‘True,’ my mother agreed. ‘We are lucky then, to have our own story. Your father told me: “When the whistle blows, the curse is activated for fifty-eight years, the length of Elizabeth Boleyn’s life”.’
My contemptuous laugh was lined with fear. ‘Why Elizabeth Boleyn?’
‘This was her house,’ my mother said. ‘She passed it to Mary, her daughter. Your father believes we have Elizabeth’s diary.’
‘It would be hundreds of years old,’ I said in awe, then asked in an off-hand manner, ‘What does the curse do?’
My mother glanced around, as though checking we were alone, before leaning forward and whispering in melodramatic tones, ‘It haunts those you love until, one day, when you least expect it, they are taken from you, swallowed by the cries of the curlews and lost forever in the darkness of time.’
I tried to laugh it off, but my soul was chilled.
‘To which whistle do you refer, Mama?’ I asked as haughtily as possible, trying to hide my fear.
‘The hawking whistle engraved with the words “Two for sorrow”. It is said to be the cursed call from Henry to Elizabeth, used to bring first Mary, then Anne, then George to the king’s side, each suffering his wrath because of their mother’s pride.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Elizabeth refused him – have you never heard the legend of how when the king wished to marry Anne Boleyn, he was questioned about his relationship with her sister, Mary. He did not deny their affair, but when he was asked about Elizabeth Boleyn, the kingstated, “Never the mother”. Family legend has it that her refusal was the beginning of the curse.’
There was a huge clap of thunder as my mother said these words. We both jumped, then laughed at our foolishness.
‘Does Father own a hawking whistle engraved with those words?’ I asked, already dismissing the story as nonsense.
‘As a matter of fact, darling, he does,’ replied my mother as she returned to her book. ‘It’s in the top drawer of his desk, but I doubt it’s as old as Elizabeth Boleyn. The curse was probably a yarn spun by his father.’
Unnerved, I took a large bite of my apple and yelled in pain as my tooth was wrenched out. A smear of blood on the white flesh.
The curse.
Who believes in curses in our modern era?
I should have listened, understood the danger, not played with the fates. Helena has gone. Dead. Lost to me forever and our daughter has been taken in by her sister. I shall never see either of them again.
The curse is real.
It takes those we love.
My life is dark. Cursed.
To remind myself of my stupidity, I have hung the ancient painting of the curlews, which is said to date from Tudor times, in the corridor leading to the chapel. It will serve forever as a reminder of my foolishness, my loss. The whistle is being placed behind glass, worn by a magpie, never to be blown again.
31
CERENSTHORPE ABBEY – PRESENT DAY
Tabitha stared at the sketch and wrinkled her nose. The shading was wrong, making the stones of the ruins look out of proportion. She sighed and turned to a fresh page, but she was unenthusiastic and rather than begin a new attempt, she gazed out of the window of the scriptorium. It was Saturday and Tabitha had been hoping to spend time outside, sketching. The November weather had been mild and wet, the leaves slow to fall, glowing a myriad of reds, golds and orange in a week of gentle sunshine, but today a fierce wind had roared across the countryside, ruining her plans.
It was Edith who had suggested Tabitha use the scriptorium.
‘It’s the perfect place to sketch,’ she had said. ‘I have spent many happy hours in there drawing.’
‘But it was only renovated recently,’ Tabitha had said in surprise.
‘The scriptorium has always been here, perhaps not in the beautiful condition Gulliver has restored it to, but the space, the feeling of peace, it has remained since the thirteenth century, no matter the décor.’
The room was a mixture of ancient and modern. When she had first seen it, Tabitha’s initial thought had been it was a space out of time, a place of harmony linking the eras of the house, each generation reinventing it afresh and leaving their imprint in the ancient walls. Gulliver had shown it to her a week after her arrival. He had been filled with quiet pride as he explained it had been his passion project five years earlier.
‘I found some old plans in the archives,’ he had explained. ‘A friend put me in touch with an architect, Oliver Lennox, who specialises in renovating old properties. He visited and we worked together on the designs. When I showed them to Edith, she loved the idea. Oliver’s drawings were sympathetic but practical. He created a workable space but with a sense of the abbey’s history.’
