Daniel knew the method, for he’d done much the same in 1560 at Westminster Abbey. With a holy purpose, the cane was supposed to remain upright without support, a miracle in itself, but not as astounding as the end result—time travel.
“Blimey!” Edgar wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “It’s not working.”
Daniel frowned in thought. “Perhaps you’ve got it wrong. It’s been a long while since you did this. Your memory...”
Edgar looked him square in the eye. “Touché. My memory is intact, and I’m sorry to have questioned yours before.”
With a nod, Daniel let it pass. “Not to worry. We need to gather our wits and think this through. Do you recall what you said when you used this portal before? Your exact words?”
“God help me, I don’t recall.” Edgar’s face reddened. “You see, I was a young, drunken fool, and no saint—” His eyes widened. “That must be it, we’re to call upon St. Giles!”
With renewed fervor, he struck the cane on the floor over and over, calling upon the saint. But again, nothing happened.
Heaving a sigh, Edgar handed off the cane to Daniel. “You do it. You try. Take the staff.”
Daniel’s hand trembled as he gripped the wood. “Why me?”
“Call it a hunch.”
Hunch? Daniel needed something more concrete than mere guessing, but time was of the essence. They must go back as soon as possible, or the portal might close.
I pray this works. Shutting his eyes, he raised the cane. “St. Giles, I beseech you to empower this staff!” He struck the floor as he cried out, “St. Giles, in the name of the Holy Church, I beseech you to empower this staff!”
There was a sudden tingling in his ears, followed by a soft rush of air, but with no sensation of movement against his skin or hair.
Daniel opened his eyes and tried to push the cane, but it held tight to the floor. Praise God and St. Giles! He removed his hand, took a step back, and watched as the thing stood on its own, perfectly fixed and balanced.
“Sweet Jesus.” Edgar placed the tip of his finger on it and attempted to push it over. “It won’t budge,” he whispered in awe. He moved back to stand at Daniel’s side. With a grin, he added, “Brilliant. You did it, Father.”
Daniel crossed himself. “I was but the Lord’s vessel.”
The air started to shimmer around the cane.
Daniel yelled, “Hurry! Grab hold!”
His fingers touched the wood as a whoosh of air sounded in his ears, followed by the sensation of the floor giving way.
Off in the distance, he heard Edgar yell, “No!”
Where is he...? My God, what’s happening? Daniel wondered, just before his mind went blank, swallowed whole by darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
Date Unknown, London
There is an awareness of being alive, the feeling distinct from dreaming and, perhaps, what one experiences in the Afterlife.
Daniel awakened in the dark and sensed he was fully conscious—and definitely among the living. He realized with a sudden clarity he was lying prone on a floor, his arms and legs splayed out. He immediately gathered himself and felt around.
Stone floor, cold and damp. Where am I?
Sitting up, he held his hands before his eyes and wiggled his fingers, but he couldn’t see anything. Total darkness.
Memories rushed back, and he recalled what happened at St. Giles’, how he heard a whoosh of air and then...
Edgar. Yes! Where is he?
“Fa...Father?” His own voice sounded weak, unsteady. This will not do. He took a breath and tried again. “Father Edgar, are you here? Where are you?”
Silence. As profound and deep as the blackness surrounding him. He reached out, felt around again, and found the cane, but nothing else.
Was it possible Edgar hadn’t time traveled?
Something creaked overhead, and Daniel recalled the trap door. More creaks and then a shaft of light burst upon him. He shut his eyes against the terrible brightness, his relief at being able to see supplanted by fear when he heard a harsh voice.
“’Tis the devil or the foul undead, I tell ye! We must send it back t’ hell!”
“Make way!” someone else shouted. “’Tis a thief, is all. Make way, lad, and I shalt burn the bastard!”
Daniel’s eyes flew open, but he forced his glance askew as someone thrust a fiery torch through the doorway above. Suddenly, he heard footfalls on the stone stairs. Mind scrambling, he heaved himself up and did his best to take a defensive stand, holding the cane in front of his body like a weapon.
The man reached the bottom step, then charged, swinging his torch.
Fire blazed close to Daniel’s eyes and he fell back, the hat knocked from his head.
“Scurvy knave!” the man shouted.
He swung the torch again, and this time Daniel used the cane to parry the blow. He pushed back with all his might and kicked at his assailant’s ankles. The man lost his footing and fell backward onto the lowest step, his head whacking against the stone with a crack.
Daniel heard another man shout from above, “God Almighty, Sam’s down. The beast murdered him. Jesus save us all!” followed by a woman howling, “’Tis a demon that killed poor Sam. Run fer yer life!”
To Daniel’s relief, they didn’t shut the trap door before leaving. The commotion above faded until the only remaining sounds came from the torch, which hissed and sputtered on the floor. A dark liquid pooled around the man’s head.
He smelled blood’s strong, coppery tang and rocked on his heels in horror. “Oh, no. Oh dear God.” He felt the man’s throat for a pulse. There. Faint but there. Erratic, but he was alive.
“Forgive me,” Daniel whispered to him.
A long gasp escaped from the man, then he shuddered and went still.
Daniel closed the man’s eyes. He that wished me dead. Yet still, he must attend him with love and a merciful heart. Time was of the essence, and even though he did not possess a vial of anointing oil or other ritual necessities, he would do what he could to help before the soul departed the body.
He made the sign of the cross on the man’s brow and then began the last rites, “Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit—”
The stink of smoke suddenly wafted down the stairs, but Daniel fought the instinct for self-preservation and finished the rites. He rose and looked up the stairwell, only to see smoke and flames beyond the trap door. The church was on fire!
Move! He grabbed the cane and raced up the steps. The altar cloth blazed, candles overturned, torches abandoned on the floor nearby. Bloody fools, he raged at the people who’d fled the church in such a state of panic. You started this!
Thick, black smoke curled around him, blinding, causing him to cough and gag. He grabbed the hem of his cloak and attempted to cover his nose and mouth. The fire was already beyond the point of no return, the flames spreading from the altar to the curtains surrounding the sedilia.
The portal! All could be lost if it is not protected.
He kicked the trap door shut and then stumbled down the aisle toward the front door.
Heart racing, lungs seared from the heat, Daniel made it outside to find the church square blanketed in darkness. He flung aside his cloak and breathed in the clear night air, which set off his coughing again. Smoke billowed from the open doorway, and he unwittingly sucked more in.
Jesus, save me! Hacking, retching, he forced himself to stagger on, intent on getting as far away from the church as possible. He felt every one of his years, out of breath and wheezing as he halted and leaned on the cane.
He was dizzy and ill from the lack of air. Did he have smoke inhalation? If he did, what could he do about it in these times? Just breathe. Clean air. Clean oxygen. I need oxygen.
Daniel forced himself to think of his ultimate goal.
He hazarded a glance in the direction of the church and saw licks of flames coming through the open doorwa
y. It was only a matter of time before the building would be fully engulfed.
People began to arrive in the square. A few filled buckets of water from a horse trough and attempted to douse the flames. By now, the church was ablaze. Even from this distance, Daniel could feel the heat of the inferno. The fire brigade soldiered on, but he knew it was a lost cause.
With labored breaths, he used the cane for support and struggled away from the chaos. Turning a corner, he was seized with another coughing fit. He bunched up the end of his cloak and covered his mouth, hacking until he fell. Sprawled on ground, he looked at the sky through tearful eyes until, at long last, the fit ended.
The sky had grown pale, a greenish gray, foretelling a stormy dawn. He felt so weak he did not know if he could move or shelter himself when it began to pour.
God help me. I cannot stay here. I must get away.
Minutes later, he struggled to his knees, then got to his feet and started on, taking one step at a time. He had no sense of direction, no clue as to his whereabouts. At least the coughing fit seemed to be over, although he now felt as if someone sat on his chest—it was that hard to breathe.
When he turned another corner, he came upon a great square and a smell that clawed the back of his throat. This set off more wheezing, but he recovered enough to continue on, thank God. He passed a sign with an arrow pointing to his left—The Smithfield Livestock Market.
Far across the square and in the opposite direction from the market, Daniel spotted mature oak trees and a towering gatehouse. St. Bartholomew the Great Priory and Hospital stood there, waiting for him.
It started to rain, and he felt the damp chill on his face and neck. Using the cane, he hobbled as fast as he could toward the hospital.
Although the night’s disasters overwhelmed him, he felt a glimmer of hope as he stopped before the gate.
If Anne and Dr. Brandon were inside, all was not lost.
* * *
In the spattering rain, Robert Wright, former priest of St. Bartholomew’s Priory, patrolled the church grounds. This nighttime duty gave him a semblance of purpose in life, and, besides, the task suited him well, because he’d suffered from profound sleeplessness for several years.
For mayhap the thousandth time, he walked past the destruction wrought by Henry VIII and his Protestant minions. The aching loss never lessened, the once-mighty cathedral pulled down, only the choir and arches left intact for use as a parish church. St. Bart’s, beloved spiritual home to so many, now lay in ruin because of the king’s evil and selfish Reformation.
Alas, thou art a wreck and ruin as well, he told himself. He’d been little more than a boy when he took his holy vows in the year 1509. He felt not quite a man even now, although his age was one and fifty years. The source for his woeful state haunted him day in and out. While the majority of priests and monks took brave stands against King Henry, even unto torture and death, Wright had not. Instead, he’d embraced the coward’s way, having publicly renounced his faith in order to survive.
Traitor, traitor. The words drummed in his skull, and he hung his head in shame. Betrayer of the Holy Church, he felt a deep kinship with Judas. And all because of a faint-hearted and despicable desire—to live.
Knock, knock. Wright turned and stared at the gate, wondering who wanted access at this early hour of the morn.
He walked over and pulled open the spy-slat. A man without a hat stood outside, wet, shivering. His skin had a bluish cast, his face drawn with fatigue.
Wright felt a stab to his gut, for he sensed the stranger was in desperate need of help. Yet he knew his instinct to render aid must be met with caution. The hospital gate saw many in need, but these were dangerous times. Should someone’s guile and falsity open the door, the death of many innocents could result.
“Aye?” he asked warily.
Eyes widening, the man fell back a little. “Bishop Wright?”
Bishop? Whether a dangerous assertion or foolish mistake, it mattered not. He must correct this in case anyone had an ear cocked in their direction. “Thou art mistaken. Although I bear the surname Wright, I hold no such title,” he firmly corrected.
The man hesitated. “Pardon me, sir, but...I mistook...”
“What business brings thee here?”
The man’s face paled, and he began to cough.
“What ails thee, my son?”
“Wha...what’s the date?”
This was getting more curious by the moment. “’Tis the twelfth o’ September. Now if thou desires—”
“What...year?”
Stranger still. He must be very ill. Before Wright could answer, the man leaned against the gate and gasped for air. “Please, help...”
He immediately unlocked the gate and gave him his shoulder.
“The...year?” the man repeated.
As he assisted him inside, Wright gently explained, “Why, 1545, my good fellow. ’Tis the year o’ our Lord 1545.”
* * *
Daniel could not believe what he’d just heard. 1545? Jesus, save me!
It was too soon, years too soon. He leaned against Robert Wright, desolate, lost.
There was a sudden, crushing pain in his chest and his knees buckled. The world grew misty-gray, then darker. After that, he felt no more pain, only a vague awareness of what lay beyond the dark—brief flashes of light illuminating wavy images and snatches of conversations, until the moment when reality burst forth again, his mind screaming out with desperate purpose.
His eyes flew open. “Bishop Wright!”
“I am here, my son. Please, might I remind thee I cannot lay claim to that title? And I must beg thy pardon for mine own impertinence, for I didst look at thy personal documents—with a most innocent gaze—in the hopes of discovering from whence thee came. I know thou art called Daniel Thorpe, or, perhaps, thy preference is the name Danny? I heard thee call it out a time or two.”
Danny boy.
Daniel’s eyes filled with tears, for the nickname brought back memories of his life in the twenty-first century. Tim. Yes, that was his friend’s name, the one who called him Danny, but he realized Tim could not help him now, neither could anyone else.
He stared into the warm brown eyes of Robert Wright, the same eyes he’d known in that other lifetime when he was a young monk, Brother Daniel. And he knew without question Wright was a trustworthy man—and a true friend yet to come.
Everything, it seemed, was poised to go full circle.
Daniel swallowed and whispered, “Bishop...walking stick...my cane... Take it as my gift.” He suddenly realized he wasn’t making much sense. But why? What was missing? He sensed the need to reveal something else, something more important. But what?
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. It was about... Brandon, yes. He left a letter.
Daniel struggled on, “Someday, years from now... Take in a man, Dr. Jonathan Brandon. In early 1559. Start looking for him. January or February, 1559. Please give him a home here.”
“1559? But, my son, how couldst thou knowest such an impossible thing?”
Opening his eyes again, Daniel saw Wright’s frown. “I... As God is my witness, I just know. He’ll need help. Thy help.”
Desperate, Daniel knew he was fumbling it, but could not recall what he was supposed to say. His mind scrambled for a name, a wisp that flitted in and out of his thoughts. Who...?
Catherine?
He nodded to himself. Yes, I remember she asked me for help—
Anne! No, it’s Anne who needs my help!
His thoughts crystallized, brilliant and clear, and he poured out his soul.
The last thing he heard filled him with hope.
“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in His love and mercy help thee with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees thee from sin save thee and raise thee up…”
He died in peace.
* * *
Robert Wright hadn’t understood much of Daniel’s last fevered mutterings, somethin
g about a woman named Nan or Anne, but it mattered not.
The man’s spirit had departed, and Wright was bound by God to honor his last requests. The wooden staff he would keep by his side.
As for what he’d been told about a man named Dr. Jonathan Brandon, he would just have to wait and see.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Summer of 2014, The Vatican Library
Sister Marie Claire’s shift promised to be different today. Filled with a mingling of nerves and excitement, she hurried toward the lift.
A recent invention had just become available, something to enhance the chronovisor recordings. She’d always welcomed new technology, but nothing prepared her for the wonders of an innovative discovery dubbed the “visual microphone,” or VM, which allowed silent films to be analyzed for minute vibrations coming from objects found within the footage—things as mundane as a bag of potato chips or glass of water. The vibrations from these objects could reproduce sounds that occurred during filming.
She’d attended a staff workshop about it several hours ago. As senior Watcher, Marie was chosen to be the first to use the VM. Finally, to be able to discern things like conversations from the heretofore silent chronovisor footage! What marvels might she uncover in the coming weeks?
The first thing she planned to examine was the Greenwich footage. While her head welcomed any new information about that mysterious film, her heart quavered in the knowledge she could have a definitive answer to the time period of the footage.
Would that she’d known the VM was about to be unveiled on the day she met with Father Dan! A few hours more, and she might have been able to give him precise information—namely, the year of the footage and the possible time period of the portal.
Talk about bad timing. It was against her nature to be pessimistic, but she couldn’t shake her foreboding that Daniel’s portal led him to the wrong era. It was a risk all Travelers took when they journeyed—and he’d only been gone two days from her point of view. But one needed to think fourth dimensionally about this, since he was in the past and therefore it was likely his time there was already spent and gone. When, on occasion, new messages appeared from Travelers, scientists theorized they resulted from variants in the timeline caused by one universe veering off into another, as part of an infinite multiverse. She hoped a new message from Father Dan was imminent, indicating he’d been successful—at least in this universe.
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 15