‘You are nothing,’ he said and spat at her feet. ‘You are a mere woman, and women are beneath my contempt. I would have raised you high, Elizabeth, cherished and loved you like a queen, but you have tainted our love.’
‘There was no love…’ she began, then faltered as he raised his arms high, glaring down at her and howled like a wolf. When he spoke, his voice was unearthly.
‘I invoke the power of my great-grandmother, the witch, Jacquetta Saint Pol of Luxembourg, and of my grandmother, Elizabeth Woodville. Their power runs in my veins, their magic is in my heart. I curse you, Elizabeth Boleyn. I curse your line, your blood?—’
‘You have no power over me,’ she shouted, fear causing her whole body to tremble.
‘I am king, I am omnipotent,’ he screeched. ‘I shall destroy you. Everyone you love, everything you care about, I shall annihilate. You will have to stand by and watch as I punish each of your children in your stead, raise your husband high before I throw him into the mud, your siblings, your nieces, your nephews. None shall be safe from the curse of Henry Tudor.’
‘No,’ she said, horror filling her at the thought of the damage he would wreak on those she loved. ‘Please, no. I shall submit, my lord. Please, do not hurt my family.’
‘You will submit when I am ready,’ he said. ‘You will watch them fall, one by one by one, and then, when you understand who holds the balance of power, you will submit to me, willingly, graciously and with love.’
Outside, the trumpets of the lists blared, their fanfare muffled by the canvas walls. The Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Surrey entered with Thomas Boleyn, their laughter bright against the dim air. The king turned to greet them, his smile warm, even though his eyes were chips of ice. Thomas hesitated on the threshold, unease in his gaze as he looked at Elizabeth. Henry laughed with a ringing cruelty and Elizabeth felt the air tighten around her as though the ancient power of his ancestors had awoken and was already moving through her blood.
37
THE JOURNAL OF WILBUR SWANNE – FEBRUARY 1909
I am alone in Cerensthorpe Abbey. Veronica remains with her sister in Ireland. Ernest is at school. My heart is broken, my soul has withered.
Each day, I roam the halls, noticing details, finding unexpected corners.
In my will, the Chaucer was to have been a bequest for Eglantine. I realise now, this would have caused a scandal. My intention was to make her a wealthy woman and her being able to sell the manuscript would have achieved this objective. This would have completed my job as her father: to protect her, care for her, provide for her, but she is lost to me. Perhaps she does not even know my name. Every letter I have sent has been returned to my solicitor and, with the last one, it was requested, I desist. What choice do I have but to let her go?
Last night, as I watched the clock tick around to three o’clock in the morning – the Devil’s midnight – an idea came to me. Ernest will inherit handsomely, he shall never want for anything, so he has no real necessity of the priceless Chaucer, therefore I shall hide it until the correct person arrives to discover my treasure.
Written down, the idea does appear preposterous, but in my heart, I know this is the correct solution. For the past few days, I have been creating a treasure hunt around the house, which leads to the room, the secret place where the bounty awaits.
My mother always claimed the house chose its inhabitants, so this person will not necessarily be blood born of our family. It will be someone who has been chosen by the house. They will be my rightful heir. The money, the house, these will pass down my son’s line, but the Chaucer,The Mother’s Tale,the documents proving its age: these prizes from the past are for whomsoever solves my clues.
I shall write the first of my riddles in the cover of this journal. The poem which begins it all also holds the final answer. The Boke of St Albans and the entrance to the secret room. A circle.
We all follow the path of fate. We come full circle from birth to death. One day, true love and happiness will return to Cerensthorpe Abbey, but it will not be in my lifetime.
Only in death shall I be free.
38
CERENSTHORPE ABBEY – PRESENT DAY
Tabitha stared at the words in wonder. She was astonished at the story unfolding inThe Mother’s Tale. If this was authentic, then it was a first-hand view of events from the perspective of Elizabeth Boleyn, a woman whose words had been lost from history and who was overlooked in favour of her more infamous offspring. Tabitha flicked through the pages, pausing at different sections, her heart aching with the pain as Elizabeth described the king courting, bedding, then abandoning Mary, leaving her with two children, neither of whom he claimed. Tabitha knew William Carey, Mary’s husband, had died from the sweating sickness in 1528, by which time Henry had begun his affair with Anne.
Was it revenge?thought Tabitha.
Her phone buzzed.
‘Hey, Gull,’ she answered.
‘How far have you read?’ he asked.
‘To 1525. Elizabeth has found a list of expenses in the account book from Thomas’s trip to Windsor to see “Maister Perssy”.’
‘Who was “Maister Perssy”?’
‘There are a few books which mention this reference and it’s thought to have been Henry Percy, 6th Earl of Northumberland. Anne was supposed to have had a potential betrothal with him, but he was warned off to leave the way clear for the king.’
Gulliver gave a murmur of interest, then there was a pause and Tabitha could almost hear his brain whirring.
