House of Shadows (22 page)

‘Yes, they have.’ Mark’s voice was very steady. He took her hand, his fingers interlocking strongly with hers. It felt comforting, close. She wanted to pull away but she wanted to touch him more. The strength of that need was a shock to her.

‘Hi Mark!’

Holly jumped back as though she had been scalded. Neither of them had seen anyone approaching through the dappled shade but now she recognised one of Mark’s colleagues from the coffee shop, tall and gangly, a man whose flapping shorts revealed bony knees and whose tight T-shirt hugged a cadaverous chest.

‘Greg,’ Mark said, nodding. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Sweltering,’ Greg said, grinning. ‘You must be Holly,’ he added, extending an enthusiastic hand. ‘Sorry I didn’t get the chance to say hello just now in the shop. It’s good to meet you at last.’

‘Greg’s our biodiversity officer,’ Mark said.

‘Oh, badgers and newts and flowers?’ Holly said. ‘Excellent.’

‘Well, there are no newts,’ Greg said, ‘as there’s not enough water, but definitely badgers and various species of
bird and butterflies and lots of unusual plants. Ashdown is a haven for wildlife.’

‘I see plenty of it,’ Holly said, ‘living on the edge of the wood.’

‘Fran said you’re staying at the Mill,’ Greg said. He fidgeted awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry about your brother. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.’

Holly felt Mark shift beside her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Did you know Ben?’

‘My sister introduced him a couple of months ago.’ Greg said, ‘He was in her shop one day when I popped in. The Merchant Adventurers.’ He corrected himself. ‘Sorry, it’s called Marlborough Crafts now. Karen said the Merchant Adventurers confused the customers. I liked it though.’

‘It was a shop name!’ Holly said. She was remembering the compliments slip she had found in Lavinia’s diary and the fruitless hours she had spent trying to trace the name. ‘I never thought of that.’

Both Greg and Mark were looking at her curiously. ‘It was just something Ben mentioned to me,’ she said.

‘You should go and see Karen,’ Greg said. ‘Fran said you’re a glass engraver. Karen is always looking to acquire high-end stock. I’m sure she’d be interested. I’ll put a word in for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Holly said again. ‘That would be very kind of you. I’m just starting to check out new sales outlets.’

‘Well, then,’ Greg said. ‘I’ll give her a ring. She’s away for a couple of days but I’m sure we can set something up when she gets back.’ He gave Mark a quizzical look. ‘Are you heading back to the site office?’

‘In a moment,’ Mark said. ‘I was going to show Holly the lavender garden.’

‘Right.’ Greg paused, looked from one to the other and then raised his free hand in a gesture of farewell. ‘See you in a bit then.’ He loped off down the ride.

‘He seems nice,’ Holly said. ‘Sort of Tiggerish.’

Mark smiled. ‘He’s a good bloke.’

‘I think he wanted to come with us,’ Holly said.

‘Probably,’ Mark said. He shot her a glance. ‘I didn’t want him to join us. Do you mind?’

Their eyes met. Holly felt a flutter of sensation along her skin. She couldn’t deal with this. She didn’t know how. Her life was too complicated as it was.

‘What’s the lavender garden?’ she said.

Mark laughed and took the change of subject but the glint in his eyes suggested to her that he had not let it go permanently.

‘About fifty years after the house burned down the then Lady Evershot designed a garden on the site where it had stood,’ he said. ‘She laid it out according to the floor plan of the house, with lavender hedges marking where the walls, doorways and windows had been, and gravel squares for the rooms.’ He gestured to a little path that struck off at a right angle from the main ride. ‘It’s this way.’

He held aside a trailing strand of dog rose for her and Holly ducked beneath it, her shoulder dislodging a fall of petals as she followed Mark along the path. She knew she should be getting back to the studio. She needed structure in her day now more than ever, and she had always worked best when she kept to a nominal routine. She also needed to
be wary. It was the enjoyment of Mark’s company that was keeping her here and she knew it.

‘How did you become a surveyor?’ she asked. ‘Did you retrain after leaving the army?’

Mark shook his head. ‘I was in the Royal Engineers. I’d studied surveying and civil engineering, specialising in demolitions. This was a side step rather than a change, building things rather than blowing them up, I suppose.’

Holly liked that. It felt very positive.

They came out from under the trees onto a broad, flat rectangular space with what looked like a pattern of lavender beds in the centre. The grass was mown very short here and the scent of it hung on the air, the sweetness fading in the heat. It mingled with the dry perfume of the flowers.

Holly walked through a gap in the hedge, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. Here was a circular planting pattern marking the rise of the staircase. It took up a quarter of the entire floor space. A long corridor bisected the house. Holly walked down it very slowly, hearing the buzz of the bees loud in the lavender. In the centre a stone sundial stood within an octagonal design. There were three large, square rooms making up the whole, marked out by lavender borders.

‘What a beautiful idea,’ she said. ‘Commemorating the site of the house with a parterre garden.’

‘It is, isn’t it,’ Mark said. He gave her a completely unguarded smile, sharing her pleasure, and her heart gave an erratic thump. ‘And what a stunning view from here. You can imagine how amazing it must have been standing on the roof terrace four storeys up.’

Holly could. She could feel it. She could feel the sting of the cool air on her cheeks and the way the breeze ruffled her hair, plastering it against her face. The copper of the roof was hot beneath her feet and the little octagonal cupola was behind her, the sun glinting in shards of dazzling brightness from the leaded glass. On both sides the enormous chalk chimneys soared to the sky, the stone a smooth, bright white against the blue. She narrowed her eyes against the glare and looked out across the wood to the hillside beyond, with its weathervane pointing to the sky.

No road cut the green swathe of the valley at the foot of the hill. There was nothing there but a field scattered with grey sarsen stone and the slope of the downs as they climbed toward the horizon. A single rider was cresting the hill and cantering in the direction of the house, a figure in brown and blue on a chestnut horse against the vast green landscape …

Holly blinked and the vision dissolved and she could smell the lavender and hear the sound of a lorry labouring along the road and changing gear as it turned into the building site. One small fluffy cloud had crossed the sun, casting her in a brief cool shadow. She shivered.

‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,’ Mark said.

‘I thought I had,’ Holly said. She shivered again although the cloud had gone and the sun was hot. There was no rider on Weathercock Hill. ‘Vivid imagination,’ she said.

‘What did you see?’ Mark asked.

‘I felt as though I was standing on the roof looking out across the valley,’ Holly admitted, wondering why she was telling him. She’d deliberately not told Fran or anyone else
about the pearl or the mirror or anything else that might be construed as a bit flaky. She had enough to deal with without everyone thinking she was delusional.

‘I could see a rider on the hillside. And there was no road.’ She shrugged. ‘Like I said, imagination. I’m sure that road has been there for thousands of years.’

‘No,’ Mark said. ‘The track from Lambourn across the Vale used to run further to the east. That road was only made in Victorian times.’ He raised a hand and brushed her jaw with his fingers. ‘I think you might be a bit fey, Holly Ansell.’

Holly felt dizzy. There was a smile in Mark’s eyes but there was heat there as well and then the amusement faded leaving nothing but raw desire. The rest of the world melted away and all she could see was him. She caught her breath.

‘Mark—’

‘I think about it.’ His voice was rough. ‘I think about that night. Every time I see you and plenty of times when I don’t. So do you, don’t you?’

Holly’s throat was dry. ‘No. I … No.’

‘Liar.’ His lips touched hers. She was shocked by how much she wanted him to kiss her properly, for it to be like it had been before. The speed with which the sensation had come upon her was dizzying.

Holly put a hand against his chest and held herself away from him. ‘It was a mistake,’ she said. ‘We both agreed.’

‘I don’t remember discussing it properly.’ Mark’s cheek brushed hers, the stubble rough against her skin. She shivered.

‘Neither of us do this sort of thing.’

‘There’s never been a better time to start.’ Mark’s lips were so close to hers that all it would take was for her to turn her head and she would be kissing him.

‘I’ve never in my life had meaningless physical sex before I met you,’ Holly blurted out.

Mark laughed. ‘Just meaningful emotional sex?’

‘Not much of that either.’ It was true. She had to rack her brains to remember a time when she had enjoyed anything in bed more than reading
The Engravers’ Journal.
That was if she had even made it back from her studio with energy to do more than sleep.

She saw Mark smile and realised that she had just admitted to more than she had intended. A second later he had slid a hand behind her head and brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss that spun her straight back to that long, hot night in the mill. She kissed him back and it was everything she ached for, enough to make her forget all the confusion in her life, her tiredness and her fears.

Mark let her go and they stood staring at each other.

‘This has got to stop,’ Holly said. She flattened her palm more firmly against his chest and felt the strong beat of his heart. ‘I don’t want to make things any more complicated than they already are,’ she said. She raised her gaze to his. ‘I would be using you to escape, to blot everything out. It would be wrong.’

She saw the corner of Mark’s mouth dip in a smile. ‘I could live with it,’ he said.

‘We live in a small village,’ Holly said. ‘The gossip would be deafening. Besides, you have Flick to think about.’

‘And you have Bonnie.’

Holly stifled a smile. ‘Be serious. I’m not looking for another relationship and Fran says you aren’t either—’

‘How helpful of her,’ Mark said.

‘We need to be clear,’ Holly said.

Mark sighed; stood back. ‘Okay.’ His tone was smooth but she had the disconcerting feeling that it wasn’t over. ‘You’ll still need my help with your research, though, into Robert Verity and anything else I can discover about his work at Ashdown.’

‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Holly said.

Mark’s smile deepened. She could still feel the heat shimmering between them. ‘Just trying to be helpful,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Holly was very conscious of him watching her as she walked down the avenue away from the lavender garden. She knew she’d done the right thing. Her emotions were in one big complicated mess at the moment and getting involved with Mark could only make that worse. All the same it was far more difficult than she had imagined to walk away.

Rhenen, August 1635

‘I
s it done?’

‘Aye, madam.’ Craven stepped out of the shadows of the line of poplar trees to join Elizabeth in a patch of speckled moonlight. She had insisted on this elaborate charade. They had been out hunting all day with the court but she could not speak to him then, nor take possession of Frederick’s sapphire ring or the other relics. There could be no witnesses to the transaction. Absolute secrecy ruled the Order of the Knights of the Rosy Cross.

It was ironic then that the Queen had chosen this place for their meeting. With its avenue of trees that soared up into darkness it reminded Craven of nothing more than the vaulted depths of a cathedral. He could almost imagine Frederick’s coffin lying between them in a blaze of fire. Except that he was not a man who indulged his
imagination if he could help it and not when it conjured such images.

She would never know. He would never tell Elizabeth that he had seen the crystal mirror turn her husband’s corpse to flame and ashes before his eyes. He would not reinforce her superstitions. What he had seen had been no more than a freak of nature; he had read about such manifestations when the sun shone off a mirror’s surface. Science could explain most things.

‘How did he look?’ Soft moonlight fell on Elizabeth’s face, sparkling on her hair, smoothing away the lines that cruel daylight illuminated, making her look young. She caught Craven’s sleeve and he could feel the warmth of her fingers and her need for reassurance too.

‘He looked …’
Dead.

What was he supposed to say? There were no words that could bring her solace. Elizabeth and Frederick had been that most unfashionable and unusual of couples, a royal love match. Her pain was etched not only in the lines of her face but also in the cadence of her voice as she spoke of him.

Craven had never experienced such powerful emotion himself and was not sure he had the imagination ever to do so but he respected Elizabeth’s loss because it was a part of her. She was too honest and open to love with reservation. When she gave she held nothing back, which was an invitation to hurt.

‘Peaceful,’ he said. ‘He looked peaceful.’

He had found the right words after all. She smiled at him, radiant, and his heart thumped. He reminded himself
that he was doing this for her good, lying to her so that she would be free of the past, no longer haunted by the mirror, the pearl, the curse.

She let her hand fall but she did not step away from him.

‘You have the items for me?’

‘Aye madam.’ He fumbled in the inner pocket of his jacket. Now that the moment had come he found his hands were shaking. He felt like a felon.

‘The cross.’ He passed the velvet bag that contained the cross of rosy gold. ‘The ring.’ The huge sapphire gleamed in the moonlight for a moment. If Elizabeth had any sense, he thought, she would sell that for a fortune and live off it for years.

‘Thank you.’ He could not see her expression but her voice was full of gratitude. ‘What of the rest?’

‘I left his sword,’ Craven said. ‘He was …’ God forgive him another lie, ‘he was a soldier.’

She nodded, her face grave, then she raised her gaze to his. Craven’s heart lurched. This was the moment.

‘And the other matter?’

‘Is finished.’ He spoke curtly as though the tone would hide his guilt, convince her of his sincerity. ‘The mirror is gone.’

‘What did you do with it?’

Craven was silent for a moment. ‘It is better that you do not know, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘That way you will not think on it.’

‘That way,’ Elizabeth said wryly, ‘I will always wonder.’

‘It was destroyed in a fire.’ Craven turned away, unable to give her the lie direct to her face. He walked across to the
edge of the clearing. This hilltop, the ‘King’s Seat’ as it was known locally, had always been one of Frederick’s favourite views. From here Craven could see the line of the Rhine stretching like a silver ribbon away to the west, towards Frederick’s ancestral lands. He would never see them again now though perhaps one day his sons would finally inherit.

‘It destroyed itself,’ he said. He spoke with his back to Elizabeth, afraid he would betray himself if he looked at her. ‘It turned the power of the fire inward and burned up.’

He put every ounce of conviction he possessed into the words and after a moment he heard her sigh. There was a soft rustle of skirts as she walked towards him.

‘It is fitting that it should be so,’ she said simply, and Craven felt a huge rush of relief. He turned to face Elizabeth and she was smiling at him. She came up to him and put both her hands in his, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He felt the touch of her lips through his whole body.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have done me a great service, William. I will never forget it.’

He should have felt guilt then but he did not, only happiness because he had made her happy.

Elizabeth placed a hand against Craven’s chest and tilted her head to look up at him. A strand of her hair brushed his cheek. She was so close Craven could smell her perfume and feel her warmth. In the dark, with the moon hidden by hurrying clouds now, he could see little of her yet his senses were acutely aware of her. He fought the attraction. He had fought it before, knowing it was wrong, that it could never be.

‘Will you stay, now that you are back?’ she said simply.

He would have given her half his fortune had she asked it of him. Hell, he would have given her all of it. A few minutes before he had been reflecting that he could never love as Elizabeth had loved Frederick. Yet what else could he call this feeling he had for her, this stubborn loyalty he felt? He knew it was an easy thing to fall in love with the Winter Queen. He had seen plenty of other men succumb to her charm. Even he, a dour soldier, was not immune to it. Elizabeth had charm and gallantry. She was a talisman, the embodiment of a cause. They pledged their lives to her because it felt like a honourable course of action. Yet those men were in love with a chimera. The Elizabeth he loved was real.

Love.

There was alchemy in the feeling. Even though he did not believe in magic he could feel the slide of emotion inside him. It was completely alien to him, unknown, unwanted, more frightening than facing the imperial army in battle.

He cleared his throat. ‘I am, as always, yours to command, Your Majesty,’ he said. He saw that she was shivering and slipped the cloak from his shoulders to wrap about her. She grasped it close, turning her cheek against the collar where it was warm from his body.

‘What would I do without you, Craven?’ she said.

‘Let us hope,’ Craven said, ‘that we never find out.’

Guilt for the lies he had told her pricked him again.

It is for her good, he told himself. I do it for her.

A breath of wind disturbed the air, rippling through the poplars, raising a whisper. A dark cloud tracked across
the moon and for a second the river gleamed red in the darkness, the colour of blood.

Elizabeth had seen it too. He saw the darkness come back into her eyes. ‘I feel so guilty,’ she said.

Craven jumped. The words echoed his own feelings so precisely that for a moment he thought she was accusing him of something rather than speaking of herself.

‘You?’ he said gruffly. ‘Why?’

She did not look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the distant silver ripple of the water.

‘Everyone thinks me a loyal widow,’ she murmured, ‘and I am. I observe the rituals of mourning. I do my duty. Yet inside—’ She pressed a hand to her breast. Her voice was so low now Craven had to strain to hear it.

‘All I feel is relief,’ she said. ‘I am glad it is over. I betray Frederick’s memory every moment of every day in my thoughts.’ She sounded desolate now, unable to bear the weight of her own perfidy. ‘I loved him so much,’ she said, ‘but over time it became too difficult. I became impatient of his failings. I thought him weak. God forgive me, there were times that I
despised
him.’

Craven caught her hand. His heart was pounding. ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘No one needs to know your thoughts. They are between you and God alone—’

‘But can you understand the guilt, William?’ Elizabeth broke in. ‘The weight of it? The endless pretence?’

Oh yes, he understood the weight of guilt. The irony was that he could not tell her why.

‘Majesty—’

‘I wanted someone strong,’ Elizabeth said simply. ‘I
wanted you, William. Every time you came to me with his letters. Every time I heard reports of your valour in battle whilst Frederick waited behind the lines for other men to win him his kingdom. That day when you saved me out here in the woods.’ He could feel her trembling, her passion restrained by such a thin thread. Any moment it might snap. The lust surged in him. He wanted her too, this queen of hearts, with all her charm and her beauty and her gallantry. He wanted to possess that.

And there was no noble reason restraining him, only his guilt, dark and monstrous and the thought that he could not compound his betrayal of her by making love to her when he had lied and lied.

He was grateful for the darkness that disguised how much he wanted her. He let go of her hand, not daring to touch her another second for fear he would crush her to him and take her here in the wild woods. Just the thought made his blood heat. He had only shreds of honour left but he held on to those.

‘Madam,’ he said gruffly. ‘I am not worthy of your regard.’

It was another lie for it did not matter to him that he was the son of a cloth merchant and she a princess, but it was a convenient lie, and one she would understand.

For a second there was silence and then he heard her sigh. She stepped back and he felt her dignity fall around her like a cloak.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, and her voice was cool again, all passion gone. ‘I am distraught. I spoke that way out of confusion.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

So easily and with so few words were such matters as taking a lover – or not – swept aside. And as soon as she had turned away he wanted her all the more. He thought of her offering herself to another of her squires – Keevill, perhaps, or Erroll – and every possessive instinct in him flared. Yet he had turned her away, even if it had been for reasons he had thought worthy but which now felt hollow.

They rode back to the palace slowly and as soon as he had seen Elizabeth safe within he went to find Margaret. She was dining with friends, but he was in no mood to wait; he caught her eye and she excused herself at once and came out to him. Without a word he took her wrist and led her out of the chamber and down the curving stair to his rooms, kicking the door shut behind them, careless of the open shutters laying wide the labyrinth garden beyond the window. He slammed her against the wall and lifted her, pushing her dress up to her thighs. She was hot and eager as he slid into her, wrapping her legs about him, but even as the pleasure blinded him it was Elizabeth he was thinking of before his mind went dark.