Rupert was a favorite of the girls. They liked to visit his farm; it was he who had taught them to ride and they felt they had more freedom on his farm than they had at the Abbey. Bruno’s indifference to Catherine and his resentment of Honey was noticed by the girls. They accepted it as children do and did not seek to change it. But I often thought that to Rupert they gave some of the love that might have been their father’s. He was something between a highly favored uncle and father.
They chattered away, asking about the animals on his farm, some of which had been given names by them.
They embraced him warmly when he went and his eyes warned me: Do not forget our conversation. The danger is here. It could flare up at any moment.
Bruno returned in good spirits. He was always in an exultant mood after his visits to the Continent. “Did you do good business?” I asked him. He assured me that he had.
“What did you bring home this time? Anything new? My mother always wants to know what new flowers and vegetables have been produced in other countries.”
He said he had brought a fine tapestry which would hang in the hall.
When we were alone in our bedchamber that night I told him of Rupert’s visit and the warning he had given me.
“Rupert!” cried Bruno scathingly. “What is he hinting at?”
“He is truly concerned. We are in danger. I sense it.”
He looked at me impatiently. “Have I not told you that you should trust me in all things? You doubt my ability to manage my affairs.” He went to the window and looked out. He turned to me. “All this,” he said, “is mine. I have rebuilt it. It rises like the phoenix out of the ashes. I did this and you doubt my ability to manage my affairs!”
“I don’t doubt for one moment, but it often happens that some are more aware of danger than others. And there is danger in the air.”
“Danger?”
“Many of the old monks and lay brothers are here. They are living a life which is very close to that which they led in the monastery.”
“Well?”
“It has been noticed.”
He laughed. “You have always sought to bring me down. You have always resented the fact that I am not as other men. Understand now, that I am not as other men. By God, do you believe that any other could have come to this place, taken it in the first place, and raised it up to what it is now if there had not been some superior power within him?”
I said: “It is certainly very mysterious.”
“Mysterious! Is that all you have to say of it?”
“How did you acquire the Abbey, Bruno?”
“I have told you.”
“But….”
“But you do not believe me. You have ever tried to throw doubts on all that I have told you. I should never have chosen you.”
Truly he frightened me. I thought: There is a madness in him! And I was ever afraid of the mad.
I cried: “So, you made one mistake. Your judgment was wrong. You chose me and you should never have done so.”
He turned to me suddenly. I was sitting up in bed and he gripped my arm. It was a painful grip but I did not cry out; I met the blazing fanatical light in his eye with what I believed was calm good sense.
Then I said, “It was a mistake, was it not?”
“It need not have been. At that time it was not a mistake. You trusted me then.”
“Yes, I trusted you then. And I believed that we should build a wonderful life together. But you deceived me from the start, did you not? You told me you were poor and humble.”
“Humble…when was I ever humble?”
“You are right. Never were you humble. And the test you put me to, that was arrogant, was it not? You did not woo me as any other man would have done. You must feign poverty lest you fear I marry you for your estates.”
He released my arm with an impatient gesture.
“You are hysterical. Rupert has been frightening you and although you have no faith nor truth in me you are very ready to believe him.”
“I believe him because what he says makes sense. The Reformed party is in power. The King is a Protestant. Northumberland is a Protestant and they rule the country. Have we not seen the tragedy that can come to those who do not conform to the doctrines laid down by our rulers?”
“And you think I would be ruled by these inferior people?”
“Have a care what you say, Bruno. Who knows what may be heard and reported? It is clear to me that you would be ruled by none but your own overweening pride…your desire to prove that you are not as other men.”
“And am I? Have you forgotten my coming?”
I thought of Keziah on that memorable night and her tenor because she had betrayed that which should never have been betrayed; I thought of Brother Ambrose walking across the grass with Bruno and Rolf Weaver coming upon them, taunting. Bruno had seen that. He had seen his father kill the man who had taunted him. Yes, he had seen it and shut his eyes to it because he would not believe Keziah and Ambrose spoke the truth. He could not have it because if it did the image which he had created of himself would be destroyed. In this lies madness, I thought.
“I forget nothing,” I said.
“It would be well that you remember.”
He stood there beside the bed—tall and straight with the pallor of his face like marble, a contrast to those startlingly violet eyes which were so like Honey’s. I thought: He is as beautiful as a god! And I felt that overwhelming tenderness take possession of me and I could not say to him: Bruno, you are living a lie because you are afraid to face the truth.
He began to speak. “I…I alone came back to the Abbey, did I not? It was lost and I regained it. How was it done?”
“Bruno, please tell me truthfully. How was it done?”
“It was a miracle. It was the second miracle at St. Bruno’s.”
I turned wearily away. There was no reasoning with him.
A New Reign
THAT HAPPENED IN THAT momentous year of 1553. My thirtieth birthday was three months away. Thirty! It was not really old but in my thirty years I had seen events take place which had shattered the peace not only of my own household but of the entire country, I had suffered deep sorrow and known some happiness; and at this stage of my life I had reached a conclusion that I had made one of the greatest mistakes a woman can make in marrying a man who can never give her the rich fulfillment she craved. I had my daughters—my own Catherine and my adopted Honey; they were at that time my life; and when I thought of Rupert’s warning and the dangers which beset us, it was of my children I thought, not of myself nor what might befall my husband and his Abbey.
The religious conflict was the main question of the day. Even my mother did not escape it.
When I visited her as I did not as often as I should have wished to, for I always feared to come face to face with her husband, or when she visited me she would chatter of her twins and their mischief, which seemed a source of great delight to her, her garden, her stillroom, her remedies. Only rarely would she refer to the new religion.
“You should study the new opinions, Damask,” she said. “They are the views of the King and it is good for us all to follow him.”
“Mother,” I replied, “I cannot say, ‘This is the right and that the wrong,’ for it seems to me that there is much to be said for both sides.”
“Nonsense,” said my mother briskly, “how could wrong be right and right wrong? It must either be one or the other. And this is the right, I do assure you.”