Roses in the Tempest (28 page)

The rubble was deep, and so I dismounted and climbed it, ignoring the workmen as they bowed and doffed their caps. Did they know what damage they truly inflicted? Did they realize how irreparable were these walls once pulled down? More than stone and wood. Much more.

I had done my best to salve Isabella’s heart, but this scene of destruction pulled at my own soul. I was glad she was not here to see it.

The garden was unrecognizable. And though as a man I should never have been privy to the interior of the nun’s cloister, I had enjoyed a singular privilege that could not be explained in a court document or to a dispassionate inquisitor.

It was lovely, her garden, a creature of Isabella’s own devising. A place of refuge and beauty. Of peace.

And now it was rubble. The foliage was gray with dust as if some unholy snow storm had blown through. One beam had fallen across the garden, crushing her proud rose bushes beneath them. Red petals scattered like blood on a battlefield. Rosewood limbs lay broken and vanquished. I was saddened to see the roof come down, but I was far more affected by the sight of her slain roses.

I knelt beside them, lifting a limp bloom in my palm. Their fragrance was still pungent in the air, still strong and full of the promise that only a rose can give. How much they had weathered, and now how little remained. It would certainly take a cataclysm such as this to destroy them utterly, for they never before surrendered. Proud, they were. Their faces always toward the sun.

I let the bloom fall from my hand, its fragrance still permeating the flesh. Truly a death worth mourning.

Still, a rose is a hearty thing. Pruned down to nothing, it surprises its gardener with the tenacity of its blooms. And a rose possesses that singular ability to be grafted to stronger stock, to push out its roots, hold on, and live again.

Prior to 1540, there were some eight thousand men and women serving in England in over eight hundred religious communities. By 1540, none remained. Besides the evicted monks and nuns, it is believed that as much as ten times that population was also turned out of the dissolved monasteries and convents. These people were either servants dependent on religious houses to make a living, or they were older persons reliant on the monks and nuns for their retirement care.

Once dissolved, the monastery buildings were sold, the churches were stripped of their riches, and in some cases burned, their empty shells still standing today as silent testimony to Henry VIII’s division with Rome.

Ironically, the fall of the monasteries was also the fall of the chief instigator of their destruction, Thomas Cromwell. By this time, King Henry was married to his fourth wife Anne of Cleeves, forming an alliance with Lutheran Germany, but the reasons for the alliance were quickly slipping away. Not wishing any more enmity with the emperor (which Henry incurred by his fight to divorce Catherine of Aragon) and losing interest almost immediately in his new wife, the marriage was quickly dissolved—and so was confidence in Cromwell who machined the match. Cromwell was imprisoned and subsequently executed for treason.

The character of Thomas Legh is well documented in the papers of the time. He was as detestable—if not more so—as depicted.

As for Thomas Giffard, he did rebuild Blackladies and resided there until 1559, a year before he died, leasing it in that last year to his son Humphrey. He remained Catholic, as did many in the town of Brewood (pronounced “brood” by contemporary locals), and he is even mentioned in documents as one being fined for recusancy or “tarrying at home” instead of attending the king’s Protestant services. No doubt, he celebrated private masses in his own home.

Despite this religious difference, he maintained unusual favor at court. He was appointed sheriff twice, and served as bailiff and custodian for a deer park in Bishop’s Wood. Once Queen Mary came to power, restoring Catholicism to England, Thomas was knighted at her coronation, and served as an honored member of Parliament during her unfortunate reign.

His father lived to a ripe old age of 90 years, and Thomas himself died at 69, with seventeen children, ten surviving. In his will, he left to “Dame Alice” the amount of 40s and a black gown. Dame Alice apparently went on to live a comfortable life under the surviving Ursula Giffard. She was made godmother of George Giffard, one of Thomas’ grandchildren, and perhaps later lived under the care of Thomas’ daughter Isabel who married Francis Biddolph. They had a son named Humphrey, whom Alice named as executor of her will. Many of the items in her will look suspiciously like the inventory from Blackladies.

Thomas was entombed in his family church in Brewood, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin and St. Chad. In a twist of cruel irony, the man who defended the Catholic faith with secret masses now finds himself buried not in a Catholic church, but in one now entrusted to the Church of England.

Isabella Launder received 40s when they closed Blackladies. Her nuns each received 20s. They were all granted pensions for life. Isabella’s was 66s 8d a year, and the others received their yearly stipend of 33s 4d

Isabella lived with her sister Agnes in Swynnerton until she died in March of 1551. It is not known how old she actually was. According to documents, only two nuns survived her: Cristabell Smith and Isabella’s niece, Alice Beche. Another niece married Christopher Alate, a former tenant at Blackladies, and was most likely a relation to Catherine Alate, one of the priory’s servants.

Isabella was laid to rest in the parish of Stone not far from Beech on April 28, 1551.

ANGELUS
A noon ringing of bells as a reminder of specific prayers to the Virgin Mary.

BOLTING HOUSE
A place for storing flour.

DIVINE OFFICE
They were first used for monastics, denoting the specific hours of the day for certain prayers. Also called the canonical hours, these soon became how the laity could divide the day, since the monks and nuns rang bells to call their community to prayer. It was a precursor to clocks, and the occupants of village and city alike, knew what specific time of the day it was by the ringing of the bells. They were divided roughly like this:

Matins
(during the night, usually midnight, sometimes called Vigils)

Lauds
(at dawn or 3:00 a.m.)

Prime
(first hour, 6:00 a.m.)

Terce
(third hour, 9:00 a.m.)

Sext
(sixth hour, noon)

None
(ninth hour, 3:00 p.m.)

Vespers
(6:00 p.m.)

Compline
(9:00 p.m.)

-----

GYLING HOUSE
Gyle is wort in the process of fermentation, so a gyling house is another place in the long process for the brewing of beer.

KEELER
A shallow tub for cooling liquids.

KILHOUSE
A place for drying grain. Also “Kilnhouse”.

SKEP
Woven beehive, where we get the shape of a beehive hair-do.

STEWPOND
A pond for keeping fish for eating.

WAIN
A horse-drawn wagon.

Los Angeles native and award-winning author Jeri Westerson writes the critically
acclaimed Crispin Guest Medieval Noir mysteries and historical novels. Her mys-
teries have garnered nominations for the Shamus, the Macavity, the Agatha,
Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, and the Bruce Alexander Historical Mystery
Award. When not writing, Jeri dabbles in beekeeping, gourmet cooking, fine
wines, cheap chocolate, and swoons over anything British. JeriWesterson.com