And there dotted around between the scenes spelling out his happy life, were the dark times. The days and nights where he’d done as he was bid by Walsingham, the spymaster weaving a web of intrigue, stopping plots against the Crown with his extensive troupe of spies. A web which Tom had been drawn into, for once his disability seen as an advantage. He’d been pleased at first, he admitted to himself even now that being useful to someone gave him a warm feeling, his deafness finally deemed to be a benefit. He’d been needed. But not as he had by Isabel. He’d seen that figure slip away into the crowds last night, a quick glimpse over a shoulder and the outline of a face depicted by the light of the fire destroying his home. A face that was familiar. He thought when he was spying he’d blended in with the background, a nobody. But somewhere he’d been recognised as a somebody and he’d paid the ultimate price for his loyalty to the Queen. Isabel had paid it. Removing his painting from the easel he turned to leave. There was nothing left for him here now.
Tom found Richard and Catherine in the house next door. Richard was full of toothless smiles for his father, unaware of how his life had changed forever. Catherine on the other hand had obviously been crying, her eyes red and swollen and seeing Tom they welled up again as the tears rolled down her face. Usually a compassionate man he simply didn’t have the strength to comfort her and he kissed Richard on the top of his head, his silky hair still smelling of harsh smoke. Tainted with the scent of his mother’s death. Signing that he would return later, Tom left the house and made his way to the palace. He had no idea where else to go. Yesterday he’d been so pleased with his part in the capture of the plotters and this morning he was filled with self-loathing. He had thought he was invincible; he was a fool.
The wind had increased and heavy, malevolent grey clouds rolled in across the rooftops, but he barely noticed as his clothes, the blue coat of which he’d been so proud now stinking of the death of his wife, became sodden. It weighed on his shoulders as if trying to push him to the floor from where he’d never get up as the boat bobbed about in the choppy waters of the Thames. Eventually they moored up at the palace wharf and Tom stepped out of the boat wobbling slightly as the weight of the triptych threatened to unbalance him and tip him backwards into the greasy, unwelcoming water.
Tom hurried to the external door and from there to the stillroom, where, as ever, he found Hugh hard at work. If only he’d been left to do the same, his Isabel would still be alive. Hugh glanced up as Tom walked in and then did a double take at the sight of his friend, face and clothes both darkened with sooty smuts. Tom placed the triptych on the bench beside the still, before collapsing to the floor his head in his hands, clenching his hair as if to pull it physically from his scalp. He felt Hugh shaking him, trying to help him back to his feet, but Tom couldn’t move. He was paralysed with grief as he knelt curled into a ball, rocking backwards and forwards. The strewings on the floor smelled of summer, of hay and balmy country days, and for a few seconds he was transported back to another time, his Norfolk childhood, running through golden fields with crops as tall as he was, catching the ears of the grain as he went, feeling it trickle through his fingers. The smell of summer and the beginning of life all around him. And now there would never be life again.
Eventually Hugh managed to help him to a chair and pass him some heated spiced hippocras. It slowly crawled down inside him, warm before it hit the chill of his heart. Hugh was signing to him to find out what was going on, the classic hands outstretched with palms upwards, used for any question. Tom waved towards where one of his wax tablets lay on the bench. Tom quickly sketched a house in flames and it was all that was needed for his friend to look at his appearance and understand. Tom couldn’t explain why it had happened, even though he knew it. Hugh made a sign for Isabel, outlining the shape of a comely woman followed by rocking an invisible baby and raised his eyebrows.
Tom could hardly bear to tell him, once he’d admitted it to himself it would be out there for everyone to know; it would be real. Hugh shook him and raised his eyebrows and Tom knew he couldn’t keep the awful truth to himself. He too rocked the invisible baby whilst nodding slowly, then made an outline of his darling Isabel and, his eyes filling once again, he slowly shook his head. Hugh threw his arms around his friend and held him close as Tom’s body shuddered with the devastation that tore through him.
As his sobs subsided, Hugh took Tom through to his room behind the stillroom. It looked exactly the same as it had the last time he’d slept there, when he had Isabel and his life was complete. He leant the triptych against the wall facing away from him and lay down on his pallet. Her life had ended and so had his.
Chapter Fifty-Three
September 2021
Rachel threw her holdall into the back of her car. Her decision to start returning to her home at the weekends once more had been met with plenty of encouragement from Mathilde.
‘I also need to start prepping for work again,’ she’d admitted, ‘the school holidays might be lovely and long but now I have to start some work ready for when we return to school, which is only two weeks away.’ Her comments reminded Mathilde that she still needed to make some decisions about what she’d do in September. Her initial thoughts of selling up and returning to her previous existence now felt less certain than ever. How her life had changed.
She had just enough time to run upstairs and shower before she heard the sound of a Mini’s tyres on gravel. Oliver’s timing was impeccable and quickly brushing her hair and pulling it into a messy bun on top of her head, she smiled to herself giving a little skip of excitement, running down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he was putting a bottle of wine and some plastic delicatessen pots into the fridge.
‘Morning.’ He straightened up and grinned at her, his eyes lingering on hers for a second. Two seconds. Mathilde felt her heart begin to beat faster. She knew when he suggested they spend the day investigating the chapel properly followed by dinner in the village pub he potentially had more planned. She had dropped Rachel’s new weekend routine into the conversation hoping he may get the hint, but it took another five days before he suggested the chapel and dinner. If Rachel was surprised Mathilde had disappeared with a dustpan and brush into her bedroom after displaying absolutely no domestic inclination since she arrived, she was sensible enough not to mention it.
‘Hey,’ her voice sounded gruff, she cleared her throat and started again. ‘Are you all ready to make a start on the chapel? Do you have everything we might need?’ She had no idea if any specialist equipment might be required. ‘Oh, do you want coffee first?’ she smiled a bit sheepishly, realising that as ever, her hosting skills left a lot to be desired. Luckily though, Oliver was now used to them.
‘Not yet thanks,’ he shook his head, ‘let’s go and have a look round first and then decide if we want anything?’ She nodded and picking up the key and her camera she followed him to the chapel. Shadow was still too young to be outside but as usual he slipped out behind them, climbing a tree in the coppice to watch.
As ever the key required some wiggling up and down to make it turn but finally after Mathilde had begun to grind her teeth in frustration, it slowly turned, and they heard the sound of the lock clunk as it opened. Relieved, Mathilde gave the door an extra hard shove as if punishing it for being reticent to open.
Inside everything looked exactly the same as on their previous visit, the air still dancing with dust motes as they stood in the centre. A flapping above their heads made them both look up but there was nothing in the building with them.
‘Must be on the roof outside,’ Oliver said, ‘probably spotted Shadow in amongst the trees.’
Mathilde walked slowly around the interior of the building until she reached the wall where the triptych had been hidden and the worn memorial plaque still remained. Oliver was on his hands and knees behind the table which they’d previously thought was an altar.
‘What’s there?’ she called across, her voice echoing slightly as it bounced off
the rafters above them. It felt wrong shouting in a church. ‘What have you found?’ she whispered instead.
‘Nothing,’ Oliver got to his feet and brushed the knees of his jeans, ‘I wondered if there was a crypt under here, but I can’t see any evidence of access in the floor. I looked outside when we came over here last time. It really is just a tiny building built for daily prayers. Not unusual for the era your house was built in.’
‘This place is unusual,’ Mathilde reminded him, ‘we discovered an old painting behind a board, and I found a hidden document. It must have meant something to someone at one time.’
Oliver walked over to where she was looking up at the plaque on the wall. ‘I know it’s quite old, but I reckon we could dust the residual grit from that and read what it says. Shall we try?’ Mathilde nodded. She had no idea what residual meant but she did want to discover if this was someone’s burial place. She waited impatiently for Oliver to return from the house with a step ladder he’d previously shown her in the boot room beside the back door. He’d suggested she could use it if she needed to replace lightbulbs and she’d smiled to herself, wondering if he really thought she’d bother to do that. She was used to the dark at night. Although, she had to admit to herself, night-time in the van wasn’t as it was in the house, where she was never alone. Even if all the living people were out, she still had her ancestors to keep her company.
Mathilde stepped on to the ladder before Oliver could put one foot on it. He raised one eyebrow but said nothing, passing her the small brush he had brought with him.
‘Brush it very gently,’ he warned, ‘we don’t know how well it’s attached to the wall.’
Mathilde gave it a little push with the heel of her hand, but it didn’t move. She heard a sharp intake of breath from below her and she smiled to herself. Would he ever learn to keep his mouth shut when he didn’t want her to do something?
Taking the brush, she began to sweep away the dust and grit collected in the grooves where it had been carved, so many years ago. The words became more pronounced but were still illegible. Frustrated, she climbed back down until she was stood next to Oliver. He’d caught her waist as she got to the bottom and left his hands there, she could feel the heat from them through her T-shirt. She didn’t want to admit it to herself but human contact after so long without it felt good. Great, in fact. She’d wasted so many years.
‘I still can’t read it,’ she admitted, ‘do you want to have a try?’
‘Of course, give me the brush,’ Oliver held his hand out and stood on the ladder. The place where his hands had been felt cold now that he’d removed them. ‘Don’t forget I did a degree in ancient artefacts; I might be able to work it out.’
The chapel fell silent as he brushed away at exactly the same place that Mathilde had. She was certain he was doing it just to show her he was the professional as it looked no different, but she kept her mouth shut.
‘Okay, I think I have something,’ Oliver called down. ‘Can you write some letters down if I read them out?’ Mathilde quickly pulled her phone out and opened the notes, nodding her head.
‘I S A B E L. Isabel. Well, that is straightforward then, have you got that?’ The ladder rocked a little as he twisted round, and Mathilde almost dropped her phone as she leapt forward to grab it.
‘Yes, I have it,’ she confirmed, ‘now can you please stop moving about? It isn’t safe.’
‘Wait, there’s more. L U T … Lutton. It says Lutton. And it looks like Requiescat in Pace – Rest in Peace.’ His voice tailed off and he slowly descended to the floor. Mathilde was looking at the plaque and Oliver took hold of her upper arms. ‘It must be one of your ancestors,’ he couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice, ‘what an incredible find for you. She isn’t buried here, I’m sure of it, but we can look in the churchyard in the village if you like?’
‘Not yet.’ She shook her head. Before she went looking for another burial place, she wanted to consider this new connection between herself and these ancient family members. Perhaps later, when she’d got used to the knowledge her father was there. Although the thought that other members of her family may also be there gave her some comfort. ‘Another time,’ she suggested.
They both ate fish and chips at the pub, washed down with several pints of real ale which the pub brewed in an outhouse at the back. It was only nine o’clock when they got home but it was dark. As they walked up the drive the marshes lay to their right, the gloomy depths disturbed occasionally by the flapping and squawking of a duck. The small blue phosphorous lights danced about reminding Mathilde of the time she’d taken Fleur on their night-time adventure. It was only two months ago but felt like a lifetime.
‘Will-o’-the-wisp,’ Oliver said, ‘that’s what they’re called round here.’
‘In France, we call them les feux follets,’ Mathilde replied, whispering so as not to disturb the nightlife that was starting to come alive in the bushes and trees around them. She tilted her head on one side as the soft call of an owl somewhere in the distance was answered from a tree close by. She looked up but could see nothing in the deep shadows.
Back at the hall, Mathilde offered coffee, tinkering about in the kitchen. She wasn’t sure of the etiquette of taking a man to her bedroom even if they were alone in the house. As she continued to shuffle cups and the cafetiere on the kitchen side, she felt his arms slide round her waist from behind and he kissed the space below her left ear. She shuddered with a longing she hadn’t even known it was possible to feel.
‘Shall we forget the coffee?’ he whispered. Mathilde nodded and as he took her hand, she followed him willingly upstairs to her bedroom.
They lay together in bed, naked skin pressed close. Mathilde had never felt safer than at that moment, laid in his arms. Nothing would hurt her again; she was sure of it now and the thought of it made her eyes well up until a tear dripped down onto Oliver’s chest.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ He moved himself away a little so he could tilt her face up to his. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘Happy tears,’ she explained, ‘I’ve realised that finally I’ve found my home. A life that’s safe. And I have my ancestors to thank for that. And you,’ she added.
‘I’ve done nothing,’ he admonished as he pulled her in again, ‘you’re just where you always belonged.’
They were soon both asleep but as her clutch on wakefulness began to loosen, Mathilde felt the familiar jolt as she fell into a dark dream. The dream of the triptych. But this wasn’t like before, this was real life. Her life. The heat in front of her whipping up a wind that threw sparks up into the sky dancing like the gases in the marshes, skittering across the starry background. The orange and yellow of fierce flames that had engulfed the building, the tiny cottage they were living in. She tried to push forward but strong arms held her back and her mouth was open in a scream she couldn’t utter as the burning roof beams crashed into the rooms below and another billow of heat burst out. Someone dragged her backwards as she held her arms out towards the inferno, trying to get closer.
Suddenly the scenery changed. It was daylight, the sun heavy on her back warming the skin and instead of the bitter smoke she could smell warm hay and the citrus tang of lemon thyme crushed underfoot. In front of her lay a landscape she recognised in some way, planes of smooth, even fields stretching into the distance where they merged with the horizon in a shimmer of gold. Her heart felt at peace.
Then as before, abruptly she was back in her bed, staring up in the cool dark air. She leant out of the bed and switched on her light, waking Oliver in the process.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, shielding his eyes from the glare of the lamp.
‘Yes, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I had another dream, it was the fire,’ she whispered, ‘just like before. It was where my mother died. But it wasn’t. The house was much bigger in the dream. Not here though. The same villagers trying to pour water on and extinguish it and the same crowds of faces lit up by the flames. Caught in hell.
It was as awful as I remember, the heat, the hopelessness. Nobody could get near to rescue her. The fire department discovered afterwards that one of her candles had caught the kitchen curtain, a simple, avoidable accident. I was back there watching it all over again. It was the third panel of the triptych: the end of the journey. And then, I was here, in the garden. I could smell the herbs and I felt a sense of calm and happiness. Maybe not happiness,’ she amended, ‘but a release, like I’ve finally been set free from my past; relief that I was home. Does that sound mad?’
‘It sounds to me as if in some ways, your life has emulated the life of the artist of the painting.’ There was a pause while he tried to think of a simpler word than ‘emulate’. ‘Follow. Your life has followed his, in a rough way. Your journey from France, your artistic skills; you may not paint but you earn your living with your camera. A fire that at some point seems to have ended all hope for you both. Until you arrived here at this house which has somehow restored it again.’
Mathilde nodded, understanding what he was saying. She had certainly felt safe and at home here. She lay back down again, staring up at the ceiling above her. Had he wondered where life would take him next? Or whether finally he could stop searching for all that he’d lost?
Chapter Fifty-Four
November 1586
During the following week, Tom’s physical body moved about but his spirit lay on his bed unresponsive. Or perhaps it still stood in the hallway of the charred remains of his home where the scent of death would linger forever. He’d laid on his bed for a day without stirring until Hugh had gently coaxed him into the stillroom and although it was discouraged for food to be consumed in there he made Tom eat soft jellies and custards and a rich mutton and barley stew that was almost vomited back afterwards.
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