.

“One does not escape from the past, Damask,” retorted Kate. “It is always there like a shadow behind us.”

But, I thought,
your
miserable sins have cast a shadow over my life and you never look back to see the shadow behind you.

“Why,” went on Kate, “did you see Lord Robert beside her? She dotes on him, they say.”

“There’ll always be gossip,” said Rupert.

“He has sprung quickly into the saddle,” laughed Kate. “And what would you expect of Northumberland’s son?”

I watched Aunt Kate with growing resentment. How reckless she was, how frivolous! She could bring trouble to our household with her careless talk. And she would doubtless slip out of it unscathed. Whatever was said brought me back to my tragedy.

When Kate and ’Colas left for Remus Castle I felt better—not happy of course, only relieved that Kate had gone.

As it was November there was little to do in the garden. I remained listless. The Abbey seemed to me a gloomy place. The house itself—built like a castle resembling Remus, which was Carey’s now—was gradually becoming more like a home since my father had gone away; it was when one looked out of the windows and saw the outbuildings, the refectories and the dorters and the fishponds that it seemed so alien.

My mother’s interest was now focused on me. Her great desire was to end my misery and to show me a new way of life. To please her I used to pretend that I was getting over it, but she loved me too well to be deceived. She tried to interest me in the uses of herbs which she had learned from her mother, embroidering and tapestry; and when she found that I could not give my mind to these things she decided that she would tell me of her anxieties, which was the greatest help she could give me.

I was in my room when she came in, her face grave. I rose in alarm and she said: “Sit down, Cat. I’ve come to talk to you.”

So I sat down and she said: “I am concerned, Cat.”

“I see that, Mother. What worries you?”

“The future. … I heard today that the Bishop of Winchester has been arrested.”

“For what reason?”

“You can guess that the religious conflicts will continue. He supports the Pope. It is the old tug of war. Oh, God, I had hoped that we had passed through those evil times.”

“They say the new Queen will be tolerant, Mother.”

“Monarchs are not often so when their thrones are in danger. They are surrounded by ambitious men. There has been much tragedy in our family, Cat. My father lost his head for harboring a priest; my stepfather burned at Smithfield for following the Reformed Faith. You know Edward is a Catholic. When Honey married him she embraced his faith. That was safe in the last reign; but now we have a new Queen on the throne.”

“So you are worried about Honey.”

“All my life there have been these persecutions. I fear that will continue. As soon as I heard that the Bishop of Winchester had been arrested I thought of Honey.”

“You think that the new Queen will begin to persecute the Catholics?”

“I think her ministers may well do so. And then we shall have all the old fears returning.”

Then we talked about Honey and how happily she had married and my mother’s apprehension was eased when she thought of Honey’s happiness.

That helped a little.

It was Christmas time and we celebrated it in the great hall at the Abbey. The smell of baking filled the house and it was going to be a merry Christmas, said my mother, to celebrate not only the birth of Our Lord but the accession of our new Queen. I believe she thought that by acting as though she were sure everything was going to be wonderful, it would be.

My father had been gone so long now that we no longer expected him back. Most of our servants had been monks and had known him from his childhood. They believed there was something mystic about him and they did not question his disappearance. Nobody mourned him as they did a dead person; they never had. Therefore there was no reason why we should not celebrate Christmas with all customary rejoicing.

The festival would go on for the twelve days of Christmas and what pleased my mother was that Honey and her husband would be with us.

They came a few days before Christmas. Whenever I saw Honey after an absence her beauty struck me forcibly. She was standing in the hall; it was snowing slightly and there were tiny sparkling flakes on her fur hood. There was faint color in her cheeks and the wonderful violet eyes were brilliant.

I embraced her warmly. There were at moments great affection between us and now that she had her doting Edward she was no longer jealous of my mother’s special love for her own daughter. Her name was Honeysuckle. Her mother, who had entrusted her to my mother’s care, had said that she smelled the honeysuckle when her baby was conceived.

My mother had heard the arrival and hurried into the hall; Honey threw herself into her arms and they looked long at each other. Yes, I thought, Honey still loves her passionately. She will still be jealous of me. As if she need be, she with her glowing beauty and her loving husband, and I with Carey lost to me forever.