Betrayal (6 page)

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Lydia watched as Stokes disappeared through the swinging doors at the stairwell.  She yearned to explore his office, get a sense of him, find out what books he read, what kind of coffee he liked.  She stood in the quiet corridor, her hand still on the doorknob.  Should she go back inside?  Suppose he came back and found her there? What would she do? What could she say?  Lydia heard footsteps coming up behind her. Her heart raced, her palms were slick with sweat, yet she held tight to the doorknob.  If asked, how could she explain her presence here?

Her need to reconnect with her father overruled her fear.  Once inside the small office she inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of cherry pipe tobacco deep into her lungs.  It was familiar and comforting.  Lydia closed her eyes, transported back to the basement office of Charles Hamilton in the Administration Building of Saint Mary’s University on Robie Street in Halifax.  She looked around the familiar book-lined walls of the office with its battered oak desk awash with paper.  ‘Were all university offices the same?’  Lydia wondered.  ‘Was it a rule somewhere that every office be supplied with a huge oak desk and that every flat surface must be lost in a sea of papers?’  Lydia smiled, comforted by the cluttered office. She sat down in the worn leather chair behind the desk.  With her eyes closed, Lydia settled back in the chair with the mix of stale tobacco and the dry dust smell of old books, wrinkling her nose. She felt comforted. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. Looking around she read the titles of the books on the shelves opposite, all psychology texts, without exception. No clue to Stokes, nor to Charles Hamilton either.  The hidden Charles Hamilton would not be revealed here.  With a shock, Lydia realized how it would look if someone came in and found her behind Stokes’ desk.  Lydia pushed the chair back from the desk, then listening at the door, she cautiously opened it a crack to look out before stepping into the corridor.  Hurrying up the stairs and out into the late afternoon sunshine, she looked for Dan and the Camry. She was surprised when Dan pulled up to Hazen Hall, and she quickly climbed in.

“How did it go?” Dan asked.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” Dan continued, as he pulled the car out on to the roadway.

“Oh. Sorry.  I was thinking of something else.  He was called out to a meeting with some big-wig from the government.  We hadn’t gotten much beyond the introductions when he had to leave. He seems to think my dream may contain a message from my unconscious mind.  If it does it’s a mystery to me.”

“Well, dearest, if it’s coming from your unconscious mind it would be a mystery to your conscious mind.  So he mentioned hypnosis. When will you start that?”

“No, we didn’t get that far.  He asked me to tell him about myself and my dream and I was doing it when he was called away.”  Gazing out the window, Lydia continued, “Wouldn’t it be great if I could learn what the dream is trying to tell me? That is, of course, if it
is
trying to tell me something.  I’m starving. I could really go for some good Chinese food.  At the Laughing Buddha, perhaps?” Lydia smiled, knowing it was Dan’s favorite restaurant.

“Sure, the Laughing Buddha is always a hit with me,” Dan said, as he turned the car on to Somerset Street.  They drove to the popular restaurant in contemplative silence.

S
IX

SEPTEMBER 5, 1529

              As the great chapel bell at York Place tolled the three-quarter hour, Elisabeth appraised her charge. Sarah wore a new gown of forest green, with matching ribbons in her coppery curls. Elisabeth walked slowly around the five year old child, nodding her head.  

             
Sarah nervously fingered the skirt of her gown as she watched Elisabeth. She held her head at a tilt as she tried to assess Elisabeth’s thoughts.

             
Elisabeth smiled.  “Yes, you will do.”  Turning from the child, Elisabeth pulled at the gray ticking of her habit to straighten it; then she replaced the gray half-veil on her head with a clean white one. She paused momentarily before the polished tin mirror, yes, she would do too.

             
“Now, we are ready.  Here, take my hand, Sarah.  Be mindful, our lord Cardinal will be present and he shall be most displeased if you act like a monkey.”

             
At the entrance to the Great Hall Elisabeth and Sarah waited as George Cavendish announced their arrival... He knelt before the dais waiting quietly for his Master to acknowledge him. 

             
The hall bustled with movement, the Cardinal’s minstrels played their instruments, and Cavendish waited.  Kitchen servants entered the hall to set the trenchers while others refilled wine cups, and still Cavendish waited.  When every last cup had been filled, the King raised his cup in salute of his host. Thomas Wolsey followed by saluting the King.  Then the two men joined in a toast of long life to the King’s lady, Anne Boleyn.  Anne graciously bowed, raising her cup in courteous salute, her face flushed, her dark eyes sparkling.  Aglow in the attention of the room, she blushed prettily.

             
At last, Cavendish had his long-awaited acknowledgement. Rising from the dusty straw he slapped at his hose. “Sire, gracious lady, my lord Cardinal, the child and her mistress wait within the doors.”

             
“Well, bring them in, man,” Henry said, patting Anne’s hand in anticipation of her eager acceptance of the child, so like him as to be one of his own.  ‘Pity, she wasn’t.’ he thought, as he motioned to Cavendish. “Here, man, bring them here,” he called. Wolsey nodded his assent to his servant and Cavendish stood, signaling to Elisabeth to bring the child forward.

             
Elisabeth tugged Sarah into a deep curtsey before the head table. They knelt with heads bowed until Cardinal Wolsey spoke.

             
“Up, child, stand up so that we may see you.  You too, Elisabeth. As you can see, Sire, she is a well made child.  Her father, John, is my master mason.  He labors on the north tower.  John, come forward to meet your King.”

             
Elisabeth flinched inwardly at the mason’s approach. The tall, thin, red-haired man came out from behind one of the tables, nervously brushing his thick hair with his fingers.  His pace was so slow; Elisabeth felt it was hours before he joined her and Sarah before the dais.

             
“My lord Cardinal tells me that you are a master mason,” the King said, glancing over the man from head to toe.  “Under whom did you train?”

             
Instantly Wolsey regretted bringing the man forward.  Would the King steal him away?

             
“I trained under Cardinal Beauchamp’s master mason, Jules de Pre, in France,” John answered, his head held erect, his eyes holding the King’s own.  Elisabeth gasped at the boldness of his stare and winced.

             
Anne Boleyn smiled at the Cardinal’s name. A pleasant memory flashed in her mind

“You are well trained.  Tell me, does my lord Cardinal pay a fair wage?” Henry asked.  Then turning to the Lady Anne he whispered something that made her laugh. After a moment’s pause he spoke again.  “Now I can see the reason for such a well built child, good form springs from your loins as well as your hands.  Pray, present your wife.”

              John bowed his head, struggling for the words to portray his wife to such high company.  He mumbled, but Sarah spoke before he could.

             
“She is at home where she belongs.”  The child posed herself, her hands on hips as she spit out the words.

             
“And why, little one, are you not at home with her?” questioned the King.

“She beats the child, your Grace,” John said, his head still bowed.  “I fear she took an instant dislike to the child at her birth.  My wife is presently in the care of her family.”

              “Poor thing,” said the Lady Anne Boleyn.  “Pray, sir, I hope you will have no objection to Sarah’s accompanying me on progress to Hever and Greenwich.  I can promise you, she will come to no harm.  Several of my ladies are well-trained in childcare.”

             
Sarah interrupted.  “But he,” she continued, pointing to the King, “said Elisabeth could come too. Didn’t you, highness?”

             
Elisabeth swooped to correct the child’s boldness. ‘Like father, like daughter,’ she thought, ‘both too bold by far for their own good.’  “Silence, Sarah,” Elisabeth scolded. “Mind your manners.  I beg pardon for the child,” Elisabeth said, as she pulled Sarah into a deep curtsey. She held the struggling child in this pose awaiting the King’s reply.

             
“Well and boldly said, Sarah. It is true; I did say that your Elisabeth could come. My lady only wishes to assure your father of your safety with us.”

             
John de Roche raised his head.  “Yes, Sire, I have no doubt that Sarah would be safe in your care, but I am nearing the end of my work here at York Place and I would have Sarah with me when I leave for Salisbury before the first snow falls in December.”

             
“Your comments have been noted,” the Cardinal said in dismissal.

             
Elisabeth could feel Wolsey’s stare burn.  She tugged at Sarah’s shoulder so that the child stepped back beside her.

             
“Since the child has been presented and approved, you may remove her to your seats at table.” Wolsey said his voice tinged with anger as he waved them away.

             
“Do you presume to speak for me, Thomas?  While I am pleased with the child, I am not ready to dismiss her.” Beckoning to Sarah, Henry continued, “Here, child, come around here.”  Henry motioned to Sarah to come around the backside of the table. Once there he lifted her onto his lap. 

             
The lady Anne reached forward to stroke the child’s petal-soft cheek. “Ah, Sire, she is a delight and her mistress seems an intelligent maid.  My lord Cardinal, what does she do here?”

             
“She labors as a scribe.”

             
“A girl, as a scribe?  Surely you jest, Thomas,” the King said, shifting the child in his arms.  Anne rested her hand on his arm.

             
“Nay, my lord, she came well taught.  Why waste talent wherever it be found?”

             
“But, Thomas, who trains a woman at letters?”

             
“She came from Cornwall a few years ago.  It is a strange tale of how she came to be in my service.”

             
“Tell us, Thomas.  We would know her story.  But first, release the girl to her seat. Your man Cavendish can return the child to her care later. Pray continue.”

             
The Cardinal shifted uncomfortably in his chair, signaling Elisabeth’s dismissal. Elisabeth executed a stiff curtsey, reluctant to leave.  Her eyes pleaded with Wolsey to be allowed to stay.

Wolsey thought for a moment before speaking.  “As I remember it, I was preparing to return to London from leave in Oxford when my man came back from the market one morning in possession of a fine pair of doeskin slippers.”  Wolsey hesitated remembering the blustery cold of Oxford in February.  “In fact, Sire, they were the finest I had ever seen. The stitches were so fine; one had to hunt to see them.  As I was in need of traveling boots I sent Cavendish back to the market in search of the cobbler.  An easy task for he manned a stall.”  Lifting his wine cup to his lips Wolsey wondered would if the King would think him a fool?

              “Pray continue, Thomas.  You weave a tortuous tale and we would have its end. What do slippers or boots in Oxford have to do with a scribe from Cornwall?” the King asked as Sarah dozed on his arm. With his free hand he stroked Sarah’s red-gold curls.

             
“As I was saying, Cavendish found the man and brought him to me.” Wolsey hesitated, procrastinating by sipping again from his wine cup. How not to appear the fool in accepting the man’s proposition, he thought. ‘Yet had he been a fool? It worked out in the end. The girl had been all he had said she was and more; quite a comely girl to look at; a bit leggy, if you liked that sort.’  Then, speaking at last, the Cardinal continued, “When I begged the price of his work, the cobbler told a tragic tale: his wife dead, his only child in a convent, on Cornwall’s cold Atlantic shore.  He spoke of his travels to Swindon to seek sufferance from his wife’s family, to find none offered.” Wolsey hesitated.

             
“Come, Thomas, I grow tired of your dramatic pauses. Did you buy the girl? She is pleasing to the eye, I grant you.”

             
“No, Sire. Her father begged of me a place in my household. Bless me, but upon hearing his sad tale I could do none other than to offer her one.  I had in mind a scullery maid, unlettered and dull. Imagine my surprise, Sire, when the girl arrived with letters of introduction from the Abbess of St. Michael’s in the Woods.