The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  I forgot everything else but that he was my husband and I had loved him once.

  “Bruno,” I cried. “Bruno!”

  I knelt beside him. I brought the lantern close. His body was crushed and his eyes were wide open, staring at me but there was no recognition in them.

  I must get help, I told myself. I looked about me for the entrance to this place and I saw that I was in a kind of chamber. The sides of it were of rock, as was the ceiling. It had been built, I guessed, to store the Abbey’s treasures. And this great figure lying on the floor ablaze with jewels I had seen before. It was the jeweled Madonna of the secret chapel.

  It was comparatively easy to make my way out of the chamber but doing so I tripped over a lever of some sort and in that moment I heard a rambling sound. I thought that it was due to a fall of earth, but this was not so. I turned. The chamber had disappeared. I knew that a door had slid down shutting it off and that I was on one side of that door, Bruno on the other. I set down the lantern and examined the door. I could see no handle on it, no catch, no means of opening it. Then just as I had had the compulsion to follow Bruno, so I had the intense desire to get away.

  I was alone in those dark tunnels. I must try to bring help to Bruno for I could do nothing alone. Slowly I found my way back to the steps.

  Who could best help? I thought at once of Valerian. I knew where he slept. It was in one of the old guesthouses where several of the monks had their quarters.

  Still carrying the lantern I went to his room. It was as I expected—the crucifix on the wall, the hard pallet, a desk, a chair and no other furniture.

  “Valerian!” I cried.

  He started up from his bed and I said: “I have just come from the tunnels. I followed Bruno there tonight. There has been a terrible accident.”

  “Bruno is dead,” he answered quietly.

  “How can you know that?”

  “I know it,” he replied. He put on a fustian robe and went on: “We will go back to the tunnels.”

  I said: “I must explain to you. I followed him. I felt a compulsion to do so.”

  He nodded.

  “I found him in a sort of chamber. There was a great glittering figure there. I had seen it before because he had shown it to me and to Kate when we were children. I think he was going to kill me. The figure fell…he was beneath it. I came away and a sort of door descended.”

  He did not speak but taking the lantern, led the way through the tunnels. I could see that he knew the way.

  He paused at length and said: “This is where you entered the chamber.”

  “It would be here, but I see no sign of it.”

  “Here is what you call the door.”

  “We should bring him back to the house. He will need a doctor.”

  Valerian shook his head. “He will never need a doctor again.”

  “Open the door and go in.”

  “I cannot open the door.”

  “Please do.”

  “It is not in my power.” Nevertheless he attempted to do so but his efforts were in vain.

  He held the lantern so that he could see my face.

  “You have been through a terrible ordeal,” he said. “I must talk to you…now. But this is not the place. Come back with me to the scriptorium.”

  “There must be something we can do. Bruno needs attention.”

  “He is in the hands of God.”

  “You are sure that he is dead?”

  “Yes, I am sure.”

  “How can you be?”

  “I know these things. Come. We cannot enter the chamber. The way is not known to any of us. He was the only one who knew. But we must talk.”

  I followed him out of the tunnels to the scriptorium. There he bade me be seated and gave me a cordial to drink. It was hot and burned my throat but it revived me.

  “The miracle must live,” he said.

  “There was no miracle. It was because I had proved this that he hated me and tried to kill me.”

  “Yet the miracle must live.”

  “How can it when it was not the truth?”

  “It will be the truth in the minds of many, and it is what is in the mind which is important.”

  “He will be found there in the tunnels.”

  Valerian shook his head. “Only he knew how to open the door. The secret was told to him by the Abbot. Only the Abbots of St. Bruno’s knew how to open that door and they passed the secret on to their successors. The code was written down and hidden—none knew where but the Abbots and those destined to take their place. Treasures of the Abbey have been stored there through the ages. Bruno would tell no one. The secret was his alone.”

  “It was there he found the wealth to rebuild the Abbey. It was from the jewels of the Madonna. He took them as he needed them. I can see it all so clearly now.”

  “They were such jewels that it was necessary to show the utmost caution in disposing of them. He had to let time elapse before he went abroad to sell the first and the smallest of them.”

  “That was why he came to us when he left the Abbey. He was biding his time, waiting until the hue and cry over the Abbey jewels had died down.”

  “That was so and the first and the smallest of them realized such a sum that he was able to buy the Abbey. He knew that he had a great treasure store and when he needed money he took a jewel and sold it abroad.”

  “So when Cromwell’s men were coming to the Abbey they must have taken the Madonna down through the tunnels to that chamber. How could they have done this?”

  “It must have been a great undertaking. All we knew was that it was in the sacred chapel one day and the next was gone. It was thought to be a miracle because a few days later Rolf Weaver’s men came. I think I know what happened. The Abbot’s giant servant could have carried her down. If her jewels were taken from her she would not be so heavy, of course. Among them, the Abbot, the servant and Bruno would have taken her there and replaced the jewels about her when she stood in the secret chamber. That is the only way it could possibly have been done.”

  “And only Bruno knew.”

  “The Abbot died. The servant was a mute. He is dead now. All three who knew the secret are dead. This is the end. I have seen its coming. I am aware of these things. Bruno is gone. We know where, but no one else must. This is the Madonna’s answer. A new reign is almost upon us. We could not have survived as we are under a new sovereign. But the miracle must live…and this is the only way it can do so.”

  “You mean that no one must know what happened tonight?”

  “I am commanding your silence. Go back to your room and say nothing of this night’s events.”

  “But I must.”

  “Most certainly you must not. This is ordained. I know it. Bruno is dead. He had to die to preserve the miracle and the miracle must live. He will have gone as strangely as he came and in the generations to come people will talk of the Miracle of St. Bruno’s Abbey and good will come of it. Go now. You are distraught. You are weary. Go and rest. The cordial may make you sleep. In the morning it will seem more clear.” I went back to my room and waited for the morning.

  Kate stayed with us all through that year. She did not wish to go back to Remus Castle now for Carey was there to reproach her.

  For months after that night when Bruno had died in the Madonna’s chamber his return was awaited. He had gone away before on those trips to the Continent to sell jewels, and at first it was assumed that he had gone away as he had on other occasions. But as the months passed and he did not return it began to be said that he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come.

  “It was a miracle,” people said. “He appeared on Christmas Day in the Lady Chapel—a babe in a crib—and he disappeared in the thirty-sixth year of his life.” It would never be forgotten.

  Kate and I had returned to the old ways. She used to come to my room and talk of what was happening in the outside world just as she had always done: How the old Queen was dying of a broken heart because her
husband Philip of Spain neglected her. How she declared that her heart had been broken in any case by the loss of Calais and when she died that name would be written across her heart.

  “The name of Philip will be there too perhaps,” said Kate, “if I may continue with such a flight of fancy.”

  She became gayer every day. “One cannot go on mourning forever,” she said.

  Honey was happy for she was to have a child; I insisted that she come to the Abbey that I might look after her. Catherine began to regain her spirits although she was never again the same lighthearted girl.

  “Catherine will forget in time,” said Kate. “So will Carey. You’ll forget. I’ll forget. Everyone forgets, so the sooner one starts to do so the better.” She looked at me intently though and went on: “How strange that Bruno disappeared. Do you think he will come back one day?”

  “No,” I said. “Never.”

  “You know more than you betray.”

  “One should never betray all one knows.”

  “I often wonder,” said Kate, “where he found the money to do what he did. I believe he was in the pay of, Spain.”

  “One must have some beliefs,” I told her.

  “The only conclusion I can draw otherwise is that there was truly a miracle at St. Bruno’s.”

  “It is not a bad conclusion to which to come.”

  That September the Emperor Charles, the father of Philip of Spain, died and in his will he exhorted his son to inflict even more severe punishment on heretics. The Smithfield fires would be intensified, said the people. They were in a sullen mood.

  But in November the Queen died and a new sovereign was proclaimed at Hatfield where she had been living in a seclusion which could have been called a prison.

  There was rejoicing throughout the land. The dark days are over, said the people. There will be no more smoke over Smithfield now that Elizabeth was Queen.

  We took to our barge and went down the river to see the new Queen brought in triumph to London. Kate and Catherine, my mother, Rupert and I joined in the loyal shouts of “Long live the Queen.”

  She was young; she was vital; and she glowed with purpose. She told us that she would dedicate herself to her people and her country.

  And we believed her.

  I knew that as we were rowed back along the river leaving the grim gray fortress of the Tower of London behind us we were—every one of us—convinced that there would be changes in our lives and our spirits lifted and our hearts rejoiced.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

  The Spanish Galleon

  FROM MY TURRET WINDOW I could watch the big ships sailing into Plymouth Harbor. Sometimes I would get up in the night and the sight of a stately vessel on the moonlit waters lifted my spirits. When it was dark I would sometimes watch for lights on the sea which would tell me there was a ship out there, and I would ask myself, What sort of ship? A dainty caravel, a warlike galleass, a three-masted carrack or a stately galleon? And wondering, I would return to my bed and imagine the kind of men who would be sailing on that ship; and for a while I would cease to mourn for Carey and my lost love.

  My first thought on awakening in the morning would not be for Carey (as I had such a short time ago promised myself it would be every moment of the days to come) but of the sailors who were coming into port.

  I would go alone to the Hoe—although I was not supposed to do this, it being considered improper for a young lady of seventeen to go where she could be jostled by rough sailors. If I insisted on going I must take with me two of the maids. I had never been one to accept authority meekly, but I could not make them understand that it was only when I was alone that I could capture the magic of the harbor. If I took Jennet or Susan with me they would be eyeing the sailors and giggling, reminding each other of what had happened to one of their friends who had trusted a sailor. I had heard all that before. I wanted to be alone.

  So I would choose the opportunity to slip down to the Hoe and there discover my ship of the night. I would see men whose skins had been burned to the color of mahogany; whose bright eyes studied the girls, assessing their charms, which I imagined depended largely on their accessibility, for a sailor’s stay on land was a short one and he had little time to waste in wooing. Their faces were different from those of men who did not go to sea. It may have been due to the exotic scenes they had witnessed, to the hardships they had endured, to their mingling devotion, adoration, fear and hatred for that other mistress, the beautiful, wild, untamed and unpredictable sea.

  I liked to watch the stores being loaded—sacks of meal, salted meats and beans; I would dream of where the cargoes of linen and bales of cotton were being taken. It was all bustle and excitement. It was no place for a young, genteelly nurtured girl; but it was irresistible.

  It seemed inevitable that something exciting must happen sooner or later; and it did. It was on the Hoe that I first saw Jake Pennlyon.

  Jake was tall and broad, solid and invincible. That was what struck me immediately. He was bronzed from the weather, for although he was about twenty-five years old when I first saw him, he had been at sea for eight years. Even at the time of our first meeting he commanded his own ship, which accounted for that air of authority. I noticed immediately how the eyes of women of all ages brightened at the sight of him. I compared him—as I did all men—with Carey and by comparison he was coarse, lacking in breeding.

  I had no idea who he was at that moment, of course, but I knew he was someone of importance. Men touched their forelocks; one or two girls curtsied. Someone called out, “A merry good day to ’ee, Cap’un Lion.”

  The name suited him in a way. The sun on his dark blond hair gave it a tawny shade. He swaggered slightly as sailors did when they first came ashore as though they were not yet accustomed to the steadiness of land and still rolled with the ship. The King of Beasts, I thought.

  And then I knew that he was aware of me, for he had paused. It was a strange moment; it seemed as though the bustle of the harbor was stilled for a moment. The men had stopped loading; the sailor and the two girls to whom he was talking appeared to be looking at us and not at each other; even the parrot which a grizzled old seaman had been trying to sell to a fustian-smocked farmer stopped squawking.

  “Good morrow, Mistress,” said Jake Pennlyon with a bow, the exaggerated humility of which suggested mockery.

  I felt a sudden thrill of dismay; he must clearly think that because I was alone here it was in order for him to address me. Young ladies of good family did not stand about in such places unchaperoned and any who did might well be awaiting an opportunity to strike some sort of bargain with women-hungry sailors. Was it not for this very reason that I was not expected to be here alone?

  I pretended not to realize that he addressed me; I stared beyond him out at the ship with the little boats bobbing around it. My color had heightened, though, and he knew that he disturbed me.

  “I think we have not met before,” he said. “You were not here two years ago.”

  There was something about him which made it impossible for me to ignore him. I said: “I have been here but a few weeks.”

  “Ah, not a native of Devon.”

  “No,” I said.

  “I knew it. For such a pretty young lady could not be around without my scenting her out.”

  I retorted: “You talk as though I am some beast to be hunted.”

  “It is not only beasts who must be hunted.”

  His blue eyes were penetrating, they seemed to see more of me than was comfortable or decorous; they were the most startling blue eyes I ever saw—or ever was to see. Years spent on the ocean had given them that deep blue color. They were sharp, shrewd, attractive in a way and yet repellent. He clearly thought that I was some serving girl who had come out because a ship was in and was looking for a sailor. I said coldly: “I think, sir, you are making a mistake.”

  “Now that,” he answered, “is a thing I rarely do on occasio
ns such as this, for although I can be rash at times my judgment is infallible when it comes to selecting my friends.”

  “I repeat that you are mistaken in addressing me,” I said. “And now I must go.”

  “Could I not be allowed to escort you?”

  “I have not far to go. To Trewynd Grange in fact.”

  I looked for at least a flicker of concern. He should know that he could not treat with impunity one who was guest at the Grange.

  “I must call at a moment convenient to you.”

  “I trust,” I retorted, “that you will wait to be asked.”

  He bowed again.

  “In which case,” I went on as I turned away, “you may wait a very long time.”

  I had a great desire to get away. There was something overbold about him. I could believe him capable of any indiscretion. He was like a pirate, but then so many seamen were just that.

  I hurried back to the Grange, fearful at first that he might follow me there and perhaps faintly disappointed because he did not. I went straight up to the turret in which I had my rooms and looked out. The ship—his ship—stood out clearly on a sea that was calm and still. She must have been of some seven hundred tons, with towering fore and after castles. She carried batteries of guns. She was not a warship, but she was equipped to protect herself and perhaps attack others. She was a proud-looking ship; and there was a dignity about her. She was his ship, I knew.

  I would not go down to the Hoe again until that ship sailed away. I would look every day and hope that when I awoke next morning she would be gone. Then I started to think of Carey—beautiful Carey, who was young, only two years older than myself, darling Carey with whom I used to quarrel when I was a child until that wonderful day when the realization came to us both that we loved each other. The misery flooded over me and I lived it all again; the unaccountable anger of Carey’s mother—who was a cousin of my own mother—when she had declared nothing would induce her to consent to our marriage. And my own dear mother, who had at first not understood until that terrible day when she took me into her arms and wept with me and explained how the sins of the fathers were visited on the children; and my happy dream of a life shared with Carey was shattered forever.