by Deryn Lake
“Please,” Helena persisted.
“Before I do so, be assured of one thing,” he said without meeting her eyes. “I love you, have loved you ever since you were a child; that is what made me do what I did.”
Helena stared at him blankly, longing to comfort him but somehow afraid. “What have you done?”
“I summoned you here,” Etienne said softly. “Or rather, I asked another to do so on my behalf.”
Helena’s legs felt suddenly weak and she shivered, realising that she was wet through from her recent spell in the river. Etienne rushed to her, pulling her close to him and leading her to the fire.
“First let me get you some dry clothes. Then I will tell you everything that I know. Giving a small bow he left the room and Helena was alone instantly gripped by panic, knowing that she should run away, yet held fast by the attraction that this extraordinary man had for her. She stood by the fire, arms clutched round herself, wondering what to do next, then crossed to the window and stared out, face pressed against the glass, to see more clearly.
Outside it was as light as day, and in this amazing clarity every detail of the grounds round the chateau could be seen distinctly. For the first time, Helena realised that something was seriously amiss, that she was either suffering a terrifying hallucination or an event beyond her comprehension had occurred.
Gone were the canals and the formal, shaped green lawns; now a carpet of grass ran down to a crescent of water that shimmered like a brooch in the moonlight. Helena’s hand clutched her throat and she closed her eyes. But when she opened them again the image had not changed. Chambord was fully moated once more.
A sound from the doorway had her wheeling round, eyes staring, but it was only the return of Etienne de Fleurmont, who stood smiling at her, holding out a gown so elaborate that Helena could only think it had come from a film set.
“For you,” he said, and shocked as she was, Helena could not help but admire the beauty of the richly-embellished underskirt and the mulberry velvet of the jewel encrusted bodice.
She walked right up to him, putting her face close to his and trying hard to be angry. “Monsieur, what is all this? What is going on? Is this some enormous prank?”
“What do you mean, little one?”
“Everything would suggest that I am still dreaming, but I know that can’t be true. My hair wouldn’t be wet if I were dreaming.” She picked up a lock of dripping hair and twirled it round her fingers. “You said earlier that you had me summoned here. Could you tell me exactly what that means?”
Etienne did not answer at first, instead silently leading her to where the fire consumed a log the size of a branch, urging her to sit on a low wooden chair with a tapestry back and seat near the stone hearth.
“The very first time I saw you,” he said, sitting down opposite her, “was when you crawled up the staircase towards me. You were like a rose, so pink and round that I could have plucked you to my heart. But when I came down to catch you, you were on the other flight and were gone. I thought then that I was hallucinating but when, a month later, a beautiful little girl, proud as a grande dame in her long swirling frock, came towards me I realised that something strange was taking place. That my daydream was being filled with a child who appeared to be growing up.”
“But Etienne,” Helena answered softly, “I dreamed of you.”
“Perhaps, then, it is true,” he said, “that time is continuous.”
She stole a glance at his face and saw that he was staring into the fire, remembering.
“For a year I watched you,” he said, “always growing, becoming beautiful, your eyes consuming my soul whenever you came to me. I even painted your portrait looking at me like that. I was in love with you, Helena, by the time you were fourteen.”
“And you,” she asked in wonder, “you did not age while I grew up?”
“Only by one year.”
She hid her face in her hands. “Am I going mad? Is any of this possible?”
At once he was beside her, his arms going round her and holding her tightly against his heart. Yet again Helena felt his irresistible attraction.
“My darling, forgive me. In the end I consulted Ruggieri and begged him to bring you to me by whatever means he chose. Yesterday he almost succeeded. You were within my grasp, and then something pulled you away.”
“It was yesterday for me too,” said Helena. “But why did you say then that you were glad I was a woman not a child?”
“He warned me that magic sometimes has a sting in its tail.”
“Magic?” said Helena, feeling yet again that none of this could be real, that she was truly in bed, sleeping beside Hal, and dreaming the most vivid dream of all.
Etienne looked at her curiously. “But of course you have heard of Ruggieri surely?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Who is he?”
“Madame la Dauphine’s personal astrologer.”
Helena stared at him. “Etienne, for God’s sake tell me the truth. Where am I?”
“In Chambord . . .”
“I know that,” she interrupted fiercely, “but when?”
He took both her hands to steady her. “In my world, little one, and in your dream too, it is the year 1541.”
Helena got to her feet feeling physically sick. “You are lying, I know it. It isn’t possible.”
“It is, ma cherie. You have come here at last, as we both wanted.”
“We?” she repeated dazedly.
“Yes,” said a voice from the doorway and Helena spun round.
A tall, gaunt figure in a black cloak was moving slowly towards her, and on seeing him a memory came back. A memory in which a dark-eyed woman and a tall thin man stood in Etiennc’s place and called to her to come. Helena went cold with fear though the man smiled and continued to advance.
“Greetings, my dear. I am Ruggieri,” he said.
She stared at him blankly and as if he could read her thoughts the man went on, “I can see that you are disturbed. Yet to those who study the stars and true nature, there is no such thing as time. You must understand that it is perfectly possible to leave one’s body behind when one dreams, and in that state to visit other times, other places. You dreamed of Etienne while you were a child, he saw you in his visions. You were close to one another even though centuries held you apart.”
“So you are asking me to accept that I am here, in the year 1541?”
Ruggieri smiled and spread his hands. “Whether you accept it or not, it is a fact.”
“But what of my own time? I lave I died?”
“I think you are in suspended animation, perhaps asleep.”
“And can I go back?”
“If you wish it, if Etienne wishes it, possibly you can.”
Helena stood quite still, trying to cope with the violent beating of her heart and with all the thoughts that were teeming in her brain. If this had really happened to her, if she was having some kind of incredible psychic experience, then what could she do? Only by persuading this gaunt astrologer — who was now regarding her with an amused and cynical smile upon his face — could she ever hope to return to her own life. She lowered her eyes and hung her head submissively as if she had given up struggling.
Instantly Etienne was beside her. “Do you forgive me?” he whispered anxiously.
Helena looked up at him. “Of course I do.”
When she had said the words she realised that she half meant it. That it was almost worth all the fear and torment just to be close to him.
“Then will you stay with me tonight?” he went on, too softly for Ruggieri to hear.
Helena laughed, shaking her head. “I see that men are the same whatever the century. No, my dear, I will not.”
He looked stricken. “But I summoned you here so that I could marry you.”
She stared at him, amazed, but was rescued from further conversation by a knock on the door. Instantly Ruggieri rose from his seat by the fire and melted like a shadow behind the drape of
the floor-length bed curtain. Helena looked round frantically, terrified of being seen and subjected to questioning, but too late. The door opened imperiously and a gorgeously dressed vision swept into the room before Helena could make a move.
She found herself gazing on a vivid creature whom she instantly recognised as the woman who had waited for her on the staircase. She was dressed from head to toe in shimmering gold, the overskirt threaded with red and decorated with pearls. A gold net collar brushed against lustrous ebony hair pulled back into a chignon, from which one solitary and glistening lock escaped, while her figure was slender, that of a woman in her twenties.
“Well,” said the newcomer, casting her dark eyes round the room, “I thought I heard voices and could have sworn my astrologer was with you. What do you have to say, Monsieur le Vicomte?”
Helena stood motionless, digesting two pieces of information simultaneously. Etienne had a title, and this striking girl had referred to the astrologer as hers, and therefore could be none other than Catherine de Medici. Helena stared in frank amazement.
Catherine whirled round the room searching, and Helena, who had taken the precaution of crouching behind a chair, was able to study her more closely. Feature by feature the Dauphine was not really attractive, her Italian blood making her somewhat olive skinned and Roman nosed. But the Medici strain had also given her beautiful hair and eyes, coupled with a powerful personality, so that she was in her way quite stunning.
Catherine’s inspection of the room continued as she peered beneath the bed and amongst its massive drapes before attacking the very spot where Ruggieri had vanished. To Helena’s astonishment the astrologer was not there, obviously having slipped silently away. Then she cowered as Catherine crossed over to the chair where she hid and looked behind it.
There was no doubt that she saw her, for Helena watched as the Dauphine’s hand flew to her mouth in fright and the glittering eyes widened to twice their size. But her control was amazing, impeccable. The two women exchanged a measured glance and then, with a small smile of triumph about her mouth, Catherine turned away.
“Well, Etienne,” she said, lightly tapping him under the chin with her ostrich feather fan, “I see that I misjudged you. There is nobody here.”
He bowed and kissed her hand. “As you say, I am alone, Madame.”
“And will be all night?” she asked and laughed softly.
Etienne bowed, and the door quietly closed behind her.
Helena stood up. “Who was that . . .?”
He nodded. “That was Catherine, future Queen of France.”
The dreamlike quality of the situation swept Helena again and in a way she found this comforting. The situation was so unlikely that she expected to wake and see Hal at any second. But thinking about him filled her with unexpected anxiety. She crossed to Etienne’s side and put her hands on his arm.
“Monsieur le Vicomte, if this is really happening, how shall I ever return?”
Etienne frowned. “Why do you say that? Do you want to leave me?” Helena hesitated and he went on, “I hope that is not so because, Madame, I am formally asking you to marry me. I brought you here to make you the Vicomtesse de Fleurmont.”
“You know that is not possible.”
“Why?” said Etienne, and gathered her into his arms. It was difficult, then, to resist him, to insist that they should spend the night separately. But, disconcertingly, thoughts of Hal were coming more and more frequently and it was almost a relief to be shown to her own room and to climb into the bed hung with magenta drapes, large as a room and dominated by a towering canopy which made her feel small and diminished, but beneath which she finally fell asleep.
*
Helena had thought that the night would restore everything to normal. That when she woke up it would be to find herself in the hotel in Amboise, Hal’s comforting presence singing in the bathroom. But this was not to be. The rays of the sun shining on her face were thrusting their way from behind great wooden shutters, and as she sat up the enormity of the situation hit her forcibly. Once more fear of the unknown engulfed her.
A sound brought her attention back to the present for the door swept open to reveal Etienne and a scuttling little servant who carried a tray loaded with delicacies.
“Put it over there,” he said, “I will send for you later.”
The servant bobbed her way out as Etienne crossed to kiss Helena good morning.
“Etienne . . .” she began, but then stopped, remembering his words on the previous night. It was Ruggieri who should be asked to help her back to reality.
“When you have breakfasted and dressed, my darling,” said the Vicomte, “I shall show you the wonders of Chambord, both the chateau and the estate.”
Despite everything Helena glowed with excitement. To see the palace of Francois I, fully furnished and populated by that strange race of people who so claustrophobically packed the staircase, would be a magical experience indeed.
“There are clothes for you in the cupboard,” Etienne said, then smiled. “I hope you can manage to put them on.”
“I thought everyone was dressed by a maid,” Helena answered.
“They are, my darling, but in this case a servant would find it rather difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because, little ghost, nobody other than Ruggieri and myself can see you.”
She stared at him aghast. “What?” she exclaimed.
Etienne smiled disarmingly, his splendid eyes warm. “Little one, the mysterious path that you and I have chosen was not meant to be shared with others. We have achieved our impossible wish, but no one else may know the secret.”
Helena sat in the midst of the enormous bed, hugging her knees to her chin. Was she truly invisible as Etienne said? And if so, why had the Dauphine apparently recognised her last night? Had she come to Etienne of her own free will? Had she wished to be with him as much as he had wanted her? She remembered how she had driven through the night and swum a dark river to get to Chambord. Had that been Ruggieri’s doing or her own?
“You are very quiet,” he said.
“I was just thinking things through. Etienne . . .” she went on, suddenly practical, “I think you had better help me into these clothes.”
It was like dressing for a play. First came the underskirt heavily embroidered and made of brocade, then the bodice and crimson overskirt, the sleeves slashed and tied with gold cords. Onto her head Helena manoeuvred a headdress trimmed with pearls, a floating veil hanging from it, and finally she adorned herself with jewels — a gold chain belt from which hung a gem-covered pomander case, chains of gold and ruby, heavy with pendants, then finally rings and earrings, glistening and glittering as she turned this way and that.
“Come beauty.” said Etienne, giving her his hand, “let me show you the place that has brought the two of us together.”
And with that he led her into the corridor, and towards the staircase.
“I want you to learn its secret,” he said and laughed. “Close your eyes for a second.”
*
Helena obediently did so only to find that Etienne had gone when she opened them again. She stood still for a moment then decided to descend, only to see through one of the observation windows in the central column that Etienne was climbing up. Helena turned to join him but when she reached the landing found he was not there. Puzzled, she took to the stairs once more to discover that he was running down behind her.
“How did you manage that?” she said, nonplussed.
“My darling,” he answered teasingly. “haven’t you guessed?”
“No.” Helena shook her head. “It’s obviously some trick. I can’t work it out.”
“There are two staircases, both spiral, one above the other. In that way you can walk round and talk in private, still seeing everything that goes on.”
Helena gazed at him, then rushed to look for herself. Going as near to the hollow central pillar of the staircase as she could, she stared down. Ev
erything went blurred for a moment, then she distinctly saw Hal, kneeling on the ground and bending over something which Helena could not distinguish.
“Hal,” she shrieked, “help me. I’m trapped.”
He looked round, and she watched helplessly as he obviously tried to locate the sound but could not do so. In the dim distance she realised that a bell was going off.
“Here.” she screamed again. “I’m here.”
He gazed upwards and just for a second Helena could have sworn that he stared straight at her, then he turned away and once more gave his attention to the object on the ground. She would have run then, taken to her heels and fled down and down to find him but for a sudden touch at her elbow. Helena saw, with a wild mix of emotions, that Etienne had joined her.
“What is it?” he said. “You look distressed.”
She took a deep breath. “I felt a moment’s faintness, no more.”
“But you are all right?” Etienne’s eyes stared into hers anxiously.
“Perfectly. I love the staircase. Please can we go to the bottom and look up.”
“Of course. It’s a fantastic concept, isn’t it?” said Etienne, taking Helena’s arm and walking beside her. “Master da Vinci designed it, but did not live to see it built. He originally wanted four spirals for an ultimate optical illusion.”
“Do you think he could travel into the future?” asked Helena. “Could he have seen me there?”
“Who knows who he saw or met when he practised his arts,” Etienne told her. He did not seem happy to pursue the subject.
He opened a door beneath the staircase and Helena found herself standing within the hollow central column, looking up to where a great lantern dome towered above it.
“What a work of art,” she said.
A sudden noise from outside broke the stillness within the hollow and Etienne said hastily, “The King is returning from his morning stroll.”
Passing through the door again, Helena found herself in the entrance hallway which, only yesterday, had been packed with tourists, but now teemed with a horde of preening exquisites. In the midst of his pretty courtiers, François I had returned to his chateau.