Transcendence (3 page)

There is a hush in the air, a feeling of dreaded expectation. In one hand I hold a small book, and in the other, a white lace handkerchief and the silk bag containing some coins and the silver pendant that is the last thing Connor gave me. My heart is beating so fast, it feels that at any minute it will rip out of my chest. I know that as much as I want to run and scream, I am to comport myself like a lady and to behave in a manner that is expected of my station in life. My heavy black dress is scratchy at the neck, and I rub the material between my fingers as the wooden surface above me is prepared. There are few other people in the yard, although there is a great deal of low whispering. The air is heavy with the threat of rain and the smell of the straw that is strewn
about the wooden floor of the platform. The soldier standing next to me nods sharply, and I know it is time
.

My feet find their way first to one step and then the next, until I am standing on the raised surface. A muffled cry comes from my lady-in-waiting, and I glance at her briefly before focusing my attention to the matter at hand. I am compelled to believe that someone will call off this insanity before it is too late. I have done nothing wrong, only loved my husband with all my heart—and for this we are both to die? I go through the motions, secure in the knowledge that a just God will never allow the deed to be carried out
.

All eyes are on me as I open my little money bag and draw out the coins and Connor’s pendant, the ruby in the center blazing brightly despite the somber morning. I run my finger quickly over the curve at the top of the cross. The money means nothing to me, but handing a stranger the necklace that is the symbol of my most cherished relationship is devastating. I know Connor is dead, executed in the chaos of Tower Hill, and this feels like the last connection to my beloved
.

My fingers tremble, and for a moment I fear I will drop the coins and pendant before they land with a soft clink in the palm of the masked executioner. I find myself surprised that his waiting hand also trembles, and I glance up into his dark brown eyes, which are the only visible parts of his face. Rather than look into mine, he turns away and stares across the lawn, folding the payment into his palm with an air of finality
.

I press my handkerchief and prayer book into the waiting hands of my lady, whose silent weeping is escalating into what I
fear will be a noisy crescendo. I give her tiny pale hand a squeeze, attempting to assure her, despite my pounding heart and shortness of breath, that all will be well in the end. The executioner kneels at my feet, his eyes averted, and I grant the customary forgiveness with a wave of my hand. It is as if we are in a play, with each person knowing his assigned part and dispatched to complete the tasks in order
.

With forgiveness granted, he stands and indicates the small, square block positioned toward the front of the platform. I search the crowd, wondering which one of the men standing at attention will be the one to stop this. I decline to make the expected declaration of guilt, standing tall before the assembly and saying only, “In my life I have never so much as imagined a traitorous thought against His Majesty.”

The masked headsman holds out a simple white handkerchief to cover my eyes, but I push it away. “I do not fear the axe,” I say, loudly enough for those standing closest to the scaffold to hear. I stare into his eyes and can feel his indecision as he helps me onto my knees, for with a light touch, he holds my elbow, only reluctantly releasing it when I am positioned before the block
.

As is my part, I put my neck on the wooden block, pulling my plait aside so that the cold wind reaches the bare white skin of my neck. My breath is coming rapidly, as if I cannot force the air into my lungs quickly enough
.

The signal must have been given, for next I hear from below the scaffold, “What dost thou fear, headsman? Strike as you must!” and I am confident I will be spared. The headsman will not raise the axe to an innocent neck! Turning my head only slightly, I see
his boots take one step back and the curved metal blade of the axe lift from the straw. “I cannot save you, my lady,” the headsman whispers hoarsely, and I glance up to see a blur of motion and a flash of metal as the blade rips through the air—

“Damn, Cole, what happened?” Kat is standing over me, blocking out the bright sunshine that has reappeared over her head. “One second you’re taking a picture, and the next minute you’re flat on your ass.”

I shake my head to clear it, panic filling my chest. The other visions I’ve had were short, like quick glimpses into another time, but this one is different. I can still feel the emotions that were running through the girl’s mind as she stood on the scaffold. Her pounding heart, the sense of betrayal. It all felt so real.

“Don’t get up too fast,” the guy I’ve run into says. He puts his hand on my back to help me up, but as we touch, he pulls away as if he’s been shocked. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. His voice holds both recognition and astonishment.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Visiting the Tower.” What else would I be doing here? I study him more closely. His eyes are a distinctive shade of light brown rimmed with gold, and his skin is just dark enough to make them startling. I’d definitely remember if I’d seen him before.

He seems completely flustered. “Of course. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He puts his hand out. “Let me help you up.”

“I’m okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. So far it just looks like this guy and his friend. I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

“Griffon has a habit of running into pretty girls,” the friend says with a Scottish accent that makes Kat’s eyes light up. “But he usually stops short of knocking them over.”

Griffon looks irritated. “Owen. Seriously?”

Kat takes a step closer to Owen. Griffon is obviously American, so he’s off her radar, but Owen’s accent is so thick you can barely understand a word he’s saying. “Oh, it’s totally her fault,” she says. “Not looking where she’s going again.”

Griffon looks embarrassed but says nothing, glancing away quickly as if the whole scene is making him uncomfortable too. His gestures are quick, like he’s nervous about something. “I’m not so sure,” he says quietly. “You might need a trip to the infirmary.”

I brush off the back of my jeans and try to slow my racing thoughts. “No, I’m sure. It’s probably just jet lag. And maybe dehydration. No big deal.”

“Are these young men bothering you, ladies?” Our tour guide appears behind Kat. “I’ve had my eye on them all day as the trouble-making sort. I can get them tossed off the property if you wish.” The guard has a smile on his face, but I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

“No, no,” Kat insists. I can tell that she wants Owen to stick around. “My sister passed out a little and they were just helping.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guard says, with a look of concern. “Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes. Really, I’m fine,” I say, the images from before flashing through my mind. I need to get out of here and clear my head. Enough communing with history—I just want to get back to the hotel. “Come on, Kat, let’s go.”

“If you won’t go to the infirmary, at the very least allow this young man to buy you a cup of tea at the café,” the guard says. He pulls out some colorful bills. “On me.”

I know my face is beet red by now. This is all getting way out of control. “I couldn’t do that,” I say. I manage to walk a few yards toward the green and am starting to feel a little better. I find a bench and sit down hard on it. “I just need to sit down for a few minutes.”

“As a Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London, I insist that you get some tea,” he says, handing the bills to Griffon. “As this young man’s father, I insist that he accompany you.” I almost miss the look that passes between them. Griffon shakes his head slightly as if to answer an unspoken question.

“I’m leaving you in the boys’ capable hands. If you need any further assistance, please do not hesitate to ask,” the guard says, and with a tip of his hat, he walks toward the waiting tour group with long strides.

“Wow, is that guy really your dad?” Kat asks as she watches him resume his duties.

Griffon nods slowly. “We, ah … we don’t look that much alike.” With his curly hair and dark skin, that’s the biggest understatement I’ve heard in a while.

“But he said on the tour that all of the guards actually live at the Tower.” Kat looks at him with growing interest. “Do you live here too? Right up next to the Crown Jewels?”

“Sometimes. During school I live in the States with my mom,” he says. “But during breaks and summer I come over to visit.”

Kat looks around at the buildings of the Tower. “So, which one
do you live in? Is it haunted? Doesn’t it freak you out? Oh my gosh, what’s it like around here at night?”

Griffon smiles slightly, revealing deep dimples on each side of his mouth. “That round tower by the front entrance. That’s where Dad lives and where I stay when I’m here.”

“Isn’t that creepy?” Kat asks.

“Depends on who you ask,” Owen says, smiling at her. “The door to the bedroom is the same prison door that’s been there since the fifteen hundreds. Late at night you can still hear the echoes of the prisoners pounding on the heavy wood.”

“Knock it off,” Griffon says. He turns to Kat. “There’s no pounding, no bloody heads. Just a little wind through the leaky windows on a cold night. It’s really no big deal.”

Kat shivers and looks toward the building, obviously enjoying Owen’s story more than Griffon’s.

“Now let’s go get that tea,” Griffon says. “Otherwise Dad’ll have my hide for not being a proper host.”

“I don’t really think that tea will help—” I begin.

“Of course it won’t.” Griffon stands up. “But the English believe that tea cures everything, so humor him.”

I get the sense that he’s only doing his duty, and I want to let him off the hook. How many crazy tourists does he run into every day? Okay, maybe not
literally
, but I’m sure he has better things to do than play tour guide. “Kat really wants to see the Crown Jewels,” I say, glancing toward the building. A quick trip to see the Jewels, and then I can go back to the hotel, lock the bathroom door, and lose it for real. I can probably keep it together that long. “Might as well get it over with.”

“The last thing you need is to stand in a stifling queue,” he says. He looks over at the growing line. “And it’s not going to get any better than this for the rest of the day.”

Owen looks at me. “Tell you what. If you really don’t care”—he turns to Kat—“and you really don’t mind, then why don’t I give you my famous tour of the Jewels, and Griffon can take your sister to the café right on the other side of the White Tower? We’ll meet them there when we’re done.”

Kat shifts her weight on the high heels that look so out of place, not to mention uncomfortable. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asks me, glancing meaningfully at Owen.

I hesitate. She’d never forgive me if I took this opportunity away from her. “I don’t if you don’t.”

“Great. We’ll meet you at the café as soon as we’re done.” She barely gets the words out before she’s wobbling across the cobblestones, walking so close to Owen that I think she’s going to knock him over. He reaches out to catch her and then leaves his hand on her arm as they continue walking. I suddenly see why Kat insists on wearing totally impractical shoes all the time.

“You sure you’re okay?” Griffon asks as soon as we’re alone.

“I’m fine. Really.” At least my stomach has finally stopped churning.

“Right. I’ll stop asking. The Armouries Café is right in that building over there,” he says. We walk a little way in silence, but I notice more than a few guards grinning at him as we pass. My mind is racing, but I can’t seem to think of a single thing to say.

“Two truths and a lie,” Griffon says suddenly, turning to look at me.

“Two what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Truths. And a lie. You tell me two things that are true and one that is a lie, and I have to guess which is which.”

“Sort of like Truth or Dare?”

“Right. But instead of a dare, give me a lie. But make it a good one. Something believable.”

I think for a second, but my mind is a total blank. I can’t think of a single thing about me, true or not. “You first,” I say, trying to buy some time to come up with something that might make me sound interesting and a little mysterious.

“Okay,” he says. “Um … I’ve had dinner with Oprah Winfrey.”

I watch him carefully, but I don’t see anything, no matter how unbelievable this sounds. There’s no way I can tell him that I can pretty much always tell when people are lying. There’s something in their eyes or the way they move when they’re talking that always gives it away.

“My favorite food is peanut butter,” he continues, and in a split second I see it. A brief twitch of his mouth that tells me this is the lie. “And I have a tattoo.”

“So you’re probably not going to order peanut butter and jelly for lunch.”

He stares at me and breaks into a big grin. “Right! I hate peanut butter. How did you know?”

I shrug. “Lucky guess.”

“If you say so,” he says skeptically.

“So you really did have dinner with Oprah?”

“I really did. Do you want to see my tattoo?”

If he’s offering, I’m assuming it’s in a public-friendly place. “Sure.”

Griffon holds up his right hand and points to a spot between his thumb and index finger. “Right there.”

I don’t see anything. “Where?”

He moves his finger out of the way. “Just there. See that dot?”

I look closer and see a tiny black dot a few shades darker than his skin. “Looks like a freckle.”

“It’s not. My friend’s brother had a rig and offered to give us both tattoos. This was as far as I got before I chickened out.” He smiles at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

I laugh a little. I usually hate games like this, but somehow it’s making me feel better. I try to think of the craziest things that have ever happened to me. “Okay. I’ve met the queen. I was switched at birth. And “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”