“What’s that?” asked Celia, her voice uncertain. For an instant she had thought that the stones were people as they loomed through the mist.
“Long Meg, no doubt,” said Wat briskly. “I’ve seen them things other places, there’s a mort o’ ’em on Salisbury Plain. Hurry on, miss, they’re evil, left o’er from heathen times!”
Celia shook her head. “Wait, wait a moment!” she said. “Janet told us what to do—if we’d be safe!”
“Tcha!” cried Wat. “Rantings an’ ravings, beside there’s no rowan.”
Celia looked around, sure enough there was no sign of the witching-tree and its red berries, though they had passed many such trees in the mountains. The girl thought rapidly. She rummaged in her pouch and found a bit of scarlet yarn she used at night to tie back her long hair to keep it from tangling. She had already slid off her horse, and now darted up to the great standing stone. She stuck the red yarn as high as she could up the stone where the roughened surface held it.
“Long Meg, Long Meg—” she whispered, “keep us safe.” She turned quickly for the part of the rite which had really caught her attention. She must count Long Meg’s daughters, because even as Janet spoke the secret wish in her heart had welled up and exploded into one word—”Stephen.” She did not feel surprise, or any emotion. The word was there, an entity, sharp, solitary. She ran amongst the stones counting. Fifty-nine, sixty—no, she had counted that one. Try again, slower. Sixty-three. No, start to the right, going widdershins, the four big ones near “Long Meg,” then carefully, zigzag, touching each one . . . sixty-five, but had she counted those two half-covered ones near the hummock? They’d make sixty-seven. She was panting, and her round white forehead glistened with sweat when Simkin came up to her.
“Have done, maiden,” he said in a muffled tone. “Me Dad’s vexed at the wait, Lady Ursula’s dithering.” He did not look at her. He glanced at the red yarn stuck high on the stone menhir, then stared at the rough grass.
“I can’t count them!” Celia cried on a note of hysteria. “Oh, Simkin, will you try?”
“Nay,” he said. “Come along—do.”
Celia obeyed. As they left the circle of stones her disappointment was replaced by astonishment. During all the journey Simkin had been so eager to please her. “Sim . . .” she said with hesitation, putting her hand on his leather-clad arm, “I wasn’t angry last night . . . you know, in the keep—when you k-kissed me. I was only so sleepy.”
She felt his arm flinch away from her hand, and saw dark color flood up his neck to his coarse pitted face. “Best forgot . . .” he said, “it’ll not happen again.”
Celia was puzzled and piqued. She did not want it to happen again, but surely he should wish for it.
“I don’t mind . . .” she said, looking at him through her lashes and showing her dimple in the way which had always caused him to respond—other men, too—she had seen the kindling in many male eyes.
Simkin did not kindle, he glanced at her sideways, saw the moist pink mouth, the half-exposed globes of her breasts under her neckerchief. He was upset that she no longer attracted him, upset and confused.
“Best forgot . . .” he repeated stolidly.
When they reached the others he gave her a leg up to mount her horse, but he did not touch her elbow as he usually did, nor arrange her cloak over the cantle. They proceeded on a trail by the river bank until they reached Kirkoswald. The large castle with its turrets and high tower had been in sight almost since they left Long Meg behind. Wat was heartily glad to see it.
He realized that hopes of reaching Naworth this night were unreasonable. His stallion had gone lame in the off hind hoof, and Wat was now on foot, cursing the blacksmith in Kendal, as well as the extraordinary lengths of space they called miles up here. He saw by the flagless staff on top the turret that Lord Dacre was not there, else his pennant would be flying. But, as Janet had said, at least there must be servants and the steward. Yet Wat’s hail at the porter’s lodge, and then his tugging of the courtyard bellrope produced no answer for some time. At last a grill slid back in the ironbolted door and a young frightened voice cried, “Gan awa . . . Leave us be . . . or I’ll rouse t’ guards!”
“Pray do, youngster,” Wat cried. “Rouse the whole shitten castle, we be Dacre guests an’ we demand shelter!”
There was a pause, then they heard the bolts drawn back, and the portal swung open cautiously. A round-eyed youth in a filthy plaid cape peered through the crack, he brandished a dirk with a trembling hand.
“Laird Dacre sent ye?” the boy quavered doubtfully.
“By the Mass—yes,” shouted Wat. He pushed wide the door, shooed the women past the protesting boy.
“Naow then—” Wat rounded on the boy, “where’s everybody? Do they hide another madwoman here? Bigod, I begin to think all the Dacres’re mad.”
It gradually developed that this castle, too, was nearly empty though the reason for it was not so peculiar as the emptiness of the Dacre keep. Lord Dacre had withdrawn every able-bodied guard and put them on the Border to repulse the Maxwells.
The steward here and three scullions were all abed with sickness.
“Na, not the plague . . .” said the boy in response to Ursula’s worried question. “Burnin’s an’ harplin’ coughs an’ pains i’ their heids.”
Kirkoswald was, however, well provisioned, and the steward presently tottered into the Great Hall to make them welcome when the boy had reported their arrival. He was a sick man, his voice was hoarse, he was racked by coughings, but he poked up the fires, lit rushes, fed them on jugged hare, bacon and claret from his lord’s private cellar.
And so passed the last night of their long journey to Naworth.
By ten next morning they reached Brampton, a town built of sandstone as red as the Dacre bull on the flag which fluttered over the guild hall. They had been delayed at Kirkoswald while Wat drew on his expert knowledge, and finally extracted the stone from his stallion’s hoof. Two miles beyond Brampton they sighted Naworth Castle, crouching in a forest near the banks of the Irthing.
“Naught but another Border keep,” said Wat in disgust, examining the castle, which seemed smaller than Kirkoswald or Dacre, yet even more forbidding than the latter.
Ursula’s heart sank, too. She thought of the luxurious elegance of Cowdray, the myriad sparkling windows, the carvings, the cushioned bays, and her own snug room with its Turkey carpet and comfortable bed. Her bones ached, a new fit of the ague had come upon her, and she sat her horse dejectedly while Wat went off to beg admission at still another bolted portal. If they’ll not receive us, Ursula thought . . . what then?
Celia glanced anxiously at her aunt, whose teeth were chattering; she glanced at Simkin, who stood by the mule gazing northward towards a ridge of hilly moors. He had not spoken to her since yesterday at Long Meg’s circle of stones. Celia, too, thought of Cowdray. It seemed very far away in time and place. She would not let herself think of Tan’s Hill and its inhabitant.
Wat came striding back to them, smiling. Behind him walked a very tall girl in russet cloth who waved her arms and rushed up to them.
“Welcoom, welcoom—ye puir things. Sech a journey!”
It was Magdalen. She looked the bedraggled party over, bestowed a kiss on Celia, and helped Ursula down from the saddle.
Lady Dacre herself came out to greet them. During the next hour the forceful Dacre women took charge of the weary Southerners; Ursula was fed whisky and put to bed between homespun blankets. Celia was given a stool near the Hall fire. Wat and Simkin disappeared to the servants’ wing. The animals were stabled in the stone byres next to the living quarters. Those stables were empty at present, Magdalen explained, since their own mounts were on the Border suppressing the Scots. All her brothers, Magdalen added, had gone on the raid, though not her father, Lord William, who besides being gouty, was English warden of the Western Marches, and Governor of Carlisle, and therefore deemed it expedient to remain home this time.
> “But ma brothern, they’ll be back,” said Magdalen laughing, “on the morrow, or next. Leonard’ll be glad to see ye, hinny.” She kissed Celia again. “We all are, dinnet doot it. In especial Leonard—the rogue!”
Celia blushed, delighted with the welcome, prepared to enjoy herself now that they were safe at Naworth.
She was happy that night, which she spent in Magdalen’s bed, curled close and warm, savoring the scent of peatsmoke and heather, listening to Magdalen’s even breaths and to the lowing of distant cattle.
Nine
A FORTNIGHT LATER CELIA longed to leave Naworth, and had, of course, no means of doing so. Wat departed for the South the day after bringing them here. He had left Simkin in charge of the Cowdray horses. But Celia never saw Simkin. Their intimacy had vanished that night at Dacre. Celia soon ceased to puzzle over this since there was so much else to discomfort her.
The Dacre men came back from harrying the Scots. They brought with them fine milch cows and a bullock, which were immediately driven to Kirkoswald by the cowherd. From the roars of male laughter in the Hall at dinner, Celia understood that the “lifting” of Scottish cattle was considered a fine feat. So was the routing of the Maxwells—who had been forced back to Hermitage Castle in Liddesdale.
Though a couple of Dacre men had been killed, the Maxwells had lost seven or more, and would keep quiet now until winter was past. The Dacres had burned many farmsteads in Roxburghshire, and had got the cattle. All in all, a satisfying foray.
Young Sir Thomas gave his father a vociferous account of it in the Hall, while the men clashed tankards of slightly watered whisky, and the Dacre piper skirled triumphantly in the doorway.
“The Max’ells—they shivered an’ shook when we charged ’em at Bewcastle,” cried Tom, brandishing the Dacre crimson pennant with its three silver cockleshells. “A Dacre! A Dacre! A reid bull, a reid bull!” He roared out their war cry, his brothers and father joining in lustily.
Celia shrank as Magdalen sitting next to her bellowed, too. The Dacres were so large, so noisy and so numerous. Besides Tom and Leonard, there were four younger boys. They all had wiry red hair; they stank of sweat, horse dung and whisky. The Hall was not large, the smoke from its central fire was suffocating to Celia, who was used to chimneys, while an assortment of hounds, yelping and scrabbling for bones tossed down into the filthy rushes, increased her confusion.
She longed to get out of it, but was afraid of hurting Magdalen’s feelings. The rowdy celebration quieted as the Dacre men got drunk; it was then that Celia noticed one of the brothers who seemed different from the rest. His hair was of a darker red, and sleeker; he was more slightly built; and if any Dacre might have been called languid, this one seemed to be.
“Which one’s that?” whispered Celia to Magdalen. “He keeps apart?”
The other girl glanced up the table. “Och, him,” she said laughing. “Tis Geordie. He’s ever been a bit saft. Na’ stomach fur a guid fight. The others’re toughening him. He’s overmuch the pretty boy. But he’s scarce eighteen; he’ll learn. Leonard’s not reedy seen ye yet,” she added consolingly. “He’s still high flung wi’ drink and fighting. Wait ’til the morrow.”
Celia glanced at Leonard hopefully, trying to imagine him as a husband. Magdalen had made it obvious that she had this possibility in mind. Nor were Ursula’s hopes unknown to Celia, who realized that she should be flattered. The second son, and heir to some of the powerful Dacre inheritance, would be a wonderful match for a penniless orphan. Celia had seen enough of the world lately to understand that her wishes had no bearing on marriage. Leonard was big, rough, crude. His shoulder was a trifle crooked, but no matter. There’s nobody else for me, Celia thought. An eon of spinsterhood stretched ahead of her, and the deep walled-off hurt quivered.
Yet when Leonard’s attentions did indeed begin on the morrow, they made Celia shrink. He pawed her, he pinched her buttocks, he called her his bonny, but there was never a word of love. Celia felt besieged, and began to avoid him, which was hard in the cramped castle.
In early October, Naworth had unexpected guests. These were a party of two Scottish couriers, an interpreter, and an Italian physician. They were bound from Edinburgh to London whither the doctor, whose name was Jerome Cardano, had been summoned by no less a person than the Duke of Northumberland to examine King Edward.
Their arrival caused a great stir at Naworth, where important guests were as rare as Border warfare was common.
Lord and Lady Dacre bristled with hospitality. They opened barrels of their best sack, they roasted a precious bullock in the courtyard, they commanded their piper to appear at every meal and perform on the northern smallpipes.
“Como—laike Scotland,” observed Dr. Cardano sighing.
This observation delivered in thick stammering speech pleased none of the Dacres—though it was true. Cardano was a bandylegged man of fifty-one. He was nearly bald, and at first glance appeared insignificant. Yet he had the assurance born of fame—and a rather sweet smile.
Ursula had conquered her ague, and was present in the Hall at the dinner for Cardano and his escorts. She asked eagerly if he knew Dr. Julian Ridolfi.
Cardano’s face showed surprise. “Ah-h, si, Donna—” He then turned to his interpreter, saying, “Guiliano di Ridolfi . . .” and spoke for some time. The interpreter explained. Dr. Cardano had known Ridolfi at Padua; he was looking forward to seeing him in London. Perhaps Ridolfi had already examined the young King. It would be an honor to consult with him.
“We dinnen’t knaw his royal gr-race was ill,” said Lady Dacre anxiously. “He was bonny enow at Cowdray. What’s gan wrong?”
When this was interpreted, Cardano’s watery eyes went blank. He had been warned not to mention the King’s condition, and actually knew little about it. He indicated this by shrugs, and a flow of lisping Italian.
“Messer Cardano is only going to recast the King’s horoscope,” said the interpreter, “and talk with him on an aspect of astronomy the doctor wrote of in Practica Arithmeticae Generalis. He is a famous scholar as well as physician.”
Cardano gave a deprecating smile and gingerly sipped the sack, which he thought vile.
He had been invited to Scotland by John Hamilton, Archbishop of St. Andrews, who suffered from coughs and wheezings and spent sleepless nights gasping for air. Everyone thought the Archbishop had lung consumption, but his personal physician, a Spaniard called Cassanate, remembered Cardano, who had performed so many miraculous cures in Italy. Fifty gold crowns and a courier were sent to tempt the physician to leave his native land for the raw savage country. He resisted a while but eventually sailed for Edinburgh. He soon diagnosed the Archbishop’s trouble as asthma, not consumption, and with secret herbs and inhalations restored the old man to health. This news spread fast southward. There were many English spies at the court of the dowager queen, Mary of Guise. The doctor’s success resulted in the Duke of Northumberland’s summons. And a safe-conduct. Cardano himself suffered from pains in the joints which a succession of bleak, drafty, dank castles did nothing to alleviate. He thought this keep even danker and draftier than those in Scotland, if possible. Moreover, the inhabitants all seemed enamored of the eldritch squealing noises they produced on their crazy bagpipes.
“E barbaro,” he murmured, “sono pazzi, tutti.” And settled himself to endurance for another night.
He brightened when Leonard brought out the dice box, and seized it eagerly. This game needed no translation, and before long Cardano had badly beaten the Dacres and gathered up his groats and pennies with weary aplomb.
Leonard was sure that the Italian had cheated somehow. He growled this to his brother, Thomas, but their father’s eye was on them, and they dared not protest. Leonard, baffled and disgusted, turned to a game he felt sure of winning. He sought out Celia and grabbed her around the waist. “Coom outside, hinny—” he cried, “the neet’s war-rm for October. We’ll walk a bit i’ the gloaming.”
“I don’t want
to,” she said. “I’ll stay here.”
The last days had shattered any lingering romantic notions she had about Leonard. Her disillusionment had been reinforced by a warning from Ursula.
“I thought he’d be a good match for you, sweeting,” said Ursula, “I confess it. But now I fear that all he wants is your maidenhead. You must keep that at all costs. That and your fair beauty is all your dowry. Don’t ever be alone wi’ Leonard, no matter his promises. I wish,” she added sighing, “I’d never brought you up here. ’Ware of Sir Thomas, too. There’s lust in his eye, and I begin to think that poor wife at Dacre’s not as mad as we thought.”
“I’ll stay here wi’ the others,” repeated Celia to Leonard, her pink mouth tightening. The Hall being crowded as usual with noisy, restless Dacres—and now Cardano’s party—she had withdrawn to a stool near the door of the spiral stone stairs. Bored with Leonard, wishing for bed, yet constrained by courtesy to tell Magdalen she was going, she glanced up at the four gaudily painted wooden beasts which stood on a bracket above the High Table. The effigies were all man-sized and comical—a red bull, a griffin, a fish, a sheep—what a barnyard, Celia thought, though she knew from Magdalen that they represented the family’s heraldic beasts and were often carried into battle. From this angle they seemed to be peeping down at her, while the sheep and the fish exchanged sly glances. Celia, quite forgetful of Leonard, suddenly chuckled.
The young man started. His face flushed as red as his hair.
“God’s bones!” he shouted, “ye dare laugh at me!”
He clutched her around the waist, lifting her from the stool. As she struggled he grabbed her wrists in one hand, plunged the other down her bodice, tearing the blue velvet and wrenching her right breast with such violence that she screamed, whereupon he loosed her breast and twisted her neck, forcing her head around until he could cover her mouth with a savage bite.