In the distance, at least four church bells chimed. In fact, there were lots of bells chiming. I could easily create this detail because I knew there were over 120 church parishes in London, many with exquisitely toned bells that young people chimed for amusement. The gray sky reflected off the glass in the upper story windows as I passed; in one a little girl looked down at me and waved.
The people were clean and filthy and fat and razor thin. I kept expecting to see people I knew since my brain must eventually run out of facial features and begin relying on my memory. Soon I would see Chris and my parents and my brothers, and my entire senior class. I would see old teachers and Carleton students and neighbors and my dead grandparents. I would soon see Ashley and Mary.
But no. Every face was new. Familiar, but new.
Shops, pubs, inns. Signs for glassmakers and shoemakers and astrologers. Food stands, dogs and children running loose. Massive piles of horse manure steaming in the middle of the street. A man in a long black coat stood on one corner waving a handful of leaflets, shouting, “Repent, England! Repent!”
The buildings ranged from brand new to barely standing. After an hour, Blanche’s body was ready to turn back, but I pressed on. There was no way my brain could keep supplying these details.
I came to a halt when we passed a dark building with bars on the open windows. Filthy hands and weak voices reached out for food. “What fresh hell is this?” I muttered.
“Debtors’ prison,” Jacob said. “Lady Blanche, I beg you to let us take you back.”
“Debtors’ prison? And doesn’t that make sense. If a person can’t pay his debts, you throw him in prison so he can’t earn anything to pay off the debts so his family starves. That is beyond idiocy.”
I stomped away, only to be brought up short by the sight of a man sitting on the ground with a cap in front of him, waving for attention with arms that both lacked hands.
“Sweet Jesus,” I said, turning to my friendly guard.
Jacob shrugged. “Thieving gets your hand cut off. If this cutpurse has lost both, he is one of the worst.”
“Maybe he was thieving to feed his family,” I snapped.
I ran up a side street with second and third stories looming out over the street like giants. The city was growing more crowded. I’d seen the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral, so I knew I was close to the heart of London, and still my brain kept creating more. The weirdness of the last week threatened to overwhelm me. I had no one to turn to, no one to ask for advice. And I wasn’t running out of details. My brain, or this world, just kept presenting more and more information.
Jacob ran up behind me, panting slightly. “My lady, this street continues up to Holborn. There is nothing for you there.”
My first thought was amazement that Holborn Street had existed in Elizabethan times, but then I got a grip. This wasn’t real, and believing it was would only make things harder.
Anger at Dr. Raj and confusion at my own inability to figure this out sent me stamping back to the main street with my two guards huffing to keep up. Then I lost it. “You’re the only ones who seem to care what happens to me. And I don’t even know if you’re real, or if I’ve just made you up!” I actually smacked poor Jacob on the chest of his red wool uniform. “I’m not supposed to be here. Do you understand that? I don’t belong here, not in the palace, not here! It’s the wrong time. It’s even the wrong damn body. What am I supposed to do?” My voice rose in panic, but I couldn’t stop it. “Where’s Dr. Rajamani? Why doesn’t any of this make sense?”
One of the men shook his head. “You are sounding just as crazy as the man in the Tower.” He looked at Jacob. “Remember him? Wild-eyed bloke kept trying to get onto the palace grounds, going on and on about this doctor, named Raja or something.”
“The Tower?” I squeaked. “You threw him in the Tower because he was sounding just like me?”
“No,” Jacob said. “The bloke got thrown in for sorcery. Her Lady, Bess of Hardwick, claims he used witchcraft on her.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sputtered, but I forced myself to calm down. Funny how just the mention of the Tower of London could do that. Chris and I had toured the landmark our first week here, and I’d been awed by the history within the 800-year-old walls, but also horrified at the pain and torture that had taken place there. I faced my guards. “I’m not crazy, you know.” The men looked at each other. “So you don’t need to throw me in Bedlam, but I need to see this man. Is he still in the Tower?”
“Last I heard they got him salted away in the Salt Tower.” Jacob grinned at his own pun.
I was too freaked to appreciate his wit as I whirled to examine the horizon. The Tower was located on the Thames near St. Paul’s Cathedral “Could you take me to him? Then afterward, perhaps we could take a barge back to the palace.” My bribery worked, for none of us wanted to repeat the torturous walk.
Jacob’s companion squinted at me, then nodded. “We are almost there now, but we cannot stay long.”
The walk took longer than it should have because the streets were clogged with carriages and wagons, but eventually, the White Tower rose into sight above the fort walls. We stopped at the guard station, and Jacob explained Lady Blanche Nottingham was here to see the sorcerer.
“Aye, Hew Draper be here. Cozy little setup the man has got.” He nodded to me. “Best be quick about it, and do not be letting him tell you any tales about how we been treating ’em. Him’s got a cushier life than me own.”
The Tower of London, basically a walled fort, looked considerably different than when I’d toured it. In this version more wooden buildings filled up the green space and the roar of a lion reminded me there’d actually been a small zoo here, with a lion, lynx, tigers, and an ancient wolf, an animal as scarce in Britain as any of the other zoo inhabitants. Rising high from the middle of the grounds was the White Tower, a building that housed the Queen’s armories and most of its gunpowder. The basement contained torture chambers.
Missing from this version of the Tower of London was the glass sculpture in the Tower Green marking the site of the beheadings that occurred there over the centuries, Elizabeth’s mother Anne Boleyn being the most famous.
The Tower guard, busy chatting with my own, led us down a cobblestone street that ran alongside the Thames. We passed the Traitor’s Gate, a wooden lattice set into a stone arch above the water where prisoners were brought into the Tower via boat. Princess Elizabeth had entered the Tower this way when her sister, Queen Mary, was so worried about an uprising that would put Elizabeth on the throne that she imprisoned Elizabeth in one of the corner towers for months.
When we climbed a narrow staircase to a walkway that ran along the top of the wall, I looked out over the Thames. To the right was the London Bridge, packed with houses and shops lining both sides of the bridge. I followed the guard through a number of small round towers, then he came to a halt at the corner tower topped with a slate-roofed turret. “Here we are,” the guard said gaily. He pulled out a set of heavy iron keys and clanked one into the lock. “Master Draper, ye got yourself a visitor, and a lovely one at that.” He swung open the heavy door, and I followed him inside, shaking with excitement. If this man had mentioned Dr. Rajamani, he had to know what was going on.
The tower cell was round and two narrow slits let light in from the south. A hearth was set for a fire but did not burn. There was a narrow bed, a small table and chair, and books piled everywhere. Seated at the table was a stooped man with thin gray hair resting listlessly on his shoulders. While his body looked so weak I knew I could easily knock him down, his eyes burned with interest.
We stared at each other. He stood and gave a wobbly bow. “M’lady,” he said.
I turned to the Tower guard. “Please leave us alone.”
“Are you sure she will be safe?” asked Jacob. Of all the people I’d met so far, he was the only one who seemed to care about me other than “Elizabeth” herself.
“You’re sweet,” I said. He blush
ed red as his uniform. “But I’ll be fine.”
“There is no exit but this one,” the Tower guard said. “Your lass will come to no harm.”
“I still do not think—”
“Jacob, look at his size. Look at mine.” My brain reached for a twenty-first century reference. “Besides, I’m really strong. I’m almost Wonder Woman.”
The imprisoned man inhaled sharply as our eyes met. We exchanged cautious smiles. Shrugging, the three guards left, assuring me they would be right outside. “Let us have us a drink, shall we, boys?” said the Tower guard.
The stone room seemed to absorb all the sound. A little noise from river traffic drifted in, but the only sound was Hew Draper’s breathing. He moved his chair for me to use, then he sat on his bed. Nervous now, I took a minute to look around. Carved into the wall closest to me was an elaborate graffiti of an astrological chart. I did a double take because I’d seen this very graffiti on my tour, but then it had been preserved behind a sheet of Plexiglas.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the man said softly. I waited. “You’ve seen that graffiti on your tour of the Tower, no? And you’re wondering where you are and when you are, and if your mind is creating this scene from memory, or if it’s a real scene in 1560.”
“Did you say 1560?”
“When are you from, Wonder Woman?”
I took a deep breath. “From 2017.”
Hew smiled. “How is Manchester United doing?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t follow sports.”
“Bugger all. It would have been nice to know.” He seemed calm, but then I noticed his hands shook.
I reached for one of them. “How long have you been here?”
He pressed his thin, chapped lips together. “I arrived last year on May fourteenth.”
“Oh, my God. You’ve been here over a year.”
“Were you part of Rajamani’s experiments?”
“Yes, and you?”
He nodded. “I’ve had lots of time to think, and I’m sure it was that blasted drug he gave me. There was a devil of thunderstorm going on at the same time as the experiment, and suddenly, I woke up in the gutter of a London I didn’t recognize, in the body of a man I didn’t know.”
I leaned forward. “This is real? I’m not just making it up in my head? I’m not in a coma somewhere?”
Hew barely moved, but his voice sank an octave with his reply. “This is real.”
“But what about coincidences that my mind could be creating?” I told him about Vincent, Ashley, Mary, and Jake, and how each name had appeared here.
He shook his head. “Don’t get so wrapped up in your fear that you forget that simple coincidences can happen in 1560, too. This isn’t something your mind has created. This is very, very real.”
I shivered. “I’d hoped it was a nightmare.”
“That’s what I thought at first, and then I went a little mad. I had no skills, no home, no food. After a few days of living in the filth of the street, having to steal what I ate, I lost it. I began dancing around on King Street, inside the palace walls, cursing and spitting at a carriage passing by me. Out pops ol’ Bess of Hardwick, sure I’d just cast a spell on her.” He sighed. “I’ve been here ever since.”
“That’s horrible. We have to get you out of here.”
Hew threw up his hands. “No, absolutely not. Look at me. I’m a thirty-year-old man in the body of a sixty-year old one. I was born in 1985, for Christ’s sake. My only skills are programming computers, kicking a football, and drinking with the boys down at the pub. I can’t survive out there on my own. At least in here they feed me, give me a bit of wood for warmth in the winter, and bring me books to read.” He smiled. “You seem to be doing much better.”
I snorted. “At least I’m living in the palace, but I’ve already found myself part of some stupid plot.” I stuck out my hand. “My name is Jamie Maddox. This overstuffed dress belongs to Blanche Nottingham.”
With a grin, Hew shook my hand. “Name’s Ray Lexvold, Covent Gardens, London. This bloke you’re looking at is Hew Draper.”
I rubbed my forehead, suddenly weary. “I want to believe this is real because the alternative is that I’m dead or in a coma, but I still don’t trust it. I could be making you up in my head.”
“Do you know anything about masted sailing ships from the sixteenth century?”
I laughed. “Not a damned thing.”
He shuffled over to one of the window slits. “If you stand right here you can see the activity on the Thames. It’s why I love this cell so much.”
I pressed my cheek against the cold stone. “Okay.”
“See that three-masted boat with the red hull?”
“Yes.”
“Look at the riggings running up and down the masts. Watch the men making oakum over in the corner. Did you know any of this?”
Hungry for proof, I squeezed into the opening as far as I could without getting stuck. Rough stone pressed into my shoulder. Men were unloading the ship with wheeled carts. Three horses waited on the dock, each harnessed to a cart. Men scampered through the masts and rigging doing mysterious things with ropes. I watched for a few minutes, then sighed.
I pulled back and touched Ray’s arm. “Thank you.”
“No use having you go bonkers and end up in a cell, or Bedlam. You at least have a safe place to stay.”
I nodded but couldn’t stop thinking about Winston and the other men, and what they had planned. “Okay, I have to ask. You’re still here, which means you haven’t been able to find a way home.”
Ray slumped back onto his bed, which creaked alarmingly even at his slight weight. “I thought it was the storm. Summer brings a fair number of thunderstorms to London. I’m kind of the guards’ pet—don’t know why—so I talk them into letting me walk along the top of the wall during storms. They think I’m batty. I kept hoping to make a return ‘trip,’ if that was what it was, but no luck. I’m still here.” He squeezed my hand. “There’s no going back, luv. There just isn’t.”
I pushed down the panic. I couldn’t be stuck here. Impossible. “What do you suppose is going on with our bodies back in our present?”
“I’ve had plenty of time to puzzle that out as well, and I came up with two options. Either we’re in hospital in a coma while our minds are back here, or.…” He winced.
“Or what?”
“Or there was some sort of exchange. When my mind traveled into this decrepit body, what if Hew Draper’s old mind ended up in my body?”
“You mean Hew Draper’s walking around in twenty-first century London?”
“If you accept that this is real, then why not?”
My blood ran cold. “You mean someone I don’t even know is wearing my body?”
“You’re wearing hers. It’s only fair.”
“Sleeping in my bed? That’s not right.” I found myself unable to swallow. Was Blanche sleeping with Chris? No, that couldn’t happen. Chris would know that Blanche wasn’t me.
“I know how you feel,” he said. “I’d just bought a brand new Mercedes. Imagine what must have happened when a bloke from 1559 got behind the wheel.” He shuddered. “Makes me sick to think of what he’s done to my car.”
I sat down hard on the chair. “What am I going to do?”
Ray patted my knee. “You’re going to accept where you are, and when you are, and who you are, and get on with it.”
“On with what?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Jacob’s voice came through the thick door. “Lady Blanche, the barge is ready to take us back to the palace.”
Ray gave me a weak hug. He clearly wasn’t a well man. “Could you visit me again?”
“Of course. Anything you need?”
“Another blanket would be grand, and maybe some of that rich palace food would put some meat on these stupid old bones.”
I held Ray by his thin shoulders. “I’m going to figure this out. I’m going to get
both of us home.”
Ray’s laugh turned into a cough. “You got spunk, Jamie.”
At that word, homesickness hit me so hard I gasped. I missed my family and Chris so badly I teared up. “Thanks, Ray. I’ll be back.”
Within minutes, I was seated on a thick cushion in the small cabin of the palace barge. This really was the past. My mind, in someone else’s body, was existing in the year 1560. My reality check was the Thames, usually fairly clean. The smell of it now, however, brought on several dry gags that irritated my throat. Jacob opened a small chest and moistened a handkerchief with something and passed it to me. Rose water. I held it under my nose to mask the river.
“There are so many wharfs,” I said, struggling to distract myself from the pain of missing everyone I loved.
Jacob gave a surprised snort. “You speak as if you have never seen London, yet you have been here as long as I have.” Jacob looked at me with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. He and Blanche clearly had some sort of history.
“Indulge me,” I said. “Pretend I am new to the city.”
“That is the Old Wool Quay, where they ship wool, obviously. That is the Bear Quay, used by Portuguese traders. Gibson’s Quay has your lead and tin.” He continued listing the more than twenty quays between the Tower and the fast-arriving London Bridge.
We passed under one of London Bridge’s stone arches, which were built on flat pillars of stone shaped like boats. I asked Jacob about them.
“They act as cutwaters to protect the bridge when the tide goes out since the water moves quite fast.”
That was the only bridge. Yet in the London I knew, there were at least thirteen bridges crossing the Thames in the heart of London. My favorite was the Millennium Bridge gracefully arching from the area south of St. Paul’s over to the Tate Modern, housed in an old power plant. Second favorite was the pale blue Tower Bridge, with its soaring towers and graceful arches.
The boat bobbed in the river, choppy from all the traffic. After at least an hour, when the sun had sunk behind western London, I saw the palace walls ahead and could hardly wait to get safely behind them again.
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