A Crowning Mercy

by Bernard Cornwell

  The closer she went to Lady Margaret, the greater was Campion’s fear. Toby had spoken much of his mother, and though he spoke in terms of love and admiration, there was an unmistakable awe in his voice. She ruled Lazen: the castle, estate, village, church, the lives of tenants, servants, priest, family, and any other person who came within her wide purlieu. She was a formidable lady, a great lady even, and Lazen Castle was the setting for her considerable talents. She ran the estate, Toby said, far better than his father could have done, a fact recognized by Sir George, and within its bounds Lady Margaret’s word was law.

  It was not, Toby had hastened to assure Campion, a tyrannous law. It brooked little interference, knew great charity, and was subject to no known codification. Lady Margaret’s whim was her desire, her desire was her law, and her strongest desire was to keep the estate happy for a happy estate was an efficient estate.

  They climbed the wide staircase from the great hall, leaving the servants behind, and Toby plunged into a dark maze of old corridors, passage rooms, and odd, brief stairways. Their entrance into the New House was through a low, stone archway that opened into a magnificently light, high, decorated landing. A great tapestry took up one wall, a tapestry showing a chained and crowned unicorn that lay its head in the lap of a young girl. Above it the ceiling was a riot of intricate plasterwork, flowers and fruit spilling downward and leaving, in the ceiling’s center, a great blank oval that Toby said awaited a suitable painter. He grinned at Campion and Mrs. Swan. “Wait here.”

  Campion waited. Lazen Castle was less than a half day’s ride from Werlatton, yet nothing in her life had prepared her for such a place. It crushed her with its size, its pretensions, and she felt gauche, awkward and out of place. How could she make an impression on Lady Margaret? She was dirty from travelling, unkempt, and though Mrs. Swan brushed at her clothes and tweaked them straight, Campion could feel presentiments of failure. Voices and laughter sounded from the bottom of the vast, marble staircase that ended on this landing. What was she to these people? Why should they care for her?

  She feared Lady Margaret. She could hear nothing from within the long gallery into which Toby had gone, yet she knew that at this moment her fate was being decided. She knew nothing of Sir George’s letter, delivered two days previously by the Earl of Fleet, and had she known then her melancholy would have been even more profound.

  “Cheer up, dear.” Mrs. Swan pulled Campion’s collar straight. “She’ll like you. Can’t help but like you.”

  Toby had said, candidly enough, that Campion’s best chance of acceptance lay in Lady Margaret adopting her as she adopted, at frequent intervals, new enthusiasms that made up in absorption what they lacked in duration. Toby had spoken laughingly of these enthusiasms and of the havoc they created in Lazen’s life. Some were harmless enough, such as Lady Margaret’s period of sonnet writing that had merely inflicted reams of poetry on the family and spattered a good inlaid table with ink. Her adoption of drama, Toby said, had even imported some excellent players and musicians to the castle.

  Only once had Sir George firmly protested, and that had been when Lady Margaret had contracted an overpowering desire to be a taxidermist. She had written to a tradesman in Bristol, demanding the secrets of his trade, but Toby suspected that the man had kept his professional secrets and palmed Lady Margaret off with false instructions.

  For a summer Lady Margaret had cut a swathe of death through the castle’s chicken population, yet no matter how she practiced, the stuffed chickens had become malodorous and alarmingly misshapen. The long gallery had become almost uninhabitable, so overpowering was the smell, yet still Lady Margaret scooped at hen cadavers and replaced their organs with her own mixture of sawdust and plaster. Every table in the gallery, Toby remembered, had been inhabited by strange, ghoulish chickens; creatures that resembled sagging, lumpen, be-feathered bladders with dangling heads. They had all, finally, been burned, all except one prize specimen that Toby kept in a locked cupboard in the keep.

  The gilded, panelled door of the long gallery opened. Toby stood there, smiling, but his face gave no message of what had transpired in his half-hour talk with his mother. “Mrs. Swan? I’m going to settle you comfortably. We’ll find some food.” He grinned at Campion. “You’re summoned to the presence.” He gestured her inside.

  “Now?”

  “This second. Don’t be nervous.”

  The order was impossible to obey. Her nervousness increased as she went past Toby, as he closed the door behind her and she found herself in a room of sumptuous magnificence. It ran the length of the New House, wide windows opening south on to the Lazen valley, with their white curtains billowing inward in the slight breeze. Campion had an impression of rich tables and chairs, settles and chests, of a carpet laid the full length of the two hundred-foot room, of paintings on the white wall opposite the windows, and of more plasterwork on the ceiling. It was all a quick, overwhelming impression, for then she saw Toby’s mother, half way down the room, watching her.

  “Do I call you Miss Slythe, Mrs. Scammell, Dorcas, or Campion? You seem to have a plethora of names for a simple girl. Come here.”

  Campion walked along the rich carpet, feeling as she had imagined she might feel when, on the Day of Judgment, she would have to walk the crystal floor beneath the throne of thrones.

  “Closer, girl, closer! I don’t intend to eat you!”

  Campion stopped close to Lady Margaret, bobbed an ungainly curtsey, and kept quiet. She looked once at Toby’s mother, then avoided her eyes. She had a swift glimpse of a tall, gray haired lady with an imperious, commanding face.

  Lady Margaret looked at her for a few seconds. “So you’re the girl my son burned down half of London for?”

  An answer was required. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My name is Lady Margaret. We have still not established what yours is, but doubtless we will agree on something.” Lady Margaret sniffed in evident disapproval. “Three businesses destroyed, twelve houses burned to ashes and two men dead. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Lady Margaret.” The news-sheets had overtaken Toby and Campion a day from Lazen. Lady Margaret sniffed again.

  “It seems that in addition to the man my son killed, a priest also died. A strangely named man called Sobriety Bollsbie. I assume he officiated at your wedding?”

  “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  “Let me look at you, child! If you stare at the floor you can’t expect me to grovel to see your face. Chin up! Higher! And look at me. I’m not so old and ugly that you’ll turn to stone.”

  The clipped, authoritative voice matched the woman Campion now saw in front of her. Margaret was tall, with an aquiline nose, and blue eyes that looked on the world with an expression of inquisitive challenge. Toby had inherited his mother’s firm line of jaw and mouth, and taken from her too, a tall, upright body. She was, indeed, far from old and ugly. Campion knew that Lady Margaret lacked two years of fifty, yet, apart from the full, gray hair, she could have been ten years younger.

  “Take off the cloak, child. Let me see you.”

  Campion felt shabby. Lady Margaret was dressed in a gown of pale yellow, embroidered with gillyflowers. There were strange specks of paint on the bodice, paint that was also on the right hand which raised Campion’s chin higher. “Take the bonnet off, child.” Mrs. Swan had brought Campion’s clothes with her, including her last, black, Puritan bonnet.

  “You’re not ugly, are you, child? I can see why Toby went to such inordinate lengths for you. He said that killing a man was unpleasant. Did you find it unpleasant?”

  Campion nodded. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  “I’m not sure I would find it unpleasant. Turn round.”

  Campion obeyed.

  “All the way round, child, I don’t want to talk to your back.” Campion faced Lady Margaret again, who sniffed. “I see the Slythes did raise a rose among their unprepossessing thorns. Did you think my son was justified in his slaughter and destruction on
your behalf?”

  Campion swallowed and thought quickly. “I would have done it for him, Lady Margaret.”

  To Campion’s surprise, Lady Margaret laughed. “He can be precipitate, Toby. I don’t understand where his enthusiasms come from. Certainly not from us. I don’t understand, either, where his red hair came from. It’s tasteless. I assume it was because he was conceived at the full moon. I made a note of it in my journal. George kept his boots on.” This was all said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if Lady Margaret was talking of everyday household things. She went on in the same manner. “Are you a virgin, child?”

  Campion gaped, then recovered herself. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re twenty?”

  Campion nodded. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  “You’re certainly clinging to it for a long time. I suppose those are the clothes your family provided?”

  “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  “Quite horrible. I met your father once in Shaftesbury. He was a disagreeable man. I remember he had scurf on his shoulders. I asked him if it had been snowing.” She elaborated no further, but turned to a small table, covered with her work, and picked up a letter. She read it aloud. “‘The girl is, bye Tobie’s owne Account, quite Unlettered except in the Scriptures.’ Is that true?”

  Campion nodded miserably. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  Lady Margaret looked at her with what seemed to be distaste. “Which is your favorite reading in the scriptures?”

  Campion wondered what book of the Bible would most impress Lady Margaret, but settled on the truth lest she pause too long before her reply. “The Song of Solomon, Lady Margaret.”

  “Ha! You have some taste then. George is quite wrong, of course, in implying that birth and breeding are the only begetters of elegance and taste. You haven’t met my son-in-law, Fleet. He’s an earl, but in his armor he rather resembles a pig in a leather jerkin. If that’s what birth and breeding does, then perhaps we’re better off without them. You’re small in the bust, child.”

  “I am?” Campion, to her surprise, was beginning to enjoy Lady Margaret. There was an excitement in never knowing what would be said next.

  “A few children will fill you out. Love-making does too. Fortunately my eldest daughter was generously endowed before she met Fleet, otherwise there’d have been small hope for her.”

  Lady Margaret suddenly pointed to the ceiling. “Tell me what you think?”

  Campion looked up. The cornice of the long gallery, like the landing outside, was heavily decorated with elaborate plasterwork. Yet unlike the landing, which had been an orthodox representation of harvest’s bounty, the long gallery was decorated with a shameless array of half-clothed gods, goddesses and grotesques. Half-clothed was an exaggeration. Most of the heavenly beings were almost totally naked, chasing each other in permanent riot about the long room. Above the huge, marble fireplace and a painting of Lazen Castle from the north, was the dominant figure of the plaster extravaganza. A naked woman, erect in a chariot, held a spear in her right hand. The woman’s face was uncannily like Lady Margaret’s.

  “Do you like it, child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” The question was a challenge.

  Campion did not know what to say. She was not educated in such things, had never before seen such moldings. She thought, briefly, of the great picture in Sir Grenville Cony’s room, of the naked boy stooping over the pool, yet these plasters were quite different. There had been something sinister in Sir Grenville’s picture. These naked romps were altogether more innocent and joyful.

  “Well?”

  Campion pointed to the woman in the chariot. “Is that you?”

  Again Lady Margaret was pleased. “Of course it’s me. The Italian master-plasterer did it as a compliment. He guessed my figure, and guessed remarkably well.” Lady Margaret was paying herself a compliment. The figure in the chariot was splendid. “Do you know who it represents?”

  “No, Lady Margaret.”

  “Diana the huntress.”

  Campion smiled. “She was worshipped in Ephesus.”

  “Of course.” Lady Margaret sounded sour. “I forget that you know your scriptures. Does the nakedness not shock you?”

  “No, Lady Margaret.”

  “Good. Prudery is not an attribution of the godhead.” Lady Margaret spoke as if she was privy to the deity’s secrets. “So, you know nothing, you dress badly, yet you are in love with my son. Are you in love?”

  Campion nodded, embarrassed. “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  “And George tells me that there’s some nonsense about ten thousand pounds a year. Is it nonsense?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well tell me.”

  Campion told the story of the seal, of her meeting with Sir Grenville Cony, of the letter she had found in the secret compartment of her father’s chest. At first she was hesitant, but soon she forgot her nervousness and discovered in Lady Margaret a surprisingly sympathetic listener. The older woman snorted when Sir Grenville’s name was mentioned. “The frog-king? Little Grenville! I know him. His father was a boot-maker in Shoreditch.”

  She demanded to see the seal and was impatient as Campion took it from about her neck. “Let me have it! Ah! Venetian.”

  “Venetian?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Look at the workmanship. No London clodpole could have made this. It unscrews, you say?” She was fascinated by the small crucifix. “A recusant’s cross!”

  “A what, Lady Margaret?”

  “A secret crucifix, child. The Catholics wore them once their religion was decreed unlawful, the crucifix disguised as jewellery. How very fascinating. Did Sir Grenville’s have the same?”

  “No.” Campion described the silver naked lady and Lady Margaret burst into loud laughter.

  “A naked woman!”

  “Yes, Lady Margaret.”

  Lady Margaret still smiled. “How singularly inappropriate. Sir Grenville wouldn’t know what to do with a naked lady if he rolled on one in his bed. No child, Sir Grenville’s tastes go the other way. He likes his naked flesh to be male.” She looked up at Campion and frowned. “You haven’t the first idea of what I’m speaking about, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Such innocence. I thought it disappeared with the Fall. You know about Sodom and Gomorrah, child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well Sir Grenville would have been happy as the frog-king of Sodom, dear. I’ll explain it all to you when you’re ready.” She rejoined the two halves of the seal and gave it to Campion. “There. Keep it safe. George didn’t believe you, but then he can be very foolish at times. I’ve no doubt his principles will fall along with the tiles of the old roof.”

  Campion, by now, was scenting success. It was not just the ten thousand pounds, each of them an excellent reason for her birth and breeding to be overlooked; she was enjoying Lady Margaret’s company and felt the enjoyment to be reciprocated. She had noticed when Lady Margaret suddenly addressed her as “dear,” though Lady Margaret had seemed oblivious.

  The older woman frowned at her. “You have no means of knowing if this money is to be yours?”

  “No.”

  “Well that’s truthful of you. You say you’re a virgin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise me?”

  Campion smiled. “Yes.”

  “It’s important, child. Good Lord, don’t you realize how important?”

  Campion shrugged. “For marriage?”

  “For marriage!” Lady Margaret scoffed. “George deflowered me in a hayrick weeks before the marriage. He was noisy and clumsy, though I’m glad to say he’s improved over the years. No, you foolish child, not for marriage, but for the law courts.”

  “The law courts?”

  “I assume you do not wish to stay married to Mr. Scammell?”

  Campion shook her head. “No.”

  “Then the marriage may h
ave to be annulled. To achieve that you will have to prove that he never consummated the marriage. Do I have to explain what that means?”

  Campion smiled. “No.”

  “Thank God for that. The priest doesn’t marry you, child. When George and I married, the bishop was quite splendid and very impressive, but God didn’t take a blind bit of notice till George had taken me to bed. Not that he hadn’t anticipated a little, but what happens between the sheets, child, is just as important as the priest’s ministrations. I shall send Toby away.”

  Campion dared not protest.

  Lady Margaret nodded to herself. “He can go to Oxford and fight for the King. It will do him good, though whether the King will be grateful is another matter. That way I will remove him from temptation and we shall keep you in one piece, so to speak.” She looked sternly at Campion. “I’m not saying you should keep yourself in the hope of marrying Toby. He’s bound to meet far more suitable girls than you in Oxford, and some of them not without prospects. No. But I think I like you, and I need a companion. You know what a companion does?”

  “No, Lady Margaret.”

  “A companion amuses me, serves me, reads to me, obeys my whims, anticipates my desires and never, child, never bores me. Can you manage?”

  “I shall try.” Campion was rising on wings to a heaven of happiness, even if it meant being apart from Toby. She had found her refuge, a place of safety, and she liked this tall, abrupt woman in whom she could see a wealth of hidden kindness.

  Lady Margaret, for her part, had seen things she liked in Campion. She recognized the girl’s transcendant beauty, a beauty that was remarkable, and she understood that Toby was captivated by it. So, she thought, he ought to be. Any man ought to be. Yet a few months apart would do them no harm.

  Whether her son would, or should marry Campion was not in her thoughts. As long as the girl was legally married to another then the occasion did not arise, and as long as her virginity must be preserved, so long would Toby be tested. He could go to Oxford and there, Lady Margaret guessed, he might meet someone else. Yet if he did not, if his love endured the absence, then the girl’s inheritance, if it came to her, would be more than an acceptable dowry.