Love in a Mist

by Patricia Grasso

  Many of the passersby paused to stare as they rode past, and Keely felt uncomfortable. She stole a peek at the earl, who appeared unaffected by the curious stares of the commoners. In fact, he seemed oblivious to their very existence.

  “Good health to Midas,” one man shouted.

  Richard flashed the well-wisher a smile and tossed him a coin. “God save the queen.”

  Reaching St. Paul's Cathedral, Richard and Keely turned right onto the Old Change. At the end of that street, they went left onto Thames Street. Keely had no idea where they were going but followed the earl’s lead.

  “Our first destination lies just east of London proper,” Richard told her. “The White Tower is England‘s most famous landmark. ‘Tis a combination palace, garrison, and prison. Because the Tower reminds her of unpleasant days, Elizabeth never keeps court there. Though honoring tradition, she did sleep there the night before her coronation. I was very young at the time, but my parents attended.”

  At the end of Thames Street, the palace of White Tower loomed before them. Richard halted his horse and gazed at it. “My own father stayed in Beauchamp Tower when Bluff King Hal became irked with him.”

  “He lived to repeat the story?” Keely asked. Even the backwoods Welsh had heard horrifying tales of the English monarchy and its fearsome Tower.

  Richard smiled at her ignorance. “Dearest, the Tower has neither dungeon nor torture chamber. Escaping is easy if you possess the coins to bribe the guards or the courage to leap into the Thames.”

  “Your father escaped?”

  Richard shook his head. “My father walked out the door, once Henry’s anger had passed.”

  “What was his crime?”

  “He married my mother without the king’s permission.”

  Riding through the Middle Tower’s gates—the castle’s main entrance—Keely felt a chill of apprehension dance down her spine. “The Conqueror mixed dragon’s blood with the mortar,” she said.

  Richard cast her an amused look. “Dragons do not exist, except in lively imaginations like yours, dearest.”

  Richard dismounted and then assisted Keely, who stayed close to his side. An uneasy feeling of oppression pressed down on her. In spite of what the earl said, Keely knew in her bones that the castle housed restless souls who were doomed for all of eternity. Who among these Christian English had the knowledge and the courage to help those poor lost souls find their way to the other side?

  When two scarlet-clad yeomen rushed forward to attend their horses, Richard tossed each a coin. “We’ll be attending the chapel service,” he said. “We require no escort.”

  An unearthly growl rent the air behind them. Keely panicked and threw herself into the earl’s arms. “Angry spirits haunt this place.”

  Richard chuckled, though his arms did encircle her protectively. The yeomen looked at each other and smiled.

  “’Tis the lions in the Queen’s Menagerie,” Richard said. “We’ll view them on our way out.”

  Taking her hand in his, Richard led her down the passage to the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. “We’ll go in here,” he said, guiding her toward the door.

  Keely did not hear him. Her attention had fixed on a gate a little farther down the passage. “What’s that entrance?”

  “’Tis Traitor’s Gate.”

  Keely shivered. Bleak desolation overwhelmed her senses, and she resisted the earl’s gentle pressure on her hand. “I cannot abide this place of hopelessness. Take me away from here.”

  “Only traitors need fear the Tower,” Richard said, his smile reassuring. Apparently, the Tower’s reputation had reached Wales.

  “Each place has a spirit,” Keely said. “I am more sensitive than you, and the souls trapped within these stone walls cry out to me. Ignorant Englishmen never see beyond the horizon.”

  “Dead is dead,” Richard snapped, becoming irritated. “No one can speak to us from the grave.”

  “How wrong you are, my lord.”

  “Are the Welsh ruled by unreasoning fear?”

  “I am uneasy,” Keely corrected him. “Lead the way. Perhaps I can guide a few of them along the path to the Great Adventure.”

  “Do not start chanting those infernal incantations,” Richard ordered, as they cut through the Lieutenant’s Lodgings to the grassy inner courtyard on the other side of the building. When they emerged from the Lodgings a moment later, he said, “’Tis called Tower Green. That building ahead of us is the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. The chaplain royal celebrates mass each day at eleven.”

  The atmosphere inside Tower Green was eerily hushed. The gray stone walls surrounding the inner courtyard seemed to trap silence inside, and a cool stillness pervaded the air.

  Keely felt like she‘d stepped into another world. The noisy humanity crowding London's narrow lanes seemed a million miles away. A prickly sensation made the wispy strands of ebony at the nape of her neck rise.

  Peering around, Keely saw a dark-haired woman pacing back and forth outside the Lieutenant’s lodgings’ windows.

  “Who’s that?” she whispered, looking up at the earl.

  Richard glanced over his shoulder. “Of whom do you speak?”

  “That wo—” Keely looked over her shoulder. The woman had disappeared inside the Lodgings. “Never mind.”

  Passing the simple cobbled square, Richard debated telling Keely its sordid history but decided against. His betrothed didn’t seem to be enjoying their excursion, and he was beginning to regret taking her there.

  King Henry VII had commissioned the chapel, and it had been built in the early Tudor style. The floor was flagstone, and the pews a polished wood. Diffused sunlight streamed into the sanctuary through the windows and shone on the gleaming brass accoutrements. Above their heads, the ceiling was a rich Spanish chestnut.

  The eleven o’clock hour boomed. Keely jerked to attention and looked around.

  “Relax, dearest. There’s naught to fear,” Richard whispered.

  What in God’s holy name disturbed her? Since they’d ridden into the Middle Tower, Keely had been as nervous as a fledgling warrior in the midst of his first battle. Did her unease have anything to do with her strange religious beliefs? Richard hoped not. At court, Queen Elizabeth required her nobles to accompany her to mass. He could make plausible excuses for his wife once or twice, but every day was simply out of the question.

  As the strokes of the bell ceased, the chaplain swept in. Resplendent in the scarlet robes of a chaplain royal, he nodded at Richard and Keely, who were the lone worshippers in attendance that morning.

  Matins began. The longer it went on, the more agitated Keely grew. Extreme apprehension filled every pore of her being as a heavy melancholy settled on her. The weight of a thousand souls seemed to implore her to help them. Couldn’t the earl feel the unhappiness permeating the air? What about the chaplain? Was she the only one sensitive to the horrors of the past? Keely sat statue-still. Her nerves tingled in a rioting panic. Perspiration beaded her upper lip. Her breathing became shallow gasps.

  Bolting to her feet, Keely tried to get past Richard, but he grabbed her wrist to prevent her flight.

  “Let me go.”

  The chaplain whirled around. He stared in surprise at the frantic noblewoman struggling to escape the Earl of Basildon.

  With a strength born of desperation, Keely shoved Richard and flew past him out of the pew. She ran down the aisle, crashed through the door, and dropped to her knees on the cool damp grass. Keely bent her head and swallowed great gulps of reviving air.

  “Darling, are you ill?” Richard asked, kneeling beside her.

  Keely looked up and recognized the concern etched across his features. She shook her head.

  Richard helped her stand and then drew her into his embrace. “You should have told me you were unwell.”

  Keely leaned against his comforting solidness, the reality of his flesh and blood body easing her panic. She glanced at the chapel and then at the cobbled scaffold. Finally, she
turned her violet-eyed gaze on him and said in a voice that mirrored her misery, “ This is the saddest place in the whole wide world.”

  “I don’t understand,” Richard said, stroking her back in a soothing motion. “I hear mass in the chapel whenever I visit. I never intended to upset you.”

  “Murdered queens lie buried beneath the chapel’s flagstones.” Keely turned in the circle of his arms and pointed toward one of the fortress’s distant towers. “And over there—”

  “Wakefield Tower.”

  “Two murdered princes lie together beneath it.”

  “You cannot know that,” Richard said. “No one knows where Edward Plantagenet’s sons were buried. Their uncle ordered the execution.”

  Keely stared at the Tower. “You are wrong. The Tudor usurper ordered their—”

  Richard snaked his hand out and covered her mouth to prevent further speech. Keely looked into his eyes and recognized the fear he tried to mask with anger.

  “Richard Plantagenet ordered the princes’ execution,” the earl insisted. “Never express a different opinion. The princes disappeared nearly a hundred years ago. Stirring up old controversies can serve no good purpose. Do you understand?”

  Keely nodded. The slaughter of the two young princes had been regicide at its most horrific worst. The Tudor usurper’s granddaughter sat on England’s throne. Labeling the founder of that dynasty a murderer of innocent children would be unappreciated.

  Richard and Keely retraced their steps across the Tower Green. The farther they got from the chapel, the calmer Keely became. Before them stood the Lieutenant’s lodgings.

  “Basildon!”

  Richard turned around and smiled at the middle-aged man crossing the Green toward them. “William Kingston, the Tower constable,” he said. “I’ll return in a moment.” At that, Richard started across the Green toward the man.

  Anxious to be away, Keely started to turn back to the lodgings but stopped short. The woman she’d seen earlier stood no more than three feet away. Spectacularly dressed, the woman wore a black velvet robe over a vivid scarlet kirtle. Her ebony hair had been caught up in a pearl-trimmed headdress. Though regally garbed, the woman wore clothing a shade outdated.

  For some unknown reason, Keely felt compelled to drop her a curtsy. “Good day, my lady.”

  “What do you do here?” the woman asked. Her eyes were black and her expression serious.

  “I came with my betrothed to visit the chapel.”

  The woman flicked a glance across the Green. “He hath red hair like my husband. I’ve a need to speak with my husband about an important matter. Have you seen him?”

  “I don’t know who he is,” Keely answered, “but my betrothed knows many men here. What is his name?”

  “Henry,” the woman answered. Then: “Child, beware the blacksmith.”

  Keely froze. Her mouth opened in surprise at the woman’s warning—almost the same words Megan had spoken on her deathbed.

  “Keely.”

  She whirled around. Richard and the constable advanced on her.

  “Were you praying or merely talking to yourself?” Richard teased.

  “I was speaking to this lady.” Keely looked at the constable and asked, “Please, sir, can you fetch her husband Henry?”

  Both Richard and the constable lost their smiles. “Dearest, you stand alone,” the earl told her.

  Keely turned around. “She was here a moment ago. You must know Henry’s wife. Didn’t you see her talking with me?”

  “Was the lady dressed in black and scarlet?” the constable asked, unable to stop himself from making a protective sign of the cross.

  Keely nodded, relieved the man knew the lady.

  Casting an unhappy glance at the earl, the constable said, “’Tis the ghost of Queen Anne.”

  Richard burst out laughing and slapped the man’s shoulder in easy camaraderie. “Give over, Kingston. Ghosts do not exist.”

  “My father was constable during those tragic times,” Kingston said. “The queen passed her last days in the lodgings. Many have seen her pacing beneath these windows, but she’s never spoken before.”

  “Her soul is caught between two worlds,” Keely said, drawing their attention. “Perhaps if I—” She shut her mouth when the earl frowned at her.

  “I believe we’ll save the Menagerie for another day,” Richard said, guiding her toward the door.

  When they emerged on the other side of the Lodgings, Richard led her down the passage toward the Middle Tower. “Never utter a word about what transpired here today,” he said. “Elizabeth will not thank you for your unsolicited opinions.”

  “How did the queen die?” Keely asked.

  Richard stopped short and looked at her. His gaze mirrored his amazement. “You don’t know?”

  Keely shook her head.

  “Queen Elizabeth’s father, King Henry, ordered her mother beheaded on Tower Green.”

  “Why?”

  “For failing to deliver a son.”

  Keely glanced over her shoulder at the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. “I can guide her to the Great Adventure.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “She’ll never find peace unless—”

  “No.”

  “Very well, I’ll ask Megan to do it,” Keely agreed.

  Richard closed his eyes against her incredible stupidity and wondered why he was still bent on marrying her. Yes, Keely needed his protection and guidance, but it appeared the daft taffy was hell-bent on seeing both the Devereux and the Talbot families axed on the block. “Dearest, your mother is dead,” he reminded her.

  “Megan promised to return on Samhuinn,” Keely told him. “I’ll ask her then.”

  “The dead cannot return to visit this world,” Richard said. When she opened her mouth to argue the point, he added, “Do not answer me. In fact, keep those lips shut until we reach Talbot House.”

  Keely seethed in silence during the long ride through London to the Strand. She had half a mind to end their betrothal. How could she live the remainder of her years beneath the shadow of the earl’s disapproval? Her Druid upbringing told her to let things slide, but the English blood flowing through her veins urged her to slap the arrogance off the earl’s face.

  Reaching the Talbot courtyard, Richard dismounted and turned to help her, but Keely was too fast for him. She leaped off Merlin and shouted, “I had a wonderful time! Thank you for a lovely day!”

  Richard smiled at the disparity between her words and her expression, and yanked her into his arms. “You’re very welcome, dearest.”

  Keely sagged against him, his gentleness depleting her of anger. After all, the earl’s ignorance regarding the afterlife wasn’t really his fault. He’d been bred to live in the Here and Now without giving the Beyond any serious consideration.

  “Why do you insist on marrying me?” Keely asked. “I’m so different from the other ladies of your acquaintance and unwilling to change my ways.”

  “You’re the only woman who ever inspired jealousy in me,” Richard said. “And ’tis most disconcerting to want to challenge a damn tree.”

  Keely giggled. “Pretend you are a noble oak.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Keely lifted both of his arms until they stretched out straight in the air on either side of his body. “Behold, your branches.”

  Richard cocked a copper brow at her. “What do I do now?”

  “Nothing.” Keely stepped close and pressed her body against his. She wrapped her arms around his body, stood on tiptoes and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. Before his arms could trap her against his masculine frame, Keely turned and disappeared inside the house.

  Your maidenly days will be ending in less than a month, Richard thought watching her retreat. Enjoy your teasing games while you may . .

  Chapter 10

  “Cousins, lift me up.”

  “Climbing the earl’s tree is a less than a sterling idea,” Odo said.

  “He could be wa
tching us from yonder window,” Hew said, glancing over his shoulder.

  “We need those sprigs for tonight’s celebration.” Keely turned to her brother. “Since my cousins refuse to help me, will you? The thought of the earl catching us here doesn’t frighten you, does it?”

  “A marquess outranks an earl.” Henry cupped his hands and crouched down to give her a lift.

  “You win, little girl,” Odo relented, stepping in front of the boy. “I’ll give you the lift.”

  “I’ll do it,” Hew insisted, trying to push him aside.

  “I’m stronger,” Odo said.

  “You are not.”

  While the Lloyd brothers argued about who would lift Keely into the tree, Henry locked his hands together and bent down. Keely placed one dainty booted foot in her brother’s hands and surged upward, grabbing the lowest of the yew tree’s branches. A devilishly wicked grin slashed across the boy’s face as he cupped her buttocks through her skirt and gave her a boost.

  “Nice arse,” Henry said. “I can see up your skirt.”

  Keely made herself relatively secure on the tree’s thickest branch and reached for the leather pouch hanging with her dragon pendant around her neck. She withdrew the golden sickle and, murmuring the secret prayers her mother had taught her, began cutting sprigs from the yew. Keely kissed each sprig she severed, and dropped it to the three pairs of waiting hands.

  Glancing up at the sky, Keely sighed with satisfaction. The Great Mother Goddess smiled upon their holiday venture and promised a perfect evening for their Samhuinn celebration. The morning mists had evaporated beneath a radiant sun, and the autumn air was mildly crisp. The day was a rarity of clear skies, with only an occasional puffy cloud marring the perfection of the heavenly blue above the earth.

  “Henry, the participants around the bonfire tonight will each receive a sprig of yew,” Keely said, giving her complete attention to her task. “Samhuinn is the festival of our ancestors, and the yew tree symbolizes death and rebirth. These sprigs of yew represent our ability to commune with those loved ones who have gone before us into the Great Adventure. Do you understand?”