Green Darkness (45 page)

So Celia had not wanted to go into Midhurst today, yet she was relieved to escape the agony in the castle. Since breakfast, the Lady Jane had been screaming. Harsh bestial screams you could hear in the courtyard. They terrified Celia, as did Ursula’s drawn anxious face.

“’Tis the birth pangs started,” Ursula snapped, upon finding her niece hovering white-faced, her hands clapped to her ears, outside the state bedchamber. “No, you can’t help. Get away. Go back to the inn. The pennies you’ll earn may come in useful. No, wait, child. Get Goody Pearson, the midwife who delivered the mayor’s lady. Mrs. Potts’ll know where she lives. Molly o’ Whipple’s no good, she’s gone queasy, she’s afraid—and so, by the Blessed Virgin, am I!”

They both shivered as another hoarse shriek tore through the shut door.

“Hasten!” cried Ursula. “I’ve sent a page for Brother Stephen. Take the short cut o’er Tan’s Hill. If ye meet him, tell him
hurry!
”

Celia sped off. She had been avoiding the short cut on her trips to Midhurst. St. Ann’s Hill held painful memories, but avoidance of Stephen was unimportant against the sick fear of those gruesome sounds of intolerable pain.

She and Stephen met at the footbridge over the Rother. “The Lady Jane?” he asked quickly. “Is’t bad?”

“Aye,” she said with a half sob, “frightful, horrible screams.” She noted that he held the box containing material for the last rites, covered with a linen napkin. She curtsied to it, crossed herself, while her face crumpled.

Like an arrow shafted to his heart, Stephen suddenly knew from her face and her voice what the girl was feeling. Beyond the natural fear of human agony, he understood how Celia must fear for her own woman’s lot—the curse of Eve. He raised her chin and kissed her on the forehead.

“Have faith, my child!” he whispered in a voice so tender that she stood swallowing and gulping as she watched him run across the meadow towards Cowdray.

She continued her own trip into Midhurst, along the footpath on the side of the hill, nor ever looked up at the ruined walls, or at the gable of St. Ann’s chapel, next to Stephen’s hut. “The midwife,” she repeated over and over. “Must fetch the midwife, the midwife . . .” She streaked through the spaced poles which prevented access to horsemen, down the alley past the church, and was stopped by a throng in the market place.

It was so dense, and she so dazed, that she could not understand what was happening. There were horsemen seething, a medley of burgesses, barking dogs, yelling children. The Spread Eagle with its black-on-white timbering, its swinging sign, was scarce a hundred yards away across the square, but she was kept from reaching it by a wall of backs.

“What’s this!” she said aloud. “’Tis not market day,” and tried to shove between two stocky leathern shoulders. The man on the right, a burly bricklayer, elbowed her roughly, then turned and saw her.

“Softly there, maiden,” he said, “hold still, pretty one, or ye’ll be crushed.” He grabbed her around the waist.

“Leave me be,” she panted. “Must get to the inn.” She struggled.

“Nobody there—they’re all out here. Wot’s the matter wi’ ye? We maun hear the news.”

Then she saw what they were all staring at. A large sheet of paper being nailed to the courthouse door. A royal herald stood beside it. There were the same lilies and leopards quartered on his tabard which she had seen ten days before when a herald had come through to proclaim that Jane was Queen. This herald was stout and stood chatting blandly with the mayor and two aldermen, but he held his shiny gilt trumpet half raised.

“
Another
proclamation!” cried Celia angrily. “A pox on Queen Jane!
Lady
Jane is dying at Cowdray.”

“Hush!” said the bricklayer. “Listen!” and he shook her.

The fat herald put the trumpet to his lips and blew a melodious stave. Then he spat in a leisurely way and lifted his pudgy hands to still the crowd before booming in a voice as brassy as his trumpet, “The Lady Mary Tudor is hereby and henceforth proclaimed Queen of England, Ireland and France.” The herald crossed himself pompously, as he intoned the Latin words, “
In nomine Patris, et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti.
”

The crowd was struck dumb, though for an hour, ever since the herald’s arrival in town, rumors had been flying.

“Blessed
Jesu
. . .” whispered Celia. During that stunned instant she and many another in the market place were more startled by this public exhibition of the forbidden words and gesture than by the reason for them.

The mayor raised the first voice. “Long live Queen Mary!” His high quavering was followed by a stir. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” somebody cried. Then the crowd exploded into a roar. “Queen Mary! Queen Mary! Long may she reign!”

What’ll this mean to Cowdray—to
us,
Celia thought without much comprehension. Suddenly she spied Mrs. Potts standing arms akimbo on the doorstep of the Spread Eagle, and was reminded of her errand. She darted away from the bricklayer, through a rain of falling caps which had been tossed in the air, and reached the landlady, who looked at her glumly.

“So now ye can be papist as ye wish, m’girl,” said Mrs. Potts. “Ye backed the roight cock, ye did. Wily as a ferret
you
be—”

“No, no—” cried Celia, “I prithee, mistress, where’s Goody Pearson, the midwife? ’Tis for Lady Jane at Cowdray. She’s trying to birth her babe, and she can’t.”

“Tcha,” cried Mrs. Potts, still too angry to listen. “Ye mealy-mouthed little slut, I’ll thank’ee not to—” she stopped, at the desperate plea in Celia’s eyes. “Eh . . . wot is’t ye want?”

“Goody Pearson for Lady Jane at the Castle, she’s very bad.”

“Why’nt they send fur ’er sooner? They’ve got that cursed witch Molly o’ Whipple, ’ant they? Let ’er use ’er black arts on m’lady.”

Celia clutched Mrs. Potts’ arm. “My Aunt Ursula wants Goody Pearson. Oh . . . 
please
 . . . where does she live?”

Mrs. Potts hesitated. She had no real dislike for Celia except feminine resentment of her effect on men, and it occurred to her that in view of this shattering change of Queens, practical conditions would be different in Midhurst again. “Welladay,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “She lives back o’ the Angel, ’er cot’s new-thatched, ye’ll know it—but no tellin’ she’ll
be
there.”

Celia nodded and hurried towards the High Street, pushing and darting her way through the milling townsfolk. She arrived at the Angel and found it as full of celebrants as its more popular rival, the Spread Eagle. Inquiry at the Angel pot room, after finding Goody Pearson’s house bolted and empty, elicited a vague theory that Goody had had a professional summons to Woolbeding Village and could hardly return that day.

Celia trudged back disconsolately to Cowdray. As she reached the porter’s lodge she saw Sir Anthony standing by the gatehouse. His fists were clenched, his shoulders bowed, he had torn off his ruff, his satin doublet was untied and disclosed the white lawn shirt open across the hairy chest like any plowman.

He stared past Celia as though he didn’t know her. “Why’s the bell ringing like that in Midhurst?” he cried. “How
dare
they make these riotous peals. God rot them—how dare they?” He drew his sword half out of its scabbard; shoved it back in again.

“The Princess Mary is now Queen of England,” said Celia gently. “Haven’t you heard?”

Anthony’s blue eyes focused slowly on Celia. “’Tis not the time for sickly pranks,” he said in a shaking voice. “God’s body, you little jade, where have you been? Deserting doomed Cowdray like the rest of them?”

She shook her head, pitying the haggard face, the swollen eyes. “I went to Midhurst for Goody Pearson, the midwife. I couldn’t find her.”

“Nor ever’ll need to—” he drew a ragged breath. “My wife is dead.”

Celia gave a moan, her arms raised to throw around him in comfort, but he was as forbidding as the stone wall behind him. “The babe . . .?” she whispered.

Anthony made an angry sound. “They’ll never live. There’re two o’ them, feeble and shapeless as misbegotten rats. They but prove the curse on my line . . . God blast that infernal heartless racket—” he shouted, for now the courthouse bell joined the jubilant triple peals from Midhurst Church. “They should be tolling for my Lady’s passing—I sent word to the vicar—’twouldn’t take the sexton long. Jane was only twenty.” He made a grimace like the gargoyles she had seen on a London church.

Celia perceived that shaken by sorrow and guilt Anthony had not heard her previous announcement. “The bells, sir,” she said loudly and clearly, “are being rung for the Lady Mary’s Grace. She is
now
Queen of England!”

Anthony started. He shook his head angrily, then his jaw dropped open. “Mary is Queen . . .?
Mary?
”

“Yes, sir. I heard the proclamation.”

“Holy Blessed Virgin!” Anthony breathed. He quivered, then threw back his head and burst into wild hysterical laughter.

“Will you come to the Hall, sir?” said Celia after watching helplessly for a moment. “Will you take a cup of mulled wine? Aunt Ursula believes it to be calming.”

She put her hand on his arm and tugged. Anthony stopped laughing. His body slumped again. He did not speak, but allowed Celia to lead him into the Great Hall where the steward and many of Anthony’s retainers were silently gathered, their faces set in respectful melancholy. They had just been told of Lady Jane’s death.

Three days later it began to seem possible that the twins would live. Stephen had christened them “Anthony” and “Mary” in the bedchamber just before he administered the last rites to Lady Jane as she lay in gray-faced stupor, wallowing in the pool of blood which was slowly soaking through the flock mattress, and dripping into the rushes below.

Immediately upon Ursula’s return to Cowdray, and taking charge of the lying-in chamber, Ursula had selected a wet nurse. This was Peggy Hobson, the dairy wench whose favors Lord Gerald had enjoyed during the King’s visit. Peggy was quite unable to name the father of her three-month-old son, though sternly urged to by Stephen who deplored bastards amongst his cure of souls. Ursula’s practicality permitted of no moral scruples. Peggy was rosy-cheeked and placid, her breasts were blue-veined, not too large, tipped by erect brown nipples and ideal for their function.

Peggy was delighted by her promotion. She made no demur when her own babe was given to the baker’s wife for suckling. Peggy understood that she could hardly nourish
three
infants. At any rate, after anxious days of prayer and gentle tending, Anthony’s heirs began a fretful bleating, finally accepted Peggy’s breasts, and began to look more like babies.

Anthony, during that week, had little time to wonder that the twins lived, nor even to continue grieving for poor Jane, so extraordinary was the immediate change in his fortunes.

While Lady Jane still lay in state in the family chapel, Wat came galloping to Cowdray’s gatehouse. His initial dismay upon seeing that the Browne standard flew at half-mast, that the lackeys wore black armbands, and that an enormous wreath of black painted cypress hung over the portal, was soon mitigated.

“Not Sir Anthony?” Wat cried to his old friend the porter. “Bigod, it can’t be
him.
” He snatched off his hat and held it anxiously to his chest. “Ah-r-r—welladay, poor thing,” Wat said when the porter explained. “She was a gentle lady, God rest her in peace, an’ she died a-doin’ o’ her duty, which is more’n I could say fur most.”

Wat ran across the courtyard into the Great House and encountered Stephen emerging from the chapel where he had been praying for Lady Jane’s soul.

“Greetings, Brother,” said Wat gaily. “Oh, ’tis very sad—” he jerked his head deferentially towards the chapel. “I’ll pay me respects to her later, but aside from that ye must be gladsome now—ye can gi’e her a true showy funeral, all the old pomp—candles, incense, procession, Masses, right open an’ aboveboard i’ our Midhurst Church. Ye can even get yourself a priest to help wi’ all the doin’s—they’re comin’ out o’ hiding!”

Stephen looked much startled. “I—I hadn’t realized,” he said slowly. From the days of his childhood at Battle Abbey, he had lived in a climate of persecution and secrecy—in England. The years at Marmoutier seemed but a roseate interlude. “Are you
sure,
Wat—” Stephen said, “sure that the Princess Mary will bring back the true religion? Oh, I know she’s reputed a good Catholic, but will she
dare?
Moreover, she’s not crowned yet. Not even reached London, has she?”

“Ye can rest easy,” said Wat kindly. “Country’s square behind ’er, ye should’ve seen the bustlin’s i’ the villages an’ towns I’ve been through. Crucifixes back on the altars, church plate an’ vestments dug out—when they hasn’t been sold . . .”

“But Northumberland?” said Stephen. “He has an army—be-sides all those powerful noblemen who signed Edward’s Devise for Jane Dudley.”

“The
Dook?
” Wat threw back his head and guffawed. “That whoreson cream-faced coward! He’s fast in the Tower wi’ the rest o’ ’em. They arrested him at Cambridge. Wen he saw he was cornered he declared for Queen Mary like a sensible man, but’ll not save his head from the block.”

“
Deo
Gratias.
Our Lord’s Blessed Mother hath wrought a miracle—how could I ever have doubted?” Stephen added in a whisper.

Wat hurried on to find Sir Anthony, while Stephen turned and walked out of Cowdray in a trance. As he went across the daisy-spangled meadows, his face lifted to the hot July sunshine, he felt an ecstasy of hope and wondering gratitude.

He climbed St. Ann’s Hill, and entered his own crumbling little chapel. The altar was bare, except for a modest wooden cross. During the past months of furtive anxiety, knowing how the temper of the townsfolk had altered, and that during his absence each day, any ruffian would feel free to steal what he wished to, Stephen had hidden his candlesticks, altar cloth, and the silver-gilt crucifix in an ironbound locked coffer. He had also hidden his lovely painting of the Virgin, and the purple veil he had covered her with on the evening of Celia’s visit and his tumult thereafter.