Skelton made his way around the room as the women talked and laughed.
Elizabeth and her mother sewed in companionable silence for a few moments, then Lady Howard said, ‘You’re growing into a beautiful young woman, Lizzie.’
‘Thank you, Mama,’ she demurred.
‘When your father is next home from London with your brothers, we must begin discussing your betrothal.’ Elizabeth’s heart pounded as her mother continued, ‘Are there any young men who have visited in recent months who have caught your eye? We have entertained many of your older brothers’ friends, many of whom are from Norfolk, where we shall hopefully return one day.’
Elizabeth hesitated. She knew her parents’ marriage was happy and they were determined to ensure their children found such joy, as well as strategic and politically useful matches, with their unions.
‘Edward’s friend, Thomas Boleyn, is very pleasant,’ said Elizabeth, her cheeks turning a deep pink, her mother gave a satisfied smile.
‘Thomas Boleyn, the son of Sir William and Lady Margaret Boleyn. She is the daughter and co-heir of Thomas Butler, 7th Earl of Ormond; as her eldest son, Thomas might be eligible to inherit the title. He is also creating quite a name for himself at court with his linguistic and diplomatic skills.’
‘You know a lot about of him,’ said Elizabeth.
‘It’s my job as your mother,’ the countess replied with a wink. ‘When your father is home, he and I shall discuss matters. In the meantime, Anne and I will finish polishing you so that when you are called to court, you shall cut a swathe through the nobility.’
Elizabeth focused on the leaf she was embroidering, but she could not stop the smile building deep within her at the thought of the dashing Thomas Boleyn.
9
CERENSTHORPE ABBEY – PRESENT DAY
Tabitha stared at the page in surprise. The first entry of Wilbur Swanne’s journal was not at all as she had imagined; she had expected ribald comments about the weather, perhaps a few asides about the politics of the day, maybe family news, but not what appeared to be a clue for a treasure hunt.
She flipped through the journal to see if there were poems on every page, but the rest appeared to be more traditional entries, with no more obvious directions. However, there might be hints hidden within the prose.
Was this rhyme and the strange prophecy-style final paragraph the basis of Edith’s belief there was a priceless book hidden at Cerensthorpe Abbey? Even if these few lines did represent the beginning of a trail, if they were scattered around the house, did the clues even still exist? The house had changed a great deal since Wilbur’s day.
Tabitha gazed at the poem again. She was eager to help Edith, but she also did not want to raise the older woman’s hopes.
‘“Under the branch where the wizard waits”,’ she murmured. It sounded like a crossword clue.
What harm can it do to investigate further?she thought. If it transpired there was a possibility the pathway of clues remained, she would share her discoveries with Edith.
With a strong sense her endeavours would be a waste of time, Tabitha pulled her notebook in front of her and wrote out the poem. She left several blank lines between each phrase to make notes while she deciphered the meaning. Would she discover instructions or was it simply a piece of doggerel?
Tabitha read it through again and, bringing her analytical brain to the puzzle, focused on the individual words.
Under the branch where the wizard waits
The Aquila chrysaetos guards our words
With blood on his beak, the vulture is the key
For eagles of a lesser kind
On which scholars choose to bate.
She read it through a few times before typing the words:
Aquila chrysaetos
into a translate app to discover it was the Latin name for the golden eagle.
‘Eagles, vultures and what else?’ she murmured, running her fingers along the lines. ‘A wizard?’
She turned back to her screen and typed:
