by Mark Anthony
“Good-bye, Rebecca,” I said, and hurried from the courtyard.
I began my work that afternoon, examining public records and making inquires about the city—though I was never too direct in my questioning, so as not to draw attention. With little effort I learned that the Faradays were an old, wealthy, and respectable family, if not particularly remarkable in London society. They dwelled in a fine but not opulent house a half mile beyond Nottingham Hall, and less than two miles from the Houses of Parliament. There the current Lord Faraday, William, sat in the House of Lords, the third in his line to do so.
Lady Beatrice Faraday had been born to a less wealthy, but still well-regarded, family from York. Young Lady Alis, who was in her twenty-third year, was their only daughter, and was rumored to be quite beautiful, as Rebecca had said, though it seemed she was seldom seen outside the family’s home.
That was going to make things difficult. How was I to observe her if she never left her home? As I sat in a tavern that night, letting the ale I had ordered languish, I unfolded the letter from the Philosophers. However, despite much rereading, the letter contained no more clues, and I was not going to go to the Philosophers to beg for help on my first assignment as a master.
With nothing else I could do, I rose the next morning and put on my finest clothes, gathering my blond hair into a ribbon in the current fashion so that I might pass for one of London’s many fine young lords. Of course, that would not be a complete fraud, for I was a lord. Madstone Hall was mine, though I thought of it seldom, and while I had not been born a noble, by Master Albrecht’s dying hand I had been made one, and in truth the look suited me.
I hired the finest stallion I could find, though the beast was nothing compared to my old horse Hermes, and rode out past Whitehall, trading the gray air of the city for sun and blue sky.
After asking directions of a band of workmen, I found my way to the Faraday estate, which lay down a lane bordered by tall hedgerows. It was not so grand as Madstone Hall, being rather squat and square in the Tudor style, but it looked comfortable, nestled between a grove of ash and beech on one side and a pond on the other.
I dismounted and approached the iron gate, which was closed, refining my story in my head: how I was a young lord from Scotland visiting family in London, and while out riding I had lost my way, and so required directions for the way back to Whitehall. I hoped the steward of the house would be polite enough to invite me in for a refreshment, and I would gain a glimpse, perhaps in a portrait, of young Lady Alis. I reached up to ring the bell hanging on the gate.
“Good day, my lord.”
I nearly leaped out of my boots. Seldom could a person come upon me unawares, but so intent had I been on my plan that I had not heard as someone approached me from behind. I turned on a heel, and at once my apprehension vanished. It was simply an old woman, clad in a servant’s frock. There was nothing remarkable about her, save that her green eyes were bright and her wrinkled cheeks as red as apples.
“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” She drew closer, holding a covered basket.
I gave her a simplified version of my story; there was no need to explain myself to a servant. She nodded, listening to my tale, then smiled.
“I can give you directions back to Whitehall easily enough, my lord.”
A coldness descended in my chest. This would not do. I needed to gain entrance to the manor, in hopes of seeing a painting of Alis Faraday. I had to know what she looked like. Before I could speak, she went on.
“But are you certain it is not directions to Westminster Abbey you would rather have, my lord?”
“Westminster Abbey?” I said. “Why should I ride there?”
“Why, to gain a look at young Lady Alis, of course.”
I felt my face blanch, and a sickness filled me. How could this old woman know of my true purpose there? It seemed impossible, but if she did, then I was already ruined.
She clucked her tongue. “Now there, my lord, no need to fear. You’re hardly the first young man who’s ridden to the gate hoping for a glimpse of Lord Faraday’s daughter. Surely you didn’t dress so finely simply for a ride in the country! But you’ll not find Lady Alis here this morning.”
What a fool I was. Of course this old woman knew nothing of my purpose there. She had simply assumed, and not so far from the truth. However, I saw no reason to correct her.
“And where might one find Lady Alis on a morning such as this?”
“I’ve already told you, my lord, and more than I should have. But I daresay you have a different look about you than the other young men who come to call.” Her green eyes grew sharp. “Quite different indeed.”
I had no notion what her words meant, but I realized the woman had indeed told me where to go.
“How shall I know her?”
The old servingwoman laughed. “A beautiful young noble-woman should not be difficult to pick out from the crowd, my lord. Then again, one cannot always trust one’s eyes.” She opened the gate a fraction, slipped through, and shut it behind her.
“Please,” I said, gripping the bars, not knowing what else to say.
Again the old woman’s gaze grew sharp, and after a moment she nodded. “She favors the sun in the Cloisters.”
It was midday when I reached Westminster Abbey.
I straightened my coat as I passed through the western doors, into the long hall of the nave. Columns soared to the arched ceiling high above, and despite the urgency of my quest I was forced to pause and gaze upward. It is the purpose of grand churches to inspire awe, to make one believe there is something beyond the world of men.
Indeed there was something beyond it, and that was why I was here. I lowered my gaze and moved on. Although a hush was on the air, the nave was a busy place, filled with clergymen, sightseers just in from the country, and city folk who lingered in niches and alcoves, beneath some marble saint or king, to light a candle and speak a silent prayer.
There were many ladies about the nave; so many, in fact, that the swish of their gowns murmured off the stone walls like the whispered chants of monks. I watched them surreptitiously as I moved past, paying attention to those ladies whose gowns and refined air indicated a noble heritage. Some of them were pretty enough, but none seemed out of the ordinary, and all were more interested in showing off their clothes and flirting with their male companions than in paying reverence at the shrine of any ancient ruler or goodly martyr.
I moved through the sanctuary, and the Henry VII Chapel, and the quiet solitude of the Chapter House, where rays of light—infused with color by stained glass—scattered the floor like a ransom of jewels. It was only when I caught a glimpse of green through a doorway that I recalled the old servingwoman’s words. I hurried out the door, into the open courtyard in the midst of the Cloisters.
The Cloisters were neither so grand nor so crowded as the nave. I prowled along the covered walkways that surrounded the square lawn, but the only women I saw whose mode of dress marked them as noble were a group of gray-haired ladies who appeared to be on a tour of the crypts, and I wondered if they were perhaps shopping for a future abode. Weary of walking, I halted and leaned against a column.
“Excuse me, but you’re standing on Sir Talbot.”
It took me a moment to see her, for she was quite plain. Her gray dress blended with the stone wall against which she sat, and I could barely see her face for the shadow of a serviceable— but far from fashionable—bonnet. Several sheaves of parchment rested on her lap, and her hands were smudged with charcoal. I took her for one of the abbey’s servants, though why she was resting there, and why she would so boldly speak to one who was clearly her better, astonished me.
“I said you’re standing on Sir Talbot. He doesn’t like that at all. It would be kind if you moved at once.”
I glanced down. Beneath my boots was a slab of marble covering a crypt. The floor of the abbey was so thick with grave-stones that one thought nothing of walking over them. Like many,
this stone was worn by the passage of countless feet, and I could not make out the name carved upon it. However, in deference to the peculiar request, I moved a step to the next crypt over.
“Very well.” The young woman in gray nodded. “Lady Ackroyd believes you have a decent look about you. She does not mind if you linger a while on her stone.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. On second consideration, she was not a servant. Her manner of speech was anything but coarse, and her clothes, though plain, were finely made. Perhaps she was the daughter of a successful tradesman, I thought. My innocence then astounds me now. “So tell me, do you often speak with those who have departed this world?”
“I don’t speak with them.” Her tone was scandalized. “Our Lord would never allow such an unholy mingling of realms. Rather, it’s just that . . .”
“Just what?” I said, curious despite myself.
“It’s just that I know what they would have wished in life,” she finished. “It’s a dreadful fancy, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. Good day.”
She bowed her head, and I knew I should return to the nave. The day had turned gray and cold, and the old woman at the Faraday estate had said Alis enjoyed sun. I would not find her out here. All the same, I found myself hesitating.
“I find I’m actually rather weary,” I said. “Do you think Lady Ackroyd would mind if I departed her stone and instead took a place on the bench next to you?”
The young woman tilted her head, then nodded. “She does not mind at all.”
I sat down beside her. At once I regretted it, for I had no idea what to say. “What are those?” I blurted the first thing that came to mind, pointing to the sheaves on her lap.
She flipped through the papers. Names and dates were outlined on them in charcoal. “They’re rubbings. I make them from the tombs inside the abbey. Did you know Chaucer is buried here at Westminster?” She pulled out one of the papers. “Here is the rubbing of his crypt.”
Her face was alight with excitement, and I saw that her clothes had misled me, for she was not nearly so plain as I had thought. Her features were finely wrought, her complexion moon-pale, and her blue eyes bright and absent of guile.
“Charming,” I said, not looking at the rubbing.
“You’re too polite,” she said, folding the paper, bowing her head.
I laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of that before.”
She did not look up, but I saw a smile flit across her pink lips. “My father says it is a foolish pastime. He says if I applied as much effort to gaining the society of the living as the deceased, I should be well married by now.”
I felt my smile fading. “And what do you say?”
“I say nothing, of course. He is my father. But in my heart I feel it is only right that I make my society here. After all, I shall—” She bit her lower lip, silencing herself.
A breath of understanding escaped me. Her pale skin, her bright eyes, her slender fingers—these things were not due simply to youthful beauty.
“Are you very ill then?” I said.
She tucked a stray lock of hair, dark as shadows, into her bonnet. “The doctors cannot say. I have been frail ever since I was a child, and they feared I should never reach sixteen. But now I am twenty-three. So you see? There is cause for hope, and perhaps my father is right after all.” She set the papers on the ground. “Now you must tell me, sir, what has brought you to the abbey today?”
I looked out across the Cloisters. “I came looking for someone who is said to often be here, but I haven’t found her.”
“I am often here myself. Perhaps you can tell me what this individual looks like, and I can say if I have ever seen her.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what she looks like.”
“Well, that makes it more of a feat, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does. But I was given to understand she liked sitting here in the sun.”
“Well, then I fear I shall never have seen her. For I prefer days such as this.” She drew in a breath. “The fog is so soft. It’s the gentlest thing.”
I smiled. “I’ve always liked fog myself, but for different reasons. I favor the way fog conceals one. It’s secret, private.”
“I see. So you’re a man of secrets. And here I thought you might favor me with your name.”
“But that’s no secret,” I said, and I told her my full name, for there was no cause not to do so.
“That is a most auspicious appellation.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Albrecht—it comes from Adalbrecht, I am sure, which means ‘Brightly Noble.’ And Marius Lucius means ‘Warrior of Light.’ ”
A shiver passed through me. “You know much.”
“No, I cannot claim so. But I read a good deal when I was young, on days when I could not go out, of which there were a great number. One picks up many odd facts and notions reading books.”
“I daresay.”
The bells of the abbey began to toll, and pigeons rose up, vanishing into the gray sky.
“I must go,” she said, rising and gathering her things.
I rose as well. “May I offer you any assistance?”
She shook her head, holding an armful of papers. “You are too kind, Mr. Albrecht. But I am well. My father’s man will be waiting for me out front with the coach.”
A coach? Clearly her father was quite well-to-do. I bowed to her, and only as she started away did I realize I had not gotten her name. I called this fact out to her, and she halted in a doorway, glancing back.
“My name is Alis,” she said with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Albrecht.”
And as I stared, jaw agape, she vanished into the church.
A mistake—I had made a terrible mistake. But how could I have known? Her manner had been refined, if peculiar, but her dress had been completely at odds with her status. Besides, the old woman had said she favored sun. Had that wretched beldam tricked me deliberately?
It didn’t matter; none of it did. This was only the first day of my investigation, and already I had broken the First and the Third Desiderata. Surely, once the Philosophers found out what I had done, I was to be expelled from the Seekers.
That night I encountered Byron at the pub, and he inquired after my evident misery. I knew there was no point dissembling, though I didn’t dare tell him all the facts contained in the letter from the Philosophers. As I hunched over a cup, I related what I could—how I had inadvertently made my presence known to the young woman I was to watch.
“Well, it does sound like you’ve made quite a mess of things,” Byron said with a laugh. “That’s quite unlike you, Marius. I wonder what set you so off your game?”
A good question, and one I could not answer.
“Well, as I’ve always held,” Byron went on, “in for a penny, in for a pound. There’s no way to undo what’s done, so you might as well take what good there is in it.”
“What do you mean?” My mind was too hazed from regret and rum to understand him.
“If you can’t watch from afar, then watch from nearby. Use your acquaintance with your subject to your advantage. Get close to this person, become a friend, a confidant. What better way can you discover what you’ve been sent to learn?”
“But what of the Desiderata?”
“What of them?” Byron said with a shrug. “From what you’ve told me, your quarry addressed you first. You simply played along so as not to call attention to yourself. That’s hardly what I’d call interference. In fact, it seems you behaved in quite a sensible manner.”
Leave it to Byron to transform foolery into heroism, but perhaps he was onto something. After all, I had made an acquaintance with the bookseller Sarsin quite by accident, and the Philosophers had rewarded me for my work on that case. Why should this be any different? Alis Faraday had chosen to approach me, and as I was bound not to interfere with her actions, what choice did I have but to play along? And if she was to catch si
ght of me again, I would have to continue the charade. Of course, my manner must remain neutral, never leading her one way or another. But I could not imagine a better way to determine her thoughts, her perceptions, her feelings—to see if she had any developing cognizance at all of her unusual nature.
I clapped Byron on the shoulder. “Bless you, Byron. You’ve saved me.”
“Then the least you can do is buy me an ale,” he said, and I did.
I rode to Westminster Abbey on the next foggy day and found her, again in a gray dress, sitting in the Cloisters.
“There you are,” she said, looking up from a lapful of papers. “I confess, I doubted the veracity of her admonitions. However, Lady Ackroyd warranted you’d be back.”
“Proving herself a most wise old dame,” I said with a bow, and to my delight she laughed, a sound as high and pure as church bells on a winter’s night.
“Would you like to make a rubbing?” she asked, holding up a piece of paper and a lump of charcoal.
“You’ll have to show me how.” I took her hand—so tiny it was all but lost inside my own—as she rose from the bench.
We spent the afternoon in the abbey’s nave, choosing the most interesting and obscure crypts. I would press the paper over the crypt stone, and Alis would scrub the charcoal over the paper, and carved words and drawings that had been too timeworn to make out appeared on the paper as if by magic. Alis laughed often, and each time the sound was every bit as enchanting as the first time I heard it. Passing clergymen would stare at us, kneeling together on the floor, but I would clasp my hands as they went by, mimicking a prayerful pose. How could they argue with piousness?
“Who’s next?” I would say once they had passed, and Alis would lead us to another crypt stone.
Soon enough, however, even that simple activity fatigued her. Her skin seemed to grow translucent, and her hand shook as she made the last rubbing. When she was done, I carefully folded the paper, helped her to her feet, and led her to a bench near Chaucer’s tomb.
“I am fine,” she said when I inquired after her well-being. “Truly. I’ve laughed so much today, I simply need to catch my breath, that’s all.”
