Sir Anthony had commanded Stephen to go to a certain secret room off the cellars near the latrine pit in the south wing. A damp cubicle which had already served to hide several fugitives from royal wrath during past troubled years.
Celia knew with her heart how Stephen had rebelled against the concealment and hypocrisy. She guessed from the few words he had said that he had prayed desperately about the matter and finally agreed because Sir Anthony, smiling but obdurate, asked what the Abbot of Marmoutier would decree if he were there to be consulted.
Stephen knew what the Abbot would say: Obey—give temporal obedience to the worldly master if the Catholic cause would not be helped by defiance. So Stephen was shut up in a cell next to an ordure pit, and Celia knew that he was suffering.
Suddenly she heard the blare of trumpets and saw banners waving and horses trotting along the Easebourne road. The Cowdray cannons, primed for days, began to boom.
“They’re here, Aunt!” Celia cried, pressing her nose to the pane. “That must be the King, riding alone. What an odd hat, like a plumed pancake—he’s but a meager lad,” she added, startled.
Ursula joined Celia at the window. “To be sure, child, he’s not full grown, and near died of the measles and pox last spring, God bless and preserve him. He favors the Seymours, I believe—and yet,” Ursula squinted her far-sighted eyes, “there’s a look of his father, too, a swagger—the way he sits the horse.”
The King and his procession disappeared from their view as they turned up the stately avenue of oaks, and the castle bell began a frenzied pealing.
“We’ll go down now,” said Ursula, squaring her bony shoulders. “Hold yourself proud. Bohuns have as much right as any in the land to meet the King.”
T
HE ROYAL BANQUET
at Cowdray in the Great Buck Hall that July evening continued until the sun dipped behind the western block of buildings across the courtyard and the castle bell rang out seven strokes.
The young King’s conversation flagged; watchful eyes noted that his fair skin grew paler.
The banquet proffered by Sir Anthony Browne—who kept a master cook trained in France at the court of King Henry II—was sumptuous. It consisted of exotic dishes Edward had never tasted, for he had been kept to simple fare by order of his careful tutor, Sir John Cheke, and by the posthumous directions of his father, who had died ruing his own gluttony. John Cheke, however, had not been able to accompany his charge on the progress, for he was recovering from desperate illness.
Edward, who since his arrival at Cowdray had already applauded a masque in his honor, taken part in an archery contest and watched a stately tennis match, was very hungry when he finally sat in the center of the dais at the High Table. He had gorged himself with beef spiced with cinnamon, a rabbit pasty and a fat capon leg. And though accustomed to ale or sack, he had politely drunk a large crystal goblet of Muscadine from Sir Anthony’s well-stocked cellar.
And still the procession of servers continued their ceremonious entrance from the kitchen quarters, bearing golden platters which they offered kneeling for the King’s approval. He refused jellied larks, roast peacock and salets of summer greens, but he could not resist the sweets. There were gilded honeycakes studded with almonds. There were raspberry and blackberry flummeries, swimming in yellow cream and sparkling with the rare and costly white sugar Edward had seldom savored. And he could not refuse to taste the cook’s masterpiece, a marchpane confection six feet high representing the royal arms in full color.
Edward brightened with a boyish chuckle as he ate a piece of the lion’s tail and the tip of the unicorn’s gilded horn. Then he gave a resounding belch and turned to his host on his right.
“In truth, Sir Anthony,” Edward said, “you have marvelously, nay, excessively banqueted me. I shall so write to my dear Barnaby, who suffers privations in France on my behalf. Poor lad, I miss him.”
“I grieve, your grace,” answered Anthony smiling, “that you should lack for anything or anyone. Would I could conjure Master Fitzpatrick to Cowdray this moment!” As he spoke he considered this confirmation of the King’s affection for the Irish lad, Barnaby Fitzpatrick, who had been raised with him and once acted as his “whipping boy.” Anthony quickly decided that the Irish connection might be useful, for Barnaby was related to Elizabeth, the dowager Lady Browne, or “Geraldine” as she preferred to be called. Anthony glanced towards the end of the High Table where his stepmother was murmuring in obvious intimacy to Edward Fiennes, Lord Clinton, a chunky, shrewd, businesslike baron of forty. Clinton had commenced a rising career at court by marrying King Henry’s first cast-off mistress, Betsy Blount Tallboys; then upon that lady’s death he had prudently allied himself with the house of Dudley and thus with Northumberland, the all-powerful duke. Clinton then discovered in himself strong Protestant convictions which led to preferments He became a Knight of the Garter, ambassador to France whither he had shepherded young Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and now he was Lord High Admiral of England. And a widower again. Could the Lady Geraldine possibly entice Lord Clinton? Anthony thought while examining his stepmother hopefully. Aye, perhaps—He watched her and Clinton exchange sips from each other’s goblets. Such an alliance would be extremely helpful, and what a relief for poor Jane (and his sister Mabel) to be free of that haughty vixen at Cowdray.
Anthony had always ignored Geraldine’s advice, but it occurred to him that it might have been through her influence over Clinton that her brother Gerald had been restored to at least some of his Irish lands in county Kildare, though not to the earldom, which was still attainted. Indeed, what Catholic could hope for a peerage under this reign? Anthony sighed. He owed the King’s visit to Cowdray’s location near Petworth and Edward’s agreeable memories of the elder Anthony. He himself had been largely ignored by Edward’s Court, and by the King’s phalanx of guardians. Also, that sudden imprisonment in the Fleet had been most sobering. Anthony was neither a timid nor an imaginative man, but he had a composite vision of all the severed necks and spouting blood which followed upon disagreement with kings. The latest spouting neck had been the most shocking, for it was that of the Lord Protector, Somerset—the King’s own uncle—yet that was partly Northumberland’s doing.
Northumberland—born plain John Dudley fifty years ago, whose grandfather was said to have been a common Sussex carpenter, had mounted the glittering ladder of titles with a firm, implacable tread and reached his dukedom.
Was his influence on the delicate royal lad the result of witchcraft, as was constantly whispered? Anthony shuddered and forced his mind to less dangerous thoughts while he sugared and drank another goblet of wine.
Edward had turned to Sir Henry Sidney who sat next to him by royal command, for Edward shrank from nearness to strangers. And though he denied it even to himself, he had, since his attack of measles, been troubled by deafness. Henry Sidney had a voice which carried. Though Sir “Harry” was nine years older than the King, he was his boon companion, gentleman of his Privy Chamber and official cupbearer. Harry was clever, amiable and well informed and knew precisely the kind of political or theological talk which interested Edward. Also, Harry had recently allied himself with Northumberland through marriage to the Duke’s daughter, Mary Dudley. And the net closes, though what it will snare next only heaven—or hell—knows, Anthony thought, angrily checking his errant mind by considering Edward’s other and few close friends. Besides Harry Sidney, and Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton—a boisterous merry youth who evoked Edward’s rare moments of Tudor gaiety—there was John Cheke, the boy’s tutor and mentor whom he greatly revered.
It was known from Sussex to the Scottish Border (as every act of Edward’s was promptly known) that during Cheke’s grave illness in May Edward had imperiously prayed for his tutor’s recovery. Prayed to that preposterous Calvinistic God of his who abhorred altars, candles, statues, church music or Latin, chantry prayers for the dead and His Holiness the Pope. A god who even more incredibly forbade invocations to saints or the worship of His Own Divine Mother.
Yet all these aberrations must be endured. Trivial outward compliance mattered little if the spirit were not affected. Anthony remembered for a second his house priest, hidden now in the stinking cell behind the latrines—but there would be only two more days before Brother Stephen might be released, and the chapel refurnished with its crucifix, sanctuary lamp and statues of the Blessed Virgin and St. Anthony of Padua, his own patron Patron saint, too, of that provocative little wench old Lady Ursula had so surprisingly produced as a niece Anthony glimpsed the girl’s golden hair and bluish gown as she sat at the far end of the Hall. Then he started as Edward suddenly addressed him.
“We’re weary of sitting at table, Sir Anthony,” said Edward, rising. “What do you propose that we do until evening prayers, after which we shall retire?”
Anthony jumped to his feet, instantly rejecting all the amusements which would normally pass an evening—cards, dice playing, dancing—of none did the King approve. More music then? But Edward, though said to be fond of some music, had shown no interest in the dulcet harmonies which had been wafting from the minstrels’ gallery. A hundred people rose when Edward did, and waited with their faces turned expectantly.
“There’s a Spanish juggler, your grace, very apt, and he has a monkey . . .” Anthony blurted out. “If he would divert you, I’ll summon him at once.”
“
Spanish?
” Edward’s eyes hardened, his boyish voice deepened to extreme displeasure. “Do you encourage the natives of Spain, sir?”
Anthony reddened and cursed himself for a heedless fool.
“Certainly not, your grace, I misspoke, I only meant that he seems dark-visaged like a Spaniard, and speaks that broken sort of English. ’Twas only that the monkey’s tricks are laughable.”
Edward continued to frown. “I’ve no love for Spain,” he said coldly. “’Tis the Spanish half of my sister, the Lady Mary, which hinders my true affection for her, that and her wicked, mule-headed popery.” He looked up at Anthony. “I’ve not yet spoke to all your guests, sir. I hear there are several so-called papist nobles amongst them.”
“Aye,” said Anthony, though he chilled inside. “
Erstwhile
Catholics, but they have seen their errors. They have come today to do you homage, Sire, they are utterly and loyally your liegemen.”
Sir Henry murmured something, apparently calming, in the King’s ear.
Edward nodded and said more gently, “Well, Sir Anthony, my father loved your father, and the
sons
shall be friends. I’ll now mingle with your company, and willingly.” He looked at the cluttered tables. “There are other rooms where we can be more at ease?”
Anthony bowed and motioned the way to the massive, richly carved new staircase which led up to the private chambers and the Long Gallery.
The King ascended alone, though Harry Sidney followed close. Anthony gave his arm to Jane and was perturbed that she dragged up each step with a painful sigh.
“Brace yourself, my lady,” he whispered, “you must make the presentations!”
Jane knew this, for as an earl’s daughter she outranked her husband.
“Aye . . .” she breathed.
Anthony noted his stepmother and Lord Clinton, mounting arm in arm. He heard his little sister Mabel’s high nervous giggle as she bounced along, twittery as a partridge. Pity the girl was so fat and plain-featured, and so unaccomplished. She had been given music and dancing lessons to scant avail. She had neither ear nor grace. Her passions were for eating, chattering and finery. It would be hard to find her a good husband, though it was true that the girl had lacked a mother’s watchful shaping. Geraldine had never made the slightest effort, averring that Mabel was dimwitted and tiresome, calling her “lump of suet” and “greedy-guts” in moments of exasperation, and always begrudging the gifts Anthony good-naturedly gave the girl on Feast Days.
They all arrived at the Long Gallery, which had been newly wainscoted and furnished with crystal candelabra for the occasion. There were fresh painted wall hangings and a new Flemish tapestry of unicorns and virgins wandering through a misty forest, which the King affably admired. He stationed himself in front of the tapestry on a velvet-covered court chair, and waited.
Lady Jane dutifully came up with a gaunt dignified woman in tow.
“May I present to your royal grace, my former stepmother, the Countess of Arundel,” she said, her tone breathy and her eyes mournful, for her thoughts dwelt continually on the tiny shrunken corpse in the bedchamber.
The boy frowned uncertainly. Jane’s voice was hard to hear. “Eh . . .?” he said irritably. “
Arundel .
.
.?
”
The Countess bowed, she advanced unsmiling and sketched a kiss over Edward’s hand, not touching it. Edward’s eyes narrowed. He knew that Northumberland hated the Earl of Arundel, who, since Norfolk’s attainder, headed the Catholic peers; and too that the Earl had recently been released from the Tower, where he had been confined on evidence so flimsy that even the Duke could not detain him.
“Your noble lord is not here, my lady?” asked Edward.
“No, your grace,” answered the Countess in a voice equally smooth. “He is confined to his bed at Arundel. He has fever contracted in a most unhealthy place.”
“Hmm-m . . .” said Edward. “We are grieved to hear it. God send him quick recovery.” He inclined his head. The Countess curtsied stiffly and withdrew.
There was a small uncomfortable pause. Edward, who was growing tired, struggled between politeness to his subjects and unwillingness to endure other awkward encounters.
Sir Henry again murmured in Edward’s good ear, and the boy sighed acquiescence.
“My lady,” he said to Jane, “Harry tells me that yonder near the door there are a clutch of Dacres.” He smiled faintly. “I know
of
them, to be sure, but have never met any.”
The listening Anthony went to round up the Dacres. There were six of them, from two families—Dacres from the south, who lived at Hurstmonceux castle in East Sussex, and Dacres from Gilsland, who had traveled down from Cumberland to summer with their cousins.