by Mary Luke
There was a stab of burning pain beneath her heart. This was it. Thomas was going—forever. Chloe felt her throat tighten and a smarting sensation just behind her eyes. Don't be a fool, she told herself sternly, you've cried enough over this man! He's not for you—he chose God.
So she smiled brightly, thanking Thomas for her mother's book and then, curtsying: "Master Penn and the portrait are here. Father is pleased. I am pleased." She drew herself up with exaggerated hauteur, attempting a jocularity to match his. "He may come to Suffolk and paint Mother and Father's portraits."
"That's good." Thomas beamed. "I shall think of you often, Chloe, wherever I am. I'll send a message to Suffolk whether I'm to be at Westminster or York. I rather suspect it will be York."
They'd reached the fishpond, and even the hateful remembrance of her encounter there with Hurst couldn't diminish her happiness at being with Thomas. Always, her heart bounded at the pure
pleasure of just walking with him. She longed to take his hand. And knew she wouldn't.
"Thomas, there's something I want to tell you. Please hear me out—it's very important to me! I only hope you won't think me mad! But you must be truthful with me. . . ." At the reproach in his eyes, she said quickly, "I know you will be, Thomas. But this is a story that courts disbelief." Quickly, she described in detail what she'd seen in her dream.
Crossing himself, Thomas cried, "God save us! You saw it!" His features mirrored his own incredulity. "But this is fantasy! How could you know? You were in London! Yet it's exactly as you described it. Father Felix was buried in what is going to be the king's wine cellar. We chose that simply because it was the only new foundation ready. We buried him there because of the Lure." And then he told her the story he'd heard from the prior.
"Oh, Thomas, I wish I'd seen it!" Chloe was enchanted with the tale of the golden pomegranate.
"It's safe now—forever," the monk replied. He said upon returning from London and finding the prior dead, he'd gone to Chloe's father and told him the whole story. Thomas said he felt it a sacred trust that the Lure be safe. He might take it to Westminster, where the abbot had promised to give it sanctuary, but he felt it should stay with Father Felix now the old man had died. Luckily, Sir Richard had agreed but advised they could hardly have a proper burial and ceremony in Ewell with others in attendance if the Lure was to go in the coffin. Then her father had thought of the wine cellar—it was all raw stone and brick and would be complete in a day or two. It was made entirely of Merton Priory stone. That fact had convinced Thomas there'd be no desecration in laying the prior to his final rest in a wine cellar. "He'll be enclosed in consecrated stone," Thomas said, relieved. And so they'd buried him—and Queen Catherine's Lure—before dawn, just as she'd seen it in her dream. As Thomas retold the story, his features mirrored the wonder that she should have seen it all.
Chloe remembered the countless times in her childhood when she had seemingly possessed an odd foreknowledge of coming events. Already she'd tried Thomas' belief by recounting the dream, but she had to finish. So she told him how she'd encountered Hurst, how he'd come toward her, threatening. . . .
"And that's why you fainted—when you saw him," Thomas mused. "That man is evil. Pure evil. I've felt his power."
"Oh, Thomas, he is!" Chloe cried. "Once, very near here, he willed me—willed me, Thomas, to come to him from inside the house while he waited out here! What is this power? Is it of the devil?"
"I don't know"—Thomas was reflective—"but I do know, it's not from God."
"That's not all." Chloe spoke faintly, looking away to the ruined church on the horizon. "I've never told you, for I've been afraid. Or else I thought you might laugh. But sometimes, I feel I am . . . tainted."
"Tainted! You!" Thomas laughed aloud. "Mistress Chloe, my dear Mistress Chloe, of all the people I know, you have no taint."
"I'm not jesting, Thomas." Chloe turned her dark, serious gaze on him and recounted the many instances when, in her mind's eye, she'd foreseen an event. She told of the violet cap, of how she might know that a sick person—or animal—would live or die. "When I was little, I thought everyone was that way. But then I found out they weren't. . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Oh, Thomas, do you think I'm a witch?"
Thomas laughed—an indulgent laugh—and covered her hand with his. "My dear, if you are, you're a blessed witch. No, Chloe, I don't think you're a witch. I think you have a very sensitive soul, a great capacity for understanding, compassion and . . . love. You're a beautiful person, my dear, not only your face and body, but your spirit as well. You are—what would Father Felix have said?— gifted spiritually. Some people are endowed with a great talent, like your friend Master Penn. But your sensitivities and faculties are more deeply developed—that's all. The fact that you possess them is really an act of grace. They're not so very unusual either—some of the saints, for instance, have powers that—"
"Thomas, I'm not a saint." Chloe looked at the strong brown hand covering hers. The temptation was too great to resist. She lowered her head and laid her lips gently on the back.
Thomas felt his throat tighten. He yearned to bury his other hand in the silver hair—and knew that if he did, he'd be lost. He managed a grim chuckle. "No, my girl, you're no saint! But you mustn't let your power worry you either! It's never harmed or hurt
anyone. It's a gift from God, Chloe. Cherish it and use it always for good."
There was a rude laugh from behind, and they sprang apart, startled, Thomas almost dropping the Book of Hours. Hurst had stepped from behind the hedge bordering the fishpond. "Caught you two again!" he cried, crossing his arms across his chest, his face contorted. "Don't think Sir Richard would be happy knowing his lass is taking up with the priest-boy again." He spat on the ground. "Can't leave each other alone, you two, can you? I mind the other times. . . ." Raising his eyebrows, he leered at Thomas. "And all this time you ain' bedded with her yet!"
"Thomas—don't!" Chloe grasped his arm, pulling him toward her as he lunged at Hurst. She remembered the man's incredible strength and was paralyzed with fright that he'd hurt Thomas. "Thomas, come along—we'll go inside. Mother will want to see your gift, and you have to say farewell. You'll want to see the portrait, and Bartholomew Penn is here." She knew she was babbling, yet she must keep them apart.
But Hurst would have none of it. "I listened, and I heard you tell of your dream. I was there! I knew you was there, too! I saw you in the dream—I saw you and Sir Richard and the priest-boy. What was you doin'? What happened? You buried somethin', didn't you? You must tell me. I was there, too, and I have a right to know-same as you. I'm just as good as you, Mistress Chloe, with your uppity way. No one's good enough for you except him." Hurst spat again. "I've heard rumors, Brother Thomas, of what goes on in holy houses—seems it goes on outside, too." And again that lewd smile she remembered from the day on the hill.
Thomas struggled to contain himself as Chloe pulled strongly at his sleeve. "Hurst, I want you to listen to me," he said, and Chloe marveled at his calm. "You don't belong here anymore. You're working for the King's Surveyor, I understand. That's good. Because you've never belonged here! You have a bitter mind and a twisted spirit. You have great strength, too, in your body and mind —but you're using both the wrong way. You could change. It's up to you. I'm sure you're a very unhappy man, Hurst. Surely, you're a very unhealthy—and unpleasant—spirit. But you have a soul, Hurst, just as we all have. It came from God. Yet you treat it as if it came from the devil."
"Maybe it did!" the small man shouted, waving a clenched fist
threateningly. "Maybe it did! God and spirit and stuff like that never did nothin' for me. I got my mind and my strength my own way, priest-boy, and you needn't give me a lot of holy talk while you're always prowlin' around the girl here as if she was a bitch in heat."
Thomas was white-faced, his self-control almost disappearing. Suddenly, the blessed sound of horses' hooves came from down the road, and Chloe, weak with relief, saw her father
and Bartholomew Penn reining up to join them. Hurst saw them, too, and moved away. "I'll find out about what you was doin' there that night if it's the last thing I do." His eyes narrowed, a vicious glint in their depths. "You buried somethin'. But you ain' seen the last o' me." He hurried away. Chloe sank weakly against Thomas, and he put an arm about her shoulders as they prepared to follow in the horses' wake toward the manor house.
Moments later the monk presented the Book of Hours to Lady Elizabeth, who exclaimed with delight at its beauty. "Thomas! That was so good of the brothers." Her eyes filled. "My dear boy, we're going to miss you and Father Felix so. I shall treasure this forever because it's from Merton." Thomas kissed the hand she extended, saying, "I'm going to the church. Just once more before I leave. I'll stop and say good-bye to Sir Richard when I return. Walk with me to the gate, Chloe?"
They started along the path near the red-brick wall toward the ruined church which stood stark against the sky. "Thomas, why do you go? It's so—grim."
"My happiest moments were spent there, Chloe. I remember sitting there with my parents. The music took me out of the building and sent something in me soaring up ... up ... to the highest part of the nave. I remember Father Felix celebrating the holy days there. I have to say good-bye."
They'd reached the gate in the wall, and a sound from inside made them stop. They saw Domino sitting on his bench under the young beech tree her father had planted. He was hunched over, crooning softly to birds diving from the wall and nearby trees. They flew about in great numbers, alighting on his shoulders and cap, and he swept them away impatiently. At the same time, muttering in that soft fashion, he plunged into a sack and, in a great sweeping motion, flung seed out to the birds. "He's to stay," Chloe whispered. "His leg hasn't healed. He's to have Sparwefeld.
There'll be a little something of old Cuddington left as long as he lives here." The monk and the girl watched the scene, peaceful and quiet, with the rhythmic sweep of the man's hand and the soft cadence of his voice as he flung seed to the ground. Suddenly an old spaniel of Lady Elizabeth's padded out from behind the house, sniffed about and, finding a patch of weak sunlight, settled itself under the tree with a great sigh of contentment. "It's like a painting," Thomas whispered, "and a wonderful way to remember your old home, Chloe. Keep it in your mind like a treasure. I know I shall. I'll see you on my return." He patted her shoulder and walked in the easy, graceful way that even the shapeless brown gown couldn't hide toward the ruined church. Chloe watched him for a moment and then, remembering the tasks which still awaited her inside, walked down the circle toward the door in silence so she'd not disturb the old man, the dog and the birds.
(Chapter (eighteen
"Well, now we know," was all Andrew said.
It was the afternoon of the following day, and he was returning the tapes of his last session to Timothy Hodge in his office. The final patient had departed and a fire was burning itself out in the grate, while Timothy busied himself with a teakettle. He'd been so moved by the story of Brother Thomas and his Chloe that once Andrew had finished, he'd insisted his friend take the tapes to Cud-dington House and listen to them alone.
"Yes, now we know," Timothy agreed, "how do you feel about the story, Andrew?"
"I've never been so enthralled or excited"—Andrew accepted his tea—"and—quite touched, Tim. Listening to those tapes was a tremendous experience."
"Yes, and we now know what the Lure is. That it wasn't the evil force at the fountain where Julian became so ill. It was that force you exorcised, and you called it Hurst—we know now who Hurst was. And we even know where the Lure is buried! Do you think that accounts for your fascination—and Julian's, too, for that matter —with the wine cellar?"
"I wish I knew." Andrew settled his long frame into an armchair. "Actually, you know, Tim, the tape still leaves a lot unanswered. What happened to Thomas? He'd go no further than when he said good-bye to Chloe. Did he go to York or Westminster? We know Chloe eventually married Bartholomew Penn, so he must have left her life completely. I found their, uh, love . . . very affecting. . . ."
For a moment his features looked drawn. "I still find it all hard to believe."
"Especially Hurst. What an obscene little toad he was!" Timothy mused. "I wonder what happened to him? Why would he—or his spirit—wish to stay around for four hundred years. In one spot—the site of the old chancel?"
"That's what I mean, Tim, when I say that in some ways I'm still as confused as when we began this little drama"—Andrew smiled wryly—"and you said before we started the last session that I must be content with what I found. Well, we found that Chloe Cudding-ton wasn't a witch, that she was in love with a monk. We found out what the Lure is and where it's buried."
"We found much more than that, Andrew." Timothy leaned back in his chair as he studied his friend earnestly. "Can't you think of a little larger-than-life something that all this proves?"
"Like what?"
"Like, for instance, the fact that we are literally *born again' as the Bible says. We do have a second—maybe more—chance on this old earth. Reincarnation. I've never seen more conclusive evidence of it—and its subsequent Karmic working out—than Brother Thomas, Julian and you. And, of course, Chloe. I've given this a lot of thought, Andrew. It's a most unusual case of two souls intertwined for centuries. You and the spirit—or girl—named Chloe. It's not all coincidence, you know. From the time of your birth this has been foreordained. First that you develop a love for England. Then you actually visit Nonsuch and have that accident in the park with the pony. Don't you remember after hearing the Julian tapes you were so impressed by the fact that you'd even been motivated to go to Williamsburg where you 'just happened' to find Julian's Journal . . . and the fact that Cuddington House still existed? And here in London, you 'just happened' to have a friend who could practice hypnosis, so we could discover a few facts no attic or journal could have revealed. There was even a nice cooperative Rosa Caudle, who 'just happened' to have a portrait of a girl named Chloe Cuddington. Don't you see a pattern to all this, Andrew?"
"Yes, I do. And it literally scares the bejesus out of me. I'm not a medical man like you, Tim. I find it difficult to accept. Also, that it was I who did all those things only makes it harder to rationalize. It also changes one's concept of time, for instance. As an archaeologist and architect I've worked with old buildings and civilizations long
dead and gone. But if all we've been through is valid and acceptable, it's all still around in someone's memory—their idols, images and ideals are still intact. It's a mind-boggling concept. I just wish I weren't so tired."
"You've had a very emotional experience, Andrew," Timothy replied. "I'd be more worried about you if you weren't tired! But let's go back to your comment about accepting what we found. We've found that Chloe was a charmer—a sensitive woman and a gifted psychic in modern parlance. We know where the Lure is. Are you now going to put it all from your mind and let it go at that?"
"Seems I have no choice but to accept what we found. But one thing I want to do is find the Lure. Tim, I want to see it—again. Hold it in my hand."
Timothy looked nonplussed. He'd thought Andrew might find his sixteenth-century life as a monk difficult to accept, might dislike the fact that his association with Chloe had ended with her marriage to another. Might even—after all he'd been through—wonder what had been proved? He hadn't thought the Lure, buried for more than four hundred years in a Surrey wine cellar, would prove the main attraction! "What are you thinking, Andrew?" he asked.
"I'm thinking how terribly easy it would be to get it."
"Now, Andrew . . ."
"Oh, don't now, Andrew' me, man! I've got all the tools. We know where it is." Andrew's face shone with enthusiasm. "The Norman roundel has got to be the marking place. It's always intrigued me that such a prominent stone would be put in such an outlandish spot, not even centered, for instance. Oh, Tim, let's go and see if we can find it!"
"The authorities. .
. ."
"The authorities be damned! Hang it all, man, don't you know what'll happen if the authorities are involved? We'll have to deal with this commission and that bureau and work with floodlights and a television camera zooming in on us. Hell, no, I won't do it! Don't you think after all this time I've earned the right to find the Lure myselfF' His strong voice was insistent, and for a moment, Timothy could almost hear Thomas' vibrant promise to look after the Lure. He was still keeping that promise. . . .
He mentioned this to Andrew. "See what I mean? This same working out. You've got to see it again. You've got to satisfy your-
self it's safe. What'll you do when you get it, Andrew? The British law has rather stiff regulations concerning this sort of thing."
"Well I'm not going to steal it if that's what you mean! I'll worry about what to do with it when I have it in my hand. Oh, come with me, Tim! There's nothing at Nonsuch that can hurt us now! You've finished for the day. We can be there in a little over half an hour! Thank God it's getting darker a bit later now. Oh, come on. . . ."
They stopped only once en route to Nonsuch. At the Sparrow Field gate, Timothy slowed the car down, and for a brief moment they looked at the crumbling red-brick wall and the area where the beech tree and old bench had been. Where a girl and a monk had stopped to look at an old man feeding the birds. "There's what I call a real 'psychic overlay' here," Timothy said, pointing to the scene where the little cottage lights shone. "There was a lot of emotion involved on the day it happened. Domino was probably heartbroken because he couldn't go to Suffolk. His remedy was to stick to his usual routine and pretend nothing had happened. So he fed his birds . . . just as he'd always done. Thomas and Chloe stopped to watch, and since it was a final leave-taking for the monk and for the family, too, it imprinted itself on their minds forever. Just as Thomas suggested Chloe always remember what her old home looked like. That's why it can be seen by people with the proper receptivity."