The two men who were the prime obstacles to the union, Squire Ratcliffe and Anthony, she was sure of being able to manage—when the time came. Never again shall I be balked of what I want, she thought. Yet, her new-found sense of power must be subtly directed. She was no longer a child to be forced mindlessly into situations she could not control. She would wait until after her aunt’s funeral and, meanwhile, ready herself.
As an interim step, she discarded the cheap woolen widow’s garb, and altered Ursula’s best black velvet weeds, knowing that the velvet enhanced the beauty of her skin, and glad that she had refused Magdalen’s suggestion that Ursula be buried in them, saying with truth that Ursula would never have wanted such wasteful display.
The funeral was held on December 27, and was a hurried affair. Dr. Langdale officiated at the Mass but delegated his assistant, Father Morton, to conduct the actual burial in Easebourne Church, where a slab had been lifted from the paving near Sir Davy Owen’s effigy. Anthony and Magdalen attended the Mass but, as it was a chill windy day, did not walk in the funeral procession. Celia walked alone, followed by a handful of the retainers who had once known Ursula—and by Wat Farrier.
After the slab had been laid in place, the priest scurried off with the others. Wat turned sympathetically to Celia, who was gazing down at the slab.
Wat said, “Ye’ll miss her, won’t ye, Lady. I mind me o’ her many kindnesses, an’ she loved ye true.” Like Magdalen, he thought Celia strangely dry-eyed and distant. “’Twas well ye came to her at the end,” he added.
“Aye . . .” she said, “I’m glad o’ that. But death is the end, Wat. I doubt anything matters except living. I’ll fend for myself, and ne’er harken back.”
“But ye’ll say prayers for her soul,” asked Wat puzzled, “help ye’re Lady Aunt climb outa purgatory?”
“Have ye ever seen a soul, Wat?” Celia answered with a small earnest smile. “Do you know where purgatory is?”
Wat was really startled. Such questions! He was not a religious man. Confession, then Mass, Christmas and Easter, that satisfied his inherited tradition. But Celia’s great eyes were fixed on him as though she expected an answer.
“Never thought on it,” he said, and also looked down at the freshly mortared slab above Ursula. “We must have souls . . . priests all say so. And purgatory—” He chewed his lips, adjusted his leather jerkin. “Well,” he said uncomfortably, “I’ve ne’er seen Jerusalem, nor talked to anyone ’oo has, but I believe it’s there.”
“Jerusalem’s a place on this earth,” said Celia, “and beyond this earth or life is too whimsical for me to credit.”
Wat grunted. He was not in the least disturbed by her pronouncement. Women were always twisting reason for their own ends. He simply felt sorry that she seemed to have lost her faith, and worried about remarks which might be heretical enough to endanger her.
“Woman wasn’t made to think,” he said kindly, “and her tongue has allus been a dangerous weapon. Keep yours i’ the scabbard.”
“I shall,” said Celia, “except when I need it to do battle.”
She turned down the aisle, and out of the church. Wat followed, startled by her tone yet admiring the willowy grace of her carriage, the proud set of her golden head in its starched widow’s coif. At the lych gate she stopped while Wat unlatched it.
“D’ye never hear naught of Simkin?” she asked.
Wat flushed painfully, a sorrowful anger showed in his little eyes. “Nay, not in years. He run off wi’ them Winchester mummers. Broke his poor mother’s heart—he run off in women’s clothes,” added Wat through his teeth. “Potts saw him as he passed through Midhurst a-clingin’ to that pretty boy Roland, the Devil take ’im! I doan’t like ter think on it . . . me own son . . .” Wat gulped.
Celia shook her head with grave sympathy. She understood far better than she had long ago, and she remembered Simkin’s vehemence in the close walks during her first ride on Juno. “Some day,” he had said, “it’ll be different, I’ll no have to obey nobody, I’ll do as I please wi’out shame.” Had he really achieved this? She remembered how he had told her that red and yellow did not suit her, and yet had cried, “God rot ye fur being a woman!” Still, there had always been a liking between them, poor ugly tormented lad.
“I’m sorry, Wat,” she said gently. “Still, you’ve other children and grandchildren to content you.”
“Faugh . . .” he cried. “A spineless mewling lot, an’ I’m no the man to crouch feebly by his fireside—not yet. Bigod, I’d like to ship out. There’s a whole western world across the sea, Span’ard an’ French’re hoggin’ it now, but there’s more to the north, a land like England. I’ve spoke wi’ fishermen from the Grand Banks. They know.”
Celia smiled abstractedly. Adventuring to undiscovered lands did not interest her. She was planning, very coolly, the best time and place to approach Anthony as a first step towards her goal. Twelfth Night, she decided, when he was mellowed by the customary festival. He’d not evict her during the Yuletide. I’ll send word to Edwin, she thought. She had already exchanged brief messages with Edwin. The page who had waited on Ursula was enamored of Celia. Little Robin. He was fifteen, undersized, the lowliest of the pages at Cowdray and dazzled by the mysterious beautiful widow who stroked his neck and kissed him on the cheek. One of Robin’s numerous cousins was a servitor on the Ratcliffes’ manor. Celia had bribed the servitor through Robin; sent one of the five shillings she had found in Ursula’s pouch. Robin gladly loped the seven miles between Cowdray and the Ratcliffes’ for the sake of Celia’s thanks.
The twelfth and last day of Christmas came in a crisped sparkle of icy tree limbs. The brief hours of sunlight shed diamonds on the hedge rows, the privets of the maze and pleasaunce. The air was dry and buoyant. It expelled much of the winter dankness throughout Cowdray’s multitudinous chambers, which were lavishly decorated with holly, trailing ivy festoons, branches of yew and spruce. From the lintels of each public room hung mistletoe bunches tied up with red ribbons. The kissing balls were nearly denuded of their white berries, since one must be plucked for each kiss to insure good luck, but the evergreens were still fresh and pungent.
Celia rejoiced in the fine weather—a happy omen. She felt exhilarated in a way she had not been since the day at Skirby Hall when she had set out to consult the water-witch. Good omens continued through the morning—she sneezed hard before Robin appeared with her breakfast ale and bread. Later, when she reached to the top of the cupboard, a spider fell on her face. As mishaps generally come in threes, so—though, alas, more seldom—may good portents. Celia looked out her window towards Easebourne and saw a loaded hay wain coming towards the castle, and the ox-herd who gangled astride a white ox had hair as red as a radish.
This multiplicity of good omens offset a passing discomfort. Once, she would have prayed to St. Anthony for the success of her project this day. She had only to run down to the chapel and speak a few imploring words to her patron saint, yet she did not. John Hutchinson’s contempt for “graven images” had left its mark, though she had not been able to like his Protestant Bible either. Religion of either kind was a mockery, a toy for children to fight over. I’ll have of it, thought Celia, and unpacked the costume smuggled to her by Robin.
On Twelfth Night at Cowdray the Christmas revels climaxed with the “Dance of Fools.” Every night there had been mummers from Midhurst and the nearby villages, cavorting around the courtyard or in the Hall. These were dressed in simple guises, some wearing animal masks, some having only blackened their faces with soot. They had all been given Christmas pies and pennies, as were the accompanying waits bawling out their carols with earsplitting vigor.
The Dance of Fools was more stylized, and had been held, without change, by centuries of de Bohuns, before the Brownes bought Cowdray, and like the Midsummer Eve’s fair, the tradition was perpetuated by Anthony.
Celia had watched the dance several times—when her mother had brought her from Midhurst to goggle ne
ar the Cowdray gatehouse amongst other townsfolk, and also during her first year with Ursula when she had seen the ceremony from inside the Buck Hall. She was confident that she could manage the dance steps, and hopeful that amidst the carousing the presence of an extra “fool” would not be noticed. There were always twelve fools—for the months of the year, for the days of Christmas. Their identity was secret. They were youths chosen by the Lord of Misrule—this year, a vapid young squire who had been selected to replace Edwin. The fools were dressed as court jesters of the days of Edward the Third, and there were stacks of the old costumes in Cowdray’s attics.
By dusk, Celia was ready. The long parti-colored hood came to her waist and covered her bosom. She had stuffed the horns with sawdust and sewed jingling bells on the tips. The motley trunks were fortunately baggy and hid her hips. She had made a mask, like those she remembered, out of parchment, and drawn on it a sad clown face, making the eyeholes very large. She must be able to see what was happening. Robin had got her a dried pig’s bladder which she tied to the end of a stick. On her hands she put old leather gloves to hide the amethyst wedding ring. She debated removing the ring, but some delicacy prevented her, a faint sense of tribute to Sir John who had been so jubilant, so anxious to make her happy when he put it on her finger. She chided herself for the weakness. John was dead, and she had vowed never to harken back. Welladay, she thought, soon I’ll have a wedding ring.
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.