The corridor outside, which had been still and empty as he’d approached the chamber, was now a hive of activity. Numerous courtiers had appeared and were milling around. The bright colours of their damask and silk doublets, the puffed-up sleeves slashed to display the contrasting lining and fresh white stiffened ruffs around their necks made them appear like a flock of peacocks. Tom was wondering what had brought this flurry of gentlemen to a place which had been empty not five minutes previously when the reason became obvious as the throng parted ways and sank to the floor, the Queen making her way along the corridor.
She was walking slowly, sedately, as if God were watching her every move. Being scrutinised and not to be found wanting by her subjects, nor her God. She was with the Earl of Leicester and her hand, adorned with several rings, each of them set with a large stone, was laid on his outstretched arm. Her gold, heavily embroidered gown was encrusted with so many tiny sparkling jewels it looked like the royal lawns on the mornings when a heavy hoar frost decorated every leaf and winter flower, sparkling in the dawn sunshine: almost blinding. As she swept past, Tom bowed low with everyone else. He could feel the collective drawing of breath from those around him, wanting to be noticed and yet totally in awe. Lifting his eyes a little he watched her silk slippers, decorated with pearls and embroidered with gold threads, move past.
After dinner that evening, Tom quickly tidied away the remains of some clary sage with which he’d been making an eye ointment for one of the kitchen boys who could barely see out of one side of his swollen face. It was still light outside and he was intending on adding a new scene to his triptych. He knew exactly what he wanted to paint, to capture the beauty of a certain lady who had stolen his heart.
Sweeping the bench clean with a coarse horsehair brush he didn’t realise he was no longer alone in the room until a small, pale hand caught hold of his sleeve and stilled his arm. Startled he dropped the brush and turned to see, as if materialised from his own thoughts, Lady Isabel. Her clear violet eyes shone forth from the surrounding thick dark lashes.
‘It is very difficult for me to speak when others are present,’ she told him, ‘and it is rare that our paths cross in the royal apartments.’ Tom nodded although he didn’t understand why she had come to seek him out to explain what he already knew. The disappointment in their situation was constantly lodged like a hard stone in his chest making it difficult to breathe. The space between the lives they each inhabited was vast, even though he was becoming more confident that the attraction he felt was mutual. What she said next confirmed his suspicion and fuelled the tiny filament of hope in his heart.
‘Meet me in the knot garden tomorrow evening at nine. Can you do that?’ His eyes widening in surprise, Tom nodded. ‘It will be dark enough that we won’t be spotted by any of the night guards. Then we can be alone.’ She’d been gripping his hands with both of hers and after giving them one last squeeze she was gone with just the lingering scent of her rosewater to suggest she’d ever been there.
Bemused, Tom leant against the bench looking at the empty doorway. They both knew that any inappropriate connection between them was impossible and yet she had thought of a way for them to meet. He could see no future in it but at that moment he didn’t care. He knew he’d be in the knot garden waiting for her.
Tom still had time to start the new addition on his triptych with the paints he’d bought and lighting several candles as the sun outside started its descent towards the horizon, he began.
He wanted to record so much of what had happened since he arrived at court, the new role he now had, and what he was expected to do; although it needed to be vague in case his painting was ever discovered. The Queen had enemies and as a consequence of him spying for her they had become his foes as well. But this was a pictorial history of his life and it was important he included everything. He’d never be able to tell anyone what he’d been through so this was the best way.
Then he thought of a certain young woman he’d been with only minutes earlier and a smile spread across his face. Opening his paint box he selected some colours and began to paint.
Chapter Twenty-Three
June 2021
Unsure of the emotions Oliver stirred up in her Mathilde found it difficult to settle into anything for the remainder of the day. She’d had short-term flings with men before, her transient lifestyle lending itself to brief relationships which she could end before anyone thought of doing it first. Nobody was allowed to get close. But this felt different, this wasn’t just an immediate physical attraction – lust which could easily be satisfied – she felt as though she wanted to get inside his skin and understand what made him tick.
After a late dinner accompanied by a bottle of wine, she and Rachel stayed up to watch a film. As the credits rolled Rachel complained about the entirely implausible ending as she headed up to bed while Mathilde made herself a hot drink.
Pouring the hot milk from the pan just before it boiled over she scraped the inside of one of her vanilla pods from a jar on the windowsill and added the seeds to her drink with a squeeze of honey she’d found in the larder. It was the mass-produced supermarket kind, not the thick, glutinous pale gold nectar she bought in France from tables left at the end of a drive. This didn’t have the scent of warm sweet hay and flax flowers redolent of fat, contented bees sated with pollen.
Walking through the house to climb the stairs carrying her drink she paused for a moment at the entrance to the small vestibule off the main hall through which they reached the formal rooms of the house. On a whim she opened the dining room door, leaving it wide to illuminate the room from the hallway without needing the overhead light on. The shrouded furniture in the room cast ghostly shadows across the floor and walls as they rose up in the half light.
Crossing to the triptych she stood back a little to see it more clearly in the small glow she’d allowed herself, bathed in pale shafts of yellow light from the old-fashioned bulb. Having already examined the left-hand panel with Oliver earlier she turned her attention to the larger central one, all the time keeping her eyes averted from the third piece. If she could help it she had no intention of ever examining it, however interested Oliver was. Just standing in front of the painted flames made her tremble with fear, her lungs burning and her eyes smarting as her breath came rapidly, churning up memories buried deep within her.
Instead, she concentrated on a cluster of scenes in the top right-hand corner. There was a pale sandstone palace with towers and many windows looking similar to a chateau she’d seen as a child. Had this originated in France as she had? It would explain the pictures of a sea crossing. Beside the palace was a painting of a young woman, just the head and shoulders, and Mathilde was instantly attracted to it. The artist had caught her turning towards him so only half her face was showing but she was smiling, her eyes an unusual and vibrant violet colour. Oliver was correct when he said the colours had been preserved incredibly well, hidden behind the panel in the church. They were still no further in knowing why it was there. She couldn’t help smiling back at the young woman, a look of love in her eyes flooded out from the painting, captivating the viewer.
She took a sip of her drink, already beginning to cool, and turned to go upstairs. As her eyes scanned the rest of the room behind her in the dark of the corner she noticed a shape; blacker, more solid than the shadows it inhabited. She blinked and looked again but whatever she had seen – or thought she’d seen – was gone. Not waiting to see what or who else may be occupying the room with her she hurried as fast as she could without spilling her drink, running upstairs taking the stairs two at a time.
The hot milk had the desired effect and despite her adrenaline she managed to convince herself she’d imagined what she’d seen after a long day. Was her father trying to let her know that everything was all right? Trying to reassure her? Her mother had a great deal of respect for what she called les esprits, the thin veil between the living and the dead. She lay on her back and gazed up at the ceiling, wai
ting for sleep to take her.
As she drifted off, she was standing in the shadows of a large room lit by hundreds of candles and full of people. She felt afraid, her heart beating a tattoo which made her whole being vibrate. There was a smell of smoke and it felt oppressive, made worse by the now familiar total silence. She could feel her chest moving as she breathed deeply in and out but she wasn’t making a sound. In her hand she was holding a jug of ale. Her eyes were trained on two men on a dais in front of her. There was a slight, dark skinned man wearing a black cap and doublet, the only relief the white ruff around his neck. He was talking with a tall, well-built, attractive man with dark hair who was sitting next to him. They were across the cavernous space full of people sat at trestle tables, eating. She couldn’t hear them or anything else and yet she knew everything they were saying. Her eyes strayed to the woman beside the dark haired man. Sitting upright she was thin with red hair and pale skin, dressed in what appeared to be a thousand shimmering gems sparkling in the candlelight. She turned her head as momentarily their eyes met and with a shock Mathilde woke up and sat up, all in the same movement.
Swinging her feet round she sat on the edge of her bed letting the cold of the floor work its way up her legs, a cool reminder she was awake. The moment her eyes had made contact with the woman, Mathilde had realised she was looking at Queen Elizabeth I. It was just a dream she reminded herself; but it all felt so real. And how could she understand what those two men were saying when she was nowhere near them and couldn’t hear a thing? Dreams were simply the brain assimilating what had happened during the day, she told herself, that was all. The people on the triptych were dressed in clothes similar to those worn by people in her dream so it made sense.
Lying back down again she put her hands over her face. She wanted another drink but her experience in the dining room put her off wandering about the house in the dark.
Waking early after a few more hours of fitful sleep Mathilde dressed and made herself toast before quietly slipping out of the back door and walking around the side of the house to her van. There was no sign of Rachel or Fleur, the television standing quiet and reproachful at the lack of lurid cartoons and strange crime fighting animals Fleur was often glued to.
A layer of mist hung eerily above the marshes in the distance, the reeds poking out of the top as if suspended in the air; there was the promise of a hot day once it had burnt off. Turning on the engine of her van with her eyes closed wondering if it would start after two weeks of idleness, she was relieved when with a small bang the engine turned over and fired up. She needed to be away from the house.
Remembering her decision to buy some sort of glasshouse she headed to a garden centre she’d noticed on the outskirts of Fakenham when she’d visited Mr Murray. She arrived just as it opened and found a whole myriad of greenhouses on display. She stopped for a moment, unable to choose. As she surveyed them all stood in front of her, the sun shining off the glass roofs and making her squint, she heard a voice behind her.
‘Don’t you have enough space already in that enormous house?’ Turning, she saw Oliver stood behind her with a broad grin on his face and his eyes crinkled up in amusement at his own joke. She felt her heart begin to beat faster at the sight of him and her mouth widened to return his smile. She couldn’t think of another time, certainly since the death of her mother, she’d ever felt such a wave of pleasure wash over her on seeing another human. It was a shock but she couldn’t deny how it made her feel as her face flushed with pleasure. She hoped she didn’t look as pink as she felt.
‘Lots of space inside, yes,’ she nodded, ‘but outside I have plants that won’t survive an English summer.’
‘But the weather is glorious,’ he held his arms out as if to catch the early morning sunshine and show her, ‘we don’t always get summers this good.’
‘Yes, this is lovely but you’ve just admitted it may not last long so I need to protect some of my plants. I just want something small to last until autumn.’ There, she’d said it. She’d made sure Oliver hadn’t forgotten she was only here on a temporary sabbatical, and she needed to remind herself, as much as him. As soon as the leaves on the trees began to turn and fall to the ground she’d be back across the water and resuming her itinerant lifestyle where she wasn’t beholden to anyone and she only needed to trust herself, her instincts. Where she could be self-reliant and safe.
‘So, which one are you going for?’ He’d paused before continuing as if he hadn’t taken in what she’d said, although she was certain he had.
‘This is fine,’ she indicated a plastic covered half greenhouse that could be erected against a wall, ‘I can weigh the bottom down with bricks or stones; there are plenty lying around the place. Then I can just leave it behind when I go.’ She’d managed another subtle hint. Actually, not so subtle at all.
Oliver picked up the bundle containing the flat packed greenhouse and carried it through to the checkout for her. As she paid she suddenly realised that he didn’t have any purchases with him.
‘You haven’t bought anything,’ she pointed out.
‘Oh dammit, I forgot,’ he smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead, ‘I’ll carry this to your van and then go back. I wanted a plant for my gran, I’m visiting her later. She’s in a nursing home and she loves pelargoniums. This garden centre grows especially nice ones, which is why I came out here. Do you want a hand putting this up? I could swing by after I’ve bought the plant and help?’
‘Thank you, that would be kind.’ Mathilde had no idea what ‘swing by’ meant but she’d guessed the gist of what he’d suggested. And however much her internal monologue warned her, reminded her she wasn’t staying, she couldn’t prevent herself wanting to see him again.
Stowing her purchase in the back of her van, he looked around in amazement.
‘I had no idea this was kitted out so well,’ he exclaimed pointing to the fitted bed and the wooden cupboards and shelves where she stored everything while she was on the move. Mathilde breathed a sigh of relief that she’d taken out some of the soft furnishings and her bed wasn’t the usual mess of sheet and duvet in a crumpled pile. Right now, it was looking considerably tidier than usual.
‘Well, I live in here,’ she shrugged as if that was explanation enough before slamming the doors shut.
They agreed to meet up back at her house and she drove home realising when she was halfway there that she’d had a silly grin plastered on her face the whole time. Not only would she now have some help erecting the greenhouse – which would be useful as the instructions would be in English – but she could also tell him about the dreams she’d been having. And the uncomfortable feeling that someone was with her sometimes. Watching her? Or trying to tell her something? She wasn’t sure but it unnerved her.
She found Rachel and Fleur playing with a cricket bat and ball in the garden.
‘Where did you get to?’ Rachel asked.
‘I went to buy a little greenhouse for my plants,’ she explained. Behind her, she heard the sound of tyres on gravel. ‘I met Oliver at the garden centre,’ she added, ‘he offered to come and help me.’
‘I must show you later where Dad’s garden tools are kept, he’d have loved for you to use them,’ Rachel suggested and Mathilde felt her eyes prickle with tears.
‘Thank you,’ she said smiling, ‘I’d love that.’
It took barely an hour to put the pieces together and fit the clear plastic covering before they placed it against the back of the stable wall weighing it down with pieces of flint and stone. Mathilde collected her vanilla plants and placed them inside.
‘So, these are the flowers that are too precious for our English sun then?’ Oliver asked, bending close and running his fingertips along their glossy leaves.
‘Yes, these are vanilla orchids. They’re native to Mexico originally so they need extreme heat. These are flowering late, it hasn’t been warm enough for them. See here?’ she pointed, ‘tiny buds. When they open I have to push th
e flowers together to germinate them and then the pods grow. European bees don’t like them so it has to be done by hand.’
‘How weird,’ he remarked peering closer at them, ‘the plant world can be amazing sometimes, can’t it?’
Mathilde nodded. ‘I love being out here in my father’s garden,’ she swept her arm around indicating the overgrown vegetable patch laid out in front of them, ‘to think that all these plants began as seeds he nurtured so they grew tall and strong.’
‘Like he would have done for you, if he’d found you?’ Oliver suggested softly. ‘I spent hours gardening with my grandfather when I was a kid. They lived on the Norfolk coast and we’d spend the summers there, my brothers and me. Our parents would leave us there when we got older and just come up and visit at the weekends. We used to run wild, disappearing for the whole day sometimes.’ He chuckled to himself at the memory. ‘We could walk to the beach, go and watch the seals. Carefree times. I’d often hang around to work outside with Grandad, helping with whatever needed doing. There’s nothing quite like the scent of freshly dug earth, is there?’
‘That sounds a wonderful childhood,’ Mathilde’s voice faltered a little, ‘I’ve never had a garden where I could cultivate plants and know that I would be able to hang around long enough to see them grown. Pick the flowers or eat the vegetables.’
‘And now you do. If you stay longer than just the summer you can nurture your own plants and help them grow. Why don’t you think about it? You know how much Rachel wants you here.’ She held his gaze and her breath as his arm came across her shoulder and pulled her to him, holding her there for a moment against his chest where she could feel his heart beating, strong and steady: secure. She thought she felt the brush of his lips against her hair and then, as if he considered he’d overstepped the line, he moved away, rubbing the tops of her arms briskly as he did so.
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