Green Darkness (72 page)

Celia’s heart beat fast enough to suffocate her as she accompanied the steward across the bridge over the moat, then through the tower to the courtyard.

There was still light enough to see that the courtyard was small and paved by cobblestones, which hurt her feet even through the shoes she had donned in the cart.

“If they’re i’ the Hall,” Larkin said, “ye’ll have to wait. Milady don’t like disturbings at her food, an’ don’t ’ee dare set foot outside servants’ quarters
ever.
”

“Aye, sir . . .” said Celia faintly. She stood on the doorstep, her kerchiefed head bowed, her body tingling with the sense of Stephen’s nearness.

It so happened that Emma was in good humor tonight. They had broached the March beer and found it excellent. Her husband was his usual absent-minded amiable self, and little Charles had made them all smile with his comical rendition of a counting song which Brother Stephen had taught him. Charles was blossoming under the new chaplain’s instructions. So, though not aware of it, was Emma. She looked forward to Mass and confessions now, pleasure augmented by knowledge that despite the Queen they maintained the old religion. That Mass was again forbidden increased her ardor. She was, moreover, gratified by an invitation from the new Lord Cobham to ride over to Cobham Hall for dinner the next month. It had been disappointing that even after Christopher’s knighthood they had received little recognition from the upper class.

She accepted the steward’s report affably. “Good, good. D’ye hear, husband? Larkin’s bagged three servants today at Ightham.”

Sir Christopher nodded and echoed his wife. “Good. Well done. I’ll see the mason myself i’ the morning. Chimneypiece wants mending in the upstairs parlor, and be he skilled, I might build a new oast house by Wilmot Hill.”

“Then, there’s the cupboard I want in the Hall,” Emma said. “For the safe we sadly need—that’ll come
first.
Where’s the new wench?” She turned to Larkin. “I’ll see her in the buttery.”

Celia was as silent as she dared be during the interview.

Emma glanced at die reference, and found it convincing. She noted it was signed by a “ladyship.” Celia’s thin, downcast face certainly did not remind her of the beautiful girl in scarlet and yellow at Queen Mary’s procession. Celia’s “Yes, m’lady” and “No, m’lady” sounded merely well trained.

“So that’s settle,” Emma said. “All found and a shilling every quarter day. Attend Mass each morning.” She looked sharply at Celia. “You
said
you were raised a Catholic?”

“Aye, m’lady.”

“That’s a miracle in itself, coming from Lincolnshire,” said Emma with her tight smile. “And no fooling about wi’ the men!” she added, though she thought with satisfaction that this scrawny, sparkless bit of womanhood was not likely to be tempting. “Ye can bed i’ the far attic wi’ the other maids, an’ I don’t expect to see you again until my birthday.”

“Aye, m’lady,” said Celia.

Before her dismissal she raised her eyes once towards her new mistress. Lady Allen at forty-three was still handsome in a stout, full-blown way. Her heavy face was scarlet on the cheekbones—by the buttery rushlight one did not see the tiny broken veins. Her black hair gleamed like a rook’s back under a green velvet cap. Her slanted dark eyes, glittery as jet under thick lids, might be considered attractive. I was a fool to be afraid of her, Celia thought. I believe she’s stupid, for all she’s so overbearing.

That night Celia ate a snack with her fellow servants at Ightham Mote, and slept dreamlessly in the maids’ attic. She had arrived where she wanted to be. Stephen was somewhere under the same roof, and her love for him, so long pent, flooded her in warm luxurious waters.

During the next two days she obeyed orders exactly, and did not venture from the servants’ wing except for Mass. There was a great deal to do—hauling water in buckets from the moat, washing a constant litter of pots, mugs, tankards, dishes and spoons on the cramped stone counter. She also ran errands to the larder and buttery for Tom the cook, a portly middle-aged Londoner who grumbled about the dampness from the moat, the faulty kitchen flue, or the quality of the meat he was required to roast.

The indoor staff was small, because Emma was a penny pincher. She made do with three maids and one servitor to wait on table. His name was Dickon Coxe, and he was the son of the Allens’ principal hopgrower. Dickon had thought to better himself by working in the manor house, but since he was also made to serve as butler, and valet to Sir Christopher, he felt himself ill-used.

It became clear to Celia, after two days of hard work, that the Mote was badly run. Emma Allen took but spasmodic interest in housekeeping, yet nonetheless fiercely criticized anything which discommoded her. If she had a fancy for pigeon pie, she expected it to appear for supper, even though nobody had been told to raid the dovecote. She kept the pantry keys dangling at her girdle, but neglected to unlock the pantry, though the dishes she ordered through the steward called for spices and sugar.

She slept most of the morning, to arise bleary-eyed barely in time for the ten-thirty Mass. The staff went to a six o’clock Mass.

The services were held in what was still called the “new” chapel, though it had been built forty years before by a Richard Clement, one of the Mote’s numerous owners. The “old” chapel, which had served the early manor lords for four centuries, had been deconsecrated and become a passageway and storeroom.

The new chapel, which Celia entered with great trepidation, glowed with the richness of linen-fold paneling and carved gothic pews. The wood, despite many coats of beeswax, was still a pale beige which only time would darken. The Flemish glass windows held pictures of saints.

Celia had tied her kerchief so as almost to hide her face, and sidled into the back pew between a dairymaid and the new mason. The sight of Stephen at the altar, magnificent in a green and gold chasuble, cut her breath. She felt that her love was so tangible that he
must
notice her, though he never looked her way. She stayed huddled in her seat like several others who had not been shriven lately and therefore might not take Communion.

At the conclusion of Mass Stephen vanished into the priest’s room behind the altar. Celia returned to the servants’ quarters and the great jumble of pots and skillets waiting to be cleaned.

“’Tis man’s work, that,” said Dickon passing the scullery on the way to the buttery to fetch Sir Christopher’s morning ale. “Had I time, Cissy, I’d gi’e ye a hand. Ye seem overdelicate.”

“I’ll make do . . .” said Celia, though her back ached from lifting iron pots, and her hands were raw from the scouring sand.

“We used to have a scullion,” said Dickon, “but
she
found maids come cheaper. I’ll tell ’ee something. If ye’ve a need, don’t ask steward, he’s scared o’ his own shadow, let alone m’lady’s. Try Sir Christopher, can ye ever find him alone.
She
listens to him, at times.”

“Thank you, Dickon,” Celia said quietly, “I’ll make do.” She thought that Dickon—a small man with sleek russet hair, a long nose and pointed chin—looked rather like a fox, and instinct told her not to trust him. He might feel kindly towards a pretty kitchen wench just then, but anything he did would be to Dickon’s interest. He confirmed this with a sudden sly leer.

“There be ways to get on in this house, if ye’re clever.”

“Aye?” said Celia, reaching for another pewter dish.

“Wen ye’re sent to pantry or larder there’ll be a bit o’ sugar loaf or nutmegs ye can slip i’ a pouch under yere skirts. Then get ’em to me, I can sell ’em in Ightham, we’ll split profit.”

“I see,” said Celia.

“Oh, ye won’t get catched,” continued Dickon. “Tom Cook
he
don’t notice, an’ m’lady’s so fuddled wi’ drink mostly she’d never know, only mind her temper if ye cross her straight. She near broke the back o’ that scullery maid we had last. And a month agone she killed one o’ the hound pups.”

“Killed a puppy . . .” whispered Celia staring at Dickon. “Whatever for?”

“’Cause she stumbled over it on her way to bed. She wrung its neck. Aye, she’s a devil w’en the fit takes her.”

Celia shivered. She thought of Taggle with an ache of yearning, but nothing could sway her now.

“How does the new chaplain?” she asked, sluicing dirty water down the drain hole.

Dickon shrugged. “
She
dotes on him. Sits next him at table, touches his arm whilst they talk, and then ’tis ‘Oh, Brother Stephen, d’ye think this? Or that?’” Dickon put on a high falsetto, “‘Pray, sir, don’t eat so dainty, ye fast overmuch.’ And in truth he does. I ne’er met a monk before—this ’un wears a hair shirt under his habit. I saw it w’en
she
sent a message to his room. Horrid itchy it must be too, all a-bristle wi’ clipped horse tail.”

“Oh,” said Celia. She had no doubt what the hair shirt penance was for, and the thought made her angry. Why must he repudiate the happiest moment of his life, and hers. Why must he punish himself for it—as he had punished her by desertion. Could a loving God, or His Loving Mother require this of humans? The Bible reported Christ as saying that a father would not give his son a stone when asked for bread. And
I’ll
not accept a stone now, Celia thought. I’ll fight for the new life inside me as I didn’t for my own. She compressed her lips, and mopped the last of the dishes.

A bell jangled on the board set high in the passage outside the scullery. Celia glanced up. “That’ll be for you, Dickon?”

“Nay,” he answered. “’Tis for Master Charles’s nursery maid, Alice, and be she dandling about wi’ Cook again she’s a stupid wench. Soon or late,
she’ll
find out.”

Celia laughed thinly. “I believe you’re afraid of Lady Allen!”

Dickon jerked his head. “’Tis best to do her bidding. She talks poor-mouth, but she’ve a store o’ gold nobles in a strongbox, an’ I aim to get some for me own.”

“How can you?” asked Celia.

“Fur keeping me mouth shut about the papist practices here. County sheriff’d be interested to hear we’ve Mass in Latin, crucifix and candles, wi’ a black monk for chaplain to boot.”

“Ah . . . I see . . .” Celia frowned. She had not realized that Stephen might be in danger again now Queen Elizabeth reigned, that there might be a repetition of the situation at Cowdray when King Edward came.

“Can you not just filch from the strongbox?” she asked in so casual a tone that Dickon was completely fooled. He thought the new scullery wench receptive, and had just discovered that she was pretty. He was proud of his wits, and enjoyed boasting to so agreeable a listener.

He chuckled. “I see ye’re a girl after m’ own heart. The coffer’s too strong for me, and
she
keeps the key around her neck. Besides, she’s building a wall cupboard for it i’ the Hall. That’ll be bolted and double locked, ye may be sure. Nay, there be easier ways to get at the gold.”

He trotted off whistling, towards the buttery.

That evening just before dusk, after the kitchen supper of pease porridge and small beer, Celia violated the manor rules and left the servants’ wing.

First she went out to the garden and searched amongst the roses and lilies until she found a clump of gillyflowers. She picked two of the fragrant pinks. Then she crept up the back stairs and into a room called the “Solar,” which had been the fourteenth-century withdrawing room. It had a squint, or window, into the old chapel so that invalids might see the altar. The Solar also had another small interior window which looked down into the Hall below. Celia pressed close to the grille and stared.

Emma and Christopher Allen sat side by side in two armchairs at the head of the table; little Charles was next to his father; Stephen sat on a stool beside Emma, while Larkin, the steward, ate in isolation below the silver saltcellar.

Though Stephen had not noticed her in chapel, when his every thought was on the celebration of the Mass, this time Celia’s concentrated yearning gaze disquieted him. She heard him say to Emma, “I’ve the odd feeling that someone’s watching us.”

“What nonsense,” cried Emma with her grating laugh. “I’d never think
you
one for fancies, Brother Stephen,” she prodded him playfully in the ribs and bestowed on him a look which could only be called languishing.

Stephen drew away and changed the subject. “I see the mason’s making progress with the niche for your new safe.” He pointed to a spot below the upstairs grille where Celia stood.

“Aye,” said Emma, “but the old wall’s three-foot thick, and he’s a mortal slow worker. Moreover, he’s stupid as a sheep. Ye’ll have to find better than a journeyman, Larkin.” Emma suddenly addressed the steward who choked, and said, “To be sure, lady, I’ll seek a master mason on Monday.”

Then Charles, as black-haired and florid as his mother, gave vent to his desire for more sugarplums, having finished the last of those his indulgent father had brought from London. There was no means of gratifying him, and his frustrated roars were earsplitting.

“He wants a good caning, sir,” said Stephen. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

But the Allens shook their heads. Disparate in most other ways, they were yet united in spoiling their heir.

Celia left the grille and wandered through to a chamber with an oriel window. At the end of it her anxious surveys of the Mote’s topography were rewarded. She opened two doors and went into what was certainly Stephen’s room. There was a wooden cot made up with unbleached linen. There was a chest and his missal lying on it. There was his picture of the Virgin, so pretty, so calm, and a candle burning beneath Her in a sconce.

Celia paused beside the image. “What do
you
know of love?” she said. The vapid passionless face looked back at her with a faint superior smile. “I’ll win him yet . . .” said Celia, “and be damned to you!” She heard her own angry voice with a prick of fear. Gross blasphemy—and the Devil lay in wait for blasphemers. She had the two gillyflowers clutched in her hand, their clovelike scent pervaded the priest’s little room.

Celia plucked a dozen golden hairs from her head and entwined them around the gillyflowers. She tied the ends in a bowknot, and put the offering on Stephen’s flat pillow. She slipped away, and regained the kitchen quarters. Would he guess? She wasn’t sure, but she felt peace, a great lifting of the spirits. She had begun the needful measures.