by Mary Luke
James had often conceded he was no judge of art, but even he could appreciate the composition and delicate coloring. He handed it back to his son. "Excellent, lad, most worthy! But you must admit you have a beautiful subject. Here, now—here's your uncle, show him your work."
As Richard Cuddington admired the little painting, an idea formed in his mind. This time in London presented a fine opportunity to have his daughter's portrait painted. It could be a gift to his wife to hang proudly in their new home, something entirely uncon-
nected with their Surrey past and a lasting reminder of her youthful beauty. When Richard broached the possibility, everyone was enthusiastic.
The next day Bartholomew Penn was summoned to Cuddington House.
Everyone was crowded into the room when, two days later, the painter set up his materials for the first sitting. Penn, a student of Master Holbein, Sergeant-Painter to the king, was a young man of medium height with dark hair and eyes and the long, sensitive fingers of the artist. He was quiet-spoken, yet authoritative as he placed his materials near his easel and opened the pale-green velvet hangings to let in the early-morning light. Penn had painted several prominent London citizens and had assisted Master Holbein on larger group portraits, such as that of Sir Thomas More, commissioned during the latter years of the Lord Chancellor's life. But, he told Thomas in an awestruck whisper, he had never before seen—or painted—anyone as lovely as Chloe Cuddington. Clearly, he considered the task a challenge.
As Chloe entered the room, Thomas caught his breath. She was wearing a gown Penn had selected for its simplicity. "The background and carpet contain much color, Mistress; the gown must fit in," he advised. The gown, a gift from her Uncle James as a memento of her London visit, was of damask in the palest shade of peach. "Lady Blush" the dressmaker had called it. Its square neckline was unadorned. But James arrived after the first few moments with a flat oblong case from which he drew a small circlet of gold with a pendant of diamonds and pearls, in the center of which was the largest pearl Chloe had ever seen. It had been a particular favorite of his wife's, he said; it would give him much pleasure to have her wear it.
Richard tugged the carved and gilded chair into the room's center, and Chloe sat down. A hush fell over the room as Bartholomew arranged the long, flowing sleeves, faced with a deeper shade of damask, so they might drape gracefully over the full skirt. A tiny cap of blush-colored velvet, bordered with delicate golden scrollwork and pearls, covered a part of Chloe's fair hair which the sun obligingly caressed. She folded her hands in her lap and then raised her eyes to gaze directly at Bartholomew Penn.
Everyone went to opposite sides of the room to admire the effect, but in the different positions, no one saw exactly what the young artist perceived. The sun not only glinted on Chloe's hair, but touched the diamonds and pearls with sparkling facets of light, rivaling the luminous gleam on the Thames outside. Yet everything was subservient to the radiance of the young girl sitting composedly in the gilded chair, the soft color of her gown so incredibly right with her silvery hair and ivory skin. Penn appeared dazed by such splendor. Then, picking up his brush and palette, he confidently made the first stroke.
Quickly, everyone except young Richard tiptoed from the room. The boy sank into one corner, out of the artist's view, hoping to make himself insignificant in the drapery's shadow, so that even Chloe couldn't see him. His eyes never left Penn's hands.
The following morning Thomas returned from his second visit to the Abbey. He'd told the abbot the story of Queen Catherine's Lure, and the old priest had promised to give it sanctuary. "We have many hiding places, Brother Thomas, that the Vicar-General doesn't know about—nor will he ever!" The abbot had said grimly, 'Tell Father Felix we're praying for him during these difficult times. Tell him we'll welcome him when he comes." As for Thomas, if no place could be found for him at the Abbey—for which he was quite young—they'd ask for him at York. "There the old ways still persist," the abbot explained. "There have been some closings, of course, but nothing like here. It's a mite too distant for even Cromwell. Do not worry, Brother Thomas, care will be taken. Father Felix says you have great faith and ability—do not lose it now."
At Cuddington House the family was just departing at the Ivy Lane water stairs between Durham House and the Savoy, where the handsome gilded barge with the Cuddington crest painted on its sides awaited them. Chloe had finished her sitting for the day and was in high spirits at the prospect of a ride on the river. "Do come, Thomas!" she cried. "Uncle James is taking us to Chelsea!" She pulled him to the rear of the barge, and the boatman obligingly poled out in the direction of Westminster.
She wore riding clothes of a deep-blue velvet, with delicate silver filigree trim, and a fashionable hat with a long plume was set rakishly atop the pale hair. She was very different, Thomas de-
cided, from the hoydenish Chloe with whom he'd raced over the Surrey hills. Already a week in London had given her a mature and sophisticated sheen he'd never seen before. Settling herself back among the cushions, she smiled that wide and generous smile that lit the dark eyes and said mockingly, "Now, no long face, Brother Thomas! We're going to have an adventure!" She gazed at the panorama of Westminster unfolding before her. "Oh, this is all so lovely! How marvelous it would be if Master Penn could paint this scene." She gazed with almost impish glee at Thomas. "He says the portrait is going very well."
"Penn is a gifted artist, Chloe, I've no doubt the result will be pleasing." Thomas returned her smile. "You are pleasing—and lovely. How could he not paint a masterpiece?" They were passing Scotland Place where the Scottish kings resided during state visits. Opposite the deteriorating pile of Westminster Palace lay the splendid red-brick Palace of Lambeth, the home of the Archbishop of Canterbury. "Bartholomew comes from Canterbury," Chloe told Thomas. "He said as a child the colors in the cathedral windows were the most wonderful thing he ever saw. All he ever wanted to do was paint them."
"I vow I detect a note of great interest in the estimable person of Master Penn." Thomas laughed, hoping to sound jocular. "Could it be that the beauteous Mistress Cuddington is smitten?"
Chloe's delicate features were suffused with pink. She raised her great dark eyes, and suddenly all the impish glee, the joyous excitement was gone to be replaced by stark, naked hunger. There was no longer any pretense, no badinage. "Do not jest, Thomas. There is no one, there never will be anyone—but you. You know that." Her tone was almost harsh. "There's no need to mock me."
Distressed, Thomas whispered, "I do not scoff at you, Chloe, I asked honestly. I've made my choice. You know that. It would be so much more satisfying to me if I knew you, too, had also chosen. You yourself brought up young Penn's name," he reminded her softly.
"I did. You're right, Thomas, of course. You're always right, it seems." She sighed and brushed the silvery strands of hair the river's breeze had whipped about her cheeks. "One must think of oneself, I suppose. I have a whole lifetime to live yet—without you. I very much admire Master Penn. He is attractive. He seems land and gentle and, as you say, very gifted." She was silent a moment.
"Soon you may go to York, Thomas, and I doubt I'll ever see you again." For a moment there were tears in her eyes. Then, mindful of the others, she brought up her chin sharply, and again that wide smile flashed out and the bantering tone returned to her voice. "And in that case, one must have—plans. Am I not right, Thomas?"
Thomas understood. She was saying, in her own way, that she found Penn attractive, that she might encourage his interest. As if in answer to his thoughts, she finished, "Other than you, Thomas, he's the only one I could consider living with in the intimacy of marriage. I've found that London men are mostly fools."
"Penn is no fool, Chloe," Thomas replied, surprised at the urgency in his voice. "He would be kind and gentle. You would be well taken care of. He would, I'm sure, hold you in the highest regard. Marriage is no protection against the sensualist and the brute."
Chloe gibed at him. "And w
hat would the simple Brother Thomas of Merton Priory know about the sensualist?" Her clear laugh floated across the water, yet Thomas kept silent, his thoughts on a distant hillside long ago. Always it was the same. They couldn't be together. It would be better when she was married—if indeed she was serious—and he was at York.
The barge glided on past small shore hamlets where people fished or bathed or washed their clothing at the river's edge. At the water stairs of Sir Thomas More's old home, they disembarked and, quiet and introspective, skirted the gardens of the executed Lord Chancellor whom many had considered the finest mind in Europe. Past the old church and the More manor house, they arrived at the King's Road, and there, hiring horses, their spirits picked up. It was a gay, chattering party that cantered up the leafy lane for home, for the bracing air of the river had given them good appetites.
At the Knight's Bridge, the fields stretched beyond. Up a slight hill, they could admire the scene: the newly built St. James's Palace and a few windmills were all that marred an otherwise perfect view of the Abbey and Lambeth Palace across the river. James pointed out spots of interest as they walked down "the Streete" toward Whitehall Palace. Passing under the magnificent Holbein Gate, they entered the royal gardens at Whitehall, and Chloe was entranced at the geometrical patterns and "knots" and the handsome topiary among which the gilded heads of the King's Beasts reared proudly. In the center a picturesque fountain spilled water
amid the parterres and terraces. Ladies of the court—many carrying pet monkeys or accompanied by small dogs—walked the graveled paths toward the river or "the Streete."
Suddenly a rippling note filled the air. James quickly hurried them from the gardens a few paces to the court gate. "This might be interesting to see," he said.
At the gate they watched as a group of riders approached, obviously straight from the Tiltyard that bordered on St. James's Park a few hundred yards away. Pennons flying, lances aloft, they were still in armor. Some had removed their helmets, for they'd worked up a good sweat. All were laughing, in apparent good humor at their jousting efforts.
Suddenly, Thomas recognized the massive figure in the lead. There could be no mistaking the regal way the man sat his horse. Even with his visor up, Thomas knew it was the king. Excitedly, Chloe whispered, "Could it be?"
She didn't wait for an answer, for James cried, "It's the king!"
As if the man had heard, he pushed down his visor and then, with one gesture, pulled the helmet roughly from his head. He was sweating profusely. The bright-red hair was matted to his forehead; his coloring was high. Even so, here—incarnate—was a picture of Majesty and all it could mean. He called to his companion, his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk, and the two spurred their horses and rode faster for the gate. Everyone was jostled as the royal gentleman-usher rode up, shouting, "Make way for the king!"
Henry came abreast of the Cuddingtons. He was so close Chloe could see the perspiration on his brow and the incredible startling blueness of his eyes. His huge fist held a lance, which suddenly he tossed to Suffolk, who caught it deftly. Then, spying the group, Henry slowed his pace and, reining in, raised his hand toward them. A loud cheer broke from everyone, and despite themselves, the Cuddingtons were moved. Richard was amazed at his own reaction. This is the man who has taken my inheritance, he thought, who will break up my land, send families into exile, has dissolved a worthy holy house, and here I am admiring him! Still he remained impressed. He's our sovereign, Richard reasoned. We're born and bred to revere the king. Yet he didn't join in the cheering, noting instead the expectant smiles on his brother's and daughter's faces.
The king approached the gate. Glancing at the assembled crowd, he noted nothing unusual except the slim figure of a young girl. A
beauty in dark-blue velvet, her hands folded in front, her hair a most remarkable color. Even from the slight distance, Henry could see the magnificent dark eyes, smiling in anticipation. Good breeding and grace showed in every line of her person. The king rode nearer so he might observe her more closely. Richard leaned forward and, without consciously knowing he did so, put a protective arm on the girl's shoulder.
Henry observed the gesture, noticed the resemblance and smiled. He was in little doubt of his subjects' opinion of him where a good-looking wench was concerned. His companions had stopped and watched as, for a split second, the exquisite young girl, the man so like her and the king seemed to present a tableau in which all were waiting for something. . . .
It happened in the next moment. The throng had fallen silent and was waiting also. Henry eyed the others; they were the usual group to be found at every royal gate. But this girl and man were different. His companions were smiling at each other—never could the king resist a pretty face!
Then they, too, were nonplussed. For Henry had come to a complete stop. Gazing directly at Chloe and her father, he held out his hand and called, "Mistress! I give you a good day!" Then, turning slightly in his saddle, graceful in spite of his ample girth and heavy hot armor, he bowed deeply in homage. He was pleased to see the young beauty smile. Even the father relaxed his hold, and a certain wariness left his features.
Suffolk came abreast and whispered something to the king. Henry called again. "Mistress! My Lord of Suffolk tells me you've met before—that you're as clever as you are beautiful. A good combination, mistress! I pay tribute to your wit." And again he bowed low in Chloe's direction. Then, calling to the gentleman-usher, "Proceed!" he laughed aloud and—very aware of the effect he'd created—winked broadly and wickedly at her as he spurred his horse forward. His companions, mindful of Henry's behavior, copied him good-naturedly as they entered the gates that closed with a loud and dusty bang. Through the bars Chloe could see the king laughing and dismounting at a doorway, thumping several of his companions on their backs as they disappeared inside.
It had all taken but a few moments, yet each in the little group felt dazed by the royal accolade. James was relieved. It'd been an
awkward moment, and he'd not have blamed his brother if he'd turned his back so as not to see the king.
"He is . . . magnificent." Chloe appeared bedazzled. Answering Richard's question, she explained her encounter with Suffolk and his promise to leave Sparwefeld for the Cuddingtons. Her father laughed appreciatively as she told the story. "That was most kind of His Majesty, most kind indeed," he said.
Thomas went for the mounts, and they all rode in silence to Cud-dington House. It had been a wonderful afternoon, and as he rode along, it occurred to the monk that for the moment at least, the hate, bitterness and despair they'd brought to London had all but vanished in the magical moment when a king had bowed and smiled.
At Cuddington House a messenger awaited Sir Richard. There had been an accident, he explained, and Domino had been hurt while helping load the last of the wagons with plants and shrubs destined for the Suffolk garden. The wagon had been overloaded, had shifted as the old gardener had thrust the last shrub into place and had quickly spilled out, catching the man and pinning him to the ground. His leg was badly hurt, but even so, he told Richard, Domino had clouted those who picked him up, calling everyone lazy, stupid varlets. The Lady Elizabeth regretted bringing their London stay to an end, but she desired the family to return, for she would need all hands. Richard gave orders to leave at once; he felt an affectionate concern for the old gardener.
It was James who remembered first. "The portrait, Richard! It's not finished! It would be a shame to halt it now."
Richard agreed. Penn was working superbly; he would need little more than another few days. "You'll stay, child," he told Chloe, "finish the work and then perhaps I can come for you or James will bring you home."
And so it was decided. Early the next morning, while it was still dark, the family gathered for an early meal, and as the horses were being readied, Thomas disappeared into the chapel at the rear of Cuddington House. There at the altar he knelt, seeking to quiet his mind and heart. He gave thanks for his gracious reception at the
Abbey, for the sanctuary provided Queen Catherine's Lure and for his pleasant days at Cuddington House. He asked that he be sent
where he might be needed—either York or Westminster—it mattered little. All he cared about was to continue in the life to which he was so deeply committed.
Was that all that mattered? The picture of Chloe as she'd sat in the barge floated before him. "Do not jest, Thomas," she'd whispered. Already she'd wasted several years waiting for him until the very end, never relinquishing her hope of marrying him. Only his final vows had convinced her their love was hopeless. She needed love, the warmth and companionship of marriage. She deserved children who might one day inherit the vast Suffolk estates Sir Richard would leave her.
After their departure she'd undoubtedly in her peach damask gown return to the Hall where Bartholomew Penn would be most vulnerable to her charm and sweetness. Thomas felt a catch in his throat. If Penn were right for her, let her receive him with an open heart. That was his prayer.
He rose from his knees, the peace that usually accompanied his prayer eluding him. Certainly he wished the creature dearest on earth to him to be loved and safely wed. But if that was what he wished, why did he feel sad? Why, he wondered as he closed the chapel door, did he suddenly feel almost engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness and despair?
Qhapter ^feventeen
Three days later, as Bartholomew Penn was putting the finishing touches on the portrait, a letter from her mother was delivered to Chloe as she left the sitting. She took it to the Hall, where James was writing at the desk, and sat down to read it. Little gasps escaped her lips, and her uncle noticed her hands were shaking. "Chloe, dearl What is it?" He arose to comfort his niece, who handed him the letter.