The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  “If she had had a son he would never have rid himself of her. Sly little Jane and her ambitious uncles would have to have been content for her to hold sway as mistress instead of wife. Still, it is a lesson, is it not? It is dangerous to sport with Princes.”

  Later she talked of the days when we had discovered Bruno and all met together in the Abbey grounds.

  “Everything that happens to us has its effect,” said Kate. “What we are today is due to what happened to us then. We three started weaving a pattern. We shall go on with it for the rest of our lives.”

  “You mean Bruno, you and me?”

  “You know very well I mean just that. We shall always be involved with each other. We will be like fruit on a tree…first the buds, then the fruit and when our time comes we shall drop off one by one. But we shall always be on the same branch, Damask. Remember that.”

  I did remember it after she had gone, and I wondered what she and Bruno said to each other when they met and I was not present. I wondered what passed between them.

  But it did not seem of any great importance. I was absorbed by my child.

  That December the King marched up to Scotland and defeated the Scots at Solway Moss. We did not talk very much about the war. Scotland seemed far away. But for his services to the Crown the King presented Lord Remus with an estate on the border with the result that he remained there for some months so that Kate came to visit us once more.

  I knew that she had left us most reluctantly. The Abbey fascinated her still as it had when we were children. She would wander off alone and I believe she often went to that spot where we all used to meet. She was not sentimental, she insisted, it was merely a pleasant spot and it was rather amusing to recall old times.

  I saw her once or twice with Bruno. I wondered if he talked to her of his plans and I wondered whether she warned him of making the place too similar to what it had been in the old days.

  She said that I had become too much the housewife, the fussy mother, my thoughts straying to the nursery when she wished to discuss something serious with me. I pointed out that her notion of serious talk was generally gossip. This she conceded but added that gossip was at the very roots of great events. I should know that by now.

  It was June again—Catherine’s first birthday. Clement made a cake for her and we had a little ceremony in the nursery. I suppose Carey and Honey enjoyed it more than Catherine, but she was such a bright child and her eyes were round with wonder as she watched the other children.

  Kate refused to come to the celebration; so did Bruno. I felt resentful toward them both for this; but Kate snapped her fingers. So at the party were myself and their nurses; Clement and Eugene who adored the children joined us and played games to the amusement of the young people. Clement was very good at crawling around the floor like a dog carrying them on his back while he barked realistically.

  I laughed so much to see them.

  Kate was full of Court gossip as usual, for the King had found his new wife.

  “Poor lady!” cried Kate. “They say she is somewhat reluctant. She adores Thomas Seymour. What a man! Uncle of the young Prince Edward and…irresistible. But the King has cast his eyes in her direction and so Master Thomas for all his buccaneering ways must needs retreat and Lady Katharine Latimer—another Kate, you see, how his Grace seems to love the Kates, albeit briefly—though retiring and reluctant has no choice when the royal finger points to her and says, ‘You are the next.’ ”

  And so it was, for within a few weeks the King married Katharine Parr. Kate was disappointed that the wedding, although celebrated openly, was to take place in Hampton Court which meant of course that she would not be invited to attend.

  “How different from his marriages to those other English ladies, Anne Boleyn and Katharine Howard. They, poor ladies, were married secretly and in haste. There is no need to hasten over this.”

  “I wonder how she feels,” I said. “How would one feel if one’s predecessors had either been disposed of or died at one’s bridegroom’s command?”

  “I heard she was most reluctant. But she is no giddy girl. She nursed two husbands so doubtless is ready to nurse a third.”

  I thought about the Queen a great deal. I mentioned her in my prayers. I trusted that she would meet a better fate than the other wives of the King. I had no desire to go to Court as Kate had. I said to her that I would rather not have known the poor ladies who had suffered.

  By August I discovered I was pregnant again.

  Bruno was delighted. I had failed to give him a boy in my first attempt but I had shown that I was fruitful and would do so now.

  The thought of having another child delighted me, and that state of euphoria overcame me again. I was scarcely aware of anything else. I discussed children with my mother once more. I brought out the small garments which Catherine had worn when a baby. I thought of little but my child.

  It was almost Christmas again. I had already told the little girls that they would in due course have a brother or sister to join them in their nursery. I thought that Honey looked a little sullen at the time.

  Then she said: “I don’t want it.”

  “Oh, come, Honey,” I said. “You will love it. A dear little baby—imagine.”

  “I don’t want it,” she declared. “I don’t want Cat here. I want only Honey…like it was.”

  Jealousy was something I had always feared and had sought to avoid. I tried to make much of her, to show that it made no difference.

  She asked whom I loved best; herself, Catherine or the new one which was coming.

  I replied that I loved them all the same.

  “You don’t!” she cried. “You don’t.”

  I was quite disturbed about her. It was true, of course. I was fond of her. But how could I help loving my own child more dearly?

  The day after that conversation Honey was missing. I was full of remorse, accusing myself of betraying the fact in some way that she was less important to me than she had been. I must find her quickly. This was not easy. I searched the house, then I called in Clement. She had always been his special favorite and I thought he might know of some secret hiding place of hers.

  He was concerned. His first thoughts were for the fishponds. He took off the great white apron he wore and his hands still floury he ran as fast as he could to the ponds.

  Fortunately two of the fishers were there. They said they had been there all the morning and they would surely have seen the child if she had come that way.

  We were greatly relieved. By this time Eugene had joined us; there were also the children’s nurses and Clement thought it would be better if we split up and made two or three search parties. So this we did. I went with one of the young nursemaids, a girl of fourteen named Luce.

  I suddenly thought of the tunnels. I had never explored the tunnels. Many of them were blocked and Bruno had expressed a wish that no one should attempt to penetrate them as he feared they might be dangerous. When he was a boy there had been a collapse of earth in some of them; and one monk had been buried alive there.

  I thought of this as I ran toward the tunnels and imagined little Honey hurt because she thought she had been displaced by my own little girl and for this reason running away or going to some forbidden place.

  I had told her that she was not to go near the tunnels or the fishponds, but when children wish to call attention to themselves or are unhappy because of some imagined slight I was well aware that the first thing they do is disobey.

  I called: “Honey! Honey!”

  There was no answer.

  “She would surely not enter the tunnels,” said the nurse. “She would be afraid.”

  I was not sure.

  To reach the tunnel it was necessary to descend a stone stairway; and this I proceeded to do. The young nursemaid stood at the top of the stairs, too frightened to descend, but I was too anxious about Honey to be afraid.

  I called her name as I went. Having come in from the bright sunshine I c
ould see nothing for a while. And then suddenly from below a dark figure loomed up out of the gloom. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I took a step forward, the step was not there and I fell down two or three steps and landed on the dank soil.

  The dark figure bent over me. I screamed.

  A voice said: “Damask!”

  It was Bruno who stood over me and I could sense his anger.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I…I fell.”

  “I know that. You came here in the dark! For what purpose?”

  “Honey is lost,” I said. He helped me to my feet. I was shaking.

  He said: “Are you all right?” There was anxiety in his voice and I thought resentfully: It is not for me, it is for the child.

  I replied shakily: “Yes, I am all right. Have you seen Honey? She is lost.”

  He was impatient.

  “I have asked you not to enter these tunnels.”

  “I never have before. It was because the child might have wandered down.”

  “She is not here. I should have seen her if she had been.”

  He took me by the arm and together we mounted the stairway. When we reached the top he studied me intently. Then he said: “Never go down there again. It is unsafe.”

  I said: “What of you, Bruno?”

  “I know those tunnels. I knew them as a boy. I should know what to avoid and how to take care.”

  I was too concerned about Honey to question this at the time, but it would come back to me later.

  He left us abruptly and the nursemaid and I went back to the house. Honey was still not found.

  I was getting frantic when a young boy from one of the shepherds’ dwellings came with a message.

  Honey was at Mother Salter’s cottage. Would I go to bring her home as soon as I could?

  I lost no time but went immediately to the cottage in the woods.

  The fire was burning as I had seen it many times before and above it was the soot-black pot. On one side of the fire sat Mother Salter; she did not seem to have altered since I had first seen her, and on the other fireside seat sat Honey. There were smudges on her face and her gown was dirty. I gave a cry of joy and ran to her. I would have embraced her but she held aloof. I was aware of Mother Salter’s watching eyes.

  “Honey!” I cried. “Where have you been? I have been so frightened.”

  “Did you think you had lost me?”

  “Oh, Honey. I was afraid something dreadful had happened to you.”

  “You wouldn’t care. You have Catty and the new one coming.”

  I said: “Oh, Honey, do not think that means I can bear to part with you.”

  She was still half sullen. “You can bear it,” she said. “You like Catty best.”

  “Honey, I love you both.”

  “The child does not think so.” It was Mother Salter speaking in her low croaking voice.

  “She is wrong. I have been frantic with anxiety.”

  “Take her then. It would be well to love her.”

  “Come, Honey,” I said, “you want to come home, don’t you? You don’t want to stay here?”

  She looked around the room and I could see that she was fascinated by what she saw. “Wrekin likes me.”

  “Spot and Pudding like you,” I said, naming two of our dogs.

  She nodded with pleasure. I had taken her hand and she did not resist. She continued to gaze around the room and because she had not learned to disguise her feelings I could see she was comparing it with her comfortable nursery at the Abbey. She wanted to come home but did not wish me to have too easy a victory. I knew Honey. She was a possessive, jealous little creature. For some time she had had me to herself and deeply she resented sharing me.

  “It is the same with all elder children,” I said to Mother Salter.

  “Take care of this child,” she replied. “Take the utmost care.”

  “I have always done so.”

  “It would be well for you that you do.”

  “There is no need for threats. I love Honey. It was a common enough sort of jealousy. How did she come here?”

  “I watch over this child. She ran away and was lost in the wood. I knew it and sent a boy to find her. He brought her to me.”

  Her eyes were veiled; her mouth was smiling but her eyes were cold.

  “I should know if she lacked aught,” she went on.

  “Then you know how well cared for she is.”

  “Take the child back. She is tired. She will know to come to me if she is in need.”

  “She will never be in need while I am here to care for her.”

  As we left the cottage I gripped Honey’s hand tightly.

  “Never, never run away again,” I said.

  “I won’t if you love me best…better than Cat…better than the new one.”

  “I can’t love you better, Honey. There is not all that love in the world. I can love you as well.”

  “I don’t want the new one. I told Granny Salter I didn’t want the new one.”

  “But there will be three of you. Three is better than two.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “One’s best.”

  I took her home and washed the grime from her, gave her milk and a great slice of cob bread freshly baked for her by Clement with a big H on it. This delighted her and she was happy again.

  But when she was in bed I was seized by gripping pains and that night I miscarried.

  My mother, hearing what happened, had come over at once bringing the midwife with her.

  “It would have been a little boy,” said the midwife. I did not entirely believe her; she was one of those lugubrious women who liked a tragedy to be of the first magnitude. She knew that we had wanted a boy.

  It was great good fortune, she implied, that I had survived at all and it was in fact due to her great skill. I was confined to my bed for a week and during this time I had time to think. I could not forget Bruno’s face when he knew what had happened. The precious child lost! Surely the King himself had not looked more thunderous when he had stood over his sad Queen’s bed. I even imagined I saw hatred in his face then.

  I thought a good deal about Bruno. I recalled seeing him at night from my window. He had been coming from the tunnels then. And why should he have been in the tunnels on that day when I had gone to look for Honey? If there was a danger of the earth collapsing it could do so at any time, and it was no safer for him than for anyone else.

  By April of the following year I knew that I was again with child. The change in Bruno when he knew this was astonishing. Passionately he wanted children and yet when they arrived he was indifferent to them…at least he was to Catherine. Honey of course he had always resented. If my child was a boy how would he be? Would he try to take him from me?

  Sometimes I would grow oddly apprehensive.

  What did I know of this strange man who was my husband? What had I ever known? During those years when he had lived in the Abbey—the child who had been sent to them from heaven for some purpose—his character had been formed. Then rudely he had been awakened to the truth; and now it seemed he would spend his life proving that he was indeed apart from other men.

  I felt I understood him; and for this reason I could feel tender toward him; but I was beginning to see how happy we might have been. This rebuilding of our little world was a fascinating project. We were giving work to many people and the neighborhood was becoming prosperous again; people were now beginning to look to the Abbey almost as they had in the old days. What happy useful lives we could have led if Bruno had not been possessed by a need to prove himself superhuman.

  I saw less of him during my pregnancy. He worked as though in a frenzy. We had moved from the Abbot’s Lodging to the monks’ frater while the lodging was being rebuilt. Bruno had designed the house in the old Norman style, like a castle.

  There was something eerie about the monks’ quarters. There was no room large enough for us to share and we occupied separate bedchambers. Ho
ney and Catherine had one of the cells for theirs; they could have had separate ones—there were enough cells, heaven knew—but I feared they might be frightened. I myself used to fancy I could hear slow stealthy footsteps in the night and often coming up the winding staircase I would think I saw a ghostly shape. It was imagination of course; but I used to lie awake and think of the monks who had lived in this place for two hundred years and wondered what they had thought as they lay in their cells at night. I grew fanciful as women will when pregnant and I asked myself whether when people died they left something behind them for those who came after. I thought more often than before during that period of the terrible day when Rolf Weaver had come; and I could imagine the terror of the monks when they knew that he and his men were in the Abbey.

  Sometimes I would get up in the night and look through the grille in the door at the children, just to make sure that they were safe. I should be glad when we could move back to our completed house. But when I was with child what happened outside my little world was of a minor importance. I was the kind of woman who was first a mother; even my feelings for Bruno were maternal. Perhaps if this had not been so I might have been more aware of what was happening about me.

  There was a change in Caseman Court.

  I did not visit the house often because I did not wish to see Simon Caseman, but there was little that was subtle about my mother and she dropped scraps of information. She told me that some of the ornaments that used to be in the chapel had been sold; and she let out once that there was a copy of Tyndale’s translation of the Bible in a secret place in the chapel.

  If Simon Caseman was embracing the doctrines of the Reformed Church, he was in as great a danger as I feared Bruno might be in bringing back monks to the Abbey. I used to argue with myself as I might have done with my father. Of what importance was it in what manner one worshiped God as long as one obeyed the tenets of Christianity, which I believed were summed up in the simple injunction to love one’s neighbor?

  It was a strange summer; through the long days the sound of workmen laying bricks could be heard. I saw less and less of Bruno, and I often thought that while the men built up the walls of our grandiose castle he was fast building a wall between us which was becoming so high that it threatened to shut him off from me altogether.