Celia looked down at the pommel. It was a damping answer. “Let’s gallop,” she said and spurred the mare with her heel.
They streaked off down the grassy path between the yews and clumps of holly, glossy-green, trimmed back by Anthony’s gardeners. They slackened pace before they reached the secret glade. The sun disappeared suddenly, and all sparkle with it. A chill little wind blew up from the downs.
Celia shivered. “’Tis coming on wet,” she said.
“Rain’ll hold off a bit,” answered Simkin. “We’ll go on t’ the glade. I dropped something there liddle while ago. I’ll have a look fur it.”
Celia stared. It seemed odd that Simkin had been here recently. His manner was odd. A faint tremor of fear brushed her. She would have liked to turn back, yet found that she did not wish to go alone through the avenues of looming black tree trunks. She followed the boy into the clearing, and silently watched as he dismounted. The grass was still long. Throughout the whole of Anthony’s anxious exile nobody had bothered to send gardeners to mow the close walks.
Simkin went to a spot near a ring of rosebushes, pinkly blooming and very fragrant. He parted the grasses and searched carefully. Celia heard him give a grunt of relief as he straightened, holding a fawn-colored shoe of supple leather, not large enough to be Simkin’s.
She urged the mare nearer. Simkin did not notice, as he cradled the shoe in his dirty hands. “Is that what you were looking for?” Celia asked a little nervously. “Why, it’s got stains on it! Looks like—like old blood!”
Simkin tucked the shoe inside his jerkin. “’Tis blood,” he said in a dead voice. “Mine.”
“Your shoe? You hurt yourself . . . but the shoe’s too small for you. At least . . .” She looked down at his mucky, cobbled boots. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor ever will,” said Simkin. He looked up at her on the mare, and she saw hatred in his face. “God rot ye, fur being a woman!” He spoke through his teeth, and so low that for a second she was not sure, then the shock flushed her cheeks scarlet. She lifted her chin and said with dignity, “Mount your horse, Simkin! We’re going home!”
She nudged her mare and set out between the yews, noting from the following hoofthuds that he had obeyed. The first drops of rain spattered down through the tunnel of green darkness, as Simkin rode up beside her.
“Aye,” he said, “I’m naught but an ugly servant, an’ ye’ve become a fine lady—some day ’twill be different. I’ll no have to obey nobuddy, I’ll do as I please—wi’out shame.”
His bitter voice stirred her to some pity, though she rode on steadily, her chin high. “Perhaps you’ll get your wish,” she said coolly, and spurred the mare faster. She was no longer afraid of Simkin. His peculiarities, even his moment of hatred were a matter of indifference to her. She recognized a gulf between them that was far wider than the growing social one. Though the rain came down thicker as they left the close walks, her earlier happy mood returned. She stroked the mare and crooned to it softly, her heart swelling with gratitude to Anthony, to Ursula who had rescued her from the inn and a drudge’s life, even to Mabel who had ceased pouting and whining now that she would have her visit to London, enhanced by the delicious prospect of the coronation.
Even Stephen was going with them, Celia thought. She had put aside the wicked folly of her erstwhile feeling for him, and ignored his startling sweetness by the Rother the morning Lady Jane died. But it was contentful to know that she would still have him near. And it was strange, marvelous that after all the furtive years he might openly accompany them as Sir Anthony’s chaplain. Blessed Mary, but life is good, Celia thought. One has only to wait a while for troubles to cease. She began to hum a gay Sussex tune—“Oh, come ye jolly plow-boys, come listen to my lays . . .”—and was still humming in the stable yard at the mounting block, as Simkin silently took the reins and led the wet mare to her stall.
S
IR ANTHONY BROWNE
arrived at Southwark with his family and some thirty retainers on September 28, the day on which Mary moved down Thames from Whitehall Palace to the Tower, from whence an English monarch always proceeded to Westminster Abbey and coronation.
Anthony’s house, the old Priory of St. Mary Overies, was transformed. A small army of plasterers and laborers had refurbished all the rooms and cells around the cloisters. The monks’ old stables, after sundry vagabonds had been evicted, were as clean as Cowdray’s, though perforce more cramped. Besides the furnishings he brought from Sussex, Anthony had, on his earlier visit to greet Queen Mary, ordered several elaborately carved chairs, stools, tables from a master craftsman in Lombard Street. There were new, painted hangings for the walls.
Anthony was pleased by his womenfolk’s delighted cries, but he dared not tarry for more than a quick welcoming toast with them. He had been sent a summons from the Duke of Norfolk himself, asking his immediate presence at Whitehall.
“And
that,
” said Anthony, “is not the least of our miracles. Six years imprisoned in the Tower, that poor Duke, and now back in all his former glory as premier Peer of England, and Earl Marshal in charge of the Queen’s coronation.” Anthony added with relish, “While the spurious Duke . . .” Anthony drew his hand sharply across his throat, “is in hell where he belongs!”
“Hush, sir,” said Stephen. “’Tis not Christian to gloat over the death of an enemy, however much deserved.”
“Poppycock and folderol,” cried Anthony, and gave the young monk’s shoulder a resounding thwack. “Ye can be as pious as you like in chapel, but you’re human, too. Come along wi’ me today, see a bit o’ the world. Moreover, I need your brains—there’s still a skein of plots to be unraveled. You can help.”
Stephen hesitated. He looked through the window at St. Saviour’s pinnacled spire. There was much to be done to restore the parish church; his hasty survey on arrival had appalled him. The church was still bleakly barren, niches empty of saints, high altar vanished, dog dung in the chancel.
“Oh!” said Anthony gaily, understanding Stephen’s thoughts, “that’ll all wait. Now Bishop Gardiner’s out o’ jail and back here at his palace, you can get hold of a chaplain, straighten the mess. Come along with me and get a glimpse o’ the
real
world.”
Celia observed this interchange as she sat beside Mabel at the end of the priory hall. I wish he wouldn’t go, she thought.
Stephen, don’t go!
She dared not speak, she knew the feeling of fear was unreasonable. What business of hers whether Stephen accompanied Sir Anthony into London, or stayed here to start restoring the church. Yet, during that moment in which Stephen still hesitated she felt dismay.
“What ails you, Celia?” asked Mabel with mild curiosity. “You jumped! Someone treading ’cross your grave?” The girl giggled and crammed another sugar comfit in her mouth. “Anthony,” she cried, “won’t you be seeing Lord Gerald at his grace of Norfolk’s? Tell him I’ve made a purse for him as I promised.”
“Oh-h?” said Anthony, glancing at his sister while he adjusted his court sword. He had barely noted some flirtation between Mabel and the young Irish bantling during the past summer. “I’ll certainly
not
see Fitzgerald at Whitehall, and you needn’t be setting your cap in
that
quarter, my girl. Fitzgerald’s cooked his goose along wi’ Clinton and my precious stepmother. He signed for Lady Jane Grey, y’know. Or
don’t
you?” Anthony made an exasperated sound. He expected little comprehension from women in general, and had no illusions about Mabel’s intellect in particular. “I’ll find you a
worthy
husband now there’s scope,” he added impatiently, “but it can’t be tomorrow. Come along, Stephen!”
Stephen went. Celia watched through the window while the men mounted their horses in the cloister garth. Stephen’s cowl slipped back as he vaulted lightly into the saddle. The sun brought auburn lights to his thick dark hair, and the tilt of his head almost hid the tonsure. He looked as handsome and arrogant as his master, and she heard his rare laugh ring out at something Sir Anthony said. She hoped that he would look up at the window, and she leaned far out through the casement, staring down with confused, unhappy longing. Stephen did not look up. He cantered from the garth with Anthony. Celia turned slowly back into the hall where Mabel was pouting crossly, and Ursula was giving orders to the bevy of London serving maids Anthony’s steward had just hired.
Two days later, on Saturday, Wat Farrier guided Ursula with Celia and Mabel to places reserved for them on Gracechurch Street in the City. Wooden stages had been erected against the buildings along the route of Mary’s progression from the Tower, and Anthony had picked an excellent site for his womenfolk. This was just below the triumphal arch which a group of Florentine bankers had constructed from thousands of massed lilies, roses and heliotrope. The arch was topped by a fifteen-foot angel with a trumpet, all made from green canvas.
The flower perfume was enchanting, and did much to offset the smells of massed humanity—particularly of vomit, since the conduits at Cornhill and Cheapside began at noon to run with cheap claret for anyone to guzzle as he pleased.
Though the women had long to wait, and dared not quit their places on the scaffold, Celia was so bedazzled by the excitement that time did not drag. This morning, while dressing herself in the splendid new gown of yellow velvet and red brocade, she had felt a momentary misgiving when she thought of Simkin’s ignored advice. Seen in Ursula’s new mirror, the effect did seem a trifle garish, and she had to pinch her cheeks hard to bring up their color, but out here amongst the welter of scarlets, greens, golds, amongst the festoons and banners decorating the houses—even the lowliest fishwife or chimney sweep had managed to wear a ribbon or cockade—she merged happily with the pageantry.
Ursula and Mabel were not so happy. The hard wooden bench began to hurt Ursula’s skinny rump, even through her new black velvet skirts. Her back ached, and a nagging discomfort made certain the imminent necessity of relieving herself in the gutter as shamelessly as did the common people. Mabel’s preoccupations were different but equally uncomfortable. Her fashionable steel corset and farthingale were too tight, and she was sweating profusely from the armpits, staining her pale lilac gown. She was also smarting from a further lecture delivered by Anthony before he left for the Tower to join the procession.
No one knew yet how Queen Mary would deal with the traitors who had tried to set aside her claim; everyone expected that they would be imprisoned and many of them thereafter executed. In any case, Fitzgerald had prudently fled, probably to Lincolnshire, with his sister and Lord Clinton. “And I’m fair sick o’ your sulks and naggings, Mabel,” said Anthony angrily. “I’ve far more important things on my mind than this senseless folly in hankering for a disgraced, lack-land, Irish rebel!” He had characteristically tempered his harshness with another gift, an enameled gold brooch which had belonged to Lady Jane, but Mabel’s heart was sore nonetheless. Gerald was the only man who had ever kissed her or made pretty speeches to her, and she had fancied herself practically betrothed.
At two-thirty a wind sprang up, tempering the hot sun and swirling dust into the waiting crowd. Mabel sneezed and Ursula began to cough. The fragrance from the flowery arch blew north, away from them, and was replaced by a stink of chicken dung and decaying poultry from the shuttered stalls below. Most of London’s poultry was sold in Gracechurch Street.
“You look overgrim, Lady, for such a glad occasion,” said a voice behind Ursula, who started. She turned and saw Master Julian wedged into a seat on the tier behind.
“Blessed
Jesu
!” she cried, at once forgetting her discomforts. “What do you
here?
”
He wore new doctoral robes, lavishly edged with red squirrel; his four-square cap was pulled down at a rakish angle to prevent it from blowing; his curly beard was very short; his gray eyes twinkled; and she thought how well he looked.
“I am here, Lady Southwell,” he said smiling, “because I helped my fellow Horentines draw plans for yonder arch. We’ll soon see how well the angel performs. I tried to remember the mechanism used by Messer Leonardo da Vinci for a Medici pageant. Good day, Celia, and Mistress Mabel,” he added as the two girls turned.
Celia’s face lit up like her aunt’s. Despite the coldness of their last meeting, she admired the doctor. Moreover, she had learned during the past months how many stresses and dangers had surrounded them, which no doubt Master Julian had shared.
Mabel, who hoped that the voice behind them might belong to some handsome gallant, gave a disappointed nod, then resumed the surreptitious effort to loosen the strings of her corset.
“Oh, sir—” cried Celia, “you joined the Queen’s Grace at Framlingham, didn’t you? Wat was full of the story. And she made you her physician?”
“For a time,” said Julian, “the Queen showed me marks of favor.” He touched a new gold chain from which hung the jacinth stone. “At least I no longer am fleeing for my life, and again have prospects.” He gave the two women his rather sardonic smile. At Framlingham, Mary had been distraught, though gracious enough when he had presented Sir Anthony Browne’s buck-head badge. She had sent Julian off to tend a chamber-woman’s twisted ankle, and asked Henry Jerningham to give the doctor the gold chain—as she indeed frantically tried to reward all the adherents to her cause. On the night they left for London, Mary was suffering from one of her blinding migraines. Julian, again summoned by Jerningham, had, of course, no remedies with him. So he went out to the meadow and picked some cowslips, which made a sufficiently impressive concoction when mashed with cow urine. He gave this to her, saying in his deep, commanding voice, “This will help you, your grace. You will be much better. You will feel well.”
Mary’s headache soon vanished. She gave Julian a gold sovereign, from which he had bought these new robes on his return to London. Then, harassed by a hundred grave problems, Mary had forgotten him. Julian, unwilling to see Alison, and certain now that the future was really brightening, had boldly knocked on the door of a Florentine merchant in Lombard Street and asked for lodging until after the coronation, on the grounds of their common nationality. Heretofore he had had nothing to do with the London Florentines, whom he considered a lowborn, money-grubbing lot, but he had meticulously repaid his host—at the same time hoping to advance himself—by helping to design the triumphal arch and its huge mechanical angel.