The King’s men left and because they had taken the lead from the church roof owls and bats began to nest there. The rotting corpses were removed from the gibbets by my father’s orders and given decent burial. We trembled for several weeks after that for fear it should be construed as an act of treason while we waited for someone to come and claim the Abbey and its lands. But no one came.
The Abbey remained, like the skeleton of some great monster, to remind us of a way of life that had now passed and gone forever.
Lord Remus
THERE WAS CHANGE EVERYWHERE. It was unsafe to go out after dark because the lanes and woods abounded with robbers who would not hesitate to maim or even kill for the sake of a little money. Beggars and vagabonds had in the past been sure of a meal and often shelter under the monastic roofs; these benefits no longer existed. Added to the beggars were those monks who had been deprived of the only life they understood. They must either beg or starve. It was true that some could work but few wished to take monks into their household as my father had done, for Simon Caseman was right when he said this could be construed as an act of treason.
Brother Clement settled in easily and one would not have guessed that he had lived the greater part of his life in the Abbey. Sometimes he would burst into song in a rich baritone voice as he worked; and we had never tasted such cob loaves or manchets as came from his oven. Brother Eugene was equally content in the brewhouse; he made slow gin and dandelion and elder flower wine; and was constantly experimenting with berries to improve his brew. When they discovered that Bruno was in the house they could not hide their delight; and I knew his identity could not be kept a secret.
When Clement and Eugene were together they would whisper about the old days; and whenever Ambrose’s name was mentioned they would hastily cross themselves. I don’t know what shocked them more—the knowledge of his sin in first begetting a child and the placing it in the crib to make a miracle, or the violent manner of his death.
As for the inhabitants of the house, we all seemed to be cowering under a blow that had momentarily stunned us. My father wore an air of resignation, almost of waiting. I knew he spent long hours on his knees in prayer. He would go into our little chapel in the west wing of the house and stay there for hours. It was as though he were preparing himself for an ordeal. My mother worked feverishly on her gardens and there was often a puzzled look on her usually placid face. She seemed to be relying more and more on Simon who, whenever he had the leisure, would carry her baskets for her and help her plant out her seedlings. Even Kate was subdued. She had craved excitement but not of the kind we had lately suffered. Rupert seemed least affected. Calmly and quietly he went about his work of tending the land as though nothing had happened.
Bruno concerned me most. His eyes would blaze with anger if Kate or I suggested that it was Brother Ambrose who had placed him in the crib. He told us fiercely that many lies had been told and one day he would prove it.
Kate recovered more quickly from the shock of events than I did, and as Bruno had come to the house she constantly sought him out. Sometimes the three of us were together as we had been in the Abbey grounds in the old days and then it was almost as it had been long ago when there had been an Abbey and we had trespassed there.
Kate teased him. “If he was divine why did he not call down the fury of the heavens on Cromwell’s men?” she wanted to know.
His eyes would blaze with fury but because she was Kate she could inspire some feeling in him which I was sure he had for no one else.
The servingwoman and the monk lied, he insisted.
And as I said, I believed him when I was with him. Rupert was twenty years old now. He should have been managing his own lands but it turned out that he had none to manage. When his parents had died their possessions had been sold to pay their debts and there was very little left. This my father had set aside for Rupert when he was of age, but he had never told Kate or Rupert the true state of affairs as he had not wished them to think they were living on charity.
Rupert told me this himself when he came on me one day in the nuttery. I was seated in my favorite spot under a filbert tree reading and he came and sprawled beside me. He picked up a nut and idly threw it from him and then he started to talk to me and I realized that I was receiving a proposal of marriage.
“My uncle is the best man alive,” he began; and he had certainly chosen the best opening to please me. I agreed fervently.
“Sometimes,” I said, “I fear that he is too good.”
Could anyone be too good? Rupert wondered; and I answered, yes, because then they endangered themselves for the sake of others. My father had taken in the monks and that might be considered an unwise thing to do. There was Sir Thomas. Had he forgotten him? He was a man who was too good and what had happened to him? He had lost his head and his once happy household was no more.
“Life is cruel sometimes, Damask,” said Rupert. “And then it is good to have someone to stand beside you.”
I agreed.
“I had thought,” he went on, “that one day I should leave here to manage my own estate and I have learned that I have no estate. Your father did not wish us to know that we were paupers so he let us believe that our lands had not been seized by our parents’ creditors when they died. So, I have nothing, Damask.”
“But you have us. This is your home.”
“As I hope it will always be.”
“My father says that the land has never been tended as you tend it. The men work for you as they work for no one else.”
“I have a feeling for the land, Damask, this land. I know your father hopes I will stay here forever.”
“And will you?”
“It depends.”
“On what?” I asked.
“On you perhaps. This will be yours one day…yours and your husband’s. When that day comes you would not want me here.”
“Nonsense, Rupert. I’d always want you here…you and Kate. You are as my brother and sister.”
“Kate will marry, doubtless.”
“You too, Rupert. And you will bring your wife here. Why, the house is big enough and we can always make it bigger. We have so much land. You are looking sad.”
“This has become as my home,” he said. “I love the land. I love the animals. Your father is as my own.”
“And I am as much a sister to you as Kate is. Oh, I couldn’t bear for all this to be broken up…as the Abbey has been.”
He picked up another nut and threw it. He said: “I believe your father hopes that you and I will marry.”
I said sharply: “That is not something that can be done because it would be comfortable and convenient to do it.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Rupert quickly.
I felt a little hurt. It was in a way a proposal, my first, and it had been offered to me as a convenient arrangement for the disposal of my father’s lands.
I murmured that I had a Latin exercise to complete and Rupert, flushing a little, rose to his feet and went away.
I thought of marriage with Rupert and children growing up in this house. I would like a large family; I flushed uneasily, because the father I visualized for them was not Rupert.
I went up to my room. I sat on the window seat looking out through the latticed window. I saw Kate and Bruno walking together. They were talking earnestly. I felt sad because Bruno never talked to me in that earnest manner. In fact he talked to no one like that—but Kate.