Green Darkness (29 page)

He took the small, reddened hands in his, he turned them over and gazed briefly at the Mounts of Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, and the life line. He started and squinted harder, hoping that his eyes were tricking him. He dropped her hands abruptly. The women waited.

“There’s little here,” he said at last, shrugging. “I see little to interpret, and am weary. I bid you good day; we’ll breakfast and meet in the morning.” He bowed and hurried away.

Julian went down the passage to his room, where he poured himself a glass of wine, and tried to deny what he had seen. On both of Celia’s palms the life line was very short and stopped with an “island” on the Mount of Venus. In the right palm, furthermore, there was the malignant cross on Saturn at the base of the ring finger. Well, he thought,
many
die young and violent deaths, and she
had
a star on Jupiter which is good; besides, nothing is certain in this world, and I have seen prognostications go awry, or she may have had a childish injury which distorted her right palm. In any case, I can do nothing. Soothsaying is not my forte—I am a physician. He took another glass of wine, and gradually began to feel resentment towards Ursula, who had nagged him into sentiments he deplored. He combed his hair and beard, brushed his robes, and went off to find Sir Anthony.

By nine o’clock that evening, Anthony, having spent a long day disposing of tenants, a thieving potboy, hysterical accusations of witchcraft against old Molly of Whiphill, the Steward’s requisitions, and finally, the requests of Stephen, Master Julian, and Lady Ursula, gave a great yawn, and pushing back from the supper table emptied a flagon of mead.

“Excellent,” he remarked to “Lord” Gerald, the only remaining visitor at Cowdray. “The butler chills it in the well, and the honey came from Yorkshire—heather, y’know—gives it a tang. Old-fangled drink, but I had a bellyful o’ fancy clarets and muscadines whilst the King was here. God’s blood, ’tis hot tonight,” he added, loosening his ruff and mopping his face on a yellow silk handkerchief.

Gerald’s bright squirrel eyes peered at his host. “Ye’ve had a hard day, Nephew,” he said twinkling. “Niver so conscientious will
I
be, if I’m earl on me rightful lands again.”

Anthony laughed. It amused him when this young bantam who was only three years older, addressed him as “Nephew.” It did not amuse him to think of Geraldine as “Mother,” and he had never done so.

“When and
if
you get your earldom,” said Anthony, yawning again. “Spare me the plots, I don’t want to know ’em . . . ’Tis a night to get drunk and go wenching i’ the moonlight. Pity the Midhurst whores’re so unappetizing.”

“You’ve a dairymaid, Peggy Hobson she’s called. I’ve sampled her and found her wholesome,” said Gerald helpfully. “Shall we get her?”

Anthony shook his head. “I do not foul my own nest. A lapse now and again in town, when my Lady Jane is ailing, but I make full confession and do penance.”

“Is your chaplain strict?” asked Gerald idly, munching on a prune comfit. “Poor fellow near died, I understand.”

“Aye, he did, but mended enough to resume duties, and saddle me with an importunate matron from Kent.” Anthony made a rueful face as he thought of his interview with Emma Allen. She had been subdued, ingratiating, but very persistent in her claim to the lost dowry. When Anthony, quite truthfully, asserted that he had no idea where it was, round glistening drops had oozed from the corners of her eyes. Finally, she had collapsed on a bench and given two or three sobs, while her husband distractedly patted her shoulder.

Anthony’s conscience was sometimes troubled, as had been his father’s, by the immense benefits they had derived from the dissolution of the monasteries, and to be rid of Emma, he finally gave her six gold angels and a slightly flawed diamond ring.

She accepted these avidly, her tears dried, and she hurried her husband away, clearly relieved that she had got anything.

Anthony had also been generous with Julian, expressed thanks for his successful doctoring of the house priest, and given him a small purseful of coins, adding kindly that if he ever had influence at Court he would try to temper Edward’s antipathy. “But I walk the edge of a very narrow plank myself, good Doctor, as you must see,” he had said shrugging. Julian nodded, and they shook hands in cordial farewell.

The interview with Lady Ursula had been more disquieting. Anthony was startled, even hurt that members of his household might desire a protracted absence from Cowdray. And he thought Ursula’s plan of journeying to the border wilderness both dangerous and foolish.

“At your
age,
Lady?” he said sharply, “and with that—that fair young maid? Impossible.” He felt further discomfort in realizing that each day glimpses of the fair young maid—at the foot of his table, or in the garden gathering posies, or playing with the newest litter of puppies—had become pleasing to him.

“Surely Celia doesn’t wish to make this outrageous journey?” he said. “I thought her happy at Cowdray.”

“She does not know yet,” said Ursula. “There are reasons—” and she took a long breath. “Reasons why she must go. Sir Anthony, I humble myself to ask this of you, but I’m Celia’s only relation, and I know what’s best for her. I humble myself further to beg of you horses and an escort.”

“
What
reasons?” asked Anthony hotly. “Explain yourself, Lady!”

He saw her face fall, but the eyes met his proudly, steadily until he thought of this woman he had long taken for granted as almost formidable. He was also reminded of her lineage. The de Bohun pedigree went back five hundred years to the days of the Conqueror; Bohuns had been the owners of Cowdray and Midhurst until 1528, a scant twenty-four years back, the time of the forced sale to Anthony’s uncle of the half-blood, Lord Southampton. While I, thought Anthony, have lived here but five years myself.

“I can’t give you reasons,” said Ursula quietly, “except that they have to do with the avoidance of a grave threat to Celia’s soul and salvation. I’ve been praying to St. Anthony—your own saint, sir—that he will intercede in this matter. That he’ll give you a sign, as he has me.”

“Sign . . .?” said Anthony slowly. “You’ve had a sign?”

“Aye, last Tuesday, the candle I lit at his feet sent forth a shower of sparks, and flared high, it shone on the face of the Baby Jesus in the saint’s arms, and the Little One smiled.”

“Ah . . . indeed . . .” Anthony was shaken. He could not disbelieve her quiet awed voice, and after all, St. Anthony was known as the saint of wonders. “I accede to your request, my Lady Ursula,” he had said after a moment. “God gi’e you good speed.”

Gerald had been watching his host during Anthony’s reflections, and he now spoke airily. “Ye’re uncommon grave, m’lad, ’tis unhealthy to ponder. Since ye’ll not wench, let’s try our luck at these.” He drew a leather box from his pocket, and rattled the ivory dice.

T
HE HAZY RED AUGUST
sun had scarcely risen above Trotton forest when the Cumberland-bound party set out from Cowdray.

Anthony, always generous by instinct, had made handsome provision for the expedition. Ursula and Celia were mounted on quiet sturdy geldings. There was a stout mule to carry the coffers and bedding, and there were two escorts—a gangling lad of sixteen called Simkin, and his father, Wat Farrier.

Wat was thirty-nine, a powerful black-bearded man, ruddy-cheeked beneath shrewd little eyes like a bear’s. He had been born near the stables, and raised amongst them, but from childhood had shown so much quick wit and skill at any odd jobs old Sir Anthony wanted done that the elder knight sent Wat to Midhurst Dame School for a year.

Thus, Wat could figure and knew his letters. He was adept at falconry, and supervised the gamekeepers. He was also Cowdray’s Keeper of the Horse, and could tilt at the quintain as well as any knight. During old Sir Anthony’s lifetime Wat had seen a bit of the world while accompanying his master on diplomatic or military missions. He had been north to the Border in 1543 during one of the sporadic attempts to subdue the Scots. He had fought at the siege of Boulogne; he had gone to Cleves with Sir Anthony Browne to bring home Anne, “The Flemish Mare,” whose person had so displeased old King Hal that there were many ticklish moments for Sir Anthony before the marriage was annulled.

During the last five years Wat had chafed at the restricted life of Cowdray, fond as he was of young Anthony, to whom he had taught riding and falconry.

Wat was, therefore, delighted with this mission to the North, and delighted to be free of his wife for a while. Joan, the fair buxom dairy maid of eighteen years past, had somehow turned into a frowzy scold. She had grown bony as a rake, and her tongue sharp as a needle.

Wat had often thought of decamping. There was the war in France which might be joined, or one might enlist in Sebastian Cabot’s expedition, which was even now recruiting men for the three ships that were to search for a northeast passage to India. The western voyages had discovered a new continent but not, after all, the precious Spice Islands.

Loyalty to the Browne family, inherited down the generations, had curbed Wat’s errant wishes. He had solaced himself by galloping off on Feast Days to Portsmouth, where he could watch ships loading and swill down tankards with sailors in The Dolphin.

The escortage of two women on what would certainly be a tedious journey was not quite his fancy, yet there was a secret mission involved which might liven the trip.

Wat turned a minatory eye on Simkin, who was shambling along beside the mule, and for the moment doing nothing to warrant a father’s censure; then he glanced at his charges. The Lady Ursula for all her years rode easily, her back erect, swaying in rhythm to the bay gelding’s brisk walk, her gloved hands loose on the reins.

The girl was another matter. She gripped the pommel, her left foot was turned wrong in the stirrup. She’d take a deal of schooling, Wat thought, being, after all, but a bastard Bohun and a tavern wench. Pretty lass, though, or would be if she didn’t look so stiff and solemn—ill-tempered, like as not. Women—thought Wat—of all ages, they were strange kittle-cattle, you never knew, and better not find out what was irking them. He glanced ahead towards a ridge of dun-colored clouds lying low over the weald to the north. The ways’d likely be muddy after Petworth.

He shrugged his shoulders inside the leather jerkin, which was blazoned on the sleeve with the red buck’s head, and humming a “Hey Nonny Nonny,” nicked a horsefly from his stallion’s neck.

They plodded through Easebourne, past the priory, and Ursula looked again at Celia, who maintained the silence she had held since leaving Cowdray’s gatehouse, when she had responded to Anthony’s “Farewells” with a muffled “Thank ye, sir.” Blessed St. Mary, Ursula thought—the child looks blasted! But ’twill pass. Lauded be St. Anthony I’ve got her away. New sights, new people will soon dispel the gloom—a childish wan hope which could have no real basis, since even last night Celia had been gay, laughing at her own mistakes while young Mabel tried to teach her lute playing, and parrying Lord Gerald’s banter with a light coquetry.

Nothing could possibly have happened since to produce the fixed, stony silence. The girl did not even turn her head for a last glimpse of the castle, nor beyond it St. Ann’s Hill where a plume of blue smoke showed that Brother Stephen must be cooking his breakfast.

Ursula reached across between the horses and put her hand on Celia’s shoulder, “Only think, sweeting!” she said brightly, “
London
tomorrow night, or next—you’ll see the Bridge, the Tower, the palaces—we’ll go to the bullring if you like. Ah, ’twill be wondrous exciting!”

Celia answered nothing at all, her strained eyes stared at her gelding’s ears.

“Are you queasy, dear? The motion of the horse when you’re not accustomed . . .?”

“No, Aunt,” said Celia, at length, turning her head away.

A pox on it, thought Ursula. Sulky children should be chastised. Her own mother had raised her with nips and slaps when she transgressed. But Celia had not transgressed, and she did not seem a child, her little face showed a chill detachment.

Except for the clop-clop of hooves on the dusty highway to Petworth and the barking of farmhouse dogs, there was no further sound for some miles.

Celia had scant awareness of the others, or the road. The tiny fraction of her mind which had responded to her aunt’s question did not ripple the surface of the deep black pond into which she had sunk last night. In her chest she felt the black hollowness. Desolation as an active force, replacing the anger she had felt for a while. The anger was far less miserable, and she willed it to return. I hate him, she thought. I said so, I meant it. I mean it now. But there was the bleak hollowness, sharpened to hurt by little rat-nibbles of humiliation.

Celia had gone to Stephen on Tan’s Hill last evening. Had it not been for that interview, she would not have been riding to London with Ursula today on the way to exile.

Celia had laid careful plans for escape. For the last three days she had secreted bread, cheese, salted fish in a cache under a yew near the close walks, and she had arranged to hide in Molly O’Whipple’s garret until the hue and cry died down. Old Molly, “the wise-woman,” though esteemed by Lady Jane for her herbal remedies, was generally held to be a witch. All the countryside feared her, they would never have looked for Celia at Molly’s. Thus had been Celia’s plans, formed by the frantic desire to remain near Stephen, and the certainty that he wished her to.

After the moment of official farewell in Cowdray chapel yes-termorn when she had knelt for his blessing, it seemed to her that he had asked her to stay. Amidst the shock of sudden bliss when he touched her hair, her neck, she thought she heard him murmur—“Don’t leave me, beloved.” Ursula swept her out of the chapel before she could respond to Stephen, but she had no doubts as to their complete understanding.

Her secret had sustained her through the afternoon and supper. She had been laughing, airy, until they rose from the table after Sir Anthony’s kindly toasts to the voyagers. Then Celia excused herself to her aunt, saying that she wished to bid farewell to Mab’s litter.