“You are easily duped, Cat. You always believe what you want to. That is no way to learn what is true. I don’t believe it. I don’t like him. I never did. I believe he is cruel to…our mother.”

Catherine spat out: “It is because he is not your father. You are jealous.”

“Jealous! I tell you I am glad. I would have any man for my father rather than him.”

I paused at the door and did not go in. Instead I crept silently away.

I thought a great deal about that conversation. It was inevitable of course now that they were growing up that they should form their own opinions. When they had been little I had kept them away from him, knowing that there was no time in his life for young children. I did wonder whether it would have been different if Catherine had been a boy.

I considered them now—Catherine was nearly twelve years old, Honey fourteen—almost a woman, Honey, for she had developed earlier than most. There was a certain touch of Keziah’s voluptuousness about her and her beauty had by no means diminished. Those startling violet black-lashed eyes alone would have made her a beauty.

But she was not as easy to know as Catherine, who was all effervescence, her feelings close to the surface, tears and anger coming quickly and as quickly dispersing. Catherine showed her affection with a quick hug or a kiss; she could laugh derisively at one’s failings and then show a quick penitence if she thought she had inflicted a wound. How different was Honey! I was aware that I must be careful with Honey and I always had been, taking the utmost pains to show that I loved her equally with Catherine. For me she had, I was fully aware, a deep and passionate devotion. It gratified me and at the same time alarmed me a little, for one could never be quite sure of Honey. How her name belied her! She was wild and passionate.

It was disturbing now that they were growing up and developing such distinct personalities; and the more adoration Catherine showed for Bruno the more loathing Honey seemed to feel; and because they were young neither of them could cloak their feelings; and as Bruno realized his daughter’s growing appreciation and interest in him, so he was aware of Honey’s intensifying repulsion.

I decided that I would speak to Honey about it and I asked her to walk with me one morning around the garden and pick flowers with me. I was growing like my mother, I thought, in that I had become so domesticated; but I never had a great interest in these things and when I did my flowers my thoughts would be far away with what was happening at Court, for instance, and what effect any change there might have on our lives.

“Honey,” I said, “Catherine talks to you often of her father.”

“She talks of nothing else nowadays. Sometimes I think that Catherine is not very intelligent.”

“My dear Honey,” I replied, in what Catherine called my unnaturally virtuous voice, “is it unintelligent for a daughter to admire her father?”

“Yes,” retorted Honey, “if he is not admirable.”

“My dear child, you must not talk so. It is…ungrateful and unbecoming.”

“Should I be grateful to him?”

“You have lived your life under his roof.”

“I prefer to think it has been under yours.”

“He provided it.”

“He never wanted me here. It was only because you insisted that I was allowed to stay. I know so much. I go to my grandmother in the woods.”

“Does she speak of these things?”

“She is a wise woman, Mother, and she speaks sometimes in riddles as wise people do. I wonder why. Is it because they are afraid that if they speak clearly we might learn as much as they know?”

“That could be a reason.”

“My grandmother has told me some truths. She says it is well for me to know of certain matters. I often think how different life might have been for me but for you.”

“My darling Honey, you have been a joy and a comfort to me.”

“I shall always endeavor to be that,” she answered fervently.

“My blessed child, you are my own daughter, remember.”

“But by adoption. Tell me about my mother.”

“Does not your grandmother tell you?”

“I would like you to tell me for people see others in different ways.”

“She was gay and in a way beautiful…though you are more so.

“Am I like her then?”

“No, not in your ways.”

“She was not married to my father. He came to disband the Abbey. What was he like?”

“I saw little of him,” I said evasively.

“And my mother fell in love with him and I was born.”

I nodded. So she had in a way and I could not tell Honey the horrible truth.

“I am his sister,” she said. “My grandmother told me. She said: ‘You are both my grandchildren.’ And when I heard it I could not believe it. My grandmother says it is why he hates me. He would rather not have to see me.”

“He does not believe it, because he will not accept the fact that your mother was his.”

“He believes himself to be divine.” She laughed. “Do divine people care so much that people shall adore them?”

“He believes he has a great mission in life. He has given homes to these people here.”

“He never gives without counting what will come back to him in return. That is not true giving.”

She was too discerning, my Honey.

“You should try to understand him.”

“Understanding does not increase my respect for him. Perhaps I understand too well, as might be expected since we came of the same mother.”

“Honey, I would like you to forget that. I think of myself as your mother. Could you not try to do the same?”

She turned to me and I saw the blazing devotion in her eyes.

“My darling child,” I said. “You cannot know how much you mean to me.”

“If I could have a wish,” she told me, “it would be that I were truly your daughter and Catherine was my own mother’s.”

“Nay, I would have you both my daughters.”

“I would liefer be the only one.”

Yes, Honey gives me twinges of alarm. Her hate would be as fierce as her love.

There could not be peace for long. My mother had come over to tell me that Simon Caseman had gone away “on business.” She was anxious, I could see, and I wondered what this business entailed.

Simon Caseman was clever. He had not come out openly on the side of Queen Jane but I was sure that had she succeeded in holding the Crown he would have supported her wholeheartedly. Now I wondered whether there was some fresh conspiracy afoot.

I was soon to discover. Sir Thomas Wyatt was leading a rebellion against Queen Mary.

My mother came hurrying over to the Abbey with the news that the Queen was in the Palace of Whitehall and Sir Thomas Wyatt’s men were marching on the city. The Queen was in despair.

“She knows that this is the end of her reign.” My mother’s voice rang out triumphantly.

I said: “Where is your husband?” She smiled secretly.

“I worry about you, Damask,” she said almost immediately. “I want you to bring the girls and come over to Caseman Court. When Sir Thomas Wyatt is triumphant I would not have you here.”

“And if Sir Thomas does not triumph?”

“You will see.”

“Mother,” I said, “where is your husband?”

“He has business to do,” she answered.

“Business?” I asked. “With Sir Thomas Wyatt?”

She did not answer and I did not press her to because I was afraid.

I said: “Sir Thomas would set Queen Jane or the Princess Elizabeth on the throne. And do you think that if he did so the people would stand by and let the rightful Queen be thrust aside?”

“I wish you would come with me to Caseman Court” was her answer.

But my mother was disappointed for on the cold February day which followed that when my mother had implored me to take care, the rebel forces marched in London and there was fighting in the streets of the capital. I heard that the Queen was intrepid and it was she who had to comfort her weeping ladies. Later I discovered how near Wyatt had come to success, and might have done so but when cornered in Fleet Street, surrounded and cut off from his fighting forces, he had given himself up believing the battle to be lost.

My mother was indeed distraught and knowing that Simon was not at Caseman Court I went over to see her.

“What has gone wrong?” she cried. “Why does the Papist woman always succeed?”

“Perhaps,” I answered, “because she is the true Queen.”

Shortly after that Jane, the Queen of nine days, was executed with her husband. That was a sad day for even those who were fanatically Papist were well aware that the innocent young girl of sixteen had been enemy to none; she had not desired the Crown which had been forced upon her by an ambitious father-in-law and husband; yet she had been led blindfolded to the dock and that fair head had been severed from her shoulders.

The Princess Elizabeth was implicated in the rebellion; and indeed it was said that the object of it was meant to place her, not Jane, on the throne.

Bruno said: “She is a wily woman and greedy for the throne. It is a pity that they did not take her head instead of Jane’s.”

“Poor Elizabeth,” I remonstrated. “She is so young.”

“She is twenty years of age—old enough for ambition. The Queen should not allow her to live.”

But the Queen did allow her to live for Sir Thomas Wyatt, who that April laid his head on the block, declared with his last breath that the Princess Elizabeth was innocent of any conspiracy against her sister.

Simon Caseman had returned to Caseman Court. I wondered what part he had played in the Wyatt rebellion.

It was a marvelous thing that he could be involved and extricate himself before the involvement became an embarrassment. I was convinced that what he wanted was to see the end of Mary’s reign, to prevent this return to Rome which was threatened and to see a Protestant ruler set up in the Queen’s place.

The obvious choice was Elizabeth.

It was Bruno’s belief that Elizabeth took her religion as she took her politics—from expediency. The Queen was Catholic and her proposed marriage to a Spaniard was unpopular; if Elizabeth were going to stand in contrast to her sister she must support the Protestant faith. And that was why she did so.

She had become important. People were looking to her more and more. There were many of Mary’s supporters who would have liked to have her head; but the Queen was not vindictive. Some said she remembered the days of Elizabeth’s childhood when she, Mary, had had a fondness for an engaging little sister.

And so although Queen Mary had placed herself firmly on the throne and strong men and factions surrounded her with the purpose and intention of keeping her there, there were uneasy moments. And the thoughts and hopes of many men and women were turned to the daughter of Anne Boleyn.

My mother came to the Abbey with the usual baskets full of good things. She had a story to tell. She had the twins with her for they seized the opportunity to come to the Abbey whenever they could and they carried her baskets for her.

The girls came to see what she had brought and to listen to her news.

“My word,” she said, settling down, “there are goings-on in the city.”

“Tell us, Grandmother,” commanded Catherine.

“Well, my dear, ’tis a haunted house in Aldersgate Street, though maybe it is not haunted. It may well be that it is an angel of God abiding there. Who can say?”

“Do get on,” cried Catherine. “Oh, Grandmother, you are so maddening. You keep us in suspense always with your stories.”

“She will tell it in good time,” I said. “Don’t harass her.”

“Good time,” cried Catherine. “What is good time? Now is good time in my opinion.”

“And who is wasting time now?” asked Honey.

“You!” cried Catherine. “Now, Grandmother.”

“It’s a voice that came from the bricks,” said Peter. “I heard it. Didn’t you, Paul?”

Paul agreed with his brother as he agreed in everything.

“What sort of a voice?” insisted Catherine.

“Well, if you had let me explain from the beginning,” said my mother, “you would know by now.”

“Which is perfectly true,” I added.

“Well, tell us,” cried Catherine.

“There is a voice which comes from the bricks of this house. And when the people cry, ‘God save Queen Mary,’ it says nothing.”

“How can it be a voice if nothing is said?” demanded Catherine.