Roses in the Tempest (10 page)

Late autumn, 1515

Chillington Hall

X

“If you pressed me to say why I loved him,

I can say no more than it was because he was he and I was I.”

–Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, 1580

Weeks passed since last I saw Isabella veiled and swathed in a novice’s livery. But still I brooded. Dorothy’s bed held no comfort for me, and so alone I spent my nights. My days were equally spent in solitude, walking the grounds of Chillington.

October fled like a robber from a house, leaving in its wake the cold breath of coming winter. The green leaves began to crisp, boldly glittering their gold in a mostly white sky. I tried to breathe in its earthy damp or the sweet esters of a field mown to stubble, but my spirit was as empty as last year’s rabbit warrens.

Isabella. My Isabella. Not mine at all. Not sister. Not cousin. Not lover. Too late did I know my own mind, something my own father—curse him—could recognize that I did not. If I had only known before, I could have had the happiness I sought, become the man only half-imagined.

I could have been married to her.

I kicked at a shriveled apple that had fallen dried and hardened from its tree. It rolled down an incline into a trickling ditch.

But
would
I have married her? That damnable question did not cease coursing through my mind even in sleep. Would I have had the courage to defy Father and marry whom I wished? Isabella would gain the Giffard legacy nothing. The dower was too small to consider with any sobriety. She was not even the heir to her father’s grange. Marrying Isabella would have been the folly of the county, and yet it would have been my fondest desire. I told myself I would have been brave enough to do it, but I doubted the sincerity of that even as it brushed my mind. I would have lost all: lands, monies, respect, and viability at court. It was not a proper match for a Giffard.

I brooded over it even as I glanced toward the house. It was not uncommon at court for men to put aside their wives in a decree of nullity for a better match, though profit was usually the reason, not love. But I could not put Dorothy reasonably aside without great scandal and loss of her dower rights. That would put me in no better stead than I was before.

“What is the matter with you, Thomas?” I scolded myself. “Is money all that matters?”

“It is a damn sight better than poverty.”

I lurched back. George Throckmorton emerged from the hatching of shadows.

“George! God in Heaven!” My racing heart slowed, and I looked his muddy clothes up and down. “What brings you here? Let us back to the house so you can clean yourself.”

“Not just yet. I was passing through, and thought to stop in on the newly wedded lord. Instead, I find you fumbling about in a dead grove, alone, and without your wife. Do you tire of her so quickly?”

A sigh heaved my shoulders and I shook my head. “Ah, George. What have I done?”

“What
have
you done?” When I said no more, he stopped and took my arm. Throckmorton’s reddish-brown beard lay long upon his chest, for he wished to fashion himself an older more mature man at court.

“Thomas, something deep vexes you. Can you not say?”

For a moment I thought I might, the words rolling over themselves in my mind. But gazing into his eyes, I suddenly thought better of it. Feebly I offered, “Marriage is not what I expected.”

He smiled heartily. “Is it ever? Our expectations are greater than our realities. We are like diners at a sumptuous feast, only our eyes are bigger than our bellies. Worry not. The sooner you grow her belly, the better you will feel.”

“George…” He coaxed me forward, and we walked shoulder to shoulder. The chill breeze billowed his fur-trimmed cape. “Tell me true, George. Did you love Catherine soon after marriage? Or even before?”

“I fancied her before we wed,” he said, squinting into the falling sunlight. “And once wed…well, there is a fortnight or so of becoming used to a wife; the same woman before you at every meal and the same in bed at night. It is, after all, the difference between strangers and kin. Once no longer strangers, the nights are a comfort, and the days away a longing to be back.”

“Do you love her now?”

“Yes. I do.”

“I envy you.”

“Have patience, Thomas. Three months wedded is not long enough to seal this kind of life-long alliance.”

“Dear God! Life-long!”

“Did you believe otherwise?”

“No. It is only that… If you love, George, but…not your wife…”

He stopped, measuring the lengths of our shadows. “Thomas, I know you are not an avid man of prayer…”

I scowled, thinking of nuns’ habits. “Church, with her damned cloisters.”

“—but you are a man honorable to his vows. I know this from knowing you. Church or no, you have made a vow before God that you would forsake all others.”

“And I meant it…at the time.”

“The march of time does not change what was vowed. Surely you fear the wrath of God.”

“God knows me better than I know myself. He excuses my faults.”

“So you say. But adultery—”

“Who said aught of adultery?” I tugged my cape across my chest. It was cold from the weather but also his words. I could not imagine Isabella succumbing to such, she who was still a virgin.

“Ah!” he said knowingly. “It is the manner these days to love and long without fulfillment. But I thought you above that, Giffard.”

“I did not seek this,” I muttered angrily. “I do not give a damn for manners!”

“I can little help you then, except to offer this advice: Forget this other woman. It will only bring you grief. Put your stock in your wedded wife. Do not fashion a shrew of her so early in your marriage, or you will regret it.”

I nodded. It was all true. I best not scorn Dorothy’s affections so readily. And Isabella was so far away in body and in truth. How safe she was in her cloister, far from other matters, far from the experiences of court and the politics that plagued us all. Looking at Throckmorton and the sincerity on his face, I put it aside.

“Let us change the subject, then.”

He was pleased to do it. Yet the only other subject that came readily to mind was that of court matters. The queen was still big-bellied, and the doctors said the pregnancy moved on apace. Soon I would be expected back to court for the birth celebrations. We all hoped that the expected male child would be delivered.

As I walked with George and listened to the court news, my own thoughts rumbled. I did not tell him that Dorothy’s belly did grow with my seed. Soon the Giffards would have cause to celebrate alongside the king. Pray God they would both be boys, and the two of us would see our duties fulfilled. At least it would give me an excuse to leave her here while I traveled away to court.

The queen’s pregnancy unsettled me, even as hopeful as the news was. I sensed this child would be a girl. Even so. If the queen should deliver a girl, all was not lost. A royal daughter was a bargaining tool to be bartered to the crowned heads of Europe. The king’s sisters well-used that route, but were no longer saplings. Their day was done.

The political wheels would still turn, and court life would go on as before, with or without my help. The bells of St. Mary’s Church in Brewood parish would still toll the hour, and the bells at Blackladies nunnery would still call their nuns and novices to Vespers.

LATE AUTUMN, 1515

Blackladies

XI

He who conceals his sins prospers not,

but he who confesses and forsakes them obtains mercy.
–Proverbs 28:13

I think it most difficult to live in common with those neither of your blood nor of your humor. It is the challenge, therefore, to live as Christ asked of us, neither taking more than is necessary, and offering more when needed.

My sisters were the mirrors in which I sought to see myself. It was a distorted image at best, as I tried to conform to their ways, even as one of them could not seem to conform to me. It was a dreadful month. Not only did I still struggle with the chant and my duties, but Thomas haunted my dreams more than before, and the taste of him now cursed my lips. Surely it was the Devil, whose timing in this was most acute, to rob a poor novice of her time at prayers.

Thomas in love with me! It could scarce be believed, yet now it hung in my mind, churning ceaselessly, when awake or asleep. How I prayed for his face to leave my sight, his words to leave my ears.

And yet, I garnered a portion of satisfaction that the great lord Thomas Giffard was now in love with the plain and poor Isabella Launder. And so I further sinned with this pride.

I did not yet go to the prioress or our confessor Father William. Only God knew why. True, I was embarrassed to fall into such a trap of lust, and I was guilty. But it was not for fear of punishment that I kept my own counsel. Nor was it a wish to encourage daydreams already much too frequent. No. I did not feel worthy of absolution. There still clung to me this damaging desire for the outside, for Thomas, and I knew that I must thrust it from me if I was ever to find my peace.

The day after Thomas’ terrible visit, I took my thoughts with me to the milking. The goats were being particularly uncooperative and constantly kicked the bucket. I succeeded only by clutching the bucket between my ankles, and holding the goat’s lead in the one hand, and milking with my other. “I should call you Cristabell,” I told the stubborn creature, “for you are just as vexing.” The thought cheered me, and it seemed in this I could put thoughts of Thomas aside. I was close to gathering the courage to face the prioress and my confessor, to leave this sin behind me.

With the milking done I took the buckets to the cheeseloft, pouring the milk into the bins to work it into cheese. There was time left after this to go to the garden, and I hurried, anxious to find my peace in the familiar. The roses’ blooms were almost spent, and I wanted to examine the stalks to make certain of their strength for the coming winter.

I walked across the courtyard and ducked into the shadow of the arch, reaching the cloister and the solitude and comfort of that little square sanctuary. Dame Elizabeth walked along the little path, murmuring as she held her rosary.

She suddenly faltered to one knee, and I cried out in genuine distress and hurried to catch her arm. “Lean on me,” I told her.

“Bless you, child,” she huffed, until I led her to a seat. “It is a slippery spot there,” she said, chuckling.

“Madam, are you well?”

“In a few moments I shall be. Let me catch my breath.”

“Shall I bring you water…or ale?”

“No, no. It is all well. Come now. Sit beside me.”

Gingerly I sat, measuring her calm while my own heart hammered. “Are you certain I should not call for the prioress?”

“And have her worry as much as you? No, mistress. One worrier is enough.”

“Dame, I saw you fall. It is not needless worry.”

“Yes, I know. Well. Such is old age, my dear. The foot is not as secure as it once was, you see.”

We sat in silence, each listening to her own soul. At last she turned to me. “Take me back to our chamber. The garden gives me a chill.” I braced her arm and we walked carefully back toward the little warm room overlooking the garden. “You keep your own council, Mistress Isabella,” she said as we entered and sat in our places. (It is not that we were assigned our chairs, but so often were we accustomed to being in particular places that it naturally fell to this arrangement: the prioress used the one chair that sat closest to the window, while Elizabeth sat on a bench ‘neath the other window along with Cristabell. I sat upon another bench against the far wall nearest the heavy cupboard.)

“You have been here three months,” Elizabeth went on, her toothy smile endearing itself to me as if a rabbit were sniffing out who I was, “and all I know of you is that you do not miss your family, you chose to be here, and you have a good hand with a needle, as well as with the garden.”

“There is nothing more to tell.”

“Indeed? Certainly there must be more.”

I frowned without meaning to. “There is no more to me, Madam.”

“Not so harsh, mistress. I did not mean ‘more’ as such. You take too much to heart in simple words.”

“Even simple words can hurt.”

“Have you been hurt by words? Do you think I mean to hurt you?”

Embarrassed, I sat beside her with lowered head. My mind fell unexpectedly on Thomas again. “No, of course not,” I said. “The fault is mine. I take offense easily. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said, patting my leg. “But truly. Why so reticent? You seem more so today. Since yesterday, in fact.”

“It is not reticence, Dame, but prudence. I would not weary you with the trivialities of a farmer’s daughter.”

Coyly, she said, “Is Thomas Giffard a triviality?”

It took my breath. How did she know? I could not speak, my lip trembled so. She rested her hand gently upon my arm.

“You were seen yesterday, Isabella.”

“I have sinned,” I muttered. “I shall never be allowed to profess my vows.”

“And do you still wish to?”

“Oh yes. But now—”

“You put a sour face to it, Mistress. An indiscretion while you are a novice…Tut! It is lamentable, but not unsalvageable. You must, of course, confess it to the prioress and the chaplain.”

My uncertain future hovered just before me. Was it within reach, or did it drift too far away? “Yes…then… Do you think there is still a chance?”

“Sir John’s son is an important man, or at least has that potential. Is it your will to deny him?”

“With my very breath! If God’s grace did not fill me, I would not be here beside you now.”

“And what of the next time?”

“The…next time?”

“I have lived a good many years in the cloister, Isabella, but also a goodly number in the world. Think you I know nothing of men? He will persist.”

I shook my head. “He is married.”

“And you are a sister, or soon to be. Did that stop him?”

I stared at that wrinkled face bolstered by its starched white linen. “But…a holy sister?”

“If you were ever tempting before as a farmer’s daughter, surely you are more so now.”

“Before, I did not tempt him.” Did I say it sadly? “We have been friends only. For many years.”

“And now, more?”

“For so many years I wanted it to be so, but now… Oh, Elizabeth!” Dropping my face into my hands, I wept. Was it for Isabella or for Thomas?

“There now. Finish weeping and then awaken to your new cause. If you truly wish to be a sister then you must forgive like one.”

“Forgive?” I raised my face, feeling the cool wet of my cheek as a breeze cast up from the open casement.

“Dame Cristabell, of course. She is the one who saw you yesterday and reported it.”

“I should have known.” There was no anger for Cristabell. How could I blame her for merely witnessing my own weakness? “I will never endear myself to her now. What makes her so cross with me?”

“Ah. It is interesting that you think you have so little in common, for I see more now than ever before.”

There was no time to ponder this, for the bells suddenly chimed. It was not the thrumming tower bell. Slowly, I came to know the sounds and rhythm of the cloister. When tradesmen came, the little bell was rung to let the sisters know to meet the bailiff at the iron grating or at the dwelling gate. And when the bell tower rang out, it was a call to the chapel for prayers. The latter rang often, and I tried to become used to abandoning whatever task I was given to go silently and obediently to prayers, the Divine Office.

“I must see to the gate,” I told Elizabeth and she nodded to me.

I scurried down the halls to the cloister, finding myself near the buttery. Not only was I becoming accustomed to the sounds, but also the sights of the convent in each stage of the day; how the shadows lengthened, brushing aside the autumn sunlight as if with the careless wave of a hand; how—on a cloudy day—the light lay lifeless upon a wall, barely changing its color from musty buff to a dull gray. Shadows, too, possessed their own personality and were seldom cause for fright in the dim evening or in the slanted light of late afternoon.

I thought nothing of the buttery door that was as old if not older than the heavy timbers that made up Blackladies herself. We were not a rich house with foodstuffs to spare, but there was often a goodly supply of cheese and peas, barley and rye. We kept the door closed and secure, hoping to keep it free of vermin.

So it was with some curiosity that I observed the buttery door resting ajar.

I stopped. An unnatural caution propelled me, and there in its indistinct layers of shadows, I saw a figure lingering just in the doorway. Its movements were strangely vigorous, and I was suddenly afraid. What apparition was this? A demon? I longed to cry out, to frighten it away, but my own throat was swollen with fear, and I could do nothing.

At that moment, the figure made only a small step into a stripe of illumination, but it was enough to see fingers dipping into something wet and sticky. I could see the shiny, translucent strings of it lengthening as the fingers drew away and were brought to its open lips, which wrapped about the two fingers and sucked upon them.

Sickened with horror, I took a step back into the protecting shadows. Terrified, I watched until I realized—belatedly—that my own imagination made of a simple honey pot a macabre scenario. Still, my greatest surprise was the perpetrator.

“Holy Mother,” I whispered, not knowing whether I called upon her help or her witness. What was I to do with such information? Was I to denounce the thief upon the spot, or go to another authority with these tidings? I touched my lips with my fingers and leaned my head back against the wall. Such a little thing this was. Was it not something I could keep in my heart and not pass my lips? For what good was the telling of it to me or to the thief? A little bit of honey, a taste of sweetness in a bitter life. How could I begrudge that?

The bell chimed again, and without hesitation, I left to attend to it.

I wondered as the next day passed why I heard nothing from the prioress, for surely Cristabell had rushed to her with news of my disgrace. But nothing came of it. Cristabell did plague me with a secret smile, but it was not until late afternoon in our chamber that she dared broach the subject.

Her expression was dark with taunting satisfaction as she sat opposite me, picking up her yarn and weaving it about her hand into a ball, never looking at the yarn but at me. “Soon the prioress will ask to speak with you. It is regrettable, but I am certain your family will welcome you back.”

“Welcome me back? Cristabell, you speak of journeys I will not be taking. Why?”

“Come, Mistress. It is over. All know of your liaisons.”

Prepared as I was, the blush still tinted my cheek. “You must be referring to the visit of Thomas Giffard two days ago.”

“Aha! So you admit it.”

“I admit what is true. He came to see me to confess his love. And I must admit, I have longed to hear it. But. I am a practical woman, Cristabell. I am only a yeoman’s daughter and he a great lord. Never was there to be anything but friendship between us, and never was there.”

“I saw more than that,” she hissed.

“I know. It was regrettable, but not unforgivable. I turned him away.”

“You did not—”

“I did. He is a married man, and I intend to profess my vows. Surely you must know that.”

“I saw only the carnal nature of you, Mistress, which I suspected from the start. The prioress will never stomach such behavior. You will be out.”

“If only you would listen to me, Cristabell.”

“Lies. The high and mighty Isabella Launder. Caught in her own deceit at last! I knew this day would come. I shall pray for you.” Red-faced with satisfaction, she cast the yarn aside, jolted from her chair, and left the chamber.

Sitting alone, hearing her voice in my head, I wondered what the prioress would say to me.

She called me to her parlor that very hour. I bowed as I entered and stood, awaiting her instruction. She did not bid me sit as she studied me, tapping one curled nail upon her table. I wanted to blurt out, “Denounce me!”, but I kept it in check, telling myself to await her pleasure in this.

At last her dry lips parted and she took a breath. “Isabella, I have asked to speak with you on a certain topic. A topic I hoped you would broach first.”