She led Wyatt to the door leading up to the turret where old Hobson guarded the falconet. Wyatt’s men thundered after them. She drew back, waiting amongst the rafters, protecting the candle as a blast of air from the north rushed through the opened door. It stung her cheeks and cut her breath. She was aware of a scuffle above her, then came a triumphant shout from Wyatt.
The men climbed down the stout ladder carrying something. They laid it on the dusty garret planks.
“’E’s still alive. Tough old bastard,” said a voice, “put up more fight nor all the rest o’ them Sussex lily-livers at the portal.”
Celia stared down stupidly. She saw that the bundle was old Hobson, and that a blackish trickle ran from the corner of his lips into his beard. She bent closer with her candle. “Blood . . .?” she whispered, recoiling. “You’ve killed him?” She stared at Wyatt.
“Nay, nay, sweetheart,” said the knight impatiently. “He’ll recover. Look after him, men! Now, Celia, lead me to a warmer chamber, there must be one that o’erlooks the river. Come, maiden, what ails thee, ye act dazed!”
“There’s only my room . . .” she said on a thin whisper, scarcely heeding him. Hobson was a merry old man. Since his arrival from Surrey he had enlivened the entire priory with his kindly japes, his fund of tunes and catches, his unvarying good humor. And now his face was become as grotesque as the hideous carved bosses in St. Saviour’s, his tongue lolled out beside the brownish ooze which stained his beard, his eyeballs showed white between his twitching lids, a rattling sound came from his throat. When one of Wyatt’s men picked him up and flung him across his padded shoulder there was a gurgle, and a rush of blood cascaded to the floor planks.
Wyatt grabbed the girl’s arm and whirled her around so that she could not see Hobson. “To your chamber,” he cried, annoyed by the unfortunate episode, aware that the atmosphere of amorous sport had been ruptured, that the girl’s coquetry had vanished, and she would need forcing.
“To your chamber, my dear—” he now made his voice soft and persuasive. “’Tis
only
that I may have a view of the river and the bridge, you know.” He lifted a strand of her rich gold hair and kissed it. “Here’s the shining net which has caught me in its meshes, snared fast, in thrall to love.”
No one had ever talked to Celia like that, and she quivered. She went with him mutely down the back passages, all dark and empty, to the northern front of the priory and the room she shared with Ursula. It was warmer there, sea-coal embers still glowed ruddy in the grate.
“Yonder is the riverside window,” she said pointing.
Wyatt laughed. “A pox on the window! I see only the bed, sweetheart, and a goodly one, too.” He waved his hand towards the carved oak four-poster, the red brocade curtains drawn back with silken cords to disclose down pillows and a rich counterpane embroidered by Ursula in a flowery pattern.
Wyatt, struggling and cursing beneath his breath, unhooked his chain mail shirt. It fell to the rushes in a slithery heap. He began to untie the points of his hose, unbutton his codpiece.
“What are you doing . . .?” whispered Celia, drawing back against the cupboard.
“Don’t act the innocent wi’ me . . .” said Wyatt, savagely breaking one of the tangled tapes. “We’ve not much time. Can’t leave my men long.”
“Time . . .” breathed Celia. She shrank harder against the cupboard, her arms hugged across her bosom in the immemorial gesture of threatened virginity.
He looked at her with exasperation which changed swiftly to lust.
“You were warm enough i’ the Hall, warm enough last All Saints’—I’m not going to play the gallant now. I’ve not had a woman in weeks—an’ ye
brought
me here!” He strode across the room and grabbed her, ripping open her bodice with one violent tear, while he bent and bit her neck. Celia screamed and scratched his face.
“Scream away—” Wyatt panted. “An’ it pleasures you, there’s nobody to listen—you little bitch, you’re a nuisance!”
He pinioned her arms and was dragging her to the bed when the door opened and Stephen stood appalled on the threshold. He had been untied by Wyatt’s guards in order to give old Hobson the last rites, and then had searched the priory when he found that Celia was missing from the Hall.
Wyatt dropped Celia and shouted, “Get outa here—you piddling eunuch!”
Stephen went white. He yanked off his crucifix; it fell on Wyatt’s chain mail shirt. He moved in one lithe motion and hit Wyatt full on the tip of his bearded jaw. The knight grunted, “Oof!” and collapsed on the rushes. Stephen and Celia both stood frozen, side by side, while St. Saviour’s bell clanged out once.
Wyatt sat up slowly, waggling his head to free his brain from the Catherine wheels and shooting stars. He felt his chin gingerly. As his vision cleared he gaped up at the two who stood over him.
“’Odsbody—” he said feebly, “pardee—who’d’ve guessed it—the monk, the mighty monk an’ the maiden, ye bestow your charms in odd quarters, m’dear—yet I’m grateful to ye, Brother Stephen, ye’ve recalled me to my duty. Procrastination is a grievous fault, one I seldom harbor—’tis
rashness
I’ve been accused of . . .” He got up carefully, and pulled up his hose. He buttoned his codpiece. He plucked Stephen’s crucifix from atop his mail shirt and tossed the golden cross into the coal scuttle. He pulled on his armor and sword belt. He went to the embrasured window, opened it and peered out. “Bigod!” he cried, “there’s a boat down there off the south bank, she means to shoot the bridge i’ the tiderip—I forbade it—’tis treachery. Hark! the gunfire—my sentries.”
There was a rumble and white flash. The priory’s old stones vibrated.
“’Tis the falconet!” Wyatt cried in malice, in triumph. “Sir Anthony’s falconet! Thank ye, m’dear, for showing me to the turret.” He seized his brass helmet from the stool where he had flung it, made Celia a mocking bow and ran out, banging the door behind him.
Still Stephen and the girl did not move. Then they turned with one accord and looked at each other.
Celia saw his face, naked, young, defenseless, as she had never seen it. She drew a sobbing breath. “Oh, my dear, dear love . . .” she whispered and ran into his arms. He held her close, yet as though she were a sacred chalice. He trembled as with ague, feeling her naked breasts tipped by coral pressed against his black woolen chest.
“Holy Virgin, forgive me,” he whispered and bending his head kissed her soft open lips.
Weakened by a flood of rapture, she staggered and clung.
He lifted her onto the bed.
She moaned as he kissed her breasts, “Dear love, dear heart—” pressing herself upwards against him, feeling through his habit the hardness of his desperate manhood on her thighs, on her belly.
They did not know that a chill wind rushed through from the opened window, they did not hear the booming of the Tower cannon, nor the cannonballs which splashed in the Thames or thudded beyond the priory in the Bankside fields.
He spoke only once in a groan so violent it sounded like anger. “I love thee, Celia, my God—forgive me . . .”
“Nay, nay . . .” she whispered, kissing his neck, his ear and the fringe of soft dark hair on his forehead, “do not think—my love,” and she pulled his head down between her warm white breasts. “What more than this can God give? Take me—Stephen—only so can we bear it.”
He shuddered, kissed again her breasts and her moist red mouth which smelled of violets. His pounding heart shook her slender body, yet her own heart had slowed to a honey-sweet calm of expectancy.
It was a whispered “
Jesu!
” and the noise of stifled weeping which at last they heard. The room was barely lit by dying coals, but the light of a rush dip glimmered above the bed.
Stephen turned slowly on his back, then rose. Celia looked up into Ursula’s face. It was contorted with anguish, tears running down the furrowed cheeks.
“Don’t weep, dearest Aunt,” Celia spoke from out the honey-sweet calm, the languorous dream.
“Cover your paps—you miserable hussy!” Ursula cried, and threw her head veil over the girl. “
Jesu! Jesu!
That I should live to see—oh, monstrous . . .” Her voice stifled in a sob.
Stephen walked around the bed, and put his hand on Ursula’s shoulder. “Aye, monstrous . . .” he said in a voice of great sadness. “But she is
not
harmed, Lady Ursula. I love the girl more than myself, almost more than my vows. I did not know it ’til now.”
Ursula stared at him despairingly through the gloom. “You base hypocritical priest! How should I believe you’ve not ravished my niece, and
she,
avid as a cat in season—Oh, I
know
what I saw!”
Stephen walked slowly past her to the coal scuttle, where the crucifix and its chain gleamed in the sooty shadow. He picked up the cross and held it in his hand. “I swear by this,” he said quietly. “By the broken body of our Lord.”
“Ah . . .” breathed Ursula, “so much for
this
time, Stephen Marsdon, and I’ll not call you ‘Brother,’ yet when your lusts return, and hers—nay, don’t answer! I know a remedy!”
Stephen bowed his head. “So do I, Lady.” He went out and shut the door.
Wy
ATT’S REBELLION WAS
finished three days later when Wyatt surrendered at Ludgate outside the city walls. He had marched his men from Southwark upriver to Kingston where he crossed the Thames; he had marched them down the north bank and through Westminster while gathering defeat hung as heavy as the rain clouds, black as the February mud through which they struggled with their gun carriages.
There were conflicts along the way, a few men shot. Hourly there were deserters who saw that French help would never come in time and that the London citizens were aroused to fight
any
invasion of their liberties and made no exception of Wyatt.
On February 7, Wyatt was taken to the Tower. During the next days his ringleaders joined him there, including Courtenay and the doddering old Duke of Suffolk. The Queen had a
Te Deum
sung in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s. Hysteria died down.
And Anthony, in high spirits, came home to the priory over the repaired drawbridge. A pack train of provisions had finally arrived from Cowdray; Ursula had been able to order a suitable dinner for the returning warrior, who was mightily pleased by his victory over Wyatt’s troops in the skirmish at Charing Cross.
“Not much disturbance here, was there?” he asked Ursula, jovially. “I misliked it when I saw the rebels were camping in Southwark but they didn’t stay long.”
“Long enough,” said Ursula, somberly.
“Ah, yes—” Anthony was at once sympathetic. “That business of Wyatt’s breaking in here must have frightened you, and the wounding o’ poor old Hobson—and I’m not proud o’ my other guards either—still, the whole matter came to naught. Only lasted a few hours, I hear. Haven’t seen Brother Stephen yet—some of the ruffians ransacked the Bishop’s palace and made a muck o’ the library. He left me a note saying he’d be back later.”
Ursula tightened her lips. She was dreading this moment. She waited until Anthony had drunk a flagon of his favorite sack and consumed the oyster pie that she herself had supervised in the kitchen. Lent had begun, and since there could be no meat, she had anxiously selected the substitute Anthony best liked.
“Sir—” she said and paused, moving her silver trencher, fidgeting with the pewter spoon. “Sir—” she repeated, “Celia must wed Sir John Hutchinson,” she brought out the sentence on a single gasp.
“
What?
” said Anthony adjusting his thoughts with difficulty. They had been running on Queen Mary’s continuing problems. How much was the Princess Elizabeth involved in the rebellion? What to do with her? And there could be no more clemency towards the doubly treacherous Suffolks.
The old Duke would go to the block, and with him his daughter Lady Jane Grey and her husband Guilford Dudley. Harsh measures were imperative now if Mary was to keep her throne, and marry the Spanish prince.
“Celia must wed Sir John Hutchinson,” Ursula repeated more slowly. “Pray, will you summon the knight at once?”
Anthony gave her his full, startled attention. “But my dear Lady Southwell, you were hard set against the match. What sea change is this? And what does Celia say?”
Ursula flushed. Her eyes grew woeful. “Celia will obey . . .” she said faintly. “There’s much heartbreak in the priory, Sir Anthony, but we can avoid worse.”
“Worse . . .? What
do
you mean, Lady?”
“I mean dishonor, I mean ghastly sin.” Ursula clenched her hands then let them fall limply on the table. “I don’t know how to tell you—”
Anthony leaned forward, wondering very much that this composed lady should show so much distress.
He questioned her gently, thinking that she always made a fuss about Celia’s affairs or well-being, and that this would prove to be another little cupboard storm.
His indulgent smile faded as he understood the facts. He breathed hard, anger and shock churned his stomach. That Wyatt had tried to rape Celia and been thwarted by Stephen was unpleasant enough. But the ensuing scene as he clearly envisioned it from Ursula’s halting, scarce audible words—the shameless girl and his austere chaplain, tumbling and kissing half naked in the big four-poster . . . Stephen’s brazen avowal of love . . .
“Aye . . . ’tis
sickening,
” cried Anthony. “Perfidious! I see why Celia must be married quickly and sped off to Lincolnshire . . . Christ! She may even be wi’ child.”
Ursula shuddered. “He swore not, swore by the crucifix that he hadn’t pierced her maidenhead, yet it seems he holds his vows lightly, and Celia will not speak at all. She weeps and stares at me—with eyes of hate.” Ursula’s voice broke.
“I’ll send Wat for Sir John at once,” Anthony cried. “But will he
take
a sullen contumacious bride who may be deflowered to boot? God’s body, what a coil! I thought that lewd monk my friend, damn him, he shall be bastinadoed—defrocked! Harlotry like
this
in my own house. And your false ungrateful trollop of a niece. You say she actually
guided
Wyatt up to my falconet?” He banged his fist on the table.