Precious Bones (4 page)

Chapter 11

The move went smoothly, and I was thrilled when the moving men finally left and I was alone in my new home.  Tristan had come with me in the morning and helped carry boxes and move furniture from place to place until it felt just right.  I still had a ton of unpacking to do, but the important things had been done.  My coffee maker was already on the counter, favorite blue-and-white mugs in the kitchen cabinet, and my computer on my desk in one of the smaller bedrooms, which I decided to use as an office.  All I had to do today was find clean linens and make up my bed in the master bedroom.  Everything else could wait until tomorrow. 

I was tired and hungry
, and after I finished with my bedroom, I went down to the kitchen to fix myself a snack.  I sat at the kitchen table looking at the alcove.  I had a brief vision of a young man, dressed only in breeches, hose, and a linen shirt, laying the stones with grim purpose.  He wiped away a tear, or was it sweat, and then the image vanished. 

I decided that I must be more tired th
an I thought and went up to bed.  I must have fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow, because when I woke up it was well past midnight.  I knew something had woken me, but it wasn’t until the knocking began again that I realized what it was.  I had left the curtains open and could just make out the ghostly shape of an arm-like branch through the leaded window.  The sinister shadow of the gnarled, clawed branch came closer and receded with the wind, and I watched the shadows shifting against the wall as wispy clouds raced across the face of the moon.     

I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but I suddenly felt wakeful.  An idea was taking place in my mind
, and I turned on the bedside lamp and reached for the necklace on the nightstand.  I lovingly caressed the etching on the cover and opened the locket.  I would write about her, the mysterious woman whose miniature portrait was concealed inside.  Surely she must have had a story.  I would give her a voice once again. 

The first thing she needed was a name.  I thought of the initials engraved inside the cover.  “C&R” entwined with vines and flowers.  Assuming that she was “C” what name could I give her
?  She could have been Catherine or Clarisse or even Charity, but the names didn’t feel right.  I tried to think of C names popular in Elizabethan times.  Could it be Caroline?  Was that name popular then?  Christina?  What if she had been French, and her name was Charmaine or Claudette?  None of the names I thought of rang true, and I ran my thumb over the image of the young woman.  “What’s your name?” I whispered.  Suddenly, it came to me.  Constance.  That would be a name popular during the Tudor period and I’ve always liked it.  Yes, she would be Constance. 

Now what about my leading man?  Robert Dudley, Earl of Leister popped into my head.   As the reputed lover of Queen Elizabeth, to me his name was
synonymous with the age, but Robert or Robin seemed too common.  I would call him Richard, I decided.  Constance and Richard.  With that thought, I drifted off to sleep and slept peacefully, until Tristan arrived on my doorstep in the morning bearing muffins and a potted plant for my office.

Tristan seemed a little more reconciled to my new home and suggested a drive in the country, since he had the day off.  I would have liked to stay home and start writing, but the peace between us was so fragile that I readily agreed and went to get ready.  I didn’t care where we went as long as we were together and not fighting.  I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a muffin out of the box Tristan brought
, and slammed the door shut behind me.  Tristan’s sleek Jaguar was parked right outside the gate, and I got into the passenger seat eager to leave the city behind.  There was an estate sale that Tristan wanted to go to right outside of Canterbury, and I was happy to come along for the ride.  As a writer, I loved poking through other’s people’s private things, and this would be a welcome distraction from the tension of the past few weeks.  Maybe I would even buy some knickknack for the house. 

As we left the city, I rolled down the window, enjoying the fresh April breeze blowing in my face.  The countryside around us was bursting with new life
, and I inhaled the smell of damp earth and new grass as I watched fluffy sheep lazily munching their cud on the sun-dappled slopes.  Tristan took his hand off the wheel and brought my hand to his lips kissing my palm.  This was his way of saying that everything was all right between us again, and I felt happy and carefree as we sped towards the cathedral city of Canterbury. 

The estate sale proved a
disappointment, boasting a lot of bad paintings of livestock, some tacky jewelry, and furniture that was more old than antique.  We strolled around for a little while enjoying the lovely gardens and then drove into Canterbury for a leisurely lunch.  I had been to Canterbury several times before, but I always loved coming back.   The cathedral town was a seamless combination of old and new, and I loved the irony of modern shops and internet cafes housed in the medieval buildings. 

We
always ended our visit by stopping at the Cathedral.  I loved to see the intricately carved towers of the Cathedral outlined against the sky, and the lacy stonework adorning every inch of the building.  The place filled me with a sense of awe as we walked down the wide nave toward the altar.  Arrows of colored light slanted across the stone floor as the sun streamed through the magnificent stained glass windows, and I felt a sense of peace as I was enveloped by the hush of the cavernous space.  I knelt before the altar, thinking of all the holy men and sinners who’ve come before me, and said a prayer.  Tristan, who had been raised an atheist, sighed impatiently behind me and I crossed myself, rising to my feet.

 
I could never leave the Cathedral without visiting my favorite places.  I always stopped by the tomb of the Black Prince, and said a quick prayer at the end of the Northwest transept where Thomas Beckett had been murdered.   Tristan was more than ready to leave, but I wanted to visit the ruins of the Benedictine Abbey of St. Augustine, and he dutifully tagged along.  I’d never seen a ruin I didn’t want to explore, and my imagination always ran wild as I walked along the crumbling walls; picturing the Abbey as it must have been when it was full of devout monks going about their daily tasks and devoting their lives to the glory of God. 

By the time we got back to London it was after 9pm
, and Tristan dropped me off in front of my door and took off, claiming an early-morning meeting.  I was relieved that he didn’t come in and went straight to my office.  I was burning to start writing.  The characters were already taking over my mind and having imaginary dialogues in my head.  I flipped open my laptop and opened a new document.  I started typing, but when I was only a few pages into my manuscript, I had a strange desire to turn off the lights and work by candlelight.  I went downstairs and rummaged in one of the open boxes until I found a thick, lavender scented candle and brought it upstairs.  I lit the candle and watched the shadows play across the walls and ceiling as I settled before the computer again -- and then I saw them.   

They were lost in shadow, but I could sense them
, and hear snippets of their long-forgotten conversation.  They moved through the house as if the years had not flown by, and they were still the masters of the house in Carter Lane.  My fingers flew over the keyboard as I became lost in their world, and before I knew it, the night was giving way to a new day and I was achy and tired.  My eyes burned from lack of sleep, so I saved my work, and fell into bed still fully dressed, a satisfied smile on my lips.

Chapter 12

March
1586

Richard walked through the numerous rooms of Whitehall palace on his way to the private chamber of Sir Francis Walsingham.   The palace was already humming with activity despite the earliness of the hour, and Richard walked through the audience chamber exchanging greetings with numerous acquaintances and a few of the Queen’s ladies.   By the time he entered Walsingham’s apartments, several people were already there seated around the long, rectangular table with Sir Francis himself at the head.  The Secretary was wearing his chain of office, the golden links the only color on his somberly dressed person, aside from his white ruff.  He looked tired and ill, giving credence to the reports that his health was failing.  

Sir Edward Norris
occupied the place of honor to the right of Walsingham, his soft brown eyes an odd contradiction to his cruel nature.  Robert Poley sat next to Norris, as usual.  He was a pretty young man, who used his charm and good looks to get into good graces of the people he was frequently trying to destroy.  There were two other men he barely knew who brought reports from France and Spain, and Stephen Cole.  Richard listened politely as Cole advised the assembled group regarding a possible plot against Sir Francis Drake of Her Majesty’s Navy.

  Drake was a much
-beloved figure, and the greatest admiral the English fleet had ever seen.  He was worshiped as a hero by the common man and much loved by the Queen.  His safety was paramount, and his presence was essential to the success of any battle taking place at sea.  Poley shared the whereabouts of several new Roman priests recently arrived on English soil.  One of the priests had already been apprehended and was being held at the Tower for questioning, which was just a euphemism for torture.  Richard knew that the man would be beaten and racked until he would admit to being the Devil himself. 

Finally, it was his turn to make a report and he turned, directing his comments straight to Walsingham.  “Mr. Secretary, I have been watching the Thornes for two weeks now
, and I see no evidence that they are involved in anything other than clandestine popish practices.  They meet with other Catholics once a week at various houses to celebrate Mass, but leave immediately after, and also attend their parish church on Sundays.  I have made the acquaintance of Mistress Constance Thorne and will call on her later today.”  Walsingham nodded thoughtfully. 

“Maybe you should allow me to question Mistress Thorne, Mr. Secretary,” volunteered
Edward Norris, “I have no doubt that I can extract pertinent information from her much quicker than Mr. Carlisle. “  He gave Richard a sly smile and turned respectfully to Walsingham.

“You have no grounds for torturing an innocent young woman,” Richard retorted.  “There is absolutely no evidence against her.”

Walsingham looked from one agent to the other and raised his hand to silence them.  “Gentlemen, let us not forget that we are on the same side, and our main objective is not to torture people, but to protect our Sovereign and this great nation.   Sir Edward, you will not interfere with Mr. Carlisle’s investigation and you, Mr. Carlisle, will have better results for us the next time we meet.  I believe we are finished for today.  Good day to you, gentlemen.”  With that he rose and left the room with Norris on his heels.   Richard got up to leave with the rest.     

He didn’t tell Walsingham the whole truth.  He suspected that one of the families hosting the Mass was hiding a priest in their household, but he couldn’t be certain and didn’t want to subject the suspects to unnecessary questioning by the likes of Norris.  He would find out more
, and the best place to start would be to befriend Constance Thorne and her sister.  Richard knew he would do everything possible to prevent them falling into the hands of Norris.  As he walked out of the palace, he was reflecting on how deceiving appearances could be.  Edward Norris had been a courtier for years and he was a favorite of the Queen.  He prided himself on his devotion to the great lady and swore to do everything possible to protect her.  In truth, Richard thought he was protecting his fortune and social standing, and indulging his love of power.  Norris was a handsome man in his early forties and his gentle, brown eyes, and smiling mouth disguised his cruel, bloodthirsty nature.  Very few people survived “questioning” by Norris, and Richard was loath to give him any opportunity to go after the Thornes.

After stopping off at home and collecting John and the carriage, Richard set out for Blackfriars to pay a call on Constance.  He settled back against the padded seat and closed his eyes.  Despite the fact that he wasn’t actually courting the lady, he was terribly nervous.  His experience with women had not been a happy one
, and he wished he could deal with men instead.   It was more straightforward and honorable.  He thought of his late wife and sighed. 

He first set eyes on Amelia when he was eighteen and she was fifteen.  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen
, and he had been breathless with admiration as he saw her coming out of the rain and into the church.  Her huge blue eyes were fringed with sooty lashes, and the blond curls that escaped from under the hood of her cloak were damp from the rain.  The rich blue velvet of her cloak set off her porcelain skin and pouty lips and Richard was struck dumb as she walked past him with her parents and settled into a pew. 

Richard’s father knew the family
, and Richard begged for an introduction.  Amelia did not disappoint.  She was sweet, pious, and demure, and she blushed prettily when Richard declared his love for her a mere week later.  He wished his mother was still alive to meet his bride, but she died when he was a child leaving him with very limited experience of women and love.  His older sister, Charlotte, was already married and living in Lincolnshire with her husband, so her good opinion was not to be had either.  Richard was no virgin, but his experience was limited to willing serving girls.  The thought of making love to Amelia left him vibrating with anticipation, and he fantasized about her flushed face as he took her naked body in his arms and made her his. 

Richard was so impatient he barely made it through the wedding service and the feast
that followed, living only for the moment when they would finally be alone.  At last, the moment came, and he entered the bridal chamber ready to make Amelia his true wife.  His bride was on her knees praying, clad in a lacy cap and a linen nightgown that covered her from head to toe.  She wouldn’t meet Richard’s eyes and froze when he tried to kiss her.  Richard untied the laces of her cap and took it off, releasing her glorious, blond hair and watching it tumble down her back.  She was so beautiful, he could hardly breathe.  He tried to untie the laces of the gown, but Amelia covered them with her hands and scrambled into bed pulling the coverlet up to her chin.  Richard was amused by her skittishness, but it was understandable.  She was a girl of fifteen who had no experience of men.  She was scared.  He would be gentle and understanding, and she would discover the joys of love at his hands. 

Richard climbed in
to bed with his wife and kissed her gently on the lips.  She did not respond; just lay there stiffly, staring at the canopy above their heads.  Richard tried to touch her breast, but she pushed away his hand without meeting his gaze, tears sliding down her cheeks.  He tried to comfort her, whispering words of love and devotion, but his bride remained unmoved.  When he finally pushed up her nightgown and exercised his husbandly rights, she sobbed silently; her eyes squeezed shut, much like her legs.  She was still crying when he fell asleep and was already up and gone by the time he woke up. 

Richard was not discouraged.  It was only the first night.  She would get used to him and eventually, she would feel comfortable enough to let him touch her and teach her.  After two months, he was beginning to doubt his theory.  Amelia would start weeping every time his hand
so much as went to the laces of his breeches, and although she didn’t deny him, her misery was so acute that Richard tried less and less.  There was no pleasure in taking her.  He felt guilty, frustrated and rejected.  He finally consulted his father, who advised him to get her with child as soon as possible and take a mistress.  

Swiv
ing another woman seemed an awful betrayal of Amelia, so Richard tried to make his marriage work.  He tried talking to her of the things she liked; he took her to see a play when a company of players came by their town, and bought her little trinkets to please her.  She answered his questions, clapped her hands at the play and dutifully wore the trinkets, but their relations did not get any warmer.  Despite everything she became pregnant, and Richard fervently hoped that having a child would change things for the better.  He no longer came to her at night and often fell asleep frustrated, his loins aching for release.  He did not take a mistress or ever push a serving girl up against the wall.  He would honor his marriage vows and be faithful to his wife. 

Amelia was not excited about the child and refused to even talk about her pregnancy.  She pretended as if it wasn’t happening.  Richard hoped it would be a boy, but a girl would be just as nice.  Maybe she would look
like Amelia with golden curls and blue eyes.  When Amelia’s pains finally came, she was white with fear and screamed at Richard to leave.  He retreated to the library with a decanter of brandy, waiting for the good news.  Day turned to night and still there was no baby.  Amelia’s screams tore through his heart, and he prayed that the babe would come soon sparing her any more pain.  Every time he went upstairs to ask for news of his wife, he was shooed out of the room by the physician and told that he would be informed in due course.  By the time the sun rose on another day, Amelia was still laboring.  Her screams had become hoarse and desperate, and they sounded weaker and weaker as the morning wore on.  Richard had consumed enough brandy to fell an ox and must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up, all was quiet.  He roused himself as the knock on the library door became more insistent.  It was the physician himself.  Richard rose from the chair, but the look on the doctor’s face froze him in his tracks. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Carlisle.  I did everything I could.
  I was forced to perform a caesarean, but it was too late.”  The doctor looked small and scared standing in the doorway and Richard felt strangely sorry for him.

“I am sure you did, Mr. Gibson.  And the child…”

“I am sorry.  The babe was in a breeched presentation with the cord around its neck.  We couldn’t save her.”

“Her…”  Richard whispered.  It had been a girl
; a daughter to love and protect and now nothing but a tiny purple corpse lying next to his wife.  Richard went upstairs and entered the room unchallenged.  Amelia lay peacefully on the bed, looking as if she was resting after her ordeal.  Her damp hair was plastered to her forehead, and the coverlet had been pulled up over her butchered stomach.  A wad of bloody sheets was visible in the corner, a basin full of blood standing on a chair next to the bed.  Richard gently touched the tiny head of the infant resting on Amelia’s chest.  It had dark fuzz and its eyes were tightly shut against a world it would never see. 

Richard fell to his knees by the bed and cried until he thought his heart
would break.  He had killed her.  He had killed Amelia with his lust.  This was his punishment for forcing her and getting her with child.  Now he was heartbroken and alone, his wife and child taken from him.  He stayed by the bed until his father quietly entered the room and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come away, son.  There is nothing more you can do.” 
He led Richard out of the room and out of the house, taking him back to his childhood home.  Richard’s sister, Charlotte, was there to greet them, and she took Richard by the hand and led him into the house, whispering words of comfort. 

Richard never went back home.  He couldn’t stand the sight of the house or any reminder of Amelia.  His father made all the necessary arrangements and eventually sold the house with everything in it.  Richard remained at the family home
, desperately trying to drink himself to death.  After a year, his father finally wrote to his old friend Francis Walsingham and begged him to take his son into his employ and bring him to Court.  Richard was packed off to London to begin a new life.  He used the proceeds from his estate to buy a little house in Cheapside, and eventually began to enjoy the life of a single man at Court.  He learned to flatter the Queen, and cultivate the acquaintance of important men, and life suddenly became bearable again. 

The ladies of the
Court were like nothing he had ever seen in the country.    Dressed in sumptuous silks and velvets and dripping with extravagant jewels, they were like priceless works of art, too precious to even consider touching.   Richard was dazzled by their beauty and intimidated by their wit and they in turn, found him to be a charming youth, who needed a few lessons in court intrigue and the art of love.  A few affairs followed, but Richard quickly discovered that the glittering jewels of the Queen’s Court were all just paste underneath.  The women were nothing more than whores dressed up as ladies and looking to sell their favors to the highest bidder. 

Despite
Richard’s wealth, he had no power or a title, and his ardor was quickly discarded for someone who had more to offer.  He would have retreated from Court, but the Queen liked to have him around and ordered him to stay.  She liked to surround herself with beautiful young people, and demanded constant declarations of devotion and love from the young men, who were only too happy to indulge the old lady, hoping for favors and titles.  They wrote pretty verses dedicated to her beauty, and sang songs of love to charm the old spinster.  Some even had secret aspirations of becoming her consort, but Richard didn’t think Elizabeth was likely to share her power with anyone.  She had several favorite courtiers, and played with them like a cat plays with mice just before it eats them.