Mr. Lemon proved an enthusiastic guide to towers in the wall of the inner ward surrounding the complex of buildings, of which the White Tower was the centre. They felt the secretive atmosphere when he led them down a narrow winding stairway to Bloody Tower, called Garden Tower until the murder of the York princes.
In Beauchamp Tower, Quintilla traced with her finger the “Jane” scratched in a wall where Lady Jane Grey’s husband had awaited his execution. Entanglement in the machinations of their elders led the historic pair, not long out of childhood, to a nine-day reign and the block.
“I have always wanted to call back through time,” said Quintilla in Thomas More’s cold cell. She cupped her hands to her mouth and softly pretended to shout to the vaulted ceiling, “Give in to the king. Give in to the king.”
“His wife felt the same way,” advised Mr. Lemon.
“What did he accomplish but a place in history?” Quintilla commented unsympathetically.
“A cold place when balanced against the warm family life he enjoyed,” Warrick added.
“Yes,” Quintilla agreed. “It often takes more courage to live then to die.”
Mr. Lemon relinquished his role as guide and left them on the battlements between Beauchamp and Bell towers, where the Princess Elizabeth was sometimes allowed to walk. Quintilla and Warrick stood side by side leaning against the parapet, their backs to the old brick of chimney walls. They watched the river traffic to the west.
“How tantalising for Elizabeth to view the Thames and not be free to follow it. How inexorably unfair to be imprisoned because of someone’s whim,” Quintilla objected.
“Governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed,” said Warrick. “And all men are created equal. That is what the American colonists stated when they declared their independence.”
“Everyone ... equal,” Quintilla repeated. “Would you like to go to America?”
“I would—again. I have been there.” He turned from watching river traffic to look at the young woman to whom he found himself revealing what he usually kept to himself.
“Please tell me about it.”
He did as they strolled amidst the hustle and the bustle of a military post ensuring an adequate supply of weapons. Quintilla was happily astounded at Warrick’s recollection of the New Jersey farmer who felt qualified to discuss politics and religion as if he were a gentleman or a scholar. Too engrossed, they gave no notice to gawking stares evoked by Quintilla’s unbalanced gait.
In one crumbling tower, another narrow winding stair lured them. At the top, a thick wooden door was ajar. They slipped through into one of Mr. Lysons’s caches of manuscripts. With vaulted ceiling and rough stone walls, the room might once have served as banquet hall. Crude, wide stone steps led to miniscule windowed alcoves. Thick, leaded windowpanes obscured what lay beyond and let in a minimal amount of light. High on opposite walls, two series of three embrasures with arched openings slightly relieved the dim light. Assorted wooden chests, filled with documents, were covered with piles of broadsides announcing important events through the centuries. Other documents littered the floor.
“A treasure house,” exclaimed Quintilla. “Can we find something connected with the New World?” Moving along the narrow aisles between piles of material, she examined various sheets. “Here is one from Henry the Eighth’s reign concerning the building of a conduit. One forgets they had to deal with details of living, in addition to monumental events like the dissolution of the monasteries or cavorting on the Field of the Cloth of Gold.” The two of them sat on chests, engrossed, as they sorted through the records, hunting for interesting pieces of news from the past. Each would read out to the other excerpts from documents discovered—none of it monumental, all of it pertaining to purchasing, repairing, improving.
For whatever reason—a sudden air draft, the settling of crumbling old stones—the thick door slowly swung shut. Surprised, Quintilla and Warrick looked at it, and then at each other. Quintilla’s eyes grew wide as Warrick made his way down narrow aisles of manuscripts to the door. There was no way to open it from the inside. Neither kicks nor shoves solved the problem.
“Well, My Lady, we are imprisoned in the past.” Their eyes met in recognition of their serious predicament, then surveyed the optional exits. High up the wall, the series of three openings that must surely overlook the narrow stairs they had ascended seemed the most logical alternative way out.
Warrick spoke first. “I think we should concentrate our efforts on reaching the opening nearest the door.”
“Yes. We certainly have enough to pile so we can reach it.”
“Once I reach the window, I can drop down the stairwell and go for help.”
“Is the opening big enough for you to get through?”
“We will have to hope so. Let me get up there and see.”
“I believe I could get through it. You could lower me onto the stairs and I could go for help.”
Warrick looked skeptical. “I will not have you endangering—”
“No more than you.”
So crowded was the room, it was difficult to manoeuvre a wooden chest under the window opening in question.
“I did not realise the weight of knowledge,” said Warrick.
Quintilla removed her hat and gloves, and her jacket, to help shift papers from the area underneath the small opening. They emptied a large chest and shoved it under the targeted position.
“Now we need a smaller chest to place on top of this one.” Warrick scrutinised the room’s contents.
They worked well together, pushing and shoving. Quintilla began chanting under her breath, “Way, haul away—we’ll haul away the bowling. Way, haul away—we’ll haul away, Joe,” and Warrick joined in. The sea chantey’s rhythm helped coordinate their efforts.
A second chest was emptied and lifted onto the first. Warrick climbed up and stood there, hands on hips, to gauge the additional height needed before he could pull himself up to the base of the embrasure.
“One good stack of papers should get us out of here.” Warrick looked down at Quintilla’s face, filled with confidence. He had shed his own coat and vest, and in his loose shirt, wide-sleeved and open down the neck, he resembled one of Queen Elizabeth’s freebooters, back from a successful raid on the Spanish fleet.
He jumped down from the second chest to the first and onto the floor in front of Quintilla. His hands on her shoulders, he looked into her eyes. “I can tell you are not worried.”
“Never. Is this not part of the usual Tower tour? Soon, the sound of fife and drum will reach us, telling us a rescue party approaches.”
Still holding her shoulders, he gently shook her. “Some poet said a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. We can only assume, with all this knowledge surrounding us, we are in no danger.”
They piled the broadsides and documents onto the second chest until Warrick could stand and pull himself up, to perch on the lower edge of the embrasure. “You are right. I cannot get both shoulders through the opening. Are you still willing? You can hang from my arm, and the drop to the stair will not be more than ... three feet.”
Quintilla nodded. “Still willing.”
“We need more paper so you can get up here, too.”
He eased down from the embrasure, and they stacked more of the manuscripts. Warrick helped Quintilla up to the second chest, where the two stood precariously, each with one hand against the wall. He held Quintilla’s arm, and she held his to steady herself. His open shirt revealed firm muscles and dark curling hairs glistening with tiny beads of sweat. His scent stirred Quintilla in strange ways. How odd that danger, when shared with him, became so exhilarating. Quickly she blocked her mind from such reactions to concentrate on the task at hand.
Warrick mounted the fragile, slippery pile of proclamations and regulations, which began to slip under his weight and flutter down to the floor. “Damn!” Frustrated, he smiled at Quintilla. “My apologies.”
“Damn!”
Quintilla mimicked him. “The situation called for it.”
They replaced the pile of documents. Kneeling on the smaller chest, Quintilla held them steady while Warrick again pulled himself up to the embrasure. He looked through the opening to the dark stairway below. “It is too far a drop, My Lady. I do not want you to—”
“There is no alternative, Dr. Lopez.” Quintilla spoke boldly, though she quaked inwardly.
Warrick looked down at her. “You are right—unless you have a shovel in your reticule.”
Quintilla climbed atop the pile of documents and reached for Warrick’s outstretched hand. He pulled her up until she was squeezed between him and the wall on the narrow ledge of the embrasure.
“Hello,” said Warrick. Their noses were inches apart. “Welcome to my embrasure. Would you care to see the view?”
He moved slightly to allow Quintilla to peer down over his shoulder. His hands held her waist. There was no place for her arms but around his neck.
She cleared her throat. “That is a long drop ... into the dark.”
“It is, My Lady. But I will lower you as far as I can. The danger will come if you should fall down the stairs after I drop you. So, keep your hands to the wall as you fall.”
“Where should I put my hands now?” Quintilla asked, as they began to manoeuvre carefully so Quintilla would be positioned to go out backwards.
“Are they comfortable where they are?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then, leave them there.” Arms about each other, they cautiously shifted, inches at a time, reproducing a strange sort of avian mating dance.
“My Lady, I hope your sensibilities are not offended by our intimacy.”
“As long as the ton approves, Dr. Lopez, my sensibilities are satisfied.”
“A truly amicable set of sensibilities.”
Pounding hearts and warm, perspiring bodies were never closer. Quintilla shivered, and paused to rest her forehead against Warrick’s shoulder. Her response to his nearness frightened her more than the dark abyss yawning below. The comfort of his arms about her, the strength of his fingers, would be hard to forget when this was over. She spoke into his shirt. “Dr. Lopez, you are certain the ton considers this proper behaviour?”
“Most assuredly.” His hands stroked the curls at the nape of her neck. “The drop will be easier, My Lady, if you remember to relax.”
She drew a deep breath and relinquished the safety of his shoulder. “I would like to stay and continue our conversation, Dr. Lopez, but I really must be going.”
“So soon? You will miss tea.” Warrick looked at her solemnly. “Can you do this?”
“I was once a great climber of trees.” She bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering.
Warrick’s lips lightly touched her cheek. His sinewy arm and shoulder, all he could get through the opening, held her while she backed through the aperture and down the wall. When he could lower her no farther, he called out, “I will let go of you now. Relax, My Lady!” There was a thud, a moment’s silence, broken by “Ohh!”
“Quintilla!” Warrick frantically shouted down into the darkness. “Quintilla! Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes. My shoe fell off as I dangled ... and it is too dark to find it.” In their relief, neither noticed Warrick’s use of her given name.
“Quintilla. Listen to me. Hold to the wall and walk very slowly down those uneven steps until you reach the bottom. Do not rush,” Warrick ordered. “If you fall down the stairs, our cause is lost.”
“I will be alert, and back in no time at all. Do not worry, Dr. Lopez. I will rescue you. Calm your fears,” Quintilla called out, mocking every comforting phrase that came to mind.
Warrick grunted, and grinned as he wriggled back to a seated position. A new version of the knight-errant and the maiden’s rescue, he thought, and chuckled over Quintilla’s audacity.
When Quintilla returned with Mr. Lysons, Mr. Lemon, and an Ordnance officer with keys and tools in hand, Warrick welcomed them in sartorial splendour.
Coat, vest, and cravat neatly in place on his person, he sat on one of the wooden chests by Quintilla’s discarded jacket and accessories.
Amidst profuse apologies and expressions of concern from the Tower personnel, Warrick and Quintilla left their prison tower. The sun had burned away the overcast and shone brightly on the verdure of the grounds. Perhaps it was the enforced incarceration, however brief—or the long stretch of unusually cold spring weather—but the Tower Green’s sundappled lawn beneath large shade trees looked considerably more appealing than it had earlier in the day. Refusing offers of restorative tea or sherry, the two thanked the officials for the freedom to tour the castle and congratulated them on the despatch of their rescue.
All courtesies having been exchanged, the gentlemen took their leave. Near the Lieutenant’s Lodge, where once Elizabeth had dined and Anne Boleyn had awaited the French swordsman, Warrick and Quintilla paused by a lilac bush. The heat from the sun enhanced its delicate fragrance. Quintilla pulled down a branch to bury her face in a lavender blossom. “One last experience of life’s beauty before the executioner’s axe fell,” she said, contemplating the pleasant greensward. “Could you face death the easier for having smelled the lilac and watched the sun on its leaves?” She retreated, holding out the branch and its flower for Warrick.
“Not with such a sweet reminder of life.” His voice was husky. Instead of reaching to hold the lilac, his hand went to her head and attempted to bring order to the tangle of her curls. Taking her hat from her hands, he replaced it on her head, then stepped back and peered at its angle before he moved to adjust it with both hands. Quintilla stood mesmerised in the sunlight until he gave a sharp pat to the top of her milliner’s very fashionable creation. “Cannot have you looking like something dredged up from the moat,” he explained.
“Do not think you will turn my head with your flowery compliments,” Quintilla retorted. As she smoothed her kid gloves over slender fingers, she commented, “That brief imprisonment has persuaded me to no longer pursue my life of crime.”
“Just when it was going so well.” Warrick glanced at her sharply. Trespassing into his thoughts came Edwina’s tale of theft.
With his thumb, Warrick rubbed the smudge of dirt remaining on Quintilla’s chin as evidence of their tower adventure. Then, taking her arm, he briskly steered a course toward the Royal Menagerie and the way out. Beside him, Quintilla limped noticeably. He scooped her into his arms. “You never found your shoe.”
“It is not necessary for you to carry me,” insisted Quintilla, short of breath from trying to keep up, half shod as she was, with Warrick’s stride. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“I know you are. Do not deny me this opportunity to return the favour of your daring rescue of me—a blot on the record of knights who have served in the fortress.” Quintilla was quiet. The set of his jaw promised little chance of stopping him. “Would you carry any woman who has lost a shoe, and not just me?”
Warrick studied her serious countenance. “Any woman. I defy you to find a woman with only one shoe whom I would not carry.”
Satisfied that no pity was involved, Quintilla surrendered to the delight of being in his arms, one more gem from this treasured day shared with a man who set her pulse racing. Some other time she would heed her fears over the pain of unrequited love.
The attendant at the ticket booth regarded the two uncertainly. “Did you have a nice time, then, mum?”
“A perfectly delightful time,” Quintilla conceded politely from over Warrick’s shoulder, surprising the employee with the enthusiasm of a young woman who seemed incapable of walking.
Once again in the maroon and black carriage, Quintilla and Warrick relaxed. The sound of the horses’ progress through City streets lulled them during the journey back to Sloane Crescent. The passed a dispensary, one of a system dedicated to medical care for the poor whose founders included Quintilla’s Uncle Guthrie. Warrick pointed out th
e Albany. The horses clopped on.
Did her conversation—and assistance in their escape—compensate him for spending the day in the company of one who was ... defective? Quintilla wondered. Had he noticed the stares of the curious? She leaned her head back against the upholstered corner of the carriage. What contentment to have him so near! Her eyes tenderly followed the contours of his face and figure.
“You are unusually quiet, Miss Davenant. In our brief acquaintance, I do not recall ever going this long without hearing from you,” Warrick commented. Left unsaid were remarks of her allure as she sat wedged in a corner of the carriage sleepily gazing at him with such obvious admiration.
“ ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night. What immortal hand or eye, dare frame thy fearful symmetry?’ ” Quintilla quoted. “It comes to mind when I look at you,” she said dreamily. “William Blake wrote it.”
Through half-closed eyes, Warrick could have been stalking her. “You are right to fear the tiger.”
Quintilla’s eyes opened wide, transporting her immediately back to reality, and the dangers of emotional involvement. “Why?”
“I have been known to devour lambs who look at me as you were.” His low voice caressed.
The challenge in his eyes thrust Quintilla into unknown territory. Unsure and unskilled in romantic moves, she retreated into her intellect, and the poem—steadier ground. “ ‘Did he who made the Lamb make thee? ” She improvised, “Then, I must hope thee'd spare poor me” sorely disappointed at her lack of daring.
Warrick nodded slowly. “I concede you brains, Miss Davenant, but is it wise to both taunt the tiger and flaunt ... your scholarship?” he drawled.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 6