Green Darkness (44 page)

Wat had a fleeting thought for Sir Anthony, virtually imprisoned at Cowdray. But it was yet too soon. There was nothing to report except the proclamation of Queen Jane, the escape of Mary.

“Ferry me an’ me horse ’cross Thames,” he ordered, “I’ll start now.”

The master nodded slowly. “I’m no papist, but I’ll take ye. If we must have a woman fur queen, better the roightful one, I say!”

In the end several fishing boats and a horse ferry crossed the Thames that night, eleven men roused by Wat’s enthusiasm elected him leader, and one of these who was Suffolk-born offered himself as guide.

At Chelmsford they found the town in a ferment. The church bell pealed for Queen Jane one hour and Queen Mary the next, as messengers came rushing through with new proclamations. At Chelmsford, Wat and his little band learned that the Duke had raised an army of three thousand men, and had proceeded into Norfolk to “fetch in Lady Mary, captive or dead,” that he was burning and pillaging as he went, and rousing increasingly angry opposition as he marched towards Cambridge, the Protestant University town where he might reasonably expect to raise stronger forces.

An hour after Wat’s party finally reached the great triple ramparts of Framlingham Castle, and joined the hordes of gentry, yeomen and common people who were milling around shouting allegiance to Mary, a royal herald galloped amongst them. His horse was lathered, his tabard so askew and fouled by spattered mud one could scarcely see the lilies and leopards. He brandished a roll of parchment, and yelled hoarsely, “
London’s
proclaimed Queen Mary! Long may she reign!” He panted a moment, then blew a great blast on his trumpet.

The crowd gave a collective gasp.

Harry Jerningham, a rich Suffolk squire, and Mary’s staunch supporter, came running from inside the fortress. “What’s that?” he cried. “Did I hear aright? Has the
Council
proclaimed Queen Mary in London?”

“Aye, sir,” answered the herald mopping his face on his sleeve. “Here’s proclamation. An’ the order’s gone out for Northumberland’s arrest.”

“
Jesu!
” said Jerningham. He fell to his knees, and upholding his sword kissed the cross hilt. One by one, most of the crowd followed suit.

Wat, exalted and triumphant as any of them, had a momentary pang. “So there’ll be no fight,” he murmured to the Suffolk lad beside him. He fingered his musket, touched his dagger. “I was itchin’ to have at the bloody heretics!”

The boy did not answer for they were all riveted by the appearance on the drawbridge of a small pale woman in violet velvet, riding a white palfrey.

“Long live our good Queen Mary!” the herald shouted as all the men uncovered. “Queen of England, Ireland and France, Defender of the Faith!”

Her pinched face brightened and colored rosy. She looked instinctively to Jerningham, who nodded. The myopic blue eyes glistened. She pulled the jeweled crucifix up from her bodice and kissed it. “A miracle!” she cried. “Our Blessed Lord and His saints have then answered my prayers.” In her deep mannish voice she added, “And I thank you, too, all my loyal followers, from the bottom of my heart.”

There was riotous rejoicing that night outside Framlingham’s great curtain wall. The weather was warm as new milk, and Mary’s lesser followers settled for sleep on the soft green lawns. Before Wat began snoring with the rest he had a sharp struggle between duty and inclination. The crews from a fleet of men-of-war Northumberland had sent out to guard the channel from possible Spanish intervention had been willingly blown into Yarmouth harbor, and upon being accosted by Harry Jerningham had at once switched sides and declared for Queen Mary. Many from the crews had come to Framlingham bearing ships’ stores for the castle.

Ever attracted by the sea, Wat joined some of these sailors and listened longingly to their tales of tempests, of sea monsters near the Canary Isles, of successful battles with pirates, of the beauties of Venice and Genoa, including succulent descriptions of those cities’ brothels. Even more fascinating was a bosun called Jack Tate who had actually set forth with Richard Challoner in May on the adventurous search for a northeast passage to India. He had only got as far as Amsterdam when he took sick. The crew, fearing it was plague, dumped him off. By great good fortune, the
Greyhound
was in port, about to sail along the channel at Northumberland’s orders. It picked him up, and thus he had eventually reached Yarmouth and Framlingham.

Jack Tate’s eyes were blood-red, he had purple patches on his face, and an ugly running sore near his mouth. It drew his lip up in a snarl which gave him a sinister look, belied by his doggy eyes and amiable voice.

“I doan’t know why I doan’t ’eal,” he said ruefully. “I fear ’tis the King’s evil. I wonder would our new Queen touch it fur me—arter she’s been crowned, to be sure.”

“N’doubt she will,” said Wat absently. “Now, about that venture. Ye say they was going ’round Jutland and north to them icebergs?”

It was then that Wat noticed a middle-aged, shabbily dressed man in a battered felt hat standing above them and staring steadily at Jack Tate. The stranger had a long face with dark stubble on his chin and torn hose, though his shoes of thick leather were unexpectedly good.

“Sit down,” said Wat, “don’t loom o’er us like that. Ye want to hear about Jack’s venture?”

The man started and smiled. “
Da vera
—” he said, “most interesting, but I was thinking about that imposthume on his face, and those bloodshot eyes. I could cure him.”

Wat and Jack both stared, then burst into guffaws.

“I am a physician—my name is Julian Ridolfi—and ’tis the first time in a fortnight I’ve dared admit that,” said the stranger, unruffled. “My good man,” he nodded toward Wat, “didn’t I see you at Cowdray last summer? Aren’t you Sir Anthony Browne’s Master of the Horse?”

“Aye,” Wat admitted after a moment. His wits were quick but he had not yet quite realized that there was no more need for secrecy. “Bigod, and are
ye
the foreign longbeard wot healed our Brother Stephen o’ rat bite? Ye’ve got the voice an’ the manner, but ye’ve come down i’ the world, old cock!”

Julian bowed. “Certain changes in my appearance became imperative. I intended to stow away from Yarmouth to get to the Continent. Recent events make that unnecessary.” He smiled suddenly, the pleasant smile always tinged with irony. “‘
Exitus acta probat,
’ as wise old Horace wrote.”

Suspiciously, Wat thought this over, and suddenly grinned. “Wot’s that?”

“The outcome justifies the act,” said Julian chuckling. He had scarcely spoken to anyone during the past fortnight of hungry, footsore plodding, and was glad of company.

“Ah-hr,” said Wat, “well, we’re i’ the same boat then, an’ it’s stopped rocking, thank God. How would ye heal Jack?” he added, curiously.

“Chopped greens, eaten raw—” began Julian.

The sailor who had been listening blankly gave an angry yelp. “Ye’re mad, ye rogue, or else ye jest. Me teeth wobble in me jaw loike ninepins, an’ me gums’re rotten.”

Julian nodded. “You have
scorbuto
, my poor fellow. ’Tis common enough.”

Jack paled, “The French pox . . .?” he whispered. “That fleabit whore at Calais . . .”

“No,” said Julian. “I believe your disease is called ‘scurvy’ in England. Since you can’t chew, will you drink milk and fresh ox blood? New-pressed cider will also help you, though it will take some weeks.”

“Faugh!” cried Jack. “Me belly heaves at the thought.”

“Then you will die before your time,” said Julian.

Jack gulped and crossed himself. His crimsoned eyes stared fearingly at Julian, in whom he recognized authority despite the shabby dress and the un-English intonation which he instinctively mistrusted. “Is it witchcraft?” he whispered after a moment. “Should I say a spell, a charm?”

Julian shrugged. “I’ve never quite distinguished between witchcraft and medicine. Why yes, to be sure, you may say ‘Abracadabra’ each time you drink.”

“Could I say a
Pater Noster
, too?” Jack asked slyly. Wizards were known to cringe at the holy words.

“Certainly,” answered Julian, smiling. “Say what you wish. But,
drink
as I have told you—milk, ox blood, and the juice of any fruit.”

“An’ how am I ter get that muck aboard ship, I’d like ter know?”

“You must change your calling for a while,” answered Julian.

“’Tis summer, all the farms hire extra hands.” He saw by Jack’s outraged expression how unlikely the sailor was to follow his advice, and giving his Italianate shrug, he turned back to Wat.

“You’ll be off to Cowdray now? Your master must be very anxious.”

Wat grunted. He had been indulging disloyal fancies. Ship off now, while the country was still unsettled. Maybe take Jack’s place on the
Greyhound.
See the exotic ports he had been hearing of. What a luring contrast to the dullness and monotony of Cowdray as it was when he left it for Greenwich a month ago—no visitors, Sir Anthony too worried even for tilting matches, the stables full of restive horses never exercised, an air of gloom intensified by Joan’s naggings, and a gaggle of squalling children at home.

Julian read Wat’s thoughts. “Conditions have changed now, Wat.” He waved his hand towards Framlingham Castle where Mary’s royal standard was billowing. “Sir Anthony and Cowdray are sure to profit mightily. ’Twould be a foolish time for you to desert your master.”

Wat frowned, then sighed. “Aye, sir—I’d not thought o’ that. I wish Simkin was home,” he added. “I miss the young knave, but he’s stuck i’ Cumberland wi’ Lady Suthell an’ little Celia.”

“No—” said Julian. “They’re all back at Cowdray, for I saw them in London.” He frowned at the memory of the interview, and all that followed, the abortive attempt to treat the King, the humiliation of fear and flight.

Wat was astounded. “Didn’t Celia wed young Dacre? We heard so.”

“Apparently not.”

“Bigod—” Wat’s little bear eyes lit up. “Ye may depend on it, she’s i’ love wi’ my Simkin. ’Twould be a fittin’ match.”

Julian was seldom surprised, he had observed human folly and man’s capacity for self-deception from his boyhood in the Palazzo Ridolfi, but this piece of parental ambition
was
startling. Moreover, during those moments in St. Thomas’s Hospital courtyard he had received a distinct impression of Simkin from his walk, and the way he held his arms. Pederast, Julian thought. I doubt that youth will ever bed a
woman.
“May your ambitions prosper,” he said. “Give my salutations to all at Cowdray.”

“Wot’ll
you
do, doctor?” asked Wat. He’d taken a liking to the man, and the way he’d tried to help Jack, though the simpleton didn’t realize it.

“Hitch my wagon to the new star,” answered Julian. He jerked his head towards the castle, adding thoughtfully, “I hear they’ve no physician with them.”

“They’ll never believe that
ye’re
one lookin’ like that. Wait though, can ye weasel your way in to see the Whartons. Sir Thomas is Queen’s Governor, and they’d know about Sir Anthony’s ring—the one wi’ the buck crest sent to warn ’er. Tell ’em ye come from Cowdray, ye was leech to Sir Anthony. Here’s me badge to prove it.” Wat dug deep in his pouch for the emblem he normally wore on his sleeve and had had to keep hidden for a month.

“
Santa Maria, e ben trovato
—well-found, your idea!” Julian cried, sincerely grateful. Events had moved so fast that he had not really made his plans. He pressed Wat’s hand warmly. He straightened his shoulders and strode with confidence towards the castle drawbridge.

Wat, filled with the glow of a good deed, mingling with the glow of having resisted temptation and being about to return to his feudal lord, wrapped his cloak around him, rested his head on a clump of buttercups and went to sleep.

On July 20, Cowdray and its inhabitants reached the depths of despair. At nine o’clock of that morning Celia hurried miserably towards the Spread Eagle, only because Ursula had sent her. There was no hope of hearing news there any more. Jane Grey Dudley was Queen of England. The proclamation saying so had ten days ago been nailed to the courthouse door by a messenger galloping west towards Hampshire and Somerset. He had shouted out, “Long live Queen Jane!” at Midhurst market cross, while many of the townsfolk cheered. It was done; the incredible infamy which would certainly ruin Anthony.

“At least the suspense is over,” said Anthony. “Hoby’s men will be here any time now, and I’ll not resist.”

Even Celia saw how useless would be any resistance. Anthony’s immediate retinue might be loyal—and get killed. Cowdray was a lovely glass-traceried manor house. It was not a fortress to withstand a siege. Moreover, the town of Midhurst could no longer be counted on to help its lord as it would have in the old days. Tracts, pamphlets and itinerant preachers had converted many to Protestantism. And, though he was generally liked, Anthony’s prohibited religion, and the fact that most of his tenants owed him money, naturally produced disaffection.

Midhurst townsmen were no romantic heroes to fight for a lost cause. They were shrewd, practical Englishmen who had taken Anthony’s fair for granted, and were now making plans for their own municipal celebration on Queen Jane’s coronation day.

Even Potts, as owner of the town’s principal gathering place, had finally told Celia that if she wished to work for them, she could not return to Cowdray, which was known to be under a ban.

“Your arrangement’s unseemly, m’dear, e’en dangerous,” said old Potts briskly. “Ye’re a help i’ the taproom, no denyin’, an’ a pretty servin’ wench is an asset. We was fond o’ your mother, an’ we’re fond o’ you, but as things are now ye can’t keep a foot on both banks, an’ that’s a fact.”

“But I
belong
to Cowdray—” cried Celia. “I’ve none else of my blood save Aunt Ursula.”

“Aye.” The landlord spoke with some sympathy. “She’s made quite a lady out o’ ye, but ye maun fish or cut bait, now.” He hesitated. “Ye can finish the week out, lass, but that’ll do.”

Potts knew that even this concession would displease his wife, who had lately turned Protestant, influenced by a fiery Calvinistic “hot-gospeller” who had stopped long enough on his way from Southampton to London to hold stirring meetings in the Spread Eagle’s upstairs assembly room. Mistress Potts would see her husband’s mildness as the effect of Celia’s golden hair, her luscious body and provocative long sea-blue eyes—which it was.