by Anya Seton
Even through her fury and panic Celia was conscious of something hard butting against her stomach, of his fetid breath, and that he crunched her so cruelly against the stone wall that her shoulder bones cracked.
“Have done, Len!” Celia heard the angry cry, though he did not, but he reeled, loosing his hold at a resounding blow on his cheek.
He turned, momentarily dazed, and saw his sister standing by him, her amber eyes sparking with fury.
“Let her be, ye randy tup!” Magdalen cried. “Ye shame us a’!”
Celia’s knees gave way as Leonard released her and confronted his sister who was nearly as tall as he—and twice as brave.
“She laughed at me,” he muttered. “She wouldna coom out wi’ me.”
“Bah!” said Magdalen, and shoved him through the door. “Gan awa’—ye’ll not add Celia to your tally o’ ruttings.”
Leonard wavered, he could think of no more to say. Despite her youth, Magdalen had always daunted him. He hunched his shoulders and slunk down the steps.
“Did he hur-rt ye, lass?” Magdalen turned to raise Celia who was giving dry little sobs. “Aye, I see he’s tor-rn your bodice, the scurvy wenchster.” She made a sound of pity as she saw the blue marks on Celia’s breast. “We’ll suin fix that oop—I’ve marigold salve i’ ma coffer.” She put her arm around Celia and raised her gently. “Na har-rm ’s done, nawbody saw but me as I was passin’ on ma way doon to the privy—they’re a’ too droonk i’ there.”
She drew Celia along with her up a short flight to their room. Celia presently fell asleep despite the throbbing in her injured breast, her bruised mouth, and a pain in her back. She was assuaged by the other girl’s tenderness.
“Len’ll may be askin’ your aunt for ye arfter this, he’s a dolt to think he’d get ye otherwise, but the Dacre men ’re dimwitted.”
“I’ll not have him, Maggie—” cried Celia. “I can’t abide him, he’s vile.”
Magdalen did not answer, but she thought to herself that poor Celia had no choice, if Leonard did proffer honorable wedlock. Girls did not decide these matters for themselves. She had come to understand how rootless and unprotected Celia was. Nobody but old Lady Southwell to fend for her. Any husband would be better, and Len would be no worse than most. As for me—Magdalen thought, ruefully. She knew some of the negotiations her parents had embarked on for their daughter, who would turn fifteen in January. It might be a Neville—and pray he was not touched by the family madness—or Jock Graham of Netherby Hall, a sickly puling youth with a lank-haired pate which barely reached her shoulder. Either husband would come cheap, in view of the Dacre position and Magdalen’s own abounding health. Nevilles and Grahams both needed to replenish their stock, and would demand little dowry.
The Dacre choice was further limited by their staunch Catholicism. As the wicked preachings of Master John Knox and other so-called reformers invaded the Border, many of the noble families had submitted to England’s official beliefs. Lord Dacre ignored these, and continued in the old way on all his estates, yet even he had not been able to prevent the dissolution of Lanercost Priory at Naworth’s gate, nor the eviction of its Augustinian canons, though the outrage increased his Catholic fervor.
He and his own—wife, children, guards, servants, tenants—attended Mass, invoking the Saints, celebrated Feast Days as openly and regularly as they had before King Harry’s edict sixteen years ago.
A Protestant husband was unthinkable to Magdalen as well as to her parents. And yet, while she lay beside the exhausted Celia, Magdalen had her moment of rebellion. She loved Naworth, she was a child of the Border, but last summer in the South had shown her how differently one might live—that there were graces and elegances she had never guessed. She, too, thought wistfully of Cowdray. Her stay there had unsettled her. Part of her love for Celia was because the soft, beautiful girl reminded her of the South. When Magdalen too slept she had a wistful dream full of vague yearnings which were dispelled by sunlight slanting through the one slit window. Magdalen shook herself awake and to common sense. She was a Dacre. Her lot was irrevocably thrown amidst the hurly-burly of the Border and guided by her parents’ wishes, which also naturally represented God’s Will. These were facts, and she accepted them.
Jerome Cardano and his party left the next day for the long journey south. Naworth Castle settled back into the seasonal routine imposed by dwindling daylight and consequent lessening of either outdoor tasks or the chance of Border warfare.
In Cumberland they called it the “back end” of the year. Brown leaves carpeted the woods, the young folk gathered mast and acorns, they scoured the ditches for rushes to peel and make into lights. Tenants and cottagers brought their winnowed oats to the manor mills for grinding; shepherds enfolded their flocks; and by Hallowe’en there was much snow on the fells—rimy iron frost along the valley of the Irthing.
On All Hallow’s Eve, the last day of October, Leonard’s thwarted passion for Celia finally overcame his caution. This happened in the Hall, the only gathering place, while the sky outside was lurid with bonfires lit to ward off bogles, witches and other evils which had license to roam that night.
Since Leonard’s assault, Celia had managed to avoid seeing him except at dinner time when she clung to Magdalen and tried to efface herself. She could not prevent Leonard from staring at her down the table—long intent glowers from beneath his bristling red brows. These did not intimidate her for long. After some days she found them ridiculous and showed it by the tilt of her head and increased fervor in chatting with the younger children, particularly George.
George amused her, and she thought him handsome. His features were fine-drawn, he was slighter than his brothers, his Dacre hair was so dark that except in sunlight it seemed to be chestnut. It curled around his pink cheeks and was remarkably glossy and clean.
She was sometimes puzzled by his malicious banter, but she enjoyed his company.
This Hallowe’en some of the young folk took part in the age-old rites. They touched the rowan twig crosses which had been fastened to windows and doors, they threw nuts on the fire, having named each one secretly for a possible sweetheart.
“Who’d ye name, Celia?” asked George, as the girl flung hers amongst the glowing peat.
“Nobody,” she said with truth, laughing. “I didn’t think. Who’d you name?”
George’s eyelids fell, she was startled by a peculiar expression on his face. “Nawbody,” he said, “but there’s one lad I knaw’d be content if ye named him.”
For a second Celia thought that he meant himself, and was not displeased, but George jerked his chin down the table towards Leonard who was watching as usual.
“Jesu!” cried Celia, “he’s the last man in England!”
George laughed and shrugged. “Riddle me ree, riddle me ree, wha’s ta tell bull fra cow i’ the North Countree . . .” he chanted.
Celia laughed uncertainly. Everybody knew how to tell a bull from a cow and the look on George’s boyish face disconcerted her.
She did not notice when Leonard rose and joined his parents, who were playing a game of draughts by the light of one of the rare candles reserved for special occasions. She barely noted it when Ursula left the other side of the table at a summons from one of the younger children. There was always much coming and going in the Hall.
George was entertaining her with a tale of a bogle he’d seen last Hallowe’en. “’Twas a Roman soldier, I vow,” said George. “He was walking by the wall, ye knaw the wall, lass?”
Celia nodded. On a fine day after her arrival at Naworth, she and Magdalen had gone rambling to the north. They had crossed the Irthing on a footbridge and tramped a mile to a heap of rubble and huge grooved stones much overgrown with weed. Magdalen spoke of it with respect as the “Ould Wall,” and said that her parents thought some people called Romans had made it to keep the Scots out long before the Dacres came to Naworth.
“Oh?” said Celia to George. “What did the ghost do?”
“You must be very brave, Geordie,” said Celia. “I’d have been scared.”
“Na,” said George, “I’m no afrighted by bogles, nor witches neither, though they’ll be flying this neet on their ould broomsticks.”
“Past the bonfires?” asked Celia, giving a delighted shudder. “How dare they?”
“The deevil their master gie’s ’em courage,” said George. “Ould Horny gi’es courage t’ his own.” He sent Celia a quick, sly glance from the corner of his eye, as though he meant more than was apparent by this remark, but she had no time to question him as she might have for Magdalen touched her on the shoulder.
“M’lord an’ lady want ye, hinny,” said Magdalen in a pleased portentous voice. “Doon there . . .” She gestured to the group at the far end of the Hall.
Celia was somewhat bewildered, but she rose and came with Magdalen.
Lord and Lady Dacre had put away the draught board; they sat motionless, frowning slightly in their carved oak armchairs. Leonard stood behind them, staring down at the hay-strewn floor. Ursula completed the group. She was seated in a lesser armchair, and gave Celia a quick excited smile.
“Well, sweeting—” she said to the girl, “well . . .” and paused, swallowing. “We’ve—we’ve something to tell you.” She glanced at the Dacres.
The old Baron nodded, he clenched his hairy paw, then suddenly relaxing it, spoke solemnly. “Aye, lass—Leonard wants ta wed ye—I’m no saying ’tis not a bit o’ shock. M’lady an’ I, we’d thought ta put him back in her family, one o’ the Talbot clutch, Lady Dorothy, she has rich manors i’ Derbyshire, but she’s no bonny lak ye, an’ I’m bound ta admit the Talbots’re a wambling lot, they’ve gan Protestant, and sence Leonard wants ye sa bad, we’ll no deny him.”
Lady Dacre nodded, her large kind face so like Magdalen’s broke into an encouraging smile as Celia looked not only blank but frightened.
“Coom, coom, dear,” she said. “We’ll treat ye roight, we’ll welcoom ye like ony ither dotter. Have no fear.”
Celia moistened her lips, she glanced at Leonard who continued to stare scarlet-faced at the floor. She looked at Ursula, and accurately read a mixture of triumph and concern in her aunt’s eyes.
“I don’t want to,” said Celia on a long gasp.
Magdalen grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Hush, luv,” she whispered. “’Tis what we all wanted. ’Tis best fur ye.” She turned to her parents. “Leonard’s been too rough i’ his wooing. Celia’s a delicate lass, he mun mend his way. Ye great booby—” she cried to her brother with a sharp nudge. “Tak’ her hand, kiss her pure, ye clod.”
Leonard moved slowly, but he obeyed his sister. He came forward, took Celia’s hand, and trembling slightly kissed her on the forehead.
The girl shrank in every fiber.
“I don’t want to . . .” she repeated angrily. “I’d rather not wed at all.” She snatched her hand from Leonard’s.
“Tush . . .” said the Baron, who had no patience with girlish whims, and had already settle the matter in his mind with an agreeable feeling of his kindness in acceding to Leonard’s startling request, since a penniless orphan, no matter how prettily pink and white, was hardly a mate for a Dacre, still, there were several other sons, and Leonard the least favored. The subject was closed and he had an important message from Carlisle to decide on tonight. Scurvy Scots, probably Armstrongs from Liddesdale, had made a riotous foray into the city itself. That heretic Knox was behind it somehow, sowing unrest.
Lady Dacre and even Ursula saw Celia’s reluctance as a natural shyness, to be resolved in time. Ursula quelled any misgivings by the realization that this was what she had hoped for—and despaired of. If the girl was disinclined, particularly if that disinclination had anything to do with the far-off monk at Cowdray—indeed, this was no time for softness. Girls must obey. She had obeyed her parents’ decree that she marry Robert Southwell, a stooped querulous man much older than she. Yet, she had grown quite fond of him.
“’Tis settled, Celia,” said Ursula briskly. “My lord and lady have proposed the marriage take place after Christmas.”
“Aye . . .” said Lady Dacre smiling, “we’ll wed ye proper i’ Lanercost Church, then mak’ a braw wassailing gaudy-neet o’ it, forbye nawbody wor-rks i’ Christmastide anyhow. ’Twill be a gladsome revel.” Her brown eyes sparkled at the thought. Magdalen laughed excitedly.
Leonard suddenly gave one of his incongruous guffaws. He sent Celia a crudely lustful look, and said, “A merry, merry neet, that we’ll have, eh, lass!” He was enjoying a glow of virtue, and nobody heeded Celia’s whisper—“I won’t. I’d die first.”
The days sped on inexorably. Martinmas came with its hiring fairs. Soon Advent—the penitential season—began. Meat disappeared from the devout Dacres’ table. They ate pickled herring and salt cod—occasionally the delicious little lake fish called char. They attended daily Mass in their chapel, the piper was banished for four weeks. The long, long evenings were spent by the women in straining their eyes over their mending. Magdalen undertook to make wedding clothes for her brother and Celia. She was an inept seamstress, the stitches straggled, but she produced, with Ursula’s help, an adequate suit of russet cloth for Leonard and a creamy brocade gown cut down from an old court dress of her mother’s, for Celia.
During these weeks’ Celia moped, and did as she was told. She grew thin and white, despite mugs of egg flip given her by Lady Dacre, and Ursula’s exasperated admonitions.
Celia’s inner misery settled to apathy. She felt unreal, nor believed that the marriage set for December 29 would actually happen. When she could not avoid Leonard, she answered him dully, never looking at him, grateful that he did not touch her. He had taken Magdalen’s advice to heart, and now that Celia was betrothed to him, felt a respect for her which her coolness increased. He spent most of his time with the other men, riding over the fells, drinking, dicing on the sly, and overhauling his armor, horses and harness. He also found time to slake his sudden lusts with a shepherd’s buxom widow who lived near Gilsland in one of the Dacre cottages.
Christmas Day came and its burst of feasting and music. The piper returned; there was a fiddler and a flutist. They sang carols and North Country ballads. They ate a wild boar shot by a lucky arrow in Kershope Forest.
And at Naworth, as master of the revels for the twelve days of Christmas, they selected a Lord of Misrule. This was a southern custom brought to Cumberland by Lady Dacre when she arrived as a bride of fifteen. The exuberant Dacres were delighted by it and the rowdy license always engendered offset four weeks of fasting and penitence.
Lord Dacre’s enthusiasm was heightened by the knowledge that the Protestants despised the custom, though it was known that King Edward, oddly enough, held by his father’s example and found no harm in some merrymaking to celebrate the Christ Child’s birth.
On this Christmas at Naworth, George Dacre was chosen. Celia watched the old Baron place the traditional crown on his son’s head—the crown was cut from parchment, gilded and studded with little hunks of shiny quartz—then Lord Dacre boomed, “We are your subjects, your grace, what d’ye decree?”
“Yule! Yule! saith the Lord o’ Misrule,” George answered promptly. “Every man to make merry and each play the fool! Fetch all the servants into the Hall!” His face was flushed, his eyes gleamed, he swallowed a ladleful of the steaming hot wassail which was contained in a silver bowl as big as a cartwheel.
The younger children darted out to round up the servants who had been expecting the summons. Cooks and scullions, stableboys, dairymaids, shepherds, swineherds, hunters, archers—they crowded into the Hall and overflowed into the passages. George greeted each one with a nod, but a slight frown appeared between his
brows. “I dinnet see Simkin, the southron lad,” he said finally. The head stableboy explained that Simkin, not being part of Naworth’s household, had not deemed it fitting that he should join them.
“Bowlderdash!” said George. “Go fetch him!” He took another drink of the wassail.
When Simkin appeared in his stained leather jacket, his coarse black hair tousled, his pockmarked face truculent, Celia’s apathy was pierced. Her own unhappiness recognized unhappiness in him who had for over a fortnight last autumn been her devoted admirer, and with whom she had enjoyed many a laugh until that night at Dacre. She watched the quick uneasy look Simkin gave George, and saw a small tightening around George’s mouth before he cried, “Come drink o’ the wassail, all o’ ye—there’s plenty more, then we’ll clear the Hall and dance, each one ta his fancy!”
His orders were obeyed. They stacked the trestle tables and the benches. They drank and they jigged while the piper led them in reels. They shouted and leapt and stamped. Many of the men had tied bells above their knees; the jingling added to the din. And there was a hobbyhorse who galloped clumsily, butting the dancers.
There were fewer women than men, and Celia found herself grabbed by the swineherd, then one of the hunters, then a scullion, and finally Leonard, whom she had scarcely greeted before Sir Thomas himself claimed her and was replaced by his father, laughing uproariously.
Everyone danced, even Lady Dacre and Ursula, and the wassail bowl was often replenished. It so happened that Celia was flung off the end of a line, during a wild leaping flourish, and leaned in a corner to catch her breath. Thus, across the Hall she saw George, whose crown though tipped backward was unmistakable, and noted with astonishment that he held Simkin’s hand, and seemed to be expostulating with the boy while the dancers whirled by them, unheeding. Celia had only a glimpse through the medley of arms and legs, yet in that glimpse she received a strange impression of intimacy. She frowned, faintly disturbed, but her hand was caught by Lord Dacre’s chief bowman, who dragged her back into the reel.