Authors: Michele Kallio
“None, I fear, my lord, though word is expected any day.”
“I tire of this endless waiting game. Does the Pope have no heart?” the king complained. Turning his attention to the child snuggled in his embrace, he asked, “And sweet one, what is your name?”
Never one to be shy of anyone save the feared Cardinal, Sarah struggled to sit up in the king’s embrace. “Sarah de Roche,” she said proudly. “Your hair is the same color as mine,” she continued breathlessly. “And your beard is soft.” Sarah snuggled her face close to his. “I have seen you here before.” Sarah smiled mischievously. “He doesn’t like it when you come,” she said pointing to the Cardinal.
Wolsey’s face stained red at the child’s utterance. “Sarah, mind your tongue,” he stammered. “Elisabeth, claim your charge!”
“Yes, Elisabeth, take your charge. I fear we have offended our host,” the king said, as he lowered the little girl to the ground. “But I would have her brought to the hall tonight to meet my lady.”
“And Elisabeth, may Elisabeth come too?” Sarah cried as her feet touched the garden path.
“Yes, yes, of course my poppet, she must come too.”
Elisabeth blushed brightly as she dipped a deep curtsey to the king. Grabbing Sarah’s hand she dragged the child along the gravel path.
“See you later, King,” called the child.
The king’s laughter boomed loudly as he waved goodbye. “You shall join us on our next progress, little jewel,” the king called to Sarah. Then, turning back to business the broad smile slipped from his lips, to be replaced by a scowl. “The debacle at Blackfriars still stings.”
“I know, my lord, but what could I do? Had not Cardinal Campeggio been there, I could have ruled in your favor, but the Queen was within her rights to demand a ruling from Rome.”
“Yes, but I weary of this endless purgatory in which I languish. Who is King here?”
“You are, Your Grace,” Cardinal Wolsey mumbled. Wolsey could sense the turn their conversation was taking and his face paled. “But, Your Grace…”
“No more buts, ifs or whens. I am King, declared Defender of the Faith, by the Grace of God, King of England, France and Ireland. None other shall decide the King’s Great Matter.” Red-faced and breathing heavily, Henry turned on his heel, striding off into the gathering mist muttering loudly.
Wolsey stared after the king. Even now, the bitch that would destroy him was gathering strength. He hiked his scarlet robes out of the heavy dew and turned back toward his palace. “Edward Foxe, the Devil’s own, and her supporter, assembles my words to use against me. Sweet Jesu, how can I serve two masters and keep my head? The King will not be denied, nor will the Pope obey. The keys of Saint Peter and Clement’s throne slip through my fingers and I can do naught to stop it.” Wolsey cursed the darkness. “I wonder where those two have gone. I must have a word with Brother Michael about Elisabeth and Sarah. Most embarrassing,” Slowly he climbed the broad staircase and went inside.
T
HREE
Lydia frowned at the stack of charts on her desk. Her eyes stung, her head ached. She massaged her temples. She found it hard to rein in her mind to the task at hand. But her mind resisted turning instead to that awful night in October, when her father, Charles Hamilton, a professor at St. Mary’s University in Halifax, had been struck by a car and died at the scene.
‘Then there were the dreams.’ Lydia groaned internally. She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes. As if on cue, the dream sequence rolled before her mind’s eye.
Lydia saw once more the cold, dark room. She felt the gooseflesh raise on her arms. She felt herself slip into the girl’s body. Rude voices faint, then growing louder, invaded her silence. The door was outlined with light, creaking and groaning as it was pushed open. Stepping back instinctively, Lydia saw a lantern flashed about until it shone on her. “There you are, girl,” he shouted. She resisted his attempt to snare her. Lydia’s nose wrinkled as she remembered the repulsive smell of him. At last his hand succeeded in grabbing her hand. Swinging her around, he caressed her face. Tears blind her eyes as he casually outlined her face with his finger. Tracing the outline of her chin he ran his hand down her neck to her breast. She stiffened as he squeezed her breast. Her mind wild with fear, she broke free of his hold, only to be caught again by her upper arm. Lydia unconsciously raised her hand to her cheek as she remembered the fiend’s hard slap to the girls’ face. “‘Tis time, girl,” he sneered as he dragged her to the door. “Come, see what your writing hath wrought,” he taunted. Over and over he sang his mantra. “Come, see what your writing, hath wrought.” Pushing Lydia out the door, he taunted, “Not even the Devil can save his own now.”
The soft ringing of a telephone shattered Lydia’s thoughts. Lydia shivered as the dream sequence faded from her mind. She picked up a pencil and began describing the scene as quickly as she could on a scrap of paper. Trying to remember the words, she lost the smells. In trying to remember the clothes, she lost the furniture. She became so frustrated she threw the pencil across the room. Scrunching up the paper she threw it after the pencil, nearly missing Marjorie McAndrews, Dan’s receptionist.
“Now, temper, that’s something I know a thing or two about,” teased the big Irish woman. “’Tis never good to lose, yet it’s a hard thing to keep. What is it? A new directive from Medicare, or is it that dream again?”
Lydia blushed in embarrassment, lowering her head she pointed to medical charts on her desk. “These have been billed to Medicare and are ready to be filed,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. Regaining control she gestured towards the pile of charts to her left. “And these are referrals to Specialists. I have typed the letters and they are now ready to be faxed to the appropriate offices. These others are reports, I’ll work on them.”
Marjorie excused herself, carrying an armload of charts to the front office. Lydia could hear the large woman berating herself. “Will I never learn? Will I never learn to keep my big mouth shut?”
***
Dan arrived early for his meeting with Alan Stokes. He had lied to Lydia, telling her he had an appointment at the hospital. Dan grimaced. He hated lying to Lydia. He justified his lie by reminding himself that it was for Lydia, for her peace of mind, and his own, for that matter. It hadn’t been easy. He sat watching the thick, Fundy fog roll up Prince William Street, blanketing Saint John in a shroud of heavy mist. The fog muffled Stokes’ step and Dan was startled to find him standing by the car.
“Oh! Alan, hello, dreary isn’t it?”
“Quite. Shall we go in? Alan said as he opened the car door. Walking toward the restaurant, he continued, “I must admit, you have piqued my interest. Mind you, you have not disclosed the smallest detail. I’m eager to learn more of this mysterious friend and her frightening dreams. Here! Let’s grab a table by the window,” Alan said, directing Dan to a secluded spot.
The waitress arrived quickly with menus. The order was taken and drinks delivered. Dan leaned forward, sliding the black tape recorder across the table.
“I want you to listen to this. It’s Lydia describing the dream she had the other night. She doesn’t know about the tape or that I am talking to you.” Dan paused. He stared out at the passing traffic, his inner turmoil etched on his face.
“Lydia. Ah yes, the beautiful Miss Hamilton. Has she agreed to be your wife yet? Ah, no, I can see by your expression she hasn’t. Sorry friend, there is nothing I can do unless she agrees.” Alan pushed the recorder back across the table and studied his dinner companion. Dan was tall, nearly six feet, Stokes estimated. Dan had dark, sorrowful eyes, a finely chiseled chin, and a sad face. The set of Dan’s jaw was tight, his face a study in stone.
“I know,” He had faced the possibility that Stokes might refuse to listen to the tape. Dan leaned on his left elbow as he stroked his chin, searching for the right words which would convince Stokes to get involved.
“I shouldn’t listen to the tape without Lydia’s permission,” Stokes said, Dan sat with his shoulders hunched forward, nervously drumming on the table. Stokes took pity and said, “But the desperation on your face is hard to ignore. What can you tell me about the dream?”
“I would rather you listen to Lydia tell it in her own words.”
“Yes. I will, but I want your input. What can you tell me about the dream? For instance, has she been experiencing it long?”
“No, in fact it only began a few months ago. Her father died in a car accident last October. Could the dream have anything to do with that? I mean, she doesn’t dream about him, so no, I don’t think the dream has anything to do with that.”
“Why is that?” Stokes asked, resting his head on his hand. “Traumatic experiences often affect all parts of our personalities.” He was already scribbling on a napkin.
“Well,” Dan paused. “The dream doesn’t have anything to do with him. It’s historical in theme, it’s kind of fanciful.”
“Fanciful is an interesting choice of words. Why did you pick that one?”
“I would prefer for you to listen to the tape.”
“I appreciate that, Dan, but I would like to know what you know about the dream.”
“Nothing more than is on the tape.”
“Okay, I think it is time I listened to the tape.” Stokes said pushing his chair back from the table. Indeed, Dan was amazed to see Alan’s plate clean, while his own was untouched. Stokes slipped the girl behind the cash his Gold Visa card. Outside they crossed the street to Dan’s car.
Once seated inside the two men looked warily at each other. Stokes spoke finally “Once this is done there is no going back. You realize that, don’t you?”
Dan nodded as he turned on the recorder.
“Then let us listen to what your lovely lady, and she is lovely isn’t she, has to say,” Stokes said.
Dan bristled at Alan’s sexual comment, but Stokes was the local expert on dreams and dream interpretation, and Dan had no desire to go to Montreal or Toronto in search of another when the best in the field was right here in Saint John. Dan mused that New Brunswick was hardly the kind of place specialists in the abnormal psychology flocked to, but Alan had somehow managed to get the University of New Brunswick at Saint John to fund his research into the psychology of dreams. Stokes was now a world leader in the subject.
Dan shifted his weight, trying to push away the thought that Stokes could become a rival for Lydia’s affections. He closed his eyes and waited for the tape to begin.
Alan settled back in the seat, closing his eyes as he stroked the fine stubble of his blonde beard with his left hand and listened.
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes after the finish of the tape. Fat raindrops fell splattering the windshield. Dan stared past the rain into the heavy mist wondering why he had chosen Saint John for the location of his family practice. He found the fog depressing. He felt ill at ease having a stranger, albeit a known one, listening to Lydia’s vulnerable voice describing her night terrors. It was an invasion of her privacy. He didn’t know if she could forgive him, if she found out.
Stokes spoke up, breaking Dan’s reverie. “I will call you. I have to check my schedule, but I think we need to investigate these dreams further. In the mean time, you must get Lydia to agree to see me. I cannot proceed any further without her permission”
“I will. Don’t worry about that,” Dan said, more confidently than he felt.
“May I keep the tape? No, I see you would prefer me not to. I understand.”
Dan watched Stokes walk away until he disappeared in the mist. He drove to the hospital to pick up his mail before returning to the office.
FOUR
SEPTEMBER 5, 1529
Elisabeth didn’t know whether to slap Sarah for her impertinence or to kiss her in thanks for the great adventure to come. She took the little girl’s hand, steering Sarah toward the Cardinal’s library.
Brother Michael greeted their late arrival from lunch with a frown. “Elisabeth, the gospel does suffer when you are away from your desk. Seat yourself girl, and you,” he said pointing to Sarah, “you have your letters to do.”