Fallam's Secret

by Denise Giardina

  Then Mossup saddled Rose and watched while Lydde hauled herself up onto the horse’s back. “A good enough seat,” he said approvingly. “You’ll make a horseman someday. But don’t let her into a fast trot yet, else you’ll be on the ground with a broken crown.”

  So Lydde squeezed the mare’s flanks with her knees and set off through Norchester at a slow pace, now and then leaning over Rose’s neck to praise the horse with soft words. Though the marketplace was less crowded than usual, she went cautiously for fear of Rose starting at some unusual noise. Mossup had assured her that Rose was not one to bolt, so she finally relaxed. But at the main intersection of the town, where a medieval stone cross marked the meeting of East, North, West, and South Gate Streets, she was startled by an incursion of horsemen, more than a dozen of them, moving along at a pace that scattered all before them, women tugging on the arms of their children, skinny dogs dodging the horses’ hooves. Noah Fallam and his constables. Lydde was barely able to urge Rose to the side before they passed. Fallam, in front, noted her struggle with her mount, met her eyes with a cold, unsmiling countenance, then was gone. Lydde muttered curses under her breath, calling him every foul twenty-first-century name that came to mind. Then Rose calmed herself with a shake of the head, and Lydde rode on about her errands.

  LYDDE was consumed with curiosity over the Raven’s identity, and the long wait without hearing from him only made her more desperate, though she consoled herself with the encounter with Mossup, a kind gift, it seemed to her. Most likely, she decided, if he unmasked himself she would not recognize him, for there were hundreds of Norchester men with dark eyes and above-average height who might have jostled her in the marketplace. Even the crowd that had surrounded her on her arrival held a number of such men. But one stood out in her mind for the intensity of his stare, one who might have been secretly undressing her in his mind’s eye while pretending other interest.

  Jacob Woodcock.

  At first she dismissed the idea. The man was a fanatic. And he had tried to turn the congregation against Mary at St. Pancras. Nor could she imagine the Raven drowning a pup, though she supposed seventeenth century men of all stripes would be less squeamish about animals than she would like.

  But as she thought further, she considered with what elaborate care the Raven might present himself as someone totally different than who he was. How better to fool Noah Fallam than to hide behind a cloak of religious fanaticism? How better to examine Lydde at close quarters than to chase after Mary on a pretext and pretend to berate her? The Raven liked her boldness; Jacob Woodcock had aroused it.

  One of Mother Bunch’s regular customers was an old man who lived near Woodcock’s smithy in Catte Street. She saved him for last, and after leaving him a mixture for a poultice, she entered the smithy. The interior was smoky, and Woodcock stood shirtless over his open fire, holding a red-hot length of iron in a gloved hand while waiting to take his hammer to it. His arms and shoulders were well muscled, she noted, and a mass of black curls covered his chest. When he noticed her, he looked startled, then motioned she should wait. She stepped back and watched as he expertly shaped the length of iron into a horseshoe with a few deft raps of his hammer, then dropped the shoe into a tub of water, where it sizzled as though charged with electricity, then subsided just as suddenly.

  “What do you want?” Woodcock said.

  “I want to apologize,” she answered.

  He looked surprised, then nodded. “I accept. Your manners need improving, but it is a small sign of grace to admit that. Though I have some advice for you.”

  He stepped closer and she stared into his eyes, trying to see in them some signal that would say, Yes, here I am, the man who kissed you behind my mask, beneath the moon, the man who caressed your naked breast and once leaned close to taste it. All this she tried to read in his eyes.

  “What advice?” she asked, afraid to breathe, hoping he would say, Take care of riding alone with masked men, or something equally significant.

  “You should attend church at Trinity, here in town,” Woodcock said. “It is where most of the elect worship. I was at St. Pancras once because of the upset there, but Trinity is where I am usually found on a Sabbath. On the chance you are one of the elect, though so far I see no sign of it, it were better for your soul to be at Trinity.”

  She nodded, disappointed. “I shall consider it,” she said carefully, “though I doubt the doctor would approve.”

  Back in the street, she stopped and looked back a moment, then wandered away. If Jacob Woodcock was the Raven, he was not yet ready to reveal himself to her.

  THE Reverend Smythe, vicar of St. Pancras Church, was an uneasy sleeper. He suffered in his old age from intestinal ailments that forced him to sleep sitting upright, else he regurgitate his food while insensible, and that from time to time caused his stomach and innards to burn as though on fire. He was also forced at such times into the indignity of relieving himself rather quickly, and kept a chamber pot handy for such purposes. Yet he avoided this necessity when possible. If the weather was decent and he had advance warning, he made his way to the privy outside the vicarage instead. He was making such a return trip on a crisp October night when he was startled by the sound of a horse’s hooves, and before he could gain the safety of his door found himself face-to-face with a masked man. The Reverend Smythe quailed, but he did not run, being too old for such exertion, and besides, not a man inclined to be craven.

  “Do you know me?” the masked man asked with a raspy voice.

  “You must be the Raven,” the Reverend Smythe replied in a small yet firm voice.

  “I have a request,” said the Raven. “I am alone now. If what passes here tonight is broadcast abroad, it shall go hard with you. Am I clear?”

  The Reverend Smythe bowed his head in acquiescence. He knew of the Raven’s exploits and, though a Church of England man of the old school, he had little quarrel with the outlaw. Some of his own flock—widows, mainly—had found supplies of unlooked-for coin on their doorsteps, which had purchased chickens and milk cows and put much-needed food in their larders. They would come all in a dither to the Reverend Smythe and ask in quavering voices if it was un-Christian to accept such bounty. He had assured them that the Lord provides in mysterious ways. The Reverend Smythe listened now to the Raven’s request.

  “The crypt of St. Pancras,” said the Raven. “It is under lock and key?”

  “It is,” the Reverend Smythe acknowledged.

  “Why is that?”

  “Mr. Soane, the town physician, asked that the door be locked. He is conducting experiments of some sort there and does not wish the space to be disturbed.”

  “And you accept this without questioning it?”

  “I admit to being curious,” said the Reverend Smythe. “And I was certainly anxious that the experiment, whatever it is, would not be something offensive to God. There are reports these days of indecent activities by those pursuing this new knowledge, of horrors such as dissecting the dead, which is said to occur in Oxford. But Mr. Soane assured me no such thing was transpiring in the crypt. Indeed there is no more trusted man in Norchester than Mr. Soane, and besides, it would make no sense to conduct such an undertaking there, since the light is not sufficient.”

  “Then what is he doing there?”

  “As I’ve said, I don’t know. As vicar of the church I asked to be shown the space as an assurance, and he was glad to take me there. I could see nothing that had been disturbed. Yet Mr. Soane seems to feel people should not be often allowed to wander there. I have been under the impression he thinks some sort of pestilence might be contracted which he is anxious to shield people from. Though he assures me,” the Reverend Smythe hastened to add, “that there is no danger if we continue to worship at St. Pancras.”

  The Raven listened to this explanation and said nothing for a moment, as though considering what he had heard. Then he asked, “Does John Soane possess the only key?”

  “No. As vicar I felt it m
y responsibility to keep a key as well. Though I promised the good doctor I would not let it out of my possession.”

  “I require that key,” said the Raven.

  “Then you ask me to break my word to Mr. Soane?”

  “No. You have in good faith kept the key. Now I forcibly take it from you.”

  It was the turn of the Reverend Smythe to hesitate, then the Raven said, “I give you no choice. I am taking the key. But I promise you I shall disturb nothing, and I shall not tell John Soane you have done anything wrong. If I encounter some misfortune, then the fault is upon me. Is the key in the vicarage?”

  “It is.”

  “Then bring it to me at once. If you refuse, I shall go in the house with you. You understand me?”

  Again the Reverend Smythe nodded, and went inside to fetch the key. He considered that John Soane could not much object. At his advanced age he was no match for the Raven and could not deny him if he wished. And though he was mystified as to why the Raven should want to visit the crypt, there seemed to be nothing that would alert the physician that his quarantine had been breached. When he returned with the key, the Raven took it, then said, “Go inside and go to bed. Today is Wednesday. You’ve no need to enter the church until Sunday, so I advise you to stay away from it, else you are blamed for another uproar.”

  For the first time, the Reverend Smythe felt true fear. “You mean the paintings?” he said.

  The Raven shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “We shall see.”

  “Noah Fallam shall persecute us!”

  “The Devil take Noah Fallam,” said the Raven. Then he laughed, a raw sound that caused the blood of the Reverend Smythe to run cold.

  THE Raven moved slowly, for he carried no torch. Sounds were magnified in the dark—the rasp of the key seemed a screech loud enough to summon devils, the ring of his boots on the flagstones were like blows on an anvil no matter how softly he tried to tread. He closed the crypt door behind him. The air was close. He removed his mask and dropped it in front of the door. Then he inched cautiously forward until he found the edge of the cistern. Carefully he sat on the edge, feet dangling into space. He took from his pocket the stone he had placed there, held it out, and opened his hand. The stone dropped, but there was no sound after. He listened and heard only silence. So. He was about to plunge into an abyss because the woman who haunted his daydreams claimed it was a way to the future, to the world she had come from. And what was almost certain was that he would break his neck at the bottom of a well and that would be the end of him. A strange end for an outlaw.

  He stood up, determined to leave. Then he saw Lydde’s face in the dark of the old monastery, heard her voice as she told her tale of wonder and woe, felt her body pressed against him, and tasted the spices of her mouth. He remembered her strange courage, her fiery defense of Mary. Might she not stand by him as well, were he so fortunate as to gain her love? And could he not risk as well as she?

  Perhaps she was not a woman, but a witch. Then he was already lost; he would learn the truth, or he would die. He cleared his mind, as he did whenever he put himself in danger, then crouched and took a deep breath, hoisting himself over the edge of the cistern and letting go.

  Part Three

  Chapter 13

  Aunt Lavinia’s Visitor

  HE PASSED OUT, but then his eyes opened. He was lying on his back, arms akimbo, and for a moment his head spun and he thought he might be sick to his stomach. He had felt this way as a child when he had tried to turn in a circle as fast and long as possible but instead collapsed on the ground—always the first to fall, it seemed back then. He shut his eyes and took deep breaths. He soon felt steadier and opened his eyes again, sat up slowly, and looked around. He was in a cave. To his left the light of day was a jagged brown crack like a flaw in amber. He crawled carefully toward the light, realized he was heading for the edge of a precipice, and drew back, disoriented by the place and by the heaviness he felt in his body. He could not seem to move as easily as he was used to. Cautiously he made his way along the ledge, his knees paining him. Then, as his eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, he saw a skeleton.

  This stopped him. A disagreeable surprise, for Lydde had said nothing about it. He considered retreating but decided to press on toward another light source, though giving the bones a wide berth.

  Lydde had neglected to lock doors, since she’d had no reason to expect she wouldn’t return, and she had left the light burning in Uncle John’s office. A good thing, for a visitor from the past would not have known to press the light switch. A strange orb burned above the Raven’s head, and as he studied it his eyes began to burn and he was forced to look away. His eyesight was so suddenly blasted he clapped his hands over his face in despair of going blind. But this passed as quickly as the vertigo, and again he examined his surroundings, careful this time to avoid looking up. An ugly desk, and equally hideous case of some sort of metal stood in one corner, and a mirror hung on the wall.

  He stepped closer and peered into the mirror, then jumped back in alarm. He had seen a much older man. But that matched his sluggishness, and the ache in his knees when he had struggled to stand up. Lydde had said she was fifty-five in the future. He gathered his courage and looked again. Mid-sixties? His hair had receded—his full head of hair, he realized now, had been one of his vanities—and when he placed his hand on his head he felt a large bald spot on the crown. He seemed to have become a scrawny old man, but his stomach protruded and he had burst the first two buttons on his breeches. He sighed and thought, It is only temporary. Besides, I will likely come to the scaffold long before I reach this age.

  Gradually he made his way out of the Mystery Hole and into blinding sunlight. It was full day in the future, and when his eyes had adjusted once again he gaped at the striking mountainscape across the way, the spring-green trees interspersed with bursts of white pink colors and edged with cliffs. Far below was a twist of wild river. Then he looked behind him. There was the blasted landscape Lydde had lamented, the wall of rock and spoil that filled the nearby cove and would have loomed high over the spires of Norchester Cathedral, the flat wasteland barely glimpsed beyond. A sign with oddly uniform letters read:

  NO TRESPASSING

  PROPERTY OF AMERICAN COAL CORP.

  The Raven lacked patience with warnings of no trespass, which recalled the strictures at home of the wealthy who kept the poor from hunting on their vast estates. He walked toward the sign thinking he might tear it down, but stopped, confused by the strange dark path that ran like a border between the Mystery Hole and the desert land. It was smoother than any road he had ever seen and two yellow stripes bright as egg yolks ran down the center. He had just knelt at the edge to examine the sticky black surface when he heard a distant whine like a concentrated wind that grew steadily louder, and then a bright object large as a wagon came hurtling, screaming toward him. He dove for cover, pressing himself in terror against the wall of the Mystery Hole. Before he could take a breath, the terrifying phantasm was gone.

  It was quite a while before he could be calm, and he was embarrassed to find he had wet himself. Not even in the closest calls in his smuggling operations had this ever happened. He retreated into the Mystery Hole where after much poking around he found an odd white ceramic bowl which held water, though he could not imagine how a man could drink from it without standing on his head, it was so low on the ground. He removed his pants and plunged them into the smooth bowl, swishing them around and then trying to wring them out as best he could. The pants clung to him like a clammy second skin when he put them back on. When he encountered someone, he would just have to make up an explanation.

  Back outside, he walked around the road, careful to stay as far as possible from the sticky black path. Soon he saw a small hand-painted sign pointing down over the hill. ROUNDBOTTOM FARM, it said. The road it indicated was smooth dirt like the tracks at home in the dry season. With a sigh of relief, he turned into the more rustic way.

  AUNT La
vinia made tuna sandwiches for lunch, but Lydde never appeared. She had gone off to explore, Lavinia supposed, though she’d assumed Lydde would call if she was going to be away all day. But her niece was a grown woman (middle-aged, Lavinia reminded herself) and was used to being on her own. Perhaps she wouldn’t consider that her aunt might be worried about her.

  Aunt Lavinia turned her attention to what to do for supper. She had a craving for pasta, but John had always cooked the Italian dishes. Carbonara, white and red clam sauces, spaghetti and meatballs. Thinking of the food reminded her how much she missed him and she shook her head as though trying to empty it of painful memories. She would do one of her roasts instead. She placed a piece of sirloin tip in a pot with potatoes, carrots, celery, cabbage, and tomatoes, and left them to cook all afternoon. Perhaps Lydde would make pasta tomorrow night.

  When the pot roast was done, she turned it off to await Lydde’s arrival. Now and then she cast an anxious glance out the front door. A cold morning had given way to a warm spring evening, and she kept the door open with the screen door latched. All was quiet save for the occasional whine of a car engine on the highway above.

  She had just turned on the television to catch the evening news when she heard footsteps on the porch. She flicked the TV off and went to the door, saying, “It’s about time,” when she stopped short. A man stood on the porch, framed by the door.

  Had he been younger, she would have been alarmed. Roundbottom Farm was out of the way and no one came there without a purpose; even Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons missed it. But this was an older man, in his sixties, Aunt Lavinia guessed. A handsome man, with a deeply lined face and an air of quiet dignity. But he was dressed oddly, in old-fashioned clothes that appeared to have been made by hand, and his trousers were dripping wet. A tramp, perhaps. She became frightened again, but noted the screen door was securely latched.