My Lady Marian

By Iris lloyd

Marian's hands trembled as she knelt on the scaffold to tuck Queen Anne Boleyn's long dark hair into a black cloth cap in readiness for her execution.

She had not known - how could she? - when her guardian brought her to the court of Henry VIII at Greenwich Palace, that this would one day be her distressing duty.

Young Marian had flourished at court, in spite of its many temptations and distractions, not least the unwelcome advances of privy councillor Lord Bathampton. However, throughout twelve turbulent years, she had never relinquished her dream of finding happiness with the only many she truly loved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789554267

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Emil J Burcik

State College, Pennsylvania (3 October 1982)

It is late in the afternoon. The sun is on the last leg of its gentle slide. The tangent rays make the colourful autumn leaves glitter. The murmur of the trees breaks the monotony of the stagnant silence.

They would be here soon, except that time is slowing down, nearly stalling. I start pacing in an effort to paddle it forward while my mind reminiscences on its treasured past.

Dhaka, Bangladesh (November 1976)

I am excited as I head off to my first overseas trip – Jakarta – to attend a short course. It is in Jakarta that I first meet Emil J Burcik, the course instructor – an American professor. We get to like each other and soon become friends. The two weeks of class pass like a flash of light. But what stands still, frozen in time, is the last evening.

Dr Burcik invites me for a drink. We sit and talk about things and then, as it gets late, I take my leave.

‘Listen, would you be interested in studying in the US?’ he asks me, a most unexpected question.

I take a few moments. ‘I do not think I can afford it.’

‘I am not talking about money. Would you like to come to the US?’

‘I would love to.’

He pulls out his wallet and finds a business card. ‘Get in touch with me when you get back home.’

I write to him on my return. He writes back to me and sets the wheels in motion. Months later, the postman delivers the mail: an acceptance letter from the Pennsylvania State University for a Master’s program with a half-time assistantship. I cannot believe my eyes. I remain awake all night, living and reliving the excitement of this precious gift sent down from heaven.

State College, PA (18 August 1977)

The eight-seater commuter plane lands at University Park Airport in the darkness of the night. My fellow passengers disappear in no time. I collect my luggage, take a cab and head for the Nittany Lion Inn. I get to my room, drop off my luggage, take off my shirt and trousers, and then drop, exhausted, into bed.

The next morning, it does not take long to find the building and then Dr Burcik’s office. I see him at his desk, writing. I stand at the door, smiling. He looks up and takes a moment to recognise the stranger. Then I see a flash of recognition in his eyes and the glow of welcome in his face.

As the school term begins, I try to adjust myself to the pace and the way the classes, assignments and tests run. Dr Burcik monitors my grades. He is disappointed when I score a B and delighted with my As. It embarrasses me, as my fellow students notice his emotions. ‘How is your old man?’ they tease me.

Early in the session I am introduced to a host family – Dr Dwight and Mrs Wilma Schwartz – at a reception party hosted by the International Students’ office. The following weekend I visit their home on Bradley Avenue and meet Vicki and Roger, their university-going daughter and son. The Schwartzes drive me around places; invite me over on Sundays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year, Easter and other public holidays; help me buy winter clothes; and then, during the summer break, take me to Oklahoma to meet their extended families. But, most exciting of all, they invite me to be a member of their family.

By early 1979 I finish my studies and think of finding a job, but Dr Burcik wants me to do a PhD and suggests that I do so through another university. His rationale is that it would expand my horizons and help me to meet new people. He calls someone he knows at the University of Texas at Austin and once more sets the wheels in motion.

One late spring afternoon, Dr Burcik picks me up from my dormitory. As we get out of the car, Mrs Burcik greets me with her usual loving smile. She inquires about my well-being and then suggests, ‘Why don’t you and Emil talk while I get things ready? It won’t be too long.’

Dr Burcik shows me around his acreage – it is an elevated land (a hill, so to speak). The lawn is neatly mowed. At the front, there are a number of flower beds – all in blossom. However, the most appealing part is the backyard vegetable farm, which has at least a dozen varieties. There are a few domestic animals – cows and goats. Dr Burcik says that he milks them himself. In one area there is a mound of mowed grass, dry leaves and uprooted weeds, and in another area there is a pile of wood from a freshly chopped tree drying in the sun. I love this rural setting as it brings me a feeling of nostalgia.

We stroll back to the patio. The last rays of the sun are clinging to the rooftop. ‘Let’s sit outside,’ Dr Burcik suggests and then runs into the house to get some drinks.

Dr Burcik loves beer. And he loves it even more when I join him. A guru and his disciple enjoying themselves, let alone drinking alcohol, is something incomprehensible in my culture. Yet here the guru obviously does not see it that way and the disciple loves his closeness. So, in the course of events, the guru and his disciple simply become buddies and all that matters is that they enjoy each other’s company.

Dr Burcik returns with two beer cans and two glasses. He serves me first and then helps himself. As usual, he talks and I listen. He finishes his glass, looks at mine and prods me to catch up. He runs back to the house and in no time returns with two more cans.

He talks about his mother and sister. He says that they loved him deeply. It was a dilemma when it came to dedicating his book. After an agonising deliberation, he dedicated it to ‘MB’ – but was not sure if he meant it for his mother (Maria Burcik) or sister (Martha Burcik). When someone asks him what it means, he laughs and says ‘Mister Brown’, their family dog.

Dr Burcik then talks about his two sons and their families. The older son is a lawyer and makes a decent living, but it is the younger one, a schoolteacher, who concerns him most. He helps him from time to time.

Dr Burcik runs inside for a third time but returns, embarrassed, with one can. ‘Dottie says that the food will be served soon,’ he explains. I sense that Mrs Burcik does not want him to keep offering me drinks. Yet he has managed to secure one can and insists on sharing it. He now talks about his retirement plan. He says, ‘Remember the IHRDC course that I taught in Jakarta? I will continue teaching it when I retire this fall.’

Mrs Burcik draws our attention. We take our last gulps, collect our glasses and follow her inside the house. As usual, the dinner table is full of delicious dishes. Mrs Burcik directs me to the chair on her right and asks me to help myself. Dr Burcik disappears again and returns with a few different bottles of wine, as if we are now to do some wine tasting.

Mrs Burcik is a soft-spoken, gracious woman. I sense her affection in her gestures, expressions and choice of words. She makes me comfortable at the table, making sure that I do not shy away from eating. Dr Burcik and I take several servings. We both love food. The beer turns out to be a good appetiser.

While Mrs Burcik keeps an eye on my plate, Dr Burcik keeps his on my glass. At some point, Mrs Burcik comes to my rescue. ‘Emil, please let my child enjoy his meal.’

Dr Burcik chuckles. ‘We need one to enjoy the other,’ he says.

After the dinner, Dr Burcik takes me upstairs to show me his gem-cutting and wood-carving workshop. His craftsmanship is something I was not aware of. I realise that this short, burly man with his unkempt clothes is not only mentally sharp but is also good with his hands.

As it gets late, I beg my leave and thank Mrs Burcik for her kindness. She gives me a hug in return. Dr Burcik gets the keys but she says, ‘Emil, you are not driving.’

I spend my last few days with the Schwartz family and then ride with them to Oklahoma. This is my second trip there. I spend a week with them before I take a Greyhound bus to Texas – the land that I have only seen in cowboy movies.

State College, PA (2 October 1982)

Nishat and I arrive at University Park Airport from Austin on our way to Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. The commuter plane that we boarded from Pittsburgh lands only metres away from the terminal. I see Mom and Dad Schwartz waiting in an open area. It was not too long ago that as a lone stranger I landed here in the darkness of the night. This time, on this beautiful autumn afternoon, I am on a homecoming mission, accompanied by my bride.

It happened during the 1980 Christmas break. I went on a holiday – my first trip back home since I arrived in the US – and returned married to a woman I had never met.

Dr Burcik and I were in contact throughout my stay in Austin, except that I had not heard from him since my last letter. I was caught unprepared when Mom Schwartz told me that Dr Burcik had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital.

When Dr Schechter, my PhD supervisor, came out of the room, smiling, and told me to call home with the news of my doctorate, I phoned Dr Burcik. I was relieved (and happy) to find him home. ‘Congratulations, Doc,’ was his cheerful response.

The thought of seeing the Schwartzes again was exciting, even though I had seen them twice since I moved to Austin. First, I had joined them in Oklahoma during the 1980 summer holidays and then, the following year, they had visited Austin to meet my bride. But it was the old man who kept my thoughts occupied.

I would never know how much he loved me. It was agonising that I could not tell him how much I owed him. Every time I tried to express my gratitude, his body language would tell me that there was no need for it. I was happy to dedicate my dissertation in his honour but did not have the courage to offer him a copy. This silent pain would become a constant shadow over our everlasting bond.

State College, PA (3 October 1982)

I am distracted as Nishat steps out. She looks gorgeous in her light-pink jamdani sari. She says that I am wanted inside for a photo session. I take a last look at the sleepy road before I follow her into the house.

‘There they are!’ My reaction is spontaneous as the bell rings. A flash flood fills me with excitement, exhilaration and enthusiasm. The time has come and it is all happening.

There is an emotional burst of handshakes, kisses, hugs, greetings, introductions and laughter in this long-awaited, joyous occasion. Then, as things subside, Dr Burcik moves closer to me, stands face-to-face and says, ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. And you?’

‘I’m OK, but not as good as I used to be.’ He sighs.

His tired face tells me the meaning of his words. I cannot believe how old he has grown since I saw him last.

Nishat and I take the rear seats in the car. Mrs Burcik starts the engine and then gently presses the throttle to get the car in motion. As dusk begins to shroud the Earth, the fluorescent lamps wake up for their night watch. The eerie silence gives me a feeling as if we are on a secret mission in this twilight hour.

The car slows down as we approach the house. We turn onto the driveway and then swerve up the hill towards the back of the house. I get a sense of the surroundings – the unmowed lawn, the scattered dry leaves and barren flower beds. The domestic animals are gone. The vegetable farm is dead. The lawn furniture is laden with dust. The patio is a hunting ground for spiders, while the security lights work as bait to attract their prey. The house itself has grown old. With the master taken ill, contagious disease seems to be in total control. Yet, it was only the other day that two buddies were sitting here enjoying themselves – life was so young.

We take our seats in the lounge and engage ourselves in casual talk. At some point, Mrs Burcik asks Nishat to give her a hand in the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone. An awkward silence creeps in and holds us both tongue-tied. What do I say, how do I make a start? I keep thinking, but fail to make headway. Dr Burcik tries to talk about a few things but falters. Then, all of a sudden, his emotion breaks free.

‘It happened a few days before I was supposed to head for Boston to teach a course. All I remember is that I was moving a heavy load in the backyard… I try to