Chapter 10
April 2010
Tristan and I faced off across the room like a couple of prize fighters. His hair was sticking up in places from running his fingers through it so often, and he looked angry and confused.
“I just don’t understand it, Cassandra. We’ve spent months talking about moving in together and now I find out you’ve bought that house without even consulting me. Why? Why would you want to buy that particular house? I know you have a fondness for historical buildings, but why would you want to own that spooky, old heap when you have a beautiful flat with a view of the Thames and all the amenities?” Tristan ran his hand through his hair again, and I sat down on the sofa staring back at him.
I wished I could tell him the truth, but I didn’t know the truth myself. Ever since I saw that story on the telly, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was drawn to that house like a fly to honey, and I couldn’t rest until I had contacted the estate agent and made an offer much higher than what the owners were asking for. I couldn’t countenance the thought of being outbid. The elderly couple who owned the spooky heap in question was only too happy to unload it to me, and the sale went through very quickly since I was willing to pay in cash. I already had a buyer for my flat, who gave a hefty deposit and all I had to do was pack my belongings and move. I knew Tristan would not be pleased, but I never expected him to be this furious.
“I refuse to live there, you hear? Refuse!” With that he stormed out the door and I went to pour myself a stiff drink. This was the biggest fight we’ve ever had, and I felt guilty and afraid. I knew Tristan was right. We had plans for him to move into my flat by Christmas, and now I’d pulled the rug from under his feet by buying a house behind his back, and putting my flat up for sale. I never consulted him on my purchase, and he had every right to be livid. I would call him tomorrow and beg for forgiveness. I wouldn’t give up the house though.
I was breathless with excitement as I opened the creaky iron gate and walked up the path to my house. In the sixteenth century, the house stood right on the street, the top floor almost within touching distance of the house across the way, but over the years the street had been widened, and now the house was set back from the road with several bushes growing by the front door, and a maple tree in the front yard. The tree was just beginning to leaf, and I took a deep breath of the spring air as I opened the black front door.
The house greeted me with complete silence, and I walked in awe from room to room, trying to envision where I would put my furniture and knickknacks. The walls had been painted eggshell-white and the newly replaced windows in the living room painted slanted rectangles of sunlight on the hardwood floors. The interior of the house had been completely stripped of any Tudor influences, but when I looked around me I saw it as it had been in its heyday.
I could see the dark wood paneling that ran around the lower half of the walls, and the green fabric that covered the upper half of the parlor. The room had been dominated by an ornate fireplace, in front of which the sofa and two hardback chairs were assembled. There was a window seat under the diamond paned leaded windows, and a work basket usually could be found on a low table by the settee. I walked up the stairs to the bedrooms. The larger bedroom faced the street and still retained its original leaded windows. It had been paneled in wood from floor to ceiling in the sixteenth century, but now was painted in that same boring eggshell, the only relief being the dark beams that lined the walls and ceiling. It had been a master bedroom, and I could almost see the four-poster bed made of dark-brown wood with thick, carved bedposts, matching dresser, a small table with a ewer and basin, and a painted chamber pot peeking from under the bed.
The other two bedrooms faced the rear and were much smaller. They would have been the children’s rooms and had been simply decorated with a bed, a chair, and a small chest for clothes. Today they were bare and empty, awaiting the arrival of new inhabitants. I resolutely did not go to the attic, but I knew there were two small rooms that had been used by servants and an attic space with dormer windows.
Going back downstairs I ventured into the kitchen. The old-fashioned hearth had been replaced with a modern stove, which matched the stainless steel refrigerator and microwave. I tried not to look at the place where the discovery of the skeletons had been made, but I couldn’t look away. The broken stones had been cleared away, and it looked like a little alcove, probably used as a scullery. I touched the walls inside gently, never forgetting that this had been her final resting place. The same wave of grief washed over me, but I felt marginally better knowing that no one else would trespass here as long as I owned this house. It had been mentioned in the paper that the remains would be buried in the cemetery behind the church in Blackfriars and I was thrilled that she would finally have a real grave in consecrated ground.
The movers were not coming until tomorrow, so I let myself out and walked down Carter Lane and then turned left toward St. Paul’s Cathedral. Joanna promised to meet me there at noon since she had a meeting in the area and was already waiting for me on the front steps as I arrived. She waved enthusiastically and came to meet me as I walked toward her. We walked companionably for a few blocks until we found a quiet tea shop and went in. I wasn’t hungry, but a cup of tea would be most welcome. There had been a cold breeze off the Thames that blew right through my thin jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone.
Joanna gave me a quizzical look. “So -- tell me.”
“I’m moving tomorrow,” I said happily, as I added a little milk to my tea and took a sip. I felt the warmth begin to spread through my body and took another sip before continuing. “It’s wonderful. I can’t wait. I was just there, trying to figure out where everything would go.”
Joanna looked at me as if I had suddenly started speaking in Japanese. “Cass, what’s going on? You haven’t written a word, you suddenly sold your flat and bought this relic, and I assume you’re still fighting with Tristan. I’m not asking as your agent, but as your friend.” She looked genuinely concerned for my sanity and I gave her what I thought was a reassuring smile.
“Nothing is going on. I just needed a change and I’ve always been in love with Tudor architecture. “
“And I’m the bloody Queen,” Joanna replied without missing a beat. “If you wanted a lovely Tudor cottage you could have bought one ages ago. You went all barmy when you saw that story about the skeleton and went out of your way to outbid any rivals on this house. What’s the draw? Don’t you have enough skeletons in your own closet?”
“Jo, I honestly can’t answer that because I don’t know. That story cut me to the quick, but I’m not sure why. I’ve been drawn to that house ever since. I just can’t stay away. Incidentally, the first time I went there guess who just happened to be hanging about?”
“I can’t imagine. The Grim Reaper?” She was enjoying herself with this and I let her have her laugh.
“Adrian Turner. He just stood there watching me, and said something about knowing how I would come back.” I took another swallow of my tea while watching Joanna’s reaction.
“The Adrian Turner?!” She nearly choked on her scone and took a gulp of tea burning her tongue.
“Yes, the ‘charming’ Mr. Turner just happened to be hanging about outside that very house, very early in the morning I might add. What do you make of that?”
“I can’t begin to imagine. Maybe he was just passing by, or maybe he has the same ghoulish curiosity as you. Speaking of Turner, do you have any ideas for a new book? The deadline isn’t that far away.” I was afraid she would ask me that. Between buying the house, selling my flat, and fighting with Tristan, I had barely given any thought to my next book. My creative juices seemed to have dried up for the moment.
“Once I settle in, I’ll start writing, I promise. If I can’t think of something terribly clever, I’ll find some little-known work of staggering genius and pass it off as my own,” I joked. “I wouldn’t be the first.”
“Don’t even joke like that. Y
ou have no ideas at all? Not even a little one?”
“Jo, don’t fuss. I won’t let you down. I promise. I’ll come up with something soon. I just need to get situated. Tristan promised to come and help me move. He’s still angry, but he’ll come around in time. It’s only a house. It’s not like I’ve decided to move to New Zealand.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Chapter 11
The move went smoothly, and I was thrilled when the moving men finally left and I was alone in my new home. Tristan had come with me in the morning and helped carry boxes and move furniture from place to place until it felt just right. I still had a ton of unpacking to do, but the important things had been done. My coffee maker was already on the counter, favorite blue-and-white mugs in the kitchen cabinet, and my computer on my desk in one of the smaller bedrooms, which I decided to use as an office. All I had to do today was find clean linens and make up my bed in the master bedroom. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.
I was tired and hungry, and after I finished with my bedroom, I went down to the kitchen to fix myself a snack. I sat at the kitchen table looking at the alcove. I had a brief vision of a young man, dressed only in breeches, hose, and a linen shirt, laying the stones with grim purpose. He wiped away a tear, or was it sweat, and then the image vanished.
I decided that I must be more tired than I thought and went up to bed. I must have fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow, because when I woke up it was well past midnight. I knew something had woken me, but it wasn’t until the knocking began again that I realized what it was. I had left the curtains open and could just make out the ghostly shape of an arm-like branch through the leaded window. The sinister shadow of the gnarled, clawed branch came closer and receded with the wind, and I watched the shadows shifting against the wall as wispy clouds raced across the face of the moon.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but I suddenly felt wakeful. An idea was taking place in my mind, and I turned on the bedside lamp and reached for the necklace on the nightstand. I lovingly caressed the etching on the cover and opened the locket. I would write about her, the mysterious woman whose miniature portrait was concealed inside. Surely she must have had a story. I would give her a voice once again.
The first thing she needed was a name. I thought of the initials engraved inside the cover. “C&R” entwined with vines and flowers. Assuming that she was “C” what name could I give her? She could have been Catherine or Clarisse or even Charity, but the names didn’t feel right. I tried to think of C names popular in Elizabethan times. Could it be Caroline? Was that name popular then? Christina? What if she had been French, and her name was Charmaine or Claudette? None of the names I thought of rang true, and I ran my thumb over the image of the young woman. “What’s your name?” I whispered. Suddenly, it came to me. Constance. That would be a name popular during the Tudor period and I’ve always liked it. Yes, she would be Constance.
Now what about my leading man? Robert Dudley, Earl of Leister popped into my head. As the reputed lover of Queen Elizabeth, to me his name was synonymous with the age, but Robert or Robin seemed too common. I would call him Richard, I decided. Constance and Richard. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep and slept peacefully, until Tristan arrived on my doorstep in the morning bearing muffins and a potted plant for my office.
Tristan seemed a little more reconciled to my new home and suggested a drive in the country, since he had the day off. I would have liked to stay home and start writing, but the peace between us was so fragile that I readily agreed and went to get ready. I didn’t care where we went as long as we were together and not fighting. I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a muffin out of the box Tristan brought, and slammed the door shut behind me. Tristan’s sleek Jaguar was parked right outside the gate, and I got into the passenger seat eager to leave the city behind. There was an estate sale that Tristan wanted to go to right outside of Canterbury, and I was happy to come along for the ride. As a writer, I loved poking through other’s people’s private things, and this would be a welcome distraction from the tension of the past few weeks. Maybe I would even buy some knickknack for the house.
As we left the city, I rolled down the window, enjoying the fresh April breeze blowing in my face. The countryside around us was bursting with new life, and I inhaled the smell of damp earth and new grass as I watched fluffy sheep lazily munching their cud on the sun-dappled slopes. Tristan took his hand off the wheel and brought my hand to his lips kissing my palm. This was his way of saying that everything was all right between us again, and I felt happy and carefree as we sped towards the cathedral city of Canterbury.
The estate sale proved a disappointment, boasting a lot of bad paintings of livestock, some tacky jewelry, and furniture that was more old than antique. We strolled around for a little while enjoying the lovely gardens and then drove into Canterbury for a leisurely lunch. I had been to Canterbury several times before, but I always loved coming back. The cathedral town was a seamless combination of old and new, and I loved the irony of modern shops and internet cafes housed in the medieval buildings.
We always ended our visit by stopping at the Cathedral. I loved to see the intricately carved towers of the Cathedral outlined against the sky, and the lacy stonework adorning every inch of the building. The place filled me with a sense of awe as we walked down the wide nave toward the altar. Arrows of colored light slanted across the stone floor as the sun streamed through the magnificent stained glass windows, and I felt a sense of peace as I was enveloped by the hush of the cavernous space. I knelt before the altar, thinking of all the holy men and sinners who’ve come before me, and said a prayer. Tristan, who had been raised an atheist, sighed impatiently behind me and I crossed myself, rising to my feet.
I could never leave the Cathedral without visiting my favorite places. I always stopped by the tomb of the Black Prince, and said a quick prayer at the end of the Northwest transept where Thomas Beckett had been murdered. Tristan was more than ready to leave, but I wanted to visit the ruins of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Augustine, and he dutifully tagged along. I’d never seen a ruin I didn’t want to explore, and my imagination always ran wild as I walked along the crumbling walls; picturing the Abbey as it must have been when it was full of devout monks going about their daily tasks and devoting their lives to the glory of God.
By the time we got back to London it was after 9pm, and Tristan dropped me off in front of my door and took off, claiming an early-morning meeting. I was relieved that he didn’t come in and went straight to my office. I was burning to start writing. The characters were already taking over my mind and having imaginary dialogues in my head. I flipped open my laptop and opened a new document. I started typing, but when I was only a few pages into my manuscript, I had a strange desire to turn off the lights and work by candlelight. I went downstairs and rummaged in one of the open boxes until I found a thick, lavender scented candle and brought it upstairs. I lit the candle and watched the shadows play across the walls and ceiling as I settled before the computer again -- and then I saw them.
They were lost in shadow, but I could sense them, and hear snippets of their long-forgotten conversation. They moved through the house as if the years had not flown by, and they were still the masters of the house in Carter Lane. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I became lost in their world, and before I knew it, the night was giving way to a new day and I was achy and tired. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, so I saved my work, and fell into bed still fully dressed, a satisfied smile on my lips.
Chapter 12
March 1586
Richard walked through the numerous rooms of Whitehall palace on his way to the private chamber of Sir Francis Walsingham. The palace was already humming with activity despite the earliness of the hour, and Richard walked through the audience chamber exchanging greetings with numerous acquaintances and a few of the Queen’s ladies. By the time he entered Walsingham’s apartments, several people were already
there seated around the long, rectangular table with Sir Francis himself at the head. The Secretary was wearing his chain of office, the golden links the only color on his somberly dressed person, aside from his white ruff. He looked tired and ill, giving credence to the reports that his health was failing.
Sir Edward Norris occupied the place of honor to the right of Walsingham, his soft brown eyes an odd contradiction to his cruel nature. Robert Poley sat next to Norris, as usual. He was a pretty young man, who used his charm and good looks to get into good graces of the people he was frequently trying to destroy. There were two other men he barely knew who brought reports from France and Spain, and Stephen Cole. Richard listened politely as Cole advised the assembled group regarding a possible plot against Sir Francis Drake of Her Majesty’s Navy.
Drake was a much-beloved figure, and the greatest admiral the English fleet had ever seen. He was worshiped as a hero by the common man and much loved by the Queen. His safety was paramount, and his presence was essential to the success of any battle taking place at sea. Poley shared the whereabouts of several new Roman priests recently arrived on English soil. One of the priests had already been apprehended and was being held at the Tower for questioning, which was just a euphemism for torture. Richard knew that the man would be beaten and racked until he would admit to being the Devil himself.
Finally, it was his turn to make a report and he turned, directing his comments straight to Walsingham. “Mr. Secretary, I have been watching the Thornes for two weeks now, and I see no evidence that they are involved in anything other than clandestine popish practices. They meet with other Catholics once a week at various houses to celebrate Mass, but leave immediately after, and also attend their parish church on Sundays. I have made the acquaintance of Mistress Constance Thorne and will call on her later today.” Walsingham nodded thoughtfully.
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