Green Darkness

by Anya Seton

  “Zere speaks ze future consort,” said de Noailles complacently, flicking a lace-bordered handkerchief in his rival’s general direction. Renard said nothing. He rose with the others as the table boards were stacked and the benches arranged across the Hall. The audience reseated themselves, buzzing, expectant. Heywood disappeared behind a curtained box. Anthony looked for a moment at Stephen. They were the only two in the Hall who knew precisely what Heywood had planned.

  Stephen touched his crucifix as invocation. Anthony nodded slightly, thinking how fortunate he was in his house priest. Stephen spoke Latin as well as Gardiner’s chaplains, but he also spoke excellent French, an asset Anthony had discovered only after they had reached London. Vastly useful Stephen had become, thought Anthony, and as for the moment at Cowdray when there had been that flash of suspicion about a carnal attraction between Stephen and Celia . . . Monstrous! A shameful thought born from the anxieties of that whole period, and never to be repeated.

  Three loud knocks behind the curtained box silenced the company. They watched eagerly while the little red velvet draperies drew back to disclose a tiny stage, bare except for twin golden thrones erected on a dais. They laughed and exclaimed as a small wooden figure moved jerkily across the stage. None of the English had ever seen a puppet show, and it took them several minutes to discover that the marionette represented their Queen. Its dress was blue and silver, furred with bits of ermine, and on its bent head there was a small glittering replica of St. Edward’s crown. Heywood gave his audience plenty of time to recognize the little figure’s dejection, and to see that it beat its breast at every third step, then clasped its hands in supplication towards the cross painted above and between the thrones.

  Suddenly the puppet stiffened. It glided up the dais and flopped into the right-hand throne, while it stretched its arms out imploringly.

  The curtains fell together. The audience rustled and murmured. “What the devil’s that for?” demanded Courtenay. “I thought to see real players. That’s only a babe’s toy on strings.”

  “Hold, my lord,” said Anthony, smiling, “the next scene may be more diverting.”

  The curtains parted to disclose a canvas sea with unmistakable waves upon which perched a carved wooden galleon, its square parchment sails each painted with an oversized coat of arms, which the audience—with two exceptions—did not recognize.

  Anthony watched the ambassadors. Renard gave a small snigger, his thin lips parted in a triumphant smile, but de Noailles started, glared, and was betrayed into a horrified exclamation. “Par Dieu!” he exclaimed, half rising. “Doux Jesu, c’est outrageux!”

  The galleon glided slowly back and forth across the stage until everyone had noticed the small male figure on the bow, its black sugar-loaf hat decorated with a golden lion.

  The curtains fell again to an uneasy silence, in which Anthony could hear de Noailles’ heavy breathing, and saw that his face had gone scarlet.

  “Aye—that was more diverting,” remarked Courtenay, in his role of condescension. Actually, he had never seen a sea, and had been interested by the reproduction. “Yet, nothing happens,” he added critically. “I like to view fights or even lovemaking.”

  Most of the audience agreed with him. This was pretty pallid stuff; one expected better entertainment from Sir Anthony. Celia wondered when the dancing would start, and missed the music which had accompanied them through supper but was now absent.

  The curtains parted once more. There again were the twin thrones with the Queen sitting pensive on one. The prow of the galleon just barely showed to one side. The figure in the black-coned hat jumped off the ship and advanced, bowing towards the Queen who jerked upright. She held out her miniature arms and flew down the dais. The two figures intertwined. The Queen and the male puppet mounted the dais touching hands. He sat down on the other throne, and a large placard popped up behind them. It depicted in glaring colors England’s royal arms and the alien crest, linked together by ribbons and cupids. Above these in glittering gold were an M and a P.

  The curtains fell slowly for the last time. As they did so Thomas Wyatt jumped to his feet, his sword half drawn. “God’s body!” he cried shrilly, “what shitten mummery is this! Browne, you must be mad!” He glared at Sir Anthony.

  “Soft, soft—mon chevalier—” said de Noailles, gliding dextrously in front of Wyatt. “Our host has arranged a petite comédie pour nous amuser, c’était charmant, on doit . . .” He paused a moment and seeing total incomprehension in Courtenay’s face, reverted to English. “We thank ze good Sir Anthony, don’t ve, milor’?”

  Courtenay stared at the ambassador. “I thought it dull,” he said. “What meant that puppet i’ the black hat? Is’t a jape?”

  Anthony had drawn back behind the Earl. His servants, according to instructions, had lit more tapers in the wall sconces the instant the puppet show finished. He watched the faces. Most of them were blankly puzzled, including those of the three women in his household. Henry Sidney was staring up at the rafters, his look was grim. Renard was smiling a little and carefully picking his teeth. The others all turned to look at Wyatt, for he was trembling so hard that his sword rattled in its scabbard.

  His mouth worked. “You fool!” he cried to Courtenay. “You doltish bufflehead! The man i’ the black hat is Prince Philip o’ Spain. Holy Saints, that Browne would dare to insult us all wi’ such wickedness. ’Tis demonic. And every trueborn English-man’ll fight against becoming Spain’s vassal!”

  These heated words, Wyatt’s fury, produced startled agitation.

  Then Courtenay said, frowning, “That puppet was Philip o’ Spain? Does he wear a hat like that? I thought it comical.”

  At the same time Sir John, who had discomfort in his belly and was wondering how soon he could decently leave, said, “Welladay—the Spanish ’re all comical, m’lord, when they’re not vicious, I hear. Let one Spaniard dare knock at m’ manor gates an’ I’d tell porter to set the hounds on him. Too many foreigners in England already. Dutch, Flemings, Florentines—takin’ the bread from mouths o’ honest Englishmen.”

  The other knights of the shires all murmured, “Aye, aye, well said.”

  Anthony met Stephen’s eyes. They both shrugged. It was too soon for insistence. “Now that we’ve seen Master Heywood’s little novelty,” Anthony announced smoothly, “shall we have a caper?” He bowed ceremoniously towards the Earl. “An’ it please you, my lord, the minstrels’ve learned the latest La Volta, I warrant you dance well.”

  The Earl’s face cleared. He did not understand Wyatt’s violent behavior, or why de Noailles, who had befriended him since his release from the Tower, should be thundrously silent. His thwarted youth was bubbling. He had been repeatedly assured that he would marry Queen Mary, whom he had found gracious—even simpering—in several audiences with her. The thought of bedding her was distasteful, but de Noailles had made it clear that the King Consort might easily satisfy his fancies elsewhere.

  “Aye, where’s the music?” he asked, and looked around for a desirable partner. His eye had just lit on Celia when Wyatt twitched his sleeve angrily. “My lord, it’s not seemly that you remain in this house where you—where all true Englishmen—have suffered a grievous insult!”

  “Insult?” The young man raised his chin and stepped back from Wyatt. “Y’don’t mean that little puppet mummery?”

  “I mean the warning our good host has given us. Ye think to be King, my long lad? It may appear that the Queen’s Grace favors someone else.”

  The Earl’s jaw dropped. Gradually, he saw Wyatt’s meaning. “But . . . but . . .” he looked instinctively towards de Noailles. The consternation on the foolish handsome face was so evident one might almost be sorry for him, Anthony thought. “’Tis all arranged!” Courtenay cried. “The people cheer me as I go the London streets. Only today some goodwife cried out to me when I rode through the Cheap, “’Twill be a happy day for England when we’ve another King called Edward!’”

  De Noaille
s had by now recovered, and coming to Courtenay’s side spoke in his suavest manner. “I see no insult in Sir Anthony’s divertissement. You will ignore it, mi lor’ . . . we’ll confer later. Mi lor’ of Devon’s royal choice is not confined to one bride, peut-être . . .” He added this so softly that it seemed of no importance. Renard looked up, then resumed picking his teeth. Wyatt and Anthony understood the threat. If not the Queen . . . there was Elizabeth, the young, the enigmatic princess, the next claimant to the throne.

  Anthony signaled to the minstrels, and the Hall was soon filled with gay music. The company livened, many danced. All, Anthony realized, had been somewhat befuddled by the countless wines he had given them, and they soon forgot the puppet show. Sir John fell asleep with his head on a bench. There were other snores from staid members.

  Ursula herself began to nod. Anthony had a private word with Master Heywood when he paid him three nobles for his services. “By and large our effort was successful, I think,” said Anthony. “At least we know that Sir Thomas Wyatt must be watched. And de Noailles, of course. Courtenay is only a puppet himself . . . d’you think it possible that the Princess Elizabeth could be a menace to our cause? Would she dare involve herself in treason?”

  “Can’t say . . .” answered Heywood. “That flame-haired wench is a canny one, gone to earth at Ashridge. She early learned when to play sick. She don’t want to end up wi’ her bloody head rolling i’ the straw like her mother. The people like her.”

  “And they shall like Mary!” said Anthony fiercely. “She’s rightful Queen, and will marry as she pleases. Her choice is apt. The scion of the Holy Roman Empire—what better luck for England!”

  “England don’t want to be Spanish,” said Heywood. “Most o’ it don’t want to be papist, but the Queen’s Grace can’t see that. She fair dotes on her portrait o’ Prince Philip. A lady o’ her bedchamber says she kisses it each night like a holy saint. What’s to be done wi’ an old virgin o’ thirty-seven? They itch and burn like ordinary women. God grant she gets a son out o’ it. Philip’s an able stud.”

  “We’ll drink to the babe as yet unconceived!” Anthony laughed and clinked a stirrup-cup with Heywood. He had a fleeting thought for his own infants at Cowdray in the care of Peggy Hobson. Little Anthony would have a title. Little Mary would marry high. Ambitions long dormant had burgeoned during these last weeks. And they all depended on pleasing the Queen. He had learned to pay her compliments, but sincere ones. He was no fawning courtier. Her features and small body were insignificant and her harsh manly voice was disconcerting, so he spoke of her intelligence, her clemency, her devoutness. And since she took great pains to dress magnificently like her father, he noted the set of her Spanish farthingale, and admired the gilt lace ruff, or the lavish jewels she plastered on her person. Like a green girl, she responded with bridlings and blushings. Enmeshed in hopes of love at last, of a marriage which would have so delighted her poor mother, Mary permitted herself no realization of how insecure still was her tenure on the throne. She knew that God had performed a miracle in placing her there; He would certainly guide her thereafter It was left for her adherents to do the worrying.

  “And it may be that we fret needlessly,” said Anthony to Stephen after all the guests had gone that night. “The Queen’s Grace has total faith, and so must we.”

  “Aye . . .” agreed Stephen slowly. He was about to return to one of the priory’s old cells. It had been untouched by Anthony’s restorations. To this austere cubicle Stephen had, however, admitted a wooden bedstead with cross-roped springs to support a flock mattress—far more comfortable than the pallet in his hut on St. Ann’s Hill. A row of wooden pegs in the passage outside had become necessary in order to hang up his habits—Anthony had given him a new one of the softest black wool, and his chest was filled with linen cassocks and shifts. His crucifix and two tapers were in the niche, and his precious picture of the Holy Virgin hung on the wall where he might greet Her on waking. The servants strewed fresh herbs on his stone floor as a matter of course, and he found the scent agreeable. They also kept a silver ewer filled with warm water for his ablutions. It stood on a stand with a slop basin, a jar of soft soap and his razor.

  There was a charcoal brazier in the cell, always lit on these raw autumn nights. Stephen enjoyed the warmth, and never questioned the luxuries which made a room in Southwark far more comfortable than a drafty hut in Midhurst.

  There was, however, a matter of conscience which he brought up tentatively tonight. “Sir . . .” he said to Anthony, “the Queen—has so far not been allowed to acknowledge His Holiness the Pope’s supremacy, and is still the titular head of the Church. But she will not remain so. Then will come the restoration of the monasteries. Have you considered what this’ll mean to you?”

  Anthony, who was tired, looked at his young chaplain with some exasperation. “What d’ye mean, Brother Stephen, God’s body haven’t we had enough speculations for one night?”

  “I mean . . .” said Stephen slowly, “that when it comes you will lose this priory. It must return to the Church. You’ll lose Easebourne and Battle Abbey. It was at Battle Abbey that I learned to hate your father.”

  Anthony jerked his head and frowned. “Hate my father? Oh, aye, but that’s long past. I’d clean forgot.”

  “I was sent to you at Cowdray as a penance,” said Stephen slowly, “and I—may the Blessed Virgin help me—am in danger of forgetting this, too. Much of your revenue comes from Church lands. When we have a completely Catholic England, they must be restored to God.”

  Anthony was angered. It seemed to him that a trusted, valued hound had suddenly nipped him. “You are brash,” he said coldly. “You understand nothing yet of the world. I find your remarks irrelevant!”

  “They aren’t irrelevant,” said Stephen after a moment, and he flushed.

  The resentment in his patron’s eyes dismayed him, and he tried to recapture the indignation he had felt sixteen years ago at Battle Abbey.

  “I—I have to prepare you, sir,” he said unhappily. “I don’t wish to vex you.” He bit his lips and looked down at his sandals.

  Anthony suddenly laughed. “Come, Stephen—there’s not a true Catholic of consequence in England but’s got abbey lands. Ye can’t turn the clock back that far—’tis not reasonable. His Holiness’d ne’er ask such a thing, either. Mass! my friend, spare me the owl face—we’ve need o’ rest. Tomorrow I’ll take ye to Whitehall again, ye can mingle wi’ that French bunch o’ de Noailles’; keep your ears open since you understand their jabber. We’ve troubles a-plenty ahead wi’out inventing ’em.” Anthony strode off along the passage to his bedroom.

  Stephen walked slowly into his cell. He knelt before the crucifix and mechanically said a Pater Noster. “Fiat voluntas tua,” he repeated and shrugged in relief. “Thy will, I’ve done what I can!”

  Thirteen

  ON JANUARY 6, 1554, Celia awoke in her chamber at the priory to the sound of sleeting rain and the feel of penetrating chill in the mists off the Thames. She shivered, coughed and dully counted the seven bongs from St. Saviour’s outside her lattice window. She noted that Ursula who slept beside her in the great curtained bed had already arisen, either to use the privy or, more likely, to attend early Mass.

  ’Tis the Feast of the Three Kings, Celia thought, Epiphany. Twelfth Night—the end of Christmas—and the beginning of what? There was nothing in particular to look forward to. Ever since the All Saints’ revel and puppet show, the weather had been bad, Anthony and Stephen were almost never at home, and one of Mabel’s frequent colds had seized both Celia and Ursula in a more violent form. They had coughed agonizingly for ten days. Celia still coughed. She lifted her head from the pillow and found that she still had the dull throb in her forehead which had been plaguing her for several mornings. She flopped back and shut her eyes. She opened them again as the bed curtains were parted and a chambermaid peered down while tendering her a mug of the steaming ale called “Lamb’s Wool,” from the apple fro
th atop it.

  “Good morrow, miss,” said the woman in a pleasant country voice. “Lady Suthell sent me up ter rouse ye.”

  Celia sighed, murmured, “Good morrow,” and added, half to herself, “Aye, must drag myself to Mass.”

  “Ye needn’t, then,” said the woman, “God don’t want ye to!”

  It took a moment for Celia to understand this extraordinary statement. Then she looked up at the chambermaid. She saw a woman of thirty, with a thin freckled face, nondescript except for a sweet, rather stern smile. This maid had been at the priory only a day, Ursula having had to dismiss their former chamber-woman for sluttishness and thievery. This maid’s kerchief and apron were dazzling white, her brown hair neatly coiled.

  “What did you say?” exclaimed Celia. “What do you mean?”

  “That our heavenly Father don’t want ye to go to church an’ pretend ye’re a-crunchin’ on His Son’s bones, and a-suckin’ up His blood.”

  Celia sat up, shocked, yet inclined to laugh. “That’s disgusting!” she cried. “You must be mad . . . You’re called Agnes, aren’t you?”

  “Aye—Agnes Snoth, widow. I’ve come from Kent in ter London Town and am now spreading the Gospel according to His Holy Word, an’ accordin’ ter m’station in life, which be lowly.” Her smiled deepened.

  “St. Mary, you mustn’t say such abominable things—” said Celia. “They’re, why, they are heresy! If my Lady Aunt heard you—how did you get here, anyway?”

  “Oh, I went to Lady Suthell wi’ some writin’ from Mistress Allen o’ Ightham Mote. I was nurse ter Master Charles, time back.”

  Celia’s eyes widened. “But the Allens’re true Catholics. You never said such things there.”

  “Oh, no, miss. I hadn’t seen the light then. Master Rogers’s services at Paul’s Cross converted me. An’ I thank God fur it. I’m saved from damnation, from the burnin’s in hellfire. I wants ter save thee, poppet; ye’ve a sweet lovely face, an’ ye doan’t seem happy, bein’ mired deep in idolatry.”