Betrayal (9 page)

Her head ached with the possibilities. Reluctantly she closed her eyes and soon drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Dan found her there when he returned home. He fought the urge to let her sleep. They had agreed to see Stokes this afternoon, whether he liked it or not, they had to go. Gently he woke Lydia by kissing her still damp brow.

***

              Stokes watched Dan and Lydia walk down the corridor outside his office. He remembered being surprised when Dan called to arrange the meeting.  Dan had seemed reluctant to keep the appointment, but after a moment’s hesitation he had agreed to be there at four o’clock.  ‘He definitely sends mixed signals,’ Alan said to himself, looking at Dan. ‘I wonder what he really wants from me.”  Alan extended his hand to greet the couple.

             
“Welcome, welcome. Please come in.  Oh, and please, excuse the mess.” He cleared a chair for Dan by shifting the pile of papers to the floor.  “There now, please sit down.  During the regular university term I have an upper classman or two to do the boring work, like correcting papers and filing, but May to September I am on my own.”  Stokes smiled nervously.  He turned to Lydia asking “May I turn on the tape recorder?”

             
Dan answered before Lydia could open her mouth. “Yes, let’s get this show on the road.”

             
Alan was rattled by Dan’s abrupt manner and felt the ambiance of the room shift. He settled himself in his chair studying the couple.

Lydia sat nervously twisting the ring on her left thumb, her tongue flicking across dry lips. She sat very straight, and though her eyes were downcast they held a vacant, faraway look.

Dan was clearly uncomfortable, distracted. He seemed to bounce in his chair, his head turning from side to side, perhaps studying the details of the room.

No one spoke.  The only sound the soft whir of the tape recorder. Stokes stood, and walking over to the stereo, he turned on a CD of Pachelbel’s Canon.  Lydia smiled in recognition.  As the music played, a slow and gentle peacefulness filled the small office and its occupants.

“Now Lydia,” Stokes began.  Her skin flushed as a nervous smile creased her lips.  “You had a very unusual experience today. The phenomenon of waking dreams or hallucinations are well documented in psychology; often experienced in psychopathology.”

“Now just a minute,” Dan said, pulling his chair closer to Lydia.  “Are you implying Lydia is psychotic?  We are talking about a dream not some sort of psychotic behavior.”  Dan tightened his grip on Lydia’s hand. She winced, and he let go.

“No, Dan, that’s not what I am saying at all.  If you will allow me to continue, I will explain what I mean.  While hallucinations are often seen in psychopathology, they can also be a factor of dreams.  In the mentally ill patient hallucination is often a response to the paranoia that is part of the illness.  In the case of dreams there are no psychotic overtones. The unconscious is simply attempting to get the attention of the dreamer’s conscious mind.”

Dan sighed heavily as he slumped back in his chair.

Stokes frowned. “Lydia, would you please recount for the record your experience of this morning?”

By the time Lydia had finished retelling her experience a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead and upper lip.  Her breathing was ragged. She was sobbing and trembling.

Dan’s face was contorted in anger. The look frightened Stokes. Dan’s face was plastic; his jaw twisted. Stokes could sense that the other man’s anger was barely controlled. ‘Why should he be so angry?’ Stokes thought. ‘Why should Lydia’s dream affect Dan so intensely?’ Stokes knew he had to separate these two if he was going to solve the mystery of Lydia’s nightmare.

“I believe I can help, Lydia,” he said at last. “But I think we had best do that alone. So Dan, if you will excuse us, we have work, to do.”

“Excuse you?  What do you mean excuse you? I am not going anywhere. Look at Lydia. Look at how upset she is. I am not leaving her alone.”

             
“Dan, be reasonable.  Lydia must be free to answer my queries candidly. She must feel free to describe her experience without fear of judgment.”

             
“Well, I think,” Dan began.

             
“That is just what I mean. Be honest now, your emotions are clouding your thoughts. What is important here are Lydia’s thoughts, not yours.”

             
“Right, quite right,” Dan apologized, as he struggled to his feet. Turning to Lydia he continued. “I’ll wait for you in the car. Okay, Lydia?” His eyes searched her face for permission to stay.  Leaning forward he kissed her forehead. He paused, doorknob in hand, waiting for Lydia’s objection to his leaving. It never came.

             
Alan shifted in his chair. “Now, Lydia, I know our time is short but I do want to go over the dream sequence, so please, once more, tell me from the beginning.”

             
Lydia heaved a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the event. “I was washing up the breakfast dishes in the kitchen. The sink was filling with hot water and soapsuds. I could hear the rhythmic chants from the living room.”

             
“Do you remember what you were thinking about?’

             
“I don’t think I was thinking of anything specific. I was just watching the soap bubbles form and there it was.  The scene formed before my eyes”

             
“And what scene was that?” Stokes probed.

             
“It was a beautiful garden of yellow roses.  It was amazing. It was so real I could smell the fragrance of the roses. I could feel the warmth of the late summer sun on my face.” Lydia paused.

“How do you know it was a late summer sun you were feeling? Doesn’t your kitchen have a window over the sink? Could you have been simply gazing out of it?”

“Well, yes, there is a window, but if you ever looked out of it you’d know there is no rose garden there.”  Lydia laughed.  “In fact there is no garden there at all. The window faces north, so there is no way I could have felt the heat of the sun on my face.”

“That is interesting, go on, Lydia.  Please describe the scene again for me.”

“It was like I was watching a movie. Look, I have already told you all this. I have told you all that I remember. Why are you pushing me so?  I’m getting confused.”

“That is what I was afraid of.  Dreams are ephemeral, in their very essence, shadow and mist. We should have had this interview when the details were sharp and your memory fresh.”

“Oh, Alan, it’s gone.  All I can remember is the smell of the roses and the warmth of the sun on my face.”  Lydia’s face paled as she stared off into the distance. Tears rimmed her eyes, slowly staining her cheeks a pale pink.  “I’m so frustrated,” she moaned.  “It was so clear.  It’s always the same; the more I try to recall the detail, the less I can remember.  I feel like I am chasing a firefly through a heavy, dark mist, doomed to failure before I start.” She paused, drew a deep breath and told Alan of her afternoon’s dream.  “I think the girl in my dreams is going to be killed,” she said at last breathlessly. “I heard the men outside the door talking about it.”

Alan was silent for several moments. Only the soft tonal notes of the Canon filled the room.  Finally Alan spoke up.  “I know you and Dan, wish to go away for the weekend, but I am concerned that the dreams have changed. Would you consider staying in Saint John?”

              “I don’t know. I would have to talk with Dan.” Lydia said hesitantly.

Stokes frowned. He opened the upper left hand drawer of his desk.  “In that case, here,” he said, handing Lydia a small voice activated tape recorder.  “Use this as soon as possible after you wake up, or if you experience another waking dream.  Keep it with you always.”

              Lydia reached across the desk, took the recorder, and slipped it into her pocket. “I’m sorry.  I feel so foolish,” Lydia said, raising her hands to her chest. “I wanted so much to be able to talk with you about my dream, about my nightmare. I hadn’t expected it to slip away so quickly.” Lydia said, helplessly.

             
“That’s the way of dreams; they are here, we become aware, and they disappear. I know it’s frustrating, but now you have a tool to use so that it will not happen again.  “Here,” he said, “take a few blank tapes as well.  I see no point in continuing this interview now. You have your weekend to get ready for, so why don’t we make an appointment for sometime next week?”

             
“It will be a short week in the office, and they are usually very hectic.”

             
“Fine, then we will meet the week after next, unless of course you have a recurrence of the dream and wish to see me sooner,” Alan said, pushing to his feet. “And don’t forget to use the tape recorder.”

             
“I won’t.” Lydia called as she closed the office door behind her.

EIGHT

SEPTEMBER 20, 1529

              The doors to the library of York Place swept open revealing a boy of nine or ten, who stood breathless in the doorway.  “A letter from Westminster,” he wheezed. Seeing only Elisabeth and Brother Michael, for Sarah was hidden from sight by the large oak writing table, the young page relaxed his stance.  “Where is he? I has a letter from my lord, the King.  Very important, he says. That’s why he gives it to me, don’t you know. Where’s his lordship, the Cardinal? I asked ye. I must deliver it to him myself.”

             
Just then George Cavendish arrived to investigate the disturbance.  “Here, boy, give the letter to me,” he demanded, thrusting out his hand.

             
“For my lord Cardinal,” the boy said, holding the letter behind his back.

             
“To me, boy, give the letter to me,” Cavendish snarled, advancing on the boy with his right hand extended out flat.

             
The child backed up a few steps. The boy knew that as long as he had the letter he held the upper hand in the confrontation.  He made a swift bow from his waist before continuing.  “I am sorry, my lord, but I has to give it into the Cardinal’s hand myself, so says my lord, the King.”

             
“So be it,” Cavendish snapped. Turning on his heel he stamped out of the library. “Then
we
shall find my lord. Follow me, boy.”

             
Elisabeth breathed a sigh of relief that the skirmish was over.  Before her on her table, lay the Gospel of Saint Mark.  Today she would copy Chapter 9, Verse 8. Taking the quill in her hand, she paused as she dipped it into the thick black ink to see if Sarah had begun her work. Reassured, Elisabeth lifted the pen to the parchment and began to write.

              ‘
et facta nubes obrumbrans eos et venit vox de nub dicens

             
Hic est Filius meus carrisemus audite illum.’

             
"That is so beautiful," Elisabeth said when she at last laid her pen to rest.

             
Brother Michael looked up smiling.  "You write of the transfiguration, do you not?"  Elisabeth nodded.  "My favorite part and I suspect yours, is the Voice from the cloud.  Am I correct?  I can close my eyes and see the scene on the mountain top in Judea. I can hear the booming Voice of Heaven saying 'This is my son, the Beloved. Listen to Him.' Yes, indeed," the old monk grew quiet and reflective.

             
Elisabeth longed to discuss the passage with him, but she was reluctant to disturb his meditation.

             
Suddenly the door swept open. Cavendish stood there, his face pale. The white scarf at the neck of his burgundy doublet lay askew. Breathing heavily, he swept his hand through his dark hair, leaving it to stand on end.  "My lord Cardinal wishes you to remain where you are."

             
"But George, it is nearly time for sext. We must soon leave for the chapel."

             
"A message has come from Westminster concerning you," he said, staring at Elisabeth.  "You may return to your work if you wish. I am sure he will not be overlong."

Brother Michael waddled back to his desk mumbling, "More time lost. How shall I ever finish my work?"

              Elisabeth crossed to the hearth to be near Sarah.

             
"Did I do something bad?" the child asked. Her clear blue eyes clouded with tears.  "I'm sorry if I did," she added, not knowing what it is that she could possibly have done to bring a letter from the King.

             
Elisabeth drew the child to her breast, her damp head staining the bodice of Elisabeth's gown.  Silence covered the room like a veil.  The lack of sound was un-nerving.  At last the ponderous door opened revealing an out of breath and much distressed Cardinal Wolsey.