A Dark and Stormy Knight
by
John Wolf
Author of Fantastic Tales
(JohnWolfBooks.com)
Copyright 2006 by John Wolf
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 0-7414-3279-X
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Printed version published April 2008
My second book is dedicated to my family, especially my wife Susan of thirty-eight years. For all that we have done together; we have made a formidable team. This adventure deals with the significance of family. - John Wolf
* * *
Chapter 1
It was a dark and stormy knight that moved through a misty forest of towering trees and wet grass with frightening speed, atop the strong back of his Percheron mount, glistening with sweat caused by running from unpleasant deeds. The mud flew from the hooves in rhythm with the pounding, galloping pace. The heart of this man on a mission was as dark as the inside of a bruised raven.
Glimmering shafts of light that were emanating from his armored breastplate flickered through the trees as he passed. These eerie pin-points of brilliant light pierced the night, lighting the way, and illuminating clouds of steaming breath that was forced from the nostrils of the powerful horse with each rhythmic set of hoof beats. There was just enough moonlight to bring this engine of power into focus as the knight and horse dodged in and out of forested shadows.
This was no ordinary sight in 1565 on the moors of England, north of York. First of all, moving fast at night through rutted pathways and unlit forest bogs was considered very dangerous indeed. This knight had advanced technology for his time. In fact, he was from another time and place.
He slowed his steed to a trot as he neared his destination. He stopped beside a stone wall and looked down at Castle Brookside, a sturdy but not ostentatious residence in the country side of northern Yorkshire, near the small village of Helmsley. He dismounted swiftly and pulled a crossbow from a leather tube attached to his saddle. The bow was swiveled and locked into place. The cord was pulled back with an odd grinding sound, coming from an internal mechanism. The bolt emerged from the inside of the stock piece and popped into place. It centered itself in shooting position. He steadied his aim using a stone wall and released the bolt. It sizzled through the air, spitting water from its feather fletches and imbedded itself into the door of Castle Brookside with a dull thud. He quickly broke down the weapon, stored it, and mounted his steed. He turned westward and thundered into the darkness. The fading sound of hooves, alternating, splashing, and thumping on wet and muddy ground until only the rustling leaves from the midnight gusts of wind could be heard. All was quiet again. The only witness was a barn owl in a large oak tree. Like duty calling, he gave out a low hoot, hoot as if to say, go away and stay away, you treacherous villain.
Chapter 2
Lord Andrew Perkins was asleep in the depths of an overstuffed, down-feathered bed when he was jolted awake by a loud thud on the front door of his country manor. He sat up delirious from the night before, from too much food and drink, especially drink.
As his mind cleared, he noticed the flickering of moonlight coming through the wavy glass window in his room. A candle was in order. Andrew withdrew only the parts of his body from the warmth of his bed that were necessary to light the candle. The candle sputtered as moisture retreated from the flame of Andrew’s splinter. He kept the fine splitters in a tightly sealed wooden box to avoid moisture, but had failed to place the lid on last night. Luckily the coals in his warming pan were hot enough to catch the sliver of turpentine-filled pine.
The candle seemed monetarily blinding until Andrew’s eyes adjusted to the flame’s light. He was alone in an otherwise large, dark pile of elegantly arranged stone masonry walls with only one window and one door. The window was ajar as it always was for a little relief from the less than fragrant air contained within the musty walls of this country manor.
What had hit the door so hard as to wake the dead? Andrew slithered from his covers into a thick woolen robe, somewhat damp from the night air. His feet slipped into fleece lined short boots. A chill went through his body as he began to walk and warm the inside of his tailored blanket. Andrew hesitated at the window. “No, I don’t want to open that further on this cold night,” he thought to himself. Andrew had a pet crow that was on his perch in the corner shadows with feathers ruffled against the cold. His shiny beak turned to follow his master, drifting across the room, down the stairs, and into the foyer. His cloudy breath followed behind him. Andrew lit a candle group, sitting on a narrow table, against the foyer wall, next to the stairs, and then looked at the door. There was a small shiny tip of an arrow point, protruding from the door. He touched it with extended index finger in disbelief. The question was, “Should he open the door?”
Andrew had to visualize the outside of his stone tomb-like manor house on every occasion, so his mind was thinking, the moon is out and there should be plenty of light. There were few doors or windows in the manor, built more for security than beauty. Andrew blew out the candles, save one, and proceeded to open the door. The huge door creaked on iron hinges but opened with surprising ease. He heard the crow squawking loudly from his room.
“Shut up you wretched bird,” Andrew muttered under his breath.
The crossbow bolt was stuck in the door with a curious window on the side of the shaft, glowing in the darkness. Andrew leaned over to read words moving slowly across the small window about three inches long. It was a sentence that repeated every few seconds. “Doom pending the Lord of this manor.”
Andrew quickly looked outward into the darkness, straining to see the perpetrator. The wind was occasionally gusting. Everything was moving a little bit. It was impossible to pick out any one person or thing. Andrew plucked a heavy sword from the foyer wall and slammed the hilt into the tip of the bolt, dislodging it from the door. He grabbed the projectile and pulled it from the door. He retreated into the safety of the manor. He carefully closed the door and locked it.
The candles were all relit and the sword stored away. The peculiar bolt could now be seen, lying on the foyer table, against the wall in the light of four candles, mounted in their heavy stand. What does this mean? How does this writing move under the window, silently around and around? Andrew ran his figure across the window. This is truly sorcery.
Andrew relit the walking candle, blew out the candle group, and returned to his room, wondering if he should wake the servant that lived behind the manor to stand vigil for the remainder of the night. He entered his room, closed the door, and slid a heavy iron security bolt into place. He turned to face the tip of a sword, waving slowly in front of his throat.
“Don’t move or your life will end.”
Andrew gasped. His arm went limp and the candle fell from its holder. Andrew soiled himself. A great quantity of urine hit the stone floor and hissed in the sputtering flame of the candle. This was something that he wished he had tended to before venturing down to the front door.
The stranger pulled a cylinder from a pouch strapped to his tight-fitting, black, seamless apparel and set it on the nearby table. He twisted the top and an amber glow came out of it that cast enough light to see the important items in the room.
“Who are you?” Andrew said, gazing at this frog-like man who stood at least a foot taller than himself. He was wearing a tight fitting hood that was connected to a bodysuit, down to shoes that seemed like they were part of the suit as well. The suit was thick and obviously well insulated. The stranger didn’t appear to feel the chill of the night at all. Andrew then noticed the window was open wide, behind the stranger.
“I am the redeemer.”
“How did you get up to a second story window, and what is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“Come let’s get you back to bed before you die here, frozen in your own piss.” The stranger dragged Andrew by the collar with the tip of his sword. Andrew was shaking with cold and fear. The stranger pushed him into his bed. Andrew backed up to the headboard and sat there with a drawn look on his face, while he slowly pulled the covers over his legs and up to his chest. He looked over the shoulder of the stranger to see a crossbow bolt stuck through his pet crow, lying on the floor in the corner. He then noticed a small scaled-down crossbow hanging from the stranger’s belt.
“Sorry to have to disturb a country gentleman like yourself so late at night. I have just come from your two neighbors, Lord Bantwell and Lord Hedgington. Both were equally surprised by my visit.”
“How dare you intrude the manor houses of the realm? The Archbishop will have your head.”
“It is the Archbishop’s head I am here to talk about. I will gladly leave your filthy manor, but I can not, without your key. I think you know which key, the key from Chapel Grey at Ampleforth.”
“You know I can not do that.”
“Then like so many accidents these days, you will be found under your window, having fallen onto the stony walkway below, after adjusting the pane on a gusty night.”
“I don’t fear you,” Andrew said in a trembling voice.
“And I don’t wish you to.” The stranger pulled a small flask from his belt. “Here, this is brandy. I offer it to warm your innards, in hopes to begin again on a friendlier note.”
Andrew took the flask hesitantly. It was a silver flask of great charm. Who was this odd, frog-like, bulky man? He knew he could not overpower him, so he sniffed the drink. It was top-notch. He took a swig.
Andrew didn’t know this drink was heavily dosed with a truth serum. The alcohol sped the effect into his bloodstream.
“I regret being so forceful, but as you know, you and your two Lord neighbors have been plotting to assassinate the Archbishop, as I am. This is not news to you, I am sure. And you have in your possession a key that with the keys of your neighbors, will allow access to the Archbishop’s hidden passageway within the Chapel. These keys should not fall into the hands of just any would-be assassin, wouldn’t you agree?”
The serum was now beginning to work.
“Assassinate the Archbishop? What a bloody good idea. That was Lord Bantwell’s idea. Archbishop Phillips has not treated the Lords with much respect. He brought this on himself, you know.”
“Well, I am here to do that job for you. I am the assassin. Now, where can I find your key?”
“Ah, the crow has it,” Andrew said, lifting a heavy hand and pointing to the wreck of a perch in the corner. “It is under the perch in a small drawer.”
The stranger made a swift move to secure the key, while Andrew drained the flask. When he lowered his arm, the stranger was gone. “Hey, where’d you go?” Andrew threw back the covers and staggered to the window. There was a chain-like ladder attached to the sill that disengaged as Andrew watched in shock. The ladder fell to the ground and was wound up by the stranger. He placed it in a bag strapped to the largest horse Andrew had ever seen. The stranger swung a cape over his shoulders, mounted the steed, and galloped away with Andrew’s key. The chill hit Andrew’s chest and he winced. He held up the flask to salute the stranger and melted back into his bed.
~ ~ ~
The dark knight rode his horse through the sally port into the courtyard of a manor house in the middle of a dale, west of Tollerton. The night was gone and the eastern sky was marginally glowing with the morning light. The sun would struggle to get a view of the manor this day. It looked like rain was on order for this morning.
The knight dismounted and gave command of the steed to Edgar, a Bar Sinister, who was a servant to Sir Widsip Osbearn, the name that one Gareth Goldstein gave the dark knight when he came upon him in Shank Forest, dazed and wandering about without food or drink. Widsip soon became known as a sorcerer by the two. They devoted themselves to him as not to be cursed by him, besides he had an uncanny way of obtaining money. He would leave the confines of the Manor Gilthmore and return with enough money to make all things possible. In fact, he had purchased the property soon after his arrival, from the estate of a widow that had past away. No one really knew where the money came from, but the deed was registered by the local establishment without question.
Edgar’s talent with horses probably came from being born in a stable and raised by stable hands. The Bar Sinister were those bastard children born from noteworthy lineage, but questionable parentage. His mother was probably working for the Lord that impregnated her, but no one knew who she was or would say. By the time Edgar was old enough to know he didn’t have someone to call mother, she had been banished by the estate or he had been dropped off in his current circumstance. Either way, he came with the property of Manor Gilthmore.
Mr. Goldstein was another matter. He was a shady gold trader that made his way up from London to York to expand his sphere of influence, until an unfortunate chain of events placed him on the bad side of the law. He had changed his appearance and was now known as Barry Grant, a local mason and house painter, when not at the manor working for Widsip. He told people his father made whiskey in Glen Grant and that’s where he got his name. No truer words were spoken. He had read about Glen Grant distilleries from a bottle of Scotch that was found on the property and his father was a hopeless alcoholic. It seemed like a proper alias.
There were three other servants on the estate. One was the kitchen maid Jennifer Wryly; she was an Irish woman who could cook anything on two or four legs that got near her clever. The other two were Leofwen Ashton a house maid nick-named Weny, and Scot McPherson a house keeper. He was also a logistics expert. He kept the estate well stocked with provisions. One never knew when the Master would want to go off into the night, not to be seen for several days.
Scotty was from Southern Upland in Peeblesshire and was probably available for hire to be closer to those he despised the most, the English, and report on their movements, especially if they trended towards Carlisle, going northward to where his true allegiance lay.
Sir Widsip was a puzzle. Who was he really? At first Scotty thought he was an agent of the Tutors, but no. He spoke a dialect of English no one had heard before, and the things he knew about were absolutely terrifying. Where were his credentials? How and where was he knighted? There was nothing in the manor that could tell you that he was anything other than a common man, but his behavior was quite unique. No, he was a warlock all right. He could do things and had things in his possession that only a wizard would possess. Scotty stayed to learn. He had a feeling this knight was also not enamored with the English.
“Edgar, see that Lord Byron is properly washed down before you place him in the stall.”
“Yes, Your Lordship,” Edgar replied with eager tongue. He wanted nothing more than to do his very best for the Black Knight, as some of the house staff called him and the nearby villages rumored.
Barry came up to Widsip and said, “Were you successful in retrieving what you were seeking, sir?”
“Of course, did you ever doubt it?”
“Of course not, Your Lordship.”
Widsip placed a pouch containing three keys in Barry’s eager hands. His bony figures wrapped around it like a crab’s claw.
Widsip retrieved the pouch from Barry’s grip and dashed into the house through the kitchen door and while passing Jenny, who was just arriving at the kitchen station and fanning the coals, said, “I will need breakfast at half past ten, no lunch, and make a portable meal for nighttime.”
“Yes, me Lord,” Jenny said with half a yawn. It was not unusual to see the Lord of the manor going to bed as everyone else was getting up to do their chores. The smoke in the kitchen fireplace was now catching and turning into a small flame that soon erupted into a warming fire.
Widsip passed Weny, coming down the upstairs hall with laundry to do. “Top of the morning to you, sir,” she said with a blush of embarrassment in her cheeks. She had a not-so-secret crush on the Lord.
“Same to you, Weny, and good night.”
Widsip entered his chamber and closed the door, and then double bolted it. To bed he thought, but not before setting a curious device that apparently kept time. He set the device to wake him at half past ten, and if he did have a grievous visitor, he wanted a door to be strong enough to provide fair warning. Sleep was an inconvenience. He needed five hours sleep, maybe six, but more was wasting time. He had important things to do. In the next few days, he would fabricate a duplicate set of the keys for a future use. Later this day an Archbishop had to be visited, and also today would be the last for some other poor soul.
Chapter 3
The bell atop Chapel Grey pealed precisely at six o’clock in the morning. A sleepy eye of the Archbishop opened and focused on the cross of Jesus on the opposite wall. It was a spiteful look, and then sincere, a practiced smile that was pushed into place before anyone saw him in the morning. It didn’t take him long to robe and slip two dirty feet into his sandals. He lifted the latch on his door of the chapel cottage, anxious to be on his way. The chapel grounds were too open and unprotected for his tastes. He was visiting the chapel as a courtesy to the local parish pastor. He had looked in every nook and cranny of this church, and it was all to his dissatisfaction. He couldn’t wait to leave and go back to York Minster. There the bed was down-feathered and the floor clean. There, he would bathe and there, he would eat. Fruit and toast with hot tea were on his mind when he came face-to-face with Vicar Thomas. “Good morning Vicar. I must be going on my way. There is much business to attend to in York and it is a long ride. Your books seem to be in excellent order. You will be commended.”
“That is so pleasing to my ears. Thank you so much, sire. If there is anything I can do, just ask.”
“Oh, I will,” said the bishop with a wicked grin, pushing the Vicar aside. “Is my carriage ready?”
“Yes, it is.”
The two wards of the church moved side-by-side to the courtyard, and the Archbishop climbed in his carriage, closed the door, and poked his head out the window in the door to say, “Remember, Daniel Thomas, not a word of the events we spoke on last night, not a word.”
“Yes, I do understand, not a word.”
Vicar Thomas handed the bishop a loaf of bread and a container of tea. The Archbishop snorted and reluctantly pulled the offerings through the portal.
The carriage turned and moved quickly to the gateway in the outer wall of the chapel grounds.
By eleven o’clock, the Archbishop was well on his way to York. He was just south of Easingwold and just east of Tollerton. Sir Osbearn was in a thicket of trees, pulling tight on his restless Lord Byron that was pawing the ground impatiently. The Black Knight rode away from the shadows as the carriage passed, at just the right angle where the driver could not see him. He came up to the side of the carriage. He saw that the bishop was asleep, bobbing back and forth inside the carriage. Widsip moved swiftly onto the carriage, opening the door, and slipping in quietly. He closed the door unnoticed, while Lord Byron dropped behind and turned northward back toward Manor Gilthmore.
“Good morning, Your Lordship,” Widsip said loudly with a short sword in his grip, pricking the Archbishop’s bare chest that was showing through a gaping robe.
“Ah!” The bishop pushed himself back upright and drew both hands to his chest. He looked at the man with the sword and saw only a hooded suit, all black with a swath of leather across his chest and a narrow strap of leather around an extended hand, with three keys, jingling brightly from it. He could see the determined eyes of the assailant.
“Recognize the keys to Chapel Grey?”
“My God, how did you get them?”
“A drunken Lord will always lose his key. Let’s say I found them after a night of revelry.”
“You must give them to me at once. I demand it!”
“You will die first. Let me tell you how to get the keys for yourself. With so much at stake, you mustn’t trust the Lords of Helmsley Moor. They seem happy to see you dead. They hired me to do the deed, but don’t be alarmed my Lord, I have a plan that may please you and save your neck.”
“Speak—I’m listening.”
The carriage would soon be near Shipton and closer to allies of the bishop.
“You must poison the Queen’s suitor, this cousin of Thomas Seymour, so that there is no threat to the crown. It seems this family is dead set on influencing the succession. We can see that it doesn’t happen. That gets you the first key. You must prepare a way for James VI of Scotland by influencing Parliament on his behalf. Some outward action that I can see. Oh, I see from your expression you did not know there was a James VI. Yes, indeed, there is. We must prepare the minds of the commoners that this young man is England’s best hope, and then you get the second key. And third, you must hasten the Queen to an early grave. That should be easy. She is well past her prime and Mary Queen of Scots is in the wings, the boy’s mother. Then the third key is yours. You will then have the Grail, the Holy Chalice. ‘Tis a handsome wager, no?”
“How do you expect to stay alive to threaten me? You have no right.”
“If you don’t swear on your cross you will do as I have just instructed, you die here and now in this carriage. You are the one with no choice. Don’t forget, I was hired to assassinate you. I would just be doing my job. I am a man of honor, though it may be difficult to see that. If you do what I have asked, you will get the keys, and I will rescind the assignation. That I promise. I have no use for this antique.”
“This task could take years.”
“You have less time than you think. This opportunity could be provided to another competitor, if you can’t do the job punctually.”
“It looks like a task I can accept. What poison do you have in mind? Do I look like one that would know about poisoning?”
“You smell like one that knows his poison. Is that not Hemlock that you have cultivated in your private monastery garden?”
“How do you know of Hemlock?”
“A peasant’s method at best. Let me suggest this.” Widsip tucked the keys away and came up with a pouch to show the bishop.
“What is it?”
“Cyanide. It is made from certain plants. It is a powder that kills quietly and without a trace. Very few people know of it. You would never be suspected.”
“How does it work?”
“It ruins the blood and stops the heart, but leaves no marks or wounds, not like your Hemlock.”
“How much do I use?”
“It takes a healthy pinch in a wine glass. A Tawny Port would be best to disguise the slight almond taste. It takes a short time. Only minutes later, maybe an hour, the victim’s heart stops. You need to avoid witnesses during the arrest, since violent convulsions may occur.”
“This is a powerful persuader of policy, and I know so many that favor Tawny Port.”
“Looks like my Lord can see further uses of this opportunity. Remember, my request comes first.”
“I will do as you have requested. I care not who wears the crown. They all belong to the Church, one way or another. Now give me the pouch.” Before Widsip could hand him the pouch, it was gone from his hand.
“I want this suitor dead in two weeks, no longer.”
The bishop nodded. Widsip pulled a small crossbow from a bag strapped to his side with a large bulky looking bolt in place, ready to be launched. He swiveled the bow into place, pointed it out the window, and pulled the trigger. A stream of red, sprayed from the back of the projectile as it soared into the air. Moments later a horseman halted the carriage. He was carrying the Archbishop’s colors and emblem. The driver assumed it was important and brought the carriage to a halt. Widsip sheathed his sword. He jumped out of the carriage, and then mounted a second horse, his trusted Lord Byron. They rode off over the hill. The Archbishop waved the driver on and sat back eyeing his new toy. Oddly enough, it was Lord Hedgington that died that day. He strangled on a chicken bone. Strange things were happening on the Moor that day. Never mind, the bishop was busy contemplating other opportunities to exercise his newly gained policy-making alchemy.
Chapter 4
There was a mild panic going on between the two remaining Lords on what to do about the key robberies. Who was the robber and where did the keys go? Their value was not really understood by the land barons, but they did know that the Archbishop wanted them very badly. That’s why the Lords invested so heavily on having the keys “borrowed” and brought to them before the Archbishop’s visit to Chapel Grey. They each took one to assure that each was an equal partner and that no one person would have them all. Now, how do they explain their disappearance? Also, the plan was to find out what they opened, by following the bishop. The plan then was to seize what ever it was and dispose of the bishop. He was an evil man at best. The plan went terribly wrong when the assassin hired showed up as a robber instead.
Andrew Perkins spoke first, “We only have a few days to get those keys back to Chapel Grey before they’re missed. We didn’t have time to make copies. What are we going to do?”
“Yes, and Lord Hedgington was the one with all the ideas. Do you think it was fate or conspiracy that he died like he did?” Lord Bantwell was nervously pulling the threads bare from the corner of his napkin.
Andrew drained a rather plump glass of red wine, slapped the goblet to the table, and wiped the duck grease from his face. “Are we sure the key was taken from Hedgington? Did you talk to him before he so inconveniently tried to swallow a chicken, bones and all?”
“No, we should have a chat with his manservant before day’s end. We must be on solid ground here. If the key is still in the estate, we must secure it before we do anything else.”
“You see to that. In the meantime, I will get my people to ferret out this Black Knight that robs gentlemen in their sleep. Most distasteful man.”
The two distinguished gentlemen waved off the tavern owner, which was the signal that they had had their fill and to tally the total on Hedgington’s tab. After all, it was Lord Hedgington’s day to pay for lunch. Why change tradition, just because he was dead?
Widsip returned to Manor Gilthmore and secured the original keys in a secret panel of his bedroom. He would keep the copies that he made in the make-shift basement shop in his possession. The cipher for the hiding place was not electronic as he had wanted, since making a decent battery under these conditions was proving to be more of a task than he had time for. The lock was mechanical and required knowledge of geometry to unlock, but it was secure. He went to the study on the ground floor and met with Barry Grant, who was otherwise known as Mr. Goldstein, to whom he owed his life.
Being a knight from the Universal Time Office was a lonely and difficult job. Widsip Osbearn was to be the name he was labeled with for this sojourn to middle England, but if he was at his real home, which was known as the Heavenly Plane, he would be called Jacob.
It seems that time has a problem of slipping, and events get lost in the current configuration of the Universe, leaving history to be skewed. It was the job of the knights at the Time Office to go to whatever period they were needed and correct events that were slipping into maladjustment. In this case the events leading up to the next King of England being from Scotland were beginning to become distorted in the accounts made by the historians of the day. This tended to actually skew the real facts and some events could actually be dropped from history, which could not be tolerated. The Universe would start to decay and who knew what disaster that might produce. History would start to collapse until all events happened simultaneously, a pinpoint of time, and that would be very destabilizing. Unfortunately, the Universe was not perfectly made in the first place, and once the Big-Bang got underway, there was no way to start over. Events had to be kept in good adjustment, so they happened the way they should have. All events had to be in synchronization with universal time. The Time Office’s recollection of events was paramount for their records to be the best known testament of how events of history properly unfold and to obtain a stable future. Quirks in the system kept coming up all the time. The Time Office was very busy.
Jacob had arrived in the desired timeframe at night in the middle of a tangled, dense forest. This was not his intention, but the result of yet another Universal Time Office oversight when planning this mission, a side effect that could happen in any complex bureaucracy. The problem was he couldn’t find his way out of the forest and was not setup yet to deal with the adversities. It was good fortune that Mr. Goldstein was passing through the forest and came across him. Jacob was delirious and was taken to a farm house. Mr. Goldstein was in a midst of a career change himself and was pondering on what new name to call himself. It was only fitting to provide a name for this delirious fellow who apparently had a bad case of amnesia, thus Jacob was replaced with Widsip Osbearn, a name Goldstein was familiar with, since it was the same name of a wealthy land owner, far from here, that he had once swindled, but was now deceased.
The biggest challenge for the time traveler was getting organized after being transported. It was just you and the clothes on your back. You could bring a few odds-and-ends that could be packed away in a shoulder bag. Any tools or weapons that would be needed had to be made from native elements found on site. Otherwise, history could end up with more distortion after leaving than before you arrived. Of course, knowing something about the period you were going to visit was essential or you could arrive looking ridiculous.
Mr. Goldstein was trying to distance himself from financial issues he had suffered in his last business. The people he was fleecing from their hard earned savings were starting to become aware of his plans not to include them in any investment returns, and this caused his scheme to unravel. It was time to move on. The trip through the forest avoided meeting people on the road from the town, who would otherwise, not want him to leave without retribution. Goldstein was otherwise a charitable person, and everyone has to make a living. Coming across Widsip gave him a new sense of perspective. Something good would come from helping this man so in need, maybe a reward for finding him. Every crowd has a silver lining, he always said.
~ ~ ~
“Barry, I need you to courier something of great value.”
Barry’s eyebrow uncontrollable rose with the statement.
“Do you think that you could do that without being tempted and spoil our otherwise excellent relationship?”
“Well, let’s give it a go and see if you have to send out the hounds.” Barry was still in awe of Widsip’s incredible powers and feared being vaporized or burst into spontaneous flame, if he dared do things that he would have been capable of prior to this juncture, given this same opportunity. After all, instinctive survival was Barry’s best suit.
“I have a package that must be picked up in Harrogate and delivered to Chapel Grey. Sorry about the troubling distance with the uncertain weather this year. Here is a set of keys you will need in your possession to place the object in the last inner chamber at the Chapel. Each key in succession will open a door, leading to the final chamber. Upon arriving at the final chamber, give Father Benjamin the package. He will secure the item and return you its packing material. Leave him all three keys. You are to only witness that this task has been completed.”
“Sir, it would be my pleasure. I would estimate five quid would be all that is necessary to pay the livery attendants and carriage men.” Barry was calculating a ten percent profit for the trip. He was never off by more than a very small margin – in his favor of course. “Does this package require porters?”
“No not at all. It should be no larger than a flower vase and shaped similarly. I would say no more than two pounds in weight, and since I must have the delivery done discreetly, I must ask you to go alone in a surrey to minimize exposure. Here are three quid, and here is the location of the shop. When you arrive at the Chapel, don’t go to the hall itself, ask for Father Benjamin. He represents my interests at the Chapel. He will be summoned and receive the package. He will guide you as I have described. And most of all—don’t look at the contents. That could prove fatal.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you my Lord.” Barry exited, recalculating how to make some level of return.
Widsip returned to his basement workshop, while wondering about how well the Archbishop might be doing with his first task and what might happen if he was found out. At the same time, Widsip was measuring out fine woven wire cabling he had been fabricating in between errands of keeping historical events adjusted. His caseload was short—get the facts leading up to the crowning of James I of England straightened out to make sure the young lad stayed alive long enough to actually become King. If he failed, Mary Queen of Scots could loose her life and the lad could be captured or killed, and that would change history forever. If anything happened to Elizabeth I at that point, England would be without a monarch. How would that be explained in future history? It was very difficult to overturn a death. Henry VIII was already gone from extreme overindulgence, so his place in history was set, besides, he had used up many historical credits and damaged too many lives. With Henry’s son and Mary Tudor’s string of treachery behind us, it was time to prepare Elizabeth for a succession that would favor the Scots. Mary Queen of Scots was her cousin, a woman with a country of her own, and so far away from the present situation, how could this interfere with Widsip’s current task? Widsip would deal with Mary soon enough, but for now, middle England had become his base of operation. Surely there would be calm in the realms for the time being. England was Elizabeth’s and Scotland was Mary’s, a regular woman’s club of monarchies.
Chapter 5
Unfortunately, history has a nasty way of coming unraveled just when you think you have it nailed down. Widsip received a communiqué from a colleague that one, Thomas Wolsey, had just been accused of treason and was about to be arrested. These communiqués usually came in the form of a large lightning storm releasing a messenger into the region. The messenger said the year was about 1530 and the knight responsible for protecting Wolsey’s interests was frantic about the current chain of events. Apparently, Archbishops of York are difficult to police. This was not supposed to happen. But as fate would have it, Wolsey died of heart failure from the stress before his trial began. The Time Office representative didn’t have a chance to intervene on his behalf and this affected the history of the 1560’s irrevocability, where Widsip currently found himself. That milestone event was the reason the current Archbishop had to be dealt with. He was a by-product of altered history. The Time Office really didn’t have the staffing to get all the holes in history plugged properly. It was frustrating how many times history failed to repeat itself like everyone assumed. Even great documents like the Bible, were constantly being modified for political reasons, before the knights could catch up to the perpetrators and get history adjusted back to the original intent. Well, it wasn’t really all that bad. The “new” history was always exciting and entertaining. The knights could only cover a few hundreds years, after that history would take a set, and they had to move on to more recent history. The leading-edge guys were working on the future, but that’s a whole different story. Widsip’s task at hand was trying to protect Mary Queen of Scots from the inevitable conflict with Elizabeth I, on who would rule the realm. A pair of Queens was no match for a full house of Lords. The strategy brewing was to influence the Lords to allow a separate Parliament that was not totally swayed by John Knox, who was an antagonist and dominant Protestant. He denounced a separation to exist in Scotland that would allow Mary to rule independently. Of course, if separation came, the matter of duel royal jewels would have to be dealt with along the way. God forbid any duplicate designs. Where would a second set of priceless gem stones be uncovered? The current Scottish regalia would have to do. More issues for the Time Office to work out.
One good thing about Wolsey’s untimely death is that we can now blame him for Henry VIII’s bungles. The Time Office had decided to let that stand. It put a cap on the fat man’s escapades. He was giving marriage a bad name, which could have a negative impact on the institution in the future and probably would.
It was all the Time Office could do to keep the events of 1532 to 1534 from destroying the future understanding of the events that led up to the Church of England’s split with Rome. Before the knights could adjust events to stop Henry from taking on new wives, he hires one Thomas Cromwell to deal with Parliamentary issues. And this fellow proceeds to attack the Catholic clergy. The Time Office subsidized agnate payments to Rome, but could not keep it up with the current budget appropriations. The Pope in the meantime approves Henry’s Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury, and he could not be swayed to stop the King’s constant pursuit of new wives. It was this man that actually caused the excommunication of Henry VIII by invalidating his marriage to Katharine and allowing the marriage to Anne Boleyn.
The Time Office did have the opportunity to increase its revenues during the annexation of monastery properties by the King’s, more-than-cooperative Parliament, in 1536. The Time Office’s hands sometimes got dirty, despite the charter to make history wholesome. Sometimes it just didn’t work out that way, in fact, most of the time things got nasty before events could be locked down. Mankind is so unpredictable.
Henry was out of control—marrying, beheading, and moving on to the next wife. Really, the Time Office had to do something. So, the Time Office arranged for Henry to satisfy his insatiable appetite for Pâté de foie gras that was laced with a mushroom by-product that left him paranoid and unpredictable and eventually coronary failure was the result.
This would bring us back to the present dilemma of getting James VI of Scotland to become James I of England without a beheading or the replacement of English rule by a foreign monarch, especially from Spain or, God forbid, France. The unpredictable chemistry of the two competitive cousin Queens, not doing something rash, was now Widsip’s challenge. The new would-be King had just been born. It was summer and the glory of the Scottish countryside would warm patriotic hearts for the young monarch. Gloomier climate was present though. It didn’t look like Elizabeth was going to have an heir. Her desire to find a husband was influenced by her father’s history of violence to spouses, although she was seen in the company of young riding instructors on several occasions. Some things never change in history. This leaves James as the best opportunity for the future, and good solid history for the first time in England in nearly a hundred years, but it also made him the target of every crown-hungry candidate in the realm. Careful planning of the next few event adjustments was essential.
~ ~ ~
Barry came out of the manor into the early morning mist, dressed in a long coat, woolen hat, and gloves. A thick scarf was wrapped around his neck. Mornings still had a frosty nip in the air. His black jackboots glistened from the flickering morning light that was reflected off stands of water, as he approached the livery. Edgar was holding the bridle of the carriage horse. Both horse and carriage were black in color, very diplomatic, and unassuming.
“Top of the morning to you, sir. The carriage is ready and the mare is a fine trotter.”
“Thank you so much, Edgar. With God speed, I should be back within the week.”
With that, Barry climbed into the surrey, Edgar stood aside and with a sharp snap of the reins on rump, Barry sent the carriage forward with a quick surge. He cleared the sally port with quickened pace and with an anticipation of adventure, turned onto the country road towards Harrogate.
~ ~ ~
The Archbishop had secured a ride with the royal courier from York to Elizabeth’s court in hopes to gain information of the Queen’s suitor. His failure to locate the keys or the hidden chambers at Chapel Grey still angered him. At least he knew he was right. The Holy Chalice—the Grail, was stored there somewhere. He was also carrying, concealed well within his robes, a small pouch obtained from the Black Knight. His hidden agenda was safely made less conspicuous by his formal trappings. He had reports from his court followers, or spies as his Catholic adversaries called them, that advertised Elizabeth doing some riding this week. It was difficult to please both Catholic and Protestant alike on matters of discretion, so why bother. He mostly ignored the Catholic clamoring. His stripes were Protestant now. The trip was without incident and the bishop arrived and was received by one of Elizabeth’s council.
“Ah, good father how you are this evening? I have a room for you here in the Abbey.”
“Oh, you are so kind. Yes, I would like to stay a few nights before returning to York. Is it possible to get an audience with Her Majesty?”
“Let me check, and I will send an aide if a time is secured. I’m sure you will know by bedtime.”
“Excellent. Now, I would like to go to the Chapel to pray for good weather and the Queen’s health. I understand she has taken up riding with great vigor.”
“Yes, and this week is a riding week with young Leslie Seymour. He is her instructor. A very handsome chap, I’d say.”
“And where might he be staying?”
“Oh, he has a room in the palace Abbey, but has been spending time in the West Wing, if you know what I mean. You know there are rumors that the Queen fancy’s this fellow.”
“Ah, rumors. I love a good rumor. And might he have the bearing of a monarch?”
“Oh, sir, we’ll have none of that. We must be discretionary.”
“Yes, but of course,” the Archbishop said, grabbing the priest’s robe. They turned and went into the Abbey.
~ ~ ~
The next day was an unexpected gloriously sunny day. The year was getting old and soon the weather would not be so pleasant, but today was a fine day for a ride. It looks like the Archbishop’s prayers took. The Queen and her riding instructor had returned to the livery. They walked to the carriage-stop, arm-in-arm with a light cheerful tone in their voices. Father Thomason and the Archbishop were there at the carriage to greet them.
“Good day Father Thomason,” the Queen said. “I see you stand next to the devil’s advocate himself.” The Archbishop was not favored or trusted by the Queen.
“Yes, well jolly good. We come to welcome young Seymour to the grounds in hopes he might take service in the Chapel, this being Sunday and all,” Father Thomason said awkwardly, after the jab from the Queen.
“I was in the area and thought it would be prudent to meet the Queen’s most qualified riding instructor,” the Archbishop said with a thin smile. “You handle older horses so well I see. Yearlings are so prone to buck.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, the Archbishop has brought with him a fine Tawny Port as a gift for young Seymour. A friendly gesture, wouldn’t you agree?” Father Thomason was reddening in the cheeks, while lifting Archbishop Phillips’ hand, revealing the tantalizingly attractive bottle.
“Thank you so much, sir. Of course, I appreciate your kind gesture and it would be an honor to take service from such a distinguished man of faith,” Seymour said, grinning from ear-to-ear.
The Archbishop handed the bottle over from the folds of his robe and Seymour accepted. The Queen and Seymour climbed into their carriage post haste, encouraged by young Seymour’s avoiding further development of the conversation.
The carriage left Father Thomason and the Archbishop in the lane, staring into a sunset. Father Thomason perched his hand over his eyes to avoid the sun. The Archbishop turned to avoid the dust and walked away.
Thomason scurried up to the bishop. “I think that went well. But, you really shouldn’t tempt the Queen’s anger.”
“I merely pointed out the skill of the instructor. I will make a point of seeing young Seymour tomorrow and make amends.”
~ ~ ~
Later that evening the Archbishop drifted along the covered corridor of the sleeping quarters and knocked at Seymour’s door at the rear of the room. No one answered. A quick movement at the lock and the door came ajar. It was too early for doors to be locked. He slipped in unnoticed. He saw the wine bottle on a night stand next to the bed. The Queen had other guests that night, and because of the State importance of the meetings, the Archbishop was sure Seymour would be returning to his quarters this night. There was a glass next to the port bottle. There had been a small amount used. The Archbishop exchanged the bottles. This new one was seeded with the Cyanide. He adjusted the latch to the rear door such that it would not lock, and then slipped out.
Later that evening young Seymour returned to his room full of himself for making such strides to woo the Queen. It would not be long before he was ready to ask for her hand. He uncorked the port, poured a glass, and drank heavily. He placed the glass down and threw himself onto the bed. He was staring up at the ceiling when a jolt of pain seared his lungs. He pulled into a knot and gasped for air. He couldn’t move from the pain then unconsciousness overcame him. A dark figure slipped into the room from the rear and replaced the glass and bottle with the originals, so no one else would mistakenly try the deadly drink, and then slipped out as quickly and quietly as the entrance. There was a click as the latch was brought back into service.
The Archbishop was back in the company of Father Thomason without being missed. He made sure he stayed in the public eye for the evening by returning to the Father’s quarters and conversing with him for hours. The Archbishop was addressing the possibility of increasing the contributions to the Abbey for expansion and a great deal of planning was needed for Father Thomason’s pet project. It was about two o’clock in the morning when the screams went out. People were scurrying around, and a priest knocked frantically on Father Thomason’s door. The door opened as the Archbishop and the priest looked up from the planning table in surprise. “Master Seymour is dead!”
~ ~ ~
“Should I stay and join you in conducting the funeral service Father,” the Archbishop said.
“No, but thank you for offering. The family has asked their personal pastor to do the service.”
“If only I had gone to see the young man last night, maybe I could have helped him.”
“Oh, there was nothing you could have done. The physician said he had heart failure. I fear the Queen will be quite out of sorts.”
“Well, I must depart. I’m not her favorite chaplain. I wouldn’t want to distress her further,” the Archbishop said, while flagging down his carriage man. He would have to get a message out somehow to attract the mysterious knight and hopefully a shiny key would soon be secured.
Chapter 6
Lord Perkins and Lord Bantwell did not get where they were by letting an enriching opportunity pass them by. After they found out that Lord Hedgington’s home had indeed been burglarized, they decided to confront the Archbishop personally and demand to know what was being hidden in Chapel Grey. After all, the Chapel was on land owned by Lord Hedgington and now the estate was unstable. It may be possible to purchase the estate and the Chapel that stands on it. There were all kinds of ideas running around in the heads of these middle aged entrepreneurs. By putting their wits together, they may have had the collective brain power of a large squirrel.
They traveled to York and entered the Minster Abbey looking for the Archbishop. Their arrival had been noticed, and advanced to the bishop’s office by a messenger. Archbishop Phillips’ secretary met them at the entrance to the sanctuary and informed them the Archbishop was indisposed, but the secretary would be glad to counsel with them.
“Please, sit down gentlemen. Anything you might have talked to the Archbishop about, you can talk to me about. I have the bishop’s complete confidence.”
“Well,” Bantwell began, “do you know of anything unusual about Chapel Grey?”
“Like what?” the secretary said.
“Something buried there of great value, and I don’t mean human remains in the graveyard,” concluded Perkins.
“Well, maybe some of both,” said the secretary. “Bishop Phillips’ father is buried there, but no one really is aware of that.”
“His father, and who was his father?” Bantwell inquired. “I don’t think I really know the Archbishop’s lineage.”
“You must never tell a soul about this,” the secretary continued, “but his father was a prisoner of the Crown for many years in the Tower of London, until his death. It was embarrassing, since he was a political prison and was soon to be released. It had to do with Henry VIII’s attack on the monasteries. The bishop’s father organized reprisals for the attacks and soon found himself the enemy of the State. Knowledge of this would have hurt the chances of Bishop Phillips in being promoted to Archbishop. You see the Archbishop’s real last name is Wolsey.”
The two Lord’s were stunned. They turned to study each other’s face. They couldn’t find words to speak.
“As you can see, it was important for the Archbishop to find a place of peace for his poor father’s grave.” With that, the secretary gave the story one last squeeze of empathy.
Bantwell found words first, “I see. That puts the matter to bed. We were just curious, since we heard rumors that something important was buried there, but we can see now, it was a personal matter.”
“We will never tell a soul,” added Perkins.
“Well, you’re welcome, and I thank you to keep this conversation a secret. Now, let me show you out.” The secretary felt he had put that fire out effectively, considering not a word of it was true. He walked the two gentlemen to the Abbey gate and waived them goodbye.
“We do hope the Archbishop is feeling better soon,” Bantwell turned and said.
“Oh, it is just a cold. He will be fine, thank you.” The large Abbey gate closed behind them and clattered as a key was turned. The cold glare of the Archbishop’s eyes peered through a narrow slit in the wall above, and then faded into the shadows.
The two wondered off into the Shambles for a pint of beer. They were sweating just to think they had been plotting to assassinate the poor man over his own father’s grave. They felt the guilt of all seven sins rushing through them. The only way to get back to normal was an all-nighter in a pub.
Chapter 7
Barry arrived in Harrogate on the east side and tied his horse to a livery post, placed a few coins in the stable master’s hand, and stepped onto Skipton Road, which was just around the corner. The shop was down an alley of small shops. Everything in the alley looked uncluttered and clean, which was an unusual sight, indeed, in these times.
“Here it is,” he said under his breath, “Butcombe Imported Urns.” He pushed the door open to the sound of a jingling bell. It was a dark place with funeral urns of all sizes and description on shelves on either side, clear to the ceiling. Dark maroon velvet curtains hung about the bay window in the store front, next to the entrance. He sensed a hint of curry in the air. Barry could see a man standing behind a counter in the back, working on a set of books.
“Yes, may I help you, please?” He was apparently East Indian from his speech and had a large black mustache. His beady black eyes were cheerful, and he seemed excited to have a customer.