by Anya Seton
“The monk, no doubt,” he said with bored contempt. “Poor fellow—and no use confessing your lechery to me, it’s quite useless. I’m not interested.”
She flushed scarlet and stepped back. “It’s not like that, not lechery,” she cried. “It’s love, Master Julian, love! Can you not understand that?”
“Ah, yes.” He gave his quick shrug. “An extremely pleasurable sensation, but you’ll find it so with young Edwin, too. He must have had more practice in the art. Only keep last night’s peccadillo to yourself. Women talk too much.”
Celia stared at him with such horror that he forgot his aching body. The deep buried string reverberated. It brought a hazy recollection of guilty discomfort—this has happened before—under the olive trees . . . white marble columns . . . supplication and denial.
“It’s love, it’s torment—I can’t live without him!” said Celia in a hoarse whisper. “And he is leaving me again, Master Julian, I can’t bear it. And yet he loves me, he must love me, I gave him the water-witch’s powder.” She suddenly crumpled onto a stool, and hid her face in her hands.
“You what?” said Julian. “You did what?”
It came out in muffled broken sentences. The visit to Melusine. The pentacle, the charm, the mandrake root. Mandragora, Julian thought, the most powerful of herbs, the Devil’s testicles they called it in Arabic. Yet, given the look he had seen exchanged between Celia and Stephen, the lightning bolt of violent desire, what herb was needed? Human passions could generate enough black magic without potions.
He had few scruples, and for ethics only the half-forgotten principles dictated by his Hippocratic Oath, and yet he felt a touch of fear. For her, for himself. “What did she say, this witch, when she gave you the powder?” he asked gravely.
Celia raised her head, her unfocused gaze went beyond Julian. “That if my heart was pure, that if I used it only to—to help my husband—there was no danger.” She spoke in a wooden tone like a child repeating by rote.
“And did you?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly.
“Did you then use this mandragora only to reinforce your own lust? Or did you use it for—for—well, Brother Stephen’s happiness? Was that your motive?”
He saw her widened eyes go shuttered and blank.
“I love him,” she said. “Naught else matters.”
Julian sighed. “If naught else matters, why do you disturb me?”
She clasped and unclasped her hands. “Send for Stephen. Tell him, show him—we can flee to the Continent. We could be wed. In Germany, even a priest can be wed. In Switzerland, too, I’ve heard. He can even remain a priest there. He need only give up his unnatural Benedictine vows.”
There was silence. Then Julian said, “You ask too much, Celia. And you do not understand the man you say you love. You think only of yourself. And I am a-wearied. You’ll get over this madness in a day or so, and marry as you should. Go now—and on the way back to your chamber, find somebody to bring up wood.”
Her straining face took on a hunted look; the great eyes fixed on him with piercing reproach. “You do not care what happens to me—or Stephen. Nay, why should you? Yet, I thought . . . I felt. I fancied you were trying to help me—dreams—a kind of dream, I was dying . . . great danger.”
“My dear girl,” said Julian impatiently, “you’re overwrought. You were merry yesterday morning, I heard you laughing with Lady Montagu over the decorations in the chapel for your wedding, the primrose bunches, the streamers of pink ribbon. I assure you that the unfortunate actions you encouraged last night are but a transient frenzy. You’ll soon forget.”
“Will I . . .?” said Celia in so harsh and peculiar a tone that Julian blinked. She gathered up her black skirts, sketched a small unsmiling bow. “I’ll give order for the wood,” she said, and left his chamber.
Julian felt dismay, tinged with anger. Unreasonable, childish behavior. Ridiculous request that he talk to the monk, who, very properly, was leaving. And then the effrontery of trying to embroil him in a particularly sordid affair, which must come to the Montagus’ attention—and redound to Julian’s own detriment. He needed those gold angels. Per Bacco, I hope Lady Montagu delivers soon, he thought. I’ll stuff her with moldy rye bread, hasten the birth . . . better yet—demand to examine her and rupture the membranes. Fortunately, this lady from the rugged North was not prudish, as were so many English women. England! he thought, with a spasm of distaste.
What folly to waste all these years in a place so alien. What had possessed him? Some force he did not understand. A quotation from Plato darted like a spear through his bafflement. “In every succession of life and death you will do and suffer what like may fitly suffer at the hands of like . . .” Julian had once amused himself with Plato’s certainty of transmigration, how each soul selected its life—a sight at once melancholy, ludicrous, strange . . . how the experience of the former life generally guided the choice of the later one . . .
Was that, in truth, the answer? Julian considered a moment. Then forgetful of the pains in his joints, he pulled out from his coffer an old notebook, in which he had—during the years at Padua—written down certain precepts which had struck his youthful fancy. There was one by Francesco Guicciardini, a Florentine historian attached to the court of Alessandro de Medici. Julian looked slowly through the pages until he found the excerpt: “Whatsoever has been in the past or is now, will repeat itself in the future, but with the names and surfaces of things so altered that he who has not a quick eye will not recognize them, or know how to guide himself accordingly. . . .”
Possible . . . thought Julian uncomfortably, very possible. He noted further down the page a Latin excerpt he had also copied; it was by St. Gregory of Nyssa, who had written it in the third century: “It is absolutely necessary that the soul be healed and purified. If this does not take place during its life on earth, it must be accomplished in future lives.”
“Future lives,” Julian thought. What a wearisome prospect. Back on earth again for struggles, disappointment, pain, despair.
“Cui bono?” he said aloud, raising his head and staring at the tiny leaded windowpanes which were clouded by cold mist.
“So that finally purged of self-will, purged of desires, the soul becomes one with God.” Who said that to him, almost forty years before at Padua? Julian remembered a very dark face under a turban. Black eyes like ripe olives fixed in yellowed corneas. An Arab, wasn’t he? There had been some Arabian students at the university. The Italian youths had made fun of them. But this man hadn’t been a student, but a visitor. He had come from Mecca, and landed in Venice, but he hadn’t been a Moslem, or had he?
Suddenly it seemed important to Julian to remember the man’s name, and what he had said in a guttural mixture of Latin and barbarous Italian. So important that Julian sat down on the hard oak chair and scarcely noted the arrival of a sulky servant, or the lighting of a small fire, though he stared into the flames until he saw the Arab clearer. Small; rough homespun robes; dirty white turban; and those black-olive eyes ringed by saffron, penetrating yet impersonal There were other students who had come to lauoh at the freak . . . a room in a palazzo . . . some banquet but the man had refused wine or meat. His name was Nanak! How had they come to hold private converse? Had Nanak singled him out from the others? They had certainly sat alone for a while on a cushioned marble bench, and Nanak had used odd foreign words, which he had said were Hindian, from the vast continent to the East which Christofero Colombo claimed to have reached by sailing west. Though, as to that, there had been sceptics at Padua—geographers who had heatedly denied that the Genoese had found anything more important than a few uncharted islands. No Paduan, no Horentine, no Venetian ever trusted a man from Genoa—nor each other for that matter.
A log snapped in his fire, and Julian pulled himself together with a jerk. He had started to think about Nanak, and his wits had gone rambling. He no longer wanted to remember the little man, yet for a moment he forced himse
lf. Something about “Karma” or “Chiurma,” as it had sounded to Julian, which seemed to be equivalent to the Christian saying, “As ye sow so shall ye reap,” though not necessarily applied to this life, nor to the orthodox conceptions of heaven, hell, purgatory, but rather to a succession of rebirths called Sumsara, in which one experienced the result of every act good or bad, every thought, especially every strong desire. “Be careful what you crave for,” Nanak had said, “since you will eventually get it.”
The young Julian had been fascinated. He had questioned Nanak eagerly, until the dense black eyes were hooded, only the yellowed whites showed, and the little man said, “You are not ready . . . leave me alone.”
Julian had persisted, asking why he could not remember past lives, if such he had had, until Nanak—wearily tolerant, smiling a little as to an importunate youngster—said, “Sometimes, if it’s for the soul’s good, one remembers. It may be to prevent further harm to others, or redress old wrongs—you have one toe on the path, otherwise I would not have spoken with you. How well and fast you climb depends on you. Remember this though, that for those who have developed even as far as you have sins of omission will be punished by the law as certainly as acts of violence.”
Julian was disappointed then. In retrospect he found the admonition wordy and pithless. He remembered that later he had been chiefly struck by the realization that Nanak’s last speeches seemed to have been delivered in a completely foreign tongue, though the man had not moved his lips at all. Such, perhaps, was the power of imagination. Or was I drunk? Julian thought. We had taken much wine that night. Vexed with himself and the whole memory he got up and held his veined swollen hands close to the fire I desire warmth sunlight—his mouth took on its ironic lift—and I do not intend to wait for some possible future life to attain them!
He struggled out of his night robe, and painfully garbed himself for the day, while listening to eleven strokes from the clock tower. Dinner was not far off. Unfortunately, it was Friday and the devout Montagus never served meat. There might, however, be a fat stuffed carp. His mouth watered at the hope.
Celia did not appear in the Hall for dinner. And nobody missed her. Julian assumed that she might be upstairs with the Montagus, and was pleased at her absence. Her hysterical visit to him could be ignored. He chatted pleasantly with a lawyer from Chichester who had stopped to see Anthony about an extension of lease on one of the numerous Montagu properties, and been asked to dine by the steward as a matter of course. Julian had decided to induce labor in Lady Montagu next Monday, after the wedding. His mind was at peace.
Celia did not appear for supper either. The absence would not have been noted, except that Edwin Ratcliffe had ridden over to see his betrothed.
The Montagus received him cordially, if in a somewhat absent-minded way, and sent the nearest page to fetch Celia. The page happened to be Robin, and when he came back after a long time, his blond brows were furrowed, his beardless face anxious.
“I can’t find her, my lord,” he said dropping briefly to one knee, then gulping. “I’ve searched everywhere—Juno’s gone, too.”
“Her mare is gone?” said Anthony, readjusting his mind with difficulty. He and Magdalen had a hundred matters to arrange before he left for Spain. Not the least was the possible betrothal of little Anthony to the Arundel heiress. Also, Magdalen’s brother Leonard seemed to be causing trouble on the Border. If Anthony were to regain Queen Elizabeth’s favor, Magdalen’s family must certainly be kept in line.
“I fear she’s gone, my lord,” said Robin, swallowing a sob. “She’s cleaned out her coffers, most o’ them, and left her little dog. There’s a note writ to you.”
Anthony, frowning, took the scrap of parchment which Robin tendered him. He examined the sprawling block letters. They said:
“Milord—I can not wed Edwin Ratclif Pardon forgette me—Celia. Robbin muste care for Tagle.”
Anthony read the note twice, then passed it to his wife.
“What i’ the name o’ Jesu does this mean?” Magdalen read the note with stupefaction. “The lass is mad,” she said. “Her wits’re addled. What a bother! Depend on’t, ’tis some coy trick. She wants ye to find her, Master Ratcliffe.” She handed the note to Edwin.
Edwin read it while a painful flush covered his young face. He could not speak. The scrap of parchment trembled in his hand.
“The little minx,” said Anthony, almost inclined to laugh. He thought of the Fool’s Dance on Twelfth Night—the way she had diddled him, and the moment of fierce desire she had roused in him. The remembrance sent heat to his loins even now. “I’ll find your bride for you, Edwin,” he said chuckling, “if ye’ve not the guts for hunting.”
Magdalen gave her lord a long speculative stare. Since she had grown so swollen and unwieldy, Anthony had made several unexplained absences from their bed. Last night he had vanished for two hours, murmuring about belly gripes and the latrine. Like a wise and realistic wife she had not questioned, though she had kept a sharp eye on a particularly toothsome dairymaid. The stab of a brand-new suspicion brought immediate collapse of her affection for Celia. “Master Ratcliffe can seek his br-ride himsel’,” she said coldly.
Her russet eyes glinted at Anthony in such a way that he said hastily, “No doubt. To be sure, he must.” He resented Magdalen’s obvious suspicion, and felt injured since it had no basis in regard to Celia. There was, however, the gateward’s daughter . . .
“I’ll search for her . . .” said Edwin in a cold tone. “I can not understand . . . she seemed to love me, though I was never sure.”
“Coom, coom—” said Magdalen briskly, “ye mauna be chicken-hearted. Ye’ll find the naughty lass. An’ lucky she be to’ve won ye! Quick! She’ll not’ve gan far i’ the rain.”
Edwin bowed and went off with dragging feet. Beneath his crushing humiliation was a certainty. Celia was gone from his life as suddenly as she had entered it seven months ago. Like the rockets which had flared across the sky at the Queen’s coronation. Brilliance, then nothing but a charred stick left in the hand. His infatuation extinguished itself almost as completely with the thought of his mother’s warnings, and of the sweet doleful face of little Anne Weston whom he had so callously jilted.
Edwin mounted his horse outside the lodge. He debated a moment—Celia might have fled in any direction, there was no guessing. He had never been sure of her inward thoughts. He slapped the reins, pricked his horse and directed it towards the Petworth Road and his own manor.
In Cowdray’s privy chamber the Montagus looked at each other. Anthony responded to his wife’s sardonic questioning gaze with an exasperated shrug, then he smiled and put his hand gently on her freckled arm. “I’ve naught to do with Celia’s whimsies, my dear, I swear it by God’s precious blood.”
Magdalen’s eyes softened, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Then why has she fled—if indeed she has?”
“Whyfore does the wind blow north today, and south tomorrow? We’ve done our best by her, and ’tis not the first time the girl has caused me embarrassment.” He started at a sudden thought. Stephen had left this morning, after spending an hour efficiently helping the secretary with some of Anthony’s old papers. The monk had been composed and urbane; he had even said that he might reconsider acceptance of Anthony’s invitation to Spain, that he wished to leave early to consult with Abbot Feckenham again. Nay, Anthony thought, there could be no connection between Stephen and Celia now. A pox on Celia! He reverted to the more interesting subject of little Anthony’s betrothal.
As for Magdalen, since she knew nothing of any long past connections she was spared any such disquietude at all.
Seventeen
ON LAMMAS DAY, August 1, Celia trudged into the village of Ightham in Kent. She had spent nearly four months in flight from Cowdray, and their passage was blurred. She had existed in limbo since the drastic action she had taken after Master Julian had refused any help.
On setting out from Cowdray, she headed instincti
vely towards London, and got to Surrey before her shillings were gone. Then she slept in a field with Juno, and was arrested by an angry bailiff. “Trespassing, vagrancy, stealing pasturage.” They threatened her with the pillory, but released her in return for Juno—an obviously valuable mare. Celia did not protest, she had no means of feeding Juno. She kissed the horse farewell on its soft muzzle, and walked through Southwark, never pausing to glance towards the priory. She wandered to the only tavern she remembered, the King’s Head on Fenchurch Street, because it was the one Emma Allen had invited them to on the night of Queen Mary’s procession.
She applied for work, and was hired. She returned to her girlhood duties—drawing ale, serving customers—and endured, without hope or plan. She was often awakened by a clutch of panic in her chest, and in the morning she was given to nausea which made her retch. She dully knew the reason for her discomforts, but it seemed unreal. By noon she had forgotten, and listlessly performed her chores. Her routine had continued until the last Saturday in July, three days before her arrival in Ightham.
The King’s Head was jammed with riotous tipplers. Celia incurred first the lust, and then the fury of an alderman who grabbed her as she came up from the cellars with a flask of malmsey. He kissed her, and his hot bearded mouth and foul breath roused such a rage of disgust that she scratched his face and swung the flask upwards into his crotch. The alderman was momentarily felled. When he regained his feet his face was bleeding from four savage nail wounds, and he went straight to the landlord, complaining violently of Celia. The alderman was influential, and also the tavern’s best customer. He brought his friends to the inn and nightly spent many crowns there. He now threatened to take his coterie elsewhere, and the landlord coldly dismissed Celia. There were more complaisant tavern wenches to be hired, and this one, though she did her duties, was not popular with the other servants. She was too pretty, too fine of speech, too aloof. Also, there was some mystery about her. Mysteries were dangerous.