“Celia,” she said gently, “you are my niece, and since you have none who belongs to you now, nor do I, ’tis time we knew one another.”
Celia jerked her hand up and stared, collecting her sorrow-dazed wits, suspecting another stupid jest—in which the world abounded.
“I’m a Bohun, m’lady,” she said defiantly, “and landlord, he said your name was Lady Suth’ell, but I have naught to do wi’ Cowdray.”
“I know, dear,” said Ursula with tenderness. “But
I
am a Bohun, too, and your father was my brother.”
Celia then looked with attention at Lady Southwell, at the frayed black velvet cloak, the white gauze widow’s cap which perched on top of grizzled hair above a rawboned, kindly face; she had seldom seen a lady so close, only from a window at the inn when a cavalcade on the way to the castle might stop to make inquiries.
“Mother—” Celia’s voice faltered, and she bit her lip. “My mother,” she went on carefully, “ne’er made mention o’ any kinfolk at Cowdray. She said the Bohuns were all gone. Anyways, my father was a bastard, and quarrelled wi’ the rest afore I was born.”
“Aye—” said Ursula sighing. “True enough, and an ancient tale long past. But I
am
your aunt, and I wish to be your friend.” Ursula reached out her hand and the girl took it hesitantly, feeling at the touch her first comfort in weeks, or indeed, perhaps in years; for her mother, though gentle, had never spoken much, nor showed feelings.
Thus began their association. And soon, through Ursula’s ambitious plans, began an association with a different and a tragic love for one who would become to her a cherished daughter.
Ursula had no means of her own, and her pride forbade her to ask Sir Anthony to take in another dependent, nor did she wish to introduce Celia as a servant at Cowdray; later though, after training, there might be a proper way to get the girl in the castle as waiting-woman.
In the meantime Celia must continue her duties at the Spread Eagle. “And never forget, dear,” said Ursula, “that this inn was once
ours,
and that the spread eagle is the
Bohun
crest, so you have a right here. I’ll speak to the landlord myself.”
Mr. Potts was not much impressed with this logic, but he and his wife were good-tempered people and felt sorry for the girl whom they had known from babyhood.
Celia, therefore, lived at the inn, serving ale and dinners as before, but visiting Ursula at Cowdray quite often. Her aunt soon discovered both the girl’s quick wits and her hunger for knowledge, and also her total lack of education. Not surprised that Celia could neither read nor write, Ursula remedied this to the best of her ability. Celia spent many hours learning, and by mid-January she could recognize whole sentences when Ursula wrote them out in plain block letters. But Ursula’s ambition for the girl grew as her love did; she began to feel that her rough-cut jewel was capable of great brilliance. She also felt that the absence of any religious training must be rectified, and what better instructor for this than the Brownes’ house priest—Brother Stephen?
On the past Candlemas, February 2, Ursula waited outside the private chapel after Mass, and called the monk into the parlor next to the Buck Hall.
“Brother Stephen,” said Ursula, “your duties seem not too arduous. I wonder if you’d help me in a certain matter.”
“Most certainly, Lady, if I can.” Stephen smiled, bowing slightly, and waited. He was a tall young man, made taller by the black Benedictine robes. His care for the household of two hundred souls at Cowdray was punctilious and diligent. He celebrated the Masses, administered the sacraments—baptism, marriage, burials when such were required—otherwise he kept to himself, and lived by preference in a stark cabin near the ruined chapel of St. Ann on top of the hill which had once been the Bohun stronghold. He had some books in his cell, and was reputed something of a scholar, but he had no intimates.
Ursula explained her wishes, and the situation.
“I see,” said Stephen after a moment. “And it’s true that your niece should have religious instruction; yet that I should also teach her some Latin and arithmetic seems to me overweening. What simple woman has use for learning? What profit in the station where God has placed her?”
He was, as always, courteous, and hid his amusement at the old lady’s folly. He understood that Lady Ursula was lonely, and that she had found an object for her famished affections. He liked the woman and listened to her blameless confessions with sympathy, feeling kinship to one who occasionally rebelled against patronage and whose pride had often been hurt. Humbleness and obedience he knew were the Christian virtues he himself lacked most. The other two Benedictine vows, poverty and chastity, had never troubled him.
“I do not, good Brother, expect Celia to
remain
in her present station,” said Ursula, her faded eyes shining. “I’ve cast her horoscope; she has Jupiter and Venus in benign aspects and most auspicious stars too.”
Stephen laughed. “Ah, to be sure, you dabble in astrology,” he said tolerantly. “It’s not considered a sin, and if it gives you comfort . . . nonetheless, God’s will
alone
determines us.”
“To be sure,” Ursula agreed looking up at the monk. “But God’s will rules the heavenly bodies, too.” It occurred to her that Stephen was a comely man; that his features were regular, his hair around the tonsure black and curly, that there was vital attraction in him. But one did not think of a monk as quite a man. Besides this one had a dignity and aloofness which made him seem older than the twenty-seven years someone had said that he was. “At least
see
the child,” added Ursula softly. “She’s virtually a pagan. She knows nothing about Our Dear Lord’s Passion or the Trinity, she barely knows the name of the Blessed Virgin.”
“Execrable!” cried Stephen, shocked. “She must
not
fall into the damnable heresies that surround us. Tell her to come to me on St. Ann’s Hill at noon tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.” He said, “
Benedicite,
” and strode out of the castle to cross the River Rother and climb the hill to his quarters.
The medieval Bohun castle was in ruins, as most of its stones had been hauled down to the meadow when Sir David Owen married Mary de Bohun and began to build himself a comfortable Tudor mansion amid the hazel tree copse, which in Norman French was called
La Coudraie
.
Sir David’s architectural efforts had been hampered by poverty; no poverty hampered the new owners. The Earl of Southampton and later his brother Anthony Browne had made a veritable palace out of Cowdray.
Stephen disliked the place, not only for its ostentation but also because of the tainted riches which had produced it. Stolen money. Money which rightly belonged to God. Stephen had had many an anguished struggle with his conscience over his position as chaplain to the Brownes, although it was the result of humiliation and obedience.
Stephen’s thoughts returned to that struggle as he clambered up the frozen muddy footpath to the top of St. Ann’s Hill. He entered his cot, and blowing the smoldering embers, swung the crane holding the iron pot of mutton stew over the fire to heat.
His home was spartan but not uncomfortable. It was of wood, and of stone from the eastern side of the fallen curtain wall. It was neatly thatched and had a plank floor. St. Ann’s little chapel sheltered it from the north winds, and was used by Stephen for private devotions. His wooden bed was piled with fresh straw, which he frequently renewed, for he was cleanly by nature and abhorred lice and fleas. Since leaving the two abbeys he had been raised in, and the company of his brother monks, he had obtained permission from his superior in France to somewhat relax the rule against private possession.
He therefore owned some vellum-bound books; and besides his black and silver crucifix there hung near the one window an oddly charming and naive painting of the Virgin. She was golden-haired and seated in a flowery meadow, smiling mysteriously. This bright sketch by an Italian painter—possibly Botticelli—was sent to Stephen in France at his ordination.
The French Abbot of Marmoutier was a reasonable man, and upon saying his reluctant farewell to Stephen added, “Your situation in that barbarous and now heretical country will be difficult enough, my son, without your being deprived of your innocent possessions. I know your true character. You will be tempted to no transgressions of our Rule. You have taken the sacred vows, and are as certain to honor them as any monk ever under my care.”
This was extraordinary praise from the usually taciturn abbot, and Stephen, as he knelt to kiss the ring, was deeply moved. He returned to his native land in a glow of zeal and passionate dedication. He had not guessed at the rebellions, the angers, the contempts he would have to surmount.
Stephen Marsdon had been born in East Sussex, at Medfield near Alfriston. As the youngest son, he was destined to the Church from infancy. Since the days of the Conqueror a Marsdon younger son had been given to the Church, and Stephen accepted his lot without question. When he was nine his father, Robert, had taken him the day’s journey to Battle Abbey where he entered Stephen as a subnovice and pupil. The boy’s remaining childhood was happy. He was healthy, and excelled at the sports permitted to the boarders—races, stoolball, wrestling and round games. Since he had never known them, he did not miss the accomplishments taught to worldly young gentlemen, jousting, lute playing or dancing. He was studious too, and easily mastered Latin and what classics he was given. He was also popular with the other boys. He knew that the teaching monks favored him, and one day overheard the Abbot of Battle, John Hammond saying to the novice-master, “Keep your eye on Stephen Marsdon. By Our Blessed Lady, I foresee a brilliant future for him in the Church. He will be an abbot himself one day, mark my words!”
This prediction delighted Stephen, who was a natural leader and yet had a mystical side which made the plainchant of the monks, the church festivals, the rituals, candles and incense, all agreeable to him.
It was when Stephen was eleven, in 1536, that the spectacular catastrophes began throughout England. The events which caused these scarcely filtered down to the sheltered boys at Battle. The final blow two years later came as a shock so great that Stephen and the other subnovices at first thought it a hoax.
On May 27, 1538, after vespers, Abbot Hammond assembled his community in the church and made a speech from the pulpit, during which his voice trembled and slow angry tears dropped down his sagging cheeks, his thin white hands shaking the lectern in helpless rage.
The Abbot said that by royal command His Gracious Majesty, King Henry the Eighth, Defender of the Faith, having decreed that all the monasteries were to be dissolved, that this most monstrous decree now seemed to affect Battle Abbey too. Perpetual prayer and intercessions had already begun; it was unthinkable that Battle Abbey, which had been founded in holy thanksgiving by William the Conqueror on this exact miraculous site, should be dissolved like lesser foundations, that St. Martin and the Holy Blessed Virgin would never permit such devilish wickedness. Whereupon Abbot Hammond glared at Richard Layton, the King’s commissioner, who was sitting imperturbably in the church.
The boys discussed the extraordinary announcement later in their dorter. They spoke at first in nervous whispers, though the monk who usually kept order was absent, praying with his brothers.
One of the boys, of the famous Sackville family in Kent, spent more time at home and so had greater knowledge of outside events than the others. His name was Hugh, and he had never intended to take vows anyway. He spoke jubilantly of the matter, and professed great admiration for the King.
“Now there’s a man who knows what he wants and gets it! Wanted a divorce to wed that black-haired witch Nan Bullen. Wanted a son and wouldn’t let the Pope gainsay him. But Nan could offer no better than a girl—the Princess Elizabeth, y’know. So King Harry chopped Nan’s head off, and wed our late queen. Now he
has
his son but wants something else as well.”
“What’s that?” asked Stephen still unable to grasp what the Abbot had told them.
Hugh noisily rubbed his forefingers and thumb together. “Gold, m’lad,” he answered. “Riches. Property, like every other man. Now he’ll get ’em.”
“What do you mean . . .” faltered Stephen. “How will he get them?”
“Why, from the monasteries, you dolt. The abbeys, the convents, where else?”
“But he
can’t,
” Stephen cried. “He can’t just grab for himself what belongs to God.”
“Oh, can’t he just!” Hugh guffawed. “By cock’s muddy bones you’ll soon see, ye poor innocent.”
And Stephen soon did see. Inexorably, magnificent Battle Abbey was dissolved, as were all the other religious foundations. The monks were evicted. The church and sacristy, the Abbot’s lodgings were methodically stripped. Gold and silver plate, furniture, even the marble from the high altar were all carted away. Kitchens and cellars were emptied. Some of the aging hams and all flasks of the secret aromatic Benedictine liqueur, so carefully distilled each year by Brother Sebastian, the cellarer, came to rest in the royal palaces of Greenwich, Windsor and Whitehall.
In November, King Henry bestowed Battle Abbey upon Sir Anthony Browne, Master of the Horse, member of the Privy Council, Knight of the Garter. This rich grant was all the more infamous because Sir Anthony was a papist.
Stephen had been sent home like the other boys when the monastery was dissolved, and his father shared in the stunned indignation but dared not show it. Peers were beheaded, gentlemen and lesser folk were hanged for criticizing the King.
But Robert Marsdon was sympathetic to his son and agreed on the only course now open to a youth with a true vocation: Stephen should enter the novitiate in France. They chose the Benedictine Abbey of St. Martin at Marmoutier, near Tours.
It happened that Stephen rode back to Battle to say farewell to the old Abbot on the very day that Sir Anthony Browne was holding revels to celebrate his new ownership. Stephen reined in his horse, astonished when he saw that the doors in the noble Gothic gateway were flung wide open, that the courtyard was crammed with horses and lackeys. He heard raucous shouts, screams of laughter and strident dance music emerging from the great refectory, where even six months ago there had been no sounds but gentle scriptural reading as the assembled monks ate together in silence. Scarlet and gold banners embroidered with the buck crest flaunted from many windows. And as Stephen watched, increasingly pained and indignant, a giggling kitchen wench scuttled towards the cloisters, which were filled with hay for the horses. She was tripped up by one of the noblemen’s lackeys, who threw her down on a pile of hay and pulled up her skirt in full view of the other servants who cheered and applauded.