by Mary Luke
Back in bed she burrowed even deeper, knowing sleep would be impossible. She wasn't frightened, only apprehensive. For the shadow was not one of the manor servants or a villager leaving a surreptitious rendezvous with a scullery maid. It wasn't one of the dogs. It had been Hurst. While she hadn't seen him clearly, he was there below, she was sure. How long had he stood there waiting? How long had it been before that muted silence told her he was
willing her to come to him a second time? And how soon might it happen again?
For the next month the people of the manor house worked from dawn to dusk for it was harvesttime. Richard Cuddington had decided it was more sensible to move to Suffolk at once; to remain throughout the winter and then leave when spring was touching his park and meadows with glory would only increase their pain. So now the bakers, brewers, scullions, dairymaids and cooks within strove to match their labor to the unbelievable bounty from the outside. Elizabeth Cuddington's time in the dairy nearly doubled, and Chloe worked along with her mother and the dairymaids, helping mold the large wheels of butter and cheese and pouring the thickening cream into containers. In the orchards, apples, red and golden, were plucked and placed in baskets next to the pears and apricots. Root vegetables were dug from the kitchen garden and stored in the cool cellar. In the tithe barn, Richard supervised the packing of the wool, shorn in the spring from his sheep, which must now be bundled and sold to the visiting webster.
Underlying all the activity was the sad awareness that this was the last harvest from Cuddington land. When the move to Suffolk was made, all the bounty would be packed in wagons and carts to see the family through the first winter until their new acres could provide for their needs. Even now the trees in the park had lost their leaves, and beneath the bare branches the buck, hare and pheasant were being mercilessly hunted to provide meat against the cold weather.
Chloe worked in the garden with Domino as he selected the plants, trees and shrubs to be dug up and removed to Suffolk. Elizabeth Cuddington considered the garden her private domain. Her husband had left most of its planning and maintenance to her and the crusty, weather-beaten old soul who had carried him on his shoulders as a child and was proud of telling one and all that no one—including himself—knew how old he was. Domino was held in great respect by the undergardeners and laborers. Many had felt the clout of his roughened hand or the thrust of his boot in their backsides, for the kindly tyrant had no patience with idleness, extravagance or the waste of time or implements. He was indignant with those who took nature's largess for granted, knowing too well
how much imagination, sweat and toil it took to wrest the great flaming dahlias, the tuberoses and carnations from the soil.
Chloe gazed at the old man fondly as he appraised the age and condition of each plant and consigned it for Suffolk or the king. As she tied a piece of soft twine on a graceful holly, she listened to his muttering. "An nothin will be left for the hoodlums—that's worth a ha'penny!" He spat on the ground. "Pullin' down and buildin up again—and all to build a bloomin' palace!" Domino said the word disdainfully.
The sound of an approaching rider caused both to pause in their work, and Chloe was delighted to see Thomas, who usually walked, ride swiftly around the circular path and dismount at the front door. He hadn't noticed her, and she remained silent, drinking in the dear face with its tonsured hair. Thomas looked worried and— drained. Her father emerged and, after a few moments, disappeared toward the stables. Within seconds he'd joined Thomas and the two sped off—where? Chloe ran to the gate and watched them for a moment, then quickly went to the stables for her favorite mare. Within moments she was following the cloud of dust her father and Thomas had stirred up.
She could hear shouting and pitiful cries in the distance where a crowd had gathered. Intermittently, a great clap of noise not unlike thunder seemed to roll the earth beneath the horse's hooves. The noise came from the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, and as she rode into the midst, she stopped, appalled by what she saw.
Dozens of men, strangers all, were pulling down the church. An area had been set apart for the spectators so they wouldn't be in the way of falling debris; most of them were villagers. Only last Sunday the rector had sadly informed them that was their last day of worship within the structure that had been their spiritual home— and that of their forebears—for generations. They'd heard the rumor, of course, that the king had taken the land and church, but they hadn't believed it would happen so soon. They'd gazed at one another and then at the church—at the handsome new floor on which they'd knelt each Sunday and festival day. At the familiar saints in their niches, their features flooded with light from the glorious stained glass. While most couldn't read the Latin Bible chained in the priest's chambers—indeed couldn't read anything—they were familiar with the Bible stories, and they recognized the familiar gestures and actions of the priest during the Latin service. It solaced
and comforted them. They'd listened to him as he proclaimed the church's doom, wondering what their response should be, knowing all the while they were powerless to do anything to save the beloved building.
They stood now, shaken to their simple cores, experiencing a burning sense of frustration and rebellion. For with little attempt to hide their pleasure in the job at hand, the king's hired minions were stripping the lead from the great roof, for it was, next to the stone, the most valuable item. Once that had crashed to the ground, no care was taken to preserve anything. The precious stained glass, the walls with their colorful frescoes, the intricately carved rood loft-all were the victim of man's eagerness to destroy, to smash, to mutilate with fist and tool. Great blocks of stone, some with gargoyles or massive carved beasts or flowers, came crashing to the ground in a heavy shower of dust that settled on trees and shrubs in the immediate area.
Chloe was bewildered and sickened. She saw her father and Thomas join Father Felix, who had also arrived on the scene to ask that several small statues of no particular worth be spared, noting that he and his companions would be responsible for their removal. The prior was greeted with loud hooting and obscenities as the workers struck only harder at the cherished objects. The statues were ripped from their niches and, as the villagers watched, removed some distance from the site. There, with obvious and gleefully mocking pleasure, the workers clubbed heads and hands from the life-sized figures, laughing obscenely as they battered other parts of the bodies into shapeless masses of marble and plaster. White with repressed rage, Father Felix accepted Thomas' suggestion that they return to the Priory, ignoring the cheering of the workers at his departure. Women in the crowd wept as the great carvings and wooden pews were thrown from the church door and stacked while workers, parodying the Mass, lit a large bonfire. Encouraged by frequent drafts from hidden bottles, they cheered in drunken frenzy as the ancient wood was consumed in the flames.
Heartsick, Chloe turned her mount homeward; she didn't want her father and Thomas to know she'd witnessed such desecration.
Passing Domino's little cottage, Sparwefeld, she noticed two handsomely dressed strangers talking to the gardener, who stood in the doorway. He seemed bewildered and ill at ease, twisting his greasy cap in his hands. His face lit up when he saw her.
"Mistress Chloe! These—uh, these gentlemen—they be from the king. They looked at Sparwefeld and know we be goin' soon. Sir Richard is not here . . ."
The men were gazing at her with that appreciative light Chloe had often seen in other men's eyes. She hated them and all they represented, but it would do little good to let them see it. She had to be as clever as they were burtal. Obviously, they'd been looking at Domino's cottage, which wasn't in the original survey except as "gardener's loft." It was much more than that—a comfortable dwelling which some ancestor had erected for his own lodging while the big manor house was being built. She loved the little place and had spent many happy moments with old Domino there in her growing-up years. The thought of its suffering the same fate as the church caused a deep pang, and when she thou
ght of those obscene beings pulling down her home, she felt almost physically ill. But she mustered a smile—and it must have been a pleasant one, for Domino's eyes widened in disapproval—and said, "Sirs, you've come to take this poor man's lodging? You have the church, you are going to take my home"—she gestured toward the big house—"does your king need this simple dwelling, too? When he builds his palace, might he not need a small cottage such as this? Does it have to be destroyed?"
"Our orders, with all respect, mistress, are—"
"But you, gentlemen, you are obviously gentlemen of great quality—you must have some influence with the king?" Chloe gazed with what she hoped was appropriate wide-eyed wonder at the more important-looking of the visitors, a tall, burly man with a rich chestnut beard. "To whom am I speaking, good sirs?"
The tall man, clearly impressed with the dark-eyed creature, now pinning him with that piercing glance, swept a deep bow. "I am Charles Brandon, mistress."
Chloe finished for him. "Ah-h-h, the Duke of Suffolk. You are the king's brother-in-law."
"Such is mine honor, mistress."
"Well, as his brother-in-law and one of his foremost nobles of the land"—Chloe was pleased to see the man preen; he'd been a minor court figure until he'd wed the beautiful Mary Tudor, much to Henry's anger—"perhaps you'd be good enough to ask the king to allow this small cottage to remain in my family? It is a little request, sir, and would bring much credit to the king if he would
honor it. I cannot think the king would deny it when he is taking so much." Aware she might sound critical, she stopped, giving them the benefit of her widest, most appealing smile.
The two men watched, struck almost dumb with the imperious beauty's assurance. Suddenly Chloe knew— knew as if it were being shouted aloud—that she'd won. They were really weak and pliant, but she'd impressed them. They'd find it demeaning now to refuse her. They might have a bit of explaining to do at court, but the king had more important things to worry about than an insignificant Surrey cottage. He might curse—even cuff them about a bit as was his wont—but he'd probably go along with the decision, maybe even chaff Brandon for letting a wench get the better of him.
Before they could speak, Chloe bowed low in the saddle, then, spurring her horse shouted, "My Lord of Suffolk! Good day to you! My humble thanks to you—and to His Gracious Majesty!"
Supper was a sad affair, everyone silent remembering the monstrous events at the church, and Chloe went to her room early. She'd not told her father about Domino's cottage; Sparwefeld would be a secret until she was sure the king wouldn't change his mind. Yet she knew with absolute certainty that he would be agreeable to Brandon's decision. Or what Brandon thought was his decision. She laughed as she said good-night to her maid and brushed her long silvery hair before the shining glass on the wall, wondering where the strong certainty came from.
Lately, too, she'd had odd premonitions as she walked in the manor house vicinity or in the park outside. Brushing her hair, still flushed with a serene sense of accomplishment in wrangling Sparwefeld from a destructive fate, she recalled what she used to call— for want of a better word-her "taint." It had started years ago with the violet cap. She'd been no more than five or six, but she could remember it clearly. It was her birthday, and cleaned and dressed by her nurse, she was taken to her parents' chamber to be greeted with a profusion of hugs and kisses, after which her father solemnly gave her a small package wrapped in a clean linen cloth. Uncovering the linen, she found a small jeweled coffer, and without opening the lid, Chloe knew what was inside. She could describe it: a small jeweled cap to wear atop her silver-blond hair, such a cap as might befit the daughter of Sir Richard Cuddington. It was the first
step in growing up, in having one's own jeweled cap and not just a plain unadorned one, made from a castoff of her mother's.
She'd opened the coffer and taken out a beautiful violet cap, trimmed in small pearls with a generous cluster of small diamonds and seed pearls and a larger table diamond in the center. While putting it on and basking in the smiles of her parents and nurse, she wondered if she should tell them of her foreknowledge. But something prompted her to remain quiet. Was it possible that her mother and father, her nurse and maybe even Domino also always knew what was in a birthday coffer before they opened it? She didn't think so, but she wasn't positive.
After that it had happened often. She'd know when she awoke that the priest of Cuddington church would choose to call in the morning, hoping to be asked to stay for the substantial noon meal that always graced the manor house table. And later he would arrive, and leave, at the exact moment she'd foreseen. When a villager or one of the farm tenants was ill, she always seemed to know which would eventually recover and which would die.
Chloe had never told her parents of her "taint." She didn't feel it was bad or anything to be ashamed of, but she didn't know quite how to express it. It wasn't always pleasant, but mostly it seemed harmless enough—her ability to see just a bit more clearly, a little farther ahead than most.
There'd always been talk tinged with laughter, or terror, in the kitchen and stables about the local witches and their powers. Even she and Domino had discussed it, for Domino was a strong believer in wood sprites, tree fairies and witches. Some were supposedly good, he told her, but it seemed to Chloe that most were regarded with suspicion and alarm. If knowing what might occur before it actually happened made her a witch, then she supposed she was one. However, it seemed wise to remain silent about it.
She never told Thomas about her "taint"; it was a very private thing, and she wasn't sure Thomas—for all his talk of religion and the holy life—would understand. She hadn't wanted to endanger their relationship. And it seemed only now, since knowing she must soon leave Cuddington, that the taint was becoming— stronger? Walking outside, she would find the scene suddenly almost colorless and a strange silence pervading the atmosphere. Then she would know—with that same absolute certainty she'd known with Brandon that afternoon—that here, by a rickety old wooden bridge,
flung across a small stream by her grandfather, the king's builders would erect a structure set apart from the palace, one designed mainly for banqueting. Another time, walking some distance from her home, as the spaniels romped at her heels, the familiar sensation occurred again. She could hear the thunder of horses' hooves, with spectators shouting in the distance, as they cheered or cried out. Were they hunting? Or cheering their favorites in a royal tournament? She didn't know, but she knew the scene would take place-perhaps in another time—or perhaps she'd even later see it herself.
Even the dogs had seemed disturbed. While scampering through thickets in search of a hare, they'd suddenly appear at her side, whimpering and frightened, licking her fingers and seemingly urging her to leave. Chloe was now very used to the sensation. For a moment, time appeared to stop; she and the dogs apparently existed in a timeless vacuum. She'd force herself to action, calm the dogs and quickly move on. In a moment the sensation would disappear and the dogs go off to burrow once more.
While in the woods, she sensed the wild animals' foreknowledge. They could hardly know their homes were threatened or their lives endangered. Yet they obviously had a presentiment that change was imminent. Many of them simply disappeared. When she went to look for the more familiar animals, deep in the forest or park, she usually found they'd moved on. Later, a good distance from their former habitat, she might come upon them, busily marking out their new territory. They acknowledged her presence but seemed more interested in satisfying themselves they'd found food, water and shelter from their enemies. Later, riding home, Chloe had thought their foreknowledge was not unlike her taint, so it couldn't be bad. She thought, too, how much simpler life was for nature's creatures: no household to disperse, no belongings to pack, no memories to store away.
(Chapter ^ixtem
At Merton Priory the sad task of dissolution was under way. There was more haste than at the manor house, for, as Father Felix said in a moment of rare b
itterness, the king hadn't left them the time God had heretofore seen fit to bestow. Messengers sent to other religious houses had found places for many of the brethren, while several novitiates lost heart for theological life and returned home. Father Felix had been invited to join the Benedictine Abbey at Westminster, where he might end his days in peace; he hoped to persuade them to accept Brother Thomas as well.
Merton Priory's treasure was duly inventoried and sent to Thomas Cromwell, the king's Vicar-General. Blankets, mattresses, coverlets and other everyday necessities were omitted and given, instead, to the departing monks or the village poor. The storehouse of food, wood, wine and other sundries was doled out at the gate. The king might have the Priory's treasure, Father Felix thought grimly, but the product of their own hard labor would be shared as it always had been.
They all hurried through the days, aware of the little time left before they must leave the cherished house whose fate no one wished to witness. The destruction of the church had so sickened Father Felix and oppressed Thomas that neither visited the site again.