Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so…”
Red-eyed, Monsignor Tim stood with a Guinness in hand. He thanked the singer, then raised his glass and said, “To Father Daniel Traveler, a man most brave and true. He was truly a mhac to me—my good friend. Let’s drink to his selflessness and courage. He loved history, the arts, and learning of all kinds, but he was also known to take pleasure in the simple things, like havin’ a pint of Gat with his friends.” He raised his Guinness higher. “Though I heard it be said from time to time he liked a spot of fine whiskey, too.”
Smiling through their tears, the crowd raised their glasses in unison, and Edgar listened to a chorus of heartfelt responses, “To Father Dan... Daniel Traveler... God bless and keep you, Danny.”
The moments passed, and Edgar watched as the room started to thin, people leaving the wake. He shared condolences with a group of nuns, including Sister Marie, who still looked quite shaken.
Afterward, Monsignor Tim approached, a fresh pint of Guinness in hand. His eyes welled, his smile sad, but also filled with warmth and pride.
“Ah, my son, it was a fine wake, though I wish it’d not been needed,” Tim said as he reached Edgar’s side.
“Indeed, Monsignor.”
“I asked for that song and not because of his name, did you know? It fits, for it’s like the sun coming out, then the clouds passin’ over again, and the sun reappearin’. There’s always hope that Danny will, somehow, make it back home.”
Edgar nodded. There was always hope.
“I’ll be needin’ a word with you,” Tim added as he indicated an empty table in the corner.
Edgar followed him there, and they sat across from each other.
The monsignor raised his pint. “To Danny,” he said as Edgar responded, “Father Dan.”
They drank, then Tim gave him another heartfelt smile. “I must double check something with you to make certain you haven’t changed your mind. When we met at the Vat this week, you practically laid out the very plan I’ve been mullin’ over.”
Edgar guessed where this conversation was going.
“You see,” the monsignor went on, “if it’s at all possible—and if you’re still willin’ to take the risk—you may be able to change history by going back to get Daniel.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking much the same. If the portal opens to the exact moment he went back, then he’ll be in the crypt when I arrive. God willing, I should be able to get him out of there.”
“Even if it doesn’t open to that exact moment, there might be time to save him.” Tim pursed his lips in thought. “The portal’s open for several days more, is it not?”
Edgar mentally calculated the hours since Daniel time traveled. “Quite so. There’s a little over three days before it closes.”
“Then you must travel back to England tonight, my son. And it’d be a smart thing for us to leave soon, before we drink on and on and find ourselves ossified and wrecked to boot.”
Edgar nodded. A hangover would not do.
Tim finished his Guinness and then excused himself, telling Edgar he needed to make a few arrangements before they left.
Drinking the last of his wine, Edgar thought about Father Dan and prayed to God he could save him. Then, with a nagging resignation as to the odds against him, he closed his eyes and prayed once more for a miracle.
“I’m ready to go whenever you are, my son.”
Edgar opened his eyes and watched the monsignor stride back to the table. But the man’s innate vibrancy seemed to dim with each step, and Edgar realized Tim looked as grim as he felt. It seemed the weight of the world was upon them as they left the wake and went outside.
As they waited for the monsignor’s private car, Tim said, “We’ve known each other a long time, Edgar, and I’ll admit I’m findin’ it hard to move past my grief. But I also keep tellin’ myself there’s always hope in reversin’ the past, because we have the ability to time travel.”
“I agree.”
“One thing must change, though. Daniel’s rescue needs to take top priority from now on. God willing, it will go well, and he’ll be back here before long, perhaps tippin’ back the Gat with us in this very spot. It’ll be grand.”
Edgar smiled. “I hold out hope for much the same, Monsignor.”
“Good. One other thing. Because of what happened, the plan about Anne Brandon must be put on hold. The St. Giles’ portal won’t work for her rescue anyhow, since we know it opens to the wrong time. I shall contact her family and tell them what happened.”
Edgar nodded. “I’ve also decided to put aside my desire to stay in the sixteenth century. Daniel comes first. I’ll do what I can to bring him back.”
“I shall pray for you both,” Tim said.
The car arrived and both men got in. Tim directed his driver to take them to Rome’s Fiumicino Airport.
“Your travelin’ kit is headin’ there now,” he told Edgar. “I also made arrangements for you to go by private jet.”
Edgar thanked him. The monsignor nodded, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes. Both said nothing more until they arrived at the airport.
“Ah. Here we are,” Tim said, rubbing his eyes. He smiled at Edgar. “If you need anything more, contact the bishop of Westminster. He will assist you.”
“Thank you for everything,” Edgar said with feeling.
Tim made the sign of the cross over him. “May Christ be with you, my son.”
“And with you.”
As Edgar got out of the car, he realized for the first time in days he felt buoyed in spirit.
With God’s help, he thought, I’ll find you, Father Dan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
London
Alone in the crypt at St. Giles’, Father Edgar took several deep breaths to center himself. He felt satisfied all was in readiness, having spent much of the plane flight memorizing the dates and historical information given to him by Sister Marie.
He glanced down at his Tudor-style clothes, certain he and his compatriots had prepared for every possible contingency. He possessed a set of travel documents, a money belt filled with coins, Father Dan’s staff, and even a few things no one else had thought about—an old-fashioned, fire-lit torch and a box of safety matches.
He’d recalled the need for a light source in the nick of time, right after his plane landed at Heathrow. He immediately telephoned the bishop of Westminster’s office in the hope someone on his staff could find him a torch. After Edgar arrived at a seminary where he would shower, change, and leave his modern things for safekeeping, the bishop’s secretary called back with the news they’d located several replica torches at Pinewood Film Studios outside of London. One was already on its way to the seminary.
Edgar felt great relief upon hearing this. In the event St. Giles’ was already ablaze after he arrived in 1545, he needed to find another way to exit the crypt. He planned to use one of the tunnels that connected it to the hidden web of passages making up subterranean London. And he’d need a reliable, albeit historical, implement to find his way through that black and treacherous maze.
Still, taking matches with him to the past was a risk. On the way to St. Giles’, he stopped at a chemist shop—creating a bit of a stir because of his Tudor costume—but they were out of flints, so he’d settled on the matches. He tried to convince himself this wasn’t a bad idea, since they were mostly organic wood and would deteriorate over time. It was a long shot any modern-day archeologist would uncover their remains in a sixteenth century dump or midden. Just the same, he knew the risks in taking such items to the past, even if they were by twenty-first century standards a two-hundred-year-old invention.
Edgar had asked Tim about this during their last phone conversation an hour ago, and the monsignor agreed with his choices. He said such items were immeasurably better than a battery-powered torch, which would be doubly dangerous to take back—if found by the locals, they might well declare it witchly gear and burn Edgar at the stake.
; Oh Lord, the dangers! God give me strength!
Swallowing hard against his fear, he gripped the wooden staff, pounded it into the floor before the ancient bone box, and called out, “St. Giles, in the name of the Holy Church, I beseech you to empower this staff!”
He chanted this several times before he heard a soft whoosh, whoosh and then felt the floor beneath his feet give way.
Oh God! Tumbling without control, he felt the effects of zero-g in his gut like he was on a roller coaster. He instinctively screamed and flailed around until he hit the floor with a jolt. In total darkness, he rolled in agony, the air knocked from his lungs.
Finally, the pain lessened and his breathing returned to a semi-normal state. He began to move slowly, testing his limbs. Relieved, he realized his body was bruised, but no bones were broken. Everything seemed okay, if painful.
The smell of the place was another matter. Burned wood, acrid and foul, and something else. Sickening.
Edgar sat and felt around for the torch, but found the walking stick instead. He tried again, moving his fingers a bit farther out, and he immediately made contact with the soft, dry end of the torch, the tinder part.
He rose and hooked the staff onto his belt, so it would stay out of the way. With the torch under his arm, he reached into his pocket for the matches. Fumbling in the dark, he struck the end of a match against the box, but it didn’t catch fire. He held his breath and tried again. Yes! Victory! He quickly glanced away to shield himself from the burst of light. Using his peripheral vision, he lit the torch.
After it sparked to life, Edgar breathed out and forced a modicum of calm. He lowered the torch a bit and stared at his immediate surroundings.
He gaped in shock. At his feet rested Father Dan’s hat. A few meters beyond that sprawled the bloody corpse of a stranger.
* * *
Tim Flannigan flew to the UK one day after Father Edgar went back to London—and presumably returned to the sixteenth century. First and foremost, he wanted to meet Catherine Hastings Howard in person and give her the news about Daniel.
He glanced at his watch as the chauffeured limo drove toward Catherine’s home in Chelsea. He was fifteen minutes early and hoped she wouldn’t mind, but the extra time might be beneficial, since he wanted to go over everything thoroughly, and a few minutes more might help him do just that.
After exiting the vehicle, he walked toward the elegant old home. He didn’t relish informing Catherine about the delay in the rescue plan for Anne, but it must be done. Daniel came first, of course. God willing, once Edgar extracted him from the sixteenth century, they’d all regroup and figure out what to do about the woman’s granddaughter.
He smiled grimly and said a prayer for both men. He’d hoped by now Edgar would have left word about Daniel via the Vat’s secret archival network, but so far the Watchers hadn’t reported any messages or changes in the timeline.
Perhaps it was too soon. He must be patient.
Tim rang the doorbell and waited but a few seconds before the housekeeper opened the door and immediately ushered him into the front lounge. A small, white-haired woman stood by the sofa. A tea tray had been set out on the coffee table, and he caught a whiff of Earl Grey. The room was lushly decorated in chintz, silver-gilt, and sterling.
Catherine smiled and held out her hand.
Tim shook with her. She had a surprisingly firm grasp for one so petite.
“Mrs. Howard, how good of you to see me on such short notice. I’m sorry I’m a wee bit early, but the pilot got me to Heathrow earlier than planned. Favorable tail winds, he said.”
“It’s quite all right, Monsignor,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, neither cold nor warm.
Tim looked into her green eyes, which hinted at a grand beauty when she was young.
“Please, do take a seat.” Catherine indicated a chair opposite her, the coffee table between them. She settled herself onto the sofa. “I have a feeling I shall need to be sitting when I hear your news.”
He admired her pluck, but reminded himself he must be gentle with her because his news was shocking. She handed him a linen serviette, which he placed on his knee. He glanced down at it. A finely stitched monogram caught his eye, intertwining letters of A&C.
“How do you take your Earl Grey?” she asked.
He looked up. “Black, Mrs. Howard.”
She served him with a steady hand, then poured a cuppa for herself, but with an added slice of lemon.
“Excellent,” Tim said as he tasted the tea, a fine blend with a gentle hint of bergamot.
“Would you like a biscuit, Monsignor?”
She held forth a plate of shortbread biscuits, the kind shaped like small terriers.
“Thank you.” Tim took one and nibbled—good, not too sweet—then he reminded himself he needed to get down to business. Yet, he knew he must not rush this. Best to start on neutral ground.
“Firstly, Mrs. Howard,” he began, “I have news about the thornless rose. This morning we received word from the testing lab at Oxford. The results of the DNA test indicate the bloom has no parallel whatsoever in our time. Although we will never have definite proof, this does give credence to the assertion it came straight to us from the sixteenth century.”
“As we already knew,” Catherine said matter-of-factly.
“Quite right,” Tim replied, feeling a bit unsettled by her business-like tone. “Regarding the snap of Robert Dudley... It’s been gone over with a fine tooth comb, but the results were inconclusive.”
“Yet the rose proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that my granddaughter did travel back in time, so one must conclude the same of the snap.” Catherine looked straight into Tim’s eyes. “Have you any word from Father Daniel?”
Right to the point, she is. Get on with it.
“Mrs. Howard,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully, “as far as we know, nothing has changed regarding Anne, but as for Daniel—” His voice caught, and he felt embarrassed by his inability to keep his emotions under control. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Father Dan... You see, he...”
Her eyes widened. “What happened? Did he not make it back?”
“No, he did go back, but... I’m so sorry. As yet, we’ve no conclusive idea as to exactly how this came about, but he died.”
“Oh dear Lord!” Catherine cried out.
Clearly eavesdropping, the housekeeper came rushing in. It took only a moment for Tim to realize she was the one needing comfort, such was the depth of her sobbing. Catherine, on the other hand, stayed in control and did not weep, although Tim noticed that her hands trembled.
He spent the next hour comforting the women as best he could. The way to do that was to provide them with as much information about the entire situation—and that of any future plans. He told them everything he knew about Daniel’s fate in 1545, adding what he could of Father Edgar’s story, too, and, most importantly, about the Englishman’s plans to go back and try to rescue Daniel.
By now, they’d moved from the lounge to the library, where he and Catherine sat drinking whiskey, while Trudy busied herself in the kitchen. He held the double-sided frame with Brandon’s photo and the letter from the past.
Brilliant decision on the doctor’s part, he thought, as he read the notes from Brandon and Anne, including the last, devastating one from the doctor. It was filled with grief, yet, to Tim’s mind, also contained a measure of hope, since Brandon included information which could aid in Anne’s rescue. He was struck with how much the letter resembled the way Travelers communicated with the Watchers. He couldn’t tell Catherine that, however. The knowledge of such things was private, for Vatican eyes only.
Trudy appeared at the door. “Pardon me, Mrs. Howard. Monsignor Flannigan, I’ve been slow cookin’ an Irish stew in the hopes you’d join us this evening.”
The afternoon had flown by, and although it was getting late Tim realized he wanted to stay and sup with the two ladies.
Catherine stood. “Trudy, pe
rhaps we overstep. The monsignor might have other plans.”
“No, Mrs. Howard,” he said, rising to his feet. “Nothing would delight me more than to have supper with you.”
* * *
Edgar’s every instinct told him the time travel had worked. Nevertheless, what he found at St. Giles’ shocked him to the core. A corpse. Daniel’s wide-brimmed hat. The reek of conflagration. The smell of death.
He fought his fear and grasped for control of his priestly sense of duty. With feelings of obligation and deepest empathy, he struggled to drag the corpse to an empty burial shelf, then settled it into a dignified position as best he could. Although it was hours since the man’s death, and therefore well past the proper time, he gave him the last rites. Afterward, he went back for Daniel’s hat and tried it on. It fit well and he decided to use it for now, as opposed to the hood of his cloak. Once he found Daniel, he’d return it to him.
God grant me the ability to do that.
Carrying his torch, he went up the stairwell to the trap door. He tried to push it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
He went back down and followed a tunnel he remembered from the olden days, which opened to a storage cellar near the square surrounding St. Giles’. He exited the place with no trouble, the building empty, no one about. When he got outside, his surroundings were bright, bathed in moonlight.
Across the square, the church lay in ruin. Some of the walls remained standing, and the tower stood inviolate, but the roof over the nave had collapsed. The ruins smoldered, wisps of smoke drifting into the square. Edgar guessed the trap door was jammed by roof debris.
The moon would provide him with enough light, so he put out his torch. Better to forestall any unwanted attention. As he walked away from St. Giles’, he glanced around, satisfied he was alone. He recalled reading that the fire had started at four in the morning.
If so, then this could be the next evening. What time is it? Where is Daniel?
Edgar had no idea.
When he got to the great square near the livestock market of Smithfield, he spotted in the distance the church-hospital, St. Bartholomew the Great. He pondered his next move. He saw a row of trees near the hospital walls and decided climbing one would give him visual access to the grounds.
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 17