by Mary Luke
On one of our last days at Cuddington, Brother Thomas came from Merton bearing a beautiful Book of Hours which he and the other monks had made for Lady Elizabeth. Sir Richard and I had been to Ewell and on returning saw Chloe and Brother Thomas talking with Hurst, an undergardener on the estate, who had left Sir Richard's service to work for the King's Surveyor as a labourer. He was shouting and threatening them with a clenched fist. Sir Richard was all for taking a whip to the man—but he quickly left when he saw us. We all met back at the manor, and Brother Thomas, after presenting the Book of Hours to Lady Elizabeth, went on to the church upon which spoliation had started.
We were in the Hall having a simple meal—the plate and much of the furniture having gone ahead to Suffolk—when Domino, the head gardener, burst in upon us. He was hardly lucid, but crying loudly, tears running down his cheeks, "Oh, come, sir! It's a terrible thing. Oh, come quickly, good sirs ... I think the boy is dead. ..." I can remember the fear in my loins as we all ran, quickly, out the gate toward the church. I will never know how, but Chloe actually reached there first. I think it truly unnatural she should have accomplished this, but it seems she sped on feet that hardly touched the ground. Her face was very white, and she kept crying, "Thomas, Thomas. . . ."
She had been there only a minute or more when we all arrived right behind her. She was on her knees, her face twisted with grief and—was it rage? The monk's body lay in the chancel of the ruined church. His gown was torn, a sandal missing . . . truly, there must have been a great struggle. But it was his head that horrified us so. I have said he was handsome. But now his poor battered face gave little indication of it, such a pummelling he had received. But my dearest Chloe held that head with its gashes and blood seeping from its wounds as if it were the most precious thing in the world. She held it to her breast, kissing the matted hair and crooning, "Oh, beloved, oh, Thomas, do try . . . don't go, my darling ... oh,
Thomas." She spoke thus for several moments and then, miraculously—and I think all who witnessed this tragic scene would agree (for we were a silent stunned lot)—the man rallied briefly. I think she verily willed him back from the dead, for his body (Domino later told us) had been as one lifeless, when he'd discovered it. She wiped the ravaged face with her skirt and smiled into the pain-filled eyes, her tears making clean little rivulets on the bloodied skin. "Thomas, do try," she repeatedly begged.
The man could not speak, but I know he heard. While he could say nothing, there seemed to be great communication between them. I know that everyone who witnessed this felt she'd received an answer. She kissed the man's face and said in a voice I will remember until the day I, too, am dead. "Thomas, I love you. This was not meant to be . . . this was not to be your fate. I know ... I know, my darling. . . ." She rocked him as if he were a babe. "But, Thomas, we will be together . . . oh, my darling, we will be together . . . even if it takes until the end of time."
The man's eyes closed, and we thought he was slipping away when a great commotion occurred behind the wall. As our eyes were all on the grievous scene, Domino had seen Hurst behind a part of the gutted church wall. He'd slipped up behind the man and clutched him, shouting as he did so. Immediately, Sir Richard and I accosted the man, who was also bloodied and gave every evidence of having received a beating himself. Sir Richard struck him a great blow across the face, cursing him for the coward he was, saying he'd see him swing from the highest tree for what he'd done. Verily, I thought he might kill the man himself, for he was so overwrought. "Come and see, you swine, what you've done. Come and see your devilish work." He thrust the man in front of the dying monk and Chloe.
My dearest girl looked up and saw the dirty figure. Never have I been so wondrously impressed by her great fortitude. The tearful face became almost calm, and she still cradled Brother Thomas' head as if it were a precious jewel. "Hurst, you evil demon," she said in a quiet voice, "see what you've done! For what? What did you wish to know? What could he tell you? You've killed him, you devil, and if I could relinquish this beloved burden for a moment, I would arise and kill you with one blow!" There was a deathly silence for a moment; it almost seemed as if her spirit were raging a war with his. "But I will not, Hurst. I will not commit a sin such as
you've committed today, and for which you will pay for centuries to come. I curse you, Hurst. I curse you with the fear of God in my heart and joy there, too, for the suffering that will be yours. For the Kingdom of Heaven—where this beloved man of God is going—will be forever denied you, Hurst! May you wander, lonely, desolate and exiled, always from any human spirit, with all the horrors and suffering of the lonely, the damned and the exiled, upon your spirit. You are cursed, Hurst, forever! Go away! You sicken my sight."
Her words—and the power behind them, which struck us all as dumb—had reached Brother Thomas, and through a veil of suffering, he saw his murderer. It is difficult to believe when I say there was a look of total forgiveness in his eyes, but it is so. But if it was, my wife's curse was more powerful than the monk's forgiveness. And there seemed to be little penitence or remorse in Hurst. He stood there, belligerent, sullen, almost completely unaware of the magnitude of his crime. As if in answer to the curse and the monk's forgiving glance, he muttered, "I will find out, Brother Thomas, what you would not tell me today. You'll tell me someday. For we will meet again. Oh, yes, we will meet again. ... I will wait. You have not undone me forever." Sir Richard became so angry at the man's words that he bound his hands and committed him to the tithe barn under guard until the sheriff came for him.
It was in the days that followed that the scandal erupted that was forever to cling to my wife's name. If it bothered her, she never allowed it to show. Impatient, yes—angry perhaps, but never concerned. It was as if she knew that by paying attention to such scurrilous rumours, she would only demean herself. "Any gifts I have I was once told I must use for good," she would always say, "I have never perverted them . . . the rumours are nonsense. ..." I verily believe she never realised the danger she was in—or cared.
The scandal commenced when Hurst attempted to shift the blame. He said that my dear Chloe had lured him, encouraged him and then cast him aside. Anyone who knew her, of course, knew the folly of his charge, but there are many dark minds always ready to believe the worst. He said she possessed powers which made him do her bidding. He cast doubts on her integrity and dishonour on her name by accusing her of dabbling in the black arts and of seducing a priest. He pointed to the curse which she'd placed on him when Thomas lay dying and said he'd had to protect himself from the priest's attack when they met in the church. Thomas had
refused to tell him where something important had been buried and said my darling knew of it also because she'd seen it in a dream—another example of her occult power! He recounted instances of which I was unaware, they having occurred before I met her, when ofttimes she had told her father or a villager—even a doctor!—that something might occur, that someone would live (or die). And whatever my dear girl prophesied usually came to pass. The villagers—mostly all—were sympathetic, defending her since she'd often cured their animals of illness or disease. But a few of the ignorant or suspicious spread rumours that the animals were really her "familiars" and of the devil and that my darling girl was ... a witch! And that Thomas, who had known of her devilish gifts, had kept silent about them. From this long distance in time, it all sounds childish and superstitious. Yet at that time it was frightening the way the rumours spread and the story grew.
In the end what really did my darling untold damage was the curse she'd placed on Hurst. Those same ignorant ones in Cudding-ton who were only too ready to deem Chloe a witch were sure Hurst was also of the devil. And there they may have been right. The man had a foul reputation in the village as a drunkard and petty thief. He'd tricked many, beaten others—for he had a superior strength for one so small—and in general built up much ill-will towards himself. Two nights after Thomas' burial, he was taken surreptitiously, gagged and bound, from the
cellar of the sheriffs house. At Cuddington church he was strung up on a beam over the chancel and hung. His body was seen there the next morning by one of the king's workmen, who ran for assistance in removing it. When a group returned, the church was on fire, and they could do nothing. It took a long time to burn as the crowd watched. Sir Richard came—the only one from the manor house—for Domino had been so distraught at Thomas' death, he'd taken to his bed. As he watched, Sir Richard said, "It's too good an end for the abomination he was." At that point the swinging corpse was consumed by the flames, and I know I will tax credulity if I say that Sir Richard, the most practical of men, later told me it almost seemed that the man's soul returned as the body burned. He looked at Sir Richard and laughed. This, of course, only lent credence to the story that Chloe was a witch—that her curse upon the gardener had provoked his own death—that the two of them were bound to dark powers and that Satan had then come for his own and that Hurst had not
died. It was always said after Nonsuch Palace was built that the chancel site, later covered by the inner court, was haunted.
I weep as I finish this, for the following days were sad for everyone. Thomas was buried in Ewell churchyard, and Chloe lived through those weeks afterwards as if she, too, had been committed to the soil. I understood then, as I had not understood before, that sealed unapproachable manner of hers. She had dearly loved that honourable man of God. And he had loved her. But they had respected his vows and gone their separate ways. Later I told her of my deep admiration for their integrity. It was a feeling which grew with the many years we shared together.
For we did marry. I went to Suffolk and painted her parents. Each day Chloe and I grew closer—the new surroundings helped. The tragedy even bound us together. I could talk with her as I had never talked with anyone else and she with me. She readily admitted her love for Thomas and said, "It will never die, Barto." I do not believe it ever did—or ever will. But there are many kinds of love and the most joyous day of my life was when she said she loved me, too, and would honour me with her hand. Sir Richard and Lady Elizabeth—concerned for their daughter who had become almost a ghost of her former self—gladly gave their blessing, and we were married late in 1537 and went to London. While searching for lodgings, we lived at Cuddington House, and after several weeks Sir James asked us to make it our permanent home. I was to instruct young Richard, whose talent was genuine, while Chloe would act as hostess and chatelaine for the beautiful old house which was one of the showplaces of the Strand.
A whole new life opened up for us. Often her parents visited us. They rarely spoke of Surrey and never ever returned there. They said the Manor of Ixworth was handsome and profitable; the king had been generous. But I know Sir Richard never had the feeling for the land that he had had in Surrey.
That was the past and the story of my dear wife's tragedy and the explanation of what she called her "gift from God" which has been so misunderstood. One reason I write these lines is that it will not be misunderstood in the future. Once Chloe said she'd considered it a "taint." But someone she loved had said it was no such thing, but an act of spiritual grace. I am sure that someone was Thomas, and I bless him for putting her mind at ease.
And now I write of happier times I For I pride myself we were
happy together. I knew there would always be that sealed part of her nature which would not be mine. But I didn't care. For was I not the most fortunate of men otherwise? Even in her withholding, my wife was the most generous, loving and gentle person. One instance will suffice to tell:
As I have said, her parents refused ever to go see what the king had built at Cuddington. Nonsuch Palace, it was called, and it was, verily, "as there was none such in the land." For months in London, my wife also refused to go. But eventually, as commissions came my way, I was honored by the king to paint and gild the work of a master carver, Nicholas Bellin from Modena, who was to create giant figures which would adorn the outside of the palace. It was an impressive commission. And it was a tribute to my wife's understanding that she promised to accompany me to Nonsuch—as it was then called—and live with me at Sparwefeld, the little cottage which was now empty since old Domino had by then died. Chloe often said his death was as much Hurst's responsibility as if the man had killed him, too. The cottage was hers for life, after which it would revert to the Crown. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The first day at Nonsuch we found the palace almost complete except for the outside ornamentation. It was, I am sure, a difficult time for my Chloe, but she marvelled at what the king had wrought. How to describe its wonders? Its rolling elevation, leafy groves, wooded hillocks. Two gatehouses, one of which has an arched entrance, leads to the royal court. Over this a beautiful clock with golden chimes and figures of the zodiac. Statues are everywhere—in the gardens, walks, bowers and placed between projecting windows. In the Privy Garden an eagle stands on a lofty arch, a pinnacle is topped with a pelican, and another is graced by a phoenix. There is a pyramid and a prancing white horse on either side. Through a circular plane there is a grove dedicated to the venerable goddess, Diana, where skilled topiary work, sandy walks and countless young fruit trees are evident. There are streams, open woods, a sumptuous Banqueting House, delightful promenades and sanctuary for the deer, fowl, birds and other animals.
Yes, we both marvelled. There was no indication of where the manor house had been, except for Sparwefeld, and by taking our bearings from there and from recognising several venerable old trees the builders had spared, we later placed it just outside what the king called the "wilderness." Often she and I picnicked there
among the beautiful trees and shrubs with the myriad birds she said were probably from Sparwefeld. She said the "wilderness" was the nearest thing to what the land had been before the king changed it all. Each subsequent stay made her time there easier, and within a year, she was as much at home at Nonsuch and Sparwefeld as she was at Cuddington House.
Only one thing she would never ever do. By sighting the distance from those trees she recognised, she would never walk near the site of the fountain in the inner court. She said it covered the chancel of the old Church of St. Mary the Virgin where Thomas had been so brutally attacked and from whose beams Hurst had disappeared in flames. On one of our first visits she spent some time near the kitchen, asking a servant where the wine cellar was. He gladly pointed it out to her—a doorway leading down several steps to a most commodious area with a large soakaway in the center. The king has stocked it with the finest of French and Flemish wines. It was most impressive with its rough walls which, Chloe said, came from Merton Priory. She especially showed me an old Norman roundel she remembered distinctly as being above the Priory gate.
The years passed happily. God ordained we would have no children, and while this was a disappointment to me, my wife did not appear so afHicted. "It just was not meant to be, my dear," she often said. But such deprivation was little in comparison with all she gave. She could be joyous and gay, wise and good—and such loving company! I was the most fortunate of men and if, indeed, I had not known it myself, I never lacked for those who so informed me! Her beauty grew with the years; London gave her an aura of sophistication at which her parents marvelled when they visited. The Nonsuch panels were a great success, and I became quite the vogue working in many great houses in the country and in London. James Cuddington introduced us to the court, and Chloe quickly became the confidante of young Princess Elizabeth, who at times-depending on the political climate—lacked friends, especially during the difficult years when her sister Mary was wed to the Spanish emperor. But Chloe never denied her loyalty for Elizabeth and, though she was nearly seventeen years older than the princess— who was wise and mature beyond her years—they were great companions. Who could have foreseen that Elizabeth would one day become queen? When that blessed day arrived, she paid great honour to Chloe Cuddington Penn by making her a lady-in-waiting.
I have, many times, seen the queen sitting in the Hall at Cudding-t
on House, a lovely, radiant red-haired creature I shall one day paint, enjoying a respite from the court. There she and my dear wife would sit and drink wine and listen to music or read poetry together. Or they might sit and, like two schoolgirls, eat rich comfits and nuts, throwing the shells into the fire and laughing like two sprites through it all.
Queen Elizabeth was very indulgent of Chloe Cuddington Penn, and it was this indulgence which led to her name being associated with the controversial Dr. Dee. The queen loved Nonsuch and often visited there. Chloe, a lady-in-waiting, would have to go also. But early in their relationship, Chloe asked that she be excused from accompanying the queen on her walks. Elizabeth rose early every morning and walked her beautiful grounds in search of exercise. Chloe said she would entertain her and wait upon her at Sparwefeld; she would attend her in the bedchamber or Great Hall. But she must not walk in the inner court, and she told the queen the Banqueting House made her ill. She explained how her old home had been near the site, and the queen, understanding, shouted one of her great oaths and said since her father had been such a taking man, she, herself, could be a giving and forgiving queen.
Yet, for all her affection for Chloe, the queen said the situation might be misunderstood and she would look the fool for indulging her lady-in-waiting. So she asked Dr. Dee, whom she held in the highest regard, to come to Nonsuch. There Chloe told him her story. Dee, thanks be to God, understood. He told the queen my wife was finely wrought, with great spiritual gifts, and should not be made to go where she felt uncomfortable. If the area near the dragon fountain was distressing for her, she should remain away. Chloe later told the queen and Dee that the fountain had been built over the chancel area of a church pulled down under desecrating conditions. Dee convinced the queen that Chloe was honourable in her determination to avoid it. Unfortunately, this was cast about the court in a furtive fashion. There were still people living in the vicinity who remembered the horrible episode of Hurst's death and, with little better to do, recalled his accusations of witchcraft. The whole episode was revived for several months, and Chloe's continued refusal to discuss it only lent credence to the affair. Finally, the queen made it known that any references to her cherished lady-in-