Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3)

by Morgan O'Neill

  She stopped in front of the lift’s door, pushed the button for the lowest level, and waited for it to rise from level three. Despite what she knew scientifically, old habits prevailed, and she found herself glancing at her mobile phone once again. Nothing new there. No notifications in the Vat’s secret archive of Traveler letters, no discernable contact in any of the message books hidden around the world. All Daniel needed to do was leave a note inside one, and the Watchers would find it.

  Lord protect you, Father Dan. Please get in touch with us soon.

  She crossed herself and prayed to God for mercy, then rode the lift down. After she exited, she got her iris scan. Still feeling twitchy and nervous, the wait seemed interminable before the door clicked and opened. She hurried inside. Another Watcher, Sister Cecile, sat at the chronovisor, while a technician fiddled with the new VM equipment. Cecile rose and, after they exchanged pleasantries, exited, her shift over.

  The door clicked shut, and Marie turned to the technician.

  “Sister, you will be the first to use the visual microphone,” he said. “It is a complicated device, but as we described in the workshop the part you will handle consists of a simple headset with an earpiece, nothing more.”

  As if I couldn’t deal with some technicalities, she thought.

  Forcing patience, she listened as he reminded her how to adjust the headset, then insisted she contact him immediately if she had any trouble with it during her session.

  After he left, Marie looked at the earpiece and hesitated, not because of any perceived complexity, but in consideration of the unknown. What would she ascertain today? Would the VM reveal something awful?

  No, don't think that way, she chided herself. Maybe everything will work out.

  Besides, all could be well on Daniel’s end. Maybe he never got the opportunity to leave a message. The nearest secret book station was at the Royal Archives at Windsor. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to journey from London to the library, given the difficulties inherent in traveling during the sixteenth century. Or, if he did manage to reach Windsor, he’d found the monarch in residence, with the castle—and its library—closed to visitors. There were so many reasons Father Dan might not have left any word. Maybe, God willing, he would make it there in time, and they would find a note explaining what happened.

  Okay, no more delays. Sitting before the chronovisor, she adjusted the earpiece that would provide a streaming translation of the vibrational sounds.

  Marie held her breath as she brought up the footage of the checkered floor. Immediately, she heard a chorus of male voices singing a cappella. Sound! Oh, how beautiful!

  Thrilled, she listened to the angelic song, which she recognized as a madrigal. She mulled over the words Il bianco e dolce cigno. The white and gentle swan? She searched her memory, but couldn’t recall the particulars about this piece.

  She paused the footage, rose, and went over to the computer station, where she Googled the pertinent information. She read.

  Jacques Arcadelt’s (c. 1505-1568) ll bianco e dolce cigno (The White and Gentle Swan), one of the more famous Italian madrigals of the mid-sixteenth century, first published in Venice in 1539.

  She stared at the date, thinking. The chronovisor footage came from a chapel. Madrigals were secular works, not sacred. What year could this have taken place? Definitely 1539 or afterward.

  She considered things a bit more. The date might not be that far off from what Father Dan needed, since the song was popular for decades, well into the latter part of the century.

  But... Who would perform an Italian madrigal in the Royal Chapel at Greenwich?

  She felt her stomach churn, her worries about Daniel resurfacing. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t shake the feeling.

  She got up and grabbed some Rolaids from the tea cart. Chewing, she stared hard at the frozen scene of those damned floor tiles and wondered what the song meant, if anything. Maybe a madrigal was just that—a madrigal. No hidden meanings, no deep mystery.

  She sat before the chronovisor again and hit the play button. The chorus sang on in gorgeous harmony. Listening to the soothing music, she tried to rise above her fears but couldn’t move past the tremor of warning in her bones. When the song finally ended, someone coughed and then she heard the clapping of hands. In a royal chapel? This is getting weirder by the moment.

  After the room quieted, footsteps echoed off the floor tiles, and the skirts made of green silk and crimson brocade whirled into view.

  A woman laughed. “Sire, forgive mine own impertinence, but I must give thanks to thee for such marvelous glad tidings and a most excellent song—and in church, no less!”

  Marie stared transfixed. A voice from the past—and a bold one at that. Who is she?

  “What ho!” a man called out. “Ah, methinks I had little to do with it beyond the giving of my permission, Lady Latimer. ’Tis a most marvelous location for hearing music and song, mayhap in the entire realm. I have heard it said angels possesseth no corporeal bodies and do not breathe. They sing forever in the heavenly choir, on and on without breath, rest, or sustenance. Listen well to these fine fellows, for in doing so thou shalt glimpse that which rests beyond the Pearly Gates.”

  Marie noticed the ripple in the brocade of the farthingale, then heard a girlish giggle.

  “Father, perhaps we should pray,” the girl said, “lest our audacious conduct on this day send us straight to hell.”

  “Aye, Mary dear.”

  Marie gasped. The man sounded mature, but the ladies’ voices were light, strong, and lively, resplendent with the joy and daring of youth. Who was...? Sire? Lady Latimer? Mary?

  She moved to the computer again and Googled Lady Latimer England sixteenth century. To her surprise, the name Catherine Parr came up. The woman would become Henry VIII’s sixth and last wife.

  Marie skimmed several entries about her, before settling on a Wikipedia biography. She studied a full length portrait which had been wrongly attributed to Lady Jane Grey, but recently re-identified as being that of Queen Catherine Parr. The painting had been completed after she wed Henry in 1543. She was young, in her early to mid-thirties at most, and quite pretty.

  She read on.

  ...Catherine Parr took the opportunity to renew her friendship with Henry VIII’s eldest daughter, Mary. By 16 February 1543, Catherine had established herself as part of Mary's household, and it was there that she caught the attention of the king... Biographers have described Catherine Parr as strong-willed and outspoken, physically desirable, susceptible (like Queen Elizabeth I) to roguish charm, and even willing to resort to obscene language if the occasion suited...

  Reeling, Marie stared out, her gaze unfocused. I just heard an interaction between King Henry VIII, Catherine Parr, and Princess Mary!

  Then her heart fell, for she knew—Lord, she knew—what this meant for Daniel.

  * * *

  “Monsignor?”

  Tim looked up from his morning newspaper and smiled at his priest-secretary. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Father Edgar Traveler to see you.”

  Tim glanced at the clock on his desk. Only a little after eight. An early—and unscheduled—visit. Curious, Tim rose as the English priest entered the room.

  “You must have caught a very early flight,” he said as he shook Edgar’s hand.

  “Yes. Thank you for seeing me, Monsignor. My apologies for coming here without an appointment, but I have urgent news, and I needed to speak to you immediately and in person.” He hesitated, then added, “Father Daniel went alone.”

  Tim frowned. “But... Wasn’t that always the plan?”

  “No, I was given leave to accompany him, but he grabbed the cane first and disappeared before I could react.”

  Tim wondered why he hadn’t been told about Father Edgar’s role in this. He indicated a chair. “Would you like some refreshment?” Without giving him time to answer, he called his secretary and gave an order for tea and breakfast.

  As th
ey waited, Edgar described how he’d been indecisive regarding time travel, which probably explained why no one told Tim about the possibility Edgar might accompany Daniel. Still, the lack of information was a breach in policy, and Tim wondered at the lapse, vowing to investigate as soon as Edgar left.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Tim was pleased to see his secretary managed to include scrambled eggs, sausage links, and wheat toast with the tea.

  Tim motioned toward the food. “Please, feel free, Father Edgar.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor. I caught the red eye and haven’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.”

  Tim smiled. “Dig in, then.”

  While they ate, Edgar described what happened in the crypt at St. Giles’. It was an interesting account, but nothing unusual until he described Daniel’s assertion that his own wooden staff was a perfect match to the one Edgar possessed.

  “So, you’re tellin’ me they’re one and the same?” Tim asked.

  “I’m not certain, Monsignor. You see, Father Dan told me he hadn’t seen his staff in decades, so I assumed he was mistaken about the match. I’m also quite concerned about the lack of information from him. I heard the Watchers haven’t received any word about his whereabouts. If something untoward happened to him, I could travel back and mount a rescue, but I believe I’d need his staff to do that, since both he and I used them for time travel. With your permission, I would very much like to examine the one he left here at the Vat.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Just then, Tim’s mobile phone chimed. “Pardon me,” he told Edgar, then answered, “Flannigan.”

  “Sister Marie here. I must request a meeting with you as soon as possible. I believe Father Dan went to the wrong time. In fact, I’m quite certain of it.”

  * * *

  As Tim followed Edgar and Sister Marie to the Vat’s storage vaults, she described the new and startling audio details of the Greenwich footage. They arrived to find Dr. Ferri waiting for them by one of the long examination tables, which contained Daniel’s possessions from the year 1560.

  Ferri handed them the obligatory cotton gloves, but Tim was surprised that Father Edgar passed him by and rushed over to the staff.

  “Mother of God!” Edgar crossed himself, then looked at Tim. “It’s the same. An exact match.”

  “What does that mean?” Marie asked.

  Tim frowned. This was getting more bizarre by the minute. “I’m not exactly certain,” he said, “but it might indicate a time loop.”

  “But that would mean this all happened before,” Edgar said. “I can’t quite wrap my head around that or how my staff got into Daniel’s hands.” He looked at Sister Marie. “If you’re right about the time period, Father Dan could be in trouble.”

  The room went cold, as if a fierce ill wind had swept upon them. Tim fought his dread. Think. He must think. They needed a plan.

  Edgar went on, “I was supposed to leave with Father Dan, and I feel a sense of obligation toward him. It’s fortuitous this staff is here, and I’ll be able to use it to travel back and get him out. It would seem there’s a time loop, so perhaps I was always meant to go.”

  Taking a deep breath, Tim forced himself to focus on how to help Danny. Before anything else, he’d have to meet with the Holy Father. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sister Marie interrupted.

  “Monsignor, forgive me,” she said. “I got a little ahead of myself, and I hope you don’t mind that I anticipated someone might need to go back and help Father Dan.” She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “It’s a list of several dates when the monarchs were known to be in places other than Windsor. If Edgar goes, he’ll need to know the best time to plan a visit to the archives there and leave us a message, because the royal householders and librarians won’t allow visitor access if the king or queen is in residence.”

  Both Tim and Edgar leaned close and scanned Marie’s notes. There were entries covering twenty years, from 1542 to 1562.

  Tim’s gaze fixed on one of the uppermost notations, and he read.

  18 July 1545 Portsmouth Harbour. King Henry VIII dined on his flagship Henry Grace a Dieu. Historical accounts of the next hours vary, reporting that the great ship Mary Rose sank that evening or on 19 July. Either way, it is a certainty Henry VIII was not present at Windsor on those dates.

  Nodding, Tim said, “I appreciate your efforts, Sister. I don’t like to make decisions based on guessing. I know you’ve studied this. What did the data tell us about the odds between matching chronovisor footage with the nearest portal?”

  “Statistically?” Marie asked. “There’s a fifty-nine percent success rate.”

  “I dare say those seem rather acceptable odds,” Edgar said.

  Marie shook her head. “Not really. An additional thirty-seven percent of the trips are off by years, even decades. And then there are the Travelers who are never heard from again. About four percent. We have no idea where they ended up. For all we know, they could have gone back to the Stone Age.”

  That gave Tim pause, his instincts once again rearing in fear for Daniel. His emotional side, his Irish nature, continually vied with his resolve to view the realm of the Travelers with an air of scientific detachment. This time the Irish won out.

  For the love of God, where are you, Danny?

  He reached for his mobile phone. He needed to speak to His Holiness as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Stepping from her bath, Sister Marie heard her mobile phone’s ID name the monsignor. She pulled on her robe and hurried to her bedroom. She managed to pick up the call on the sixth ring, right before it went to messages. “Hello?”

  “Tim here.”

  Wait... He always used Flannigan when identifying himself.

  Her heart raced. “What’s wrong? Is Father Dan all right?”

  “It would be better if we spoke about this in person.”

  Oh no! She clutched at her robe in fear. “Please tell me now. What happened to him?”

  Silence. She imagined Tim staring at his phone, wondering what to do.

  “What happened to him?” she repeated.

  Tim cleared his throat. “It’s...the Watchers. Reports have been comin’ in about a fire at St. Giles’, which apparently destroyed the church in September of 1545. It wasn’t in the history books before, but it’s everywhere now.”

  Dear God! Tears filled her eyes. “Did...did Daniel die in the fire?”

  “We don’t know. After Father Edgar arrived at Heathrow, I phoned him with the news about St. Giles’. On a hunch, he took a cab over to St. Bart’s, since he knew it was supposed to be Daniel’s final destination. He found a grave in the kirkyard, an old one.”

  Marie’s throat constricted, and she choked back a sob.

  “Upon the gravestone was written Daniel Thorpe, died 1545.” Tim cleared his throat again. “I’m absolutely devastated. Are...are you all right, Marie?”

  “Oh God, no... I... I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be alone. I could ring up your Mother Superior or one of your Sisters.”

  “No, thank you. I want to be alone.”

  “May the peace of the Lord be with you,” Tim said quietly.

  “And with you.”

  After Marie hung up, she went to her computer and Googled St. Bartholomew’s Burials London. There were pages of entries, along with a compilation of images of headstones found in the churchyard. She began searching the images one by one, going through dozens of photos until she found a rubbing, the artistic rendering done in chalk to bring forth timeworn letters on stone. With a heavy heart, she read.

  Here lieth buried Daniel Thorpe ~ Died September 1545

  The visuals confirmed what she already knew, but the shock of seeing it let loose the floodgates. Oh, my dear friend! May God have mercy on your soul!

  Still in tears, she got her rosary, went down on her knees, and prayed for Daniel. Eventually, she realized her knees ached with a
misery that promised bodily damage if she chose to stay in the position any longer. She cursed her old bones, slowly rose, and hobbled over to the cabinet for some brandy.

  I still need to find out what happened. Grieving but determined, she sat at her computer again and opened a window next to the tombstone image. She Googled St. Giles’ Without Cripplegate. She clicked on the first entry, a Wikipedia article about the church. Scanning it, she spotted a box on the right side of the page and read.

  1545 The xii day of September at iiii of cloke in the mornynge was sent Gylles church at Creppylgatte burnyd, alle hole save the walles, stepull, belles and alle, and how it came God knoweth. The Chronicle of the Grey Friars of London.

  She took a sip of her brandy and welcomed the burn, then reclicked the window with the tombstone rubbing.

  “To a good and brave man,” she whispered, raising her glass to her friend.

  * * *

  Misty-eyed, Father Edgar sipped his merlot. It seemed surreal to be drinking in Italy at Daniel’s wake, when not more than three days ago he’d stood with him at St. Giles’, ready to travel back in time.

  Someone started to sing with an amazing voice, a fine tenor. Edgar listened to the old Irish song.

  “Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,

  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side,

  The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,

  It’s you, it’s you must go and I must bide.

  But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow

  Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow

  It’s I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow