“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You know,” he said quietly, “that my greatest pleasure is to please you.”
I was so grateful to him that I felt a little ashamed for not really liking him in the past. Rupert was good and kind, I knew, but he accepted disaster. Simon was ready to fight against it.
“First the pimpernel,” said my mother.
Simon said: “Take it. It will do you good to do so and your mother good to prepare it. Try to sleep a little. Then go into the garden with your mother. Take the flower basket and gather roses. Rest assured I shall be back with news soon. You must get through the time till my return as best you can.”
I thought how much he understood my grief and I warmed toward him still further. I allowed my mother to take me to her room and there she brought me the potion brewed from the juice of the pimpernel and what other ingredients I knew not.
She made me lie down and she sat by my bed and she talked of it, that terrible day when they had been at dinner—as they had so many times before and how they had been eating one of the mutton pies which Clement made so well, when the King’s men came in. I could see it all so clearly. I might have been there. I could almost taste the mutton pie garnished with my mother’s herbs; I could feel the terrible fear in my stomach and the dry constriction of my throat. And I saw his dear face so calm, so resigned. He would be as though he had almost known it must come. And he would have gone with them quietly, sitting there in the barge while the oars dipped in the water and they came through the Traitors’ Gate.
I slept for many hours. It was the pimpernel perhaps and other herbs which my mother had given me. I suppose she thought the only way in which I could forget my misery for a short while was in sleep.
To my joy the meeting was arranged. Simon came to my room and asked to be allowed in. He stood there smiling at me and as the light which came through leaden panes was not great it threw shadows and again I saw the fox’s mask and was ashamed for thinking of it in the face of all his consideration for me.
“Tomorrow I shall take you to your father,” he said.
The relief was great. I felt almost happy. Yet I knew that I must be stealthily let into his cell, that the meeting would be brief. Yet somehow I felt that by seeing him I could achieve something.
“How can I thank you?” I said.
He replied, “My reward is to do everything in my power to help you.”
“You have my gratitude,” I told him.
He bowed his head and taking my hand, raised it to his lips. Then he left me.
How I lived through the rest of that day and the night I cannot be sure. The next day I put on doublet and hose which belonged to Rupert. My hair betrayed me as a woman. Without a moment’s hesitation I had seized it in my hand and cut it off. It was thick and I cut it to hang almost to my shoulders. Now with a cap set on it I might have been a boy.
When he saw me Simon stared. “Your beautiful hair!” he cried.
“Doubtless it will grow. And I could not look like a boy with it so I must needs cut it.”
He nodded. Then he said: “You will soon be seventeen, Mistress Damask. You have made yourself look like a boy of twelve.”
“So much the better,” I replied, “for since you thought I should wear doublet and hose, you must believe I shall have a greater chance of seeing my father if I am believed to be a boy.”
“So you would sacrifice your beautiful hair for a few brief moments with him.”
“I would sacrifice my life,” I said.
“I have always admired you, as I believe I have made you aware—but never so as at this moment.”
And we went down the river together and I shall never forget seeing that grim gray fortress rise before us. How many, I wondered, had looked up at it knowing that somewhere within it lay a loved one? I had heard much of it—of the dungeons from which it was impossible to escape, the dark torture chambers; I had many times seen the great Keep and I knew the names of the many towers—the White Tower, the Salt Tower, the Bowyer Tower, the Constable Tower and the Bloody Tower in which, not so long before, the two little sons of King Edward IV had been murdered as they slept and their bodies buried, some said, under a secret stair in that very fortress. I had seen the church of St. Peter ad Vincula before which was Tower Green, the grass of which four years before had been stained by the blood of Queen Anne Boleyn, her brother and those men who were said to be her lovers.
And now my own beloved father might be destined to join the band of martyrs.
It was growing dark as we rowed upriver. Simon had said this was the best time to go. In the Lantern Turret lights burned. They were lighted at dusk and kept burning through the night to act as river signals. The river smelled dank and evil. We were now close to the stone walls.
At last we came to rest, the barge was tied to a stake and Simon helped me out.
His warder friend came out of the shadows.
“I’ll wait here,” said Simon.
The warder said: “Watch your step, boy.” And I wondered whether he was pretending to think me a boy or knew who I was. My heart was beating wildly but not with fear. I could think of only one thing: I was going to see my father.
The warder thrust a lantern into my hand.
“Carry that,” he said, “and say nothing.”
The stone was damp and slippery. I had to watch my steps carefully. I followed him through a passage and we came to a door. He had a bunch of keys and using one of these he opened it. It was iron studded, and consequently heavy. It creaked as it opened. He carefully locked the door behind us.
“Keep close,” he said.
I obeyed, and we went up a stone spiral staircase. We were in a stone-floored corridor. It was very cold. Here and there a lantern burned on the wall.
Before a heavy door the warder paused. He selected a key from his bunch and opened the door. For the moment I could scarcely see anything and then I gave a cry of joy for there he was. I put down the lantern and clung to him.
He said: “Damask. Oh, God, I am dreaming.”
“No, Father. Did you think I would not come?” I seized his hand and kissed it fiercely.
The warder stepped outside the door and stood there; my father and I were alone in the cell.
In a broken voice he said: “Oh, Damask, you should not have come.”
I knew that his joy in seeing me was as great as mine in seeing him, but that his fear for me was even greater.
I laid my cheek against his hand. “Do you think I would not have come? Do you think I would not do anything…anything….”
“My beloved child,” he said. Then: “Let me look at you.” He took my face in his hands and said: “Your hair.”
“I cut it off,” I said. “I had to come here as a boy.”
He held me against him. “Dearest child,” he said, “there is much to say and little time to say it in. My thoughts are all for you and your mother. You will have to take care of her.”
“You are coming back to us,” I said fiercely.
“If I do not….”
“No, don’t say it. You are coming. I will consider nothing else. We will find some way….How could you have done anything wrong? You who have been so good all your life….”
“What is right for some of us is wrong in the eyes of others. That is the trouble in the world, Damask.”
“This man…he had no right to come to you….He had no right to ask you to hide him.”
“He did not ask. I offered. Would you have me turn away a friend? But let us not talk of what is past. It is the future I think of. Constantly I think of you, my dearest child. It gives me great comfort. Do you remember our talks…our walks….”
“Oh, Father, I cannot bear it.”
“We must needs bear what God has decided we must.”
“God! What has God to do with this? Why should wicked murderers prosper while saints are done to death? Why should they dance in their castles…a new wife every….”
“Hush! What talk is this! Damask, I beg of you have a care. Do you want to please me? Do you want to bring me happiness?”
“Father, you know.”
“Then listen to me. Go back home. Comfort your mother. Watch over her. When the time comes marry and have children. It can be the greatest joy. When you have little ones you will cease to mourn for your father. You will know it is the rule of life—the old pass on and make way for the young.”
“We are going to take you back home, Father.”
He stroked my hair.
“We shall find a way. We must. Do you think I can endure to be there without you! You have always been there. All my life I have looked to you. I never thought till now that there would come a time when you…would not…be there.”
“My love,” he said, “you distress yourself…and me.”
“Let us be practical then. We shall try to get you out of here. Why should you not change clothes with me now….You could go and I could stay here.”
He laughed tenderly. “My dearest, do you think I would look like a boy? Do you think you could be mistaken for an old man? And do you think I would leave here one who is more dear to me than my own life? You talk wildly, child, but your talk pleases me. We have loved each other truly, we two.”
The warder was at the door.
“You’ll have to come away now. It’s dangerous to stay longer.”
“No,” I cried, and clung to my father.
He put me from him gently. “Go now, Damask,” he said. “I shall remember as long as I live that you came to me, that you cut off your beautiful hair for the sake of a few brief moments.”
“What is my hair compared with my love for you?”
“My child, I shall remember.” Then he caught me to him and held me tightly. “Damask, take care. Watch your tongue. You must know we are in danger. Someone betrayed me. Someone could betray you. That is something I could not endure. If I know that you are safe and your mother is safe…I can be content. To be careful, to care for each other, to live in peace…that could be the greatest thing you could do for me.”
“Come now,” growled the warder.
One last embrace and there I was standing in the dank passage, that heavy door between him and me.
I was unaware of the journey to the barge. I only vaguely saw the rat that scuttled across our path. There was Tom Skillen waiting to help me into the barge.
And as we rode along the dark river, guided by the lights from the Lantern Turret, one thing my father had said kept recurring in my mind. “Someone betrayed me.”
I did not see him again. They took him out on Tower Hill and that noble head was severed by the ax.
On the day it happened my mother, on Simon Caseman’s advice and without my knowledge until afterward, gave me a draft which she had made with poppy juice. It sent me into a deep sleep from which I did not awaken until I was fatherless.
I rose from my bed, heavy eyed but heavier hearted; I went downstairs and found my mother seated in her room, her hands in her lap, staring blankly before her.
I knew then that she was a widow and I had lost the dearest and best of fathers forever.
For the next few days I went about in a kind of daze. When people spoke to me I did not hear. Rupert tried to comfort me; so did Simon Caseman.
“I’ll take care of you for evermore,” Rupert told me, and I did not realize until later that he was asking me to marry him.
Simon Caseman was more definite. I did not forget that he had arranged the meeting with my father. He had seen his execution and that of Amos Carmen, and he told of it.
“You would have been proud of your father, Damask,” he said. “He walked out to his death calmly and without fear. He laid his head upon the block with a resignation which was the admiration of all who beheld it. But I will not speak of it. It is better not.”
I was silent; my grief welling up within me. I had shed no tears. My mother said it would be better if I did.
Simon said: “His last thoughts were of you. I had a word with him. You were his great concern…you and your mother. He longed to see you in the care of a strong man. That was one of his greatest desires. Damask, I am here to take care of you. You need a strong arm to lean on; you need the love which only a husband can give you. Let us delay no longer. It would be his wish and remember, you are alone in a dangerous world. When a man is arraigned for treason who knows what is in store for his family? You need me to care for you, Damask, as I need you because I love you.”
I looked at him and the old repellence came back. I fancied I saw the fox’s mask and I drew away from him. Doubtless my expression betrayed my feelings.
“I would not marry for expediency,” I said, “though, Simon, I am grateful to you for what you have done for me at this cruel time, but I could not marry you, for I do not love you and I would not marry where I did not love.”
He turned and left me.
I forgot him; I could think of nothing but my loss.
Two days after my father’s murder a strange thing happened. They had not told me, because they did not wish to grieve me, that Father’s head had been placed on one of the poles which were stuck on London Bridge. He was well known in the city and this was meant to be a warning to all men who planned to disobey the orders of the King. It would be called the head of a traitor. There were other grizzly spectacles there and to have known that his was among them would have been too much to be borne. I remembered how five years before our neighbor, Sir Thomas More, had been beheaded and his head stuck on the bridge. His head had disappeared and rumor had it that his daughter Margaret Roper had gone by night and taken her father’s head that it might no longer be exposed and be given decent burial.
Had I known that Father’s head was there I should have planned to do what Margaret had done. I would have asked Simon Caseman to help me.
One of the servants brought the news to us that Father’s head was no longer there. It had disappeared. He had seen for himself. One of the watermen had told him that there was consternation because at dawn the pole on which it had been placed was lying on the bridge and the head was gone.
They were all talking of Sir Thomas More, a man who would never be forgotten, for his goodness lived on in the minds of men and there were many who thought he was a saint. He had had a beloved daughter who it was said had taken his head; my father also had a beloved daughter.
I wished that I had done what Margaret did. I wished that I had gone stealthily by night and taken down that beloved head that I might give it decent burial.
But the mystery remained.
My father’s head had disappeared.
The days were empty. I could not believe that only four had passed since that terrible time when my mother had made me drink poppy juice and I had slept while he went to his death.
I should have been there. But I knew he would have wished me to be unconscious during that dark hour. He would have approved my mother’s action. I could think of nothing but my loss. I recalled so much of our life together. Everywhere in the house were memories of him.
It was the same in the garden. I wandered down to the river and sat on the wall watching the river craft and I thought as I had so many times of the day when the King and the Cardinal had passed.
I stayed there until it was dusk and my mother came out and said: “You will be ill if you go on like this.”
I went back to the house with her, but I could not stay indoors and I wandered once more out into the garden and watched the first stars appear.
And then I heard my name called softly and turning, I saw that Rupert had joined me.
“Oh, Rupert,” I said, “I feel none of us can ever be happy again.”
“Pain cannot last forever,” he said gently. “It will become less acute and there will be times in the future when you will forget.”
“Never,” I said fiercely.
“You are so young and he meant so much to you. But others could mean as much. Your husband…y
our children….”
I shook my head impatiently and he went on: “I have something to tell you.”
I thought that he was going to suggest marriage again and I wanted to leave him and go into the house, but his next words startled me.
“I have his head, Damask.”
“What?”
“I knew that you would not wish it to remain there. So when it was dark I took Tom Skillen with me. I knew I could trust him. He waited in the boat and I took down the pole….I have his head…for you.”
I turned toward him and his arms were around me. He held me against him.
“Oh, Rupert,” I said at length, “if you had been caught….”
“I was not caught, Damask.”
“You might have been. You risked great danger.”
“Damask,” he said, “I want you to know that I would risk everything I have for your sake.”
I was silent and then I said: “Where is it?”
“It is in a box…hidden. I knew you would wish to give it decent burial.”
I nodded. I said: “He once said that he would like to be buried in the Abbey burial ground.”
“We will bury him there, Damask.”
“Can we?”
“Why should we not? The place is deserted.”
“Rupert! Only you and I must know. Only you and I will be the mourners at his funeral.”
“It would be better so.”
“Rupert, it is a comfort to me to know that he no longer is there…for people to look at him…perchance to mock, to shame him.”
“Goodness is not shamed no matter how it is mocked.”
I seized his hand and pressed it.
“When shall we bury him, Rupert?”
“Tonight,” he said. “When the household is asleep. We will go to the Abbey burial grounds and there we will lay him to rest.”
We went through the ivy-covered door. How eerie it looked by the faint light from the crescent moon. Rupert had brought a lantern and a spade.
The Miracle at St. Bruno's Page 17