The Miracle at St. Bruno's

by Филиппа Карр

  At length I said: "Mother, what is this book you are reading?" Oh," she said with a grimace, "it is very dull, but I am struggling through it to please your stepfather.”

  "He wishes you to read it?”

  "He insists.”

  "Mother, I do not think you should leave such a book where any might pick it up.”

  "Why should I not? It is but a book.”

  "It is what it contains. It is a plea for the reformed religion.”

  "Oh, is it?" she said.

  "To please me be more careful.”

  She patted my hand. "You are just like your father," she said. "You are one to make something from nothing. Now look at this. Already Master Paul is growing out of it.

  The rate that child grows astonishes me!”

  I was thinking: So Simon Caseman is dabbling with the reformed religion!

  I thought of the Abbey where a community life alarmingly similar to the old was gradually, perhaps subtly, but certainly being built up.

  It occurred to me then that Simon Caseman, for harboring such a book in his house, and Bruno, for installing monks in his newly acquired Abbey, could both be deemed traitors.

  A short while ago I would have gone home and argued the matter with Bruno. I might even have gone so far as to caution Simon Caseman, but strangely enough the matters seemed of secondary importance for I had just begun to feel the movement of my child and I forgot all else.

  I was like my mother, shut into a little world in which the miracle of creation absorbed me.

  Perhaps all pregnant women are so.

  Christmas was almost upon us and I had decorated Honey's little room with holly and ivy and told her the Christmas story.

  In those December days preceding Christmas there had been a great deal of talk about the King's matter. Even my mother mentioned it. There was great sympathy for the Queen who it was said was in a state of hysteria and had been ever since her accusation.

  Many believed that this was an implication of her guilt.

  "And if she had taken a lover, poor soul," I said to my mother as we sat over our sewing, "is that so very wrong?”

  "Outside the bonds of matrimony!" cried my mother, aghast.

  "She believed herself married to Dereham.”

  "Then she deserves death for marrying the King.”

  "Life is cruel for a woman," I said.

  My mother pursed her lips virtuously. "Not if she is a dutiful wife.”

  "Poor little Katharine Howard! She is so young to die.”

  But my mother was not really moved by the young girl's fate. It occurred to me that in a world where death came frequently the value of life was not really great.

  It was just before Christmas that Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpepper were executed.

  Culpepper was beheaded but Dereham, because he was not of noble birth, suffered the barbarous hanging and quartering, the traitor's death.

  I thought of them all that day-poor young men, whose crime had been to love the Queen.

  At that time we thought these deaths would be enough and that the King so loved Katharine Howard that we were sure he would pardon her. Alas it was not to be so. The Queen had too many enemies. As a Howard she was a Catholic and many of the King's ministers did not wish to see a Catholic influence on the King.

  Her fate was sealed when the King's ministers, before he could prevent them, circulated the story of her misconduct abroad and after this the King's own honor being involved he could scarcely with dignity take her back.

  François Premier sent condolences. He was shocked by the "great displeasures, troubles and inquietations which his good brother had recently had by the naughty demeanor of her, lately reputed for Queen.”

  Distressed, wounded and humiliated (this last a state calculated to arouse his anger against the cause of it) the King did not intervene to save Katharine and on a bleak February day the King's fifth wife walked out to Tower Hill where but six years before her cousin Anne Boleyn had met a similar fate.

  A hush was on the land on that terrible day. Five Queens: two divorced, one died in childbirth (and who knew what her fate would have been had she lived?) and two beheaded.

  The people were beginning to wonder what monster this was who sat on their throne; and when they saw him, as they did occasionally on public occasions, and in place of the handsome golden boy who thirty years before had been romantically in love with his Spanish wife, was a portly bloated figure-purple of complexion, tight-mouthed, eyes peering through slits in that unsightly countenance, a suppurating ulcer on his leg, they lowered their eyes but they dared do no other than shout "Long live the King.”

  They remembered that whatever else he was, he was their allpowerful ruler.

  My baby was due in June. The larger I grew the more impatient I became. One of the men who had come to the Abbey and who I suspected used to help Brother Ambrose in the old days had made a little garden for me at the back of the Abbot's Lodging.

  My mother had advised and sent me plants and I grew quite fond of it. Here I would sit with my sewing and watch Honey at play. Now over two years old, she was a lively child; I had told her that she would soon have a companion and she used to ask every day how much longer it would be before it arrived.

  My mother had advice to offer every time we met. She had become a frequent visitor to the Abbey. I wondered whether she would notice that some of the workers were onetime monks, and mention this to Simon. I remembered the book I had seen in my mother's room. If Simon was flirting with the new religion he might do us some harm. Besides, I had a feeling that he would not forgive me for refusing him and for taking the Abbey and Bruno. But as he too was acting outside the King's law, he would have to walk very warily himself.

  My mother, however, noticed nothing strange; she would only comment on the manner in which I was carrying the child and impress upon me that the moment I felt the first signs I was to send a messenger to Caseman Court. She would at once send for the midwife and come herself. That was only if we should have miscalculated the time.

  If we had been right then the midwife would be in residence days before the expected event.

  It was April-two months before my child was due-when I became aware of a change in Bruno. He was often absentminded. Sometimes when I spoke to him he did not answer.

  I said to him: "Bruno, all this rebuilding must be very costly. Are you perchance anxious about the expense?”

  He looked at me in a startled fashion.

  "What gave you that notion?”

  "You seem preoccupied.”

  He frowned. "Mayhap I am anxious about you.”

  "About me? But I am well.”

  "Having a child is a trying time.”

  "You must not fear. Everything will be all right.”

  "I shall be glad when our son is born.”

  "I'm afraid when you say 'our son' in that way. What if we should have a daughter?”

  "My firstborn must be a son," he said, and what I thought of as his prophet's face was very apparent. "It will be so," he continued firmly.

  He convinced me then, as he could at times, that he had special powers.

  I smiled complacently. Son or daughter I should love either. But if Bruno cared so intensely that it should be a son then I hoped so too.

  "I am glad there is no need to worry about money. You must be exceedingly rich. I know this place cannot be producing much so far.”

  "I beg you, Damask, leave these matters to me.”

  "I would not have you worried. Mayhap we could postpone some of this building until the farm and the mill begin to show a profit.”

  He laughed and the fanatical gleam was in his eyes.

  "Doubt not that I can do all that I set out to do.”

  He came over to me and kissed my brow. 'As for you, Damask, all I ask of you is to give me my son.”

  "It cannot be too soon for me," I assured him.

  It was a few nights later. I awoke suddenly and found that Bruno was not be
side me.

  It was well past midnight and I wondered whether he had gone over to the scriptorium.

  He was often there with Valerian and it occurred to me that he might be going over accounts. Deep in my mind the thought persisted that he was concerned about money.

  I rose from my bed and went quietly into Honey's room; she was sleeping peacefully.

  Then I went to the bedchamber I shared with Bruno and going to the window looked out. There was no light in the scriptorium, so Bruno could not be there.

  I sat down on the window seat looking out at those buildings the cloisters, the gray walls, all that I could see of the Abbey. I wondered whether the old Abbot had ever sat on this very window seat, sleepless perhaps, looking out on his domain. I looked across to the tall tower of the Abbey church and beyond it I could see the first of the fishponds; moonlight touched its waters with a silver light.

  My child moved within me and happily I placed my hand reassuringly on it.

  "Soon now, my little one," I murmured, "and never was a child awaited with such joy.”

  I was dreaming of my child though I refused to think of it as a boy; although I knew that Bruno did and so did others in the Abbey. There was no one in this place who did not await with awe and reverence the birth of my child. I could well understand how Queen Anne Boleyn had felt when she was with child. It had been so important for her to produce a boy. I wondered what her feelings had been when the Lady Elizabeth was born. And later when she had given birth to a stillborn boy!

  My thoughts were interrupted suddenly for clearly in the moonlight I saw a figure gliding across the sward. I thought at first it was the ghost for the figure was wearing the robes of a monk of St. Bruno's and over his head was a cowl which concealed his face. This was the ghost I had seen when I visited my father's grave.

  I stood up, my hands on my body as though to calm the child. The figure was coming from the direction of the tunnels and making its way toward the scriptorium.

  It turned suddenly and looked toward the monks' dorter and as it did so, the cowl fell back from his head and I saw that it was Bruno.

  He hastily pulled up the cowl and went toward the scriptorium; later I saw the light of a lantern there.

  I went back to bed. I was puzzled. I could understand his going to the scriptorium in the night if some detail had occurred to him, but from whence had he come and why should he have worn the garb of a monk?

  I felt certain then that the ghost who had reputedly haunted the Abbey was Bruno.

  I went back to bed and lay there pondering. I must have slept for when I awoke it was time almost for rising and Bruno was beside me.

  I made a sudden decision to say nothing of the matter and this decision in itself was an indication of the changing relationship between us.

  It was less than a week later when Bruno came into my sitting room where I was reading to Honey and said he had something to say to me.

  He said: "Damask, I have to go away for a short while.”

  "Away?" I cried. "But where?”

  "It is necessary for me to travel to the Continent.”

  "For what purpose?”

  A faint irritation crossed his features. "A matter of business.”

  "Abbey business?”

  He said patiently: "You will realize that the development of these Abbey lands goes on apace.”

  "I notice," I replied, "that it grows more like the old community every day.”

  "What can you know of the old community, Damask? You were never here. You saw everything from the outside.”

  "There are several of the old monks here," I said, "and they regard you as their Abbot.”

  "They look on me as their master, which I am. I have given these men work as I might give work to any laborers.”

  "The difference being that they have worked here before. They have tilled the soil and baked the bread and caught the fish… and lived the life of solitude. What is the difference in what they were doing now and doing then?”

  "A great difference," said Bruno, a trifle impatiently. "Then this was a monastic order-something of which you are entirely ignorant. Now it is a manor house. It happens to have features of a monastery because it was once an abbey. I do beg of you not to interfere in what does not concern you.”

  'I must always speak what is in my mind and always shall." I was getting excited and feared it would be bad for the child, so I went on meekly: "You were telling me that you were going abroad.”

  "Yes, I am not sure how long I shall be away. It may be several weeks, maybe longer.”

  "Where are you going, Bruno?”

  To France... to the Low Countries perhaps. You have nothing to fear. You will be well looked after here.”

  "I am not afraid for myself," I said. "There is no question of that. Why are you going?”

  "There are business matters to which I have to attend.”

  "Abbey business?”

  He was clearly impatient with my persistence. "My dear Damask, this is a costly enterprise.

  If we are to continue we must make it a profitable one. There are certain edible roots which are commonly used on the Continent and very palatable they are and good to eat. I am going to learn of these. There are carrots and turnips which have not been grown in this country. I wish to learn of how to produce them and perhaps to bring some back with me. Hops for making beer are grown a great deal in Holland.

  To discover such matters it is necessary for me to go and see for myself.”

  It seemed reasonable, but I thought of his prowling about at night and I wondered why he had thought it advisable to wear a monk's robes. He must have been impersonating a ghost. It could only mean that if he were seen not only did he not wish to be recognized but he wanted anyone who saw him to be afraid.

  It was mysterious. If Honey had not been there I should have been unable to restrain my curiosity and asked for an explanation. But this was not the moment.

  Later I considered it again. The more I knew of Bruno, the more I realized I did not know. There were times when he was like a stranger to me. He showed so clearly that he resented my curiosity, and the relationship between us was changing quickly.

  In a few days he had left.

  One day during Bruno's absence, Rupert came riding over to the Abbey. I called a groom to take his horse and then conducted him to the solar and sent for wine. Honey came in and Rupert picked her up and swung her in his arms. There was immediate friendship between them.

  "Is everything well?" he asked me anxiously.

  I told him I was very well. He savored Eugene's wine and said it was good.

  I told him Eugene had come to us when he left Caseman Court.

  "Why, it is as though the Abbey is reborn," he commented.

  "It is very different," I contradicted quickly. "This is merely a manor house, but as we have so many buildings and the land so we must needs make use of them. We plan to develop the farm. Indeed we must for it is necessary for us to make the place profitable.”

  Rupert said he would like to ride around our farmlands before he left and I said I would accompany him.

  I asked how he was faring and he told me he was pleased with his land. He had a pleasant though small manor house and his benevolent brother-in-law had given him the place, which was very likely due to the importuning of Kate.

  "It is of course not as grand as Remus Castle nor St. Bruno's Abbey, but it serves me well.”

  He looked at me wistfully and I said briskly: "Rupert, you should take a wife.”

  "I am in no mind to," he answered.

  "Do you have good servants?”

  "Indeed, yes. They serve me well.”

  "Then perhaps the need is not so urgent. But you would like to have children. You would make a good father... and a good husband too I doubt not.”

  "I think," he answered looking at me steadily, "that I shall remain a bachelor all the days of my life.”

  I could not meet his eye then. I knew that he was telling
me that since I had declined to take him no one else would do.

  He will change, I promised myself. When he grows older he will marry. I wanted him to, because I was fond of him and when I contemplated the joys of having children I wanted him to know that too.

  After he had eaten of Clement's tansy cake I mounted my horse and together we rode out to the farmlands. He examined them carefully. Abbey land was invariably good land, he said. We would have a very prosperous farm there in a few years.

  I had told him that Bruno was on the Continent studying the new edible roots which were being brought into England. He knew of them and said that he hoped to grow them too. The English were now delighted in what was known as the salad and which had been popular on the Continent for some years. Queen Katharine of Aragon had been very partial to a salad, but she had always had to send to Holland for it. Now we should grow them here and if the King's next Queen fancied a salad she could have one from an English garden.

  When it was clear that we could not possibly be overheard he brought his horse close to mine and said quietly: "I have been a little concerned, Damask.”

  "Why so?" I asked.

  "It was something Simon Caseman said.”

  "I have always distrusted that man. What did he say?”

  "He referred to your husband as the Abbot and said that there was little difference in the Abbey as it is now and as it was ten years ago.”

  "What did he mean by that?”

  "I understand that several of the monks have returned.”

  "They work on the farm at the mill and about the place.”

  "It could be dangerous, Damask.”

  "We are doing nothing against the law.”

  "I am sure you are not, but there are these rumors because several of the monks who were here have come back and are working as before.”

  "But we are doing nothing wrong," I insisted.

  "You must not only keep within the King's law but appear to do so. I do not like it that Simon Caseman should be talking.”

  "He is malicious because he wanted the Abbey for himself.”

  "Damask, if you should need me at any time, you know I shall be there.”