by Bart Casey
What a bloody farce, thought Stephen, as he wrapped a tissue around his hero thumb, smiling at how appropriate the “bloody” part of that thought seemed. Suddenly it was all very funny—and a good story for Margaret as well.
Indeed, he kept smiling and shaking his head as he paused now to look over the items in the windows of the Museum Street bookshops before walking over to Broadcasting House, where the plan was for him to meet Margaret in the lobby at six o’clock.
~
She came into the lobby just as he arrived and they walked south into Soho for drinks among the Friday night office workers celebrating the opening bell of the weekend. Margaret wanted to go far enough away from the office to avoid the BBC crowd. After fifteen minutes, they slipped anonymously into a refreshingly normal pub called the Pillars of Hercules on Greek Street, just behind the Foyles bookshop.
After they sat down, Stephen said, “Well, I managed to set up a meeting with Soames Bliforth this weekend. We’ll be meeting up for Sunday lunch at that restaurant there”—he pointed through the window—”just across the road, L’Escargot.”
“Rare books and French snails?” said Margaret.
“English snails, I think—from Surrey.” Stephen laughed.
Margaret loved his saga of getting the library pass, and he listened attentively to her recap of her day. She’d gotten the background check on Tony Baker. There was really nothing there: just some trouble years ago about boys breaking in to the local rugby club looking for jerseys. The kids were all let off with warnings, and there hadn’t been anything since. So Tony wasn’t much of a villain. She hadn’t heard anything yet on Rowe.
Guy Mitchell had been talking to the local BBC East people. The police had asked them to publicize details of the things taken from the church—the jeweled crucifix, candlesticks, and other vessels, but no leads had come in. They were closemouthed about the murder investigation. And her team in Sarajevo were circulating the photos of the Jurics, but no news yet.
Stephen was happy just to sit back and listen to her talk: it was all so different from his life at the school in the village. He had missed her, and now he wanted her back the way they had been together that last year in college—before he tried to tie her down forever with the idea of engagement before she was ready. Through the whole time around her father’s illness and death, he had been there to support her, by listening, hugging, holding hands, and a then quick good night kiss before he went back to his flat or slept on top of a bed in the vicarage guest room. And now he’d work with her through their investigation at her side. He had acted like the brother she had never had. Now he knew he loved her and just wanted her back as his girlfriend again. And he knew she loved him, too.
The crowd in the pub was getting a bit out of hand as the local ad agencies and record company offices emptied out, and they were shouting now just to be heard by each other, so they fled west and walked along the streets parallel to Oxford Street, finally dropping off his bag with the doorman at Margaret’s smart building on Welbeck Street, just behind Selfridges. Round the corner from there was her favorite quiet Italian restaurant, the Gondola, where they could just finally talk without shouting.
“That book I ordered at the library about Sir Henry Lee...I just finished it on the train down here. I’ve made a lot of notes.”
“Was there much about Anne in it?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, lots. As Professor Rowe told us, Henry had a full life before they settled down, but thanks to his longevity—he did die at age eighty—they did manage to squeeze in over twenty years with each other, pretty much living as man and wife, although not married.”
“Wasn’t that very unusual for the time?”
“Well, yes it was. And Rowe was right that she was married—or at least in a marriage of convenience after she had her baby—to a low-life sea captain. Chambers said Sir Henry paid him off. In fact, it was duly recorded in Sir Henry’s household accounts.”
“What? This woman as a black sheep is getting blacker and blacker.” Margaret laughed. “No wonder my mother didn’t tell me the details.”
“Let’s back up a bit, and I’ll tell you,” Stephen said, pouring them each another glass of Chianti. “Sir Henry Lee was very respectable, I can promise you. His mother, Margaret Wyatt, was one of Anne Boleyn’s closest friends and her lady-in-waiting. It was she who held Anne’s hand on the scaffold when she was executed and so on. King Henry might even have had a go at her when Anne was playing hard to get. Sounds outrageous, but it would have been normal royal behavior. King Henry often had a fling with a married woman and then rewarded the lady and the husband in question when he was done. It was his ancient droit du seigneur—the lord’s privilege. So our Henry might actually have been a bastard son of Henry VIII, just as Aubrey reported. That would have made Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth his closest relatives. In fact, he might have been a lovely big brother and protector to Edward and Elizabeth,” said Stephen.
“Do you think there’s really a chance of that?” asked Margaret.
“I suppose there’s no way to know,” said Stephen. “But he did play right at the top of their society, so I’d have to say it’s certainly possible. He grew up in the Wyatt household in Kent, and inherited his father’s money and properties at fourteen. Then he went into the royal household as a squire to the King. Since King Henry went hunting all day immediately after breakfast and morning mass, the young man would have learned all about the manly arts of riding, hunting, jousting, and so forth—as well as poetry, languages, and courtly manners. After King Henry passed the throne on to his sickly son, Edward VI, our young Henry would have served the boy king at court, and then transitioned smoothly to serve in the court of Queen Mary and then Elizabeth. So you couldn’t have ended up with a finer pedigree than his.”
“But wasn’t he married himself?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, but he didn’t have anything to do publicly with Anne while his wife and children were alive. But they were all dead by the time he was fifty-seven, and Anne would have been about thirty years younger then, I think.”
“That’s long after she had her baby, isn’t it?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, but he would have been aware of her earlier. Anne was a sensation when she came to court at sixteen. There was something about her that caught the eye of all the men there. She wasn’t a classical beauty, so it must have been a blend of sassiness and sauciness. She was extremely well educated—as well as any person then at court, except perhaps the Queen—and simply a lot of fun to be with: a breath of fresh air. Sir Henry even had a suit of armor made for himself with the initials AV all over it; I think we can see it down at the Tower—they still have it. He also would have seen the Earl of Oxford make his move for her. Oxford was not a nice man. I think you could call him a bounder.”
Stephen paused as their food came, but Margaret said, “Keep going, Stephen.”
“Well, at the time of the scandal, Sir Henry was essentially the ‘master builder’ of the new ‘cult of Elizabeth.’ They established a new annual holiday celebrating the day the Queen first came to the throne—November 17—which was observed every year all over England. I think they still celebrate it at Eton and Harrow today, for god’s sake. And the centerpiece of all the celebrations throughout the country was the jousting tournament run by Sir Henry. It was a kind of re-embracement of the old medieval chivalry of knights and ladies prancing about to serve the monarch. Elizabeth loved it. She made chivalry and courtly love the foundation of her reign as the Virgin Queen and Gloriana, and Sir Henry Lee personified every man’s embodiment of a medieval knight; and he kept it all going, riding and winning the jousts as the Queen’s champion. King James loved that, too, and very much respected Sir Henry as a well-loved hunting buddy, and as a mentor for his young son, Prince Harry.”
“My god, he had quite a run, didn’t he?” said Margaret.
“Yes. And when Henry had to retire as the Queen’s own champion at the joust—he was then almost si
xty—he was all alone. His wife had just died, and all his children were gone and he was facing a pretty lonely retirement. And that’s when he scooped up your Anne. They then lived the next twenty-plus years together, between his fifteen-room apartment at the old Savoy Palace overlooking the Thames and his various estates out in the country, near where we visited Rowe. They entertained all their friends from court and even King James and his own Queen Anne, who became great personal friends of them both. There is even some compelling evidence that Elizabeth blessed their scandalous cohabitation after Henry entertained the court at Ditchley in 1592. Another reason his relationship with the Queen might have been really as a ‘big brother’ instead of just a loyal knight.”
“That’s all just amazing. So why have we never heard of them? It seems like one of the greatest English love stories. I wish I had pried more of this history out of my mother—but I suppose neither one of us was that interested at the time.”
“I don’t know, Margaret. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we English aren’t so good at love stories?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know about that, Stephen,” she said. “Don’t give up just yet.”
~
A light drizzle started as they walked around the corner to Margaret’s lavish one-bedroom flat. It was just what you’d expect for someone with inherited wealth from her mother and a job as an up-and-coming television presenter at the BBC. The building, Welbeck House, had a huge marble lobby, a birdcage lift, and a liveried doorman who ran the lift for them up to her second-
floor flat.
When Margaret unlocked her door and turned on the lights, Stephen saw the doorman had left his bag just inside. He realized he was quite tired from the hectic day, and actually was looking forward to sleep.
Margaret walked over to a side table and said, “Just let me check the phone here—the message light is on. Maybe there’s some news from my colleagues about your Jurics?” She picked up the receiver, punched a few keys, and stood listening.
Stephen took a quick walk around. Her sitting room had a bay window overlooking the quiet Marylebone street. The space in front of it was filled with pricey overstuffed armchairs, and a long sofa, all in the same chintz fabric as the curtains. Behind the sofa was a dining table for eight, which could double as a desk if she needed to work and spread things out. Behind louvered doors, a full kitchen was hidden on the inside wall, and there was a guest loo with a sink and toilet just inside the front door. In the back, she had a lovely large bedroom, with upholstered sitting chairs and hassocks, and a complete en suite bathroom with tub and walk-in shower. It was really everything she could want—but why had he assumed he could just stay there?
It would have been better if he had taken a room at the Oxford-Cambridge Club. They both belonged to it, down on Pall Mall next to St. James’s Palace. The bedrooms there were depressingly tiny, but then you could sit up late and use the desks in the grand reading rooms downstairs. There was a great bar and eating hall, with wonderful breakfasts and three kinds of marmalade on each table, if you felt like that.
Margaret hung up the phone, and said, “Well, it wasn’t about the Jurics yet, I’m afraid. But it was Guy Mitchell from the office. Apparently my request for the background check on Professor Rowe ran into something big, he thinks. Anyway, I’ve been asked to turn up at Scotland Yard Monday morning for some sort of chat—what do you think of that?”
“Professor Rowe? Are they sure?”
“Guy is just guessing that it’s about him at this point, since I did already get the report on Tony Baker. So he wants me to clue him in after the meeting, since it might be a story for the U.K. news. So there it is. Let’s hope it will be progress somehow, whatever it is,” she said.
“You know, Margaret, I should have booked a room at the club. I wasn’t really thinking. It’s a bit late tonight, but I’ll do that tomorrow so I won’t be underfoot here all the time bothering you.”
He was eyeing the sofa in the living room somewhat uncomfortably when Margaret turned and said simply, “Well, I don’t have a guest room here, so you’ll just have to bunk in with me. But don’t worry, I have good marmalade, too.”
He was stopped in his tracks as she walked over to him, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a long and deep kiss. Energy flooded back in to him as he hugged her back tightly.
Margaret led him into the bedroom and turned down her side of the bed. Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Stephen was nervous, in spite of the years they had been together back in the day. He started to get undressed, taking off his shoes and socks and slipping off his trousers. He was undoing his shirt buttons when Margaret came out of the bath, completely free of her clothes. She was breathtakingly beautiful to him—and probably would have been to any boy with a pulse. She had taken what God had given her, and kept it all fit and fine. Stephen also tried to keep fit, but he was not up to her mark and he felt self-conscious as he took off his shirt and stood before her in his shorts. Margaret slipped into her side of the bed and patted the area next to her, keeping her gaze right on his eyes. He stepped over and turned down his side, and then stepped out of his shorts.
“Looking good, Stephen,” she said, smiling—and she turned out the light.
They were so happy to have each other back. A terrible loss was suddenly restored for both of them.
When they woke up on Saturday, it was a while before they could pull themselves away from each other. Life seemed all about being in love again.
They did manage to make it out of the flat just before eleven and took a taxi over to a posh shop Margaret remembered in Sloane Square. She splurged on herself there, choosing a new outfit while Stephen, perched in an armchair clearly meant to hold men captive until their mates found the right ensemble, gave thumbs-up or thumbs-down to candidates. Margaret looked radiant as she said, “I haven’t bought anything like this in years” while she twirled around in front of the floor-length mirrors. It seemed like they had fallen into an old film. They walked up Sloane Street and stopped in for a lunchtime sandwich and glass of wine at the rooftop café at the Harvey Nichols store at the corner of the Brompton Road.
It was a fine afternoon, more like the middle of summer than the start of autumn, and walking and talking seemed such a delightful pleasure. They strolled along eastward from Harvey Nick’s, through Green Park and even along Pall Mall, coming up to the sainted Oxford-Cambridge Club.
“Well, you must be glad not to be sleeping in a closet at the club,” said Margaret, holding hands with Stephen and peering up at the club’s flowery pink and white window boxes as they walked by.
“I don’t know. I did see your marmalade, but no billiards table or squash court, you know,” he replied.
She laughed. “I’m sure we can find something to pass the time tonight at my place.”
After a few minutes, Margaret continued on, in a more serious voice. “You know, Stephen, you were great to tell me about your Miranda. I really didn’t want to hear it. But I do know how normal that is.”
“Margaret, we don’t have to go over all that again. It’s over,” Stephen said, defensively.
“No, I know that. I mean I just wanted you to know you’re not alone. I mean I dated someone else awhile, too.”
“Oh,” said Stephen, turning to look at her.
“It was while I was on assignment in South Africa. All of the reporters covering the fighting there got caught in the middle of the shooting—the two sides were moving around their positions—and we couldn’t get out. We ended up locked down in a hotel, thinking we were about to get killed. And that’s when it happened. I guess I thought everything was about to be over, so I had a ‘battlefield romance’—or at least a fling anyway.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Very Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn.”
“Yes, I guess so. Except they got married, and my fling finished. Nothing came of it afterward. But I just wanted you to know—so you didn’t think we weren’t even. Your Miranda,
my David.”
“David?”
“Yes. He had a name. He was from Zimbabwe and he’s not in the picture. I just wanted you to know you weren’t the only one who tried to go on living while we were apart.”
They continued on quietly awhile but kept holding hands the whole time. Yes, Stephen thought. She was good to tell me, because I did think I was the sinner and she the saint.
“Thanks for telling me, Margaret. And you’re right: all of that is over. So let’s just carry on and see where we go.”
Soon they found themselves at the end of Pall Mall coming into the wide expanse of Trafalgar Square. Tourists and strollers were luxuriating everywhere around the open square on the sunny day, amusing themselves watching the singers, acrobats, and sidewalk artists entertaining the crowds for tips.
“Speaking of where we go—I have an idea,” said Stephen. “Let’s go over onto the north side there. I want to show you something in the National Portrait Gallery. I just remembered. It’s actually very relevant to our investigations, and we should see it, since we’re right here.”
Navigating the busy streets of the square via zebra crosswalks, Stephen led them over to the entrance of the National Portrait Gallery. They walked in, went through security, and left Margaret’s shopping bag with the attendant in the cloakroom.
Stephen guided them over to the lift and up to the Tudor Gallery.
When the lift stopped and the doors opened, they were in a softly lit enclosed area, out of sight of any windows to the outside. As they followed the arrows into the Tudor section, they moved into even darker inner rooms, where it took a few moments for the eyes to adjust to the subdued light, which protected
the paintings.
There were just a few small rooms in the exhibition: probably thirty pictures, very manageable for a quick stop.
“I think the Tudors were the first in England to popularize portraits,” Stephen said. “I mean, of course there were earlier paintings of kings and religious scenes and so on, but it was in the age of the Tudors that courtiers, gentry, and merchants began to have their images captured as a sort of badge of notoriety. If you had the money, then you had a portrait done in your finest clothes and with your finest jewels. And as soon as one did, then all of their rivals had to as well. A handful of artists from the Continent came over to handle the volume, so a lot of these were done by the same painters.”