“Marriage with Spain,” she said, as she and I sat in my garden together. “Why, we shall be a subject of that country! Do Englishmen want that?”
“I doubt not,” I said, “that if the Queen married Philip of Spain there would be all sorts of conditions to prevent Spain’s getting a hold on the country.”
“When a woman marries she is influenced by her husband.”
I smiled at my mother. “Mother,” I said, “all women don’t make as dutiful wives as you do.”
She was a little uncertain what I meant by that but she went on: “We should have the Inquisition here. Can you guess what that means? No one would be safe. Any one of us could be carried off to face a tribunal. Have you any idea what it is like to live under the Inquisition in Spain?”
“It is terrible. I hate persecution in any form.”
My mother dropped the shirt she was embroidering for Peter or Paul. She gripped my arm. “Then, my dear Damask, we must prevent its ever coming to these shores.”
“I am sure the people will never tolerate it here.”
“If this Spanish marriage takes place who can say what will happen? If we are a dominion of Spain, they will be here with their thumbscrews and their instruments of torture.”
“They are already here, Mother, and were before the Queen thought of marrying a foreigner. I shudder sometimes when I pass the Tower and think of Father—and of the dungeons and the torture chambers in which so many people’s beloved sons and husbands have suffered. Women too…. Have you forgotten Anne Askew?”
“She was a martyr.”
“A martyr indeed.”
“A saint,” said my mother fervently.
“And would have been equally so had she been of any other faith.”
My mother was silent for a while and then she leaned toward me.
“This reign cannot last,” she said. “I have reasons for knowing this. I worry about you, Damask…you and the children.”
“Mother, I worry about you and the twins.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s strange that religion should be the cause. I can’t see why everyone cannot see the true way.”
“Your way, Mother? Or that of your husband perhaps?”
“I have seen the truth,” she said, “and I believe that you live dangerously. I should like to see you with us, Damask. So would your stepfather. He always speaks kindly of you.”
I smiled cynically. “That is indeed good of him, Mother.”
“Oh, he is a good man. A man of principles.”
Oh, God, I thought, do you not know that he murdered my father?
“He thinks that you resent his taking your father’s place.”
“No one could take his place,” I cried fiercely.
“I mean, my dear, because we married. Some daughters are like that…sons too. But you should remember that he has made me very happy.”
I wanted to shout the truth at her. He murdered my father; he asked me to marry him; he has tried to make an infamous bargain with me; he has asked for my virtue as a price for my safety. And this is the man of whom you, my mother, think so highly.
But of course I said nothing. She was so innocent. She must go on in her blissful ignorance.
“You should try to be a little more reasonable, Damask.”
I smiled rather sardonically and she smiled.
“Think about it,” she went on, “think what the Spanish marriage would mean. Queen Jane is still a prisoner in the Tower. There are still many who would be ready to proclaim her Queen and even those who feel that she has no rightful claim can look to the Princess Elizabeth.”
“But, Mother, how could the Princess come before Queen Mary?”
“The King proved his marriage to the Queen’s mother was no true marriage.”
“He proved it to himself,” I said. “Mother, do you not think that simples and herbs and flowers and embroidery are of greater interest than these weighty matters?”
“Well,” she conceded, “these weighty matters are for men.”
“Then would it not be better…and safer…for women to keep to those things in which without doubt they excel?”
She nodded smiling. “All the same, I worry about you,” she said. “I wish Bruno had bought a pleasant country mansion. An Abbey is suspect…particularly when….”
“Oh, Mother, when religion and politics sway this way and that, the treason of yesterday becomes the loyalty of today. Let us all take care. And let us remember that the enemies of Rome are those who are in danger today, although tomorrow it may be different.”
“Tomorrow,” said my mother, brightening. “That will come.”
It was small wonder that she disturbed me.
In the bakehouse Clement was kneading dough; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and he seemed to caress the mixture as he worked.
Catherine was sitting on the high stool watching him, her lovely face bright with interest. She had always had some enthusiasms for as long as I could remember. They faded quickly but they were nevertheless intense while they lasted; Honey was more constant.
“Go on, Clement,” she commanded; and I heard him say as I entered: “The Abbot had called us and we stood round the crib and there in it was the living child.”
She turned as I entered.
“Here comes our mistress,” said Clement, “to give me orders for the day. Mistress, I am trying a little burdock and purple orchis in the potage today. It gives a mightily pleasant flavor. I shall await your verdict.”
“Mother,” said Catherine, “Clement has been telling me the story. Was it not wonderful! It is like something from the Bible. Moses in the bulrushes. I always loved that story and now to know this….”
I looked at her animated face and I was not sure what I wanted to say to her. She was so thrilled by the thought that her father was some sort of saint or messiah and even though I was convinced that this was false and I wanted my daughter to accept the virtues of truth, the alternative to the mystery story was not something which I could tell to my daughter. Catherine had always had to know everything once her interest was aroused. She knew more of the histories of the people who lived around us than any other member of the household. Now I saw that I was in a quandary which had been certain to arise sooner or later. She either had to accept her father as this superior being or learn the sordid story of his birth. For the moment I thought it better for her to accept the legend, but I wished it had not been so.
I discussed the food that was to be prepared that day and said: “Come, Catherine, it will soon be time you were at your lessons and I wish you to gather some flowers for me and arrange them.”
“Oh, Mother, I hate arranging flowers. You know I can’t do it.”
“All the more reason that you should learn. It is one of the necessary accomplishments of a housewife.”
“I don’t think I shall be a housewife. I’ll stay here all my life and become a nun and I’ll have a convent of my own. An abbess I suppose I’d be.”
“My dear child, it is not long ago that monasteries and convents were dissolved by order of the King.”
“Ah, but that was in the old days, Mother. We have a new Queen now—a good, virtuous Queen. Doubtless she would wish to see the return of these institutions.”
“You are a child, Cat,” I said not without a twinge of alarm. “For God’s sake do not get embroiled in these matters yet.”
“Dear Mother, how vehement you are! I have always suspected you of being somewhat irreligious.” She kissed me in that endearing way of hers. “Not that I didn’t love you for it. I used to be frightened by all this…and all the people who looked like monks. I was afraid to go near some of the old buildings. Do you remember how I used to cling to your hand or your skirts? I used to think nothing can harm me while Mother is here, but she will always look after me.”