by Anya Seton
Celia, though moderately tall herself, looked up in amazement at the head a span higher than her own. She examined the profile, the sprinkling of freckles over a snub nose, the bush of wiry fox-colored hair which curled loose on the broad shoulders—as befitted a maiden. The girl’s simple gown was of russet wool over a white lawn underskirt. The neckline was wide and square. Magdalen wore no fashionable ruff or frills and no jewelry except a necklet of the polished crystal pebbles known as “Scotch diamonds.” The girl’s clothes gave out an agreeable woodsy smell which Celia’s sensitive nose appreciated but could not identify as peat smoke and heather, since she had never encountered either. The girl felt Celia’s gaze looked around and smiled showing broad even teeth white as milk “Will there be muckle more o’ this gobbing?” she whispered jerking her head towards the vicar “I canna hear a word o’ it, an’ ’tis hot as hell’s pit in her-re.”
“Sh-h—” whispered Celia with a nervous look around, but she giggled, and a dimple showed near her pink mouth.
“I’m Magdalen Dacre,” said the girl, ignoring Celia’s Sh-h. “Who are you?” Her smallish eyes were the clear brown of an autumn oakleaf, and they examined Celia with friendly admiration.
At this fresh disturbance the two people on either side of the girls both moved. Ursula turned to check her niece, and Sir Thomas Dacre craned over his sister to look. “Yon’s a tasty dish next to Maggie,” he said out of the corner of his mouth to his brother Leonard. “A sight for sore eyen. Have a keek for yoursel’.”
Thomas drew back so that Leonard might examine Celia who reddened under the stares of both men then dropped her lashes modestly.
Magdalen chuckled and said, “The Dacres admire ye, lass, have a care, there’s na woman bor-rn safe fra those two cock-a-hoop gallants.”
Celia understood the tenor of Magdalen’s remarks, and was pleased. She felt the first stirrings of feminine power, a delicious sensation which lasted through the vicar’s final drone—“Grace-of-Our-Lord-Jesus-Christ—love-of-God—fellowship-of-the-Holy-Ghost-be-wi’-us-all e’er-more—Amen.”
He turned and scuttled away from the chancel, being thoroughly frightened by the presence of the King and his own lord of the manor—Sir Anthony.
The chapel congregation shuffled around and waited for the King to leave the gallery. The Dacres, like Lady Ursula and Celia, knew nobody amongst the crowd of Councillors, knights and equerries brought by the King, nor the few Sussex gentry, all of whom surged past Celia and her aunt, while Magdalen cried, “Whew, let us gan oot o’ her-re, I’m fair stifled!”
Celia was very willing; the young people drifted out through the elaborately fan-vaulted stone porch to the courtyard, and the girls sat down on the rim of the castle fountain. The Dacre men stood over them while they all chatted. Though shy at first, Celia soon gained ease and readily answered questions, expanding to Magdalen’s eager interest and the admiration in the young men’s yellow-brown eyes.
Lady Ursula, meanwhile, made inquiries of Hawks, the castle steward, intent on knowing exactly who the redheaded trio was. The answers pleased her. For all their rustic clothes and strange speech, the Dacres of the North were powerful Border barons, who constantly intermarried with the Nevilles of Westmoreland and had therefore a strain of royal blood through the Nevilles’ ancestress, Joan Beaufort, daughter to the Duke of Lancaster and Katherine Swynford. Sir Thomas Dacre, the heir, was himself married to a Neville of Westmoreland, though where the Lady was now the steward could not say. Ursula instantly crossed off Sir Thomas, but reexamined Leonard, the second son. A pity his back was slightly awry, and his hair and heavy beard so decidedly sandy in color. Still, thought Ursula, who was groping her Way in the hitherto unknown maze of maternal ambition, the Dacre association was not to be scorned. She walked benevolently out to the courtyard and joined Celia on the fountain’s curb.
Thus it was that they all heard the herald’s trumpet blast, announcing important visitors at Cowdray’s gatehouse.
Upstairs, Edward heard the notes of the trumpet and recognized the special flourish reserved only for the arrival of a King’s messenger, and though he was already on his way to bed in the octagonal state chamber, he checked himself and went to a window. He looked down at the messenger whose livery was emblazoned with the royal badge. “Another complaint from that pestilential Spanish ambassador, do you think?” he said to Harry Sidney—“Or,” he added, brightening, “could it be a letter from Barnaby?”
At that thought he forgot his weariness and regardless of propriety ran down the great staircase and into the courtyard. “What have you brought us, Dickon?” he cried.
The messenger fell to one knee and smiled up at the eager boy.
“Letters from France, sire, and one from the Duke in Berwick.”
Edward nodded happily and took the folded red-sealed squares of parchment. “Good,” he said. “We will read them at once in our chamber.”
“Also, sire . . .” said the messenger, still kneeling, “I have conveyed gentlemen hither, from London.” He indicated two men who stood waiting by the entrance. One was slight and young, dressed as a courtier in a crimson satin slashed doublet, small white ruff and short embroidered cape. He doffed his jaunty plumed hat when the King looked his way, disclosing masses of chestnut curls.
The other man was unmistakably a physician. His scholastic gown with long hanging sleeves, the shape of his fur collar, and the square-cornered black hat suggested his profession. His ebony staff engraved with the Aesculapian symbol, the huge leather bag which hung from his arm, and the copper neck chain from which dangled an orange-red jacinth stone (sovereign preventive of plague) all confirmed it.
Celia, Ursula and the Dacres had hastily left the fountain curb when the King ran out to meet the messenger with Anthony and Henry Sidney hurrying behind.
Celia had not until now seen the King from close up—only from the other end of the vast Buck Hall—and she stared fascinated at the slight pale boy in violet satin so encrusted with pearls and brilliants that he shimmered like a candle through the gathering twilight.
She barely glanced at the middle-aged physician who held back quietly in the shadows as the young courtier strode up to the King.
Edward stared hard at the impudent pug-nosed face, and his chin rose slowly in a Tudor gesture of disapproval, while Geraldine Browne suddenly erupted from the porch and came running, then cried in dismay, “Gerald!—Gerald, what do you here?”
Edward’s attitude expressed the same question. He turned to Geraldine, saying coldly, “So this is your brother, my lady? We thought him to be in Ireland.”
So had Geraldine, and she was much disturbed at the reckless young man’s appearance just as her careful plans were beginning to bear fruit.
“Have you sanction to enter England, Master Fitzgerald?” asked Edward frowning. “And, by what right do you force yourself into our presence?”
He well knew that the Fitzgeralds were a rambunctious, untrustworthy clan who had produced several traitors to the Crown in his father’s reign, and been very properly hanged. In April, Northumberland had advised restitution of a small part of Fitzgerald’s estates, with the understanding, Edward had thought, that the young man would stay there. Fitzgerald’s tenuous relationship to Sir Anthony Browne, as brother to the dowager, had been brought forth as reason—that and Lord Clinton’s rather surprising reminder that through their mother, Fitzgerald had a drop or so of Plantagenet blood. Edward knew little of the Irish in general except that they were all unruly papists, and Northumberland distrusted them. Edward had even seen the Duke’s distrust of Barnaby and had, in this one instance, been firm. But Edward never thought of Barnaby as Irish.
He was to be reminded now, for Gerald Fitzgerald smiled apologetically, and spoke in a soft wooing voice.
“I crave your clemency, my liege lord, and happy I am to see you in good health. I’d not’ve left Kildare except for a matter of advice needed, and your grace’s well-known wisdom.”
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��Well,” said Edward noncommittally.
“’Tis about Barnaby Fitzpatrick, your grace—his old father is gravely ill. We know little in Ireland about Court affairs, and thought Barnaby to be with you, sire. His poor distracted mother, my kinswoman, begged me to find Barnaby and tell him of his father’s plight. Pardon me, your grace, if I have erred.”
There was contrition in the beguiling voice, charming penitence in the blue eyes, which were like his sister’s but lacked the hardness.
At once, keenly touched by the mention of Barnaby and his father’s state, it did not occur to Edward that Gerald’s excuse was a trifle lame, that many another messenger could have been found to carry these tidings. He hastened to assure Gerald of forgiveness, and said he would give the matter of Barnaby’s recall his immediate concern. That they would talk in the morning and, “Sir Anthony,” he turned to his host, “you will see to Master Fitzgerald’s board and lodging, of course.”
Anthony bowed, as he glanced at his stepmother’s relieved face. She’d have to find room in her apartments for this unforeseen brother, there wasn’t an empty bed or pallet in the castle. And whatever’s afoot, he thought cynically, they’ll have a mort of time to confer with each other.
“Is yonder physician with you, too?” Edward asked, indicating the silent figure in dark robes. He was perturbed for Barnaby, and very tired again, but from infancy he had been trained to deal with matters in an orderly, comprehensive way. He disliked loose ends.
“Oh, no, your grace,” Gerald said airily. “It’s some astrologer or doctor, I believe. He says little.”
“You there!” called Edward, beckoning, “Come here and state your business!”
The man moved forward, removed his hat, bowed once and said in a deep calm voice, very slightly accented, “I have been sent to you, Your Majesty, by Master John Cheke, since he is still too feeble to travel. My name is Guiliano di Ridolfi, once of Florence. I took my doctorate of medicine at the University of Padua, though I have been long in this country where I am called Julian Ridolfi.”
Edward did not catch all of this. He said crossly to Harry, “What’s the fellow saying? Who sent him?”
“John Cheke, your grace,” said Harry Sidney.
“Cheke!” cried Edward with incredulous anger. “What for? My health is excellent. There are the royal physicians if I wanted one, but I certainly don’t need a foreigner. I don’t believe Master Cheke sent you! ’Tis forward and presuming.” The boy’s face crimsoned, furious tears started to his eyes. “I believe you are a Spanish spy!” he shrilled suddenly, beginning to tremble.
Julian looked at the angry boy with dismay, and silently tendered a letter of recommendation from John Cheke.
Edward stamped his foot and knocked the letter from the physician’s hand; it flopped to the dusty flagstones. “Doubtless a forgery,” Edward shouted. “You are unwelcome near our person; we bid you leave at once!” He whirled around and stamped back to the castle, Henry Sidney hurrying after him.
Julian Ridolfi stood stiffly alone near the gatehouse. The great mansion was being lit up by hundreds of wax tapers, their light shone in the courtyard. The onlookers, including the Dacres, had followed the King inside, but Ursula put her hand on her niece’s arm. “Stay—wait a bit!” she said. “I think I know that poor doctor. He may be the same astrologer who instructed me years ago at the Duke of Norfolk’s.”
Ursula hesitated, peering at the motionless bearded figure, aware of both excitement and reluctance, that she was making an important decision which went deeper than accosting a man who had incurred royal anger.
Julian showed none of the effort he was making to master his humiliation. Only his eyes, the dark gray eyes of a northern Italian would have disclosed the vehemence of his feelings, but they were hooded by the heavy lids. He was not immoderately ambitious, but he was proud and had suffered of late years. John Cheke’s mission had delighted him. He had expected with certainty that it would lead to an appointment as court physician; Julian knew himself to be better educated and much abler than the bumbling English doctors. He had been totally unprepared for this shameful reception. He had not been able to avail himself of the astrological indications he used for others, since he did not know the exact day of his birth, only that it had happened in November, forty-eight years ago. He might thus have seen the light in Scorpio—the physician’s sign—or in Sagittarius, sign of the philosopher and wanderer. Both suited him, but he had felt, without any divinations, that his lean scruffy years of hardship were to be glitteringly transformed.
He hated his mean rooms over the barbershop in Cheapside where he had lodged ever since the princely Norfolk family who had employed him plunged into disgrace. The old Duke was imprisoned in the Tower, and Julian’s particular patron, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, had been summarily beheaded five years ago.
Julian had eked out a living by occasional collaboration with the surgeon-barber in the shop below, by alchemical and philosophical studies, and by casting horoscopes. It had been by great good fortune that John Cheke had heard of him one day the previous autumn through Cheke’s own manservant, who had gone to the barber in a frenzy of fear to be cut for a stone in his bladder. Julian, requested by the barber to help hold the struggling patient, had instead brought from his rooms a thick tincture of poppy heads to dull the man’s pain and later prescribed a secret concoction learned at Padua for disintegrating the stone. The servant, delirious with gratitude, had mentioned this to his master. And one day Cheke summoned Julian to his home.
The two men liked each other, they were both learned and shared a deep interest in astrology and alchemy. Their religious differences were not apparent. Julian, though nominally a Catholic, of course, had no convictions, and amiably agreed to Cheke’s Protestant tenets. He frequented Cheke’s home and there met other astrologer-physicians, including the renowned young John Dee, whom Julian considered an agreeable charlatan, an enthusiast whose claim to the title of “Doctor” had no foundation.
Julian’s great chance came in May when John Cheke was smitten with plague in its most lethal form—sweating sickness. King Edward, who was kept far away from his tutor for fear of infection, attributed Cheke’s recovery to prayer. But Julian attributed it to his own cool-headed ministrations. He had used a remedy well known to the Viennese—it was composed of powdered jacinth stone and a handful of common garden phlox, dissolved together in a pint of fresh ox blood. Cheke recovered and was so grateful that the previous week when he began to fret about his young King and the strenuousness of the progress as reported to him, he dispatched Julian to Cowdray.
Despite compassion for the King’s hysterical outburst, which he knew to be a symptom of the very overtaxing which Cheke dreaded, Julian was still unable to repress rage at his public repudiation. He was a member of the great Florentine banking family, Ridolfi di Piazza; one of his uncles had married a Medici, and their son had become a cardinal. His own father had been a Florentine senator, an intimate of the Medicis. Julian’s young mother, who had died at his birth, was a daughter of the lesser nobility, and Julian’s childhood, spent in a grim old palazzo near the Arno, had been lonely but luxurious.
At thirteen Julian was inducted into the hectic Medici court life. He passed five years as a ducal page, doing nearly as much drinking, brawling and wenching as the rest of them. Yet, he was discontented, even bored, until the day his father sent him on a mission to Padua, where Julian chanced to attend a medical lecture by Dr. Fracastorius at the famous university. It was a rousing dissertation on the French pox, which Fracastorius poetically named “syphilis,” and included a revolutionary theory of contagion. Then Julian attended lectures on the teachings of Galen, Avicenna and Pythagoras. They ignited in Julian a hitherto stifled spark. A physician he would be. All the branches of advanced knowledge were exciting to him, as he discovered after enrollment at the university—arithmetic, physics, astrology, alchemy and the concoction of remedies, geography, the science of music. He gave them all as mu
ch enthusiasm as he gave to watching Master Benedotti dissect a cadaver.
Unfortunately, Julian’s father had decreed for his son an entirely different career—Ridolfis were always politicians, courtiers, occasionally soldiers, and it was unthinkable that one of their number should descend the social scale into the dubious ranks of unprofitable scholarship and doctoring. Ridolfi considered his own physician as barely on a social par with his major-domo or his scribe.
Upon finding that Julian could not be persuaded from his preposterous designs and had already enrolled himself at Padua, Ridolfi flew into one of his thundering rages, and disowned the boy. He also disinherited him; though later, his family pride not being quite able to stand the thought of a starving Ridolfi, he sent his son a pouchful of gold florins which enabled Julian to get his doctorate and to travel. After his graduation from Padua, a restless inquiring mind drove him towards new scenes. He visited the universities at Louvain and Paris, where in 1533 he met the brash young Earl of Surrey, who though only sixteen had conceived a passion for translating Petrarch, and was himself writing sonnets in the Italian form. Julian was drawn to the young nobleman who reciprocated the interest partly because Surrey’s rash enthusiasms were at the moment engaged by anything Italian.
These encounters resulted in an invitation to England. Amongst his household of a hundred retainers at the Castle of Kenninghall in Norfolk, Surrey had thought that an Italian physician—trained at Padua—who was also adept at astrology would be a useful addition.
The next spring, after further correspondence, Julian availed himself of this offer, and was installed at Kenninghall as a member of the Norfolk household.
For nearly ten years he was content. The life suited him and he liked Norfolk county, which was seldom colder than northern Italy, and in that ducal family he was considerably more comfortable than he had been since quitting his father’s palazzo in Florence.