My mother was now noticeably larger and happily making preparations for the birth of her child. She decorated the cradle which had been mine and which had been put away for eighteen years. She had polished it and cleaned it and I had seen her rocking it with a faraway look in her eyes as though she was already imagining the baby there.
We heard little news of the Court for we did not have visitors now; Kate did not write. She had never really been a letter writer. It was only when anything was wrong or she wanted something that it would have occurred to her to take up a pen.
I would have written to her but I did not wish to write of Caseman Court. And in any case there was little to say.
The King, it was said, was happy in his marriage and the Queen accompanied him everywhere. She was gay and good-natured and it was said that people only had to ask for a favor and she would be ready to grant it. Moreover she was not one to forget her old friends. She was kindhearted too and did her best to reconcile the King to the little Elizabeth, daughter of Anne Boleyn, who had been the present Queen’s cousin.
I had no doubt that Kate would have plenty of scandal to relate about Court affairs, but Kate was far away and because the King was at last happy with a wife we were lulled into a sense of security.
There was a reminder of the terrible things that could overtake us when the Countess of Salisbury was executed. She had had no fair trial but she was suspected of being on the side of the rebels in the Northern uprising—at least this was said to be her crime. Her royal blood was doubtless the true reason. As the granddaughter of George Plantagenet, the Duke of Clarence, himself brother of Edward IV and therefore in closer line to the throne than the Tudors whose claim had never been very firm, she had always been considered to be a menace and this pretext to be rid of her was too good to be missed. The old lady—she was nearly seventy years of age—had suffered greatly from the cold of her prison cell and the young Queen, feeling great pity for her, had smuggled in warm clothing that at least she might know that comfort. But nothing could save her. Her royal blood must flow to keep the throne safe for our tyrant King.
I remember well the day she died. It was Maytime. Why did so many have to leave this earth when it was at its most beautiful? She walked out to the block but refused to lay her head on it for, she declared to the watching crowd, she was no traitor and if the headman would have her head he must win it.
We heard she was dragged by her hair to the block and there so butchered that the ax wounded her arms and shoulders several times before her head was struck off.
How glad I was that I had not seen it.
A few days later I heard that the Abbey had been bestowed.
My mother had got the news from one of the servants who had had it from one of the watermen who had paused at the privy stairs while she was feeding the peacocks to shout the news to her.
My mother announced it while we were at dinner and I shall never forget the look on Simon Caseman’s face.
“It’s a lie!” he cried, for once robbed of his calm.
“Oh, is it?” said my mother, always ready to agree.
“Where had you this news?” he demanded.
Then she told him.
“It could not be true,” he said; and I knew that he was imagining himself master of that place.
But it seemed that it was true. That week there were workmen putting back the lead on the roof. Simon went over there to talk to them, and when he came back he was pale with fury.
The workmen had been instructed to repair the roof; others were there cleaning the place.
They did not know on whom it had been bestowed. They merely had their orders to make it ready for habitation.
Part II
The Owner of the Abbey
IT WAS JUNE AND the weather had turned hot. I had never seen so many bees at work on the clover, and the pimpernel made an edge of scarlet around our cornfields. Down by the river the nettles bloomed in profusion. My mother would be gathering them soon to make some potion. I believe she was happy. It amazed me that she could so soon recover from my father’s death. The fact that a new life was stirring within her might have been responsible for this; but I had grown farther from her though I had never really been close.
I was thinking that soon they would be cutting the hay, and that this would be the last time Rupert would supervise that activity. He would leave us after harvest and I would have to make up my mind whether I was going with him. The workmen were apprehensive; they had trusted and relied on Rupert. I wondered idly whether people worked better through fear or love. Then I fell to thinking of haymaking in the good days before the King broke with Rome and we had not thought State affairs could so disrupt our house. Everyone used to be called in to work in the fields and the greatest fear in those days was that the weather might break before the crop was carried in. Father himself used to join us and I would come out with my mother to bring refreshment to workers in the fields so that little time should be lost.
I had almost made up my mind to go with Rupert for it was clear that I could not remain under Simon Caseman’s roof. Kate had written urging me to come to Remus Castle and I thought that perhaps I should go to her for there I could discuss my future. She would urge me to marry Rupert. I knew that she still thought I would in time come to see the reason of this. Once she had plans for making a grand marriage for me. This was hardly likely now that I had no dowry. Nor did I care for that.
It was twilight—the end of a lovely summer’s day. The night was calm and still for the slight breeze of the day had disappeared.
As I sat at my window one of the servants came by. She looked up at me and said: “I have a message for you, Mistress Damask. ’Twas from a gentleman who would have word with you.”
“What gentleman?”
“Well, Mistress, he would not say. He said to tell you that if you would go to the ivy-covered gate he would be there and you would know who had sent the message.”
I could scarcely hide my excitement. Who could have sent such a message but Bruno? Who else knew of the ivy-covered door?
I said: “Thank you, Jennet,” as calmly as I could, and as soon as she had gone I went to my room, changed my gown and arranged my hair in its most becoming fashion. I took a cloak and wrapped it around me and I went at once to the door in the Abbey wall.
Bruno was there. His eyes were alight with a kind of triumph which could only be because I had come. He took my hands and kissed them. He seemed different from ever before.
“So you have come back!” I cried.
“And you are pleased?”
“It is not necessary for me to tell you what you know already.”
“I knew you would be happy to see me. Damask, you are different. Are you happier now?”
“Yes,” I replied, because it was true. In this moment I was happier because he was back. “What happened? Where did you go? Why did you leave us so mysteriously?”
“It was necessary,” he said.
“To leave us…without a word of explanation.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And since I went you have lost your father.”
“It was terrible, Bruno.”
“I know. But I am back now. I shall stop you grieving. You can be happy again now I’m back.”
He held my hand firmly in his; with the other he opened the door and we went through into the Abbey grounds.
I drew back. “It has been bestowed now, Bruno.”
“I know it.”
“We should be trespassing.”
“You have trespassed many times before.”
“It’s true.”
“And now you are with me. It was always believed by the monks that I should become their Abbot.”