by Mary Luke
Quickly, Thomas ran to Father Felix. "I know what it is," said the prior, sadly. "I'm sure they'll take Sir Richard's land, too. The messenger spoke of the possibility the day he was here. I'd hoped the king had changed his mind." He ran a hand over his tired eyes. "Let us go in and pray for our friend, Thomas."
Dutifully, the monk went to the small altar at the end of Father Felix's chamber and, sinking to his knees, attempted a prayer for the ones who'd been as a family to him. It was not successful. He could not compose his mind. Even as he sought the words in his heart, his thoughts kept returning to that handsome house where even now Sir Richard must be facing the king's emissaries.
At the manor house, Richard Cuddington read the large roll, covered in a small, spidery hand that informed him that a "View
and Survey of the Manor of Cuddington" had been undertaken by Crown representatives. The survey revealed that upon the site was a "fair place, well-builded and without decay" surrounded by "great timber trees." Besides the buildings that formed part of or enclosed the manor house, there was a "well for water which is very good and clear and which standeth at the kitchen door against the west with the gardens and woodyard for the cook." All this in addition to "a barn that is very large and great . . . the walls of timber and covered with tile, newly laid. . . ." It had impressed the king, who'd seen it all several weeks ago; it was just what he was looking for, the emissary said. What Majesty intended to do with it, neither the royal missive nor emissary said. Richard Cuddington was so distraught he did not think to ask.
The intent was clear. The king would like the manor of Cuddington—its church, village dwellings, the manor house and the Priory— to revert to him, and for this he was "Pleased of his Gracious goodness" to present to Richard and Elizabeth Cuddington the manor of Ixworth in Suffolk which those of his Council had deemed more than fair exchange. There was a house of similar size at Ixworth with buildings, barn, orchard and forests where Richard Cuddington might prosper as he had in Surrey. His Majesty wished no loss to the Cuddington family and was prepared to be not only generous, but tolerant as well, of the time expended in making the move. Though the Priory was to be dissolved at once, the Cudding-tons might remain throughout the winter, for no building could be commenced until the following spring. As there was no indication of what the building might be, there was also no appeal; the royal decision was final.
No mention was made of the villagers or farmers. Presumably, they would be compensated for their small holdings and left to decide their own fate. But the royal decree made it clear that Henry expected to gain six messuages, six hundred acres of arable land, fifty acres of meadow, six hundred acres of pasture, forty acres of wood, six hundred acres of heath and furze and twenty shillings in annual rent from the four farms surrounding the manor that were permitted to remain. The property—from Maiden Manor, Ewell, Epsom, Banstead Downs, Cheam and Morden—would be enclosed by a fence or pale.
If Father Felix had been stunned by the king's demands, Richard
Cuddington was aghast. He listened as the royal emissary read, his face white, a stricken look in his eyes. Bowing, the emissary departed, leaving the hateful document on the table, as Elizabeth Cuddington broke into tears. Chloe, recoiling from the import of the words, rushed to embrace her mother. The whole episode seemed like a bad dream. Her parents still appeared incredulous-only she seemed to recognize the agonizing reality of the moment. Never had she seen her father so helpless. Richard Cuddington had always been a bulwark of strength and protection. Now he was numb, his features anguished, completely demoralized by the royal fiat.
Late that afternoon, unable to work or tolerate the questioning look in his loved ones' eyes, Richard rode to Merton Priory. If nothing else, he must tell the prior he could no longer help, for he'd been similarly dispossessed.
Father Felix greeted Richard with compassion. He could see the man was shattered. After recounting the story, Richard said, "And we are to vacate by spring. . . ." His face flushed as he sought self-control; only his clenched fists gave evidence of his inner turmoil. "It's unbelievable!" he cried. "Everything will be gone! The house, the barn, the stables. We can remove our possessions, of course; the king isn't interested in our belongings." Bitterly, he said, "And we do have until spring. I think that almost makes it worse. This will be our last Christmas at Cuddington." He turned away, his frustration threatening to overwhelm him.
Immediately, Father Felix arose, his face concerned and gentle. "Sir Richard, I am sorry. I still cannot believe Merton is to go. But our loss is nothing compared to yours. I'm an old man; I'm sure some other house will take me in. Places may be found for the brethren, too. We are, I suppose, a rather insignificant Order. It is tragic enough for us, but for you. . . ." His voice shook as he put a frail hand on his friend's shoulder. "For you, I know this is devastating."
"But what does the king want it for? The whole village! The church! This, I can't understand." Richard's voice broke. "The decree didn't say—what would even a monarch want so much for?"
"I asked," replied the prior, "and was told that—while no decision is ever binding with the king should he wish to change his mind—that he plans a small palace here. It seems there's no suitable place for him to stay when he visits or hunts in this area. The whole
manor will be annexed to his Honor of Hampton Court. I understand he doesn't like to visit Hampton since Queen Anne's execution."
"A palace?" Wearily, Richard shook his head. "With Windsor, Enfield, Richmond, Greenwich and a few I'm sure I've forgotten— the king needs another residence?" Angrily he walked to the window. In the far distance the spire of the Cuddington church was stark against the sky; clouds lowered, and a cold wind forecast a coming storm. "Another palace, eh? Well, good luck to you, Henry, with your palace!" Richard's voice was laced with bitterness as he pounded the windowsill. "May you have little joy and no comfort in your blessed palace—may it be cursed for you and yours!" Then, oblivious to anything but his own misery, he hurried from the chamber.
The prior followed him into the courtyard. As Richard mounted his horse, he said, "The messenger told me the king and queen Jane will be visiting here soon. I doubt they'll pay us a visit, for we'll be gone within weeks." Mindful of his calling, he attempted to comfort his visitor. "If there's anything we can do for you, Sir Richard, I'll have the time." He attempted a smile as he concluded, "The messenger did tell me that both the king and queen are elated at coming here and have promised to erect a building as there'll be none such in the land."
But his attempt at consolation was fruitless. Richard Cuddington was already out of hearing, riding in the direction of the manor house which was no longer his.
That night Chloe lay in her bed, wrapped warmly in a cambric night rail. Though it was May, the nights were often chilly, and she disliked, once comfortably between the clean-smelling heavy linen sheets atop the thick feather mattress, to arise to put on another gown. She'd doused the wax candle and lay now, the covers drawn to the strong, square chin with the deep cleft so like her father's and gazed across the room to the window shut tightly against the cool night air. Though it was dark, she could see the branches of the huge plane tree outlined against the window. In the morning it would be full of magpies and chaffinches. Now it made a soft, sighing noise, yet it did not obliterate the sound of her parents' voices
from their chamber across the hall. Chloe remembered the frequent occasions when as a little child she'd gone to the door to listen. She recalled the terrible hurt she'd felt on hearing them frankly discussing the lack of a son. She'd never mentioned the conversation—her parents would have been embarrassed, while her nurse might tartly have reflected that little good ever came of eavesdropping. Now, thought Chloe sadly, perhaps it was just as well there was no son since their ancestral lands were passing to the Crown.
Nor had Chloe ever told her parents about her feelings toward Hurst. Ever since that day he'd discovered Thomas and herself beyond Priest Hill, she'd been uncomfortab
le in his presence. Often, she felt his small pale eyes on her and, forcing herself to return his gaze, was disconcerted when he continued to stare audaciously. Yet one couldn't complain because a man looked at them. So she'd merely avoided him whenever possible—until today.
While her father was at Merton and her mother lay despairing in her chamber, Chloe had worked with the younger maids, helping cut up old clothing to be given to the poor. A large parcel of heavy serge, destined for servants' clothing, had arrived from London Town, and everyone crowded around to admire the cloth. Suddenly, the voices faded, and in the muted silence something compelled her to leave. The feeling was so new and different she felt weakened by its urgency and, at the same time, almost overcome by its power. She sat down, thinking to clear her mind, but the feeling persisted. Finally, it seemed the thing to do, and ignoring the puzzled look of her companions, she rose and left the room.
Once in the back courtyard, near the fishpond, the atmosphere seemed normal, and the muted silence disappeared. The barking of the family spaniels could be heard at Sparwefeld, Domino's little cottage, where they were probably bedeviling the old man as he worked in his garden. The soughing of the great trees whipped her skirts about her, and she was about to leave, to seek the fire's warmth, when she realized she was not alone. From behind a large hedge, a figure appeared. It was Hurst, carrying a tub of fish from the pond where they were kept for live food and for restocking the stream. He put the tub on the ground and advanced toward her. Uncomfortable in his presence, she nevertheless stood firm and said in a tone she'd heard her mother assume, "Yes, Hurst, did you want something?"
"Yes, I do," he replied, coming toward her smiling evilly. "I wanted to see you, and I wished it so hard you had to come out, didn't you?" Chloe fought the desire to run—anything to get away from the man with the pale eyes who gazed at her so intimately. Instead, she eyed the fish and said, "The cook will be looking for the fish, Hurst, and soon, too. I have work to do." She turned to leave. Suddenly the slight man was in front of her, and one hand, slimy from the fish, grasped hers so tightly, she almost cried out.
"You don't have to leave right away, and fish'll keep well enow!" Chloe smelled his breath, he was so close. He'd been at the ale barrel again, not for the first time that day, she was sure. "I want to talk to you, Mistress Chloe. I never see you alone, yet you're friendly enough with others—I mind that day on the hill. . . . And the last time you said good-bye to Thomas." He thrust his face close to her. "He's a priest now, and not for you, miss. You could look elsewhere." His grip tightened on her hand.
Chloe knew she was in no actual danger—there were others too near. Yet never in her life had she been so overwhelmed; she felt the presence of evil in the slimy touch of Hurst's hand, in his foul breath, in the very smallness of his person. "What can you want with me?" was all she could gasp as she tried to pull her hand away. "Let me go!"
Her struggling only seemed to excite Hurst more. "You don't really want to leave, Mistress Chloe." He leered again, and his hand came up to fondle her breast. "You was hot enough for that young Thomas, you didn't mind when he—"
Suddenly, Chloe extricated herself and, giving Hurst a rude shove, cried, "Get out—get out! Don't you ever touch me again!" Then, near tears, she fled into the house and up to her room. She'd made excuses at mealtime and remained there ever since.
The scene with Hurst brought to mind the last farewell with Thomas which he'd recalled. Again Chloe burned with the embarrassing knowledge that the hateful undergardener had observed them in an intimate moment. Thomas was about to take his final vows. He'd renounced her love and the world of man for the love of Christ and the world of God. Her parents by now had guessed how she felt about the boy they regarded almost as a son. "You must let him go, dear," her mother had advised, her dark head bent over her needlework. "I'm sure the choice was not easy, but
Thomas has always longed for the church. You mustn't make it difficult for him."
Chloe had tried her best, but each time Thomas appeared at the manor house she felt again that racing excitement in her blood, that yearning toward the boy with the nut-brown hair, the cool dark eyes and the manly bearing. She could feel again the crushing warmth of his lips, his body straining against hers. If he felt the same way as she did, why did he persist in a calling where they could never be together?
She put the question directly to him on the day he'd come to say good-bye. She knew it was unfair and only made it more difficult, but she couldn't help herself. She didn't feel joyous and thankful, as her mother said she should. Thomas, too, was pale and tense. And there was an odd diffidence she'd never noticed before. It was almost as though he'd already left her and was now here merely to observe the formalities. Her parents had greeted Thomas in the chamber where they all admired the new fireplace, and a servant had brought wine. Richard Cuddington had clasped Thomas' hand and told him how proud they were of him, how pleased they were he'd chosen a holy life. Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek and pressed his hand, and then they'd gone and left her alone with him.
"You'll wish me well, Chloe?" Thomas turned to her as they sat on the bench in front of the fire which cast its radiance over the spacious room. Yet Chloe did not feel the warmth. Her veins had turned to ice. All she knew was that soon Thomas would be wearing a plain brown wool robe and the thick luxuriant hair would be tonsured and covered by a cowl. He'd be a man of God. . . .
An intense inner anger almost consumed her. Pride and modesty were cast aside as she stood up and faced him, the firelight haloing her silvery hair and casting a pinkish glow on her pale skin.
"No! I don't wish you well, Thomas! I think you're a fool, throwing away your life, to cloister yourself behind four walls, never to give anything of yourself to anyone." Her voice was rising. She was miserable, and she knew her parents could probably hear every word. She didn't care.
"Chloe! That's not true. I'll not be throwing my life away—that's the whole meaning of what I'm doing! I'll be enlarging my life, filling it with care and love for those in need."
"Anyone can do that!" She flung at him scornfully. "You have more to offer." She noticed Thomas was even paler, though an un-
derstanding and compassionte look had come into his eyes. He took her hands in his and again she felt that familiar fire along her veins.
"No, Chloe, that's the whole point—anyone cannot do the work. Father Felix says—"
"I don't care what Father Felix says!" she half shouted at him. Then, as she realized she was fighting a losing battle, the knowledge that she was really saying good-bye to Thomas overwhelmed her, and she gave a racking sob. Her hands went to her face. She was behaving badly. It would only embarrass and disappoint Thomas more. But she knew she couldn't help herself.
Thomas looked at the shaking figure, the long, slim hands that covered a face dearer to him than anyone else on earth. No power could stop him from putting his arms around her, and they stood together, her head on his chest, his chin buried in the soft silver hair, while he caressed her shoulders and whispered, "Darling, do stop. You're tearing me apart. Oh, Chloe, dear God, do stop—I can't bear—"
She'd looked up at him then, and there, for a moment, Thomas the monk was gone and there was Thomas of her childhood, the boy she'd run and played and ridden with. There, more than anyone else, was Thomas the man to whom she'd offered herself on a faraway hillside, as the wind whipped about them. She could see that memory was warm in his mind, too, and before she knew it, he'd lowered his head and his lips met hers.
But the kiss was different. Thomas intended it to go no farther; he was in control now. There was love and warmth, but no fire, no passion in the kiss. And Chloe finally realized—as she hadn't before —that her battle was with a force larger than the love he felt for her. And at that moment she changed forever from a young girl-sure of her beauty and her ability to get anything she wanted—to a young woman who must now give way graciously and with an understanding and compassionate spirit.
Thomas thrust her from him, holding her at arm's length, and they looked deep into each other's eyes. Both knew it was the end. He was waiting for some word from her. Brushing the last of the tears from her face, Chloe whispered, "Good-bye, Thomas. This is, I know, really good-bye. It must be a proud and wonderful moment for you. I hadn't meant to spoil it."
Thomas smiled warmly, obviously relieved. "Oh, Chloe, thank you I I can go now with a freer heart. You know how important—"
"Yes, I know it's important that you follow your heart, Thomas. Just as I tried to follow mine. I know now the time is not yet. Not for us. But I know—oh, Thomas, I do know—we'll be together sometime! Perhaps not now, but someday! I don't care how long I have to wait. I'll wait until the end of time."
But Thomas wasn't listening. He was looking over her shoulder, out the window where Hurst stood watching them. Apparently, he'd been working nearby and stopped to peer into the room which the firelight made so bright. There was no leer on his face now, only a hard and bitter look, almost more frightening than his twisted smile. Quickly, Thomas pulled Chloe to the outside hall, and there, in the presence of her parents, they'd made a proper and courteous farewell.
Remembrance of Hurst made Chloe, now warm and safe in her bed, vastly uncomfortable. She burrowed under the covers, longing for sleep. She could still hear the heartening hum of her parents' voices. Perhaps I should have told Father about Hurst, she thought. But then he, cornered, might have blurted out the truth of her behavior with Thomas. She burned again with the remembrance of the man's lewd smile. Sleep seemed far away, and finally, she rose. Disdaining to light the candle, she went to the window and opened it, hoping the soft night air—for all its dangers of "coughs and rheums"—might sweep away her depression. She leaned on the rough stone sill, drinking in the play of moonlight through the trees and on the lawn that was Domino's pride and joy. Soon it would all be only a memory, and she'd be far away north in another house. Suddenly, the movement of a shadow caught her eye. It was only a quick motion, and she couldn't be sure it was not one of the servants pilfering a bird from the dovecote. Again the movement; only this time it seemed nearer. The sighing of the trees seemed to lessen and the silence grew oppressive. Again that strange, muted silence enveloped her. Then she knew. Quickly, she closed the casements and hurriedly drew the heavy hangings across the front.