Green Darkness (52 page)

O
N JANUARY 6, 1554,
Celia awoke in her chamber at the priory to the sound of sleeting rain and the feel of penetrating chill in the mists off the Thames. She shivered, coughed and dully counted the seven bongs from St. Saviour’s outside her lattice window. She noted that Ursula who slept beside her in the great curtained bed had already arisen, either to use the privy or, more likely, to attend early Mass.

’Tis the Feast of the Three Kings, Celia thought, Epiphany. Twelfth Night—the end of Christmas—and the beginning of what? There was nothing in particular to look forward to. Ever since the All Saints’ revel and puppet show, the weather had been bad, Anthony and Stephen were almost never at home, and one of Mabel’s frequent colds had seized both Celia and Ursula in a more violent form. They had coughed agonizingly for ten days. Celia still coughed. She lifted her head from the pillow and found that she still had the dull throb in her forehead which had been plaguing her for several mornings. She flopped back and shut her eyes. She opened them again as the bed curtains were parted and a chambermaid peered down while tendering her a mug of the steaming ale called “Lamb’s Wool,” from the apple froth atop it.

“Good morrow, miss,” said the woman in a pleasant country voice. “Lady Suthell sent me up ter rouse ye.”

Celia sighed, murmured, “Good morrow,” and added, half to herself, “Aye, must drag myself to Mass.”

“Ye needn’t, then,” said the woman, “God don’t
want
ye to!”

It took a moment for Celia to understand this extraordinary statement. Then she looked up at the chambermaid. She saw a woman of thirty, with a thin freckled face, nondescript except for a sweet, rather stern smile. This maid had been at the priory only a day, Ursula having had to dismiss their former chamber-woman for sluttishness and thievery. This maid’s kerchief and apron were dazzling white, her brown hair neatly coiled.

“What did you say?” exclaimed Celia. “What
do
you mean?”

“That our heavenly Father don’t want ye to go to church an’ pretend ye’re a-crunchin’ on His Son’s bones, and a-suckin’ up His blood.”

Celia sat up, shocked, yet inclined to laugh. “That’s disgusting!” she cried. “You must be mad . . . You’re called Agnes, aren’t you?”

“Aye—Agnes Snoth, widow. I’ve come from Kent in ter London Town and am now spreading the Gospel according to His Holy Word, an’ accordin’ ter m’station in life, which be lowly.” Her smiled deepened.

“St. Mary, you mustn’t say such abominable things—” said Celia. “They’re, why, they are
heresy!
If my Lady Aunt heard you—how did you
get
here, anyway?”

“Oh, I went to Lady Suthell wi’ some writin’ from Mistress Allen o’ Ightham Mote. I was nurse ter Master Charles, time back.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “But the Allens’re true Catholics. You never said such things
there.
”

“Oh, no, miss. I hadn’t seen the light then. Master Rogers’s services at Paul’s Cross converted me. An’ I thank God fur it. I’m saved from damnation, from the burnin’s in hellfire. I wants ter save
thee,
poppet; ye’ve a sweet lovely face, an’ ye doan’t seem happy, bein’ mired deep in idolatry.”

Celia did not know what to answer. The woman’s face had a calm glow, there was great certainty in her way of speaking.

Celia looked at the silver mug of hot ale, it smelled of nutmeg and apple, it smelled delicious. “I can’t drink this,” she said, “not before Communion. Even
you
know that.”

Agnes nodded. “’Twas why I brung it. There’s naught in the Bible about goin’ to Mass, or feast days, or holy water, or praying to idols made by human hands, or beads, or some man i’ a long frock lurkin’ in a cupboard can forgive your sins . . .”

“There isn’t?” said Celia startled. She had never read the Bible, of course, but she knew that in some way all Christianity was based on it. “How would
you
know, Agnes?” she said impatiently, rather as to a naughty child who has been found out in a lie. She put one bare leg out of bed, and pulled her nightshirt tight around her as St. Saviour’s rang the half-hour. She’d have to hurry to get to the eight o’clock Mass.

“Because I’ve read every word o’ the Good Book fur m’self,” said Agnes with quiet triumph, as she held out Celia’s woolen chamber robe. “I read the Scriptures, Englished by Master John Rogers. Sir John Cheke had me taught, took me a year, but I learned.”

“Sir John
Cheke
. . .” Celia frowned. She had heard of him; he had been tutor to the deluded little King Edward; he had espoused the usurpation by Lady Jane Grey. “He’s in the Tower for treason, Agnes,” said Celia severely, “and you’ve been
badly
taught. I’ll have to ask Brother Stephen to set you right, or we can never keep you here!”

“Oh, Mistress Celia . . .” Agnes shook her head sadly, she gave the girl a pitying smile. “Ye’re so blind . . . poor sweeting. D’ye think any scoldin’ from a skirted young man’d sway me from God’s True Word. Ye’ve but ter
read
it—I’ve got the Book, Sir John gave it me—it’ll comfort ye in all tribulation, an’ ye won’t need that church yonder an’ its wicked mummeries. Our Blessed Lord saith that when two or three’re gathered together in His name that was church enough.”

The shining in Agnes’s plain freckled face, the resolution in her clear voice perturbed Celia. She knew the woman must be wrong, but found no words to refute her. Besides, she noted as Agnes went to stir up last night’s embers in the fireplace that the poor thing had a twisted limp. Celia looked down at the left leg and saw that it ended in a lumpy shape, neatly bound with leather strips.

“Clubfoot,” said Agnes cheerfully. “I was born wi’ it. I can work as well as any wench, but lots don’t want ter hire me. They had to turn me away at the Chekes’ w’en he was put in prison.”

“And since then?” asked Celia. Agnes shocked and puzzled her, she might well be simple-minded, which would excuse her crazy speech. Yet, there was warmth, staunchness, a quality which Celia felt as wholeheartedness.

“Since then I’ve trusted in m’ Blessed Lord to guide me like He promised, that Our Father knoweth what things we have need of afore we ask, and that He would not leave me comfortless. Yet, I couldn’t find work, a day here, a day there, a crust or two to keep m’belly from cavin’ in, but Our Lord ne’er promised we’d have
no
trials, and one night i’ a dream, He told me to use the writin’ Mistress Allen give me w’en she sent me off. I had it put by, an’ I remembered she used to boast she had a kinsman worked for Sir Anthony Browne. I’d but to ask i’ the tavern to find Sir Anthony lived here.”

“The kinsman is Brother Stephen, our chaplain,” said Celia curtly. It did not surprise Celia that Ursula had hired the cripple provisionally, since she came with a reference, and Ursula was always pitiful. But she was made uneasy by the connection with Emma Allen. Celia’s intense dislike of the Kentish squire’s wife had faded, in fact, she remembered nothing of her own peculiar behavior after the Queen’s procession, except her half dream that Emma Allen was an adder. Nonetheless, she could not imagine Mistress Allen employing this woman. And she said so.

“Oh,” said Agnes, “she hated the sight o’ me. Many’s the clout I got, an’ no wages neither. ’Twas just that my babe’d died an’ I had milk fur Master Charles. Me husband was blacksmith at Ightham, but he died o’ the sweatin’ sickness. I was fair beset. I’d no found m’true Heavenly Friend then.”

“She couldn’t’ve hated you if she wrote you a character,” said Celia.

Agnes was silent while she carefully pushed twigs and straw into the smoldering sea coals. Mistress Allen’s reference had been a bribe. It was entirely due to the night Agnes had been up with little Charles who was croupy; she had gone to the kitchen for hot water and surprised her mistress, drunk and half naked, panting in the sweaty arms of a lusty young scullion.

“Well . . . no matter why,” said Agnes slowly. “She gi’e me the writin’.”

Celia drew breath and began to cough. As the spasms lessened she reached for the ale mug and drank it down greedily. It eased her chest. She banished all thoughts of going to Mass. Sickness was a valid excuse, yet would make a venial sin to confess next Saturday. Her confessions of late to the parish priest had been dull and arid anyway—like her life, since Anthony had stopped entertaining.

Agnes watched the pretty downcast face and said quickly, “The Blessed Lord’ll find ye a good husband, miss—if ye ask Him right, talk to Him straight, not wi’ candles an’ grovelin’, or gabblin’ o’ Latin words.”

Celia gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what I want! Leave me be. And quit talk like that or I’ll have to tell my aunt, at least. We can’t harbor Protestants
here.
And don’t upset the other servants.”

“I s’all do wot God tells me ter do,” said Agnes gently. “An’ He’s allus wi’ me—in me heart.” She said no more while she limped carefully around the room, making the bed, dusting the crannies, retrieving the chamber pot to empty in the latrine below.

I wish there were
something
in
my
heart, Celia thought, and realized how foolish it was to be envious of a poor clubfooted serving maid. It’s the weather—the sleet drove harder against the panes—it’s my headache. It was tedium—soon she would practice her needlework with Ursula, then they would go to the stillroom where they were concocting various herbal brews, some medicinal such as balsam salve, or tincture of poppy heads—some cosmetic like cucumber facewash. Then Celia would go out to the stables and pet Juno—the horse suffered from lack of exercise as much as Celia did. Then there would be dinner, far less lavish than when Anthony was there, but still enough to sate a depressed appetite, and after dinner the short winter afternoon would fade, and Ursula might get out her Ephemeris and by candlelight painstakingly cast the horoscope for the next day. Then Celia would spin yarn while Ursula read aloud from
Gesta Romanorum,
an English translation of wondrous deeds in ancient times, or the ballads of Robin Hood or even from a slender volume of love sonnets written by Sir Thomas Wyatt’s father, and presented to Anthony by young Sir Thomas before the quarrel at the puppet show.

Ursula did not much like these poems of yearning, of lost love—Celia had heretofore found in them a sour-sweet melancholy. Today she felt she could not bear to listen.

Precisely at the moment that she finished adjusting her everyday kerchief, and peered absently into her flyspecked little mirror, she became aware of the deeper reasons for her malaise. It was not the weather, low health or tedium which made the days so drear. It was a forlorn envy at the recurrent sight of Mabel’s dithering delight in Gerald’s attentions—and the fact that Stephen had totally avoided her since his wrathful speech when he had caught her flirting with Sir Thomas.

Celia walked slowly down to the Hall, and stopped in surprise at the doorway when she heard her aunt’s voice inside raised in excited glad greeting. Now, who could have come? Celia thought without much interest. She entered the Hall, and was smothered in a hearty embrace.

“God’s greeting, hinny—by the Mass, ’t’s been a lang while!”

“Maggie . . .?” said Celia wonder-struck, drawing back to stare. It was most certainly Magdalen Dacre, but a vastly different Magdalen from the hungry, anxious, Border lass she had last seen in Cumberland.

This Magdalen was dressed in green velvet over silver brocade; she had a cloak furred with the finest miniver; her wiry auburn hair was nearly covered by a fur-trimmed hood. Her long reddish neck and freckled bosom were framed by a fashionable flaring ruff. She had a golden belt from which dangled not only her rosary, but also a jeweled pomander which gave forth the scent of cloves. And she wore a pair of elaborately embroidered gloves on her large capable hands.

“A bit o’ surprise, eh, lass?” asked Magdalen, her leaf-brown eyes twinkling. “Ye’ll niver guess what I’m doing i’ London Town. Or did Sir Anthony think to tell ye?”

“N-no . . .” said Celia, “we’ve not seen him for days. He’s always at Court.”

“So’m
I
to be!” said Magdalen chuckling. “I canna believe ma guid fortune.”

“You’re married?” asked Celia with a constriction in her chest.

“Na, na . . .” Magdalen laughed. “None o’ that.” She turned to include Ursula in her announcement. “The Queen’s Grace— God bless an’ keep her—has appointed me a maid o’ honor. Faither’s that pleased he bought me a’ this fine gear.”

Magdalen accepted enthusiastic congratulations in her downright way—no trace of deprecation or false modesty. It was not only the effect of the new clothes which gave her big ungainly body a touch of magnificence, for Celia there was also shock at the difference in their stations. In Cumberland amongst the rowdy, violent, earthy Dacres, Celia had never felt inferior, now she was conscious that Magdalen was the child of nobility, of lineage through barons and earls stretching back five hundred years to the Conquest—the only historical date except Christ’s birth that Celia knew.

“Ye luik a wee bit dozzened, lass—” said Magdalen suddenly. She examined Celia’s face. “Pale an’ peaky, ’tis the heavy London air?”

“She’s been ill,” Ursula interjected. “We both have. Catarrh and cough. But we’re mending. ’Twas good of you to visit us, Maggie. We’ve been dull, house-bound.” She, too, found Magdalen’s transformation overpowering, and wished that Celia had not worn her old homespun kirtle, though it was fitting to the domestic duties they must perform.

“I’ve not forgot ye,” said Magdalen, who comprehended the situation. Her fondness for Celia had perforce been submerged during the last feverish months, and she had come today on kindly impulse, as she was not on duty in the Queen’s chambers at Whitehall. Now she was shocked by Celia’s thinness, by her obvious despondency.

“Coom, hinny,” she said, struck by a sudden idea, “no reason to mope here, ’tis Twelfth Night, we maun mak’ merry. Do ye go tonight, you an’ Lady Southwell, to the Queen’s revels at Whitehall?”

“To Court—?” asked Ursula, astounded. “But we don’t belong there, Sir Anthony’s never mentioned such a thing.”