Daniel smiled back.
“Yep, I’m certain you’ll be able to help us figure this out,” Marie added. “The brandy’s on me if you do.”
* * *
Catherine wrung her hands as she sat by the phone waiting to hear from Father Daniel at the Vatican. What was taking so long?
Trudy bustled into the study and clucked her tongue. “I dinna think ye’d be up and about yet,” she grumbled. “Why aren’t ye in bed?”
“For heaven’s sake, I slept the afternoon away. It’s nearly four. I can’t believe he hasn’t called us, Trudy. He left this morning, I know, but it’s been hours without any word.”
The housekeeper’s gaze softened. “There, there, dear. Let’s have tea, and then we’ll sit together and wait. Ye need t’ preserve yer strength. Will ye be wantin’ some of that lovely Victoria sponge cake with the tea? I’ve still got a wee bit in the fridge.”
Catherine looked at her phone and then willed herself to calm. The effort to forget, even if just for the moment, was difficult but necessary. “Yes. A cuppa and cake, please.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. She mustn’t let go and lose it, as Anne would say.
The thought of her darling granddaughter’s fate filled her with anguish—and a fierce determination. She must stay strong for her. She must not give in to doubt.
Anne must be rescued.
Fortitude. Optimism. Catherine had always possessed both. She recalled the war years, when she—and all of England—hoped and prayed for victory against the Nazis, no matter how elusive it seemed.
Yes, she told herself. Carry on.
* * *
After finishing his tea, Daniel took a chair next to Sister Marie and faced the chronovisor.
She clicked the remote, unfreezing the smithies, then hit another button. “They’ll record without me. Here, let’s see what you think of this.”
A wavy image appeared, then stabilized. Daniel studied a floor checkered with black and white glazed tiles. Based on what he’d seen of other chronovisor holographs, the angle of this transmission was a mite unusual.
Marie huffed. “I know what you’re thinking. Maddening, eh? Mostly looking down. Happens sometimes. The pattern of the floor tiles indicates the Tudor era. Based on a recent archeological find, it’s the floor of an old royal chapel.”
“Does it ever lift up to reveal the room?” Daniel asked.
She shook her head. “No, but the tiles are a perfect match with one location. We are certain the footage comes from the Palace of Placentia.”
“In Greenwich?”
“Yep,” Marie said. “In 2006, an excavation in the car park revealed the remains of the lost Chapel Royal, the floor mostly intact. Let me fast forward.”
Tiles streamed past in a blur. But when the image changed to a swirl of emerald-green, Marie stopped it. She backtracked a little until Daniel stared at the folds of a long skirt of watered silk. Another figure moved into view, her skirt different from the green one in that it was made of crimson brocade and split in front, the inner fabric ivory embroidered with golden thread. Daniel was not an expert in women’s fashions from Tudor or Elizabethan times, but he recognized the style: a farthingale.
“Now this is rather interesting,” Marie said. “There are no accounts of anyone wearing a Spanish farthingale in England before 1545. And golden thread was extremely expensive and a mark of royalty. In 1545, a farthingale with golden thread work was recorded in the royal tailor’s account for the clothing of Henry VIII’s daughter, Princess Elizabeth.”
“So, chances are this dates from 1545 or afterward?”
“It would appear so, although we can never be one hundred percent certain,” Marie said. “This footage showed up two days ago. It might be very close to the time you need to visit. The portals have been known to open in sync with the period revealed by chronovisor footage. Mind you, it isn’t always so, and time travel continues to be inexact and risky if the Traveler is bent on seeking a particular moment in time. However, given the nature of your mission, I would venture to say this is a chance worth taking.”
“It’s all in the hands of God.”
“Indeed.” She crossed herself. “As you know, the church of St. Giles’ Without Cripplegate has a portal used by the Travelers from time to time. It’s the closest one to Greenwich.”
Daniel realized the plan seemed to be coming together nicely. “Brandon and Anne live in Smithfield at St. Bartholomew’s, not that far away from the church of St. Giles’.”
Marie smiled. “That’s jolly good news, because the St. Giles’ portal’s what we call a twofer, in that it goes both ways, to the past and back to our time. The close proximity of St. Giles’ to Smithfield should help you, since each time that portal opens it seems to close off rather quickly—in less than a week, by our reckoning—which must be taken into account if a Traveler plans to journey very far to accomplish his goals. You must finish swiftly, taking no more than six days, if you wish to get back here.”
Nodding, Daniel rubbed his stubbly chin and realized he needed to get back to England to be ready, in case the portal opened.
Sister Marie put her tea cup down, then tipped her head toward the door. “I realize you’ve only just arrived, but if I were you, I’d return to London straightaway. The brandy will have to wait, eh?”
Chapter Eighteen
The world grew cold and still around her.
With trembling hands, Catherine held the Elizabethan era letter preserved in a double-sided glass frame. For the past few minutes, she’d read and re-read Jonnie’s newest message, his anguished, desperate words, until she felt such a state of helplessness she could not imagine what her next move would be. Her emotions teetered on the brink of raging grief, even madness, and she swallowed hard against the terrible ache rising in her throat.
Think, she told herself. You must not give in. You must figure out what to do.
Closing her eyes, she listened to the ticking of the clock, the only sound in the room and, perhaps, the entire house. She was alone for now, Richard and Joan having taken Duffy out for a much needed walk, Trudy off to the grocer’s.
Catherine gathered her courage and read the message once again.
October 1562
Catherine!
I don’t know how to tell you this. I can barely think. Devastating news. One month ago my darling Anne was kidnapped, brutalized, and murdered, before being dumped at our doorstep…
She shuddered as her gaze skipped down to the bottom of the letter.
Please, Catherine, I beg you to FIND A WAY TO UNDO THIS!
Jonnie
Tears rolled down her cheeks and plopped onto the glass covering the letter. She turned the frame over and stared at Jonnie’s WWII military photograph, his handsome smile. Then she imagined his expression twisted, stricken with grief.
Oh my Lord, Jonnie…Anne. Oh ANNE!
She lowered her head into her hands and wept uncontrollably. Then, after uncountable, wretched minutes, she reached for her phone and placed a call to Father Daniel at the Vatican.
He needed to be informed about the new information from Jonnie.
* * *
Daniel exited the lift and re-entered the grand foyer of the Vat. He reached for his mobile phone to let Tim know he planned to catch the next flight back to England.
It chimed at that instant.
“Pronto?” Daniel asked.
“Fa-Father.”
He could barely hear a woman’s voice, mingled as it was with the sounds of weeping.
“I’ve... I learned something, Father... The date of Anne’s kidnapping and the name of the man who...murdered her.”
Daniel stopped in his tracks. “Mrs. Howard?”
“Yes, Father,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, fragile.
“Are you with someone now? Are you all right? And...how could you know that?”
She heaved a sigh. “It’s in the letter. There’s a new note from Jonnie. Let me read it to you.”
“Mrs.
Howard, I fear this is too much.”
“No, please let me do this.” Catherine paused for a moment and then read the message to Daniel.
My God! he thought in horror when she finished. “I have no words,” he said, struck hard by the savagery of Anne’s torture and murder. The inscription in the brass floor memorial had not prepared him for the horrible intensity of Dr. Brandon’s letter.
“Father, I Googled this particular duke of Norfolk,” Catherine added, her voice sounding a bit stronger now. “He has a ruthless look.”
Daniel searched his memory, but recalled little about the duke, only that he was related to Queen Elizabeth I and was outwardly Protestant, but may have had secret Catholic leanings. That was something Brother Daniel—his younger self in the other life—needed to know for survival during the Protestant Inquisition, when he’d hidden in what was called a priest hole to avoid a fate like that suffered by Anne.
With fresh resolve, Daniel prayed for a new path, a way to save her after he traveled through time. And he realized things had changed because of Brandon’s message. “I do believe this will assist us immensely. The doctor gave us essential information.”
There was a moment of silence, then Catherine said, “Thank you, Father. I needed to hear that. I want to help. I...I must do something.”
“And you have. Rest assured, I believe this will be critical to Anne’s rescue. I shall telephone you soon with additional information about my plans.”
“Yes, Father. I hear my son calling for me. I have to go.”
After they said their goodbyes, Daniel phoned Tim.
“Hello, Dan. Good timing. My meetin’ with the Holy Father just ended. He gave permission for your time travel.”
Daniel took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Speaking of which, I must request another meeting with you as soon as possible. I want to get on the next flight to London.”
“Really? What’s happened?”
“There’s been a startling new development, maybe two. I’ve got a date and location for Anne’s kidnapping, and we just might have the identity of her murderer.”
Tim whistled. “How in the world...?”
Daniel gave a quick explanation of Brandon’s letter and what Sister Marie told him about the portal at Greenwich. “The odds are good we have a connection between the chronovisor footage and a portal opening.”
“Well, you should be leavin’ sooner than later,” Tim agreed. “But before you go, come and meet me upstairs in the restoration wing. Room B.”
“Straightaway.” Daniel hung up and headed for the staircase. He climbed the steps two at a time and entered Room B to find Tim already there, speaking with an expert whom Daniel knew quite well, Dr. Francesco Ferri. Ferri was one of the Vat’s pre-eminent art historians, specializing in costumes and fabric. For Travelers planning to journey to other time periods, Ferri was the go-to man for clothing and gear that looked authentic.
Daniel shook hands with Dr. Ferri and then spotted a clothing kit set out on a nearby table. “For me?”
“Yes, we already gathered what we could in case you got the go-ahead,” Tim said. “Pretty standard stuff here. You’ll be set for any kind of fierce damp or cold, in case you end up back there in winter. And you’re goin’ as a commoner, not as a priest.”
Daniel nodded, knowing that travel to Protestant Reformation times was dangerous even in the best of circumstances. If he wore priestly garb, he would without doubt face imprisonment, torture, and, most likely, a painful death.
He examined the clothes, which included a well-made linen shirt, doublet, hose, sturdy leather boots, long cloak, and a felt hat with a brim. He touched the fabric of the cloak. Wool. Not the tightest weave, but good, durable, the kind a fairly prosperous person would wear on a journey.
And what was the word? Inexact? Generic? Garments that could not be tied to any particular decade, just to some time in the early to mid-sixteenth century.
“I pray everything fits,” Dr. Ferri said. “If we had more time, we could make adjustments. We have a tailor on call.”
“I’m certain it will be fine.” Daniel took the clothing and hurried to the nearest lavatory to change. Everything fit well except for the hat, which was too small for his head.
He stood for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror. Dim memories of his paternal grandfather surfaced—the only grandparent he’d ever known—and he wondered if this was because of a resemblance between them. He didn’t really have a clue. The man died when Daniel was a child, almost five hundred years ago.
After changing back to his own clothes, he returned to the restoration room. Dr. Ferri got him another hat, this one with a wider brim, even better for inclement weather. Daniel put it on. Perfect fit. Tim also gave him a money belt filled with coins circa the reigns of Henry VII and VIII.
“They’re replicas, mind you, but no one there will ever be able to detect that,” Tim noted as Ferri tucked the belt into a travel bag. “There’s nothing in the kit from your past. We thought it wise to leave the lot of ’em here, but it is, of course, wholly up to you as to your own possessions. Even though they’re at the Vat for safekeeping, they’re yours for the taking.”
“Not to worry. Haven’t seen any of that stuff for decades, and I don’t plan to use it now,” Daniel said of his monk’s habit, heavy cloak, and wooden cane. Time travelers as a rule did not take any of their own historical, personal things back to the past, mostly to avoid conundrums. The fewer entanglements when journeying, the better.
“This all looks spot on,” Daniel added. He glanced around. “Any papers for me?”
“Of course.” Dr. Ferri went to another desk and retrieved a leather pouch. He opened it and spread several handwritten documents before Daniel. “We have the standard ones plus one we made up just now, specifically for you. We took a liberty, and I hope you don’t mind. We used your birth name, Daniel Thorpe.”
“Brilliant. Thank you.” Daniel scanned the lot and was especially impressed with a letter signed with an artful flourish and affixed with a crimson wax seal. Must be the special one made for him. He read more of the document, which was purported to be from a notary in the seaside port of Rye, England. It gave Daniel permission to enter the country for the express purpose of traveling for pleasure.
He read the sentence again. “Pleasure? Wasn’t that a mite unusual in those days?”
Dr. Ferri shrugged. “Perhaps, but there were such journeys—1590s, Paul Hentzner’s comes to mind. The man penned a journal about his travels in England. He visited many of the same places tourists see today, like Westminster and Windsor Castle. We used the idea of the notary in Rye based on Hentzner’s actual recorded experiences there.”
Tim added, “It’s the simplest explanation of why you’re travelin’. Tell anyone who asks you’ve no merchandise to sell nor business to attend to, just a desire to see the land of your birth. If any should ask, tell them where you were born. Keep things as close to the actual facts about your own history as possible.”
Ferri nodded. “I would suggest you also tell them you have been somewhere—Amsterdam or Venice will do—depending on if you wish to be known as a Protestant or Catholic.”
Daniel placed the documents back into the leather case. “I’m in your debt, gentlemen,” he said. He turned to his old friend. “Pray for me, Tim.”
“Indeed, I will. Now off with you to the infirmary to get your inoculations up to snuff. Standard operations, you know. I told them to include a broad spectrum antibiotic, just in case—but please be careful.”
“Right,” Daniel said as he turned to leave.
Tim stopped him with a bear hug. “May the wind be at your back, Danny boy. Now off with you, and God speed.”
Chapter Nineteen
Chelsea, London
Catherine sat in her lounge, weighted down by grief. Despite her resolve to keep her anguish about Anne private and under control, the new message from Jonnie overwhelmed her. Even Trudy did not know about it,
for the news was terrible beyond belief. Catherine took great care to hide the letter in the library, using a locked drawer in her late husband’s desk. Only she had the key.
She wiped her tears with a tissue, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, determined to rise above her pain.
Catherine heard her mobile phone chime from somewhere in the house. She started to get up, but Trudy bustled into the lounge, phone in hand. “For you, Mrs. Howard. Peter Blakely from Kew Gardens. And, just a reminder, dear. I’m off t’ shop.”
Nodding, Catherine took the phone from Trudy, then watched as the housekeeper headed out. She heard the front door open and shut, then said, “Yes, Peter. How good of you to call.”
He gave his condolences about Anne, explaining he’d read an article in the paper about her disappearance.
“Thank you.” Catherine heard the tremor in her voice. She decided to switch the subject and do a bit of complaining, to chase away her demons. “At least the press abandoned the constant watch on my home. No one ever found any footage of her...er, accident from webcams and the like, and without visuals people got bored.” She realized she sounded cynical, but decided to repeat the new theory being spread about the disappearance. “Did you hear? Now they are saying Anne fell from Bankside and drowned in the Thames.”
“Oh, no. I hadn’t heard that. I’m so sorry. I truly cannot imagine the depths of your anguish.” Peter hesitated, then added softly, “How might I be of assistance, Catherine?”
“I wanted you to take a look at a rose Anne found, but... You see, I gave it to someone else to examine. It’s a thornless rose, and what’s puzzling is that we heard they don’t exist anymore.”
“That’s not true,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “There are several strains of thornless roses in existence. I must double-check our database, but I believe we have a variety or two growing here at Kew.”
“Then why in the world would the tour guide at Hampton Court say it no longer exists?”
“Ah, yes...I see. If you’re referring to the Queen Katherine Howard variety, then the guide told the truth. Did someone say you possessed an example? If so, they were mistaken. Queen Katherine’s rose is long gone. One of Henry VIII’s gardeners developed it, but the strain did not thrive. I do believe it’s been extinct since the latter part of the sixteenth century.”
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 13
