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The Miracle at St. Bruno's

Page 26

by Philippa Carr


  I used to say to myself: But the King loves her. He does not wish to be rid of her. He will not let her die.

  Travelers called at the Abbey for one of the guesthouses had been thrown open as it had been in the old days. They told stories of the King’s great distress when he had heard of the scandals about his wife. It was particularly hard to bear because immediately before the news had been broken to him he had told his confessor, the Bishop of Lincoln, that he was so delighted to have found matrimonial bliss at last that he wished him to arrange a thanksgiving to God for giving him such a loving and virtuous Queen.

  We heard also that when the poor little Queen was told of what she had been accused her fears sent her into a frenzy, and knowing that the King was at prayers in the little chapel at the end of the long gallery in Hampton Court she had run down this, screaming hysterically while her attendants who had been ordered to keep her under restraint captured her and forced her to return to her apartments.

  A brooding sense of disaster was in the air. The King was all powerful. He stood between the two factions—Papists and anti-Papists—and in his eyes they could both be traitors, because those who did not accept the religion set out by him were enemies who should be punished by death. He made it clear that nothing was changed, but the head of the Church—the King instead of the Pope. He hated the Pope no less than he hated Martin Luther.

  But for me there was nothing of any great importance but the gestation of my child. I shut my eyes to the fact that the atmosphere in the Abbey was changing each day, and that since I had become pregnant I was treated with the awed respect which I had noticed was accorded to Bruno.

  When my mother heard of my condition she was overjoyed. She came to the Abbey bringing herbs and some of her concoctions. I would visit her and we talked together as women do. We were closer now than we had ever been.

  I admired the twins—Peter and Paul—two well-formed, lusty little boys. She doted on them, and could scarcely bear them out of her sight. They had even lured her from her garden. Constantly she discussed their tempers, their intelligence and their beauty. She refused to swaddle them because they protested lustily when she did so and she liked to see them kick their little limbs.

  I began to enjoy our chats. She had so much advice to offer and I knew that it was good. The midwife who had attended her she fancied was the best in the neighborhood and she was going to insist that she attended me when my time came.

  She made little garments for my baby when I knew she would rather have been stitching for her adored twins.

  I took to visiting her often for we had become not so much mother and daughter but two women discussing the subject nearest to our hearts. She confided to me that she hoped to have more children but even if she did not she considered herself singularly blessed to have had her two little boys and both healthy.

  One day though a tinge of alarm touched me.

  I was in her sewing room when beneath the material on which she was working I discovered a book. It was so unlike my mother to read anything that I was surprised and even more so when I picked it up. I opened it and glanced through it and as I did so I felt my heart begin to beat very quickly. There clearly enough were set out the arguments and the tenets of the new religion. I hastily shut the book as my mother approached but I could not forget it.

  At length I said: “Mother, what is this book you are reading?”

  “Oh,” she said with a grimace, “it is very dull, but I am struggling through it to please your stepfather.”

  “He wishes you to read it?”

  “He insists.”

  “Mother, I do not think you should leave such a book where any might pick it up.”

  “Why should I not? It is but a book.”

  “It is what it contains. It is a plea for the reformed religion.”

  “Oh, is it?” she said.

  “To please me be more careful.”

  She patted my hand. “You are just like your father,” she said. “You are one to make something from nothing. Now look at this. Already Master Paul is growing out of it. The rate that child grows astonishes me!”

  I was thinking: So Simon Caseman is dabbling with the reformed religion!

  I thought of the Abbey where a community life alarmingly similar to the old was gradually, perhaps subtly, but certainly being built up.

  It occurred to me then that Simon Caseman, for harboring such a book in his house, and Bruno, for installing monks in his newly acquired Abbey, could both be deemed traitors.

  A short while ago I would have gone home and argued the matter with Bruno. I might even have gone so far as to caution Simon Caseman, but strangely enough the matters seemed of secondary importance for I had just begun to feel the movement of my child and I forgot all else.

  I was like my mother, shut into a little world in which the miracle of creation absorbed me.

  Perhaps all pregnant women are so.

  Christmas was almost upon us and I had decorated Honey’s little room with holly and ivy and told her the Christmas story.

  In those December days preceding Christmas there had been a great deal of talk about the King’s matter. Even my mother mentioned it. There was great sympathy for the Queen who it was said was in a state of hysteria and had been ever since her accusation. Many believed that this was an implication of her guilt.

  “And if she had taken a lover, poor soul,” I said to my mother as we sat over our sewing, “is that so very wrong?”

  “Outside the bonds of matrimony!” cried my mother, aghast.

  “She believed herself married to Dereham.”

  “Then she deserves death for marrying the King.”

  “Life is cruel for a woman,” I said.

  My mother pursed her lips virtuously. “Not if she is a dutiful wife.”

  “Poor little Katharine Howard! She is so young to die.”

  But my mother was not really moved by the young girl’s fate. It occurred to me that in a world where death came frequently the value of life was not really great.

  It was just before Christmas that Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpepper were executed. Culpepper was beheaded but Dereham, because he was not of noble birth, suffered the barbarous hanging and quartering, the traitor’s death.

  I thought of them all that day—poor young men, whose crime had been to love the Queen.

  At that time we thought these deaths would be enough and that the King so loved Katharine Howard that we were sure he would pardon her. Alas it was not to be so. The Queen had too many enemies. As a Howard she was a Catholic and many of the King’s ministers did not wish to see a Catholic influence on the King.

  Her fate was sealed when the King’s ministers, before he could prevent them, circulated the story of her misconduct abroad and after this the King’s own honor being involved he could scarcely with dignity take her back.

  François Premier sent condolences. He was shocked by the “great displeasures, troubles and inquietations which his good brother had recently had by the naughty demeanor of her, lately reputed for Queen.”

  Distressed, wounded and humiliated (this last a state calculated to arouse his anger against the cause of it) the King did not intervene to save Katharine and on a bleak February day the King’s fifth wife walked out to Tower Hill where but six years before her cousin Anne Boleyn had met a similar fate.

  A hush was on the land on that terrible day. Five Queens—two divorced, one died in childbirth (and who knew what her fate would have been had she lived?) and two beheaded.

  The people were beginning to wonder what monster this was who sat on their throne; and when they saw him, as they did occasionally on public occasions, and in place of the handsome golden boy who thirty years before had been romantically in love with his Spanish wife, was a portly bloated figure—purple of complexion, tight-mouthed, eyes peering through slits in that unsightly countenance, a suppurating ulcer on his leg, they lowered their eyes but they dared do no other than shout “Long live the King
.”

  They remembered that whatever else he was, he was their all-powerful ruler.

  My baby was due in June. The larger I grew the more impatient I became. One of the men who had come to the Abbey and who I suspected used to help Brother Ambrose in the old days had made a little garden for me at the back of the Abbot’s Lodging. My mother had advised and sent me plants and I grew quite fond of it. Here I would sit with my sewing and watch Honey at play. Now over two years old, she was a lively child; I had told her that she would soon have a companion and she used to ask every day how much longer it would be before it arrived.

  My mother had advice to offer every time we met. She had become a frequent visitor to the Abbey. I wondered whether she would notice that some of the workers were onetime monks, and mention this to Simon. I remembered the book I had seen in my mother’s room. If Simon was flirting with the new religion he might do us some harm. Besides, I had a feeling that he would not forgive me for refusing him and for taking the Abbey and Bruno. But as he too was acting outside the King’s law, he would have to walk very warily himself.

  My mother, however, noticed nothing strange; she would only comment on the manner in which I was carrying the child and impress upon me that the moment I felt the first signs I was to send a messenger to Caseman Court. She would at once send for the midwife and come herself. That was only if we should have miscalculated the time. If we had been right then the midwife would be in residence days before the expected event.

  It was April—two months before my child was due—when I became aware of a change in Bruno. He was often absentminded. Sometimes when I spoke to him he did not answer.

  I said to him: “Bruno, all this rebuilding must be very costly. Are you perchance anxious about the expense?”

  He looked at me in a startled fashion.

  “What gave you that notion?”

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  He frowned. “Mayhap I am anxious about you.”

  “About me? But I am well.”

  “Having a child is a trying time.”

  “You must not fear. Everything will be all right.”

  “I shall be glad when our son is born.”

  “I’m afraid when you say ‘our son’ in that way. What if we should have a daughter?”

  “My firstborn must be a son,” he said, and what I thought of as his prophet’s face was very apparent. “It will be so,” he continued firmly.

  He convinced me then, as he could at times, that he had special powers.

  I smiled complacently. Son or daughter I should love either. But if Bruno cared so intensely that it should be a son then I hoped so too.

  “I am glad there is no need to worry about money. You must be exceedingly rich. I know this place cannot be producing much so far.”

  “I beg you, Damask, leave these matters to me.”

  “I would not have you worried. Mayhap we could postpone some of this building until the farm and the mill begin to show a profit.”

  He laughed and the fanatical gleam was in his eyes.

  “Doubt not that I can do all that I set out to do.”

  He came over to me and kissed my brow.

  “As for you, Damask, all I ask of you is to give me my son.”

  “It cannot be too soon for me,” I assured him.

  It was a few nights later. I awoke suddenly and found that Bruno was not beside me.

  It was well past midnight and I wondered whether he had gone over to the scriptorium. He was often there with Valerian and it occurred to me that he might be going over accounts. Deep in my mind the thought persisted that he was concerned about money.

  I rose from my bed and went quietly into Honey’s room; she was sleeping peacefully. Then I went to the bedchamber I shared with Bruno and going to the window looked out. There was no light in the scriptorium, so Bruno could not be there.

  I sat down on the window seat looking out at those buildings—the cloisters, the gray walls, all that I could see of the Abbey. I wondered whether the old Abbot had ever sat on this very window seat, sleepless perhaps, looking out on his domain. I looked across to the tall tower of the Abbey church and beyond it I could see the first of the fishponds; moonlight touched its waters with a silver light.

  My child moved within me and happily I placed my hand reassuringly on it.

  “Soon now, my little one,” I murmured, “and never was a child awaited with such joy.”

  I was dreaming of my child though I refused to think of it as a boy; although I knew that Bruno did and so did others in the Abbey. There was no one in this place who did not await with awe and reverence the birth of my child. I could well understand how Queen Anne Boleyn had felt when she was with child. It had been so important for her to produce a boy. I wondered what her feelings had been when the Lady Elizabeth was born. And later when she had given birth to a stillborn boy!

  My thoughts were interrupted suddenly for clearly in the moonlight I saw a figure gliding across the sward. I thought at first it was the ghost for the figure was wearing the robes of a monk of St. Bruno’s and over his head was a cowl which concealed his face. This was the ghost I had seen when I visited my father’s grave.

  I stood up, my hands on my body as though to calm the child. The figure was coming from the direction of the tunnels and making its way toward the scriptorium.

  It turned suddenly and looked toward the monks’ dorter and as it did so, the cowl fell back from his head and I saw that it was Bruno.

  He hastily pulled up the cowl and went toward the scriptorium; later I saw the light of a lantern there.

  I went back to bed. I was puzzled. I could understand his going to the scriptorium in the night if some detail had occurred to him, but from whence had he come and why should he have worn the garb of a monk? I felt certain then that the ghost who had reputedly haunted the Abbey was Bruno.

  I went back to bed and lay there pondering. I must have slept for when I awoke it was time almost for rising and Bruno was beside me.

  I made a sudden decision to say nothing of the matter and this decision in itself was an indication of the changing relationship between us.

  It was less than a week later when Bruno came into my sitting room where I was reading to Honey and said he had something to say to me.

  He said: “Damask, I have to go away for a short while.”

  “Away?” I cried. “But where?”

  “It is necessary for me to travel to the Continent.”

  “For what purpose?”

  A faint irritation crossed his features. “A matter of business.”

  “Abbey business?”

  He said patiently: “You will realize that the development of these Abbey lands goes on apace.”

  “I notice,” I replied, “that it grows more like the old community every day.”

  “What can you know of the old community, Damask? You were never here. You saw everything from the outside.”

  “There are several of the old monks here,” I said, “and they regard you as their Abbot.”

  “They look on me as their master, which I am. I have given these men work as I might give work to any laborers.”

  “The difference being that they have worked here before. They have tilled the soil and baked the bread and caught the fish…and lived the life of solitude. What is the difference in what they were doing now and doing then?”

  “A great difference,” said Bruno, a trifle impatiently. “Then this was a monastic order—something of which you are entirely ignorant. Now it is a manor house. It happens to have features of a monastery because it was once an abbey. I do beg of you not to interfere in what does not concern you.”

  “I must always speak what is in my mind and always shall.” I was getting excited and feared it would be bad for the child, so I went on meekly: “You were telling me that you were going abroad.”

  “Yes, I am not sure how long I shall be away. It may be several weeks, maybe longer.”

  “Where are
you going, Bruno?”

  “To France…to the Low Countries perhaps. You have nothing to fear. You will be well looked after here.”

  “I am not afraid for myself,” I said. “There is no question of that. Why are you going?”

  “There are business matters to which I have to attend.”

  “Abbey business?”

  He was clearly impatient with my persistence. “My dear Damask, this is a costly enterprise. If we are to continue we must make it a profitable one. There are certain edible roots which are commonly used on the Continent and very palatable they are and good to eat. I am going to learn of these. There are carrots and turnips which have not been grown in this country. I wish to learn of how to produce them and perhaps to bring some back with me. Hops for making beer are grown a great deal in Holland. To discover such matters it is necessary for me to go and see for myself.”

  It seemed reasonable, but I thought of his prowling about at night and I wondered why he had thought it advisable to wear a monk’s robes. He must have been impersonating a ghost. It could only mean that if he were seen not only did he not wish to be recognized but he wanted anyone who saw him to be afraid.

  It was mysterious. If Honey had not been there I should have been unable to restrain my curiosity and asked for an explanation. But this was not the moment.

  Later I considered it again. The more I knew of Bruno, the more I realized I did not know. There were times when he was like a stranger to me. He showed so clearly that he resented my curiosity, and the relationship between us was changing quickly.

  In a few days he had left.

  One day during Bruno’s absence, Rupert came riding over to the Abbey. I called a groom to take his horse and then conducted him to the solar and sent for wine. Honey came in and Rupert picked her up and swung her in his arms. There was immediate friendship between them.

 

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