by Anya Seton
“Follow after love, and desire spiritual gifts, but rather that ye may prophesy.” What did that mean? “Love.” Aye, yet one must find it before one could follow it. As for “spiritual gifts,” they would undoubtedly be agreeable possessions though of limited use if they led only to prophesying. Celia decided that she did not like St. Paul.
She leafed back through the Gospels, and hit upon the blasting of the fig tree. Here was not the suffering gentle Jesus, the Redeemer, the Savior that her Latin prayers indicated. It seemed to her very like the action of a petulant man who is disappointed of his dinner. She was reminded of her husband in the days before his apoplexy. One evening he had expected a honeycake of which he was very fond, and through some mishap, it had not been made. John had shouted an oath, and knocked his empty plate off the table. She knew that the comparison must be blasphemy, and was chilled. She put the Bible back in its hiding place, resolved to throw it in the river tomorrow. There was no comfort in it for her, no guidance, and the Catholics were right.
In guilty contrition she went to Ursula’s priedieu, and kneeling, gabbled off a Pater Noster, but when she came to the last clause, she was struck by it, and paused. “Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.” Why should an all-loving father lead his child into temptation? Why must he be implored not to?
At that moment in Ursula’s drafty chamber, Celia renounced God. She would cease to worry about religion. She would conform to any outward acts which seemed expedient at the time, and she would guide her own life as she saw fit. Her own will and desires should be her sole criteria. All else was inconsistency or downright lies. And nothing was worth suffering for.
She crept into bed beside Ursula, snuggled her little dog in the hollow of her arm, and fell asleep.
Two days later on November 17, Queen Mary died at St. James’s Palace, and the whole of England shifted balance.
Anthony and Magdalen were roused at midnight by Wat, who leapt off his lathered horse and plunged upstairs into the Montagu bedchamber without ceremony.
“It’s happened, my lord,” he panted. “An’ I killed one hoss gettin’ here to tell ye.”
Anthony sat up, gaping at his mud-stained courier. “She’s gone?” he whispered. He bowed his head and crossed himself. “God give her peace, she had little here.”
Magdalen understood more slowly. Her crinkled red hair bushed around her nightcap, she clutched her nightgown across her bosom, for Anthony had disordered her during their bed sport earlier.
“The Queen is dead,” repeated Wat, “an’ ye best get ye quick to Hatfield—swear allegiance to the new one. They’ve all been runnin’ there the last week. All the Court. But ye told me to wait. As I did when poor King Edward died.”
“Aye . . .” said Anthony, on a long drawn out note, “but this is very different. Jesu . . . Holy Virgin . . .”
Magdalen grasped her husband’s arm in sympathy, then her eyes watered. “Did she die peaceful, Wat?”
“She did. Heard Mass, at five, like every day, expired at six, raisin’ her eyes to the Host—and whisperin’ the Miserere.”
“She was a guid woman, a verra model o’ piety,” said Magdalen. “She prayed much in secret, and’d no lak to be seen. She was true-hearted and so much to thole! The bairns she fancied she carried, whilst that Philip, that renegade hoosband, och, the maids in waiting knew what he was! The neet at Hampton he put his arm through my window and grabbed me on the bed, I thwacked him hard wi’ the fire tongs.”
“Maggie!” said Anthony sharply, “I pray thee—”
Maggie accepted the rebuke. “I was but remembering her trials. The puir wee Queen.” Magdalen wiped her eyes on her hand and reverted to her usual practicality. “Fetch the steward, Wat. Call the yeoman. We mun start the castle bell a-dirging, and my lord to be made ready.”
“For what?” said Anthony dully. He felt empty. Lost. He had been truly fond of the Queen. There was a time when she had said he was the only man in England she could trust. She had altered since the French defeats. The loss of Calais preyed on her during her last miserable months; she blamed all her generals; she talked wildly of treachery, yet Anthony knew he had commanded his troops brilliantly in Picardy. As well as even his father could have.
“My lord!” cried Magdalen shaking him. “Wake up! Ye mun in go!”
“Where?” said Anthony. “Oh, there’ll be the funeral . . .”
“Nay, hinny, nay! That cooms later. Go to Hatfield like the rest! Hasten before she leaves for London.”
“To Elizabeth?” said Anthony with dreary contempt. “That two-faced little bastard.”
Magdalen got out of bed, regardless of Wat, who had drawn back watching. She stood like a tower—strong, indomitable. “Elizabeth is now your Queen,” she said, “like it or not, Anthony Browne, and if you prize being Viscount Montagu—if, in truth, you value your head—you had better swear allegiance quick.”
“Her ladyship’s right, my lord,” said Wat softly. He was devoted to his master and understood Anthony’s utter dismay. “Arter all, the commons is wild wi’ joy. They’ve got a true Englishwoman at last. And she’s King Harry’s daughter too.”
“I wonder—” said Anthony grimly. “Queen Mary doubted it—she told me so once. Nan Bullen was a whore, she was beheaded for her whoredom. Who’s to say the wench at Hatfield has royal blood?”
Magdalen gasped. She glanced at Wat anxiously, but she knew him to be loyal. She pulled Anthony from the bed with her powerful arm. She shook him again. “’Tis the shock has crazed him,” she said to Wat. “Bring mead to his lordship. ’Twill hearten him fast. My lord, I niver thought ta see you wambly when your duty’s clear. I’d ride wi’ ye, except I’m three months gone—a perilous time, they say. Think o’ your bairns, those ye have, an’ those I’ll breed for ye. Would ye orphan them? Mak’ them destitute?”
Anthony slowly bowed his head. He let his nightrail slip down around his hairy ankles, and stood up naked before them—a thickly-muscled handsome man of thirty. As his resolve strengthened, the veins swelled in his neck. He reached for his day linen, which was neatly folded on a stool. “But I’ll not compromise my faith to satisfy the b—, the Queen,” he said, his bearded jaw jutting out.
“She’d niver ask it!” cried Magdalen with assurance. “She went to Mass at Richmond. She’s a canny lass and the times I’ve seen her I thought her gentle and most anxious to please. Ye’ll know how to please her, Anthony, ye’ve the knack.” Magdalen threw her arms around her husband’s neck and gave him a hearty kiss.
Anthony went to Hatfield and was courteously received. The little brick palace teemed with courtiers and, as Wat said, many of them had arrived before Queen Mary’s death. Fearing another of the traps she had stepped around in the past, Elizabeth had again acted the innocent maiden until Sir Nicholas Throckmorton himself brought her the enameled ring from Mary’s dead hand.
When Anthony arrived he found his new sovereign suitably dressed in filmy black and deep in converse with Sir William Cecil, whom she had immediately appointed her Secretary of State. Behind her armchair hovered young Lord Robert Dudley, Nicholas Throckmorton and Sir Francis Knollys, all of them Protestants who had received no favors during Mary’s reign.
As Anthony, kneeling, swore his allegiance, Elizabeth placed her incredibly long, slender hands on each side of his, as was customary. Her tawny eyes inspected him contemplatively. Her thin lips curved in a sweet enigmatic smile. “We know how well you served our late sister,” she murmured. “And have no doubts of your fealty, my Lord Montagu . . .” She spoke with the faintest tinge of question.
“In all temporal matters, your grace, I will serve you with all my heart,” answered Anthony looking her straight in the eye. And he added, more softly, “What man could resist so fair a mistress?”
He could see that this pleased her. Much as she loved flattery, and courted it, Elizabeth had long ago learned to listen for the underlying ring of truth. She understood and appreciated the courage of Lord Montagu’s
qualification, knowing that with the possible exception of Cecil, the religious convictions of her new courtiers yielded fast to expediency. Also, Anthony’s bold glance told her that he did indeed think her fair—her skin so startling white it seemed translucent, with a wealth of red-gold hair which gleamed down across her mourning bodice, and that he recognized her charm, an impact born of blandishment and regal dignity. He had never seen King Henry, but he relinquished the doubts he had of Elizabeth’s paternity. There was the strength and flexibility of Damascene steel in this young woman. No lowly music-master could have sired a being so intelligent and self-possessed, or so subtly ruthless.
Anthony did not find out the latter quality until later. During the evening he spent at crowded Hatfield, the Queen gave him occasional friendly smiles—but he was removed from the Privy Council. Robert Dudley—those damnable Dudleys again—was named Master of the Horse. Other men long in eclipse had reappeared. And it was clear that Anthony would hold no official position in the new reign, though he still had several doleful duties to perform for his deceased Queen. He was an executor of Mary’s will, he was one of the chief mourners in her funeral procession.
He returned to Cowdray for the Yuletide, in a mood fully as melancholy as when he had left there. He was, accordingly, not disposed to be lenient with vexations in his own household.
Magdalen forbore disquieting him until he had rested for a night, and while lying with his head on her bosom listened to all that had passed at Hatfield.
“Well, my lord,” she said stroking his thick hair, “’t might be worse. And if she weds Philip o’ Spain as rumor has it, ye’ll be back to your former consequence, niver doot it.”
“She’ll never wed King Philip,” said Anthony glumly, “nor anyone mayhap—there’s something odd about her, fantastical, I felt it. Oh, she’ll dally hither and yon, play the coy miss, yet not a natural woman—no paps neither, more like a lad.” He chuckled and ran his hand over Magdalen’s belly and breasts, all swelling with pregnancy. “Yet,” he added, frowning into the darkness, “she appears to dote on young Robert Dudley, lets him whisper in her ear and touch her neck. By God, that Dudley gang! I thought we’d seen the last o’ them when we beheaded Northumberland. Could it be Robert’s set his sights on a throne, too?”
“Och, hinny,” said Magdalen laughing. “Ye’re fair dozzened. Robert Dudley has a young wife, name of Amy. I’ve heard ’twas a love match.”
“Bah,” said Anthony, “any such impediment’d never stop a Dudley’s connivings.” Still, he felt comforted, and thought how truly Magdalen resembled the sturdy great oak tree he first likened her to when they had met five years before.
The next day was Christmas Eve, and Magdalen waited until her lord had breakfasted on ale and salt herring before she mentioned any unpleasant home topics.
“The Lady Ursula is deed,” she spoke quietly. “I’ve had her laid out i’ the chapel, since she was of your household, an’ was bor-rn at Cowdray.”
Anthony crossed himself, murmured, “Requiescat in pace,” and said, “Lackaday, ’twas long expected. There’s room for her at Easebourne Church, near her brother-at-law, Sir Davy Owen. She had the last rites?”
Magdalen shook her head, frowning . . .“Unless Celia . . . neither Dr. Langdale nor Father Morton was summoned ’til next day though both i’ the house. Celia admits there was time. I canna understand that lass, she’s not even prayed beside the bier.”
“Distraught, I suppose,” said Anthony. “We’ll have Masses said; for sure the poor lady died in a state o’ grace. Cotsbody, enough o’ funerals! Tomorrow our Lord is born, and we’ll rejoice. Christmas games!” Anthony’s eyes sparkled, he saw through the window that there had been a drift of snow in the night. “We’ll go a-hunting, tracks’ll be easy, I’ve not had a good bow in my hands for weeks, nor smelled the downs. At the feast we’ll have mummers, and many a giddy jape. Edwin was appointed Lord o’ Misrule, he’ll keep us laughing. Must see Edwin at once, help me cast off dull care!”
“My lord . . .” said Magdalen, reluctant to dampen the high spirits, “my lord, Edwin Ratcliffe is gone.”
“Gone?” Anthony stared at her. “I did not send him any journey.”
“Gone home to his manor where he’s battling wi’ his faither. Owled Squire Ratcliffe’s been her-re twice. He’s savage. He clouted the pages. Begock, I thought he was aboot to strike me.”
Anthony purpled with anger and amazement. “Squire Ratcliffe? What’s got into him? What’s ado?”
Magdalen gave an exasperated snort. “Plenty ado. Edwin has gone daft for Celia. He vows he’ll wed her, and none else.”
“But he’s betrothed to that little Anne Weston—he’s contracted!”
“He was. He’s broke it. The day he coom of age. The Ratcliffes vow he’s gone mad, and on those grounds’re tryin’ to hold back his mother’s legacy. Sech a pother!”
Anthony gulped, and gave a snort like his wife. “Ye may well say so. That Celia! I’ll deal wi’ her, and stop this wickedness.”
His wife thoughtfully cut herself another trencher of bread, and slapped a herring on top of it. “It’s na so easy . . . She’s grieving, shut in her room, I didn’t like to speak harsh, though the lass has certain sure encouraged Edwin. Yet, what’s ta be done wi’ her? I meant to send her to Syon, the nunnery. Now, it’ll be suppressed again.”
“Aye . . .” said Anthony frowning heavily. “It is already.” He choked on a herring bone, and shouted, “Name o’ God, why can’t that wench blandish someone suitable. I was rid o’ her once.”
Magdalen nodded. “But, I’ve still fondness for Celia. I’m sorry for her . . . We can’t cast her out, ’twouldna be Christian. Anthony, did ye talk to Squire Ratcliffe, mightn’t ye calm him? He might soften and ’twould solve Celia’s future.”
Anthony’s scowl deepened. “I’ve enough to do wi’ solving my own future, Lady, an’ I’ll not have the Yuletide ruined. I’ve no mind to soothe a justly angry father, nor countenance a crazy lovesick lad. As for Celia—keep her out of my way! For decency’s sake she may remain until her aunt is buried. After that I care naught what becomes of her.”
Magdalen said no more.
The Christmas festivities at Cowdray proceeded without either Celia or Edwin. The latter was kept guarded in his room at his father’s manor and ostentatiously treated as the victim of an attack of madness. Celia continued to spend most of her time in Ursula’s chamber, though she was laying plans and biding her time.
She could hear the uproar outside, the raucous cheers as they brought in the yule log, the caroling of the waits in the courtyard, the stridency from the Great Hall where Anthony’s minstrels kept up continuous music—trumpets, pipes, rebecs and drums reverberated throughout the castle. She could dimly hear the songs as the traditional wassails were drunk, as the roast peacock was borne before the company, and the boar’s head. She was not actually a prisoner; Magdalen had told her she was welcome in the Hall so long as she kept away from Anthony, but the girl had no heart for merriment. Ursula had died in her sleep, her head resting on Celia’s shoulder. It wasn’t until the corpse grew cold that Celia realized what had happened. And then she felt only dull resignation, followed by repulsion. The thing on the bed was not Ursula Southwell, nor was the body in the chapel. Ursula was gone forever, and of the soul all the clergy ranted about, Celia felt no certainty. There were prayers for the dead, but she could not remember them. In any case, what was there to pray to? An indifferent void. She was glad when they took Ursula’s wasted body away. Glad to have the room to herself and Taggle. She had loved Ursula; years ago she had loved her mother. Both were gone now. Love was gone, faded into a reminiscent sadness like the lingering aura of old wood smoke. So, new fires must be lit, lively fires to give new warmth, before they too died away.
During that Christmas week, Celia became consciously aware of dormant urges in her body. She caressed her thighs, her breasts, and rubbed them with the marigold pomade she found in Ursula�
�s cupboard. Ursula had made the pomade as a moth repellent; Celia used it for the sensuous pleasure it gave her.
In Ursula’s coffer and huge court cupboard, Celia found many items to enhance her beauty and rejoiced that they were hers.
Ursula’s brief will left all that she possessed to “my beloved niece, Celia de Bohun, now Lady Hutchinson,” and had been dated four years ago, after Celia left for Lincolnshire. The inheritance which seemed so paltry in the eyes of the Montagus was englamored for Celia by the delight of ownership. She rearranged the chamber completely. She moved the great bed with its frayed crimson hangings to the northern wall. She took down Ursula’s crucifix, and hung up on its peg a tarnished mirror Ursula had acquired during the Southwark days. Now, when Celia knelt on the priedieu, she was able to gaze into a wavering reflection of her own face.
At the bottom of the store chest, carefully wrapped in yellowed linen, she found Ursula’s wedding gown. It had once been white, a satin overdress sprigged with tiny bunches of embroidered flowerets, all faded to an indeterminate cream. The long sleeves were banded with tarnished silver cloth, the tasseled belt had once been of silver, too, but was now blackened. Yet, the supple satin, woven at Lyons, had not cracked in forty years, Celia discovered as she took off the lavender sprigs. She tried on the gown, peering into her mirror. The gown was too large, Ursula had been a bigger woman, but the old-fashioned skirts were full enough to accommodate a farthingale. The bodice could be adjusted, the neck lowered, the tarnished bands brightened with alum.
I shall wear this at my wedding, Celia thought. She had determined to marry Edwin. The immediate procedures towards that end were not yet apparent; she knew that he was incarcerated at home, but she felt a certainty that all difficulties would melt under the force of her will. She and Edwin had stolen several meetings while he was still at Cowdray; she had persuaded herself that she loved him. At least, she was slightly stirred by his kisses, and knew that he was her slave.