Alison stared at the handsome bearded man whom she loved in her fashion, and always rather feared. She saw tears in his eyes, and was touched, since it did not occur to her that a man might weep for books. She threw fat sweaty arms around Julian’s neck, crying, “Well, then, sweeting, don’t go! Ye’ll be safe here i’ the garret.”
“
No!
” interrupted Julian. He detached her arms from his neck, though he gave her a pat on her broad rump. He wondered how he had put up with her so long, and was shamed that it took a threat of danger to force him to make the break—and yet, he thought ruefully, if his early morning hopes had been realized, he would have left her too, though not penniless like this. “Sell the books, if you must,” he said. “Except . . .”
There were two he could not part with, though they would weigh him down. Ovid’s
Metamorphosis—
and Marcus Aurelius’s
Meditations.
And another—his eye lit on it, with dismay. The famous
Grimoire Verum,
a textbook of necromancy. John Clerk, an acquaintance, had recently been arrested for possession of books on witchcraft and black magic. If they searched this lodging, they must not find such a thing here. Julian’s name was in it, and many comments in his writing; moreover, its presence would endanger Alison and her father.
“We’ll put this one in the fire,” he said, and did so, under the pot of stew Alison was cooking. The vellum curled and blackened; he prodded the book open until the leaves smoldered and gave forth acrid smoke.
“Why d’ye burn
that
one?” Alison asked, vexed because she had always resented his books but knew that, oddly enough, they were worth money.
He answered her in the way she hated, a cool detached voice that made mockery of his words which, moreover, she did not understand.
“That book, my dear, contains formulae for delving into mysteries which are forbidden. I, too, would like to raise corpses from the dead, or invoke the lustful succubi to pleasure me, also to find eternal youth and the philosopher’s stone, then transmute lead into gold—but, it seems I lack the temperament. Or, is it that I’ve never scraped sufficient moss from a hanged man’s skull, or blood from a virgin’s womb, or yet gathered up a vampire’s feces?”
Alison gaped at him, scowling.
They both started as they heard banging on the barbershop door below.
“Look out the window,” cried Julian. “Quick!”
She obeyed, turned back, her pale blue eyes anxious. “Guards,” she whispered. “The Dook’s men, by the livery.”
“So soon . . .” Julian murmured. He shook himself, and summoned the cool wits he used for medical emergencies. “Go down, act simple, if they ask for me say you know not my whereabouts, but likely I’m at St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
She nodded, much startled that there really might be danger.
“Here, take the child.” Julian thrust the little boy in her arms. “It’ll distract them. I’ll go to the garret.”
He escaped up a ladder into the shadowy space of rafters. He crouched behind the great chimney, annoyed that his heart was pounding, and his mouth had gone dry as tinder.
In a few minutes he heard Alison’s muffled call. “They’ve gone, sir.”
Julian descended to the second story.
“Aye, they’re after ye,” said Alison, round-eyed, “but they heeded my words and left. Here’s father’s clothes, I brought ’em up. God’s bones—’tis lucky
he’s
out.”
Julian nodded. “You’ve done well, Alison.”
Between them they hurried through Julian’s transformation. She cut the black robes to knee length; the doublet and breeches fitted fairly well, though the points to the hose could barely be tied, for the barber was a shorter man. She hurried below and brought up a razor. He shaved quickly, and Alison, staring, cried, “Ah, but ye look much younger wi’out that beard—a’most a green lad, an’ a lusty one, too—sweetheart, must ye go?”
She moistened her red lips and gave him an amorous look.
“Obviously I must go,” said Julian curtly. “You’ve just seen the Duke’s men after me. Give me that loaf, and wrap the stew—here, in this parchment.” He thrust at her a leaf of vellum he had been saving to write an official report on the King’s condition.
“Where
can
ye go?” Alison wailed, again flinging her arms around him. “When’ll I see thee—once more . . .”
He did not answer, for there was a disturbance in the street, men’s shouts, the blowing of whistles and a watchman’s rattle. Doubtless only an escaping thief, but best not find out. He gathered up his bag, stuffed the books in his doublet, hurried downstairs and let himself out at the back door into an alley which contained nothing but two quarreling dogs and some chickens.
He strode through a maze of alleys past garden patches until he reached Cheapside near Wall Brook. As he entered Thread-needle Street and forced himself to saunter towards Bishopsgate he realized how much appearance makes the man. In his majestic robes, his imposing doctoral hat, the jacinth stone around his neck, fullbearded, he had always commanded respect from the common people and even some gentry. They would bow as they passed him, and often murmured deferential greetings. Now, dressed like a shabby tradesman, he found himself jostled; an urchin cocked a snoot at him, while a pretty barrowmaid gave him a lewd wink.
Dio,
Julian thought, touching his chin which felt cold and naked, I’ve become one of the hoi polloi, but I don’t feel my forty-eight years either! There was no time for reflection upon these interesting changes. Ahead of him down river loomed the great forbidding bulk of the Tower, and he winced. The Duke’s spy system was notably efficient. Look at Lady Ursula’s experience last summer! I might be too small a sprat for their net, Julian thought, except for Edward’s dislike of me. The King was quite unpredictable in his present state. But Cheke, who had taken a brave chance by introducing Julian to Greenwich Palace today, would now be the first to repudiate any concern for the Italian doctor who had mentioned poison, and then once more displeased the King. No friendship could stand a threat to power or safety. Thus was Julian’s experience, nurtured by his years in Italy, confirmed by his observations in England.
In a quarter of an hour Julian quitted London through Bishopsgate and took the highway towards Waltham and Norfolk, wondering very much what was in store for him next.
Ursula, Celia and Simkin arrived home on the day after Julian started his flight. As they passed through Easebourne they saw Cowdray. The beautiful palace lay just ahead, glinting golden in the sunlight, its many windows twinkling like diamonds, and they heard gay music wafting from the meadow by the Rother, which was dotted with booths and colored pavilions, swarming with gaily dressed folk in crimson, green and crocus yellow.
“Why, ’tis our Cowdray festival time!” Ursula cried gladly. “I’d quite forgot.”
Every year between St. Anthony’s Day, June 13, and Midsummer Eve, June 23, the Lord of Cowdray had held merrymaking for Midhurst. There were contests, bowling, shooting at the butts, jousting. There were rustic dances and pageants. Sir Anthony provided mutton pasties, pigeon pies and hampers of strawberries, as well as gingerbread. Good Sussex ale flowed from the kegs set up in three of the booths. Those June days had always been a time of jollity, and the gay scene at once raised the spirits of the disgruntled voyagers from Cumberland. Suspicions, dangers, impoverishment, and especially Julian’s gloomy announcements all seemed ridiculous. Nothing was changed at Cowdray.
“Blessed Mary, but ’tis good to be home!” cried Ursula. Celia laughed agreement, and squeezed her aunt’s hand. She scarcely remembered their differences up north, nor quite believed she had felt them. She and Ursula smiled lovingly at each other. Simkin, too, was excited. He was longing to see his mother, and had whittled her a bodkin as a gift. Moreover, he noted a certain banner fluttering at the corner of the fairgrounds. It was green with a grotesque red masque painted on it—surely the banner of the Winchester mummers—and Roland might be with them. His heart beat at the thought of Roland. The miserable affair with George Dacre seemed as remotely nightmarish as the happenings in Cumberland seemed to the two women. They were home again.
“Why, here comes Mabel—” cried Celia, as they turned up the avenue of great oaks towards Cowdray Castle.
Anthony’s young sister was plumper than ever, and very elegant in a mauve satin riding suit trimmed with miniver, a rakish feathered hat on her crisped brown curls, but her round face looked gloomy. She reined in her palfrey as she saw the trio. “God’s greeting,” she cried, lisping slightly as always. “Here’s a wonder! We thought you settled forever in the North!”
“But I wrote Sir Anthony twice,” protested Ursula. “I—I hope we’re welcome.”
“Oh, to be sure.” Mabel drew her scanty brows together. “There’s room enough, no visitors in months, Cowdray’s doleful nowadays. Anthony’ll hardly speak, and Jane’s ill—worse than last time she neared her term.”
“Lady Jane’s with
child
again?” asked Ursula. “We’ve had no news since we left.”
“Big as a barrel,” Mabel agreed. “Yet, she still pukes a lot.” The girl’s attention was suddenly caught by a looping golden thread on her pearl-embroidered gauntlet, she began to work the thread back in place. “They’re fine, are they not,” she said of the gloves. “Anthony gave them to me on his saint’s day—but I’ve no place to show them. We don’t go anywhere now. ’Tis dull . . . I was off to have a look at the fair, though I’ve been every day, but I’ll ride back wi’ you.”
Celia glanced across the fairground and the river towards St. Ann’s Hill. “Brother Stephen is well?” she asked in a casual, low tone, glancing at Ursula who did not hear.
“Aye,” Mabel shrugged. “I never see him ’cept at dinner or the chapel. His penances are overstrict. I wish we had a house priest like the Arundels’.
He’s
merry as a grig, so Mary told me, but I’ve not even seen the Arundels since Christmas.” She sighed. “Anthony
promised
we’d all go to London once Jane’s delivered, but lately he won’t talk about it. You didn’t see Gerald in London, did you?”
Gerald? Celia cast her mind back to the preceding summer. “Oh, d’ye mean ‘Lord’ Fitzgerald, your stepmother’s brother?”
“To be sure . . .” Mabel was surprised. “She’s Lady Clinton now. Didn’t you see the Clintons?”
Celia shook her head. “We only stopped in London a couple of hours.” She perceived that Mabel had no knowledge of affairs outside Cowdray, and that while she herself had altered a great deal during the long absence, the other girl had stagnated. Never unkindly treated now, as she had been by “the fair Geraldine,” but lonely and bored.
They arrived at Cowdray’s gatehouse where Lady Ursula was greeted with surprise and cordiality by the porter, whose little son she had once helped nurse through the smallpox, during the epidemic which had disfigured Simkin.
They entered the courtyard, and Guy Hawks, the steward, came hurrying out. He was not cordial, nor ever had been, since Ursula was always unable to present New Year’s gifts which he considered fitting. He accorded her a tepid “How d’ye do,” and gave Celia an annoyed glance—that Bohun tavern wench back again, too! He reluctantly admitted that Sir Anthony might be found in his writing cabinet off the Long Gallery.
He did not bother to show them upstairs; Mabel, bored again, wandered off to the pantries in quest of a sweetmeat.
The door to Anthony’s cabinet was shut. Ursula knocked more loudly than she meant to, because her heart was sinking.
The gruff “Who the devil is it?” from inside scarcely helped.
She looked dismay at Celia, and called, “Tis Ursula Southwell, Sir Anthony.”
They could hear an exclamation, and the scraping of a chair.
The cabinet door was flung open by Stephen. He stared at Ursula, then at Celia. Clear in the sunlight through the oriel window, they saw him flush, saw the tall figure stiffen under the black habit.
“
B-Benedicite—”
Stephen stammered. He looked at Celia with a startled flicker of greeting. He compressed his lips, then repeated, “
Benedicite,
” in a firm tone, bowing slightly to both women.
The girl, suddenly calm, had an instinct of withdrawal. She sketched a small mocking curtsy, and raised her chin. She had both dreaded and longed for their meeting, but since the night of her blissful dream about him in Cumberland, and the anguishing events of the following St. Stephen’s Day, his image had faded. Too, she had matured, had observed from the Dacres’ strict Catholicism and their attitudes towards priests, how wicked, how childish, her behavior towards Stephen had been. She was not nearly as innocent now.
“Welladay—By the blessed saints!” cried Anthony peering around his chaplain, “’tis my lady Ursula,
and
the fair little niece. Prettier than ever, I vow. A very paragon of beauty . . . Northern roses in the cheeks, sparkle of mountain brooks in the lovely eyes. Come in, come in!”
Anthony was not usually fulsome—he had been deep in gloomy consultation with Stephen, and was cloaking displeasure at the interruption, as well as the fact that he had completely forgotten the girl’s name. “So you’ve come back to us, and welcome I’m sure. Though I heard a rumor—” Where had he heard it? One of the Nevilles, no doubt, “—rumor that the bans were published, that we’d lost you to the Dacres.”
Ursula shook her head. “I wrote to you twice, explaining. I trust, sir, you’ll forgive us for returning without permission. We could stay up North no longer.” She smiled appealingly, though her eyes were anxious. “We won’t be a trouble to you.”
Anthony was touched. He jumped up and kissed Ursula on the cheek. “My dear lady, this was your home long before it was mine. Only I fear you’d be safer in the North. From day to day I expect to be hauled off to the Tower, and that’s putting it clear. Moreover, they hint at confiscating Cowdray, declaring all my estates forfeit. You might as well know.”
Celia gasped. Ursula made a quick motion. “They couldn’t do
that!
” she cried.
Anthony gave a rueful grunt, and pointed to an open letter from which two red seals depended. “That is precisely the subtle tenor of this missive. Brother Stephen has verified my not very expert translation from the Latin. And you observe the seals. This one, the Privy Council—that one is the King’s.”