by Renee Duke
As the group approached, Professor Hodges was trying to get Mr. Marchand to omit a scene he considered far-fetched, and Professor Clarke was encouraging him to keep it.
When he was able to get a word in, Dane interrupted the conversation. “Hi, Dad. We thought we’d let you know we’re here.”
His father had either been deeply interested in the discussion taking place or had zoned out completely. “Uh?” he said, giving a start. “Oh, good. We’re shooting the first flashback out in front of the house. I’ll want you there, ready to start, sometime within the next hour or so. And I mean ready, Paige. As in, in costume ready.”
“I know,” Paige said sullenly. “Is it okay if we go out into the garden for a while?”
“As long as you stay clean and tidy.”
There were actually two gardens behind Rosebank, and another to the side. They had once all been laid out in neat, symmetrical rows, but were now a pleasant jumble of flowers, hedges, and rockeries. Some equipment set up along one of the gravel paths indicated there would be filming there later on, but no one else was there at the moment.
There were several paths. The longest led to a tall hedge serving as a barrier between one garden and the next. Dane thought they looked made for running along. Stuffing the medallion inside his doublet to prevent it swinging, he suggested a race to the hedge.
“I’d rather not,” said Jack. “I’m not athletically inclined. Besides, you’re both bigger than me. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Oh, come on. We’re only doing it for fun,” said Paige. “I don’t stand a chance either. Dane’s too good a runner.”
Dane was a good runner. He had no trouble taking the lead. Whooping triumphantly, he sped around to the other side of the hedge. Too late, he saw another pile of camera equipment looming up before him. Swerving to avoid it, he overbalanced and nearly fell.
The medallion flew out of his doublet. He made a quick grab to keep it from hitting him on the head. As he did, there was a click and, to his horror, something on the medallion moved.
“Oh, no,” he moaned as the others skidded to a halt beside him. “I’ve broken the rose off Grantie’s medallion.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Paige, cupping the golden disk in her hand to inspect the damage. “It’s just slid up somehow. I think it’s supposed to. Look, there’s something engraved under it.”
“Greek letters,” Jack observed. His eyes lit up. “Perhaps this is some sort of secret message. Daddy once told me that anything someone said sub rosa, or, ‘under the rose’, was supposed to be kept secret. And this is, quite literally, under a rose—a sliding rose designed to keep it secret.”
Dane gazed at the inscription. “What does it say? Can you translate Greek, as well as Latin?”
“It’s something about a door.” Jack shook his head. “I sort of get it, but I’d like to take it to Mummy to be absolutely sure.”
Aunt Augusta was with Grantie Etta, who was still sitting under the beech tree. Beside her, Paige’s costume hung on a low branch, swaying in a sudden breeze.
“How exciting,” the old lady said as Aunt Augusta studied the words through the magnifying glass she always kept in her purse. “You wouldn’t think a solid looking thing like that rose could be moved, would you?”
“It probably hasn’t been moved in centuries,” Paige said as her aunt turned aside to scribble some notes on a piece of paper. “It’s not a feature you’d use every day. After a while, people would have forgotten about it.”
“They hadn’t when the box was made,” said Jack. “I think the verse on the lid may have something to do with the hidden inscription on the medallion itself.”
“Maybe,” said Paige. “Strange that the inscription’s in Greek. I can understand how an Armenian medallion might have Latin on it, because most countries got taken over by Rome somewhere along the line, but why use Greek as well?”
“The Greeks had a great influence on other countries, too,” said Aunt Augusta, “and their influence pre-dated that of Rome.” She jotted down some more words to complete her translation and drew a line under them. “Now then, I believe this says…”
“Paige, get into that costume now,” Mr. Marchand roared from the front door. “And you boys get in here and report to make-up.”
Dane nodded in acknowledgement. “Okay, Dad.” He turned back to his aunt. “I’ll have to take the medallion,” he said regretfully.
“That’s all right. I’ve finished with it.” She handed him the paper. “You can take the translation with you and ponder its meaning whenever you get a minute.”
Dane put on his wig and tucked the paper under his hat. Having been made with complete authenticity in mind, his doublet had no pockets.
“We’ll look at it during breaks in the filming,” he promised.
“If we get any,” said Paige.
“Oh, come now. I’m sure your father’s not such an ogre as all that,” said Aunt Augusta with a smile.
“Are you kidding? He’s okay most of the time, but on the job, he’s nothing but a slave driver. Ask anyone who works for him.”
“Paige!” Mr. Marchand thundered again. This time there was enough annoyance in his voice to make his daughter leap forward to snatch her wig and costume.
Grantie Etta chuckled as Paige and the boys ran toward the house. “Slave driver?” she called after them. “Tyrant would be more accurate. I heard him bullying one of his assistants on the telephone the other day. But you three have rights, you know. You don’t have to put up with any nonsense about breaks. Child labour laws are very strict in this country.”
Chapter Four
The first scene Mr. Marchand wanted to shoot was of Grantie Etta’s ancestors coming out of Rosebank to welcome Edward the Fourth and his family to their home. When the cast assembled outside, Dane was surprised to see how well Cousin Ophelia projected the image of a medieval woman of good birth. She was wearing a pretty, high-waisted dark green gown trimmed with fur, and the butterfly-style headdress covering her hair drew attention to the fact she had even plucked her eyebrows, something he hadn’t noticed when he was talking to her earlier. It was a common practice for women of those times, however, and her friend, Mrs. Dexter, had plucked hers, too. From the magnificence of her gown, it was obvious she had been asked to play Edward the Fourth’s queen, Elizabeth. Her husband Reg was playing the king himself, and their daughter Chloe the oldest royal daughter, another Elizabeth.
“Mr. Dexter doesn’t look too enthusiastic,” said Jack. “I wonder if he got forced into the role.”
“He might have,” Paige conceded, “but just having Cousin Ophelia as a houseguest could account for his pained expression.”
A woman in twenty-first century clothing moved through the medieval group taking charge of wristwatches and any other modern accessories the performers had forgotten to remove. It was her job to ensure continuity. Anything that had not been in existence in the Middle Ages would have looked out of place in the flashback scenes. Even necessities like medic alerts, which both Dane and Paige wore for their allergies, would have had to have been relinquished if the medallion’s thick chain had not completely covered the thinner one attached to Dane’s food and medication allergy disc, and the bracelet warning of Paige’s dire reaction to insect bites not been of a plain, relatively timeless, design. The pouches containing their adrenaline injectors did have to be put aside, but the woman assured them they would be kept within easy reach.
Though glasses had been in existence in the Middle Ages, there was no record of Prince Edward having worn them. Even if he had, Dane’s bore little resemblance to the round, ivory-framed spectacles medieval myopics tied around their heads with ribbons. His parents had said he could have contact lenses once he was eleven but had not yet got him any. He surrendered his glasses and said nothing about the possibility of stumbling into things or getting a headache if he went without them for long. He enjoyed acting too much to complain about a little discomfort.
What he did not enjoy was standing around waiting to begin. His impatient jiggling brought Cousin Ophelia hurrying over tut-tutting in disapproval.
“Dane, you should be using this time to get in character,” she admonished him. “You are supposed to be Edward, Prince of Wales. Young Edward was a studious boy and mindful of his position. He was heir to the throne and would never have bounced about the way you’re doing. You must try to be dignified and sedate.
“You, however, are a bit too sedate,” she said, turning to Jack. “The Duke of York was a merry, high-spirited child. So, smile. Laugh. Caper about. Be merry.”
She didn’t seem to know as much about Paige’s medieval counterpart, but she had advice for her anyway. “Don’t scowl like that, Paige. You were scowling earlier on as well. Do you really think Cecily of York went around scowling all the time?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Marchand, coming up behind them. “Teenagers have been moody and perverse since the world began. I doubt she was any exception.”
At this, Paige scowled even more deeply. Ignoring her, Mr. Marchand called out, “Okay, people, we’re ready to roll. I assume you’ve all read the script and know what’s expected of you. I want the Wolvertons standing here by the front door and the royal party a little ways up the drive. My assistant will take you to the right spot and get you into position. As soon as I call for action, you can start walking toward the house to meet your hosts.”
The actors in the royal party obediently moved toward their assigned section of the driveway, which a staging crew had transformed into a medieval track by covering it with packed down dirt. Eager to assume her role as mistress of the royal nursery, Cousin Ophelia scooped up the little girl playing Edward the Fourth’s youngest daughter.
Startled, the child began to wail. She struggled so hard, it was all Cousin Ophelia could do to hold onto her.
“That’s what you did every time she picked you up at that age, Dane,” said Paige. “Dad thought it proved you were an astute judge of character.”
A woman playing one of the queen’s attendants took the unhappy toddler from Cousin Ophelia.
“I’d better keep her,” she said once she’d calmed her.
“Oh, no,” said Cousin Ophelia, shocked. “We can’t break protocol. Your job is to serve the queen. I’m the one in charge of the children.”
Mr. Marchand came over to settle the dispute. “You don’t have a sign round your neck saying who you are, Bev. The kid’s quiet now, and this is the only scene she’s in. Let’s get going on it.”
Cousin Ophelia winced. “Please do not address me as Bev. I am not Bev. I have not been Bev for decades. I don’t know how you can possibly keep forgetting. But that’s beside the point. The point is, I should carry the child, and if you’ll just give me a moment to bond with her—”
Mr. Marchand shook his head. “She looks a determined sort. Having made up her mind about you, I doubt she’ll change it.” He told the other woman to take the little girl to join the rest of the group and, with Mrs. Dexter’s help, finally talked Cousin Ophelia into getting into position for the first take.
A few minutes later, cameras were rolling.
The scene appeared to be going well. Then, as they approached the house, Cousin Ophelia suddenly rushed forward waving her arms.
“Oh, that’s not right. Stop! Hold it! Cut, or whatever you say.”
Mr. Marchand walked toward her with a grim expression. “Cut is the correct word—only I am the one who says it. Me. The director. Not anyone else.”
“Oh, but I had to. The little girl playing the Lady Anne just said something about being a princess.”
“So what?”
“The title of princess was not used until Tudor times.”
“Again, so what?”
“Well, it’s wrong, Alan, and I know you want these scenes to be an accurate portrayal of the times.”
“They’re voice-overs. Once they’re filmed, my narrator is the only person anyone will hear.”
“But the child was right on camera. People with the ability to read lips would still be able to understand her. You can’t risk misinforming them. It would be just the same if our hosts over there were to call Reg ‘Your Majesty’. Until Tudor times, the correct form of address was ‘Your Grace’.”
“We’ll all try to keep that in mind,” Mr. Marchand said between clenched teeth. “Now let’s get back to work.”
They tried, but the filming went far from smoothly. Two hours and eighteen takes later, the royal visitors had still not crossed Rosebank’s threshold. One delay had been caused by technical problems, two more by constructive criticism from the observing historians, and the rest by Cousin Ophelia.
“Cut,” Mr. Marchand yelled. “Bev, what are you doing over there? You’re supposed to be at the back of the group.”
“I’m brushing dirt and twigs off Dane’s shoulders. He must have strayed too close to a bush or something. Prince Edward would never have gone to visit people with dirt and twigs on his clothing. He was a very tidy boy. At least, he was until he was confined to the Tower and became too despondent to care about his appearance,” she added with a sigh.
“I’m getting a little despondent myself,” said Mr. Marchand.
“That’s because you’re letting your desire to complete this project interfere with its authenticity. I don’t like to keep harping about what might seem like minor details—I know how much that can restrict a person’s inner creative flow—but for something like this, minor details are important. Ignore them, and you will destroy the very atmosphere we’re trying to build for you. Viewers will sense all is not as it should be. In the Middle Ages—”
“In the Middle Ages, people who annoyed the man in charge got their heads chopped off,” Mr. Marchand snapped. “Now get back into position. I’d like to finish at least one scene before lunch.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” muttered Mr. Dexter.
Dane saw several people nod in agreement. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Distracted by Cousin Ophelia, no one had noticed the sky clouding over. Before they could try the scene again, rain started to fall. Within minutes, it was coming down hard. As the velvet clad actors dashed for cover, the staging crew threw tarpaulins over the makeshift dirt road to keep it from turning into a sea of mud.
“Well, that’s it for now,” said Mr. Marchand. “I ordered a catering truck for one o’clock, but I see it’s already arrived. Somebody get the driver to bring it up to the door. With luck, the rain will have stopped by the time everyone’s finished eating, and we’ll be able to get back to work.”
Shielding themselves under umbrellas and plastic capes, the cast and crew descended on the truck as soon as it pulled up. It did not carry the type of food Cousin Ophelia favoured, but having anticipated this, she had brought some concoction of her own and was soon extolling its virtues to anyone who would listen.
“What an awful woman,” Jack said as Dane went off to retrieve his glasses from the continuity woman and left Paige and Jack standing to one side watching Cousin Ophelia. “I’m surprised Uncle Alan hasn’t had her pitched off the grounds.”
“He can’t,” said Paige, divesting herself of her wig and letting her own hair fall loose. “She’s Mrs. Dexter’s friend. If he were to kick her out, Mrs. Dexter and the rest of the cast might decide to quit working for him. And he really likes to use re-enactors for things like this.”
“Re-enactors?” Jack repeated.
“People who belong to historical societies. They might not be professional actors, but they’re always passionately interested in the era that’s being portrayed and often have a lot of the necessary costumes and equipment.”
“Oh,” said Jack. “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about any of these people quitting. They’re enjoying themselves. I’m sure they’re just as annoyed with this Ophelia person as Uncle Alan is. Even Mrs. Dexter looks like she’d like to toss her in the nearest dungeon.”
“Too bad this place doesn’t have on
e.”
“It’s got a cellar. And the cellar’s got a secret passage you might find interesting. I only found out about it a few months ago. Mummy apparently wouldn’t let Grantie reveal its existence until she thought I was old enough not get myself lost down there. I’ll show it to you after we’ve had something to eat.”
Upon Dane’s return, they got sandwiches and juice from the catering truck and ate inside the house sitting on the stairs off the main hall.
Like Paige, Dane had taken off his wig, but after they’d eaten, he remembered the paper he’d put back under his hat after doing so. Though he studied his aunt’s translation closely, he was unable to make anything of it. Holding the paper to one side so the others could see too, he read out:
“Ancient portal, hear this plea,
Open for thy golden key.
Feel its power,
Know its might,
Put the Mists of Time to flight.”
Paige clicked her tongue. “Another cutesy little rhyme. We haven’t even figured out the first one yet.”
“No, but what it said about speaking words in proper tone had to be in reference to the ones in this rhyme. Trouble is, there’s no knowing what they mean either. ‘Open for thy golden key.’ What key? And how can a key have power?”
“The medallion’s gold,” said Jack. “Perhaps it’s the key. I don’t know what the ancient portal could be though.”
“The door to some long forgotten temple in the middle of Armenia, I expect,” said Paige, standing up. “Maybe we should stick to uncovering secrets of the past that are closer to hand, like that secret passage you told me about.”
The boys got up too. As soon as Dane had tucked the translation back under his hat, they went to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Purdom for what Jack called torches and he and Paige called flashlights. While she was getting them, Jack selected a key from a row of hooks hanging on the side of a cupboard and unlocked the cellar door at the back of the kitchen. “The cellar’s electrified,” he said, flicking on some lights, “but we’ll have to use our torches in the passage.”