The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  "What do you mean by proper receptivity'?" Andrew, too, was gazing at the scene with something like wonder in his eyes. "When you actually see it, it looks as real as those lights."

  "I've always thought that people are really walking 'electrical banks,'" Timothy responded, starting up the car again. "Some have more power than others—and often use it differently. That power, for instance, manifests as clairvoyance, ESP, telepathy. Why, even charm—plain, old charm—is really an electrical magnetism that some people possess in more abundance than others. I've always thought that most of us possess these faculties—some more so than others—but we're usually not aware of them, so some atrophy from disuse. You, for instance, didn't know you had any psychic power at all until you were told you'd seen Domino's ghost. It's no ghost at all, merely an etheric impression that's remained in this area and can be perceived by those who are psychic or on the same vibration

  or electrical wavelength. Come to think of it, Andrew, you've probably used this force more times than you'll ever know in your work. Haven't you often dug somewhere on a hunch? Or known what something you dug up was?"

  "It happens all the time."

  They both were silent until they reached Nonsuch Park and Andrew hastened off to the mobile home to inform the caretaker he was on the premises. He joined Timothy at the wine cellar a few moments later. "The man says to take our time." He laughed. He looked down into the excavated area with its prominent roundel. "I didn't tell him I'd already spent quite a bit of time here." He laughed again. "And to think that both the Lure and Father Felix have lain there undisturbed for over four hundred years with only a foot of wall between them and all the activity this old place has seen."

  Timothy grinned. "It's a lot better than six feet under."

  "I daresay Father Felix wouldn't have minded being in a wine cellar! He seemed a very forward-looking fellow for his time." Andrew continued to gaze into the interior. "Tim, why do you think my walking around the perimeter—and Julian's walking around, too, for that matter—seemed to have such an odd effect? We sensed something! We sensed a power—and we know now it was Hurst. But always before the reaction came at the fountain site. . . ."

  "This is only guesswork," Timothy replied, "but I think possibly the very amount of concentration you and Julian put into your walking along this rectangle—you both were willing yourselves to remember and find the Lure—I'm sure that had something to do with it. Also, it was right under your feet! Queen Catherine's mother told her it possessed magical properties, you know. Perhaps those properties are nothing other than magnetic forces. There might have been some sort of power inherent in the Lure itself that brought that force over from the fountain. It's not far away. Perhaps the very power of your concentration—both yours and Julian's —gave the force enough power to leave. The power proved an attraction. That's only a theory, of course; we could never prove it. But it's a logical one. And I think, probably true."

  "Ummm . . . mmmm. . . ." Andrew had dropped into the pit and, looking up, joked, "Now you're my lookout man, Tim. Keep a sharp eye out for da cops." Quickly, he went to work, expertly chip-

  ping at the Norman roundel. Timothy watched carefully. After a few moments his long, sensitive fingers grasped the deep relief of the roundel's carving, and he attempted to dislodge it. But it was too firmly cemented in place. Again he picked up a little tool and chipped away for several moments. This time it gave a little. "They sure don't make them like this anymore," Andrew joked as a large cascade of dried mortar dropped to the ground with a thud, casting dust over Timothy's shoes. Plaster dust or Father Felix's dust, he thought grimly.

  Andrew laid the roundel carefully on the ground, grunting in satisfaction that it didn't crumble. "A valuable piece that," he muttered. Timothy could see he appeared very introspective. He's done this before, he thought. How could he feel otherwise?

  "Tim, come—look and see!"

  Timothy cast a quick glance around the area. No one was in sight. He dropped into the pit beside Andrew, who'd taken a flashlight from his pocket and directed its beam into the interior.

  It was a much larger space than either had imagined. "Almost the size of a large closet," Andrew said. "Incredible, the damned wall hasn't caved in in all that time." He continued flashing the beam, then stopped suddenly. "Here it is."

  Both men looked in—and there it was. Andrew felt that surge of intense excitement when the earth finally yielded its treasure. It was a long coffin, with no embellishment, covered now with plaster dust and bits of mortar and brick. On its top was a handsome golden cross, just as Brother Thomas had placed it more than four hundred years ago. "Oh, Tim, it's here." Andrew's voice was shaking. "Here, hold the light."

  Timothy kept the beam steady, though he, too, was filled with wonder at seeing the physical representation of what Chloe Cud-dington had so accurately described. Gently, Andrew removed the cross, shaking the dust from it and laying it carefully on the earthen floor. "Here goes," he said so quietly Timothy had to strain to hear him. He undid the two clasps and opened the lid of the coffin. Both men drew in their breaths in utter amazement.

  For there was the body of the Prior of Merton, as uncorrupt and undefiled as the night Brother Thomas and Richard Cuddington had placed him in the coffin's depths. The bright red and gold cope glowed in the light that played along the thin waxen features with its prominent nose and long white beard. "I don't believe it—it's a

  miracle!" Andrew murmured. "Those monks must have been masters of embalming." He thrust his hand into the interior and quickly withdrew it, saying, "But let's not trust to luck too much. There's been no air or dampness in there for four hundred years. We must close it up very soon. Here"—his voice shook with excitement—"I've got it." He held up a small wooden coffer. Quickly, he replaced the lid, returned the cross to the coffin's top and, picking up the roundel, inserted it back into the wall, hammering it gently into place. Several empty spaces where he'd chipped around it were evident, but that couldn't be helped.

  Timothy scooped up the mortar and brick remnants from the cobbled floor with his bare hands and flung it over the side of the pit. "The caretaker said there's no further work to be done here and no more visitors," Andrew said as he helped his companion, "and this weekend the bulldozers will push the earth back over the ruins. We must pray that for the next few days, no one else comes into the pit or jars that roundel loose. What I'd give for a little bit of wet cement!"

  "Let's go, Andrew. Our luck has held, but it won't forever." Timothy hoisted himself up out of the pit, followed by Andrew. "We've got what we came for. Don't look inside yet, let's get out of here first." In a few minutes they were back in the car.

  Andrew looked at the box with its ornate Tudor rose clasp. "I still find it difficult, Tim, to comprehend that more than four hundred years ago I also held this in my hand. Can you imagine anyone's reaction if I should tell them that?" He laughed. "I almost don't believe it myself."

  He undid the clasp and took out a small ball of red velvet. "It's not even damp! I thought it might fall apart"—he spoke, almost to himself—"beautiful color, excellent condition . . ."

  "Andrew, you're sounding too professional! For God's sake, open it up!"

  The velvet folds fell away, and there before them, shimmering in the dusky light inside the car, was Queen Catherine's golden pomegranate. "The Nonsuch Lure." Andrew smiled. "There it is, Tim-hundreds of years old and oh, so beautifull How I wish Chloe had seen it!"

  For it was beautiful. The golden color only emphasized the warmth of the diamonds, emeralds, the tiny flashing rubies and sapphires so intricately set into the precious metal. The diamond at the

  tip was large with a blue-white brilliance almost blinding as Andrew turned it around, to spark the gems' facets of color. "No wonder the queen and her mother loved it Do you think it has any magical properties?"

  "I'm a medical man, Andrew"—Timothy laughed—"and not supposed to believe in magic." He held out his hand for the bauble. "B
ut who knows? If a curse can linger throughout the centuries, perhaps an evocation for good—such as this little clump of gold and jewels—can also exert a force that's benevolent. I don't know. Even if it actually possessed no power or force of its own, the very fact that people have believed it did would give it some power. Now may I ask what you intend to do with it?"

  "I'm going to take it to Cuddington House and photograph it and the portrait also. It seems that's all there'll be of the lady for me to take back to Williamsburg." Andrew mused. "Odd, but ever since I found those things in the attic, I thought I, too, might meet a Chloe Cuddington. I've sensed—same as you—that this is all part of a larger scheme of things. But for what? To exorcise that maniacal force at Nonsuch? I can't believe that. In a few days those trenches will be filled in, and in a year there won't be a trace of the excavations. People have walked around there for years—only Julian was ever hurt. I still feel, somehow, that this little adventure hasn't ended, but I have little excuse to remain."

  Timothy accompanied Andrew to his room, for he was anxious to examine the Lure leisurely. Andrew placed it on a table where the lamplight played on the perfect curve of the golden fruit, embedded with flashing gems. "It's a spellbinder."

  Timothy turned it carefully. "Each new side is completely different. Can't you see how even a queen would be enamored of this? How old d'you think it is, Andrew?"

  "Isabelle was mid-fifteenth century, and Father Felix told Thomas it had been in the Spanish queen's family for a long time. That's got to be five hundred years or maybe even six hundred."

  Andrew busied himself with the camera equipment. "While you're here, old man, give me a hand with this. I was going to ask the luscious Rosa or the unflappable Harry to assist me, but this will save me the trouble. I think we'll shoot this portrait from the wall, then move it to different parts of the room. The light is stronger in several places—it's almost too bright during the day."

  Gently, the two men lifted the heavy frame from the wall and set

  it between the windows. The shades were pulled against the light that came in from the brightly lit Strand, and Andrew quickly and efficiently snapped several shots with his own lighting equipment. "Now let's put it on the other side of the room. That's fine, Tim, give me a hand. Oh, watch out!" In his eagerness to help, Timothy had backed up against the table holding the golden pomegranate. It lurched to one side, then careened toward the end, and without thinking, Andrew dropped his side of the heavy frame and grabbed the clump of gold just before it fell. The frame, too heavy for Timothy to grab and hold upright by himself, crashed to the floor. There was a sharp sound of wood splintering while Andrew swore loudly and both men turned to see what damage had been done.

  "Rosa Caudle will have my head and she'll be justified," he muttered, looking at the split frame. "My God, what's this?" He held up a small roll of parchment, neatly tied with a black velvet ribbon. "Tim, I don't believe this. Look! It just fell out of the frame—it must have been inserted somehow." He peered into the frame's jagged edges, and there, easy to see, was the split section of what had been a neatly hollowed-out part where the rolled-up parchment had been hidden.

  Til be damned," Timothy said puzzled. "Open it, Andrew, for God's sake, and let's see what it is." Carefully, he leaned the portrait back against the wall, relieved the shattered frame had not harmed the canvas.

  Already Andrew had taken the parchment to the nearest light and was smoothing out the sheets. They were as fresh and springy as the day they'd been inserted in the frame. Glancing through the pages of small, neat and dark handwriting, he said, "It hasn't faded at all—incredible! But, of course, there was no moisture or light inside the frame. The wood really acted as a preservative. It's a document of some kind—here—it's called 'A Defence of My Beloved.'" Quicky, he ruffled through the pages to the end. "Tim! It's signed 'Bartholomew Penn. September, 1568/ 1568? That's more than thirty years after Thomas ended his memories on the tape. D'you think this might tell us what we want to know?" Andrew peered closely at the handwriting. "Old Penn wrote a good hand, it's quite legible—d'you think we could make it out?"

  Timothy took the sheets, amazed at their resilient strength. "This is quite legible. If this had been written by Henry the Eighth some forty years earlier, you'd have had to have it deciphered. But his

  children were taught a different hand, and all wrote quite legibly. Penn was of that generation and, being an artist, I would think he took pains. Yes, I think I can read it." He looked through the pages quickly. "I think this is going to answer a lot of your questions, Andrew. Supposing you let me start?"

  Andrew was nervous. Did he really want to know what Bartholomew Penn had to say? Then the sweet, deep gaze of Chloe Cud-dington met his, and again that feeling of being transported into the portrait with her swept over him. He clutched the Lure in his hand, suddenly opening it up and holding it toward the portrait. "Here it is, my girl," he said quietly. "You never actually saw it in your lifetime. But here it is . . . safe. And it will be kept safe, just as your Thomas promised." For a moment he felt his eyes mist over and felt more foolish and nervous than ever. "Read on, Tim," he said, settling himself in an armchair. "We've got most of the pieces of the puzzle right here. There's the portrait and here's the Lure. Now maybe old Penn can fill in the rest."

  Timothy adjusted the light near his chair and, in a low even voice, stopping only now and then as a word puzzled him, commenced to read from the parchment sheets.

  Bartholomew Penn's Narrative

  A DEFENCE OF MY BELOVED

  This is a portrait of my dearest wife which was painted in July, 1536, before our marriage.

  Her name was Chloe Cuddington. She was the daughter of Sir Richard Cuddington and Lady Elizabeth of Cuddington, Surrey, whose land was taken by King Henry VIII in exchange for the Manor of Ixworth in Suffolk. The family moved from Cuddington in mid-autumn 1536.

  The last few weeks in Cuddington and the beginning of their new life in Suffolk were bitter and unhappy because of the death of Brother Thomas of the dissolved Merton Priory. There was, consequently, a scandal of which my dear wife was accused of being a witch or at least of possessing devilish powers. I am convinced that only her friends in Surrey, her influential family and her own stout defence of herself saved her from what might have been a horrendous fate. It makes one wonder how many other souls as gentle as my Chloe's have suffered a tortured death because ignorant minds cannot or will not try to understand? Chloe once told me that the only person—other than her parents and myself—who had understood was her childhood friend, Brother Thomas.

  I am persuaded that in years to come as this portrait passes from generation to generation, a false story of Chloe Cuddington Penn and Brother Thomas—and the last few weeks at Cuddington—may grow larger than the actual facts merit. Therefore, I wish to write

  the truth. I do not trust these words to be kept in my desk or in a portfolio or letter-box; such a testament might be too easily lost or suppressed. But if, as I think, the portrait will survive, then these words over which I have laboured and the manner in which I have secreted them will, I vow, be received as the Will of God dictates. They may even be discovered at a time when they will be most needed and welcomed.

  My own view of this story is, I accept, colored by the fact that Chloe Cuddington was my beloved wife. But I am convinced that the facts I tell are true, for she did not lie. This is why a defence for the dearest and rarest creature on earth is necessary and right.

  I will start at the beginning.

  I met Chloe Cuddington shortly before I undertook a commission from her uncle, Sir James Cuddington, to paint her portrait. This was done midsummer, 1536, and it is one of the finest I've ever completed. I say this with true modesty: my wife's beauty made it all possible. Not only her physical attributes, but the shining brilliance which emanates from the goodness of her soul and spirit.

  We were not married then, although—I hope I am not immodest —I was aware she would not be
averse to any suit from me. She was gentle and receptive and, at the same time, withdrawn. There was, seemingly, a part of her which was untouched, sealed off from all outside influence, as though she had determined the condition herself. That was to be so all the remainder of our days. But in time I understood what it was . . . and sympathised.

  I took this portrait to Cuddington during one of the last weeks the family was there. They professed themselves very pleased, and in due course, Chloe asked her parents that I also paint their portraits. She sparkled as she said this, her eyes friendly and sweet. I knew she wished me to accompany the family to Suffolk. Her parents immediately agreed, and I felt more joyous and happy, for we would be together for many weeks. A long time later she told me that was what she had wanted.

  Now I write of the incident that—many, many years later—still pains me and fills me with grief. It was a grief that I know my dearest wife lived with until the end of her days.

  Her greatest childhood friend was Brother Thomas of Merton Priory. Thomas was almost as a member of the Cuddington family and held in great affection by them. He was an exceptionally handsome young man . . . one of the few holy brethren that I can truly

  say possessed a noble spirit and a lofty idealism, which showed in every line of his bearing and person. A most unusual young man. I think it would have been a great challenge to have committed his likeness to canvas. There was something about him I have never seen in anyone else—ecclesiastic or other—that may have defeated any artist to reproduce. One cannot create a nobility of the spirit-that belongs to God.