The Phantom Tree

by Nicola Cornick

  Alison turned back to look at the map. It was so vivid and beautiful that she wanted to touch it. Was it also the key to Mary’s tomb? She thought of Will and the dark deeds he had perpetrated, his callousness, the arrogant way he had taken and worn Mary’s ring as though it were his by right.

  She thought of Arthur and the clues Mary had left for her that had enabled her to find her son. Mary had not failed her. She had kept her side of their bargain and as a result Alison knew that her life had been renewed, imbued with peace and fresh promise.

  Mary had not been so fortunate.

  The determination hardened in her. It might be four hundred years too late but Mary would be found at last and Will Fenner would be indicted for the evil he had done.

  *

  The Phantom Tree looked bare and stark as Alison and Adam stood at the top of the hill above Middlecote Hall in the following dawn. Mist hung over the grass of the deer park. Every blade of grass was a spiky white. Middlecote sat in its hollow, the stone pale pink in the rising sun.

  ‘It looks beautiful,’ Alison said, shivering, ‘but I wouldn’t want to live here. Even if it isn’t haunted it feels as though it is.’

  They walked slowly down towards the house, the frozen path crunching beneath their boots and the air chill on their faces. To the east the fishponds lay dark and secretive behind the garden walls. In the growing light, Alison caught the flash of silver where the river ran.

  ‘The house was pretty thoroughly surveyed when we catalogued the contents,’ Adam said, as they came to a halt in front of the imposing oak door. ‘That’s how we found the box and the portrait. If there had been a body concealed somewhere in the building I’m sure they would have found it at the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alison said. They had talked about this the previous night; where Will Fenner might have hidden Mary’s body if he was in haste and did not want to be seen. There would have been no time to dig a grave. He had needed somewhere quick and easy.

  ‘There was the remains of the Roman villa,’ Adam said, ‘although I’m not sure how much of that was visible in the sixteenth century. The famous mosaic they found there was only discovered in 1727.’ He paused and rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. ‘Oh, but it was excavated in the 1970s. I forgot. If they had found any skeletons then they would have been recorded.’

  ‘Let’s go over there anyway,’ Alison said. ‘It might give us some ideas.’

  Rather than take the drive along the west front of the house, they cut through the gardens to the east, following the overgrown gravel paths, the yews that had once been sculpted into extraordinary topiary designs, but were now a tangle of branches and sharp spiny leaves. Beyond the formal gardens, the fields spread between the house and river. Mary would have walked here, Alison thought, ridden out over the Downs perhaps, or sat beside the river on a fine day and watched the water run.

  The field where the villa lay was flat, the grass neatly cut around the site. A gravel path led away in the opposite direction to a car park. A sign noted that the villa remains were in the care of English Heritage and were open all reasonable hours and free of charge. Adam took out a photocopy of the Middlecote Map—having refused point blank to take the original with them—and placed it on one of the interpretation boards so that they could study it.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. He pointed to a green field beyond the house. The villa was drawn on it with the word ‘antiquitie’ written beside it. Beyond it was another field that looked as though it was littered with stone. ‘Old Middel Cote’ the map said.

  ‘There was a village here until the fourteenth century,’ Adam said. ‘They used the stone from the villa for building material. It was one of the places that was devastated by the Black Death.’

  ‘So it would already have been abandoned by Mary’s time,’ Alison said. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the rising sun, scanning the fields. ‘It’s impossible to see where it was now.’

  There was layer upon layer of history here, she thought. It had been old even in Mary’s time, her time.

  Adam stood head bent, studying the map. He took a little leather-bound book from his pocket and flipped it open. ‘This is a gazetteer for Hungerford from the 1950s,’ he said, in answer to Alison’s questioning look. ‘It’s full of little snippets of useful stuff you don’t find in the official histories… Ah, here we are…’ He read. ‘Yes, there was a village already here in the Domesday Book and in the thirteenth century a hunting lodge was built, and—’ He stopped dead. ‘And a chapel,’ he finished softly.

  ‘I thought the chapel adjoined Middlecote House,’ Alison said.

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘It does now. But that one wasn’t built until the 1650s. The old hunting lodge and the chapel stood here until 1780, when they were both demolished. The chapel probably wouldn’t have been in use by Mary’s time, although I don’t know. It might have been…’

  ‘But even if it had been superseded by one in the house it would still have existed,’ Alison finished. Impatience gripped her, she started to run, stumbling a little over the rough ground. Then she realised she did not know where she was going.

  ‘Let’s see the map,’ she said. Then: ‘Yes, there—look.’ There was a modest cross on the map next to an old building that said ‘King John’s Lodge’.

  ‘Of course,’ Adam said. ‘I don’t know how I missed that before.’

  ‘She’s there.’ Alison grabbed the map. ‘I can feel it.’ Excitement possessed her and with it a painful sort of urgency. She set off across the field.

  ‘Wait!’ Adam was hurrying after her. ‘It’s that way,’ he said, pointing to the west corner of the field. He took out his phone and keyed in a number. ‘I’m going to call in a favour from a friend.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you sure?’ he added. ‘I mean is this just a guess or do you have an instinct? Only I don’t want to request permission to excavate a chapel and get some help in if it turns out we’re on the wrong track.’

  ‘I know it,’ Alison said firmly. The urgency was a fizzing in her blood now. ‘Can you hurry?’ she added. ‘I know Mary’s probably been here for over four centuries, but now we’re so close.’

  ‘You seem very sure,’ Adam said.

  Alison stood, turning towards the west of the field, where a scattering of stone from a low wall was just visible through the frozen grass.

  ‘I am,’ she said. It felt as though something of Mary’s gift had touched her, she who had once scoffed at soothsayers and their visions.

  I am coming, she thought. I am coming to find you at last.

  *

  Mary, Middlecote, the present day

  I soared. Above me was a sky so blue it reminded me of the best of Middlecote summers, cloudless and bright. Below me I could see them gathered by the grave, see the broken slab and the freshly turned earth, and the coffin of the woman whose resting place I had secretly shared for so many years. They were looking down at me, at the nest of crumbling silks and lace, at the tumbled bones. All but one; she was kneeling in the grass but she was looking up at me where I soared, reaching for the sky.

  Alison. My enemy. My friend.

  ‘Mary.’ I saw her lips move, as though she could see me, as though she knew I was there. The sun was on her face and her hair was spun gold as I remembered. She was smiling.

  You escaped. Now I do too.

  I left them behind. Over the Downs, along the Thieves’ Way and the Rogues’ Way to the old manor at Kingston Parva…

  ‘Darrell!’ I called his name. It burst from me with joy, spilling out in a blaze of emotion and light.

  ‘Cat…’

  From now until the end of time, he had said to me, and so it proved because love was stronger than time.

  He had been waiting. He came to me. We were free.

  Author’s Note

  The story of Mary Seymour is shrouded in mystery. She was born on 30 August 1548. She disappeared from the historical record in 1550, which has led to much speculation about her lif
e - and death. In The Phantom Tree, I take the known facts of Mary’s life and weave them into a broader framework of the history of the Seymour family. Middlecote House is based on Littlecote, near Hungerford, and the inspiration for the Fenners of Middlecote was the Darrells, cousins to the Seymours. Alison’s story is entirely fictitious.

  Acknowledgements

  Many, many thanks go to Sally Williamson for working so hard to make this book the best it can be, and for her ideas, her good humour and her patience. I am also so grateful to the wonderful team at HQ for all the work that goes in to publishing my books. I am sure I don’t know even a quarter of it.

  A special thank-you goes to Tony for sharing with me his portrait of Anne Boleyn, which sparked the idea for Alison’s part in this story.

  I am indebted to everyone at Safari Drive, to which I am sure Cleveland & Down bears no resemblance at all, but to whom I am so grateful for introducing me to the glories of Africa and the original phantom trees.

  Thank you, as always, to my family for the endless encouragement and support, to Andrew for being wonderful and to the dogs for their patience when walks or meals are delayed because I lose track of time.

  This book owes a great deal to a group of old friends with whom I spent a memorable evening discussing the plot for this story. Sadly, many of our ideas, including the donkey, have not made it into the finished version, but I value your input and your friendship very much.

  Finally, thank you very much to my readers for choosing my books and sharing a passion for history.

  Connect with us for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

  Subscribe to our newsletter

  Share your reading experience on:

  Harlequin Books

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Watch our reviews, author interviews and more on Harlequin TV

  ISBN: 9781489230423

  TITLE: THE PHANTOM TREE

  First Australian Publication 2017

  Copyright © 2016 Nicola Cornick

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises (Australia) Pty Ltd, Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney, N.S.W., Australia 2000.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ® and ™ are trademarks owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate affiliates and used by others under licence. Trademarks marked with an ® are registered in Australia and in other countries. Contact admin_legal@Harlequin.ca for details.

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au