by Glenn Cooper
He inquired again about Will’s intentions and was reassured that if the research went well, the letter would be his. He encouraged his granddaughter to be as helpful as possible, then rambled on about auction houses and how he’d have to let Pierce & Whyte take a crack at the business owing to their success with the last auction, but that Sotheby’s or Christie’s made more sense for something of this importance. Then he excused himself to do his correspondence.
Before returning to the banqueting hall, they took advantage of Lord Cantwell puttering around the ground floor to sneak upstairs and have a poke through his bedroom. Isabelle couldn’t recall whether there was anything of interest up there as she hadn’t entered in years. But it was among the oldest rooms in the house so it couldn’t be ignored. The bed was not yet made and smelled strongly of an old man’s incontinence, which neither of them commented on. The few paintings were portraits, and the vases, clocks, and small tapestries were devoid of windmill motifs. They beat a hasty retreat back to the banqueting hall, where they toiled for the remainder of the early afternoon, prying open crates and examining dozens of paintings and decorative items.
By late afternoon, they had gone through the dining room and the French room and were sweeping back through the library and the Great Hall, becoming increasingly discouraged.
Finally, Isabelle begged to stop for tea. The housekeeper was off doing shopping so Isabelle decamped to the kitchen, leaving Will in charge of starting a fire. The task got him into Boy Scout mode, and he diligently started rearranging fireplace bricks and building a platform of kindling that would optimize airflow and prevent smoke kickback. When he was done, he carefully placed the logs, lit his structure with a wooden match, sat back, and admired his work.
The fire caught quickly and began to send flames high into the vault. Fewer wisps escaped. Will’s old scoutmaster in Panama City would have been proud of him, prouder than his frozen-hearted father, who had verbally beat him up about most of his early accomplishments or lack thereof.
A melancholy was descending. He was tired, he was disappointed that he was getting his old cravings back. The bottle of scotch was still up in his room. As his mind wandered, so did his eyes. One of the blue-and-white Delft tiles lining the fireplace caught his eye. It was a charming scene of a mother walking through a field with a bundle of twigs under one arm and her toddler son on the other. She looked perfectly happy. She probably wasn’t married to a bastard like him, he thought.
Then his gaze drifted to the tile below it. He froze for a second, then sprang up, and when Isabelle came back in with a platter of tea, she found him standing by the fireplace, staring.
“Look,” he said.
She put the platter down and drew closer. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “Right in front of our eyes. I tapped on it yesterday.”
On the bank of a meandering country river was a small windmill, delicately painted in blue and white. The tile artist was skillful enough to make one imagine that the mill blades were about to be turned by a breeze rushing down the river valley, for in the distance, birds were dipping their wings in an unseen gust.
The tea went cold.
After Isabelle made sure her grandfather was upstairs napping, she fetched the toolbox from the hall closet and let Will choose his implements. “Please don’t break it,” she pleaded.
He promised to be careful but gave no guarantees. He selected the smallest, thinnest flat-edged screwdriver and a light hammer. Then, holding his breath, he began gently tapping the chiseled end into the smooth, hard grout.
It was slow, painstaking work, but the grout was softer than the tile, so it gradually yielded to the steel. When a vertical line was cleared, he started on the top horizontal one. In half an hour, both horizontal rows were grout-free. Because he was working so closely to his exuberant fire, he was slathered in sweat, and his shirt was damp. He thought he might be able to tap under the tile and pry it loose without removing the last row of grout. She was almost pressing against his back, watching every move. She gave nervous approval.
It took only three light, oblique taps of the screwdriver to make the tile lift from the fascia a satisfying eighth of an inch. Blessedly, it was in one piece. Will put the tools down and used his hands, raising and lowering the tile fractionally, then wiggling it laterally.
It came free in his hands, intact.
Immediately, they saw a round plug of wood in the center of the exposed square.
“That’s why it sounded the same as the others when I tapped on it yesterday,” she said.
Will used the edge of the screwdriver to lever out the plug. It was covering a one-inch hole bored deeply into the wood.
“I need a flashlight,” Will said urgently.
There was a penlight in the toolbox. He shined it in the hole and grabbed a pair of needle-nosed pliers.
“What do you see?” she pressed.
He closed the pliers on something, then pulled them out. “This.”
There was a single sheet of parchment, rolled into a cylinder.
“Let me see!” she almost screamed.
He let her unroll it and stood over her as she dropped to a chair. “It’s in French,” she said.
“Are we screwed?”
“Of course not,” she sniffed. “I read French quite well, thank you.”
“Like I said, I’m glad you’re here.”
“It’s a bit hard to make out, atrocious penmanship. It’s addressed to Edgar Cantwell. It’s dated 1530! Good Lord, Will, look who’s written it! It’s signed, Jean Cauvin.”
“Who’s that?”
“John Calvin! The father of Calvinism, predestination and all that. Only the greatest ecclesiastical mind of the sixteenth century!” She scanned the page with wild eyes. “And Will, he’s writing about our book!”
Chapter 18
1527
Wroxall
A midwinter snowfall that blanketed the forest and the fields surrounding Cantwell Hall made for a satisfying day of hunting. The boar that Thomas Cantwell’s party had been following all morning was a fast, healthy creature but he was trapped and soon to be roasted because his tracks were easy to follow in the white crust, and the hounds were not distracted by the usual smells of the soil.
The moment of the kill provided enough drama to be retold by the fire for the rest of the season. When the sun was at its highest, the glare off the snow stinging the riders’ eyes, the greyhounds finally cornered the boar against a thicket of impenetrable briars. The beast lashed out and gored one of the hounds and, in turn, was bitten in its hindquarter by another. It stood its ground, grunting and panting, with blood dripping from its haunches. All this was in full view of the hunting party, who had pulled their horses into a semicircle a safe distance away.
The baron turned in his saddle to his son, Edgar, a scrawny, hatchet-faced seventeen-year-old, and said, “Take it, Edgar. Make me proud.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!” the baron said with irritation.
His brother William advanced his horse till he was saddle by saddle with his father and complained. “Why not me, Father?”
William was a year younger than Edgar but in many ways seemed older. He was more powerfully built, had a squarer chin and a hunter’s blood-filled eyes.
“Because I say so!” the baron growled. William’s face contorted in anger, but he held his tongue.
Edgar looked around at his cousins and uncles, who shouted encouragement and a few good-natured jests. His chest swelled as he dismounted and was handed the tokke by one of the servants. It was a long spear, specially constructed for the boar hunt, with a crossbar beneath the point to prevent overpenetration. Properly wielded, it would pierce the heart and easily be withdrawn through the tough hide.
Edgar tightly gripped the tokke with both hands, advancing slowly through the snow. The frightened boar saw him coming and started to grunt and squeal, which in turn stirred the dogs to loud and feverish baying. Edgar felt his heart in his throat
as he slowly drew within a few feet of the mass of animals. He had never been given this honor before. He was desperate to get it right and not show fear. When he saw his opening, he would charge and use his height to strike over the backs of the hounds. He hesitated for a few moments and looked over his shoulder. His father angrily motioned him to get on with it.
At the instant he plucked up the courage to strike, the boar decided to break for it by running headlong through the dogs. A hound reared up in panic just as Edgar was about to thrust his spear, forcing him to hold back. The boar engaged the greyhound in a furious skirmish that lasted only seconds before the dog’s belly was torn asunder. Then, with the other dogs snapping at the boar’s hind legs, the enraged creature leapt forward into the air, its tusks aimed squarely at Edgar’s groin.
Edgar instinctively took a step in retreat but his boot stayed buried in the snow. He immediately lost his balance and started to fall backward, and when he did, the butt of the spear wedged into the ground. Providentially, the snarling, leaping boar literally impaled its own thorax upon the blade of the tokke less than a foot away from where it would have turned young Edgar into a eunuch. With an horrific shriek and a gush of blood, the boar died right between the boy’s supine legs.
Edgar was still shivering from cold and mental trauma when the hunting party reassembled by the blazing fire in the Great Hall. The men were talking loudly and laughing themselves silly as they consumed large wedges of cake washed down by jugs of wine. Young William was merrily partaking in the banter, elated at his brother’s travails. Only Edgar and his father were quiet. The baron sat in his large fireside chair, moodily drinking, Edgar off in a corner pouring sweet wine down his throat.
“Are we going to eat that boar?” one of Edgar’s cousins asked.
“Why should we not?” another wanted to know.
“Because I have never before eaten a beast who took its own life!”
The men laughed so hard they cried, which only made the baron more taciturn. His oldest son was a source of worry and vexation. He seemed to excel at nothing of importance. He was an unenthusiastic scholar whom his tutors tolerated rather than praised, his piety and attention to prayer were suspect, and his ability at the hunt was debatable. Today had confirmed his father’s doubts. It was a miracle the boy had not been killed. As the baron was painfully aware, the only skills Edgar had firmly mastered were wenching and drinking.
During the Twelve Days of Christmas, the baron had prayed in the family chapel, searched his soul, and reached a decision about the boy’s fate. Now he was more certain than ever of its wisdom.
Edgar emptied his goblet and called the manservant for a refill. He caught the sour expression on his father’s face and started shivering again.
In the evening, Edgar awoke from a nap in his cold, dark room on the upper floor of Cantwell Hall. He used the only active candle to light some others and tossed a few small logs onto the embers of his shallow fireplace. He pulled a heavy cloak over his nightshirt and poked his head out from the door. At the far end of the hall, Molly, the chambermaid, was sitting on a bench at her station outside Lady Cantwell’s room, waiting at her beck and call. She was a small, buxom girl, a year or so younger than Edgar, her black hair stuffed into a linen bonnet. She had been watching out for him, and she shyly smiled.
He beckoned her with a finger and she cautiously rose and crept in his direction. Without exchanging a word, she followed him inside his room in a well-practiced routine. Just as the door was about to close behind her, William Cantwell emerged from his room and spied Molly slipping into his brother’s chamber. He gleefully scuttled off down the stairs, ready to do his own brand of mischief.
Edgar flopped onto his bed and grinned at the chambermaid. “Hello, Molly!”
“Hello, my lord.”
“Did you miss me?”
“I saw you yesterday?” she said sweetly.
“That was such a long time ago,” he sulked. Then he pounded the bed with the flat of his palms. “Will you come see me again?”
“We need to hurry.” She giggled. “My lady might call at any time.”
“It will take precisely as long as it takes. One cannot interfere with the immutable laws of nature.”
When she climbed onto the foot of the bed, he grabbed her and pulled her on top. They proceeded to roll from one side of the bed to the other, groping and tickling each other until she let out a loud, “Ow!” She was frowning and rubbing the top of her head. “What do you have under your pillow?” she asked.
She pulled the cushion away and underneath it was a large, heavy book marked on its spine: 1527.
“Leave that be!” he said.
“What is it?”
“It is just a book, and it is of no concern to you, Missy.”
“Then why is it hidden?”
Her curiosity, so keenly aroused, was going to have to be addressed before he could get on with the business at hand. “My father does not know I took it from his library. He is protective of his books.”
“Why does it interest you?” she asked.
“You see the date on it-1527? When I was a child, I would wonder about a book that possessed a future date. It held a fascination. My father always told me the book contained a great secret, and when I was twenty-one, he would show me an ancient letter he keeps in his strongbox that would reveal all. I used to dream about what I would be like in 1527, the year in which I would become eighteen. Well, that year has come. It is 1527, if you did not know. The book has come of age, and so have I.”
“Is it magic, my lord?”
He threw the pillow on top of it again and grabbed her. “If little Molly is so interested in magic, perhaps she would like to see my wand.”
Edgar was too involved with his amorous activities to hear his name repeatedly being called for supper. At a perfectly wrong moment, his father flung open the door to find his son’s pink bottom nestled in a jumble of pulled-up chemises, his face buried in a generous bosom.
“What the Devil!” the baron shouted. “Stop that at once!”
He stood there, slack-jawed, as the young lovers rushed to pull themselves together.
“Father…”
“Do not speak! Only I will speak. You, girl, will leave this house.”
She began to cry. “Please, your lordship, I have no place to go.”
“That is not my concern. If you are still at Cantwell Hall in one hour, I will have you flogged. Now get out!”
She ran from the room, her clothes askew.
“As for you,” the baron said to his cowering son, “I will see you at the supper table, where you will be informed of your fate.”
The long trestle table in the Great Hall was set up for the evening feast, and the extended Cantwell clan was noisily tucking into the first courses of supper. The roaring fire and the press of bodies had taken the chill off the winter night. Thomas Cantwell sat at the center, with his wife beside him. He was troubled by his son’s escapade but his appetite raged nonetheless, stoked by the exertions of hunting. He had greedily spooned down his meaty capon brewet and was starting in on his ham and leeks porray. Roasted boar, his favorite, was on the way, so room would have to be left.
All chatter ceased when Edgar came in, his eyes fixed on the floorboards rather than the faces of his family or the servants. He supposed everyone knew; he would have to bear it. His sniggering young cousins, and for that matter his uncles, were surely as guilty as he in these matters, but tonight he was the one ignominiously caught out.
He took his seat by his father and started in on an earthenware jug of wine. “You missed the blessing of the meal, Edgar,” his mother said quietly.
His brother William, who was seated at his mother’s side, grinned and wickedly whispered, “He had his own blessing, methinks.”
“Quiet!” the baron raged. “We will not speak of this at my table.”
As the feast progressed, the conversation was meager and subdued. One of the men had recently been
to Court and asked the others what they thought of the king’s petition to the Pope that his marriage to Queen Catherine be annulled. The Cantwells much admired the piety of the queen and had no use for the whore Boleyn, but even among family, this kind of banter was dangerous. Henry’s influence bored into every parish. There would be an accommodation, Thomas assured his kin. The prospect of a schism with the Pope over this matter was unthinkable.
The carved and jointed boar was presented on a giant wooden platter, and it was hungrily devoured with slabs of dark bread. At the conclusion of the meal, frumenty custard was served, along with dried figs, nuts, and spiced wine. Finally, the baron wiped his hands and mouth on the cloth overhanging the dining table, cleared his throat, and once he was sure he had the full attention of his son, began his planned proclamation. “As my brothers and good wife know, I have been unsatisfied with your education, Edgar.” The raspy sternness of his voice caused the members of the dining party to lower their eyes.
“Have you, Father?”
“I had hoped for greater results. Your uncle, Walter, benefited greatly from his education at Oxford and he is now, as you know, an esteemed lawyer in that city. However, the standards at Merton College have surely become lax.”
Edgar’s lower lip began to twitch. “How so, Father?”
“Well, look at you!” the baron bellowed. “What more evidence do I require! You are more schooled in wine, wenches, and song than Greek, Latin, and the Bible! You will not be returning to Oxford, Edgar. Your education will be elsewhere.”
Edgar thought of his friends and his comfortable rooms at Merton. There was a cozy tavern near the college that would be the poorer. “And where is that, Father?”
“You will be going to the College of Montaigu at the University of Paris.”
Edgar looked up in fright and sought out the dour face of his cousin Archibald. This joyless monster had spent six years there and had long regaled Edgar with stories of its austerity and strictness.
