He was aloof in his manner but courteous, and we were served as before by silent-footed servants with the food with which I had now become familiar. I was aware of a certain excitement which I had not known before. I was very much conscious of him. I wondered about him and I kept thinking of that night when I had touched his face gently and tenderly and pretended to sleep.
He talked of the island while the servants were there. He spoke without enthusiasm for it nor any great show of interest, but beneath that cold manner I sensed that he had a great feeling for it. He commanded it. He was holding it for his master, Philip the Second, a strange silent man such as himself. They were different these Spaniards; they did not laugh aloud as we did; they thought us barbarians.
He told me then how the Guanches who were the natives of the island stained their skins the dark-red resin of the dragon trees and how they mummified their dead.
It was interesting and I wanted to know more and more of the island. He said that Pico de Teide was regarded by the Guanches as a kind of god who must be placated, and a fine sight it was towering above the plains with its snowcapped top which never changed even where there was burning heat below.
It was when the meal had been finished and we were alone that I realized the reason he had invited me to sup with him.
He said: “You went into La Laguna and saw the Cathedral.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You must not act as a heretic in La Laguna.”
“I shall act as I please and as I am doubtless what you will call a heretic I shall perforce act as one.”
“When you visit the Cathedral you must show Catholic respect for the Virgin and the altar; you must kneel and pray as others do.”
“Would you have me a hypocrite?”
“I am determined that you shall bear the child. I would not wish aught to happen to you that would prevent it.”
I put my hands on my body. I used to delude myself into fancying that I could feel the child. It was absurd, it was much too soon; but I was already so much aware of it.
“What should prevent it?” I demanded.
“You could be taken before the Inquisition. You could be questioned.”
“I! What have I to do with the Inquisition?”
“This is Spain. Oh, I know we are an island far from Spain; but Spain is wherever we settle and that will be in every part of the globe.”
“Never in England,” I said proudly.
“There too. I assure you it will be so in due course of time.”
“Then I assure you it will never be so.” I had a vision of Jake Pennlyon, his eyes flashing scorn, brandishing his cutlass and crying out to the Spanish Dons to come and see what they would find.
“Listen to me,” he said, “’ere long the whole world will be ours. We shall bring the Holy Inquisition to your land … as it is here and in every place on earth where Spain has laid its hand. No one can escape from it. If you were taken, even I could not save you. The Inquisition stands above all … even above our Most High King, Philip.”
“I am no Spaniard. They would not dare touch me.”
“They have touched many of your countrymen. Be wise. Listen to me. You will start instruction in the True Faith tomorrow.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“You are more foolish than I thought. You must be shown what happens to those who defy the truth.”
“Whose truth? Yours? You who trample over the innocent to gain your revenge. You have taken three women from their homes; you have submitted them to degradation and pain; you have killed a good man because he tried to protect his wife. And you talk to me about your faith, the True Faith, the only faith.”
“Be silent.” For the first time I saw him moved. “Know you not that servants may hear?”
“They do not speak my barbarian language, remember, except the two villains whom you employed to bring us here.”
“I will be tolerant. I will beg of you to be calm. I ask you to listen in a civilized manner.”
“You talk to me of civilized behavior. It is as funny as speaking of your religious virtues.”
“I speak for your good. I speak for you and the child.”
“Your bastard which was forced on me.” Yet even as I said those words I murmured a reassurance to the child. “Nay, nay, little one, I want you. I’m glad you are there. Wait until I hold you in my arms.”
My voice must have faltered, for he said gently, “That is past and done. Nor can it be undone. It was your misfortune that you were the betrothed of this brigand. You have the child. Bear it and accept your fate. I swear to you that from now on I mean no harm to you. Will you accept that?”
I did, but I said: “Having harmed me in such a manner that must leave its mark on me forever, perhaps you do mean that.”
“I assure you it is so. I never meant harm to you. You were necessary to the fulfillment of my vow. Now I would give you the comfort you will need until the child is born.”
“You promised I should go home when the child was conceived.”
“I have said I must see the child is born. For that reason you will stay here; but while you are here I wish you to live securely and in peace. And for that reason you will listen to me.”
I cried: “Do not think I can be placated with gifts of velvet.”
“It was no gift of mine. The shop woman sent it for you.”
“Why should she?”
“Because we buy much cloth from her and she wishes to please me by offering you this gift.”
“Why should it please you?”
“Surely you understand. She believes, as many will, that you are my mistress. That you have been brought here to live with me and in such case what pleased you will please me and put the donor in favor.”
“Your mistress! How dare she.”
“It is what you are in a sense. Let us face the facts. And in these circumstances you will have some protection. But as I told you even I cannot protect you from the mighty Inquisition. That is why I wish you to be instructed in the True Faith. John Gregory, who is indeed a priest, will instruct you. You must listen. I do not want you to be taken away … before the child is born.”
“I refuse,” I said.
He sighed. “You are unwise,” he answered. “I will tell you what has happened in your country while you have been away. Your Queen is a foolish woman. She might have married Philip when her sister died. It would have been an opportunity to have united our countries. It would have saved much trouble.”
“She could not take her sister’s husband. Moreover, he did not give a very good account of himself as a husband, I fancy.”
“The fault lay in that poor barren woman. And now her foolish half sister, the bastard Elizabeth, has the throne.”
“In which her country rejoices,” I said. “Long may she live.”
“It is long since you left home. Her throne is shaking now. She will not long occupy it. The true Queen Mary of France and Scotland shall take it and when that has been done the True Faith will be restored to England.”
“With the accompaniment of your Holy Inquisition?”
“It will be necessary. There will be a great purge of heretics in your island.”
“God forbid,” I said. “We have had enough. We remember the Smithfield fires. We’ll have no more of them.”
“The faith will be restored,” he said. “It is imminent.”
“The people are firmly behind the Queen.” I was remembering her accession, how nobly she had spoken as she entered the Tower. “I must bear myself to God thankful and to men merciful…” And my heart swelled with loyalty toward her and hatred toward all her enemies.
“They will no longer be so,” he told me. “Certain events have changed the people’s feelings for the Queen.”
“I do not believe it.”
He studied me coolly in the light of the candles.
“The Queen made Robert Dudley her Master of Horse. Rumor has it that she wished to marry him.
He had a wife. He had married earlier, impulsively, some said, for as events turned out he could have been destined for a high place. King no less—though mayhap in name only—for the Queen doted on him. She is a coquette, a frivolous woman; she is coy toward all men, but we hear that the feeling she has for Robert Dudley goes deeper. Now his wife, Amy Robsart, has died somewhat mysteriously. Her body was found at the bottom of a staircase. Who shall know how she died? Some say she threw herself from the top of the staircase because she could no longer bear the neglect of her husband; those who would placate your Queen and Lord Robert will tell you that she suffered an accident. But there are many who will say she was murdered.”
“And the Queen will marry this man?”
“She will marry him and there is an end of her. On the day she marries Lord Robert she stands a self-confessed accomplice to murder. She will lose her kingdom, and who will take her crown? The Queen of France and Scotland, who is the true Queen of England. We shall support her claim. She will become our vassal. I command that you take instruction from John Gregory. I insist on this for your own welfare.”
“You cannot make a Catholic of me if I will not have it.”
“You foolish one,” he said quietly. “I tell you this to save you.”
Over the candles I looked into his face. He was moved in some way; and I knew that he feared for me.
After that began my daily sessions with John Gregory. At first I refused to listen to him. He said I must learn the Credo in Latin. He used to chant it again and again.
He said: “If you could not do that, you would be condemned as a heretic without further ado.”
I turned away from him, but I could not keep up my silence; I was not silent by nature.
“You are an Englishman, are you not?” I demanded.
He nodded.
“And you have sold yourself to these Spanish dogs.” I jeered inwardly at myself for talking like Jake Pennlyon.
“There is much I could tell you,” he said. “Perhaps then you would not despise me so much.”
“I shall always despise you. You took me from my home, you submitted me to this, you came to us, accepted our hospitality and lied, that is something I shall never forget.”
“The Virgin will plead for me,” he said.
“Her prayers would have no effect on me,” I retorted grimly.
Later I said to him, “You will never convert me. I was never eager to take one side against another, but the more you force me, the more I shall turn away. Do you think I can ever forget the reign of her whom they called Bloody Mary? Let me tell you this, John Gregory: My grandfather lost his life because he sheltered a friend—a priest like you, of your faith, for that was my grandfather’s faith. My mother’s stepfather was burned at Smithfield because books concerning the Reformed Faith were found in his house. Someone informed on him, as my grandfather was informed against. And all this in the name of religion. Does it surprise you that I want none of it?”
He spoke vehemently: “No, it does not surprise me. But you should listen. You should prepare yourself lest danger should come.”
“Then I am preparing to save my body, not my soul.”
“There is no reason why you should not save both.”
We talked a great deal and I wondered about him; and during the weeks that followed my attitude toward this man began to change. Everything was changing. It was almost as though a mist were clearing before my eyes.
Days passed and became weeks. I surprised myself. I was becoming happy in this alien land. I understood the serenity of Honey, her preoccupation with Edwina. Jennet was growing near her time. She would sit with us sometimes in the Spanish garden which Don Felipe had had made by a gardener come from Spain. During the hot days there was a sense of peace in the gardens. We would sew together, for fine linens and lace had appeared in the sewing room; and although I hated to take these things for myself I would accept anything for my child.
Sometimes the incongruity of it all came over me; and I thought of my mother in her gardens or visiting my grandmother. They would talk of us. My poor mother would be sad, for she had lost both her girls. Did they think of us as dead now? Then I was mournful, for she had suffered much and loved us both dearly—particularly me, her own daughter.
But that was far away, like another life; and here we were in the Spanish garden, my baby stirring within me, reminding me that each day it grew and that the happy moment when I should hold it in my arms was coming nearer.
Jennet was complacent—very large, completely undisturbed, accepting life as I supposed I never would. Now that she had rid herself of the burden of her secret, she seemed to have cast off her cares. She had a habit of humming to herself, which I found mildly irritating because they were the tunes which I remembered from home.
As we sat in the shade out of the sun, which was warmer than ours at home, Honey was playing with her baby, Jennet was humming over her sewing and I sat there stitching. Suddenly I began to laugh. It was so incongruous—three women—one a mother and two soon to be—who had gone through violent adventures and were now serene.
Honey looked at me and smiled. This laughter did not frighten her. It was not hysteria. There was an element of happiness in it. We had come to terms with life.
I loved Honey’s child; she was small and delicately made; I doubted she would be as beautiful as her mother; at this time her eyes were china blue, her skin delicate. I liked to have her on my own and I would take her to the Spanish garden and rock her gently. She would watch me with great wondering eyes. I believed she knew me. She was very good with me. I used to sing to her songs that my mother used to sing to me. “The King’s Hunt’s Up” and “Greensleeves,” which were said to have been composed by our great King Henry himself.
One day I was seated in the trellised arbor in the Spanish garden rocking the baby when I was aware of being watched.
I looked up and Don Felipe was standing a few yards from me.
I flushed hotly; he continued to regard me in the detached manner to which I was accustomed. I looked down at the baby, pretending to ignore him; but he continued to stand there. The baby began to whimper as though she were aware of some alien presence.
I murmured: “Hushaby, ’Wina. You are safe. Catharine is here, darling.”
When I looked up he had gone. I had not known that he was at the Hacienda because I had heard that he had gone to another part of the island.
I was always disturbed when he was in the house. It was not that he forced his presence on me, but I was aware of him. The household changed when he was there. The servants went about their duties with renewed vigor; there was a sense of tension everywhere.
I had a fright in that night, for as I lay in my bed I heard steps in the corridor, slow, stealthy steps. I started up in bed and listened. Slowly they came nearer and nearer. They paused outside my door.
I thought: He is coming to me, and I remembered how he had stood in the garden watching me.
My heart was beating so wildly that I thought it would choke me. Instinct made me lie back and feign sleep.
Through half-closed eyes I saw the candlelight; I saw the shadow on the wall.
It was his shadow.
I lay very still, my eyes shut. He was at the bedside, the candle wavering slightly in his hand. Keeping my lips lowered and pretending to be in a deep sleep, I waited for what would happen next.
I knew that he was at the bedside watching me.
It seemed a long time that he stood there; then the candlelight disappeared; I heard my door close gently. I dared not open my eyes for some time because I was afraid that he was in the room; but when I heard his footsteps slowly receding, I looked and saw that I was alone.
Jennet’s time had come. The midwife came to the Hacienda and Jennet’s labor, unlike Honey’s, was brief; a few hours after her pains started we heard the lusty bawling of the child.
It was a boy and I’ll swear that from the first it had a look of Jake Pennlyon.
/> I said to Honey: “Shall we ever escape from the man? Now there will be Jennet’s bastard to remind us.”
I thought I should dislike the child, but how could I do that? In the first weeks he was bigger than Edwina. He showed his temperament too. I had never believed a child could bawl so lustily for what he wanted.
Jennet was overcome with pride. He was not only her baby; he was Captain Pennlyon’s too. She was sure there never had been such a child.
“That’s what all mothers think,” I said.
“’Tis so, Mistress, but this be true. Only a man like that could make a baby like this ’un.”
Each day he grew more like his father.
Jake Pennlyon would indeed be with us forever.
“As soon as my child is born,” I said to Honey, “there will be no excuse for keeping us here. We shall go home. I shall go back to the Abbey. I long to be with my mother. There is so much I want to say to her. Before, I was so ignorant of everything. I often think of her life with my father. Children never know their parents, I suppose; but because of what has happened to me and those violent adventures that she has endured we shall be closer than ever when we meet.”
I could see in Honey’s eyes that she too longed for home.
We talked as we sat in the gardens of the old days at the Abbey and how my grandmother used to come over with her basket laden with ointments and goodies and flowers; and how she used to talk of her twin sons, who came with her sometimes.
And when we spoke of the old days Honey began to confide in me.
“I was always jealous of you, Catharine,” she said. “What I wanted always came to you.”
“You jealous of me! But you were the beauty.”
“I was the daughter of a serving girl and the man who despoiled the Abbey. My great-grandmother was a witch.”
“But you did very well, Honey. After all, you married a rich man who doted on you. You were happy then.”
“I was always happy in my fashion. It was a makeshift sort of way. I was the adopted daughter, not received by the master of the house…”
“But your beauty freed you from that. Edward Ennis would have been Lord Calperton and you a lady of high rank.”
The Miracle at St. Bruno's Page 60