Tristan had called me several times, but there really was nothing left to say. He was still with Joanna, and I wished them joy of each other. My hurt had dissipated under the tender care of Adrian, and when I was in his arms I felt as if I’d come home.
I finally shared my secret with him, and he stayed away some nights, letting me write. He was fascinated by what was happening to me, and encouraged me to finish the novel. He said it would bring me closure, and he was probably right. Now I finally knew how Pippa died, and although I felt unbearably sad, I also felt better. I could finally lay her to rest. I had read in the paper that her remains would be buried at the parish church in Carter Lane and I desperately wished I could tell them her name, so that they could put in on her gravestone. Of course, that was out of the question, so I would go to the cemetery and take flowers to her grave after all the gawkers had gone.
By now I knew that Pippa’s death was not the only tragedy that struck the Thornes, and I was bracing myself for what was to follow. I wished Adrian could be here when I saw it unfold, but I was afraid that he would interfere, and I would miss something. I needed to do this on my own, but in the meantime I would finally pay that long overdue call to the church.
Chapter 47
September 1586
Constance sat in the dim confines of the carriage, her eyes closed and her head leaning back. When her parents died within months of each other, she thought that nothing on Earth could be as terrible as what she endured then, but today had proven her wrong. The sight of Pippa’s body slowly rotating on its thick rope tormented her, and she wished she could just block out the horrible expression on her sister’s face. She had seen people hang before. You could not live in London and not see a hanging from time to time, but those people were strangers. They were not a beloved sister, who you had cared for and nurtured since birth. Pippa probably found some strange comfort in the fact that she died on the same day as Babington, finding symbolism in their joint departure from the mortal world.
The carriage rolled through the darkening streets, and the strain of the day began to take its toll. Connie dozed off, her eyes fluttering open when the carriage stopped for a while and a strange thump was heard as the vehicle shuddered and then came back to life. She closed her eyes again. It had probably been a wagon passing in front of them, or a child who ran into the road and forced John to rein in the horses. They would be home soon, and Richard would be there to offer whatever meager comfort he could. Connie’s head jerked as the carriage came to a stop again, and she opened her eyes thinking they were finally at home.
Constance looked out of the window to find herself in an unfamiliar neighborhood, dark and strangely silent. The door opened, and Connie gasped as she saw a man framed in the opening. He pulled her out by the arm and half dragged her to a small, stone church set far apart from other buildings. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, and she nearly tripped on a gnarled root as her captor forced her through the arched doorway of the wall, and down the narrow path toward the church. Another man jumped off the box and came after them, his sword gleaming in the light of the distant stars. Connie tried to look around to see if John was there as well, but the man just dragged her along. He led her into the darkened porch of the small church, then opened the door and pushed her inside.
The church was small and lit by a dozen candles casting their shadows onto the stained glass windows set high in the walls. The saints depicted in the colorful scenes seemed to be moving in the flickering light, and it wasn’t until a shadow detached itself from the altar that Connie realized there was someone else inside. She saw the man walk slowly down the nave toward her, his hood covering his face; and felt a quiver of fear. He stopped in front of her, standing still for a long moment before finally pushing back the hood from his face. Connie gasped as she recognized his gentle brown eyes and satisfied smile. Edward Norris stood silently in front of her, letting her absorb his menacing presence until he finally spoke.
“Welcome, Mistress Carlisle. I have been expecting you. I do hope my men did not inconvenience you too much or handle you roughly.” He gave her a pleasant smile, waiting for her to respond.
“Where is John?”
“Do not trouble yourself on his account. John is alive and well; if slightly less attractive than he had been this morning, and no doubt on the way to your husband to convey my message. We will await him in the crypt, if you do not object, so no one interrupts us.” Norris took her by the arm and pulled her toward an opening in the floor at the far side of the church that led to the ancient crypt. A few candles had been lit to dispel the gloom, but the cavernous space was still lost in shadows; silent and sinister. The two men remained behind to guard the door, leaving Constance alone with Norris. The crypt was cold and damp, making her shiver, both from cold and fear.
“Why have you brought me here, Sir Edward? Surely I have done you no harm.” Norris looked at her appraisingly, deciding whether to bother answering. He seemed to decide in favor of conversation and began to speak.
“You see, Mistress Carlisle, your religion alone is enough to cause me harm, but that is not the main reason you are here. Your husband shamed and humiliated me in front of Secretary Walsingham when he interfered with my investigation and now he has done it again. It seems that your fair sister, whom I meant to arrest and question at length using any means available to me, has disappeared and I see Richard’s hand in all of this. Your groom did not seem to know where Mistress Thorne had gone, but I have no doubt that your husband will reveal her whereabouts when faced with a choice between her and your lovely self. In the meantime, perhaps we can get better acquainted.”
Norris shoved her against a stone casket, and she could see the malice in his eyes. His breath smelled of liquor and onions, and Constance tried not to gag as he kissed her roughly, bruising her lip. Constance squeezed her thighs together as she felt his hand reach under her skirt, but he shoved his knee between her legs forcing them open. She had to think of the baby. If she fought, he would most likely strike her, so she willed herself to stay still as his fingers entered her roughly, causing her to cry out. If that was the worst he would do, she could bear it.
Connie’s mind was racing. Richard would get Norris’s message and rush to the church walking straight into an ambush, one man against three. Connie had no doubt that Norris did not intend to let them leave unharmed. She ground her teeth as Norris probed deeper and deeper, panting and pushing himself up against her. She could feel his arousal and forced down a wave of nausea that threatened to engulf her. His free hand found its way inside her bodice and he was kneading her breast and pinching her nipple, his eyes never leaving hers. She tried to look away, but he ordered her to look at him.
“I intend to enjoy this, Mistress Carlisle, and I don’t get as much pleasure if I can’t see you squirm.” He gave her an evil smile and forced another finger between her legs. Connie tried to ignore the pain and concentrated on staring him down. She would not give him the satisfaction of squirming or cowering before him. She knew he had the power to hurt her, but showing fear would not make him stop. He was a man who thrived on the fear of others, and she would deny him his aphrodisiac.
Time seemed to stand still, and Connie wondered how long it had been since she left the house in Carter Lane. How far had they gone? Would Richard find her soon? She tried to pray in her head, but found it impossible. Norris seemed to notice her detachment and it fueled his fury. He grabbed her by the arms with both hands and shook her hard.
“You will look at me when I talk to you, you Catholic whore!”
He gave her a nasty smile. “I think we have time for some further entertainment before your husband gets here, and if he happens to find us still occupied, all the better. I intend for him to see how whores should be treated.”
He dragged Connie toward a low stone sarcophagus, forcing her over it and raising her skirts. She heard him panting as he fumbled with his laces and closed her eyes praying to the Virgin that he would
not harm her baby. She bit back a scream as he grabbed her hips and shoved himself inside her, thrusting viciously. Connie’s breasts scraped painfully against the carving on the stone lid with every thrust, and her head began to spin from being upside down. She squeezed her teeth together to prevent herself from biting her tongue and prayed that Richard would not see this.
Chapter 48
Richard had left his horse hobbled to a tree a few minutes away from the church, so as not to lose his element of surprise. He had been astounded when John showed up at home, bleeding from cuts on his face, a gap where he had lost a tooth visible behind his swollen lip. John collapsed into a chair and handed Richard a scroll of paper. The note was short and to the point. Norris had kidnapped Constance, and wished Richard to meet him at St. Basil’s in Southwark. He made it clear that only one of them would leave the rendezvous alive, and that he had every intention of hurting Constance if Richard did not show up.
Richard had no doubt that he had every intention of hurting Constance either way. He had to get to her as quickly as possible, but he needed a plan. He knew he was walking into a trap, and would be no good to his wife dead. Richard weighed all his options as he strapped on his sword, put a pistol in his belt, and slid a dagger into the calf of his boot. He ran out the door telling Agnes to see to John’s wounds, and not let anyone inside unless it was Richard himself.
The ride to Southwark seemed to last forever, when in reality, it was probably only twenty minutes. Now Richard was concealed behind a bush watching the two men in the porch of the church. Thankfully, the night was dark, and they didn’t see him climb over the wall behind the church and make his way stealthily to the front. The only way to get to Norris would be to kill the two thugs first, and the one thing he had working for him was the cover of darkness.
“Do you reckon he’ll show up soon, Charlie?” one of them asked sounding bored.
“Nah. Why risk that pretty face of his for that Catholic strumpet? He’s had her, now the rest of us can enjoy her charms. Sir Edward promised us a turn with her, hasn’t he? All we have to do is wait until he is done. That lily-livered coward Carlisle is not coming.”
“He will come. You just wait and see. He is too much of a gentleman to abandon his lady, even if she is a Catholic. She must have one sweet cunny to lure him into marriage. He could have had a number of ladies at Court with more money and better connections. What a fool!”
“That he is. If he shows up, he is not leaving here alive. Sir Edward means to dispose of them both. Did you bring the shovels like he asked?”
“They are behind the box of the carriage. It will take all night to dig graves for those two. I hope Norris will at least buy us a pint for our trouble.”
Richard felt his blood boil, but he had to stay calm. Connie’s life depended on it. He picked up a pebble and dropped it on the stone walkway close to the bush. The two men stopped talking and strained to hear something in the darkness.
“Charlie, check behind that bush. I think I heard something.”
“It’s probably just a cat, Will. We would see Carlisle sneaking through the doorway. There is no other way in and the wall is too high.”
“Sir Edward left me in charge and I am telling you to check, man.” Richard saw the man reluctantly peel himself away from the wall he was leaning against and walk toward the bush. The fool did not even have his sword drawn.
You should really pick your men more carefully, thought Richard as he drove his sword into the man’s belly to the hilt without bothering to pull it out. Wasting precious moments could cost Connie her life. He fired the shot into the other man’s chest before he even realized what was happening, and watched him fall to the ground next to his friend. The shot sounded like a cannon boom in the silence, but it had been nothing more than a pop. The man named Will looked up at Richard, his eyes full of horror as he realized that he was dying, but Richard had no time to spare for him. He was dead by the time Richard crept into the porch and put his ear against the door of the church.
Chapter 49
September 2010
I woke up in the most delicious way possible, with Adrian kissing my neck and sliding his hand up my thigh with a sense of purpose. I’d meant to write last night, but one thing led to another and Adrian stayed the night, making me forget all about my sixteenth century counterpart. I was glad to have him there. Lately, the visions have become darker and more frightening, and I often found myself alone and afraid in the middle of the night, as my writing took me on a roller coaster of emotions I never expected. Dr. Platt said that I would be able to analyze the memories with a detachment born from years of separation from reality, but I was finding it difficult to stay aloof. I felt what Constance was feeling, and I was often surprised by a terrible wave of grief for a sister who died nearly five hundred years before.
I put my thoughts aside, as Adrian’s hand reached its destination, and closed my eyes floating on waves of pleasure. His hand was soon replaced by his hungry mouth, leaving me moaning as I ran my hands through his shaggy hair.
“Come up here,” I whispered, as he moved up to cover my body with his own. He kissed me soundly, his lips still tasting of me, and I wrapped my legs around him in silent invitation.
Some time later, Adrian finally rose from the bed and headed for the shower. He had a meeting in an hour and I had plans of my own. I would go to the church I had seen in my visions to seek some answers. I threw on a silk kimono and headed downstairs to make some coffee and prepare breakfast. Everything was better on a full stomach.
**
It was past 10:00am when I finally left the house and headed toward Cannon Street. I’d always loved autumn, and took a deep breath of the fresh September air as I set off down the street toward St. Swithin's Church. The still green leaves were rustling overhead, the sound of birdsong filling the air. Autumn would truly be upon us in a couple of weeks, and I was enjoying the last warm days of Indian summer. Based on what I had seen in my visions, the church was no more than a ten-minute walk from my house, and I should see it as soon as I turned the corner. I suddenly felt seeds of doubt take root in my mind. Why was I really doing this? What was I hoping to discover?
There were only two possible options. If I found some evidence that the people I was seeing had been real, then I would confirm Dr. Platt’s theory that I was experiencing memories of a past life. If, however, I found no trace of them, then I would be confirming my own theory that I was most likely losing my mind. At this point, I wasn’t sure which outcome I preferred. One would leave me doubting everything I had been taught to believe since I was a child, and the other would leave me doubting my sanity. Nothing like being between a rock and a hard place, I thought to myself as I made the turn.
Despite living in the area since April, I’d never actually come this way before. I am not sure if I was subconsciously avoiding it or not, but I always chose other other ways to walk. I stopped and looked around me. This seemed to be the right place, but there was no sign of a church. I saw several shops, a bank and an office building, but no church. The church would have been where the office building now stood, and I got closer to make certain. As I looked around me, I saw another church a few blocks away and decided to ask there. I doubted that I would learn anything, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.
I hesitated for a moment before pushing open the heavy wooden door and walking into the cool interior of the church. I stopped in the middle of the nave and looked around me. Sun was streaming through the lovely stained glass windows, illuminating scenes from the life of some saint I wasn’t familiar with, but who obviously did not die a peaceful death at a very old age. Pieces of crimson glass depicted blood flowing freely from his body, and I turned away in revulsion. Thick, white candles burned in their brass candlesticks, and several solitary people sat in the polished wooden pews lost in thought or prayer. I looked around for the vicar, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Suddenly, sounds of Bach filled the small space as the organist bega
n her practice, so I sat down for a few moments, enjoying the solemn melody.
Eventually, a low, wooden door opened up behind the pulpit, and a young man dressed as a clergyman emerged carrying a sheaf of papers. He must have been preparing his sermon, which he now placed on the pulpit. I stood up and walked toward the altar, my sandals clicking loudly on the stone floor of the church. The organist had exhausted her repertoire, and retreated into the shadows of the gallery, leaving the church silent and peaceful. The vicar looked up from his sermon as I approached, his face lighting up in recognition.
“Good God, if it isn’t Cassandra Blake,” he exclaimed, beaming. “What brings you here?”
“Have we met?” I asked carefully.
“Not exactly. I’m a devoted fan of yours and I particularly loved your book “Heaven’s Wrath.” I came by when you had your book signing in Oxford Street, but the queue was so long that I never actually got my copy signed. Had a service to perform and couldn’t wait any longer. Would you mind, actually? I have it right there in my office.” He pointed toward the door he came from and I followed him inside, smiling to myself.
The vicar pulled a well-read copy of my book off a shelf and handed it to me shyly. I picked up a pen and opened the cover. “Who would you like me to make it out to?”
“Right. Sorry. Colin Burns.” He blushed, and I thought he looked awfully young to be a vicar. The man was tall and thin, his dark eyes sparkling with humor behind his rimless glasses, and his hair a trifle too long for a man of God. I thought he would look more comfortable at some trendy coffee house listening to poetry or jazz rather than this dusty clerical abode. I handed him the book and he read the inscription with pleasure, before replacing it on the shelf and offering me a seat.
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