Текст книги "Lion Triumphant"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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Philippa Carr
The Lion Triumphant

The Spanish Galleon

FROM MY TURRET WINDOW I could watch the big ships sailing into Plymouth Harbor. Sometimes I would get up in the night and the sight of a stately vessel on the moonlit waters lifted my spirits. When it was dark I would sometimes watch for lights on the sea which would tell me there was a ship out there, and I would ask myself, What sort of ship? A dainty caravel, a warlike galleass, a three-masted carrack or a stately galleon? And wondering, I would return to my bed and imagine the kind of men who would be sailing on that ship; and for a while I would cease to mourn for Carey and my lost love.

My first thought on awakening in the morning would not be for Carey (as I had such a short time ago promised myself it would be every moment of the days to come) but of the sailors who were coming into port.

I would go alone to the Hoe—although I was not supposed to do this, it being considered improper for a young lady of seventeen to go where she could be jostled by rough sailors. If I insisted on going I must take with me two of the maids. I had never been one to accept authority meekly, but I could not make them understand that it was only when I was alone that I could capture the magic of the harbor. If I took Jennet or Susan with me they would be eyeing the sailors and giggling, reminding each other of what had happened to one of their friends who had trusted a sailor. I had heard all that before. I wanted to be alone.

So I would choose the opportunity to slip down to the Hoe and there discover my ship of the night. I would see men whose skins had been burned to the color of mahogany; whose bright eyes studied the girls, assessing their charms, which I imagined depended largely on their accessibility, for a sailor’s stay on land was a short one and he had little time to waste in wooing. Their faces were different from those of men who did not go to sea. It may have been due to the exotic scenes they had witnessed, to the hardships they had endured, to their mingling devotion, adoration, fear and hatred for that other mistress, the beautiful, wild, untamed and unpredictable sea.

I liked to watch the stores being loaded—sacks of meal, salted meats and beans; I would dream of where the cargoes of linen and bales of cotton were being taken. It was all bustle and excitement. It was no place for a young, genteelly nurtured girl; but it was irresistible.

It seemed inevitable that something exciting must happen sooner or later; and it did. It was on the Hoe that I first saw Jake Pennlyon.

Jake was tall and broad, solid and invincible. That was what struck me immediately. He was bronzed from the weather, for although he was about twenty-five years old when I first saw him, he had been at sea for eight years. Even at the time of our first meeting he commanded his own ship, which accounted for that air of authority. I noticed immediately how the eyes of women of all ages brightened at the sight of him. I compared him—as I did all men—with Carey and by comparison he was coarse, lacking in breeding.

I had no idea who he was at that moment, of course, but I knew he was someone of importance. Men touched their forelocks; one or two girls curtsied. Someone called out, “A merry good day to ’ee, Cap’un Lion.”

The name suited him in a way. The sun on his dark blond hair gave it a tawny shade. He swaggered slightly as sailors did when they first came ashore as though they were not yet accustomed to the steadiness of land and still rolled with the ship. The King of Beasts, I thought.

And then I knew that he was aware of me, for he had paused. It was a strange moment; it seemed as though the bustle of the harbor was stilled for a moment. The men had stopped loading; the sailor and the two girls to whom he was talking appeared to be looking at us and not at each other; even the parrot which a grizzled old seaman had been trying to sell to a fustian-smocked farmer stopped squawking.

“Good morrow, Mistress,” said Jake Pennlyon with a bow, the exaggerated humility of which suggested mockery.

I felt a sudden thrill of dismay; he must clearly think that because I was alone here it was in order for him to address me. Young ladies of good family did not stand about in such places unchaperoned and any who did might well be awaiting an opportunity to strike some sort of bargain with women-hungry sailors. Was it not for this very reason that I was not expected to be here alone?

I pretended not to realize that he addressed me; I stared beyond him out at the ship with the little boats bobbing around it. My color had heightened, though, and he knew that he disturbed me.

“I think we have not met before,” he said. “You were not here two years ago.”

There was something about him which made it impossible for me to ignore him. I said: “I have been here but a few weeks.”

“Ah, not a native of Devon.”

“No,” I said.

“I knew it. For such a pretty young lady could not be around without my scenting her out.”

I retorted: “You talk as though I am some beast to be hunted.”

“It is not only beasts who must be hunted.”

His blue eyes were penetrating, they seemed to see more of me than was comfortable or decorous; they were the most startling blue eyes I ever saw—or ever was to see. Years spent on the ocean had given them that deep blue color. They were sharp, shrewd, attractive in a way and yet repellent. He clearly thought that I was some serving girl who had come out because a ship was in and was looking for a sailor. I said coldly: “I think, sir, you are making a mistake.”

“Now that,” he answered, “is a thing I rarely do on occasions such as this, for although I can be rash at times my judgment is infallible when it comes to selecting my friends.”

“I repeat that you are mistaken in addressing me,” I said. “And now I must go.”

“Could I not be allowed to escort you?”

“I have not far to go. To Trewynd Grange in fact.”

I looked for at least a flicker of concern. He should know that he could not treat with impunity one who was guest at the Grange.

“I must call at a moment convenient to you.”

“I trust,” I retorted, “that you will wait to be asked.”

He bowed again.

“In which case,” I went on as I turned away, “you may wait a very long time.”

I had a great desire to get away. There was something overbold about him. I could believe him capable of any indiscretion. He was like a pirate, but then so many seamen were just that.

I hurried back to the Grange, fearful at first that he might follow me there and perhaps faintly disappointed because he did not. I went straight up to the turret in which I had my rooms and looked out. The ship—his ship—stood out clearly on a sea that was calm and still. She must have been of some seven hundred tons, with towering fore and after castles. She carried batteries of guns. She was not a warship, but she was equipped to protect herself and perhaps attack others. She was a proud-looking ship; and there was a dignity about her. She was his ship, I knew.

I would not go down to the Hoe again until that ship sailed away. I would look every day and hope that when I awoke next morning she would be gone. Then I started to think of Carey—beautiful Carey, who was young, only two years older than myself, darling Carey with whom I used to quarrel when I was a child until that wonderful day when the realization came to us both that we loved each other. The misery flooded over me and I lived it all again; the unaccountable anger of Carey’s mother—who was a cousin of my own mother—when she had declared nothing would induce her to consent to our marriage. And my own dear mother, who had at first not understood until that terrible day when she took me into her arms and wept with me and explained how the sins of the fathers were visited on the children; and my happy dream of a life shared with Carey was shattered forever.

Why should it all come back so vividly because of a meeting on the Hoe with that insolent sailor?

I must explain how I came to be in Plymouth—this southwest corner of England when my home was in the southeast only a few miles from London itself.

I was born in St. Bruno’s Abbey—a strange place in which to be born, and when I look back on my beginnings they were clearly anything but orthodox. I was lighthearted, careless, not in the least serious like Honey, whom I had always thought of as my sister. There we were in our childhood living in a monastery, which was no monastery, with that ambience of mysticism about us. That we were unaware of this in our early years was due to my mother, who was so normal, serene, comforting—all that a mother should be. I told Carey once that when we had our children I would be to them what my mother had been to me.

But as I grew older I became aware of the tension between my parents. Sometimes I think they hated each other. I sensed that my mother wanted a husband who was kind and ordinary, rather like Carey’s Uncle Rupert, who had never married and I suspected loved her. As for my father, I did not understand him at all, but I did believe that at times he hated my mother. There was some reason for it which I could not understand. Perhaps it was because he was guilty. Ours was an uneasy household, but I was not as much aware of it as Honey was. It was easy for Honey; Honey’s emotions were less complicated than mine. She was jealous because she believed my mother loved me more than she loved her, which was natural because I was her own child. Honey loved my mother possessively; she didn’t want to share her; and she hated my father. She knew exactly where her loyalties lay. It wasn’t so easy with me. I wondered whether she was as fiercely possessive of her husband, Edward, as she had been of my mother. Perhaps it was different with a husband. I was sure I would have been as eager that all Carey’s love and thoughts should have been for me.

Honey had made a grand marriage—to everyone’s amazement, although they were ready to admit that she was just about the most beautiful creature they had ever seen. I had always felt plain by comparison. Honey had beautiful dark blue, almost violet eyes, and her long, thick black lashes made them startling; her hair was dark, too, curling and vital. She was immediately noticed wherever she went. I always felt insignificant beside her, although when she was not there I was quite attractive with my heavy mid-brown hair and green eyes which my mother used to say fitted my name. “You are indeed a little Cat,” she would be fond of pointing out, “with those green eyes, and that heart-shaped face.” I knew that in her eyes I was every bit as beautiful as Honey, but this was a mother looking at her beloved child. However, Edward Ennis, son and heir of Lord Calperton, had fallen in love with Honey and married her when she was seventeen years old on her first appearance in society. Her obscure and humble birth made no difference. Honey had triumphantly achieved that which many a girl richly endowed with worldly goods had failed to do.

My mother’s delight was great, for she must have feared that it might have been difficult to find a husband for Honey. She had expected Lord Calperton to raise all sorts of objections, but Carey’s mother, whom I called Aunt Kate, had swept away any obstacles and she was the sort of woman who usually got her way because although she must have been about thirty-seven years old she had some indestructible charm so that men fell in love with her and Lord Calperton was no exception.

In November of the glorious year 1558, the old Queen had died and everywhere there was great rejoicing because new hope had come to England. We had suffered through Bloody Mary’s reign and because the Abbey was not far from the river and a mile or two away from the Capital the pall of smoke from Smithfield would drift our way when the wind was in a certain quarter. My mother used to feel ill at the sight of it and she would shut the windows and refuse to go out.

When the smoke was no longer visible my mother would go into the garden and gather flowers or fruit or herbs, whatever was in season, and send me with them over to my grandmother’s house, which bordered on the Abbey.

My mother’s stepfather had been burned at the stake as a heretic in the reign of Queen Mary; that was why the fires of Smithfield were particularly poignant to us. But I don’t think my grandmother continued to suffer as much as my mother believed she did. She would always be very interested in what I brought and she would call the twins in to talk to me. Peter and Paul were a year older than I—my mother’s half brothers and therefore my uncles. We were a complicated family. It seemed strange to have uncles a year older than oneself, so we never considered the relationship. I was fond of them both; they were identical twins—always together and looking so alike that few could tell them apart. Peter wanted to go to sea, and as Paul followed Peter in everything he wanted to go too.

When Aunt Kate arrived at the Abbey I would go to my room, lock myself in and stay there until my mother came to persuade me to go down. Then I would do so just to please her. I would sit at my window and look out at the old Abbey church and the monks’ dorter, which my mother was always talking of turning into a buttery; and I remembered how Honey used to tell me that if you listened in the dead of night you heard the chanting of the monks who had lived here long ago and the screams of those who had been tortured and hanged at the gate when King Henry’s men had come to dissolve the monastery. She used to tell me these stories to frighten me because she was jealous on account of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter. I retaliated, though, when I heard rumors about Honey. “You,” I had said, “are a bastard and your mother was a serving girl and your father a murderer of monks.” This was cruel of me because it upset Honey more than anything. It was not so much that she minded being a bastard as not being my mother’s own child. At that time her first possessive love had been centered on my mother.

My nature was to let my temper flare up, to make the most wounding comments I could think of and very soon after hate myself for doing so and try hard to make up for my cruelty. I would say to Honey: “It’s just a tale. It’s not true. And in any case you’re so beautiful that it wouldn’t matter if your father was the devil, people would still love you.” Honey didn’t forgive easily; she went on brooding on insults; she knew that her mother had been a serving woman and that her great-grandmother had been known as a witch. She didn’t mind the latter at all. To have a witch for a great-grandmother gave her some special power. She was always interested in herbs and how they could be used.

Honey came to the Abbey for the Coronation. When I asked my mother if my father would be home by then her face became a mask and it was impossible to know what she was feeling.

She said: “He’ll not be back.”

“You seem so sure,” I replied.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “I am.”

We went to London to see the Queen’s entrance into her Capital in order to take possession of the Tower of London. It was exciting to see her in her chariot with Lord Robert Dudley, one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, riding beside her. He was her Master of Horse and they had, I heard, become acquainted when they were prisoners in the Tower during the reign of the Queen’s sister, Mary. It was thrilling to hear the tower guns boom out and listen to the loyal greetings which were delivered to the young Queen as she rode along. We had taken up our position close to the Tower and we saw her clearly as she rode in.

She was young—about twenty-five years old—with fresh-colored cheeks and reddish hair; she sparkled with vitality; yet there was a great solemnity about her which was very becoming and greatly admired by the people.

We were all very moved when we heard her speak as she was about to enter the Tower.

“Some,” she said, “have fallen from being princes of this land, to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being prisoner in this place to be prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of his mercy; as they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful for the other.”

This was a speech of wisdom and modesty and determination which was greatly applauded by all who heard it.

I was thoughtful as we rode back to the Abbey, thinking of Queen Elizabeth—not so very much older than myself—who now bore a great responsibility. There was something inspiring about her and I fell to thinking of her remark about the imprisonment she had suffered and how God had been merciful and brought her from her troubles to greatness. I pictured her as a prisoner entering the Tower by the Traitors’ Gate and wondering, as she must have, when she would be taken out to Tower Green—as her mother had been—and commanded to lay her head on the block. How would one so young feel with death imminent? Would she, this bright young woman burning with zeal for her great task, have felt as wretched at the prospect of losing her life as I did at the loss of Carey?

But she had come through her troubles. God had been merciful; out of the great shadow of the Tower she had walked, to return as mistress of everyone and everything in this land.

Witnessing the entry of the new Queen into her Capital had lifted my spirits.

I listened to the conversation at dinner, which was led by Kate. She scintillated, and hating her as I did, I had to admit to her undeniable charm. She was the center of attraction at the table. She chattered on indiscreetly, for who could be sure what the new reign would bring forth and what servants who listened would report? At least they had during the reign of Mary. Why should we all think that Elizabeth’s was going to be so different?

“So at last she has safely reached the throne,” Kate was saying. “Anne Boleyn’s daughter! Mind you, she has a look of her royal father. The same high temper. It’s in the color of their hair. It’s almost identical. I once danced with His Majesty, her royal father, and do you know I verily believe that if he had not at that time been absorbed by the charms of Catherine Howard he would have cast his eyes on me? How different everything might have been if he had!”

My mother said: “Your head and shoulders might have parted company by now, Kate. We’d rather have you in one piece.”

“I was always fortunate. Poor Catherine Howard! It was her head instead of mine. What a man that was for dispossessing himself of wives.”

“You speak too freely, Kate,” said her brother Rupert.

Kate lowered her voice and looked conspiratorial. “We must remember,” she said, “that this is Harry’s daughter—Harry’s and Anne Boleyn’s, what a combination!”

“Our last Queen was his daughter too,” put in Kate’s son Nicholas, whom we called ’Colas.

“Oh, but then,” said Kate, “all that mattered was that one was a good Catholic.”

My mother tried to change the subject and asked my grandmother about some herbs she wanted. Grandmother was very knowledgeable about anything that grew and she and my mother were immediately deep in a horticultural discussion, but Kate’s voice soon rose above theirs. She was talking about the dangers through which the new Queen had passed, how when her mother had gone to the scaffold her future had been in great danger, how she had been declared illegitimate, and how with the death of Jane Seymour she had been kindly treated by the King’s three last Queens and had lived at the Dower House with Queen Catherine Parr after the death of the King.

“And I think,” said Kate mischievously, “it would be unwise to discuss what happened there. Poor Thomas Seymour! I met him once. What a fascinating man! It’s small wonder that our little Princess … but of course that is gossip. Of course she never really permitted him to enter her bedroom. That was all gossip about the Princess’ being delivered of a child. Who would believe such nonsense … now! Why, those who perpetrated such evil tales should be hung, drawn and quartered. It would be treason to repeat them now. Imagine when they brought the news to her that he had died on the block. ‘This day died a man with much wit and very little judgment,’ she said. And she said it calmly as though he were just an acquaintance. As if there could have been anything deeper between them!”

Kate laughed and her eyes sparkled, “I wonder what it will be like at Court now. Gayer than under Mary. That much is certain. Our Gracious Lady will be so eager to show her gratitude to God, to her people and to Fate for preserving her for this great destiny. She will want to be gay. She will want to forget the alarms of the past. Mercy me, after the Wyatt rebellion she came as near to the block as I am to you now.”

“It’s all in the past now,” said my mother quickly.

“One does not escape from the past, Damask,” retorted Kate. “It is always there like a shadow behind us.”

But, I thought, your miserable sins have cast a shadow over my life and you never look back to see the shadow behind you.

“Why,” went on Kate, “did you see Lord Robert beside her? She dotes on him, they say.”

“There’ll always be gossip,” said Rupert.

“He has sprung quickly into the saddle,” laughed Kate. “And what would you expect of Northumberland’s son?”

I watched Aunt Kate with growing resentment. How reckless she was, how frivolous! She could bring trouble to our household with her careless talk. And she would doubtless slip out of it unscathed. Whatever was said brought me back to my tragedy.

When Kate and ’Colas left for Remus Castle I felt better—not happy of course, only relieved that Kate had gone.

As it was November there was little to do in the garden. I remained listless. The Abbey seemed to me a gloomy place. The house itself—built like a castle resembling Remus, which was Carey’s now—was gradually becoming more like a home since my father had gone away; it was when one looked out of the windows and saw the outbuildings, the refectories and the dorters and the fishponds that it seemed so alien.

My mother’s interest was now focused on me. Her great desire was to end my misery and to show me a new way of life. To please her I used to pretend that I was getting over it, but she loved me too well to be deceived. She tried to interest me in the uses of herbs which she had learned from her mother, embroidering and tapestry; and when she found that I could not give my mind to these things she decided that she would tell me of her anxieties, which was the greatest help she could give me.

I was in my room when she came in, her face grave. I rose in alarm and she said: “Sit down, Cat. I’ve come to talk to you.”

So I sat down and she said: “I am concerned, Cat.”

“I see that, Mother. What worries you?”

“The future. … I heard today that the Bishop of Winchester has been arrested.”

“For what reason?”

“You can guess that the religious conflicts will continue. He supports the Pope. It is the old tug of war. Oh, God, I had hoped that we had passed through those evil times.”

“They say the new Queen will be tolerant, Mother.”

“Monarchs are not often so when their thrones are in danger. They are surrounded by ambitious men. There has been much tragedy in our family, Cat. My father lost his head for harboring a priest; my stepfather burned at Smithfield for following the Reformed Faith. You know Edward is a Catholic. When Honey married him she embraced his faith. That was safe in the last reign; but now we have a new Queen on the throne.”

“So you are worried about Honey.”

“All my life there have been these persecutions. I fear that will continue. As soon as I heard that the Bishop of Winchester had been arrested I thought of Honey.”

“You think that the new Queen will begin to persecute the Catholics?”

“I think her ministers may well do so. And then we shall have all the old fears returning.”

Then we talked about Honey and how happily she had married and my mother’s apprehension was eased when she thought of Honey’s happiness.

That helped a little.

It was Christmas time and we celebrated it in the great hall at the Abbey. The smell of baking filled the house and it was going to be a merry Christmas, said my mother, to celebrate not only the birth of Our Lord but the accession of our new Queen. I believe she thought that by acting as though she were sure everything was going to be wonderful, it would be.

My father had been gone so long now that we no longer expected him back. Most of our servants had been monks and had known him from his childhood. They believed there was something mystic about him and they did not question his disappearance. Nobody mourned him as they did a dead person; they never had. Therefore there was no reason why we should not celebrate Christmas with all customary rejoicing.

The festival would go on for the twelve days of Christmas and what pleased my mother was that Honey and her husband would be with us.

They came a few days before Christmas. Whenever I saw Honey after an absence her beauty struck me forcibly. She was standing in the hall; it was snowing slightly and there were tiny sparkling flakes on her fur hood. There was faint color in her cheeks and the wonderful violet eyes were brilliant.

I embraced her warmly. There were at moments great affection between us and now that she had her doting Edward she was no longer jealous of my mother’s special love for her own daughter. Her name was Honeysuckle. Her mother, who had entrusted her to my mother’s care, had said that she smelled the honeysuckle when her baby was conceived.

My mother had heard the arrival and hurried into the hall; Honey threw herself into her arms and they looked long at each other. Yes, I thought, Honey still loves her passionately. She will still be jealous of me. As if she need be, she with her glowing beauty and her loving husband, and I with Carey lost to me forever.

Edward stood behind her, rather self-effacing, gentle; he would be a good husband.

My mother was saying that they should have Honey’s old room, for she was sure that was where they would wish to be, and Honey said yes, it would be lovely; and she slipped her arm through my mother’s and they went up the great staircase together.

It was a merry Christmas for all except me; and at times even I found myself dancing and singing with the rest. Kate came with ’Colas, and Rupert came too; and my grandmother and the twins were of course with us. We spent the day at Grandmother’s house, which was within walking distance of the Abbey. She was rather vain of her cooking, for she excelled in the kitchen. She had roasted pigs and turkeys, great pies and tarts, and everything was flavored with her special herbs in which she took such a pride. Grandmother had lost two husbands, both murdered by the State; but there she was, red-faced, puffing and purring from the kitchen where she had been scolding her maids. One would never have guessed there had been any tragedy in her life. Should I be like that one day? Oh, no, Grandmother would know nothing of love as I knew it.

There were the usual Christmas customs; we decorated the halls with holly and ivy; we gave presents at New Year; and on Twelfth Night ’Colas found the silver penny in the cake and was King for the night; he was carried around on the men’s shoulders and chalked crosses on the beams of our hall, which was supposed to be a protection against evil.

I noticed my mother’s eyes as she watched him and I guessed she was thinking of Honey’s Catholicism and my unhappiness over Carey; and she was secretly praying for us both.

Kate and Honey stayed with us for the coronation which was to be on January 15.

Kate, as Lady Remus, and Edward, as the heir to Lord Calperton, were entitled to ride in the royal procession and Honey invited me to accompany her; so I was there. We assembled at the Tower whither the Queen came from Westminster Palace by barge. It was a marvelous sight, and it lifted the spirits in spite of the keen winter air. The Lord Mayor was there to offer his loyal greetings and with him were the city companies. We saw the Queen land at the private stairs on Tower Wharf.

We went home after that and a few days later the Queen came into the City to receive the loyal greetings of her subjects before her Coronation. The pageants were exciting; and there was a change which was growing more and more apparent every day. No one would mention as they had freely during the last reign that Elizabeth was a bastard. It would be more than anyone’s life was worth to say such a thing. In the pageants the House of Tudor was praised. For the first time effigies of the Queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn, were displayed side by side with those of Henry VIII. Elizabeth of York, mother of Henry VIII, was represented adorned with white roses and she was handing the white rose of York to her husband, Henry VII, who offered her the red rose of Lancaster. All along Cornhill and the Chepe pageants were staged; and children sang songs and recited verses in praise of the Queen.

Her coronation was inspiring. I was not in the Abbey, but Kate as a peeress was and she described it to us. How clearly the Queen had spoken, how firmly she had gone through the ceremony complaining, though, that the oil with which she was anointed was grease and smelled ill; but she had looked impressive in her Coronation robes and the trumpets had been magnificent. Kate was sure that the leading nobles had been ready and willing to kiss her hand and swear allegiance—particularly her handsome Master of Horse, Robert Dudley.

“Rumor has it,” said Kate, “that she will marry him. She clearly has a fancy for him. Her eyes never leave him. We shall see a royal marriage ere long, mark my words. ’Tis to be hoped her fancies are not so fleeting as those of her father.”

“Tell us about her gown,” said my mother quickly.

So Kate described the dress in detail and they were all as merry as they had been on Twelfth Night.