Green Darkness (67 page)

She stole downstairs when she could see the first commotion through her courtyard window. They were lighting the bonfire near the fountain. On every hill, even on top the distant Downs the ruddy lights of bonfires were springing up against the darkness.

Celia knew vaguely what they signified. Ursula had told her. The bonfires and the Fool’s Dance were meant to rid them of witches, demons, or the devil himself who might have been encouraged by the license of the Yuletide festivities.

The twelve fools were already milling together by the gatehouse waiting for the starting signal. There were also three hobbyhorses gallumphing around and neighing falsetto, amidst much smothered laughter behind the masks. Celia joined herself to the group without anyone noticing. The fools had their own traditional music, long practiced in an empty tithe barn. There were bagpipers and drummers and a regal worked by bellows.

As was the age-old custom, Anthony himself soon appeared under the fan-vaulted porch and cried in a great voice, “Welcome, sir fools! Will ye dance Christmas out for the Lords of Cowdray?”

The fools all rattled their pig bladders and cried, “Aye, that we will, if ye do
our
bidding tonight!”

Anthony made a sweeping bow. “Ye shall be masters here . . . 
Gaudeamus igitur!
”

He stood back as the fools, jingling their bells, all leaped in the air, then formed a jog-trot procession through the porch and around the screen into the Great Buck Hall. Magdalen, splendid in gold and green brocade, came down from the dais to greet them. She laughed and curtsied as deeply as her increasing girth permitted.

The Hall had been cleared of tables, the guests and retainers were jammed against the walls.

Anthony and Magdalen stayed below the dais, where the Lord of Misrule now sat alone. He was costumed as both a king and a bishop. He wore a glittering miter above a coronet of gilded ivy. His robe was an embroidered chasuble, but he wielded a scepter, and he was so drunk that the prescribed greeting he should have given the fools came out as an incoherent mumble as he waved his scepter aimlessly.

Anthony gave an exasperated laugh, clapped his hands and cried, “Proceed!”

This was the ticklish moment for Celia. The dance began with six couples bowing to each other then gyrating hand in hand, waggling their flopping horns and feinting with the pig bladders. An odd man would be noticed, and she well knew how closely Anthony watched the ceremony. She managed to hide behind one of the hobbyhorses, and though the Hall was lighted by two hundred tapers and the great fire near the dais, she found a patch of shadow.

The next measure was an intricate leaping darting mêlée, and she joined the fools, stumbling occasionally, yet copying their every leap, and swirling with them to the beating of the drums. Soon began the part of the dance she had counted on. The group dissolved, and each one ran around the audience, tapping now one, now another with the pig bladder, and crying—muffled through the masks—“Come hither, wretched wight, we’ll purge—we’ll purge!”

Soon many of the company had been tapped, and rose to join the fools who led them, preceded by their musicians, from the Hall into the chapel where they all began to riot. The fools leaped up and down the aisle, one ran across the altar and thumbed his nose at the crucifix. Another thwacked the statue of St. Anthony on the head. Another pissed in the holy water and sprinkled the guests with it; one scrambled up the pillar to kiss the Blessed Virgin on Her painted wooden mouth, then made an obscene gesture towards Her, while all the company roared with mirth.

The two house priests and Anthony looked on tolerantly. Anthony had drunk far more than usual, he had forgotten his cares, his foot thumped in rhythm to the wild weird music; he enjoyed the feeling of debasement for that one night when he was
not
Viscount Montagu, and irreverence towards him, as to the chapel, satisfied a need for masquerade, for a momentary freedom from restraints.

He turned towards an ironic voice at his elbow. “This is most interesting, my lord, this Saturnalia. You English maintain the pagan customs in a most admirable way.”

Anthony grunted, annoyed by the interruption. He had invited Master Julian to be a Yuletide guest at Cowdray during the mournful banquet after Queen Mary’s funeral. And had been rather glad to see him when the doctor appeared the day before. There were already a score of house guests, another one could always be welcomed, but he disliked the intrusive remark. “Tonight I am
not
my lord,’” said Anthony stiffly. “And the Fool’s Dance has been Christian for centuries, the late Queen—God gi’e her peace—highly approved it.”

“
Da vera, da vero
—in truth,” said Julian smiling. “I was complimenting you, my friend, I’m enchanted by the spectacle!” He drew back tactfully as one of the smallest fools came capering up.

The fool, madly jingling his bells, thumped Anthony on the shoulder with the pig bladder and hissed, “Come . . .” through the mask.

Anthony was delighted, his good humor restored. “Surely, I’ll come wi’ thee, good fool,” he cried. “Where shall we go?”

The fool waved his black-gloved hands and pointed out along the passage.

The chapel dance was finished, the musicians were already trotting towards the kitchens leading the mirthful procession of fools and the guests they had tapped. Before the evening ended they would troop through every part of the castle, thus purging it from witchcraft in terms the Devil would understand. At midnight, the chaplains would sanctify Cowdray while swinging censers and reciting the prayers appropriate to Epiphany.

The little fool shook his head as Anthony started to follow the others, he tugged at Anthony’s arm.

“This one seems importunate,” said Anthony chuckling, “and I must obey him.” Highly amused he followed the tugging hand up the grand staircase and into a small wainscoted chamber which Anthony used for secretarial purposes. It contained a carved desk, two chairs, and a niche filled with ledgers and manor records. It had only one door since it was, in fact, but a privy closet cut off from the Long Gallery.

The fool pushed Anthony into a chair, then turned the great iron key in the lock.

“What’s this, my fool?” said Anthony, laughing but suddenly wary. “What d’ye want of me?”

“Obedience, as you have sworn,” said the fool, ripping off the horned hood and the mask.

Anthony gaped. “Cotsbody . . .” he whispered. “’Tis Celia!”

The girl’s golden hair tumbled to her waist. Her face was of startling beauty. Knowing there would be scanty light in this room that she had chosen, she had reddened her mouth, and darkened her eyelids. The transformation was eerie, Anthony felt a shiver up his spine. For a moment he could not comprehend why one of the fools should turn into an alluring woman.

“Aye, ’tis Celia,” she said with a peal of laughter. “And you’ve vowed to do my bidding.” She moved nearer him, he saw her upturned breasts and little pointed nipples through her fine woolen shift.

“What do you want of me?” he muttered thickly. He lunged forward from his chair and grabbed her around the waist. “Is’t
this,
my little demon? Aye, ’tis a night for lust.”

“Nay,” she said, slithering from his hold. “Not that you displease me, sweet—far from it—but surely you’re not the man to dishonor Lady Maggie, nor—to rape a virgin!”

He blinked, his grasping hands fell limp. He shook his head to clear it from the fumes of sack and lechery. “
Virgin
—” he said. “Madam, you mock me!
Who
is virgin?”

She sighed, “I am.” Despite the wavering rushlights he saw clear her rueful smile. “I am a virgin,” she repeated quietly. “Sir John was unable.”

Anthony drew back staring, and was slowly convinced, then stricken by remorse. All those years with that old Lincolnshire clothier—a sterile marriage to which he had helped sentence her.

“Poor little lass,” he said in a far gentler voice. “Aye, put the fool’s hood around your shoulders, ’tis cold in here. What would you have me do, Celia?”

“Arrange my marriage to Edwin Ratcliffe,” she said. “
You
can do it, my lord—a word from you to the Squire. You have the power.”

Anthony sat down. He looked from her beseeching face to his own muscular hands as they lay on the desk. Aye, he had the power to control this small matter, whatever larger powers he had lost with Mary’s death. And why not? The match was not so unequal. Celia was a de Bohun, she was the widow of a worthy knight. She was beautiful and the lad obviously adored her. True, she was penniless, but still, Anthony thought in a growing warmth of generosity, she could be dowered. He could spare the rich Whiphill farmlands, and a tract of woods near Kemp’s Hill, also a flock of pastured sheep by the Rother.
Then
the Squire would be mollified.

“When you were a capering fool, my pretty,” he said smiling, “I swore to obey you. I can do no less for a fair woman.”

Celia ran to him, knelt and kissed his hand. “You’re not angered with me for the trick I played?”

Anthony stroked the soft shining hair. “’Twas a richly merry jest and proves your wit. Edwin is lucky! Now, Celia, dress yourself properly, join the company i’ the Hall. On the morrow you shall see how well I keep my promise.”

Q
UEEN ELIZABETH WAS
crowned on January 15, a date picked by Dr. John Dee from meticulous calculations in Elizabeth’s horoscope. During Mary’s reign, Dee had fallen into disfavor; he was even briefly thrown in the Tower for suspected connivance with Elizabeth. But his forecast and Julian’s had come true. Mary died, Elizabeth reigned, and rewarded her new Astrologer Royal with many promises of preferment, few of which materialized. The new Queen was adept at fostering loyalty by hopes alone.

Julian di Ridolfi did not receive similar favors. He and Dee drifted apart after Julian’s marriage, and on Mary’s death the Italian physician found himself as subtly but firmly ousted from the new Court as Anthony was, though for different reasons.

Elizabeth, who knew that her popularity with her country was based on her fully English blood, copied her late brother and evinced distaste for foreigners. She had learned many a lesson during the Spanish occupation.

Julian’s marriage was brief and immediately regretted. Gwen Owen’s Welsh properties turned out to be a few acres of barren mountainside; her house near St. James’s Palace was not only riddled with dry rot but partly owned by her brother, who installed there his parcel of brawling brats for the Ridolfis to endure. Gwen herself, though young and comely, was a black-browed Celt given to melancholy. She had long periods of moaning to herself in Welsh, and after a year, Julian was forced to recognize symptoms of true dementia. He tried on her all the remedies he knew, without success. He even consulted Gwen’s kinsman, the great Earl of Pembroke, one day at Queen Mary’s Court, and received his answer. “Oh, that branch of the Owens’ve always been mad. I seem to remember that your wife’s father fancied himself a dog, and lived in a kennel.”

To Julian’s great relief Gwen bore no children, and after the Earl’s information, he ceased to share the marriage bed. One day in 1556, Gwen caught the virulent smallpox, and died. Julian was left with half a dilapidated house in London, some useless property in Wales, and a bitter memory which he sweetened with philosophical readings in Marcus Aurelius and Seneca.

Occasionally he wondered what had happened to Ursula or Celia. He saw Anthony at Queen Mary’s funeral banquet and was gratified by the invitation to Cowdray. Though saddened to find that Ursula was dead, he was pleased when Magdalen invited him to stay on for her confinement in April. They had used to meet often at Court, and Julian had once treated Magdalen for a whidow on her finger. He knew that in the unlikely circumstance that she should have trouble birthing a child, he could supply far more skill than the midwife. He was also pleased to be near Celia, who had grown radiant and assured.

Anthony had eased all the difficulties attendant upon the marriage to Edwin. It was set for Sunday, April 10. Squire Ratcliffe had given in quite easily, and after Edwin was released, he spent most of his time at Cowdray. The wedding would be held in its chapel, a trifle before completion of the conventional year of mourning for a widow, but Magdalen, following her husband’s lead, took a warm interest in the proceedings, and wished them put early enough so that she would not be in childbed and unable to attend.

Spring came fast during the lengthening Lenten days. The first swallows returned to their old nests, mauve windflowers bloomed in the copses, tender gold catkins hung from the hazel trees which gave Cowdray its name. The air grew soft and fragrant. A few new-dropped lambs frisked beside the Rother. From the lords of the manor down to the lowliest scullion, the smell of spring released the ancient joy.

Celia lived in exultance. All that she had wished for, willed for, was coming to pass, without any invocations to saints, without prayer. By her own efforts. She attended Mass politely and shut her ears to the Latin dronings. She felt strong, triumphant and apart. She greeted Edwin affectionately when he was there; she vouchsafed him kisses and gentle words. She forgot him when he returned to his manor. She played with Taggle; she hawked on Juno, galloping over the Downs. Edwin was teaching her the rudiments of falconry.

Once he took her to his manor where she dined with his parents. She captivated the Squire as quickly as Edwin had foreseen. Her demure, downcast looks, the poignancy of her black velvet garb, her soft admiration of the mansion’s elegance, its size, its deer park—completed the Squire’s capitulation. Mistress Ratcliffe was not so beguiled. She was a peak-nosed matron, always on the sniff for trouble.

“The woman’s
too
fair,” she said irritably to her husband. “She’ll lead Edwin a dance, the besotted clodpole. I’d not trust her far as ye can fling a rat. Oh, I know my Lord Montagu’s giving her a piddling dowry, I know she’s his protegee, and for why? She’s not kin to him. Depend on’t. There’s more here than meets the eye. ’Twouldn’t be the first time a great lord fobbed off his leman when ’twas convenient.”