There was no real reason to discuss this any longer. Catherine knew without doubt Anne time traveled at Hampton Court and met Robert Dudley, who gave her a thornless rose. She came back to the present with it, the first proof of her journeying to the past. After Anne vanished for good, Catherine gave the rose to Father Daniel, who sent it to the Vatican for study. When next he called, she would ask him if the results confirmed what she already knew.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, Catherine?”
She shook her head, then remembered herself. “No, Peter. Thank you for returning my call.”
“You have my condolences.”
They said their goodbyes and then she looked out the front window. As far as she could tell, no one waited outside, no one watched her house. The press had moved on, the world immersed in other news, different stories.
But she could not waver in her determination to see this through. Anne must be rescued, and she knew Father Daniel would also fight for this for as long as it took. He would not let her down.
Catherine sat on the sofa, clutching her phone with a desperation that hurt her to the core, hoping he would telephone with something concrete, some real information.
With a grim smile, she realized she didn’t care a fig about the thornless rose or the photograph—only Anne mattered.
Father Daniel, what is taking so long?
Just then, her phone rang, and Catherine heard the computer voice announce, “Call from Daniel Traveler, SOJ.”
She put the phone to her ear. “Father,” she said, “where are you?”
* * *
Daniel took a cab straight from Heathrow to Chelsea. He had a few hours before his Traveler contact could meet him at the portal: time enough to see Catherine and explain what he’d learned.
He’d called ahead to let her know he’d landed, and she was waiting for him at the door when he arrived.
“Please, Father, make no mention of Jonnie’s last message about Anne’s kidnapping and...and all that happened to her afterward.” She swallowed. “My housekeeper, Trudy, has been privy to all else, but not that. I don’t want her to read Jonnie’s words. I wish to shelter her from the pain.”
“I understand,” he said as she showed him inside.
Since her son and daughter-in-law were out for the evening visiting old friends, Daniel had supper with Catherine and Trudy, who served the meal and then joined them at the table. Now that he knew Trudy was privy to Anne’s time travel, he felt comfortable discussing his basic plans for the rescue.
Daniel surveyed the table. A large platter held roasted Cornish game hens, surrounded by baked carrots, Brussels sprouts, potatoes, and mushrooms. Trudy also promised pudding afterward, a trifle made with custard and summer berries. His mouth watered because trifle was his favorite dessert.
Catherine’s terrier was cute but incorrigible, pestering Daniel for food, to no avail. She warned him not to relent and give Duffy anything from the table, since he had a sensitive stomach that could not tolerate scraps. But the little beggar was such a pest Trudy finally banished him to the kitchen, with a good helping of dog food to keep him satiated—and quiet.
While eating the luscious trifle, Daniel began to tell Catherine and Trudy how he would use the Cripplegate portal and then, God willing, attempt to change history.
Catherine nodded soberly and then looked at Trudy, who crossed herself and said, “Aye, ye’re goin’ through the veil t’ save Anne—the veil between two worlds.”
“Just so, Mrs. Leach.” He surveyed his empty dessert plate, his stomach comfortably full. “Ladies, thank you for your hospitality. It was a splendid meal.”
“Yer verra welcome, Father,” Trudy said. “I pray for the safe return of you...and....our dear Anne.” She started to sniffle as she gathered dishes from the table and left for the kitchen.
With a grave frown, Catherine watched her go, then rose. Daniel gave her his arm, and together they walked to the foyer. From somewhere in the house, a clock began to chime. Nine o’clock.
He decided to take a liberty, for he needed to convey to Catherine how much she meant to him now.
With a gentle touch, he kissed her on the cheek. “Mrs. Howard, I will do everything in my power to—”
“I know you will, Father.” She patted his arm. “I dare say I cannot fathom what you must be going through, the courage needed to undertake such a journey. But you are a very strong man. My granddaughter would say go for it. And I know you shall.”
Chapter Twenty
Fore Street, the Barbican, London
In silence, Daniel rode in a cab with Father Edgar Traveler. By the way the priest tapped his fingers on his knee, Daniel suspected he felt a similar nervous energy about time travel. Going back was not for those with faint hearts.
Like Daniel, Edgar was a Jesuit scholar with a Ph.D. in European history. Unlike him, he was at least two decades younger, yet seemingly much older in his bearings, with what Daniel could only describe as a less hip attitude—he wore a traditional long cassock, rather out-of-date leather sandals, and a beard.
Daniel rubbed at his own scruffy face, which was a necessity for time travel, since nearly every man in the sixteenth century wore a beard. He wondered at Father Edgar’s lapse, since hirsute clerics in the modern era were emblematic of the Eastern Orthodox faith, not the Latin.
“Thank you. This will do,” Edgar said as the cab driver eased the sedan into a space in the empty car park adjacent to the church called St. Giles’ Without Cripplegate. He turned to Daniel. “Have you been here before?”
“No, I haven’t. Always meant to visit.”
While Edgar paid the driver, Daniel got out of the cab and studied the church’s tall tower, softly illuminated by architectural lighting. It was faced in brick on the upper half and finished with light stone on the bottom, the red and white of the materials contrasting each other rather nicely.
He’d heard a little about this holy site, recalling its unusual name was a result of its proximity outside of—or “with out”—the Cripple Gate, about which the sick and indigent of London congregated in the Middle Ages. Those days were long gone, of course. The posh glass edifices of the surrounding Barbican district now replaced the old structures, many of which survived until 1940, when they were leveled by the Nazi’s heavy bombing.
Standing here, he reflected upon his astonishing life. How incredible it was to possess the mental awareness of a time traveler, one who could straddle the ages, so to speak, and appreciate where—and when—he’d lived. He felt goose bumps rise as they always did at these moments, but then shook them off. There was still so much to do, and he didn’t want Father Edgar catching him gawking about like a tourist.
The cab pulled away, and Edgar put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “It’s my job to watch this portal. When I got the call from the Vatican about your plans, I reassured them I could open the way for you to pass. It’s not necessarily timed to the chronovisor.”
“Please explain,” Daniel said.
“I can do better. I’ll show you. Come with me.”
Leather kit bag in hand, Daniel followed Edgar across a paved square to the main entrance of the church.
“The church will be vacant tonight,” Edgar said as he unlocked the door. “I’ve made arrangements with the vicar.”
“He’s Anglican, yet he knows about the portal?”
Edgar shook his head. “He’s quite in the dark about it, as are all but our Traveler brethren. The others tend to believe any weird goings-on are the result of old pipes making noises or ghosts and the like. Haunted London, you see.”
They went inside. A scattering of night-time spotlights illuminated the splendid gothic interior. A pump organ stood in front of them, and, beyond that, the nave stretched to the other end, its pillars and ceiling beautifully restored.
Edgar locked the door from the inside. “The vicar and I have known each other since the days when I worked in the office of the Bishop of Westminster and he
worked for the Archbishop of Canterbury. He owed me a favor, hence my cheek at asking for an empty church tonight. I think he had to cancel choir practice.” He gestured to the door of the men’s lavatory. “Please change in there and meet me by the altar.”
After Daniel got dressed in his time traveling clothes, he found Father Edgar near the altar. He stood by a piscina, the stone basin for washing communal vessels. It was eroded and slightly pitted—perhaps by shrapnel?
Edgar took note of his interest. “Dates from the 1200s, I believe. It’s a survivor of the 1940 Blitz.” His gaze roamed over Daniel from top to bottom. “Speaking of survivors, old chap, you look the image of one. The Vat works wonders. Dr. Ferri’s handiwork, I presume?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve used his expertise recently, too. Would you mind waiting for me here whilst I stow your gear in the office for safekeeping? You may pick up your kit from the vicar when you return.”
I pray that I do, Daniel thought as he watched Edgar leave. To pass the time, he leaned in for a closer look at a nearby sedilia, the stone bench where the officiating cleric and his assistants sat during ceremonies. It looked as timeworn as the piscina.
Daniel heard footsteps and turned. To his surprise, Father Edgar wore Tudor clothing. The reference to Ferri’s work suddenly made perfect sense.
“You’re going with me?” Daniel asked.
“Sorry to keep it to myself until now. I was given leave to accompany you—if I desired to go. I thought long and hard about it, and I made the decision today... Actually, just now. Last minute, I know. Pope Francis is a patient and understanding man. He said it was my call, and I have decided to help you. With your permission, of course.”
Daniel possessed no qualms about it. In fact, Edgar’s presence might be extremely helpful, given the dangers found in the sixteenth century.
“I welcome your assistance,” he said as he extended his hand.
Edgar shook it with a firm grip. “I was born in 1532, and when I was in my teens, I time traveled to 1989. My arrival here is a story unto itself, one I shall gladly share with you once your job is done. After that, I’ll send you home, whilst I stay wherever we end up. I pray it is close to my own time.”
Daniel crossed himself. “Yes, may our times coincide.”
“From what Monsignor Tim told me, they might. I was given all the particulars from him about Anne. Whatever happens—and I pray you do save her—I’ll be closer to my time than I’ve been for hundreds of years.” Edgar shrugged. “Happens sometimes, you know. Homesick Travelers. The Holy Father respects our decisions as to whether we go home or stay in the modern era. He gave me leave to follow my own path.”
“May God bless and keep you, Father Edgar.”
He crossed himself. “And you, Father Daniel.”
Daniel looked around. “Where is the portal? How do we access it?”
“It’s beneath our feet in the crypt and off limits to everyone, even scholars, as there are burial remains down there in the tunnels even to this day. Hasn’t been opened in decades, except by me.” Edgar indicated a carpet covering the floor by the altar, then bent down and pulled it aside, revealing a trap door. He unscrewed a brass fitting, then, with a grunt of effort, lifted the door. He retrieved a torch from his pocket and flicked it on, illuminating a steep, stone staircase.
Bits of dust danced on the torch’s beam, cold air wafting from the depths. It smelled dank to Daniel, like a cave, and he shivered despite his heavy cloak. With Edgar in the lead, he started down the stairwell. After twenty steps or so, they reached the bottom.
The torch beam moved to and fro, illuminating the immediate vicinity of the crypt. It consisted of a large rectangular room with tunnels branching off hither and thither, no set pattern to be seen. The walls had been cut from living stone, the chisel marks of the masons still evident. They’d also carved niches in the walls to house the dead, but as far as Daniel could see, the shelves in this area contained no remains.
“This is what we came for.” Edgar moved his beam to the left, revealing a stone sarcophagus. The wall behind it was whole, free of niches, with traces of an ancient fresco still clinging to it. Daniel couldn’t make out who or what the fresco depicted, such was its state of decrepitude.
Daniel followed Tim to the sarcophagus. It was plain, with no designs or inscriptions. It reminded him of an ossuary, an ancient bone box used in the Holy Land in the first century A.D. to house the dead.
“Here, this will help us.” Edgar reached behind the sarcophagus and brought forth a shaft of wood. “Walking stick,” he added as the torch beam played off the dark staff.
What in the world...? Daniel felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. The cane looked like the one given to him by his friend, Bishop Robert Wright, in 1560—the very one Daniel used to open the time travel portal at Westminster Abbey.
Sweet Jesus, how could that be? He moved closer and gaped at the cane. The same burl at the end, the same telltale scars running down the length of the wood.
Gobsmacked, he took a step back. It was a perfect match. But how?
“Bloody hell,” he cursed aloud, which caused Father Edgar to whip around and stare.
“What is it, Father Daniel? What’s wrong?”
“That cane... Where did you get it?”
Edgar glanced at it, perplexed. “This? I’ve always had it. Was my granddad’s. I brought it with me when I time traveled. I’ve kept it hidden here. I used it like the bishop... You know, Bishop Wulfstan had a wooden staff—”
“Wulfstan!” Stunned, Daniel took another step backward. He’d also called upon Bishop Wulfstan when he’d time traveled in Westminster Abbey. First the cane and now Wulfstan? The coincidences seemed beyond belief.
Edgar gestured toward the sarcophagus. “No one knows who’s buried here, but we always thought it was a saint, a holy man or woman who’d send us a miracle. So, why not Wulfstan?”
“That is my cane.” Daniel insisted. He went on to explain the circumstances of his escape from the sixteenth century, covering everything from how Bishop Wright gave it to him at Westminster, to its present location at the Vat, where it was housed along with the clothing Daniel wore when he traveled through time.
Edgar frowned. “How could two of them exist in the same time? A time loop?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Daniel said. “But trying to recreate Wulfstan’s miracle was my idea.”
Edgar’s expression softened. “Begging your pardon, Father, but I believe you’ve forgotten the circumstances of your youth—actually our youth. The mimicking of Bishop Wulfstan’s miracle should not surprise, for it was common enough back in the old days. Today, youngsters fool around with video games and play false guitar like rock stars, but back then we pretended to be Wulfstan and create wondrous miracles with our sticks and other whatnots.”
“It still doesn’t explain how we both possessed the same cane.”
Father Edgar considered this a moment. “Yes, but... How long has it been since you last saw yours?”
Daniel realized it had been many years. “A long time. Several decades.”
“Well, that explains it. They can’t be the same. Memory sometimes plays tricks.”
“My memory is excellent,” Daniel huffed.
Edgar pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. Forgive me, Father, but I think you must be mistaken. Whatever the case may be, let’s turn our thoughts to the task at hand. We still have much to do.”
Daniel decided to give up—shut up was more like it. “Yes, I must be mistaken,” he mumbled.
But he wasn’t.
* * *
It was late, nearly eleven-thirty. Catherine crept up the stairs to the loft, keeping in mind the sleeping household. Things were stored up there, precious things, including Arthur’s possessions. From time to time, she needed to feel close to her late husband, and the only way she could do that was to hold his things.
She realized it was a bit barmy, but she didn’t care what others th
ought. Her friend Poppy understood when she confided this to her after Arthur died, but she passed away a few months after him, the last of her girlhood friends to live to old age. Now, no one was privy to what she did here. Even Trudy didn’t know.
Catherine opened the loft door and walked in. She maneuvered around a scattering of boxes on her way to the coat rack. She already felt at peace. She’d never been comfortable visiting Arthur’s grave, and, besides, it was too difficult for her to travel there now. According to his wishes, he’d been buried next to his aunt and uncle in Cambridge, so far away. She would join him there after she died, but for now...
Catherine reached the coat rack and removed Arthur’s mackintosh from its hanger. She brought it close to her nose and closed her eyes. She could still smell a trace of his cigars, even his aftershave.
Arthur, darling. With a sigh, she envisioned him as he looked when he was young. A tall, dashing man with dark blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. “Arthur, help us. Please, my dearest heart, watch over Father Daniel. He must save our Anne.”
She wrapped herself in the raincoat and rocked back and forth. A warmth enveloped her, giving her hope. After a few moments, she hung up the mac and walked to the loft door.
Just before she shut out the light, she took a long look back, remembering the past. “Goodnight, my love.”
The wind rose outside, the roof above her head gently creaking, as if in answer. This did not frighten her; in fact, it gave her a good feeling, like he was near.
With a gentle smile, she shut the door and headed for bed, convinced that somehow, in some way, Arthur had responded to her—and would help in the quest to save their granddaughter.
* * *
“Blessed God in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Let us pass. Let us go back. Please!” Facing the sarcophagus, Father Edgar brought the cane down on the floor just in front of the stone box, again and again, in the hopes of recreating Bishop Wulfstan’s miracle.
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 14
