“Hark!” he said, jerking his head around to the south. “There go St. Sepulchre’s bells. The procession must be starting from the Tower.”
Another half-hour passed before the vanguard, consisting of yeomen and court messengers, cleared the street, strewing it with grass and fragrant herbs before the mounted esquires came riding up it. The common folk crammed against the walls, every window was jammed with expectant faces, the air resounded with pealing bells and fanfares. The exalted clerks of the Chancery, the Signet, the Privy Seal, the Council, were followed by the lesser knights—bachelors and bannerets—and finally, the Knights of the Bath. Amongst the latter, Celia was the first to pick out Sir Anthony, who turned and waved to them.
“My brother should be amongst the peers,” said Mabel discontentedly. “We have some noble blood.”
“
Da vero,
” agreed Julian, “and in time I’m sure he
will
be. The Queen has cause to reward him and his family. Sir Anthony’s grandsire is Sir John Gates, is he not? The Queen has him again as Tower Constable.”
Mabel shrugged. “I’ve never met him. Some stupid quarrel before I was born.”
The stately procession continued to file by. The judges and justices, the Knights of the Garter, the officers of Mary’s household, and then, between repeated trumpet flourishes, the loyal peers, two by two. The Barons, the Bishops, the Viscounts, the Earls. And then the Lord Mayor.
Magnificent as these were, Celia, like everyone else, kept straining to look down the street past them, eager to see the focus of all this grandeur. The crowd hushed as Mary’s splendid chariot approached, drawn by six white palfreys. Mary was effulgent in blue velvet and silver cloth, furred with ermine. Her head was covered by a gold caul, diamond and pearl-studded, and so heavy that she constantly had to stiffen her neck, sometimes easing the weight with a nervous little gesture. Her small pale face was set, her smiles forced, and Julian saw the haggard lines, the twitching muscles of nearly intolerable stress. She seemed older than her thirty-seven years. She has no stamina, he thought gloomily, she’ll not last long—and then what?
The probable answer to his question rode behind the Queen in a crimson velvet chariot. A girl of twenty, chastely dressed in silver white, her Tudor hair uncovered and blazing, an enigmatic little smile on her thin lips and an expression of gentle demureness which did not change as the populace, suddenly magnetized, burst from its awed hush and began to roar out blessings on the Princess Elizabeth.
“Harry’s true daughter!” they cried. “Look at ’er ’air!” “And English, through and through . . . poor Nan Bullen was English, whate’er sorry end she come to.” “God bless Nan Bullen and ’er little Bess!” shouted a drunken voice from a gabled window. Elizabeth looked up slowly to the window, she raised her long delicate hand in a graceful motion of acknowledgement, then resumed her controlled poise.
“So the small moon pales when the sun comes out,” Julian observed, leaning down towards Ursula, who neither quite heard nor understood. She glanced at the sky which had darkened as the wind blew great clouds across it.
“Who can that be next to the Princess in the chariot?” she asked. “Is’t some waiting lady?”
“No,” said Julian, tearing his fascinated gaze from Elizabeth to scan the broad stolid face beside her. “
That
is a very fortunate woman. King Henry’s only surviving relict, I saw her once at Kenninghall.”
“
Who?
” said Ursula, astonished.
“The Lady Anne of Cleves.” Julian chuckled.
“Holy St. Mary!” Ursula laughed too. “I’d forgot all about her!”
“As she most wisely wished. The only sensible one of the lot, but she
is
stepmother to the Queen . . . and to the Princess. Now watch!” Julian added quickly.
Queen Mary had advanced to within a hundred paces of the flowery arch. Julian’s Florentine host darted out, and bowing, rapidly gabbled a laudatory speech. The Queen stopped, seemed rather puzzled, as they could all hear the whirring and buzzings of clockwork and the creak of bellows inside the angel. Julian held his breath. The great green arms quivered and slowly raised the trumpet. It never quite reached the angel’s gaping mouth, but six deafening blasts of compressed air shrilled through the canvas lips. They made a resounding noise far greater than human lungs could manage, and hopefully might be interpreted as shouting, “
Ma-ri-a Re-gi-na.
”
The horses reared and stamped. Mary herself shrank, and then laughed delightedly, while on the street and from every window there was thundrous applause.
Like all the Tudors, Mary adored boisterous novelties. They could see her thanking the Florentine, then glance up at the stage to Julian, who smiled and bowed low.
“One sure way to the favor of princes,” he murmured, quoting Macchiavelli, “is to combine amusement with flattery.”
Julian sat back, well pleased, especially as he knew that the other diversions arranged along the route must be pallid after this. Some jugglers and morris dancers, a bed of rosemary cunningly grown into the shape of the royal arms. And under a vine in St. Paul’s churchyard John Heywood, the witty poet and jest-maker, was waiting to deliver a eulogy to the Catholic Queen he had always admired. The procession disappeared when it turned left on the Cornhill.
Ursula and the girls rose thankfully; Julian helped them down to the street. Ursula murmured an apology, and darted up an alley to a recessed privy. When she came back she found Julian and the girls standing near the arch talking to a middle-aged couple with a child in tow. She was faintly surprised since they knew nobody in London, and also surprised that her Celia’s face looked wary. “Wary” was the only word for the set of the lovely little features, the watchful gleam in the sea-blue eyes.
“Ah . . .” said Julian as Ursula came up to them. “Here we meet by hazard some acquaintances. Lady Southwell, these are Squire and Mistress Allen from Kent, and their son—Charles, I believe?”
Ursula nodded politely, while Emma Allen curtsied. The squire uncovered and gave a nervous head jerk.
“Oh, we met at Cowdray,” said Emma in her loud Kentish twang, “when we were there last summer to see Brother Stephen who is a relation.”
Ursula looked at the woman with more attention. She was handsome in a florid way. Her slanting black eyes were a bit strange. But she seemed a typical and prosperous provincial matron, up from the country to see the goodly show.
“Will ye all sup wi’ us?” cried Emma heartily. “King’s Head’s not far in Fenchurch, an’ they’ll have drawn the October ale. There’ll be aldermen there we’re to meet. M’ good husband’s father was Lord Mayor some twenty year back. High time we saw something o’ London again. We’ve not come near this sewer o’ stinking heresy since Edward’s coronation.”
“Your lofty sentiments do you proud, madam,” said Julian, smiling. What’s she after
now,
he thought, remembering her tenacity at Cowdray, and her vehement assertion to him at the Spread Eagle: “When I want a thing ’tis good as done . . . God heeds me when I speak.” He felt an echo of his repulsion then, and he, too, noticed that Celia had turned away, and was absently fingering a lily in the triumphal arch, her profile was stony.
“These your daughters, m’lady?” Emma gave Ursula an ingratiating smile. “Such pretty young maids.”
Ursula realized that the woman had no idea to whom she was speaking, she had heard only the title, and when Ursula explained, an opaque, considering look dulled the black eyes. Mistress Allen had obviously hoped to have netted bigger game, but she repeated her invitation though less ebulliently.
“Welladay, ye must drink to the Queen’s Grace wi’ us—and tell me news o’ my good brother-in-law at Cowdray.”
“If you mean Brother Stephen,” answered Ursula, “he’s here in London with Sir Anthony, for whom he is acting as secretary. Your invitation is most kind . . .”
Ursula, who had decided to accept it, thinking how flat the evening might be for the girls after all this excitement, was interrupted by Celia. “My head aches, Aunt,” she said abruptly. “I see Wat over there. He’ll take me back to the priory.”
“Oh, sweeting—” cried Ursula, instantly apprehensive, “we’ll all go back.”
“
No,
” protested Mabel, flouncing. “I don’t want to be herded to that stuffy hole in Southwark.” Angry tears brimmed over onto her plump cheeks.
“If you will permit it, Lady Southwell,” said Julian with some amusement, “I’ll escort Mistress Mabel, and return her at a proper hour.”
Ursula immediately acquiesced, and sent Julian so warm a look of gratitude that he was half ashamed of its trivial cause. She’s truly
good,
that lady, he thought, and marveled again at the feeling of protection both Ursula and Celia sometimes aroused in him. Standing there on grass-trampled Gracechurch Street, jostled by the milling Cockneys, he again received, as he had in Midhurst, the impression that all this had happened before. That he had been confronted by the baleful force of Emma Allen, and savored the appealing sweetness of the aunt and niece, in Greece—
Grecia
, the word said itself in his mind.
Ridiculous,
he thought impatiently, and turned his mind to his real interests. Mistress Allen was not the only one who could play the game of power climbing. That she had a knighthood in mind for her skimpy little husband, he did not doubt. There would be aldermen at the King’s Head. They had scant influence at Court, but one never knew what coattails might be worth perching on. And after the coronation I’ll see Norfolk, Julian thought, I’ll remind him of the “wheel of fortune” I made for him at Kenninghall. There’s been a sudden spin to that wheel. And I spin with it. The arrow now points to fame and riches. But one proceeds cautiously,
poco a poco.
Back at the priory in Southwark, Ursula was anxious. Celia’s whiteness alarmed her. She thought of the sudden pests, plagues, distempers which struck so fast, especially in London. She sent a varlet to the nearest apothecary for camphor and spirits of wine to make a poultice for Celia’s forehead. She made the girl drink a whole mug of heather mead which she always kept by her for emergencies. After that potent drink Celia gained a little color, and also the use of her tongue which had been silent ever since they left Gracechurch Street.
“I don’t think I’m ill, dear Aunt . . .” she whispered. “I was affrighted.”
“Frightened . . .?” said Ursula tenderly. “By what, my poppet?”
“By that woman . . .” said Celia in a remote listless voice.
Ursula frowned. This seemed very near to the maunderings which accompanied fevers. “You don’t mean Mistress Allen?”
Celia shuddered and nodded. “I saw an adder last year. ’Twas near the footbridge o’er the Rother. It had those eyes. I ran.”
“My dear child,” said Ursula briskly, “what nonsense . . . are your courses due? Women get peculiar fancies . . .”
Celia shook her head. “There’s danger,” she said flatly. She put her hand to her throat. “Stifling . . . Master Julian speaks to me; he says, ‘Wake up, Celia! Celia, come back!’”
Ursula swallowed as a chill ran up her spine. She glanced at the silver mug. “I’ve given you too much mead,” she said. “Master Julian is at the King’s Head with the Allens and Mabel, don’t you remember?”
The girl sighed, her hand fell limply from her throat in a defenseless little gesture. Suddenly she opened her eyes and stared imploringly at Ursula. “Must it happen, Mother?” she whispered in a piteous voice. “Can’t we stop it? Don’t you see, I
love
Stephen! But I’m so afraid. Make Doctor—Doctor—the doctor understands.”
Ursula quivered; panic clutched at her. But the girl’s lids fell, she began to breathe gently, deeply.
“Holy Blessed Mary—” Ursula reached for her rosary. She held the crucifix tight in her hand. “Wat!” she called. “Wat! Come here!”
Wat was dicing with the butler in the Hall. He had just thrown, and was considering his chances, but he heard the fear in Ursula’s voice. He hurried into the bedchamber. “Aye, Lady?”
“Mistress Celia—she’s taken very ill, get Master Julian—King’s Head in Fenchurch. Hasten!”
Wat clucked sympathetically, he glanced at the sleeping girl and thought that she looked entirely healthy, rosy cheeks, soft regular breathing. But he obeyed. He galloped across London Bridge to the King’s Head—a superior tavern for the gentry. He found Julian in earnest conversation with a younger man in doctoral robes, and Mabel sitting disconsolately alone, making pictures on the oaken table with a finger dipped in ale.
The Allens were part of a noisy group on the other side of the parlor.
“You’re wanted, master—” said Wat, touching Julian on the shoulder.
Julian looked up, annoyed. His companion was Dr. John Dee, alchemist and astrologer, whom he had met at John Cheke’s. Dee was a man of shrewd intelligence, with interests like his own, and he was propounding some very shrewd ideas on personal advancement.
Julian listened to Wat’s explanation of the summons, and shook his head. “You say Mistress Celia sleeps sweetly—bah! ’Twas naught but a green girl’s attack of megrims. Lady Ursula dotes and frets overmuch. Now you’re here, Wat, take Mistress Mabel home. I’ve important matters to discuss.”
Wat nodded in complete agreement. Women and their sudden alarums were tiresome. He resented this errand himself. “Come along, mistress,” he said to Mabel, who was sniveling from disappointment. There were young gallants in the tavern pot room, but none had noticed her. Mistress Allen, flanked by her husband and son, was quaffing ale and dominating a party of boisterous aldermen. Master Julian gave the girl no more than an absent-minded nod of farewell. Upon her dejected return to the priory she found Celia asleep and Lady Ursula so unstrung by Master Julian’s refusal that she flew into a temper.
“How
dared
you come back without him?” she cried furiously. “Did you tell him how ill Celia is, and calling for him? You scurvy horse-churl, I see you didn’t! May the Saints punish you!”
Wat lifted one eyebrow, and escaped rapidly back to the Hall and his dice game, but Mabel burst into hiccupping sobs.