Edgar walked swiftly though the square until he stood by a large oak. He removed the walking stick from his belt and stowed it and his torch in a shadowy corner by the wall. Then, he climbed the tree to check the kirkyard. Darkness and light played off rows of headstones, but even though he knew the location of Daniel’s marker from his visit to the grounds in the twenty-first century, the general vicinity of the grave was hidden by shadow. He couldn’t see any indication of a heaped mound of earth, the mark of a fresh grave.
Praying Daniel was as yet alive somewhere in the hospital, he quelled the desire to drop over the wall, go inside, and find him. He guessed the place had guards who’d take any intruder captive or kill him outright. He couldn’t risk the chance of either outcome—prison in these times was horrible, at best, and many died at the hands of jailors or from disease.
Besides, he’d already pressed his luck by leaving the crypt at St. Giles’ and walking unarmed through the city in the middle of the night.
Weariness dogged him, and, stifling a yawn, he went back down the tree and retrieved his gear. Crouching with his back to the wall, he gripped the staff like a weapon, scanned the square, and waited for morning.
* * *
Robert Wright answered the knock at the gate just after six o’ the clock. He felt sluggish this morn, having spent a restless and painful night in his bed. His back hurt mightily, the result of yesterday’s toil when he dug the graves of Daniel Thorpe and that of another, a man who’d died from overexertion in the bucket brigade as he tried to put out the fire at St. Giles’.
Lord have mercy on their souls. He opened the spy-slat. A fellow stood there, tall and grave of face.
“Good morn, sir,” the stranger said. “I seek a friend who may have come here in the past few days. His name is Daniel—”
“Good God, man, come in, come in,” Wright said as he unlocked the gate and opened it. “I’m sorry to behave in so blatant and crass a manner, but the poor fellow... You see, he was terribly stricken when he arrived and—”
He faltered when he spotted the man’s walking stick. Was it his imagination or did it look like the one Daniel had left with him? “How came thee by that stick?” he asked. “Mayhap mine own eyes deceive, but Daniel possessed one that looks much the same. It sits in my chamber at this very moment. How could that be?”
The fellow blanched. “God Almighty, what was I thinking?” he exclaimed, then made to bolt.
“But my good fellow!” Wright said. “I must needs speaketh with thee.” When the man turned back, he decided to tell him the dreadful news here and now, even if it defied all common decency to shout it to the world. “Daniel Thorpe succumbed to lung fever, God rest his soul.”
The man closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.
“We must speak about thy friend,” Wright went on. “His purse contained a great deal of coin, and I know not what to do with it.”
“Use it for the poor.”
Wright nodded. “I thank thee for thy kind permission, and I vow to God I shalt help those in need. I’ve another question for thee as well. ’Tis about a man called Brandon. Dost thou knoweth of whom I speak? Dr. Jonathan Brandon? Daniel told me an impossible thing—that he shalt arrive in 1559. How would he knoweth that?”
The man stood still for a moment, then shook his head and said, “This is madness.”
Wright tried again. “Please, sir, dost thou knoweth this Jonathan Brandon?”
“No,” the man said flatly. He turned on his heel and cried out over his shoulder, “Forget you ever saw me!”
How odd! Stunned, Robert Wright watched the stranger walk to the far side of the square and disappear into an alley. Why had the man reacted with such...fear?
Aye, fear. ’Twas plain as day to mine own eyes. But why was he in such a wretched state?
With a sigh of frustration, he shut the gate. At the very least, he’d gained permission to do charity work with the coin in Daniel’s purse. Still, he could not fathom any reason for the stranger’s agitation. So many things of late bore the mark of lunacy. What to make of Daniel’s prophecies about the man called Brandon, now mingled with the mystery of the walking sticks? He shook his head in confusion.
Suddenly, he wondered if he’d been visited by demons—or was he losing his wits?
Nay, he decided. I’ve seen witless men, and I’ve nothing in common with those poor souls. Despite his many woes, he’d never been one to have flights of fancy or any hint of possession by demons and their devilry.
On the contrary, his demons were of his own making.
He shook his head again, at a loss for an explanation of any of this. Perhaps he would find the answers in time. In the meantime, he’d go have another look at that stick.
* * *
Buzzzzz.
Tim’s mobile phone vibrated on his waist. “Pardon me. I must see who is calling,” he said to Catherine and Trudy.
He looked down. It was Sister Marie Claire.
“Mrs. Howard, forgive me, but I must take this call,” he said.
“Of course,” Catherine said. “Come, Trudy, let’s give the monsignor some privacy.”
He waited until the women left the library and then checked his phone again. The call had gone to messages. Not wishing for a delay, he redialed.
“Hello?” Marie said.
“Hello, what’s happened?” Tim asked.
“Father Edgar got to Windsor and left a letter for us.”
Tim’s stomach clenched. “What about Daniel?”
“Edgar did not reach him in time.” Marie’s voice sounded low, fragile. “May God have mercy on Daniel’s soul.”
Tim closed his eyes and prayed for his friend.
She added, “I’m sending you an email with Edgar’s message in its entirety. It’s about his plans. He talks about Anne Brandon.”
“Thank you, Sister Marie. God bless you.”
“God bless you, too. Good night.”
He rose, went to the door, and called for the women. This information was for them, too. Things had changed, and, as far as he was concerned, the Vatican’s secrecy rules no longer applied. As head of the Travelers, it was his call to make anyhow.
Within a minute, the three sat before his phone. He read Father Edgar’s message aloud.
I was too late. Daniel died before I arrived. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.
It took me two years before I could manage a trip to Windsor and leave this message for you. I decided to change my plans and stay in Smithfield. I must wait for the right time for the rescue. God grant I live long enough to accomplish my mission. Pray for me. If this works, I will attempt to bring Anne and her family back to London via St. Giles’.
Edgar Traveler 1547
“Oh Lord, my mind is gone with the shock,” Catherine whispered. “How many years must he wait?”
“It depends on the year he decides to extract them,” Tim answered. “1561 or 1562, I should imagine. About fifteen years from his point of view.”
Trudy crossed herself. “God keep the good father safe and well until such time as he brings our lass back to us.”
“Amen,” Tim said.
PART FOUR
Chapter Twenty-Four
March, 1562, Smithfield, London
The bitter-cold day held but a trace of blue sky and sunshine, the cloud cover increasing as the afternoon wore on.
Edgar trudged toward the town square. A chill wind bit at the exposed skin on his face, and he pulled his cloak tightly about him. He moved on toward his simple home and its warm brazier, hoping winter’s fury would soon end. Spring couldn’t get here fast enough.
As he walked, his thoughts roamed back through the years spent in the sixteenth century, which he envisioned as a long slog on a mountainous route toward a looming pinnacle—the ominous date of Anne Brandon’s death. Yet as 1562 approached, he’d felt a quickening of fear. What if he didn’t survive to the end? He needed to keep out of harm’s way, to stay alive.
With God’s help, he’d succeeded thus far with fervent prayer and by living as quietly as possible, surviving on Tudor era coinage he’d brought with him from the twenty-first century. But this victory of endurance came at a price, for recently Edgar found himself experiencing a new and overwhelming turmoil—namely, when should he contact the Brandons?
But for a few of my own suppositions and the information provided by Sister Marie and Dr. Brandon’s letter, I’m flying blind. I must make a decision soon, before it’s too late. But when?
Only once had he dared to travel beyond London, venturing out to Windsor to leave a message for the Watchers. Using Sister Marie’s dates, he’d decided to travel there at the end of January, 1547, the time coinciding with the demise of King Henry VIII.
The cold weather didn’t hamper his journey, and Edgar arrived in Windsor town on the twenty-fifth. Even though he knew the king was to die at Whitehall Palace in three days’ time, the people of Windsor had no clue his death was imminent. For many years, Henry VIII suffered from poor health, and his latest bout with illness apparently hadn’t set off any alarm bells, for the castle was open to visitors, the staff at ease and friendly.
The forged documents provided by the Vatican gave Edgar easy access to the royal archives. After he secreted his message there, he joined a few other patrons and received a private tour of the castle’s state rooms. That evening, a cozy inn in Windsor town added to his cheer—the fire warm, the food and drink hearty. When news of the king’s death finally reached the countryside, Edgar was already on his way back to London.
The journey was a rare respite from his long vigil, his only truly pleasant experience in these many years. The message he’d sent to the future gave a bare minimum of details to help maintain the necessary degree of Vatican secrecy, yet with just enough information to allow the Watchers in the twenty-first century to learn what happened and anticipate the fruition of his plans for Anne. Although he possessed no way of knowing if they found his note, the Watchers excelled at what they did, and the chances were excellent his message was received. He felt satisfaction in knowing he’d done everything possible to prepare for 1562. It was a real accomplishment, one of two—the other being his ongoing quest to remain among the living.
As for his life after the king’s death, he thought back to everything he’d witnessed from within the confines of his quiet existence. There was the crowning of each of Henry VIII’s children in rather swift succession: first, Protestant Edward VI, followed by Catholic Mary I, and these days Protestant Elizabeth I sat on the throne. Closer to home he’d also witnessed Priest Robert Wright’s rehabilitation during Mary’s reign and his subsequent installation as a Catholic bishop, then his precipitous fall from grace when Elizabeth came to power. And finally, there was Jonathan Brandon’s arrival at St. Bart’s in 1559, followed not long after by that of Anne Howard in 1560. What a long and weary road.
Now, at last, his work would begin in earnest.
After Bishop Wright’s death, obstacles no longer stood in Edgar’s way regarding his becoming a parishioner at St. Bart’s. With Wright gone, no one could possibly identify him or guess his history as a Traveler, and he could watch things from the inside. By then, Brandon and Anne were married, and in May of 1561, they became parents for the first time.
To Edgar’s mind, that moment stood at the crux of his plans, the destiny of Anne’s family of paramount importance. He dared not approach her with his devastating information before the child was born, or even soon afterward, because he didn’t want to jeopardize the health of mother or daughter in any way. He knew Anne would be frightened by the news of her own impending murder. How often did one learn such a thing by way of a stranger claiming to know the historical record?
Only a Traveler would have a chance of that happening, he thought grimly, his mind barely comprehending the twisty turnings of time.
But now, it was March of 1562. By all accounts, the Brandons’ little girl thrived. And in September of this very year, the doctor’s message indicated Anne’s life would be ended in a most brutal manner.
Not if I have any say in the matter.
The moment of reckoning approached. Edgar knew he must act soon, before things got too close to the actual event. If he missed the rescue, he could think of no way of going either backward or forward in time to fix things.
I have hewed to purpose and waited these many years so that I might help Anne. He gritted his teeth and trudged on. Yes, my plan is good. It will work.
Just then, a great gust of wind hit him full force, nearly knocking him off balance. Had the Lord rebuffed him for his hubris? Edgar reminded himself he must not second-guess God or think for one minute he could change Divine Will.
Lord, forgive me, he humbly prayed. Help me in my quest to save a good woman from a terrible fate. And as in all things, Thy Will be done.
Chastened, he bent into the wind and walked the formidable path toward the future.
“Good day, Mr. Mullins!”
Edgar glanced up at Widow Dexter, strolling but a stone’s throw away and waving vigorously.
As she neared, he could not help but admire her sunny disposition—she of the rosy cheeks and winsome smile. There were those in the parish who suggested Edgar court her, but he’d refused their good-natured nudges and hints. He was a priest, after all, albeit a secret one in this life. He would never disavow his calling.
Forcing a smile, he said hello—not too friendly, but not overly distant, either, and then moved on.
“What ho! Edgar Mullins!” called a gruff voice.
He turned and spotted a man pulling a handcart, then waited as Bill Black, the charcoal man, came to his side. With a tip of his cap, Bill asked if he needed anything for his brazier, and Edgar set up a delivery for later on in the week.
Once that was done, Edgar hurried toward home, for the wind had not let up, and he felt cold and hungry. Almost there, he thought as he passed the entrance to St. Bart’s. His flat lay just a bit beyond the square on a quiet side street. It was cramped by modern standards, but the woman who ran the boarding house was a stickler for cleanliness, which suited him just fine.
He glanced at the priory walls and tower gate, then said a swift prayer for Anne and her family. He’d heard via local gossip they’d just returned from a visit far away and to the north of here. Some said they’d journeyed at the behest of the queen, for Sir Jonathan Brandon, physician extraordinaire, had risen far indeed.
But Edgar had no doubt the doctor would leave everything behind once he heard the news of his wife’s impending death.
Suddenly, Edgar spotted a man peering at the gate to St. Bart’s, crouching and partially hidden by a cart heaped with hay.
Every hair on his body stood on end. What is he doing?
Deeply suspicious, Edgar kept his gaze front and center and walked straight past the stranger. Once he neared his own street, he backtracked and fell into the shadows, watching the mysterious man who watched the gate.
He shuddered, enveloped with a weird, unsettling dread. He’d learned, with good cause, to trust his instincts while here.
Who is he? Why is he hiding? And why the interest in the hospital?
After a minute more, the stranger gave up and hurried away with a deft, almost animal-like quickness. Edgar fought his instincts to go home to safety and warmth. Instead, he followed warily, shadowing the man as they left Smithfield and headed into unfamiliar neighborhoods, whose streets twisted and turned with no coherent direction. The only landmark Edgar consistently recognized was St. Paul’s, the church still in ruins after the lightning strike of 1561.
While he kept pace with his quarry, the wind calmed and the air grew damp, allowing fog to thicken. This, coupled with impending dusk, made it seem as if the man—and their very surroundings—faded in and out of view. Edgar almost lost him once, but the fellow’s footsteps echoed off the cobblestones, and he was able to stay on his tail. Edgar walked as softly as possible, the advantage his becau
se he was the hunter, not the hunted.
Still, the pursuit seemed to go on and on. Worried, Edgar recalled he already felt worn down and cold when this started. How much longer will this take? Is this a wild goose chase?
No. Move it, old chap! he told himself. You must listen to your instincts and follow.
In the gathering dark, Edgar stayed close enough to continually hear the man’s progress, but as far back as possible to avoid detection. Then, unexpectedly, the footsteps ended and Edgar ground to a halt. Heart thumping, he held his breath and waited. The fog did its job well enough, though, and he heard the man give a loud huff and then set off once more.
When the air cleared enough to see what was up ahead—and in turn to be seen himself—Edgar leapt into an alley, then peeked around the corner. He could make out the stranger as he walked toward a multi-storied building and then halted before its front door.
His quarry knocked, and the door squeaked open. The man spoke to someone in whispers before heading inside.
What to do? Before Edgar could decide, he heard another squeak from the door. Out came a woman with a glowing taper, which she used to light the sign hanging above the doorway. Edgar couldn’t see the lettering, so when she went back inside, he took a chance and inched out of the alley until he could read.
The Fighting Cock.
What is this place? The breeze came up again, whirling and thinning the fog, and he caught the reek of the Thames. The moon poked through, allowing him to make out his surroundings. To his right, the tall masts of ships loomed dockside; to his left, the road stretched toward a cluster of wattle and daub buildings, the signs above the doorways already lit, but too far away to read. Beyond the buildings, the fog still swirled, yet he glimpsed high walls, a huge and unmistakable fortress—the Tower of London.
The door of The Fighting Cock suddenly burst open. “Out, I say!” a woman shouted.
Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3) Page 18
