Anne of the Fens (14 page)

Then Father told the story again, his anger abating as he told it. I was so relieved his voice was softer that I listened as though I had never heard the tale before. I asked him several times what would happen to our family, and he would not tell me.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Patience brought a book. It was a slim one I had not seen before.

“I found it with the forbidden books,” she said with a blush. She explained that after the Sheriff's men knocked down the door to the secret room, they went through the books. None were traitorous. They were the kind of work that the King, and protestants, and Catholics also, liked, which was why the Earl had locked them up as not suited for Puritans. So the men left them, with some broken bindings and torn pages. Father decided simply to put them on the library shelf, trusting to our judgment as to whether to read them. Patience had gone through them and found this one she thought I would like. It was titled
Shakespeare's Sonnets
.

She put it on the bed, and I held it up. I had never read his poetry. It would be a lovely book to read while I was recovering.

“And look what I have found in the middle,” she said, in a tone of wonderment.

She held out a thin paper, yellowing, with faint-brown ink. It was a family tree for the Dudley family. It was hard to make out, especially since my mind was not working at its best yet. Perhaps it would say who Father's grandfather was, whom he always spoke of proudly but with a mysterious air. He would never tell us his name. I found Father's father, Roger Dudley. There was Roger's father, someone named George Dudley.

“George is the man that Father talks of who led such an adventurous life, having to leave the country, and fighting the Saracen when he was fifteen.” My voice grew brighter as I remembered the stories.

“Yes, and he is our great-grandfather.”

“So why did Father not say so? He is always hinting at our noble ancestors, and saying we could use a coat of arms if we chose, but he never answers when I ask him.”

I put the paper down, and was running the edges of the coverlet through my fingers as I tried to figure it out.

Patience had thought about it longer. “He was involved in uprisings against the King, maybe more than one King, and it would be dangerous to let people know that you were descended from such a man.”

She was probably right. After she left, I thought more about it. It was good to be of noble blood, but when you could not tell anyone, did it matter? I wondered what George was like when he was my age. Would I have liked him? What could we have talked about? His life was so wild, escaping from prison and becoming a knight at fifteen. Mine was so ordinary. Then I remembered how I had bound up John's wounds and landed the boat. I smiled and fell back to sleep, the Shakespeare carefully hidden under the coverlets.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

T
HE NEXT DAY
the sun woke me, and I pulled out my book. When I heard steps on the stone outside, I thrust Shakespeare back under the blanket. It was only Marianne, who did not care about books that might contain wicked thoughts. She carried my porridge on a large trencher that I could balance on my lap.

I spooned it slowly, as I still had little appetite, and it was cold. Mother was right about how long it took to carry the food upstairs. We talked about the day, the sunny weather I was missing while lying about. I had been sick for weeks. The summer was coming to an end.

“When are you going to introduce me to Simon?” she asked, with no preamble.

“Soon, when I am up and about.”

It sounded vague to my own ears. I knew I no longer wanted to. My feelings had changed. I began to tell Marianne about our ancestor and some of Father's stories about him.

After she left I napped, then took out my book. I found a line Shakespeare had stolen from my favorite poet, Bartas, about all the world being a stage. Then I turned some pages and beheld:

“Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

Such a pain in my heart. I knew that John had not really cared for me, but this poem had been a kind of gift, one of the few loving things that he had said. But he was untrue even in this. My face grew hot as the tears flowed. My chest heaved, but I did not cry out. I did not want Marianne to come. This was my own grief, and no one could share it, not even Patience. I cried and cried.

And then curiosity won out over sorrow. I opened the book again to see the rest of the poem. Shakespeare's rhymes were so much stronger than anything I had been able to create. At least John had recognized a beautiful poem. When I reached the last lines,

“So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

the hair stood up on my arms, and tears came to my eyes again, in a different way. I read the words again and again, to see what made them wrench my insides. They were two lines of the simplest of words, all one syllable, most of them three or four letters. It was not a poem about a pretty woman, it was a poem about how poetry can give life to things that die. I said the words over and I felt comfort.

I knew then that reading poems was not enough. I wanted to write them.

I tried to get up to find a quill and paper. I pushed myself out of bed and onto my feet for the first time, but I was immediately dizzy and fell back onto the blankets. I could not write yet, but I would. I would practice and I would learn.

For the remainder of the day, I made up rhymes in my head. Later, I did manage to push myself out of bed to go to the necessary. My legs shook under me, and I laughed to myself, thinking I could never climb the castle wall now.

But I am getting better, I told myself. As I got back into the bed, I heard unfamiliar steps outside and wondered if they were coming towards me. Everyone had visited me except Simon and Sarah and Baby Mercy. I saw Mother and Patience every day.

It was Mercy, looking different somehow. Taller? Thinner? Had she grown up in the few weeks of my illness? She gave me a hug and kiss.

“Such gladness I feel at your recovery,” she said, and even her voice sounded less high-pitched. It was “such,” not “thuch” gladness.

“What happened to your lisp?”

She shrugged and ran her hands over her skirt.

“Went away, I guess.”

“Has Sarah stopped bothering you?”

She nodded. “Mostly. Next time we go to Boston, will you take me to get a new bonnet? Mother is so old fashioned.”

“Yes, we will find something with a frill.”

She danced out of the room.

S
IMON, LAST OF
my visitors, came the next day. His hair was well brushed, and he seemed uncomfortable. I felt awkward myself. I wondered how ugly my scabs looked. I did not know, as I hadn't looked in the mirror since Patience brought it the first time. I was glad there was not too much light in the room.

I made some comment about his empty hands, and how I had expected him to bring me something to study. He did not respond, and said only,

“You're better, I can see.”

“I have survived, but I am scarred.”

“You have always been a comely lass and you are still.”

His eyes were even finer and darker than I remembered. His voice seemed strained. I felt even more uncomfortable, and asked him to sit on the stool beside the bed. The legs were not quite even, and for a moment the only sound was the rocking of the stool as he tried to make it settle.

“I was hoping you would come,” I said, and blushed. “I wanted news,” I added.

“What would you like to know?”

“Mother said our visitor escaped.”

“That beggar in Boston approached me, asking for money. He said he had paid his own money to put John on the boat to Holland.”

I made a doubtful noise.

“My thought, also. I asked him why I would give money to a scoundrel who had left my employer's daughter to wander through the fens.” He began to imitate the beggar's Scottish tones.

“‘Ay, she'll have done fine. A stout-hearted lass. Isn't she fine, then?'”

“I hope you told him I drowned in the swamp.”

Simon snorted. I was beginning to feel more comfortable.

“I told him you had the pox. That turned him pale, all right.”

I laughed. “So you did not give him any money.”

“In the end I gave him a bit. I think John probably had money.”

I nodded. “Maybe not quite enough.”

There was another silence. Simon had stopped trying to settle the stool.

“You have asked about John and not about what will happen to the family. Do you have tender feelings for him?”

I blushed again and shook my head, and then realized I must account for the blush.

“I did when he came. He was handsome and charming. I was alone with him after never knowing any men.”

“You knew me.”

I was surprised when he said that. It took me a long time to answer. “You never acted like a man with a woman. I was always a pupil to you. A silly, sentimental pupil,” I added bitterly, quoting his words. I looked down and began to run the fringe of the coverlet through my fingers.

“I was angry when I said that. I'm sorry. I always admired your ability, Anne.”

This seemed a difficult topic for both of us, and I returned to our original subject.

“Anyway, in the end I saw John as he is, and I do not like or honor him.”

Simon nodded. “He should not have left you.”

“No.”

We were silent again. I was still busy with the coverlet when I asked him what would happen to the family.

“The Sheriff reported everything to the King, of course. The King needs money so badly for his wars that he said he would not prosecute the Earl or your father if they lent him a large sum of money.”

“Not so different from lending money to the beggar man,” I said.

“Yes. No hope of its return.”

“That is what will happen?”

He hesitated. “You know how your father is about money. He actually asked me how much I lost when I spilled my purse at the guard house.”

“He repaid you? And for what you gave to Davey?”

He laughed. “Not yet.”

I noted that Simon was stealing glances at me, and I wondered what he was thinking of my pockmarks.

“Will he pay the money to the King? He must, I think.”

“We shall see. I think he plans to delay for a while.”

At that moment Marianne entered the room, color in her cheeks and very pretty. She must have known that Simon was there.

“Is all well?” she asked.

I said yes and found I did not want to introduce her to Simon, she so fresh and blond and I so gaunt and pocked. There were many things I could have said about her, how well she had cared for me, her good humor, her intelligence, but I said only that she was Arbella's private servant.

Simon had risen when she came in.

“Good to know your name. I have seen you, of course. I'll come back another time, Anne.”

And he was gone, leaving both of us disappointed.

Marianne left as well, but I saw her again when she came back to bring my supper. As she laid the tray upon my lap she did not look me in the eye. She helped me put the napkin on my neck and took the cover off the porridge, all without a word.

“I am sorry,” I mumbled, as I took a drink of milk.

“You talk so grandly about tolerance. Simon would not care that I am Catholic. And then you introduce me like that. You have no tolerance yourself, you think because I am a servant I should not have ideas above my station—”

“If I thought you were only a servant I would not allow you to speak so to me.”

She paid no attention to my reproving words. However angry she was, she knew we were friends. She looked at me sharply. “I thought you did not fancy him.”

“I thought he was handsome but, as I told you, he always seemed to care only about books and ideas. When he rescued me we became closer. But now he again seems to have no feeling for me.”

“Ha,” was all she said. There was more silence as she waited for me to finish eating. I tried to spoon up the porridge quickly, but I was still not myself, and I had to take small mouthfuls and swallow slowly.

She turned away from me and looked out the window. It was still light, though the day was gray and overcast. She began to hum softly.

An idea flashed through my mind. “Marianne, do you know Davey the baker?”

“No. Why would Arbella's maid go on errands to the bakery?” She sounded distant.

“Well, you should.” I explained who Davey was and how he had helped me, and how handsome he was, and about his wife's death, and how she had hummed.

“Find a reason to go to the bakery. Tell Davey I need one of his rolls for my recovery. And hum.”

Marianne had gone back to looking out the window, though she turned to answer me. “Your notions about men are not likely to excite me again. Do I want a baker, so I can live in a hovel?”

“It is not a hovel. It is clean, and warm all winter from the oven, and has pictures on the wall.”

I didn't say that there was one old picture of Queen Elizabeth and a small wall hanging of wool.

“And I suppose he told you he is Catholic?”

“No. But he is brave, and if he were a strong Puritan he would not have Queen Elizabeth's picture on the wall. She was tolerant of Catholic and Puritan alike, and he admires her. What other men will you meet here at the castle, especially now that the Earl is gone and there are no visitors?”

“That last part is true. There are no men for me here except laborers covered with mud from the fields, or smelling of eels from the fens, and spending their few farthings at the tavern.” She snatched my tray, though I had several mouthfuls of porridge remaining, and took it away as I protested that Davey did not go to the tavern.