Precious Bones (13 page)

Chapter
35

August
1586

Edward Norris was the last to arrive at the house of Francis Walsingham.  This briefing was being held in secret, and the Secretary’s house was a safer place to meet than his rooms at the Palace.  Norris took off his hat as he took his seat at the table, nodding a greeting to Walsingham and the only other man in the room, Robert Poley.   A servant poured some wine into the silver goblets in front of each man and let himself out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.  Walsingham looked even more tired and ill than usual, the whiteness of his ruff accentuating the sickly color of his face.  His skeletal hands held an unrolled piece of paper in his hands which he was studying intently, comparing it to something else on the table. 

“You may
preceed, Mr. Poley,” Walsingham said without looking up.  He steepled his fingers in front of his chest and looked down on them as Poley began.

“The letter in your hands is a copy of a letter written by Sir Anthony Babington to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots
, on July 6 of this year.   It is written in code, but we have been able to break the cypher, translating the content.  Babington is informing Mary that he is planning to assassinate the Queen with a few other conspirators.  He is seeking Mary’s approval of the plan, since the death of our beloved Queen would clear the way for Mary’s succession.”

“That’s very impressive, Mr.
Poley.  Please be so kind as to fill in Sir Edward on how you have come by this information.  I want him to be fully cognizant of the depth of this conspiracy.”  Norris sat up listening carefully.  This was riveting stuff.

“Sir Anthony Babington is the third son of Sir Henry Babington and Mary Darcy.  Although the family is publicly Protestant, they have been devout Catholics for generations.  They
do not believe in the legitimacy of our Queen’s claim to the throne, being the bastard daughter of Anne Boleyn.   They don’t recognize Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn as being legitimate and support the claim of Mary Stuart.  

In 1577, Anthony Babington was briefly employed as a page boy in the household of the Earl of Shrewsbury
, where he must have come into contact with Mary Stuart, as the Earl was her gaoler.  Babington left his employment and eventually married, keeping up the pretense of being a royal subject and a faithful Protestant.  It is my belief that while traveling on the Continent, Babington met with other supporters of the Catholic cause and was recruited to carry letters to Mary at the home of his former employer, and even helped smuggle Catholic priests into the country. 

Anthony Babington was introduced to me a short while ago, seeking my
assistance in leaving England with a view to settling in France.  I have been posing as a faithful friend and fellow Catholic in the hope of gaining his confidence.  I was able to obtain copies of several letters that Babington was carrying, and make copies of them while he was in his cups.”  Poley finished his narrative and took a long sip of wine. 

“Mr. Poley, I would have you continue your friendship with Babington until we
have indisputable proof of Mary’s perfidy.  We have enough evidence to convict Babington and execute him for treason, but I want proof -- in Mary’s own hand -- of her involvement in the plot.  Once we have her, the Queen will have no choice but to sign her death warrant, ridding us of that poisonous viper once and for all.”

Walsingham turned his attention to Norris.  “Edward, it has come to my attention that Babington is not only plotting murder, but conducting a dalliance with a certain young
woman who happens to be no other than the sister-in-law of our own Richard Carlisle.  I would have you keep an eye on the girl and her family from afar, not giving away the game.  Carlisle is to know nothing of this, as his loyalty is questionable at the moment.  No moves are to be made against Babington or the Thornes until I command it.  Is that understood?”  Both men nodded their heads.  They could smell blood, and the promise of it excited them.  They would bide their time and strike at the most opportune moment. 

Walsingham rose from the
table signaling that the meeting was over.  He rolled up the letters and took them with him as he left the room.  Poley and Norris followed him out of the door and into the street, parting ways as soon as they walked down the steps.  Norris walked along Seething Lane contemplating what just took place.  He would like nothing more than to take Babington right off the street and torture him into confessing, but Walsingham had expressly forbidden that, and he wasn’t about to antagonize the old man.  He would just have to be patient.  His time would come.  The Thorne girl being involved was an interesting development, and he would keep a close watch on her.  She might not be guilty of anything more than spreading her legs, but a way to get back at Carlisle lay through attacking the Thornes, and that prize was just handed to Edward on a silver platter. 

His desire for Richard had cooled, replaced by a burning hatred that sprang from his thwarted passion
and professional rivalry.  Sometimes, revenge could be just as sweet as love, and maybe he would still get to use Carlisle’s body in the process.  Taking him against his will would be even sweeter.  Norris smiled to himself and turned his steps toward the Palace.  He had business to attend to.

Chapter
36

August 2010

I sat on the sofa with my arms wrapped around my knees.  The rain outside was lashing
mercilessly against the windows, draining all the color out of the room, and making it look like an old sepia photograph.  I hadn’t budged since I arrived back from Brighton this morning.  My thoughts and emotions were like a typhoon spinning out of control through my brain, leaving behind a path of destruction and despair.  I was slowly coming to accept that my relationship with Tristan was over.  There was no going back, no matter what he said or promised.  Whether he chose to pursue his relationship with Joanna was irrelevant at this point.  The damage had been done. 

However, there were other doubts that were
plaguing me.  Both Tristan and Joanna had let it drop that I had been weird, and not myself since I’d heard about the “Bones of Blackfriars”, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I had to admit that they were probably right.  The story had affected me deeply and drove me to buy this house, which was probably not something a sane person would do.  At the time, it seemed like absolutely the right thing, but looking back, I was wondering if I was on some sort of path of self-destruction.  There was no denying that the house had an effect on me. 

I
’d been writing since I was a child, but it was a process perpetuated by no one other than myself.  I imagined my characters, breathed life into them and decided their fate.  It was a creative process that left me feeling fulfilled, and sometimes even a little sad, once I had to say goodbye to my creations and move on to the next project.  This time was different.  

I thought I had created the characters of Constance and Richard, but now I wasn’t so sure.  I think they
’d been there all along.  They came to me every night, as soon as I lit the candles and gave the house the flickering shadows it had been used to in its heyday.  These characters had a life and destiny of their own, and I was merely documenting their existence rather than creating it from scratch.  I was afraid to acknowledge that I was no longer in control, probably had never been, since the day I saw that story on the news.  What did it all mean?  What was happening to me?  Who were these people and what was their connection to me?  Why did they choose me to tell their story?

Maybe these were symptoms of some mental illness
, and I was fooling myself into thinking that I was just doing my job and writing a novel.  The two people closest to me had just left me to figure this out on my own, and I felt scared and lonely.  Camille’s unwavering support made me feel better for a short while, but now I was back in London and my doubts were back in full force. 

I thought of calling Adrian, but his name brought another image into my mind.  I remembered him standing across the street, watching the house as I came by.  He said he
’d been waiting for me.  I never got the chance to ask him about that, but what was his connection to this story?  Did he even have one or had I imagined the whole thing?  I thought of calling my Mum in Oxford, but I decided against it.  Springing this on her would probably cause her terrible anxiety and would only complicate things further.  I needed to figure this out by myself. 

I forced myself to get up off the sofa, stopped by the kitchen to get a glass of water and made my way upstairs to my office.  I spent several hours scouring the internet looking for something that would explain my symptoms.  I came up with
a few options, none of which made me feel any better.  I could be suffering from mental illness, having an adverse reaction to medication, or dealing with unbearable stress.  I desperately hoped it wasn’t mental illness, I hadn’t taken any medication, and hadn’t been experiencing any unusual stress until a few days ago.   None of the explanations fit. 

I continued to look, using different search phrases.  I came across some articles on reincarnation and paranormal activity
, and one name in particular, popped up several times.  I clicked on the link to find out more.  Dr. Platt had been a Professor of Eastern Studies at the University of Edinburgh, but was now retired and writing articles for various publications, while running his own practice out of his house here in London.  He had spent years traveling in India, Tibet, and the Far East studying the religions and mythology of the region, where he came across cases that were too odd to explain by anything other than reincarnation or the presence of spirits who hadn’t been able to pass on to the next world.  As I dialed his office number, I fervently hoped he wasn’t some quack, but I needed someone to help me sort this out and this was as good a place to start as any.

Chapter 37

August
1586

Constance looked wistfully out of the carriage window as it rolled through Hyde Park on a lovely August afternoon.  She had asked John to take her for a drive simply out of desperation.  The first week of her married life had been a challenge, but now that everything had been squared away, Connie had nothing to do.  She started by unpacking her belongings and finding a place for them in her new home.  That didn’t take very long, so she went down to the kitchen to seek out Agnes.  Connie’s parents had a servant years ago when their finances permitted it, but the last few years had been lean and Connie was not accustomed to having help.  She had spent her days cooking, baking, doing the marketing, cleaning, and mending clothes.  Here, it was Agnes’ domain, and Connie quickly learned not to trespass on her territory.  Agnes ran a tight ship, and there was nothing for Connie to do other than approve the menu for supper, and look pretty in her new gowns. 

Constance paid a visit to her old friend, Lady
Mary Devon, but she found the reception a trifle frosty.  Now that she was married to a Protestant, and especially one who worked for the Crown, she was in a no man’s land between Catholics and Protestants, and Lady Devon was guarded and distant.  Connie could understand her position.  She knew enough to have all of them convicted ten times over, and the fate of Father Francis and Mr. Horton still hung like a spectre over them all. 

Father Francis died
a few days ago of wounds inflicted by torture, but he would have been executed had he lived.  He had been thrown into an unmarked pauper’s grave, and all who knew him were in mourning.  Mr. Horton was still in the Tower, not likely to come out whole, or even alive.  Connie wondered if there was a new Jesuit holding Mass for Lady Devon and the rest of their community, but she didn’t bother to ask.  She wouldn’t be told the truth anyway, and now Tom and Jane would likely be affected as well through their association with her and Richard. 

Constance sighed and leaned back against the plush cushion of the seat.  The carriage continued to roll through the
park, but she was no longer looking out.  She had not seen Tom or Jane since the wedding, and was planning to pay them a visit on Sunday after church.  She had deliberated whether to tell Tom about her suspicions regarding Pippa, but had decided against it after a conversation with Richard.  They had been lying in bed wrapped in each other’s arms when Connie decided to seek his counsel.  Richard looked thoughtful as he curled a lock of her hair around his finger. 

“Sweetheart, your suspicions are likely correct, but think of what revealing them will accomplish.  If you tell Tom, he will feel compelled to take immediate action, arousing the suspicions of everyone involved.  If he
suddenly pulls Pippa out of the Milton household, tongues will wag and conclusions will be drawn, likely against Mr. Milton himself.  Tom might also be foolish enough to want to call out Babington in an attempt to defend his sister’s honor, ensuring scandal and most likely an early grave for himself.  Babington is a fine swordsman and will run Tom through before he even has a chance to draw his sword -- if he has one.  ‘Tis best to do nothing.  Babington will tire of her soon and as long as no one knows, no one will be the wiser.”

“He has promised her marriage.  His wife has been ill and he says she won’t last out the
summer,” Connie said feeling guilty about speculating about this poor woman’s death.  Richard let go of her curl and looked surprised. 

“Last I heard
, Lady Babington was in robust health and living in the country with her small daughter.  Pippa is not the first dalliance Babington has been rumored to have.  His wife looks the other way, but his marriage to Pippa is quite impossible, unless he plans to dispose of his wife by other means.  Let me have a quiet word with him.  I will “persuade” him of the error of his ways and with any luck Pippa can walk away from this with her reputation intact.”

Connie knew Richard was right, but it didn’t make her feel any better.  She decided that telling Tom would be a terrible mistake, but the knowledge weighed heavily on her.  Pippa was going down a path of self
-destruction, and after Babington was through with her, no honest man would care to make her his wife.  She was too young to understand the implications of her situation, but Connie knew well enough.  She had heard of girls who fell from grace and wound up on the streets earning a living by selling themselves to anyone with sufficient coin to buy their wares.  Most of them died before they reached thirty, either from disease, hunger, or childbirth.  She was desperately afraid for her sister, and not for the first time, wished her parents were alive to guide them through these difficult times.