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.
That evening seemed a century ago. He was sure that he had achieved towards the girl a true brotherly feeling. Remote, kindly. The shameful twinges and longings were past.
He took the huge iron key off his knotted scourge and unlocked the coffer. Slowly, joyfully, he replaced the altar furnishings. He unveiled Her precious painting, and kissed Her long, tapering hand. He put Her on the altar, and kneeling on the chapel’s leafy ground, addressed Her with abounding love. Gentle tears oozed down his cheeks. It was like the exaltation he had felt on Candlemas Day a year and a half ago, but warmer, softer since this—untinged by the sternness of sacrifice and duty—was all a melting, warmth of thankfulness. He remained before the altar until he heard the Angelus ring out from the village church. The Angelus! He had not heard the Angelus since leaving France. He listened in awe, then sprang up from his knees. “I can go down to the church for Vespers! I’m free to go into town!” He cried this aloud, so wondrous did it seem. He brushed leaves from his habit, pulled up his cowl and leaped over the ruined wall to the footpath. He strode through the palings onto the market and paused by the church’s lych gate. Two little blue-coated apprentices gaped at him. A baker’s wench put down her tray of hot fresh loaves and stared. “Wot’s him?” she said to the apprentices, as she examined the cowl, the glimpse of white cassock under flowing black robes, the sandaled feet. “Is’t a mummer?” she asked of the air, too timid to address Stephen direct, but he turned and smiled at her. “No mummery, my child”—he moved his hand in blessing—“I am a Benedictine monk—a priest,” he added, as she looked blank.
Her eyes widened. “Ye come down from Tan’s Hill,” she whispered. “That’s where the devil lives, or mebbe an ogre. I’d not dare go up Tan’s Hill.” Suddenly she clutched her hands to her throat, shrinking, so that it was easy to read her fear.
Stephen laughed. “I’m not the devil, my child—in fact, my whole life is dedicated to fighting him.”
She did not understand his words though she knew he spoke as the gentry did. “Well, if ’tis not the devil,” she said obstinately, “there’s ghosties up there, me gran’s seen ’em. They shriek an’ gibber i’ the night.”
Stephen shrugged and walked into the church, where the sparse congregation rustled and turned. The old vicar stopped in midprayer, his bearded cheeks paling. Only last month he had taken unto himself a plump comfortable widow as wife, and had been much enjoying his last flickers of lust. Only last month married parsons were legal. The black monk’s quiet, sardonic appearance in public confirmed the changes that were being rumored. He gave Stephen a nervously apprehensive look, then was so flustered that he skipped several prayers and gabbled into the benediction. He clenched the rim of the pulpit. They’d make him go back to the Latin, and he’d forgotten it. They’d make him put away Margaret—nay, he knew very well what would happen. Ousted entirely from the church, from his snug vicarage. He saw his fate in Brother Stephen’s level steady gaze. I wish he’d died o’ that rat bite, or whatever it was, thought the vicar, and slunk away into his sacristy.
There were a few others in Midhurst like Mrs. Potts who would have echoed the vicar’s wish, but all of Cowdray and most of the town eagerly returned to the old religion. It was pleasing to celebrate Saints’ Feast Days again, to be able to swear by anything one liked. For all the older folk, the return to church ritual was comforting, and a relief to endure no more confusing nonsense about when to kneel, or whether the Communion wafer was the True Body or not. Moreover, as traffic between castle and town grew as free and constant as it had been before the last six years of Edward’s uneasy reign, everyone basked in the news of Sir Anthony’s growing national importance.
Though still in deepest mourning for his wife, Sir Anthony had been specially summoned to London to join the Queen’s triumphal entrance there, and had held up her train. Sir Anthony deserved special favor from Her Majesty. Wat Farrier carousing merrily at the Spread Eagle made that clear. He thrilled the pot room nightly with the story of the warning buck-crest ring, which had positively saved the Queen’s life when it turned her away from London and imprisonment. Wat’s own part grew with each repetition until the goggling tradesmen and yeomen in from the country could all picture Wat bravely galloping to Hoddesden through a thunderstorm raised by Satan himself. Or maybe ’twas King Harry sent the lightning bolts to show his wrath towards Edward’s wicked Devise.
Wat’s listeners nodded solemnly. They clapped Wat on the shoulder. They stood him pint after pint of ale. They consulted him respectfully on all matters pertaining to the Queen, and how they could best celebrate her coronation. Certain banners and streamers left over from the preparation for Queen Jane might be used, but it was obvious that something far grander was indicated now. There must be fireworks, which were costly, but if they took up a collection—and besides, Sir Anthony was rich again. He’d see that his own manor did him proud. And then there was the morris dance.
“Three morris dances!” exuberantly cried the bricklayer who had held Celia during the proclamation. “’Round and ’round, one arter t’ other, that way the streets’ll ne’er be empty.” He beamed at the chorus of approval, until someone cried, “But where’ll we get three Maid Marians, tell us that?”
There was a dismayed silence. Maid Marian was always played by a youth, and the role was unpopular. It took heavy bribery to induce a young man to d
ress in women’s clothes, and simper coyly, mincing and wriggling. Mummer’s plays always presented men in women’s parts, but that was different. Actors were a low breed apart, they’d not care what they did.
“Willy Bowman’d play the maid again, mebbe,” said the bricklayer, reluctant to give up his splendid idea, “and Crazy Ned, could we make him learn the steps . . . and . . . er . . .”
“I’ll play Maid Marian!” It was a harsh voice from the end bench near the door. After they turned to see who had spoken, the pot room rang with laughter. “Cotsbody!” cried the bricklayer, slapping Wat on the thigh. “’Tis your Simkin. By the Mass, a merry jape! He can be hobbyhorse or dragon if he wants to disguise!”
Wat laughed, too, but the laugh was forced. Ever since his return Wat had found his son to be silent, evasive, given to unexplained absences. More disquieting was a coffer he had found in Simkin’s room one day, and opened with curiosity. It contained a tinsel veil, a woman’s rose-and-cream brocaded skirt, a gold satin bodice and a flaxen wig made of long curly human hair. The whole coffer was scented with musk—the dark blatant perfume assailed Wat’s disgusted nostrils. Wat had instantly rejected his first horrified thought that Simkin had stolen this woman’s gear to sell. The boy had always been honest, and little as Wat knew of such things, he got the impression that the materials were sleazy, the tinseled veil made from buttercloth.
That night at supper Wat asked his son pointblank why he kept such trumperies in his attic, and was perturbed by the expression on Simkin’s ugly pockmarked face. It was very like a sneer, though his walleye often gave an odd expression. “They belong t’ friend o’ mine,” said Simkin, and picked his teeth carefully with a bit of straw. He glanced at his mother who was spoon-feeding the three-year-old.
“Ahr-r . . .” Wat winked at his son. “Bit of a hussy, your friend, eh? She likes fancy garb. . . .”
Simkin looked at his father with the opaque sneering look, but his mother’s feeding spoon clattered sharply on the table.
“Tell him, Sim!” Joan Farrier cried, her voice shrill, “tell your fadder ’oo owns them clothes. Tell him!”
Wat stared at his wife, whose thin face was distorted, her mouth drawn awry. Joan was a nagger and a bore, but he had never seen her roused, and at once felt masculine sympathy for his son. This sudden behavior of Joan’s could only be jealousy, she’d always tried to mollycoddle the boy.
“Ye needna name your leman, Sim,” said Wat tolerantly, “ye’re near a man grown, and ’tis natural to want a bit o’ bed sport time to time.”
Simkin did not answer. He looked down at his trencher, and minced his hunk of mutton into tiny pieces.
“Iffen he won’t tell ye, I will!” said Joan trembling. “That gear your son keeps in his coffer belongs t’ Roland, the mummer was here for the fair. A dainty little meacock is Roland, pretty boy Roland.”
Wat frowned, still feeling only irritation at his scraggy wife’s anger. “And wot o’ that, woman? So Simkin likes to store his friend’s mummeries, do him a favor . . .”
“Ye’re a dom thick-skulled fool, Wat Farrier!” cried Joan, then suddenly collapsed, her eyes bleared while they sent her son a beseeching apologetic look. “Have a bit more pasty, sweeting,” she said to him. “Here’s a crusty edge I saved fur ye.”
Wat remembered this scene as Simkin sat imperturbably in the pot room ignoring the rowdy jests. “I’ll play Maid Marian,” he repeated as the noise died down, “an’ better nor anyone’s ever played her.”
They were puzzled then, they glanced towards Wat who had become so important a man of late; they waited for him to reprove his son, but as he said nothing, the bricklayer cried heartily, “So that’s settle, the others’re easy-like. Naow the Robin Hoods, I’ll be one m’self,” which diverted the assembly. Everyone wanted to be Robin Hood, or Friar Tuck, or Little John. They began to wrangle.
Wat did not allow himself to be perturbed by Simkin’s behavior, lads of that age were given to pranks, they were all moody, and besides, Wat had the chance to see a most gratifying encounter between Celia and his son the next day, when Simkin was currying poor Lady Jane’s dapple-gray mare, and Wat was supervising the general bustle of polishing harness, tallying bridles, saddles, and computing the ostrich plumes needed for the cavalcade to London and the coronation.
Celia came dancing into the stable yard, glowing and excited. She ran up to the mare, and threw her arms around its neck. “Oh, Simkin!” she cried, “Juno’s mine now! Sir Anthony’s given her to me! Isn’t it kind of him!” She kissed the mare on its mouse-soft nose.
Simkin looked at the girl and smiled. Who could help it? Wat thought. The girl was the embodiment of lovely girlhood, her hair glinting, her cheeks pink and white as gillyflowers, exuding a radiance she’d never shown on the long trip north. “By the Mass, an’ has he then?” said Simkin. “D’ye want to ride? I’ll saddle her fur ye.”
“If you’ll come too, Sim—she doesn’t know me, and I’m a little afraid.”
She looked up at Simkin through her lashes, the dimple dinted beside her mouth, and Wat was well pleased. “Go, lad—go,” he said. “I’ll not be needin’ ye a while.” To Celia he said, “Me heartiest congratulations, miss. Yon’s a good mare, gentle as a dove, but Sim’ll school ye a bit. Take her through the close walks, Sim,” he added, craftily. The mysterious close walks with their lofty yews and enticing by-paths were a famous setting for lovers. And Sim looked his best on horseback. I’ll make him a courier next, Wat thought, get him out o’ the stables. Sir Anthony’ll do whatever I ask, now. That pretty lass would knock the nonsense out of Simkin, and was quite willing, to judge by the look she’d given the boy. Whistling cheerily through his teeth, Wat returned to chivvying his underlings.
It was fortunate for Wat’s peace of mind that he did not hear the conversation between Simkin and Celia, after the girl’s raptures over the dainty little mare had died down, and her expressions of gratitude.
“Sir Anthony’s so good to me, he’s ordered one of the sempstresses to make me a new dress—for the coronation, you know! I’m going to London wi’ the others. Oh, Simkin, I’m so happy!”
Simkin smiled. “Thou’rt a lucky one, lass,” he said in a softer voice than she had ever heard from him, yet she felt in his tone a tinge of sadness, of reservation.
“But you’ll be going too!” she cried. “Wat’ll bring you, I’m sure.”
Simkin shook his head. “I doan’t care t’ go,” he said quietly. “What color and fashion is your new gown to be?”
Celia turned in the saddle, and looked at the boy in amused astonishment. “You jest—you mock me,” she said. “You can’t possibly care about my gown.”
“For why not?” Simkin flicked a fly from his gelding’s neck. “Because I’m ugly, because I’m a stableboy and stink often o’ dung?”
“N-no—” she said uncertainly. She felt an echo of the sinister repulsion of that dreadful unexplained scene in Naworth’s grain loft.
“Well,” she said, “Sir Anthony told my aunt Ursula and me to make free with the coffers in the west attic. There’s a length o’ red brocade for the skirt, and good yellow velvet from France for the gown. What’s ado?” she asked, for Simkin was shaking his head.
“Red an’ yellow’s no roight fur ye, Celia,” said Simkin sternly. “They’ll douse yer beauty.”
Celia was so startled that she jerked the reins, the mare jumped, and stopped dead, quivering.
“Ye mustn’t bounce like that—” Simkin reached over and stroked Juno’s withers. “This is a dainty highbred beast, no like the nag ye rode to Cumberland . . . . Search the coffers agen, ye shouldn’t wear heavy stuff, silk’s better, an’ keep to the hues o’ pink daisies, blue speedwells, leaf green. Wood violets, mebbe.”
Celia stared, then she began to laugh. “Oh, Simkin . . . .” She gave him her provocative, utterly feminine look. “D’you care so much what I wear? I thought you didn’t even like me after . . . after that night at the Dacre k
eep!”
They had skirted St. Ann’s Hill on the west, and entered the close walks, which were actually four avenues of magnificent yews growing around a secret central glade where Anthony used sometimes to hold picnics for his guests. The townspeople avoided trespassing on this demesne; no poachers invaded it, for it was known that the “pharisees” held nightly revel there. Those easily affronted Sussex fairies had selected the inner pleasance before even the Bohuns had come to Midhurst. Puck himself was reported to stop there frequently.
“’Tis not a matter o’ likin’,” said Simkin after a moment. “Ye remind me o’ someone; I want t’ see ye clothed i’ the finest way.”
Celia looked down at the pommel. It was a damping answer. “Let’s gallop,” she said and spurred the mare with her heel.
They streaked off down the grassy path between the yews and clumps of holly, glossy-green, trimmed back by Anthony’s gardeners. They slackened pace before they reached the secret glade. The sun disappeared suddenly, and all sparkle with it. A chill little wind blew up from the downs.
Celia shivered. “’Tis coming on wet,” she said.
“Rain’ll hold off a bit,” answered Simkin. “We’ll go on t’ the glade. I dropped something there liddle while ago. I’ll have a look fur it.”
Celia stared. It seemed odd that Simkin had been here recently. His manner was odd. A faint tremor of fear brushed her. She would have liked to turn back, yet found that she did not wish to go alone through the avenues of looming black tree trunks. She followed the boy into the clearing, and silently watched as he dismounted. The grass was still long. Throughout the whole of Anthony’s anxious exile nobody had bothered to send gardeners to mow the close walks.
Simkin went to a spot near a ring of rosebushes, pinkly blooming and very fragrant. He parted the grasses and searched carefully. Celia heard him give a grunt of relief as he straightened, holding a fawn-colored shoe of supple leather, not large enough to be Simkin’s.