Then, of a sudden, as he stood under the trees, near the mossy bank where they had lain together, an appalling doubt came to him; it clashed and clanged like cymbals, and evoked a memory from his boyhood at Battle Abbey. A Maundy Thursday, long ago—the service, Tenebrae, the candles which were extinguished one by one, as the monks, pure and passionless, chanted the canticles, the dirge. At last no light was left within the abbey church and Stephen, mourning—already dedicated—had wept for the blackness, for the betrayal and the death of our Lord. Betrayal. “
I
have betrayed . . .” he whispered aloud, but could not voice the anguish of the next thought. Had
Celia?
What had she meant by her unheeded words “I gave you the water-witch’s potion.” Was it witchcraft that possessed him? He raised his crucifix to his lips then dropped it. A lover in Ivy Hatch? Impossible. And yet, the image of her allurement as she had listened to Thomas Wyatt singing to her; the image of her last night at the gaudy-day festival—provocative, dancing, laughing, hand in hand with those yokels. Was one of
them
from Ivy Hatch? The wanton temptress—the monks had so often warned him. Nay, but could any woman feign the love he thought she had shown him?
It
is
my child . . . it is unless she lies, she has told other lies. Mad with a jealousy he never knew existed, he began to pace back and forth amongst the tranquil beeches. A holly frond caught his robe, and he grasped the prickly leaves, rejoicing in the pain, watching the little drops of blood run down his palm, black droplets on his glimmering palm.
It was past midnight of that August eighth when Stephen walked back to the manor. The kitchen door to the Mote was still open, as it should not have been if the steward had made his nightly round. Stephen groped his way through the unlit passages, determined to mount the servants’ stairs and see if Celia were in the attic, though the open door could mean that she had arranged it so, to further her clandestine return. As she crept secretly he thought, so may she creep to others, and why did she not see me today?
At the foot of the backstairs he paused, startled out of his furious pain. There was a strange noise in the Hall, a gritty rhythmic slapping sound, and there was a crack of light beneath the Hall door. Stephen held his breath. There should be no noise in the Hall at this hour, nor had he ever heard such a noise as this. He opened the door and saw Emma Allen sitting at the end of the table, her chin resting on her hands, gazing in his direction. She seemed to be chuckling—a low bubbling sound.
Stephen stood in the doorway staring. He was aware that there were men in the Hall, the lighted tapers showed them clearly. Larkin the steward cowered by the fireplace. It was Dickon who held a mason’s trowel and made the slapping noise as he fitted a brick into the niche, then dipped into a bucket of mortar and plastered.
“What’s this?” said Stephen, his voice unsteady. “Lady Allen, ’tis an odd hour to be sealing up your strongbox!”
Emma stopped chuckling. Her massive face grew wary, as her eyes focused slowly on Stephen. “And ’tis an odd hour for
you
to be abroad, my dear priest, were ye seeking for your leman?”
Her speech was clear enough, though there were pauses between the words. “Near finished, Dickon—” she said, “only two, three more bricks.”
Dickon gave Stephen a look of stark terror. He dropped his trowel.
The steward began to whimper. “I’d naught to do wi’ it, sir—she was near dead anyways—the poor maidy. I didn’t know . . . what ’twas we carried up from the dungeon. ’Twas all bundled. I swear by God and the Blessed Virgin I didn’t know.”
Emma turned and gave her steward a tolerant smile. “O’ course ye knew, an’ so did Dickon. Ye knew that Christ in his shining robes’d want ye to wall up the priest’s whore. ’Twas always done so. Leastways there was a nun bricked up at Easebourne i’ the cloister, long time back. Maybe King Richard’s time . . . An’ now ye’ll not be tempted, dear,” she said to Stephen. “We’ll be easy together here at the Mote.”
Stephen stared at them for one more second, then he flung himself at the niche, tearing at the bricks and wet plaster, pulling down a great hole until he saw what was inside, crouched far below, shrouded in brown sacking.
“Stop him—” Emma screamed. “She’s near dead, he mustn’t touch her!” She moved as she spoke and seizing the trowel, hit Stephen on the head just hard enough to stun him. He dropped prone on the rushes.
“Drag him away,” Emma said to her servants. “Upstairs to his bed, bind him down wi’ sheets—then Dickon, come back and finish the job.” She held up a purseful of gold coins and rattled them. “Mind ye o’ these, m’dear, ye can live like a lord, so ye can.”
Dickon looked down at the priest on the floor, and hunched his shoulders. “As ye like, Lady—Come on, old whiffler, gi’e me a hand wi’
him.
”
The steward trembled, he wheezed and gulped. “What’ll Master say? What’ll he say w’en he finds the cupboard plastered up?”
Emma’s eyes wavered, they held a momentary bewilderment. She reached for the goblet at her elbow and drained it. “He won’t notice, he’ll—he’ll believe whatever I tell him. He—he don’t—don’t . . .” she stopped and gaped at the hole in the wall. “That must be filled!” she said in a tone of surprise. “Naught there but a scullery maid, a lustful scullery maid . . .” She picked up the trowel, and replacing a fallen brick began slapping on the mortar herself.
The next morning Stephen did not appear for the servants’ Mass. It was Alice who later found him hanging from the beam over the fireplace, near the confessional, his knotted scourge around his neck.
On Michaelmas Day, September 29, Cowdray Castle celebrated the feast with glorious profusion, for Anthony had returned from Spain and his new son, Philip, was to be christened that day. There were garlands of daisies and roses over every door. A white satin banner, embroidered in gilt, flew from the flagstaff above the buck-head pennant.
Hundreds of Michaelmas geese were a-roasting and their succulent odor mingled with that of baking apples, and of the crushed new herbs strewn on every floor. Outside the manor itself, the village of Easebourne and the town of Midhurst were decked as they had never been before. Those who did not bother with garlands at least had ivy trailing from the door knockers. There was continuous music at the Spread Eagle and the Angel. There were singing in the streets and morris dances. The bell ringers added to the joyous din, hand bells—but peals too from the church, and though there were some who wondered if such merrymaking might annoy the Protestant Queen, Anthony, who knew her better by now, and had acquitted himself well on his brief mission to Spain, felt no such qualms. Elizabeth approved of gaiety, and had sent a tiny gilt cup to the infant Philip as a christening present.
The Bishop arrived from Chichester to perform the ceremony, and even young Anthony, who was jealous of all this pomp and concentration on a baby brother, stopped sulking and played at hoodman’s blind with the children of the more aristocratic guests.
Julian alone, amongst Cowdray’s inhabitants, did not share in the general rejoicing. Each day since the baby’s birth he had started to think of plans for returning to Italy. And each day let them slide. He was given ample reward for his care of Magdalen, though cynically aware that his presence was unnecessary. She had delivered with almost painless speed, and no more fuss than was made by a healthy Southdown ewe. He had been carelessly invited to stay on for the christening, so from an occasional prick of conscience he poulticed a burn or sewed up a cut amongst the manor folk. But he left routine blood-lettings to the Midhurst leech. He became increasingly bored and depressed. He dreaded the coming of another English winter, yet lacked the energy to leave. For his frequent joint pains he took poppy juice, which dulled the aches.
On the seventh of August he had a dream entirely unlike the arid fantasies which followed after medication. It was a stifling nightmare in which he thought himself bound in a dark hole with Celia, struggling to escape, and heard her muffled voice moaning his name. The horror of this nightmare was tinged by guilt, and remained for some time after he woke.
He meditated awhile on the senseless folly of dreams. He had not thought of Celia since she had run away, possibly in lewd pursuit of her monk, though Brother Stephen was said to be at Ightham Mote with the Allens, and why should he dream of Celia with a literally suffocating remorse, almost as though he had wilfully wronged her? Celia, he thought, shaking himself impatiently—
ragazza testarda
—a headstrong girl who had thrown away a good marriage, loving friends, and even admitted to witchcraft, all for one obstinate and shameful desire. Though, the chances were that she had found herself a protector in London, and had embarked on what seemed to be her inevitable career as a courtesan. Good fortune to her, he thought, and laughed dryly. She’d do well at that game in Italy, where she might even have her precious monk on the side—or be a cardinal’s mistress—that should suit her tastes! Julian was aware of anger that Celia had been the cause of such an unpleasant dream. All the same, when he finally got up he went down across the court to the kitchens and inquired for the page Robin. When the lad came, Julian said, “That foolish little dog of Lady Hutchinson’s, are you caring for it properly?”
“Aye, sir.” Robin looked startled, then excited. “Is my lady coming back? Have they heard aught?”
Julian shook his head. “You were fond of her, weren’t you?”
The boy blushed. “Aye, sir. An’ Taggle, he mopes. Last night he howled so much, horse-master himself wanted to gi’e him a beating. But I stopped it. I wouldn’t let even Master Farrier harm Taggle.”
Julian patted Robin on the shoulder. “Ah—you have a heart . . .” he said with a sigh. “Mine has gone withered and sapless.”
Robin gaped at him; Julian, turning on his heel, left the boy abruptly.
Since then Julian had been troubled by no more nightmares, and he had not asked again about the dog. He grew increasingly morose, and viewed the day’s festivities with a sour eye, though the weather was sunny and warm for a change. The instant the christening in the chapel ended he left to find a sunlit bench in some private place and bask. There
were
no private spots today. The manor grounds, the pleasaunces, bowling green, tilting grounds, even the herb garden, all swarmed. Outside the great gate milled the beggars—they had come from as far as Southampton or Chichester to line up for the generous dole dispensed by Lord Montagu’s almoners—bread, beef, ale and christening pennies. One tattered old man had an enormous growth on his neck; it was shiny red, pulsating, and the size of a stool ball. What sort of tumor? Julian thought, wrong place for a goiter, doesn’t look like a carbuncle—but his curiosity flickered out at once.
The stench from the beggars revolted him, he who had once ministered to countless foul-smelling mortals. The thought of the banquet which would soon start in the Great Buck Hall also revolted him. Those lords and their ladies, the knights and the squires—silks, satins, velvets, laces—gorging and guzzling. They smelled somewhat sweeter than the beggar horde, but he felt no kinship with them either.
He had his staff, and he leaned on it heavily as he walked away from the gatehouse down the avenue of oaks towards the highway. He was heading for a bench near the water tower, which he knew would be sunny, and hopefully unoccupied, since it was far from the castle. As he limped along he drew irritably aside to make way for a party of galloping horsemen, and was astonished to have one of them draw rein and hail him. “Master Julian, bigod, good day ter ye!”
Julian looked up and recognized Wat Farrier’s twinkling little eyes. Wat was a trifle drunk. He had been celebrating at the Spread Eagle in Midhurst.
“Good day, Wat,” Julian answered, and hobbled on.
But Wat dismounted and approached the doctor. “Ye’re the very man, now I think on it! I’ve the joustin’ to arrange this arternoon, as m’lord has commanded—all the trappin’s for the hosses, an’ wouldn’t want to plague m’lord on sech a day, noways. Ye can pick the right time.”
“What do you speak of?” said Julian scowling. “I wish to be quite alone in the sunlight, while we
have
some.”
“Aye, sir, to be sure.” Wat did not question eccentricities. “An’ ’tis a smallish matter, though maught gi’e m’lord a pang, seein’ how he used ter feel, even in Spain he mentioned the monk couple o’ times.” Wat had accompanied his master on the brief journey to the Spanish court.
“The monk? What monk?” Julian was exasperated. “You’re dithering—go see to your tournament!”
Wat nodded affably. “I’ll so do. Brother Stephen’s the monk, o’ course. He’s dead, God rest him.” Wat crossed himself. “His brother, Squire Marsdon, he’s at the Eagle, an’ wants m’lord’s advice. Rid over from East Sussex. Didn’t know about the christening, to be sure.”
Julian clenched his staff, his knees weakened. He had seen thousands of deaths, he expected his own before long, why then should the news of Stephen’s death be a shock, and bring with it the return of the stifling miasma he had felt in his nightmare of Celia?
“When did he die?” asked Julian.
“Dunno. Last month, I think. Master Marsdon didn’t say much, but I got the feel there’s summat fishy. Leastways ’twas sudden.”
Julian compressed his lips, his knees stopped quivering. “I’d better see Marsdon,” he said, and cast a sad glance at the sunny bench. “May I have your horse?”
“Surely,” said Wat. “Good idea. He’s gentle, an’ wearied from galloping. I’ll give ye a hoist . . . There ye be!” Wat strode vigorously towards the castle.
Julian rode towards Midhurst, wondering at this impulse and vexed by it.
In the once familiar stable yard at the Spread Eagle he found an ostler to help him down and look to the horse. After inquiring of old Potts the landlord, he located Tom Marsdon in the taproom, sitting alone in a corner, grim-faced beside an untouched tankard.
Julian explained his presence, and Tom said, “Aye—my poor brother mentioned ye when he came to Medfield last spring. When d’ye think it’ll be seemly to see my Lord Montagu?”