by Mary Burns
From across the courtyard gardens, the first Angelus bell of the day tolled softly.
“The Angel of the Lord appeared unto Mary,” the Abbot began the prayer.
“And she conceived of the Holy Spirit,” Arthur answered, his voice sleepy and breaking from a child’s lilt to a young man’s timbre.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.” The two spoke the ancient words together, and the Abbot felt his heart ease a little in the presence of the young monk’s care and devotion.
Their prayer finished, Arthur stood with the agility of youth, and gripped the Abbot’s arm to help him rise.
“Come, my lord,” he said gently. “I see you’ve spent the night at your table—perhaps you would take some rest?” Abbot Whiting nodded, and let himself be guided to the narrow bed where he’d slept for more years than he could now count. He sat down heavily on the straw-stuffed mattress, watching while Arthur retrieved a jug of wine, poured a little in a cup, and brought it back to him.
“This will help you sleep,” the boy said, handing him the cup.
“Thank you, my son,” the Abbot said, and drank the wine, giving thanks to God for its comfort, and for the boy himself. Arthur showed promise in scholarship, was humble and calm, but there was that in him, the Abbot had observed, that showed a special grace of God, a fine sense of history, a love of the saints and the legends of old—and he was loyal to the Church, the Church—the one that Henry was trying so hard to demolish. And then, the boy’s father, a man of substance up north in Lanercost and aligned with Lord William of Naworth Castle, had taken part in the northern uprising four years ago, against the changes proposed by Henry for the Church. And though the spiritual rebellion—the Pilgrimage of Grace it was called—had been quelled, loyalties were still firm in the north. Henry had then only exacted the wealth, not the lives, of the lords who resisted his will.
Arthur watched the Abbot anxiously. He had heard that heart-rending oath, and had seen the Abbot strike the stone with his fist. A chill shook him, and he prayed that the rumors of the imminent fall of their Abbey would prove to be false. But if not—how he would fight for Glastonbury! He felt it in the rapid beating of his heart, in the tightened grip of his hand as he imagined cutting down their enemies with a great, shining sword. And if their own King was their enemy—well, the monks of Glaston served a higher King, and Arthur would be true to Him.
3
And thus the land of Cameliard was waste,
Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein,
And none or few to scare or chase the beast;
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear
Came night and day, and rooted in the fields,
And wallowed in the gardens of the King.
–Idylls of the King
17 July 1877
Newcastle, then Brampton,
Cumberland
Tuesday
A journey of nearly two days by train had brought us weary and stiff to the chief inn at Newcastle on the Monday evening, from whence we would make the much shorter trip to Brampton the next day. Viewed through the train window, the north country was wild and wooded, but the summer rains gave way to watery sunshine and transformed the landscape into a faerie forest, wisps of fog curling through the heavy treetops.
Newcastle itself, of course, was cramped and filthy with coal dust on every surface, made permanent by the lashings of rain and wind. Nonetheless, John was wild to paint something, being never so happy as with brush in hand, and had brought his watercolors and sketch pad in a portfolio he used when travelling. I was astonished to hear that even before breakfast, he’d been out in the town—the sun had risen at the unmannerly hour of four-thirty—and he came back jubilant, with several lovely scenes to show me over thick slices of ham, boiled eggs, tomatoes and brown bread, which he devoured with gusto, and which I picked at in pure loathing. How I wanted my Italian coffee and pastries!
Italy was, to me, the essence of civilized living, the food being no small part of that, in truth. The bland and heavy English diet I was forced to endure when visiting this country—albeit my mother’s and therefore my own, in part—was utterly foreign to my constitution, having spent most of my childhood in Florence, Siena, Rome and Venice, as well as Paris and Nice. Ah well, one should not repine. Or so I have heard.
We were off by ten, and before very long, the rolling hills and meadows of Brampton were visible through the mid-day mist.
“I understand Philip Webb, of Morris & Company, designed the church in Brampton,” John said. “Supposed to be most unusual. Really looking forward to seeing it.”
“Yes, I as well,” I said. “But our first order of business is to get ourselves to Uncle Chaffee’s cottage.” I started gathering up my things as the train’s whistle blew piercingly to announce our entrance to Brampton—actually, to a little sort of wayside station that stopped nearly a mile from the town. Rather short-sighted of the town fathers, in my opinion, and yes, pun intended. I continued attempting to speak between blasts of the whistle. “If he received my letter, he should be expecting us, and perhaps, even be at the station with his little pony and trap, as he used to do.”
“Is he really your uncle?” John said. “I thought I’d heard about all Matilda’s relations.”
“Oh, my mother’s relations, as you call them, are widespread and numerous, and she has happily estranged herself from nearly all of them.” I held on to the rail on the side of the seat bench as the train lurched and slowed. “But no, Reverend Crickley is not a blood relative, rather an uncle of the spirit, one might say, and has been a great teacher and mentor to me since earliest childhood, when he used to read to me from Idylls of the King and Le Morte D’Artur to charm my lonely hours.”
“So he’s quite the Arthurian enthusiast,” John said.
“Very much so,” I said.
The whistle blew again, and a deafening blast of steam made any further conversation—and even thought—impossible. I looked out the window and, as the fog of vapor cleared, I scanned the tiny platform eagerly for someone who resembled my old friend; I presumed he hadn’t changed all that much in the five or so years since I’d seen him last. We alighted from the train and moved to stand below the overhanging roof of the station. John plunked our bags at our feet, and we looked up and down for a sign of deliverance amidst the meagre crowd that was shuffling around us.
“Miss Violet Paget?” A low-pitched and mellifluous masculine voice spoke from behind me. I turned and looked at quite close quarters into a pair of remarkably green eyes. A cascade of brown curls fell across the gentleman’s forehead in the most absurdly charming manner.
“Oh! Why, yes, I am Violet Paget,” I managed to say, stepping back a bit from the overpowering gaze of this very handsome young man. In doing so, I also managed to step on John’s foot, which, while doing him little harm, caused me to lose my balance and begin flailing my arms in a most ungainly way. The young man reached out a strong arm and caught me before I fell, and John also leaning forward at the same instant, clutched me from the other side. They righted me solidly between them, and I quickly attempted to regain my lost dignity and the properly fashionable pitch of my hat.
“I would thank you, sir, for saving me from a tumble, had it not been for your abrupt overture causing me to step back so hastily in the first place,” I said, and turned to look at John, who I saw was smiling very affably into those green eyes. “I didn’t harm your foot, did I, John?”
John pulled his attention back to me. “Not a bit,” he said heartily. “Like a little bird perching on an old bull in the meadow, don’t you know?”
Green eyes smiled at that, then composed himself, addressing me.
“I’m very sorry for startling you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself.” And taking a step back, he made us a short but elegantly executed bow. “I am James Parke.”
Second Baron Wensleydale, I thought, but said nothing aloud. It amused me no end that my mother’s incessant
repetition of the names of bachelor aristocrats should actually have taken hold in my heretofore uninterested brain. But I also recalled that I had read something about Lord Parke in the London papers quite recently—something about education and art—and there was an accompanying drawing of him that I must say held scant resemblance to the real thing.
The merry twinkle in his eyes faded suddenly, and he looked weary and sad all at once.
“My dear Miss Paget,” he said solemnly, “I fear I am come on an errand of sorrow and distress, in addition to merely providing you—and your friend here—with transport to the, um, to appropriate lodgings.”
I stared at him in perplexity.
“Are you alluding to Reverend Crickley?” I said, glancing at John, who was frowning. “Is he ill?”
The young man sighed. “I am very sorry,” he said, “but it is worse than that. Your friend—our friend—Reverend Crickley is, I’m afraid, dead.”
I gasped and grabbed John’s hand.
“How? When?” I fought to maintain my composure. “I had a letter from him not two weeks ago, and he mentioned no illness, no decline.” I looked inquiringly into those now sympathetic green eyes, as if seeking there a contradiction to his words.
The shrill blast of the train whistle reminded us that we still stood upon the platform, and His Lordship (as I had already begun to call him in my mind) immediately bent to lift up my bags. He motioned us through the station house and out the other door. John followed with his hand luggage, his arm at the ready to support me, though God knows I’ve never been given to fainting fits or being overcome by my emotions. Well, not often. Not when it matters.
Instead of the rustic pony trap I had expected my old friend to provide for us, there was an elegant black barouche, driven by a well-dressed, mannerly coachman, and attended by an exceptionally alert footman who took and stowed our bags, and hailed the porter who wheeled out the rest of our luggage.
I suddenly remembered—in that odd way that one turns to forms and courtesies in the midst of a crisis—that John and our erstwhile host had not been introduced.
“Mr. Parke,” I started to say, then stopped. “Excuse me, my lord, may I introduce my very best friend, the artist Mr. John Singer Sargent, lately of Paris?” The two men, turning to each other, bowed with great cordiality. I knew that John, being an American, was occasionally given to trying out his compatriots’ hand shake for a greeting, but thankfully he had spent most of his life in Europe and the Continent, and therefore had impeccable manners.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Lord Parke said. “I’m something of a dabbler myself.” He smiled again at John. “And please, please call me James, none of this ‘my lord’ stuff amongst ourselves, I do beg of you.” So, he was liberal-minded in the modern sense of the word, as well as handsome and well-mannered; an interesting specimen, I thought, of la noblesse nouvelle.
I was handed in first by Lord Parke—I had no intention of calling him James—and then he and John took their places. I noticed our luggage was being placed in a second cart, driven by what appeared to be a presentable house servant of some sort, not in livery.
“Well?” I said, once the footman had hopped on the backboard and the coach was in motion. “Please tell us what has happened.” I felt the tightness of fearful intuition closing cold hands around my heart, and I dreaded hearing what I knew was already in my mind. From John’s grim look, he thought the same as I.
Lord Parke clasped his hands and leaned forward—he was sitting across from me and John, his back to the coachman, as we travelled the road to town. Even in the midst of our distress, I couldn’t help but be aware of the freshness of the country through which we passed, and I knew that John, too, was drinking in the sparkling summer day. But my attention was fixed on His Lordship’s expressive face.
“Reverend Crickley was found dead in his house early this morning, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Barnstable, when she came in to start up the kitchen for the day,” he said. “She doesn’t live in the cottage, but in the village, not very far away.”
I nodded, vaguely remembering an older lady in Reverend Crickley’s employ.
“Perhaps I ought to explain my—our—connection to Mr. Crickley,” Lord Parke said. “I often stay with my cousin George, who is—was—a great friend of his. They were, the two of them, avid Arthurians, you see. And before my uncle, Lord William Howard, retired from his parish and…and fell ill, he and Reverend Crickley had a most close friendship.” He watched for our response, and continued when we both nodded. “Over the years, I’d grown quite fond of him myself, though not the enthusiast for all things Camelot that I think he had wished—nonetheless, we had many an invigorating discussion, he and my cousin and I, round the table after dining.” He seemed lost in thought for a few moments, then roused himself.
“I’m sorry, it’s all so very unsettling,” he said. “You see, I’d just been visiting him at the cottage the other day—we were looking over some pages from a manuscript he’d lately acquired—and it’s so hard to think that he’s just, well, gone now.” The remarkable green eyes misted over, and he bent his head briefly. With an effort, he composed himself.
“Please,” I said, leaning forward to rest my hand on his for a moment, “can you tell us how, in what manner, he died?”
He raised his head, and looked off into an ancient stand of oaks and ash trees we were passing. I withdrew my hand quietly.
“It appears that he fell down the stairs,” he said, not looking at us. “No doubt some time in the night, perhaps going down for a cup of tea or something from his library—he was often up at all hours, poring over his books, you see.” Lord Parke then looked at us both in turn; we could but nod our encouragement.
“The doctor who came this morning, when Mrs. Barnstable had him called, said that the neck was broken in the fall, and he must have, blessedly, died instantly.”
We were all silent at this horrid news, and several moments passed in which the only sounds were the horses’ hooves on the roadway and the dissonantly cheerful song of birds. We were nearing the center of the village, it seemed, and it occurred to me I didn’t know where we were being taken.
“Are we going to Uncle Chaffee’s house?” I spoke the dear name without thinking, and received a faint smile from Lord Parke upon hearing it.
“Did you call him that, too?” he said. “He was nothing if not avuncular, wasn’t he? Like someone out of an old folk tale, kindly and amusing.”
I smiled back. He hadn’t answered my question, so I waited to see if he would.
“Actually, I wasn’t sure, that is, I thought perhaps you would rather not stay at the cottage, under the circumstances,” His Lordship said, looking at me closely, “so I took the liberty of bespeaking rooms for you at the principal inn, where I hope you’ll do me the honour of being my guests.”
John and I both started to protest this unnecessary generosity on his part, but he waved it away. “Really, it’s nothing, you must accept my hospitality. If we were at my own home, I wouldn’t hesitate to invite you to stay with me, but I wouldn’t presume on my cousin’s behalf, especially as his wife is … is somewhat indisposed just now. Please, it’s the least I can do.”
I murmured something near enough to a grateful acceptance to convince him, but I had no notion of having him pay my way; and from the set of John’s jaw, he felt the same.
“Where has the…body…been taken?” I asked.
“The doctor had him moved to the town mortuary, not too far away,” Lord Parke said. “This is a rather small village—nothing is too far away.” I caught a slight edge to his tone as he said these last words, and tucked it away for future review.
“I want to see him,” I said abruptly. His Lordship looked concerned.
“Are you sure…” he started to say.
“Yes, very,” I said. I turned to John. “You’ll go with me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” John said. “I’m absolutely at your disposal.”
> “As am I,” said Lord Parke. “Please make whatever use of me you can while you’re here.”
Somehow the air between us had become slightly uncomfortable, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, although as is often the case, my brash assertiveness frequently provoked uneasy feelings among my acquaintances. The carriage began to slow as we entered the village square.
“Well,” John said. “It was dashed kind of you to come gather us up at the station.” He smiled, then tilted his head. “But how did you know we were coming?”
“Oh, but you see,” His Lordship said, sitting back in his seat. “Uncle Chaffee talked of little else the last few days, ever since your note to him,” he said, nodding at me. “He had mentioned the exact date to me, and talked of taking the pony trap to pick you up at the train station. Luckily there’s only one morning train from Newcastle, so I knew you’d be on that, or if not, on the late afternoon one.”
The carriage stopped, and the footman jumped off instantly, opening the door and pulling down the little step. My two companions exited first, then both held out a hand to help me from the carriage. I felt quite the princess, with two such handsome men waiting upon me—poor, tiny, plain-as-a-sparrow me, in my drab travelling cloak and nondescript hat—being attended by a Lord, no less. But…my sixth sense was all a-prickle with some uneasiness I felt in His Lordship’s presence, in spite of his fine green eyes and elegant manners. He might require some close looking at in the days to come.
And, as they say, a cat may look at a king.
4
Poor men, when yule is cold,
Must be content to sit by little fires.
And this am I, so that ye care for me
Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven
That brought thee here to this poor house of ours
Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm
My cold heart with a friend.
–Idylls of the King