by Mary Burns
“A clue?” John said. “You mean, something in the book that you think may be the reason your uncle was murdered?”
“Yes.” I said it calmly. “Whether it is to be believed or not, apparently there is one person who believes it enough to want to get his hands on this book, no matter the cost.”
“His hands?” Lord Parke repeated. He took a step nearer. “Did you see your attacker?”
“No,” I said. “But I smelled him. Anise pastilles, to hide the smell of tobacco.”
“Mr. Wattendall!” cried John.
“So you noticed too, his habit of slipping a lozenge into his mouth every so often?”
John nodded vigorously.
“Then that means he never left the castle yesterday!” said Lord Parke. He looked grim, and nodded to John. “We must search everywhere, and find him immediately.”
“You will find him, I believe,” I said, with unshakeable certainty, “in Lord William’s Tower, probably taking apart the Magna Tabula piece by piece.”
It took only a few minutes for all of us to assemble at the door to Sir William’s Tower—John, Lord Parke, myself and Mr. Howard, who had been alerted to the situation by his cousin. Two stout footmen and the butler were also in attendance, heavy clubs in their hands. The housekeeper had put a plaster on the back of my head, held there with a scarf of some sort—I was too impatient to wait for more, and was sure I looked an absolute fright, but finding Mr. Wattendall took precedence over fashion and propriety.
The dawn was breaking, and we could see through the windows of the great, long gallery that the rain had stopped, and the sky was clear now, a few of the brightest stars remaining in the dark quarter of the sky. We turned to the Tower entrance with justifiable excitement.
But the massive iron and wood door was barred—from the inside—and no key could open it. It could only mean that Mr. Wattendall was in the Tower.
Another footman came running in. “Sir, Mr. Howard, there’s a man up top the tower, on the parapet, shouting out things and waving his arms about!”
“Could you see who it was?” Mr. Howard asked.
“I think t’was that lawyer who come by yesterday, at tea, sir,” he said.
Things were looking grimmer.
“There’s no way we can break through this door,” said Lord Parke. He looked around in frustration, then a flash of hope crossed his face. “George!” he cried. “The dungeon stairs! The secret stairs, you know, that were found after the fire?”
“By God, yes, I had forgotten,” his cousin said, then looked concerned. “But they’re old and slippery, dirty and some steps are broken—it would be rough going.”
“I’m for it,” said John. “But Vi--.”
“Oh no,” I said. “You’re not leaving me out of this.”
“We’re wasting time,” Lord Parke said impatiently. “Miss Paget can bring up the rear. I’ll go first.”
Another servant, a stout housemaid, came running the length of the great gallery, gasping and waving a handkerchief. “Mr. Howard, Mr. Howard, sir!”
I almost laughed—it was like a play, a comedy of the roughest sort.
“What is it, Hildy?” Mr. Howard said, looking exasperated.
“It’s the Missus, the babe is coming, the babe…” The woman leaned over to catch her breath.
“Of course it is! What timing!” The master of the house cried, throwing his hands up. Turning to his cousin, he gave him a look composed of amusement and frustration. “James, I leave this …this…enterprise in your capable hands. Obviously, I must go.” And he took off running back down the gallery, the stout housemaid following, a hand at her ample side.
“Where is this dungeon staircase?” I asked Lord Parke. He nodded, and turned away from the entrance to the Tower, leading us all to a door obscured by a large, medieval tapestry hanging behind a coat of armor. Opening the door, he led the way into a small, stone-faced room, only about six feet by six in dimension, with a low ceiling. Both he and John had to bend their heads to avoid hitting it. At the farther end was an opening, like a rounded arch, that would just admit one person at a time, beyond which I could glimpse a winding staircase of stone, headed downwards, and another of wood and iron, going up. His Lordship held a lighted lantern, and motioned to one of the footmen to follow behind me with another.
“No one speak unless you must,” cautioned Lord Parke, “and step as quietly as you can. Be alert to some broken or weak steps as well.”
We all nodded solemnly, and began to make our way up the stairs.
40
Sunday, 28 September 1539
Glastonbury
A Letter from The Commissioners to Thomas Cromwell
Pleaseth it your lordship to be advertised, that since our letters last directed unto you from Glastonbury, we have daily found and tried out both money and plate hid and mured up in walls, vaults, and other secret places, as well by the abbot and others of the convent, and also conveyed to divers places in the country. And in case we should here tarry this fortnight, we do suppose daily to increase in plate and other goods by false knaves conveyed. And among other petty briberies, we have found the two treasurers of the church, monks, with the two clerks of the vestry, temporal men, in so arrant and manifest robbery, that we have committed the same to the jail. At our first entry into the treasure-house, and vestry also, we neither found jewels, plate, nor ornaments sufficient to serve a poor parish church, whereof we could not a little marvel; and thereupon immediately made so diligent enquiry and search, that with vigilant labour we much improved the same, and have recovered again into our hands both money, plate, and ornaments of the church. How much plate we know not, for we had no leisure yet to weigh the same; but we think it of great value, and we increase it more every day, and shall do, as we suppose, for our time here being.
We assure your lordship that the abbot and the monks aforesaid had embezzled and stolen as much plate and ornaments as would have sufficed to have begun a new abbey; what they meant thereby, we leave it to your judgment. Whether the king’s pleasure shall be to execute his law upon the said four persons, and to minister them justice, according to their deserts, or to extend his mercy towards them, and what his majesty’s pleasure is, it may please your lordship to advertise us thereof.
The house is great, goodly, and so princely as we have not seen the like; with 4 parks adjoining, the furthermost of them but 4 miles distant from the house; a great mere, which is 5 miles compass, being a mile and half distant from the house, well replenished with great pike, bream, perch, and roach; 4 fair manor places, belonging to the late abbot, the furthermost but 3 miles distant, being goodly mansions; and also one in Dorsetshire, 30 miles from the late monastery.
We have despatched the servants, with their half-year’s wages, giving humble thanks to the king’s majesty for the same; the monks also, with the king’s benevolence and reward, and have assigned them pensions. We find them very glad to depart, most humbly thanking the king’s majesty of his great goodness most graciously shown unto them at this time, as well for his grace’s reward as for their pensions. Other news we know none, but that almighty God have you in his tuition.
From Glastonbury, the 28th day of September,
Yours to command,
Richard Pollard.
Thomas Moyle.
Richard Layton.
41
When all the purport of my throne hath failed,
That quick or dead thou holdest me for King.
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass.” And uttering this the King
Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.
–Idylls of the King
Nawort
h Castle
Thursday at Dawn
Our climb up the dungeon stairs was arduous and not without peril. Once John’s foot went through a rotted board, but his boot saved him from a wound. Once I put my hand on what I thought was a railing, but was just a piece of hanging wood, which dislodged and fell, nearly striking the footman four steps below me. Progress was slow, our breathing labored, from fear as well as the effort of mounting the steep, narrow stairs.
After what seemed like hours in the dark, dank stone column, Lord Parke called a halt, and I heard a sound as of an old door opening slowly. We had reached the library and chapel floor of Sir William’s retreat. Lord Parke entered first, cautiously, then called to us to follow him. We stepped into the chamber, where the rising sun was brightening the sky and sending shafts of early light through the deeply set, narrow windows. I immediately looked for the Magna Tabula—it was not in its place where it had been yesterday afternoon.
“Billings,” said His Lordship, addressing the butler. “Take Samuel and Bryan down to the main door, and unlock it and open it up. Wait at the foot of the stairs, just in case our prey should slip past us and try to escape.” Billings nodded, and tapped his cudgel lightly on the palm of his hand. The servants moved off, down the narrow stone staircase that led back to Sir William’s sleeping chamber.
“How do we get to the parapet?” I asked.
“Mr. Sargent and I will go up,” said His Lordship, looking at me severely. He raised a hand as I started to protest. “No, Miss Paget, I cannot allow this. We may be apprehending a murderer, and in any event, perhaps a seriously troubled man. I cannot in good conscience bring you into such a situation as could cause you harm.” He smiled at me, greatly softening his severity. “I would never forgive myself.”
He nodded then to John, who pressed my arm with affection, and they turned to go. They entered the tiny chapel, and I couldn’t help following them to the door, to see how they would get out and up to the parapet. Peering in, I caught it in a moment—there was a tall but narrow window on the far side of the chapel that stood open, and through it I could see the steps of an iron staircase. Sure enough, Lord Parke stopped at the window, put his head out to survey the scene, and then stepped up into the window embrasure to climb out onto the steps. With a quick look back at me, John did the same, and the two were gone from my view.
Through the open window, as I drew nearer—as how could I not?—I could hear someone shouting and raving close above. It must be none other than Mr. Wattendall! How I longed to know what was going on, especially as, after a few more moments, the shouting suddenly ceased. Perhaps John and His Lordship had made themselves known.
I had to find out what was occurring. Gathering my skirts in one hand, I managed to clamber to the windowsill (with the help of a questionably sturdy prie-dieu nearby) and onto the steps. The sudden drop to the ground, several scores of feet away, made me quite light-headed for a moment, and I was reminded of the wound to the back of my head, by the painful pulsing of blood there and in my temples. The sun was indeed making an appearance, and the view of the woods and meadows surrounding the castle in the early morning light was breath-taking.
Rising voices, more than one, recalled me to myself, and I saw that the iron steps only constituted a few feet to the parapet, thankfully. I hauled myself up and stepped onto the roof—there were several tall chimneys or vents convenient for hiding behind, and I was able to creep behind one of them, very near to where John and Lord Parke stood, and hear and see everything.
Mr. Wattendall, his clothes thoroughly soaked, dirty and disheveled, stood at the edge of the parapet, the Magna Tabula clutched to his chest. Lord Parke was speaking.
“Come, sir, let us all go back into the house and talk this over calmly,” he was saying. “No one wants any harm to come to you.”
I could see that the lawyer was shivering violently, with cold and fear both, perhaps. John, ever compassionate, spoke to him as well.
“It is cold indeed up here, Mr. Wattendall,” he said, in gentle tones. “Why don’t you come back in, and we’ll all warm ourselves, and have some tea, and straighten all this out?”
Mr. Wattendall looked as if he wished very much that he could do such a thing—he was in such a sorry state, I almost began to feel sorry for him. But then I envisioned Uncle Chaffee falling to his death, and my heart was hardened at once.
Perhaps Mr. Wattendall thought something similar, as his face took on a desperate look.
“It can’t be straightened out,” he called, his voice choking. “You know that, Mr. Sargent, as well as any—murder can’t be straightened out.”
“Then…you are responsible for Reverend Crickley’s death,” Lord Parke said, as quietly as he could; he was some twenty feet from the distraught lawyer.
“Yes! I did it, I planned it all out…and if it hadn’t been for that stupid old woman, coming in earlier than usual, no one would have known it wasn’t an accident!” His face twisted in anger.
“You mean Mrs. Barnstable?” John said. “She came too early, so you couldn’t get back in the cottage to remove the wire?”
“Yes,” Mr. Wattendall sneered. “Clever you, and clever Miss Paget, damn her, nosing around looking for clues.” He began to weep.
“And all for nothing! Nothing!” he cried. He struck his fist against the Magna Tabula. “It was all a hoax, a lie—there’s nothing here!” He edged closer to the brink of the parapet.
“What was a lie?” Lord Parke asked, drawing closer, step by step, and buying time.
“The treasure in the Magna Tabula, of course! Arthur’s sword!” The lawyer laughed maniacally. “That damned book! Why did I even try to get it?” Mr. Wattendall seemed distracted by his own question, then smiled, an evil smile, I thought, which chilled me even from the distance I was from him. “Damn that woman, too, I’m glad I trounced her on the head, busybody!” He looked up suddenly, as if a thought struck him, and he asked in a perfectly normal tone of voice. “I say, she’s not dead, is she? That would be something!”
I took that as a cue to step forward and present myself. “No, Mr. Wattendall, not dead, just a little rattled. It takes more than a bump on the head to dispose of me.”
He started, and stared at me with undisguised loathing—such a look as I hope never to see again in my life. Lord Parke glanced at me, distressed, but turned his attention back to the lawyer.
“Please, sir, I beg of you, please come away from the edge of the parapet and talk to us, like the gentleman you are. Think of your late father, sir, think of him, and your wife and daughter, and all your family.” Lord Parke had gained several feet in propinquity to Mr. Wattendall, and would soon be near enough to grab hold of him.
Mr. Wattendall noticed this, too, and held up his hand, palm out, to stop His Lordship. His face took on a grieved look. “I do think of my late father, my lord, and all my family. I cannot live with such disgrace. I…I cannot live…with what I have done.”
With that, he looked back over his shoulder to the ground below. Lord Parke and John, seeing their chance, leaped forward to catch at him, and I unwittingly ran forward as well. But Mr. Wattendall heaved the Magna Tabula at us, then turned and leaped over the edge of the parapet. We heard his scream as he fell toward the ground, a scream that formed the background for an even more astounding event.
It is, even now, hard to describe exactly what happened.
The Magna Tabula, thrown towards the three of us, seemed to hover in the air for some moments—the case, unlatched, flew open and the hinged vellum-covered boards flapped like wings, as if it would take flight and soar away into the rising sun, which was now in our eyes. A brilliant flash, and another, seemed to emanate from the ancient artifact and suddenly there hung before our eyes a magnificent sword, gold and silver, with emeralds and rubies and sapphires sparking from the hilt, and rune-like words inscribed on the side, that glowed like embers in a dying fire. It stayed in the air for a heartbeat or two, then slowly dissolved to not
hing.
I believe I cried out in my astonishment, and at the same moment, saw John dive toward the now-falling case, catching it in his arms before it hit the parapet.
The wail of the suicide stopped abruptly—mere seconds had passed, and yet it seemed to me that Time itself had stopped, and we had glimpsed through a window of Eternity—a holy, sacred, inexplicable mystery of myth and legend—mixing brutal death with everlasting life.
I saw mirrored in my two companions’ faces the same awe and stupefaction I felt myself—so, we had all seen it, whatever it was.
Slowly, ever so slowly, our being in time came back to each of us, as if the earth had shaken and was now settling in again. The piercing warble of a bird flying past us from one tree to the next aroused my sense of the extraordinary everyday, and we all gazed at each other in silence. We could do nothing else, and in truth, there was nothing we could say.
We climbed back through the little chapel window, into Sir William’s library, where John tenderly, it seemed to me, placed the Magna Tabula on its low perch by the fireplace. We stood looking at it for a few moments, still unable to speak of all that had occurred, and what we had seen.
As we made our way back down the stone staircase, the sun continued to rise. The butler and footmen were standing guard at the great doorway, and Lord Parke signalled to them that they might go. The massive door to Belted Willie’s Tower was once more swung back on its creaking hinges, and the bolt was thrown.
The lawn and gardens seen through the windows seemed to me part of a different world, one I had never inhabited. We walked the length of the great gallery, still saying nothing, and as we reached the foot of the main staircase in the grand entrance hall, taking a moment before preparing to deal with the crumpled body outside below the walls, we heard the timeless sound of new life, the cry of a newborn babe.