The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  It was no use remonstrating with Bruno though what he could do to save himself I could not imagine. I had no doubt that not only had Simon Caseman seen with his own eyes what was going on in the Abbey but he would have witnesses.

  It occurred to me that I might take the girls and go to Kate. Would that save them? Would it involve Kate?

  The tension was so unbearable that it left me numb; I felt as though I could only wait for what would happen next. I tried to act normally and went along to the bakehouse as I often did in the mornings to consult Clement about the food for the day. He had been present in the church last night.

  I was surprised for he did not seem unduly perturbed.

  “Clement,” I said, “what will become of us all, think you?”

  “We shall be safe,” he answered complacently.

  “You think those were idle threats?”

  Clement raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Bruno will save us from evil.”

  “How can that be?”

  “His ways are miraculous.”

  There was a complacency about the man which astonished me. He did not seem to realize that he could be dragged to a place of execution, hanged, cut down while still alive and barbarously tortured. Had he not heard of the monks of the Charterhouse? What had they done but deny the supremacy of the King as Head of the Church. His actions would be considered as treasonable!

  “You heard what that man said last night, Clement. You were there.”

  “I was there. But Bruno spoke to us afterward. He said there was no need to fear.”

  “What can he do to save us?”

  “That is for him and God.”

  They believe he is divine, I thought. Oh, what a rude awakening they would have on the morrow!

  The sudden vision of kind simple Clement, who had carried my children on his back and had surreptitiously slipped them tidbits from his oven, being tortured was more than I could endure.

  “Clement,” I said, “you could get away. There is still time.”

  He looked at me in astonishment. “This is my life,” he said. Then he smiled at me almost pityingly. “You have no faith. But fear not. All will be well.”

  What faith they had in Bruno. During that day I realized what had been happening over the years. Bruno was not only refounding the Abbey, he was building up that image of himself which had been his before the coming of Rolf Weaver.

  That day everything was as usual. No one but myself seemed to be aware of the threat which was hanging over us.

  My mother called in the afternoon. I wondered whether Simon Caseman had confided in her and she had come to warn me. He could scarcely have told her of his suggestion to me.

  She had brought the usual basket of good things—her newest wine, a new form of tansy cake she had made, her own special brand of marchpane.

  She kissed me and said that I was not looking well. Her anxious eyes scrutinized me and I knew that she was wondering, as she did every time we met, whether or not I was with child.

  I quickly gathered that she knew nothing of her husband’s discovery for she was too frank to have been able to hide it, but she did talk to me about the merits of the Reformed religion.

  “And it is true, Damask,” she said, “that our King is of the Reformed faith. Poor lad, he is sick. They say that he never recovered from that bout of the smallpox. Some would say he was lucky to survive that at all.” She became very confidential. “I have heard it said that he cannot live long, poor boy.”

  “Mother,” I said, “has it occurred to you that if the King died, which I hope he will not, the Lady Mary could be Queen; and if she were, might there not be a return to Rome?”

  “Impossible!” cried my mother, growing pale at the thought.

  “Yet it is not an impossibility, Mother. Should we not be cautious about proclaiming our views until we are sure?”

  “If you know the true faith, Damask, how can you deny it?”

  “But what is the true faith? Why cannot we accept the simple rules of Christ? Why must it be so important that we worship in this way or that?”

  “I am not sure, Damask, but I think you may be speaking treason.”

  “Treason one day, Mother, is loyalty the next.” I was suddenly afraid for her, because she was so simple. She did not love a faith but a husband; she would have taken whatever he offered her. She proclaimed her beliefs in the Reformed faith because her husband had adopted them. Yet she could die for those beliefs as others had before her.

  I embraced her suddenly.

  “My dear child, you are affectionate today.”

  “How should I know whether I shall be in a position to be so tomorrow?”

  “My word, we are gloomy! What ails you, Damask? You are not sickening for something? I will give you a little draft which contains thyme. That will give you pleasant dreams and tomorrow you will wake up in love with all the world.”

  Tomorrow? I thought. What will tomorrow bring?

  But I must not alarm my mother. She was happy for today. Let her remain so. My father had once said that, living in such times as ours, we should take no thought for the morrow; we should savor each hour and if it contained pleasure, enjoy that to the full.

  I could not in any case speak to her of my anxieties. How could I tell her that the man she had married and on whom she doted as though he were some prophet from heaven was threatening to destroy us and had offered me security if I became his mistress?

  The day seemed long. I could settle to nothing. I went to the scriptorium as I sometimes did and listened to the girls at their lessons. What will become of them? I asked myself; and I wished, as my father had wished for me, that they were securely married and living somewhere far removed from the stresses caused by men’s clashes of opinion.

  At dinner we sat at the family table on the dais and the rest of the household at the large one in the hall, and although when a sound was heard from without I was aware of furtive looks in the direction of the door and I knew some of the company were attacked by acute apprehension and some trembled in their seats, there was no outward indication of alarm and confident looks were cast in Bruno’s direction.

  It was just as we were about to leave the table that a messenger did arrive.

  I shall never forget the awful consternation which filled that hall. I rose to my feet. I had taken the hand of Catherine who was seated next to me. Her startled gaze was turned toward me. I thought: Oh, God, it has come. What will become of us all?

  Bruno had risen too but he showed no apprehension. Calmly he left his place and went forward to greet the messenger.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  “I bring ill news,” said the messenger. “The King is dead.”

  I could sense the breaking of the tension; it was as though everyone present gave a long-drawn-out “Ah.” The King was dead. Who could say what would happen next? The Lady Mary was in line for the throne. The Abbey was saved.

  I saw Bruno’s complacent smile. I saw the look of wonder in the faces of those who had been with him in the church last night.

  He had promised them a miracle—for only a miracle could save the Abbey from Simon Caseman’s treachery. And this was their miracle. The death of the King; the end of the Protestant rule. The Catholic Princess awaiting to mount the throne.

  Momentarily he caught my eye. I saw the triumph there; the enormous pride which I was beginning to think no one ever possessed in such strength as he did.

  And immediately I thought: He knew all the time. He knew the King was dead. He knew that if Simon Caseman’s accusation against him was going to succeed he should have brought it months ago. He arranged for the messenger to bring the news at a time when it would create the greatest effect. I was beginning to know well this man whom I had married.

  There was no thought in anyone’s mind now but what was going to happen next.

  When I heard that Edward had died two days before the fact was made known I was certain that Bruno had known of this and for t
his reason he had flouted Simon Caseman and decided to impress his followers by his miracle.

  I was building up such a cynical view of my husband that I began to wonder whether I hated him.

  But he was less complacent when the news came that the Duke of Northumberland had persuaded the King to set aside his two sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, on the grounds of their illegitimacy, and to declare his cousin Lady Jane Grey the true heir to the throne; but Mary had too much support for this to be accepted and immediately a Catholic faction began to form about her and the country was divided. Families were divided. The only aspect which made me rejoice was the fact that we had a respite. The affairs of the country were so much more important than those of a single abbey and no one was going to arrest people who, were Mary to come to the throne, would be considered true and loyal subjects while those who arrested them would be the traitors.

  The country was in a ferment of excitement.

  My mother came over to the Abbey trembling and apprehensive. Simon had gone to Northumberland to offer his services in the support of Jane Grey, whom my mother called the true Queen.

  I knew why Simon had gone. It was imperative to him that Jane Grey become the Queen of England that the Reformed faith might be preserved. He had come down too far on its side to withdraw. I suspected him of expediency but I was not entirely sure that this was all his motive. He had adopted the Reformed faith when it was not safe to do so and the greatest villains could be very firm in their views when it came to religion.

  “She is a virtuous woman, Queen Jane,” said my mother. “She has lived a life of piety.”

  “I believe the same can be said of those whom many call Queen Mary.”

  “She is no Queen. Her father’s marriage was invalid,” cried my mother. “Was her mother not first the bride of King Henry’s brother, Arthur?”

  “There are many who will support her,” I said.

  “They will be the Papists,” my mother said bitterly.

  “It is a strange thing, Mother,” I said, “but many Englishmen will be ready to support whomsoever they call the true Queen whatever their religion. I believe that to be so. And Mary has a great claim and after her Elizabeth.”

  “Bastards!” cried my mother, almost in tears, which showed me that she was afraid that Queen Jane’s chances of holding the throne might not be good.

  “Hush, Mother, do not become embroiled. It would go ill for you if any heard you call one who may well soon be our Queen by that name.”

  “She never shall be,” said my mother fiercely.

  The next day she came over to tell me that a vintner’s boy had been deprived of his ears because he had declared in the Chepe that Queen Jane was not the true Queen and had shouted for Queen Mary.

  “You see,” said my mother firmly, “what happens to those who would deny the truth.”

  There were many rumors. We heard that Jane was reluctant to take the crown. She was but a child—sixteen years old—not much older than Honey and this had been forced upon her by ambitious men. I felt sorry for poor Jane because the Princess Mary’s case was growing stronger every day. She was after all the daughter of King Henry VIII whereas Jane was only the granddaughter of his sister.

  In the city people whispered together, afraid to voice an opinion openly, but I sensed that the majority of people were against Queen Jane, partly because they loathed her father-in-law Northumberland and were in no mood to accept his dominance but chiefly because they knew that Mary was the true heir to the throne.

  This was in fact a division between the new Protestants and the old Catholics and the Reformed religion being so new had not yet taken a firm hold of the people.

  Mary had fled to Norfolk and found thousands rallying to her cause. She was proclaimed Queen in Norwich. She crossed the border into Suffolk and set up her standard at Framlingham Castle.

  Each day we waited for news. When Ridley, the Bishop of London, preached in favor of Queen Jane my mother was delighted.

  “ ’Twill all come right,” she said. “Such a sweet good girl she is!”

  But a few days later the Earls of Pembroke and Arundel were proclaiming Mary Queen of England at Paul’s Cross and we realized then that the nine days’ reign was at an end. Poor little Jane could not stand out against the might of right. Mary was the true heiress of England; poor pathetic Jane was cast out.

  I went to see my mother because I guessed she would be very anxious.

  “What is happening?” she cried, distraught. “What can people be thinking of? The Queen has the favor of the Bishop of London. Who can gainsay that?”

  “Many,” I said, and I was filled with anxiety for her. “You will have to be very careful now. Do not talk freely to the servants. Heaven knows what this is going to mean.” Then I realized that, as I with my family had moved into a certain security, my mother and hers had come close to danger.

  I took the books Simon had instructed her to read and hid them.

  “You should not keep them here. We are about to begin a reign of the sternest Catholic rule. You must live very quietly for a while. It must not be remembered that you support Queen Jane.”

  It was difficult to feign an indifference to the fate of Queen Jane. It seemed one must either support or reject. There was no middle way. I was sorry for the young girl, who had been such a reluctant Queen, knowing full well that she had no right to the title. I trusted she would be forgiven and not have to suffer for the ambition of others; but I could not help but rejoice that my home had been saved by her downfall.

  Her sad little story was reaching its tragic climax. Nine days after Jane’s accession to the throne Mary was proclaimed Queen of England.

  Simon Caseman had returned unostentatiously to the house before that day, and was trying to pretend now that he had been away on business and had not gone to London to support Queen Jane. He was as ready as any to shout “Long live Queen Mary.” At least he was wise in that.

  I hoped he would continue to be so.

  It quickly became apparent that the comparatively peaceful years of Edward’s reign were over.

  Before the month was out Lady Jane and her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley, were committed to the Tower of London.

  Kate came to the Abbey from Remus, bringing Carey and Colas with her.

  She was excited as always by great events. She wanted us to ride out to Wanstead to see the new Queen come to her capital and the young people joined her in the clamor to go.

  I was glad to get away from the Abbey and we all rode out—myself and Kate with two of the men of our household to guard us and Carey, Honey, Catherine and Colas.

  Kate was excited because the Princess Elizabeth was going to meet her sister at Wanstead and accompany her into London. Indeed everyone was gay and excited. It seemed incredible that such a short time ago I had had such fears. But even now I could not get out of my mind the thought of my mother at Caseman Court and I was wondering how she was feeling since her husband had lost what he had hoped for and if his Lutheran tendency were known would be in the kind of danger which had threatened my household such a short while ago.

  I could not help noticing the admiring glances that came the way of my girls. Kate of course would always dominate any scene by that incomparable charm and now that she had poise and a certain look of experience to add to it, it had in no way diminished. But Honey was a beauty—in her way even more so than Kate. She was of course a child as yet but ready to burst into womanhood, and in her russet-colored velvet riding suit and her jaunty little feathered hat I thought she was one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen. As for Catherine, in a similar hat but of dark-green velvet, she sparkled with the love of life—in contrast to the rather brooding silence of Honey, so that what she lacked in actual beauty she made up for by her vital personality. And Carey, what a handsome boy he was—with a look of Kate and not unlike my girls either. As for eight-year-old Colas, the baby of the group, he was determined to enjoy every moment. They might well all have
been sisters and brothers. Catherine and Carey sparred continuously and we had to reprove them once or twice, telling Carey to remember not to speak to a lady as he spoke to Catherine, and Catherine to be less provoking.

  And at Wanstead we saw the Queen’s meeting with her sister Elizabeth. It was a historic moment, I thought—the daughters of Katharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn meeting at Wanstead.

  I’ll swear that more eyes were on the Princess Elizabeth than on the Queen. That red-haired young woman of twenty reminded me in some ways of my own Catherine. She was no beauty but possessed of vitality and charm which was in great contrast to the silent manners of the new Queen.

  Mary was dressed in violet-colored velvet which did nothing to enhance her aging looks, for she was thirty-seven years old. But the cheers were loyal and when the sisters kissed they rang out even louder.

  The sisters left Wanstead and rode toward the city. We joined in the press of people with our servants closing around us to ensure that we were given passage. I made the girls ride on either side of me, and so we came through the city portal at Aldgate and into London. Our young people chattered excitedly all the time. It was wonderful to see the streamers hanging from the windows and there were many groups of children to sing songs praising the new Queen; and in the Minories all the crafts of the city were represented in their appropriate costumes.

  We followed all the way down to the Tower; on the river gaily decked crafts seemed to prance with delight and sweet music could be heard everywhere as the guns boomed a salute.

  I wondered whether from some window in the Tower the Queen of nine days looked out on all this rejoicing and wondered what her fate would be. Of one thing there could be no doubt. London was welcoming the new Queen and heralding in the new reign.

  Catherine said suddenly: “What a pity that Peter and Paul did not come with us. How they would have loved the procession.”