The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Philippa Carr

  The ship was still there, but there was no sign of the little boat. I went back to my bed; I could not get my feet warm. I did at last and then I slept. It was late when I awoke. I remembered at once and went to the window. There was no sign of the ship or the little boat. The Rampant Lion was riding the waters proudly because there was no majestic stranger ship to dwarf her.

  What a ship it had been! I had never seen the like before; and when I looked out across the water I asked myself: Did I truly see that glorious ship, or did I imagine it?

  No. I had wakened in the night. What had awakened me? Some instinct? Some premonition? And then I had looked and seen the ship.

  Or had I dreamed it? There had been such talk of ships on the previous night; those men—and particularly the young man—had forced themselves into my mind so that I could not forget them. Perhaps it had been a dream. But of course I had awakened. I had seen the ship. But because of the pictures those two men had conjured up in my mind had it seemed so grand and glorious?

  I knew of course what I had seen, but I was not going to mention it. Honey and Edward would think I had been too impressed by the Pennlyons and that was the last thing I would admit.

  At Trewynd I rode a frisky little mare. I had been completely at home on a horse since I was a child. We were all taught to ride at an early age, for if one were to rely on one’s legs one would never get far from home.

  I liked to ride out every day and alone. I hated to be accompanied by a groom, which I suppose I should have been. My little Marigold knew me well; she had traveled with me from the Abbey; we understood each other and the sound of my voice could both soothe and command her.

  On that morning after the Pennlyons’ visit I rode out, but as I left the stables I heard Jake Pennlyon’s resonant voice. So he had called already. I congratulated myself on having escaped him. I loved the countryside; it was different from that around the Abbey. Here there were steep hills, winding paths, pinewoods and the foliage was more lush because it was warmer than in the southeast and there was so much rain. I imagined what flowers there would be in the springtime, and was looking forward to that season when I asked myself if I intended to stay away from home for so long.

  While I was musing I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs behind me, and turning my head, I saw Jake Pennlyon galloping up, riding a powerful white horse.

  “Oh,” I said flatly.

  “They told me you had gone out, so I trailed you.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “To have speech with you, of course.”

  “We talked only last night.”

  “But we have a great deal to say to each other.”

  “I did not think that.”

  “Well, mayhap it is I who have a great deal to say to you.”

  “Perhaps some other time.” I pressed my heels into Marigold’s flanks and she started off, but he was beside me; I knew at once that Marigold could not outdistance his powerful steed.

  “A sailor can’t afford to beat about the bush. One thing he is short of … is time.”

  Realizing that I could not escape him, I slowed up.

  “Well, pray say what it is and I will continue my ride.”

  “We can chat comfortably as we continue our ride.”

  “I did not ask you to accompany me.”

  “What matters that? I asked myself.”

  “You don’t hesitate to press your company even though it may not be wanted?”

  “I don’t hesitate when I’ve made up my mind that I want something.”

  “And what pray do you want now?”

  “You.”

  I gave a short laugh. “You have strange desires.”

  “Very normal ones, I do assure you.”

  “I know you scarcely at all. We have met but once.”

  “Twice,” he corrected me. “Have you forgotten our encounter on the Hoe? That was when it all began.”

  “I was not aware that anything had begun.”

  He seized Marigold’s bridle. His face was grim, cruel suddenly. “You must not deny the truth to me, Mistress,” he said. “You know what has begun.”

  “And you it seems know more of me than I know myself—or so you would have me believe. I am not one of your friends who comes when you beckon and pants with glee when you whistle her as you would your dog.”

  “I should always call you by your name and you could always have a higher place in my estimation than that I reserve for my dogs.”

  “When do you sail?” I asked.

  “Two months from now.”

  “So long?” I asked.

  “So short,” he replied. “There is much to be done in those two months. I have to victual my ship, overhaul her, make her seaworthy, get my crew and woo a lady … all at the same time.”

  “I wish you good fortune.” I turned Marigold toward the Trewynd estate. “And now I will bid you good-bye, for I am not going your way.”

  “Indeed you are, for your way is my way.”

  “I am going back to the stables.”

  “You have just ridden out.”

  “Nevertheless, I am going back,” I said.

  “Stay and talk with me.”

  “I must say good-bye.”

  “You are afraid of me.”

  I looked at him scornfully.

  “Then if not,” he retorted, “why won’t you stay and talk with me?”

  “Certainly I am not afraid of you, Captain Pennlyon. But pray say what it is you have to say and I’ll be gone.”

  “I was taken with you the first time I saw you and I don’t think you were unaware of me.”

  “There are several ways of being aware.”

  “And you were aware of me in many ways.”

  “I thought you insolent … arrogant…”

  “Pray don’t spare me,” he mocked.

  “The sort of person I have no great wish to meet.”

  “And yet whom you cannot resist.”

  “Captain Pennlyon,” I said, “you have too high an opinion of yourself and your ship.”

  “My ship at least is the finest that sailed the ocean.”

  “I saw a finer last night,” I was goaded to say.

  “Where?”

  “In the bay.”

  “You saw the Rampant Lion.”

  “She was there, but there was this other which dwarfed her and was twice as magnificent.”

  “You may mock me but pray not my ship.”

  “I mock no one. I merely state a fact. I looked from my window and saw the most beautiful ship I have ever seen.”

  “The most beautiful ship you have ever seen is the Rampant Lion.”

  “No, this was indeed more majestic and fine. She was so tall and lofty … like a castle afloat.”

  He was looking at me intently. “Did you see how many masts she had?”

  “Four, I think.”

  “And her decks … were they high?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose so. She was so tall … I did not know ships could be so tall.”

  He seemed to have forgotten his interest in me. The ship of the night had driven all other thoughts from his mind.

  He questioned me avidly. I answered as best I could, but my knowledge of ships was sparse. He made no protest as I walked my horse back to Trewynd stables; he merely kept pace with me, firing questions at me, exasperated because I could not describe in detail the ship I had seen.

  He burst out suddenly: “It could not be. But by God’s Death, it would seem that you are describing a Spanish galleon.”

  I had not realized how fervently religious Edward was. At the Abbey my mother had never instilled one doctrine into me rather than another. Her ideal had been tolerance and I knew that she did not think that the manner of worship mattered so much as that one lived as Christian a life as was possible. She had once said to me: “It is in people’s actions toward their fellowmen that we perceive their religion. What virtue is there in praising God if one is cruel to His creatures?”


  Few people were in agreement with her. The last Queen and her ministers had burned people at the stake not because they had robbed or murdered but because they did not believe according to Rome.

  And now we had turned around and the religious laws which had existed in Mary’s reign were abolished and those of her predecessor’s time were restored. The Protestant religion was in the ascendancy and although there might not be a recurrence of the Smithfield fires it was dangerous to go against the spiritual domination ordered by the Queen.

  Whether our Queen was firm in her views or not, I could not be sure. The dangerous years when she had come close to losing her head would be remembered by her; then she had prevaricated, although perhaps she had leaned toward the Reformed Faith; and indeed had she not, she might not be on the throne this day.

  Now of course she had a very good political reason for her firm Protestant views. Across the Channel was a Queen of France who was also a Queen of Scotland and who many believed was also the true Queen of England: Mary Stuart, the granddaughter of Margaret, sister of our late King Henry VIII. Thus many said she was the direct heir to the throne of England while Elizabeth—whose father had put aside his true wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn—was a bastard and had no real claim to it.

  Mary Stuart was Catholic, so she was the figurehead of those who would wish to see England back in the Papal fold. Elizabeth therefore must set herself up as the leader of Protestantism. I felt certain that our Queen’s motives were not prompted by religion so much as by politics.

  But these politics existed; and those who celebrated Mass and worshiped in the Roman manner were potential enemies of the Queen, for they would wish to lead the country back to Rome and if this were done, Mary Stuart, not Elizabeth Tudor, would be accepted as the Queen of England.

  Therefore, in worshiping as Edward and Honey did, there was danger.

  I knew that services were conducted in the chapel behind closed doors. I knew that beneath the altar cloth there was a hidden door, and I guessed that behind that door were images and all that was used in celebration of the Mass.

  I did not join in this, but I was aware that several members of the household did. I had not thought very much about it until the night when the Pennlyons had talked so fiercely about the Dons. I thought how intolerant they would be of those who did not think as they did; and dangerous too.

  I could not pass the chapel after that night without a twinge of alarm.

  Jennet, the young girl whom I had brought with me from the Abbey, was putting my clothes away, smoothing her hands over the cloth of a velvet cloak with a sort of ecstasy.

  Jennet was about a year younger than I was—small, lithe, with a tangle of thick dark curls. I had noticed one or two of the menservants follow her with their eyes and I thought Jennet must be warned.

  Jennet’s eyes sparkled as she worked and I asked if she were happy in these new surroundings.

  “Oh, yes, Mistress Catharine,” she replied fervently.

  “So you like it better than the Abbey?”

  She shivered a little. “Oh, yes, Mistress. ’Tis more open like. There was ghosts in the Abbey … everyone said. And you could never know what was going to come up next.”

  Jennet was a great gossip; I had heard her chatter to the maids; if I gave her an opportunity she would have plenty to say to me.

  “So you feel it’s different here?”

  “Oh, yes, Mistress, why, at the Abbey … I’d lie trembling on my pallet at night even though the others was there. Young Mary swore she saw monks going into the church one day at dusk … long robes, she said, and chanting like. She said terrible things had happened there and where terrible things happen there’ll be ghosts.”

  “But you never really saw a ghost, Jennet.”

  “No, Mistress, but I felt ’em there and ’tis the same. ’Tis more as a big house should be here. Ghosts there could be, as most houses have their ghosts, but here it ’ud be a ghost like other ghosts—a poor lady as ’ad been crossed in love or a gentleman who had lost his inheritance and thrown himself from the tower like … something ghosts ’as always done—but in the Abbey they were terrible ghosts. Monks and evil… Oh, there was evil there all right. My Granny remembers when the men came and what they done… Here, though, ’tis different. There’s ships too. Oh, I like to see the ships.” Jennet giggled. “And that Captain Pennlyon, Mistress. I said to Mary: ‘I never did see such a fine gentleman,’ and Mary she says the same, Mistress.”

  I felt angry suddenly. So the maids were discussing him. I pictured his swaggering past them, perhaps bestowing a kiss on the prettiest, marking her down as possible prey. The man sickened me.

  And what was I doing chattering with Jennet!

  I said: “Pray put those away quickly, Jennet. Don’t chatter so much. Have you nothing to do with your time?”

  Jennet, naturally a little bewildered by my sudden change of manner, hung her head and flushed slightly. I hoped I had conveyed firmly my indifference to Captain Pennlyon.

  Jennet had stopped in her work and was looking out of the window down onto the courtyard.

  “What’s there, Jennet?” I asked.

  “’Tis a young man, Mistress.”

  I went and stood beside her. There was indeed a young man; he was dressed in a russet-colored doublet with green hose; his hair was very dark, fitting sleekly about his head, and as we gazed down at him he looked up.

  He bowed elaborately.

  I called down, “Who are you?”

  “Good Mistress,” he cried, “if you are the lady of the house I would have speech with you.”

  “Marry!” breathed Jennet. “But he’s handsome!”

  I said, “I am not the mistress of the house, but I will come down and see you.”

  I went down into the hall, Jennet at my heels, and I opened the iron-studded door. The young man bowed once more, very deferentially.

  “The mistress of the house is not at home, I think. Perhaps you could tell me your business.”

  “I seek work, my lady.”

  “Work?” I cried. “What kind of work?”

  “I am not particular as to its nature. I would be grateful for anything that came my way.”

  “The management of the household is not in my hands. I am a guest here.”

  “Shall I see if I can find the master?” asked Jennet eagerly.

  He flashed her a look of gratitude and she colored prettily.

  “Please,” he said.

  Jennet ran off and I said to the young man, “What is your name?”

  “It is Richard Rackell.”

  “And from whence do you come?”

  “I came from the North. I believed that in the South I could make my way more easily than in my native parts.”

  “And now you wish to work here awhile and then go off for fresh adventures?”

  “It would depend. Always I look for somewhere where I can settle.”

  Men often came looking for work, particularly at the end of the summer at Michaelmas. There was work in the fields, threshing, winnowing, salting down cattle which could not be fed during the winter. But there was something about this young man which was different from those who usually came.

  I asked him if he had any experience of harvesting; he said No but that he was good with horses and he hoped there might be a place for him in the stables.

  By this time Edward had appeared. He rode into the courtyard, an elegant man who seemed to have grown more slight and delicate-looking in the last days. I suppose I was comparing him with the Pennlyons.

  “Edward,” I said, “this young man is looking for work.”

  Edward was always courteous and, I believe, eager to do a good turn. He was popular with the work people although I imagined they despised him a little. They were not used to such gentle manners.

  He asked the young man into the winter parlor and sent for a tankard of ale to refresh him. Not many prospective employ
ers treated work people thus, but Edward was something of a visionary. He did not believe his fortune placed him above others; he knew that he was more learned, more cultured, more graciously mannered than the farm laborers, but if a man had good manners and some education he would not consider him beneath himself because he was, say, the son of a doctor or lawyer and Edward was the son of a lord. Honey had often said to me: “Edward is a good man.”

  She was right.

  I did not accompany them to the winter parlor naturally; I went back to my bedroom, where Jennet had returned to her task of putting my clothes away.

  “Oh, Mistress Catharine,” she said, “do you think the master’ll find a place for him?”

  “He does not seem to me to be fitted for hard labor in the fields and that is what will be looked for at this time of year.”

  “He did look a real gentleman,” said Jennet, smoothing my fly cape. “They make handsome men in the North.”

  “You are far too interested in men, Jennet,” I said severely.

  “Oh, but they’m interesting folk, Mistress.”

  “I should warn you. You know full well what can happen to girls who don’t take good care of themselves.”

  “Oh, Mistress, you be thinking of the sailors. Them that’s here today and gone tomorrow. If this young Richard Rackell do come he’s here to stay, and what he does will have to be answered for.”

  “Jennet, I have noticed that you are inclined to invite attention.”

  “Oh, Mistress.” She flushed deeply and giggled.

  I went on severely: “And if this young man should be fortunate enough to be given work here you would do well to wait until he shows interest in you before you betray yours in him.”

  “’Tis but a boy, Mistress,” said Jennet, her eyes sparkling, and I was angry with her because I knew that she was comparing the young Richard Rackell with Captain Pennlyon.

  It was typical of Edward that he should find a place for Richard Rackell in the household. He came into the solarium where Honey and I sat together, she embroidering, I idly watching her, and sat down with us.

  He said: “I’ve put him into the stables. They need an extra groom, though how he will fit in I don’t know. He has not the appearance of a groom, but he certainly has a way of handling horses. In time we’ll find something else for him. My opinion is that he would make an excellent scribe, though I have no need of a scribe.”