Ordinary People: Part Vi

By Phil Boast

So here then is the sixth part of our story, which takes us on a journey. Partly, this is a journey through time, beginning on the first day of the year 1500, where a wedding is taking place, and it is this journey that Victoria Tillington must make if she is to discover the secrets of her familys history. In large part, this book is about connections and frustration in her attempts at finding these connections, leading the daughter of the lord and lady to seek help from those who have always known, at least in part, how everything came to be. First, however, she must decipher the enigmatic words of the high priestess of the coven of healers, the most powerful white witch of them all; one clue is all that she has, and it is a clue that she does not understand.

Keith attempts to bring forth his innate musical ability while overcoming his own anxieties, and in this regard, he receives help from close at hand and from a place where he might least have expected it. Emily receives a gift that, although given in all innocence, brings to the fore memories and past feelings that she thought were buried but were not, it seems, buried as deeply as she had supposed. Percival tries to come to terms with the love of a particular woman in all of its perversity and complexity but finds that there are further complications to the affairs of his heart for now there is the love of two women for him to contemplate.

And here again we meet Rebecca, who so wishes to lead a life more ordinary, but a devastating occurrence seems to leave her with no choice but to once again seek vengeance against those who have apparently so wronged her and her own family, but who really is the enemy? The search for the answer to this question leads her to a confrontation, one that she would not have imagined, and which only one person will survive. At the forefront of the historical element of this part of our tale are Edward and Anne Tillington, brother and sister who receive news from a mysterious visitor, which sets them on their own particular journey. On this journey they carry with them a lie which has not yet been told, but must be told soon enough if they are to tell it, and one day to none other than Elizabeth I, the Queen of England herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490750477

Phil Boast

Phil Boast, a native of the UK, now lives in Sulawesi, Indonesian, where he owns and runs a tourist lodge for SCUBA divers and naturalists. As well as his novel writing, (the ‘ORDINARY PEOPLE’ series is now 13 volumes long), Phil, with his partner, Paula, has written and published an autobiographical account of their experiences of moving to and living in Indonesia, which they then re - wrote in narrative form for a radio series, which has been broadcast on English radio.

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© Copyright 2014 Phil Boast.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5046-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5045-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5047-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921057

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 11/21/2014

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1     Blood Ties

Chapter 2     The Beginning

Chapter 3     Deep Secrets

Chapter 4     Matters Concerning Keith

Chapter 5     Searching For The Past, And searching for the Future

Chapter 6     Original Sin

Chapter 7     Looking West

Chapter 8     A Lonely Road

Chapter 9     Ghostly Shadows

Chapter 10   Seeing In The Dark

Chapter 11   Colder Autumn Days

Chapter 12   A Dying Breed

Chapter 13   Uninvited Visitors

Chapter 14   The Mistake

Chapter 15   The Lie

Chapter 16   Raising The Dead

Chapter 17   The Haunting

Chapter 18   Concerning Rosemary

Chapter 19   The Middle Of The Water

Chapter 20   Sixth Sense

Chapter 21   A Last Hope

Chapter 22   Unexpected Events

Chapter 23   The Making Of A Village

Chapter 24   The Healer

Chapter 25   Ash

Chapter 1

BLOOD TIES

On a bitterly cold winters’ day in the year of our Lord 1500, which was the first day of the new year, a simple wedding ceremony took place in the small village of Millhamlet, which was situated some three days’ ride on a good horse to the east of the city of London. The betrothed were named Edward and Anne, both being at the time eighteen years of age. These were simple folk, both orphaned at an early age and neither having surviving brothers or sisters; a circumstance which was not uncommon during the time of the ravages of the great pestilence, and given the hardness of the lives of ordinary English people during these years. Edward was a stonemason by profession, and they had met whilst he was plying his trade in the construction of a bridge over the river in which Anne would oft and anon wash her clothes, and those of the family with which she resided. He was only one of a gang of workmen from whom she was subjected to friendly but suggestive banter each time she came to carry out her duties by the waters’ edge, but it was Edward whom she noticed, and for him did she reserve her coy, feminine response and girlish laughter. Thus was he emboldened at the end of one particular working day to offer to carry her basket of wet clothing to her place of abode; she accepted, and the two were married within three months, on the first day of the new century. During the ensuing five years, two sons and three daughters were born to these two, and though their life was simple, it was for the most part a good life.

It then so happened that during the year of 1522, whatever good fortune had been theirs was swept away in most spectacular and devastating fashion. Their eldest son, William, was called upon to fight for King and country during the disastrous invasion of France, a country with which England had only very recently been allied, and he left with their love, their prayers and with the hope of his swift and safe return. Then, not two weeks after William’s departure, the sweating sickness came to the small hamlet, and moved through the close, tight – knit community like fire through a field of corn – stubble. Theirs was amongst the first households to be affected, their youngest daughter, Veronica, being the first to complain of a headache and nausea before the bloody coughing and swelling began. Nobody in the family escaped the pestilence, however, and within a matter of days Edward and Anne, as well as their other daughters Amanda and Ruth, and finally their younger son Henry, had all succumbed to the sickness. The door to their humble dwelling was closed, a cross was painted upon it, and all inside must trust in the good Lord for their survival, whilst vittles were placed daily at their shutter should any of them still be alive and well enough to eat or drink. Such was the ferocity of this particular strain of plague virus, however, that within a matter of a further two weeks the entire community was either ill, had fled, or had passed away, and there was nobody to provide sustenance or to say prayers for the unfortunate family; it was assumed by any who still remained and were well enough to give the matter mind that Edward Mark Tillington and his entire remaining family had died.

It was not until one night during the second week after the door had been ceremoniously shut to the world that it was opened once more, and from the house a young man emerged, and took his first faltering, painful steps from the threshold. He was malnourished and dehydrated, but alone of his family Henry had, perhaps by dint of his strength and youth, or perhaps by mere good fortune, survived the sickness. He had barely the strength to draw the pale of water from the well which formed the focal – point of the once thriving and happy community, but by degree he did so, and felt for the first time in days the sensation of cool water on his parched lips. Within the hour he was able to drink his fill, and thus did he find the strength and willpower to walk, however uneasily, along the dark track which formed the only way through the village, past the now deserted houses from which emanated the stench of new death, and out into the open country. He did not look back, and never returned to seek out the village of his birth. He would never know, therefore, that the village itself and the old mill were for all time abandoned, the houses left to fall into ruin until no trace remained, and the place once known as Millhamlet was consigned to the history, if any be left to tell it.

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The pestilence had struck in the spring, and during the summer of the same year William, Edward’s brother, returned to his home. The campaign against the French had been a disaster, and William had watched whilst his comrades, who had no more wish to be there than he, were cut down by arrows or fell ill and died. The order to abandon conflict and return to the coast had been given, and once the ships had docked at last at an English port, it was every surviving man’s responsibility to find their slow way home as best they could. On his homeward journey he had heard rumour of the decimation of his village, and on his arrival there some two weeks after his disembarkation, he found that indeed the place was deserted, and his own family home empty. The corpses of his dead family had by now been buried in a mass grave just outside the village, which had been marked by a single wooden cross.

He said a prayer for his lost and beloved father and mother, for his three sisters, and for his brother Henry, who was two years his junior. He picked up his bag, in which he had some provision and a few clothes, and walked for the last time through Millhamlet, the last resident of the village to do so. He walked in the opposite direction to which Henry had walked some weeks previously and neither brother would ever know the fate of the other, both assuming that their brother had perished by such different means. Certainly, they were never to meet again in this lifetime.

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‘Hi Keith; how are you getting on?’

This was Victoria Tillington, only daughter to the Lord and Lady, and Keith was working on his own, on a particular part of the Manor House extension. The contract was moving on at a good pace, the stonemasons and bricklayers were giving good account of themselves, and the structure of the new building would soon be completed to ceiling level before the roof construction would begin.

‘Oh hello, umm, Victoria; yeah, you know, fine thanks.’

Although he berated himself on the matter, it was true to say that Keith was still unsure how to address Victoria. Due to events unrelated to the work, he felt it appropriate to consider her as a friend, but she was also daughter to the man paying the bills, and had taken primary role in instigating and overseeing the design and construction of the extension. Therefore to be on first name terms, at least in a work context, seemed a little too familiar and perhaps inappropriate. And after all, she was a member of the English aristocracy, and such divides run deep in the English psyche. It was true that although she spoke well, and there could be no doubt about the manner of her upbringing, she had few of the airs and graces that one might have expected from such a high – born young woman, and Keith had a certain respect for her for this fact. But still and despite this he had to work on calling her Victoria, although nothing else seemed any more appropriate.

Keith was in fact working on that which in some respects could be said to be the most important part of the contract, at least from an historical perspective; one which had not in fact been a part of the original brief. After all, who could have foreseen the discovery of the poor unfortunate woman who had been incarcerated behind the false wall for so long a time? The creation of a recess in which to place a small ceramic urn had therefore been subsequently added to the contract, and to this was Keith putting the final touches, including the placing of a stone sill which would project the feature out a little way from the face of the wall.

‘In fact I think we’re about ready to place the urn; we just have to paint the surrounding wall, but we’ll get the general idea, anyway.’

‘I see, well let’s do that then, shall we?’

Victoria fetched the urn from her bedroom where she had kept it once Keith had taken note of its dimensions, whilst Keith cleaned up his work and made the final preparation, and for the first time Victoria placed the object in that which was intended to become its’ permanent resting place. The recess had been carefully crafted, and the fit was perfect in its proportion. The urn would never again be placed there, however, although neither of them could at that time know this, or why this would be.

‘There; that looks very well, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, it looks good. I don’t suppose we have any more idea as to what it is; I mean why it was left with ummm…with the lady?’

‘No; no I’m afraid we don’t.’

This was true, although there was perhaps a kernel of untruth about the statement; a seed from which might grow new knowledge. In Rebecca’s account of the alleged events which took place surrounding the murder of Jane Mary there had been no mention of an urn, or vase; such detail would not have in any case been known, of course, to anyone but the murderer. But if the story were true then the vessel must have had some significance, otherwise Victoria was sure that it would not have been left there, and she was determined to at least attempt to learn the whole truth. To this end she intended to discover all that she could through family archive and public record, but before she began this laborious task she had already begun investigation of a quite different and more scientific nature. For what first must be established was whether or not she and Rebecca were in fact related, however distantly; if they were then this fact alone would add credence to the story, and if they were not then she could dismiss the matter as hearsay and erroneous conclusion, or false testament at some unspecified time in the distant past. To this end she had acted swiftly; she had taken a strand of hair from her hairbrush, which Rebecca would sometimes use. The hair colouring of herself and her beloved was in fact not dissimilar, but Victoria had persuaded Rebecca, perhaps as part of her way back to a softer life, to grow her hair to its’ former glory, and Rebecca had, if a little reluctantly at first, complied. She wished her Rebecca to be as she had been when they had been teenagers and her lush, silken, jet – black hair had been the envy of their peers at school; when it had cascaded around her shoulders and down her back, and around her breasts in their more intimate moments. She wished her to be as she had seen her, sitting on the cliff – top in her dream; that terrible dream before she had recovered consciousness, her hair blowing across her face. The strand of hair, therefore, had unmistakably been Rebecca’s, since it was longer than her own hair, and this had she taken to a scientific establishment in the town so that a comparison could be made between their respective DNA. She had requested a swift response, and the agreement had not been without considerable expense, but she was keen to at least begin to establish the truth. And there was something else which was causing her slight but more immediate concern; Rebecca had not been in touch for a few days.

‘Anyway; I suppose you had better take it back into safe storage, now that we’ve established that I made the hole the right size.’

‘I’m sorry…?’

‘The urn; I wouldn’t want one of us to knock it off; this is still a building site, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes; yes of course; I’ll take it back to my room for safe – keeping then.’

‘Yeah; good idea’

‘Well; I’ll leave you to it then…I must say the work is coming along very well.’

‘It’ll be nice to get the roof on; then it’ll start feeling more like a part of the house, if you follow me.’

‘I agree, but anyway everyone is very pleased so far; one hears nightmare stories of extensions and building projects in general.’

‘We aim to please…’

‘And your part in the success of the project has not been inconsiderable, and everyone, especially me, appreciates that Keith.’

‘Well thanks for the sentiment.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Victoria, smiling ‘Oh by the way, have you by any chance seen Rebecca around the village during the last few days?’

‘No; no, sorry; can’t say I have. I’ll put the word about if you want; see if anyone’s seen her.’

‘It is no matter; she’s probably working long hours at the studio. Anyway, see you then.’

‘Yeah, sure, see you, ummm…’

Victoria took the urn into which had, still unbeknownst to her, once been placed the burned remains of two children, and put it down carefully on her chest of drawers. She would walk to the village this evening to see Rebecca, or at least try to glean news of her whereabouts; if she had gone somewhere she must surely have spoken to somebody, although knowing Rebecca, perhaps not; odd, though, that she hadn’t telephoned Victoria at the Manor House.

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Henry Tillington was hungry. Such an adjective in fact barely described his condition as he walked into the dawn of the first day after his recovery; he was emaciated, and must soon find nourishment or he would in any case perish. On leaving the village he had had the foresight to stop at what has once been the home and workplace of George Fowler, the butcher, from whence he had taken a cleaver; the good butcher would not be needing the tools of his trade anymore. Henry slaughtered a sheep. This should have been an easy matter, as the animal had wandered from the field into the lane, but in his current, weakened condition all movement was a trial to the young man. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been flogged and perhaps hanged for such a crime, but these were not ordinary circumstances, and really he had no choice; it was this or die in any case. He dragged the carcass back into the field; this was not the most robust or healthy of beasts, but it would suffice. With what little strength he had left he gathered brushwood and any flammable material that he could find around him and made a fire, crouching down behind the hedgerow away from prying eyes; a precaution hardly necessary in view of the few souls who remained in the vicinity, who would in all likelihood not have cared anyway. He roughly butchered the animal before cooking its’ fattest parts over his fire, and within the hour he had eaten his first solid food for several days; the meat was tough, but it tasted to the young man like manna from heaven. For the remainder of the morning he lay down and slept; even such a brief walk had exhausted him, and he needed to gather such strength as he could from his meager repast. He was tired, he was barely over his sickness, but he was alive, and by such means did he make his slow way, and put hard miles between himself and the dead village, and out into open country to whatever fate may await him. In one respect at least had Henry Tillington been fortunate; this was the early spring and the weather was warm; had it been the dead of winter he would likely not have survived a cold night sleeping in the open, under the stars.

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William walked for several days. He met people on the road; poor, displaced souls who made their way singly, in families or loosely allied groups, often crossing whilst walking in opposite directions to one another in their attempt to find a place as yet untouched by the great pestilence; that which would later be called the black death was, it seemed, finding its’ grim way into even the darkest and most remote corners of the kingdom. It was not therefore until more than four weeks after he had walked from his family home that he came by chance upon a hamlet where the ravages of the sickness had passed, and the dead were buried. Here he offered his services to any who would employ him, for he was a strong young man, where strong young men now were in short measure, and he spoke to the parson of the village.

‘And what pray may you offer by way of service, young master?’

‘My father was a stonemason, sir, and I have learned his trade as best I may, but I will turn my hand to whatever work may be required of me.’

‘And from whence do you come?’

‘My home was in the village of Millhamlet in the next but one county, although I have latterly been in France in the service of the king, and so did I escape the pestilence.’

‘Well then, perhaps some good has come of that ill – fated and ill – conceived venture, and work you shall, young man. Tonight you will reside at my abode, and tomorrow you will be put to task, for there is much work now to do.’

‘I thank you sir, for your kindness.’

‘You may thank me when the first days’ work is done, young master, and what pray may we call you?’

‘My name sir is William; William Tillington.’

‘Well, William Tillington, and what of your family..?’

‘My family has perished, sir; I am now all that remain to carry forward my fathers’ name.’

‘Then, young man, I wish you good fortune, and may the good Lord bless you with many children, and may He bless us all in these accursed times.’

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By slow degree did Henry regain his strength, and each day he would walk a little further, before resting again and finding such food as he could from the fields and pastures. Even it happened that once or twice did he find gainful employment for a day herding sheep or sowing a new crop of grain, for which he was paid in coin of the realm, so enabling him to buy cooked food or new clothing by which to continue his journey, though he knew not where he was going, or where his journey may end. And thus it was that one day the comely young lady whose name was Sarah opened the door to her fathers’ croft to see standing before her a handsome young man, apparently in the prime of his life, who tipped his hat to the fair maiden, and smiled a winning smile.

‘Good day to you.’

‘Good day sir; what business do you have here?’

‘I….I have come to offer my service to your father, or whoever may farm these lands. I am a strong and willing worker, and ask only for board and lodging for my services, and but a little money for my meager needs.’

‘I see; then you had better wait here whilst I fetch my father from the field.’

‘I will wait all the better for having seen you, my lady.’

The young maiden Sarah blushed and turned away; she could after all scarce have known that here stood her future husband. For Henry Tillington did indeed prove to be a dependable asset to the shepherd, who’s health was failing during this time. He would sleep in the barn, and take his meals alone; not an ideal arrangement for a young man, and he would not have stayed long had it not been for the daughter of the household. He would see her from time to time as he went about his work, and she would bring him his breakfast and sometimes his meals in the early evening, but ever his attempts to engage her in conversation met with bashful silence. Henry Tillington, however, was a determined young man, and one evening he made his move.

‘I have made something for you; would you like to see it?’

She said nothing, but made no attempt to leave.

‘Then come with me; it is in here.’

He walked into the barn, and she followed him. He gave her a small piece of Elm wood which he had spent the last several evenings carving into the shape of a horse. The carving was crude, but he was passably pleased with is work, and he had nothing better to do with his time, after all.

‘Do you like it?’

‘It is…yes; thank you.’

‘Then it is yours.’

She smiled at him and held his eyes for the first time, and still she did not attempt to leave, and so he held her waist and they kissed; the first time that he had kissed a girl in this way, and also for her it was the first time. Thereafter she would stay for a few moments each evening, and by degrees did they come to know the gentle ways of physical love between a man and a woman, and though their time together was short, they each began to live for the few moments that they were together, and in both of them grew a longing which as yet was unfulfilled. Then, one evening, she said;

‘My father is quite ill, and my mother tends him; I can stay a little longer.’

He took her by the hand, and together they climbed into the hay – loft, and there did they find fulfillment and have knowledge of one another, and it was for both of them the most wonderful thing that they had ever experienced in their young lives. Within three months she was with child, and on the eve of the fourth month they were married, for she said it must be so, and he would make an honest woman of her, for he was not at heart a bad or irresponsible young man. Thus did he move into the farmhouse with his young bride, and thus it was that he stayed on the farm for the rest of his life. Their first – born child was a girl whom they called Lucy, the second, born some two years later they called Ruth, and their last surviving child was a boy, whom they called Henry. Henry not only took his fathers’ name but followed his trade, and was it seemed destined to spend his life as a shepherd as his father had been before him, until one day by happenstance he was herding his sheep into a corral as the king of England rode past, and thenceforward did his fortunes change in most dramatic fashion.

He in time would marry his beloved wife, Katherine, and with her he would sire three children before her untimely death; his only son they named Edward, and Edward’s only two siblings were to be twin girls, whom they called Anne and Sarah, Anne being the elder by a matter of a few minutes.

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William quickly made his presence felt in the small town of Westerholt where he had finally ended his journey. After the decimation of a community such as this had suffered, there must be a rebuilding, and although his skill with the cutting and shaping of stone was in the first place not much called upon, he turned his dexterity and strength to helping the local farmers and trades - people. He quickly learned the craft of dry – stone walling for the enclosure of animals, or the repairing of roofs or timber structures, and in the evenings in the local ale – houses he would regale the populous, and particularly such young men that remained, with stories of his weeks spent in France engaging the French troops. It was by mere chance that the man standing beside him on the battlefield, and not he, was shot down by the very excellent French archers, and most of his time abroad had been spent in long, arduous marching, or the search for food, or waiting beyond bow – shot in cold, cramped, muddy conditions whilst his comrades became sick from the bloody flux and died without so much as raising a weapon. It was also true that whilst he had seen combat on occasion, he had not killed or so much as injured any Frenchmen, but he could tell a good story and he was a personable and popular young man, who would stand his round of ale and could take his drink with the best of them.

There lived in the town at this time a certain young lady who was called Elaine. She was the Innkeeper’s daughter at an establishment where he and his friends would drink on occasion, and where the young lady Elaine, who had just passed her sixteenth birthday, would sometimes serve at table or collect the empty jugs of ale to assist her parents in the running of the establishment. She was sweet of countenance, pretty of face, and well developed for her age in terms of her feminine attributes; she was indeed the very stuff of fantasy for such young men as these. It was also true, however, that she was carefully guarded and watched by her perhaps understandably protective father, who had more than once laid out a customer who had attempted to become too familiar with his daughter, or who had passed comment upon her rather too loudly after a flagon too many of the very fine ale which was served at the Inn.

Discussion amongst the group of young men regarding the young lady, for surely such discussion took place, was therefore restricted to whispers in tight – knit groups or asides between individuals, and so it was one night that she once again became the subject of their quiet banter as she had cleared the table of empty tankards and brought more ale, and it was William who this time raised the subject.

‘Would that I could have half an hour in her company…’

‘I would settle for ten minutes.’

‘I would need only two.’

And they laughed.

‘I’ll wager’, said Stanley ‘that no man here can so much as win a kiss from the young damsel.’

‘And what would be your wager?’ said William

‘Free ale for a night to the man who can breach her defenses and bring me her kerchief as proof of the deed.’

‘For only a kiss..?’ Said William

‘If the conquest ends further south then I will buy ale for a week.’

‘First one would need to conquer the foothills.’ Said Benjamin, and the group laughed again.

‘I will take your wager.’ Said William

‘Then you are a braver man than I’ said Benjamin

‘If the wager will stand for one week then I will bring you your kerchief, or I will be the one to buy the ale.’

‘Then I wish you Godspeed, and may you not emerge too bruised and bloodied by the attempt, for I believe that taking on a French garrison single – handed would be as nothing by comparison.’

‘Well then, we have an agreement, and you, my friend, had best start putting your money by.’

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On the evening of the same day, Victoria walked to the village and opened the front door of her cottage. It was clear that Rebecca was not there, and indeed it seemed that she had not been home for several days; she had left food out on the kitchen counter which Victoria had the unpleasant task of removing to the waste – bin. She opened windows to let in fresh air before going upstairs to the main bedroom, where she found Rebecca’s note, written in her all but illegible handwriting, unless one had read it before.

‘Bloody hell Vics, my parents are here! We met on the village Green, Christ knows how but they were looking for me. Anyway I’ve gone back with them for a few days. This is kind of heavy but I’ll be let you know as soon as I’m back, love you now and always, Bex xx’

‘Well at least that explains that then, and good luck, my love, although you might have told me; but then I suppose what else should I have expected…?’

For a brief moment she wondered whether her own parents had played any part in the reunion, but she thought probably not; her father had been quite catagoric in respect of their not intervening, and if they were looking for Rebecca then her parent’s search would inevitably have led them here again sooner or later. Still, Victoria was pleased; she could see the situation from both perspectives, and would support her beloved in whatever she decided, but she had an underlying feeling that Rebecca had dug her heels in a little too deeply on the issue, particularly in view of recent developments, if those developments were indeed to be believed.

During that afternoon she had received a telephone call from the Institute of Genetic Research; the speed of this response surprised even Victoria, but the tests were done and the results ready for her perusal.

‘And can you give me any information?’

‘I’m sorry; I’m only the messenger.’

She made an appointment to visit the laboratory the next day after her work at the gallery, and so it was that she found herself at 4.30 in the afternoon in the office of a certain Doctor Boxhall, who had upon his desk a plain, brown envelope. Contained within that envelope was information of great import to the lady who had requested the comparison.

‘You understand, of course, that this is not strictly above – board.’

‘Yes, I understand; we have discussed this before.’

‘And that I cannot let you take this information away?’

‘I quite understand.’

‘Very well then;’ said the doctor, who took a single sheet of A4 paper from the envelope, on which was printed a diagram which Victoria did not understand. ’there is no need, I think, to try to explain this to you, but suffice to say that according to our tests there is no doubt that you and the subject are related; there are sufficient similarities for this not to be considered a coincidence. It is a quite distant relationship, going back an indeterminate number of generations; ours is not always an exact science, but my best guess would be that you shared a common ancestor perhaps twenty or so generations ago.’

Victoria felt a cold shiver run up her spine at these words; she had been hoping that the result would be negative.

‘I see; well thank you, doctor, I appreciate your giving this your time and effort.’

‘You are most welcome, Ms, errr, Smith, and of course this meeting did not take place.’

‘No; I understand.’

But Victoria did not understand; not really, and as she left the carefully secured building with the help of a security guard, and walked out onto the now slightly chilly streets of London, she wondered how much of the chill was in fact due to the early autumnal temperatures, and how much had come from within her. It was true then, what the witches had told Rebecca; they were related by blood to one another. What other truths may now be revealed, Victoria could only guess.

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It was during the late morning one day that the innkeeper answered a knock on his door to find a young man standing before him; he recognized him; he drank at the establishment oft and anon, and had quite recently returned from France. For his part, William knew this man to be of surly, serious disposition, despite his being an innkeeper by trade; he was not expecting the interview to go well, and despite his ale – fuelled bravado on the evening of his wager, in truth he held out little hope of a successful outcome in the cold light of this warm day; he would in all likelihood be buying more ale this night. The important thing, he knew, would be to look for the lever.

‘Good morning sir; I am sorry to impose on your day.’

‘Well, my forbearance will depend upon the nature of your imposition.’

‘Indeed, then if I may get straight to the point, I am here regarding your daughter, Elaine.’

‘I know my daughters’ name; what business do you have with her?’

‘I have none, sir, as of this moment, other than knowing her to be a fair and virtuous young lady, but I have come to ask for your permission to walk out with her, if she is in every way agreeable, of course. We would at all times be in a public place, and I would expect no more than a half – hour of her time.’

‘Well, young man, you have some cheek, that much I grant you. And what merit, may I ask, to you possess that would lead me to concede to such a request?’

‘I am already well established in the town as a craftsman of some standing, and have high ambition for the future. Also I am but recently returned from a campaign in France on behalf my King and country.’

‘Are you, indeed? Well I am no lover of the French, as is well known hereabouts; ever they appear arrogant and boorish.’

Ah; perhaps here then was the lever; for a moment the young man’s hopes rose above the doldrums in which they had hitherto resided.

‘I cannot help but agree with you sir.’

‘And did you give good account of yourself in the campaign, ill fated though it was?’

‘It was….it was my good fortune, sir, to kill no less than five of our enemy in close – combat.’

‘Was it; was it indeed….You like your ale, do you not?’

‘I…indeed I do sir, in moderation, of course, for should a man not enjoy his leisure, and sup such fine ale as yours after a hard days’ labour?’

‘Well, you have a way with words; that I also grant you. Do you know, young man, how many such as you would have my daughter if I were not ever vigilant?’

‘That, ummm…that your daughter should be popular comes as no surprise to me, sir, for as I have said…’

‘Yes, yes; I have heard that which you have said, and speak to me not of your virtue or honourable intent, for I was a young man once, and I know full well how these things are.’

‘Then…then do I take it that my request is to be refused?’

‘Yes, you may take that, and you may think yourself lucky that I do not strike you down for your impudence.’

‘I see; then I bid you good day, sir, and thank you for your time, and for your forbearance.’

William turned; so be it, he would count his coin and visit another establishment this eve, for he could not bear the shame of the ribaldry to which he would be subjected if he drank in this place.

‘Wait…’

He turned once more and faced the innkeeper; was he to be beaten after all? He squared up and prepared to fight, for he was a young man, and strong of arm, and his pride had been dealt a heavy blow.

‘You are a courteous young man, and have remained so to the end and despite your disappointment, where others would not. You may return here at six of the clock, and you may walk with my daughter to the stables and back, a distance that should take you no more than half an hour. If you so much as touch her or attempt to put upon her in any way, then you may be sure that my forbearance will be in short measure. How many Frenchmen did you say you put to the pike?’

‘Five, sir; the number was five.’

‘Very well then; I will inform my daughter of her assignation.’

‘And I thank you sir, most humbly, for surely you have made my day; until six o’clock then, I bid you good day.’

And so it was that William had found his lever, even if five Frenchmen had had to die in the process, and walked that evening with his future wife for the first time. Behind the stables they kissed, she gave him her kerchief as he had requested, and he did indeed drink free ale for an evening at the expense of his friend, and gained into the bargain the deep and jocular respect of his peers. What William also received that day, however, was something of far more value; the promise of a further meeting, for despite having had no part in the making of the arrangement the pretty young lady was quite taken with her suitor, and within one year the two were married.

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Victoria barely noticed the usual heavy traffic as inner London became outer London, and suburbia became an arterial road cutting through rural England, so preoccupied was she with her thoughts on her way home. She would more often take the train, but today she had driven to work, and spent the journey home contemplating the test result. What had been established beyond reasonable doubt was that she and Rebecca were indeed related by blood, however distantly, but what she was no nearer to discovering was by who’s blood they were related. Where was the link; who had been their common ancestor? If the story were true, and Mary Jane had survived, then it seemed at least possible that Rebecca was directly descended from her, and therefore from Jane Mary, and if it were indeed Jane Mary and not Anne who had been incarcerated behind the wall of the Manor House, then how did her DNA match with her fathers’, and therefore with her own? And finally, perhaps the biggest question of all; even had Mary Jane survived, then the story still had it that Edward, the only male child had been murdered, and if so who was the third Lord? She made the assumption that she would have to search farther back in history to begin to discover the answers to her questions; from now on she was reliant on old documents and records, and probably a good deal of luck. She was still determined to meet with the woman whom Rebecca called ‘the mother’, but all that she could tell her would be hearsay, and Victoria preferred a more scientific approach, at least in the first instance. Of course, had she not told Rebecca the alternative history then Victoria and everybody else would have lived on in blissful ignorance of any of the new possibilities, and so far her story was borne out in fact, but the implications were too great to make any of this known before she had further researched the matter, and was clearer in her own mind as to what was the truth, or otherwise.

The biggest implication was currently occupying her thoughts as she approached the gates of her ancestral home; that if the legitimate heir to the Lordship had indeed been killed, and there was no viable historical alternative, then there was a link missing; a missing child which had not been recorded in the family history. Otherwise the only remaining possibility would be that the third lord had been an imposter. If this assumption proved to be correct; if the Tillington line thereafter was indeed illegitimate, then this would require a deal of further evidence before she opened the matter to the clear light of public or even familial knowledge. If and when the time came, then she would first tell Michael, but for now she would not tell even her beloved brother. After all, all she had so far was a story from a presumably old woman and a positive DNA test, and she would need much more than that before she would open the lid on this particular box; until then she would keep it firmly locked, and only she of her family would hold the key. She parked her car, walked up the Manor House steps, through the front door and threw her car keys into the pot in the hallway. She went to the kitchen in search of coffee as was her habit; unusually, her father was sitting at the antique kitchen table, deeply involved in some magazine article or other, and she bent over and kissed his forehead as she passed.

‘Hello Papa.’

‘What…? Oh hello Victoria, what, pray, have I done to deserve that?’

‘Oh I don’t know really, but you’re not a bad father most of the time.’

‘Hmmm, well thank you for the compliment, I think.’

He returned to his magazine article, she made for the coffee machine. She didn’t really know why she had done it; it just seemed appropriate to the moment.

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William and Elaine made generally good progress through the business of life. They lived at the Inn for the two years subsequent to their betrothal, since there was spare accommodation there, before moving to their own cottage quite close by but on the opposite side of the by now thriving town of Westerholt. By the time they moved into the cottage, Elaine had given birth to their firstborn son, and was pregnant with she who would be their first daughter. In all she would bear seven children, no less than six of whom would survive to adulthood. William did, in the end, admit to his father – in – law that he had not in fact killed five Frenchmen, and in fact had killed none at all, the Innkeeper owned that he had never thought for a moment that he had done so, and the matter became a standing joke within the family; perhaps it would be;.

‘What is this I see approaching from the horizon; me does believe that it is five Frenchmen, and there did I think that they were dead.’

Or perhaps;

‘Surely I will do as you ask, after I’ve killed the five Frenchmen.’

for the Innkeeper did not lack humour, and was a man of dry wit under such a surly and grim exterior, and he had a liking for his son in law, who had always treated his daughter with kindness and consideration. William plied his trade as a stonemason, and they were, by and large, a happy and contented family. There was but one matter which caused them some underlying consternation, and this was in form of their youngest son, Albert, who began drinking ale heavily from a young age, and would not settle to any steady employment. In the end, after many strong words had been spoken, and many arguments had ensued, Albert left his home town at the age of eighteen and made his way to London, where his drinking would not be so carefully monitored or scrutinized, and he could find such work as he needed. Even did he change his surname to ensure his anonymity, lest his parents should try to discover his whereabouts, and Albert Tillington was known to all whom he met in London as Albert Leicester. Here, during one of his days of sobriety, did he meet a young lady, and these two after several meetings formed a bond of affection, despite her being warned off dalliance with such a drunkard as this. The lady became with child, a condition with which she would become accustomed, since despite his drinking, Vera and her very soon to be husband were exceeding successful when it came to the matter of making babies together. In all they had eight children, four boys and four girls. Each of the four girls were called Jane, and in order to differentiate between them they were each referred to by their Christian and middle names; the eldest was Jane Louisa, then came Jane Ellen and Jane Anne, and Jane Mary was Jane Mary.

Chapter 2

THE BEGINNING

Once the three people who stood together on the village Green; father, mother and daughter, had regained sufficient composure; once the tidal wave of emotion had retreated at least somewhat and there was enough dry land upon which to walk, and think, and function, something had to be said. Some words must be found to begin to fill the more than ten years since these three had seen or heard from one another. And since none of the big things could yet be said; since one cannot reach the peak of a mountain before one has walked the foothills; since they must begin somewhere, at sea level, the first words had to be small words. This would be enough. To hear their daughters’ voice, and to hear how it had changed from the voice of a teen - aged girl to that of a young woman; how the years of hard life and soft love had altered the timbre of her speech; she could have said anything, just speak, please.

‘I ummm….Would you like some coffee? I live…’

Rebecca indicated vaguely in the direction of the last house on the row of houses by the Green, the nearest one to the road, before turning and walking the way that she had just come. Her parents walked one either side of her; neither had yet spoken, because neither had yet found the words. Of the people who lived around the village Green, only Meadow had witnessed the reunion, from behind her counter. She had watched Rebecca cross the Green in her summer dress, and the two people emerge from the vehicle. All of them, she assumed, had intended to come to the delicatessen, but they now had other preoccupation. So, these must be her parents; aside from the way they had met and embraced, as only parents and daughter could have done, even from a distance Meadow could see the resemblance between Rebecca and her mother; both had the darkest of brown eyes.

(‘Well; here’s something then….’)

Quite without realizing it she had become engaged with the emotion of the moment, and had to wipe a tear from her eye; she better than most knew how it was to be united with one’s parents, or at least to be united with one of them.

At the house which was number one, The Green, Rebecca let her parents in and went first to the kitchen; making coffee; here was something easy at least, before the difficult things started. So; come on then, one of you say something.

‘This….this is a lovely house; do you live here alone, dear?’

‘No; well yes, at the moment….’

‘Is it your house?’ said Miles

‘You mean as in do I own it? No, I have no money, father. It belongs to Victoria, but she’s not here now; she’s living at the Manor House.’

‘Victoria….’ Said Florence; so there it was then; her daughter was…’ She bought a house on the Green, so close to the Manor?’

‘She had her reasons.’

‘So…’ began Florence; she was still having trouble with sentences, her thoughts were running too fast in the background and she was getting carried away on the current ‘so you two are….’

‘Yes; we’re together; we found each other again, in the end; quite recently, in fact.’

‘I see…’

‘Do you? I don’t know….’

‘No; you’re right, of course my darling; there’s so much that I…that we don’t know or understand. But now we’re together again….’

‘I can tell you everything, yes?’

‘Yes, of course; when you’re ready.’

They took their coffee out into the small back garden; this was to be one of the last warm days of the year before the wind changed and autumn chill took hold. They sat at the table and chairs which Rebecca had sat at so often with her beloved Victoria, and wondered how would be the best way to scale the mountain. Miles decided to start with one very obvious question, which in fact began with a statement.

‘There’s a death certificate, Rebecca, and a report of somebody with your name having committed suicide.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘We have a friend in the Met; you mean you knew about this?’

‘Yes, I knew; it was….necessary; somebody arranged that for me. I had to be dead, you see? But no, of course, you don’t see, do you? So let me tell you, but first I have a question for you; why didn’t you tell me, mum?’

‘About what, my love…?’

‘You know very well; about grandmamma; about the coven; about our history.’

‘I was….we were trying to protect you, Rebecca, that was all. We thought that if we…’

‘That if you send me to that accursed school that everything would be alright; that I would become a good Christian girl and that I would never….Well, anyway, the school isn’t there anymore.’

‘We know; we read the reports of the fire.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you did; well that was me; I burned down the school; does that surprise you?’

‘You…’

Sometimes when climbing a mountain it is necessary t stop for a moment to catch your breath; this was such a moment; the way ahead now looked steep indeed, the ravine which they were traversing and which had been deep enough anyway had just become deeper and more precipitous.

‘Yes; and since we are to tell each other everything, then you must know that I have become a witch, and because of what you did I have become very powerful. You let me believe that I…that you sent me there because of Victoria; because of who I loved, and who I still love. Do you have any idea how much damage that did to me? Do you have the least idea of how much I hated you for doing that?’

‘It was a mistake, Rebecca.’ Said Miles

‘A mistake…? Well yes I suppose it could be called that.’

‘Rebecca your mother and I have been looking for you for a very long time; it was only quite by chance that we discovered that you had been living in Headwater; you are not the only one who has suffered for these past ten years; you can have no idea what we have been through.’

‘So was I the cause of that? Is any of this my fault, really?’

‘Please….’Said Florence ‘please don’t let’s argue. This has been a horrible ordeal of all of us, and whatever we have done wrong, Rebecca, we are deeply and profoundly sorry, but we have found each other again, so please, can we do this gently, for all of our sakes?’

‘Very well…’ said Rebecca ‘very well; I’m sorry.’

‘Please; don’t be sorry’ said Florence ‘but understand that everything we did we did out of love for you; nothing else, however misguided were our actions. We love you, Rebecca; we have always loved you more than you will be able to understand.’

Florence reached out across the table for her daughters’ hand; Rebecca hesitated for just a moment, but then took the hand which had been offered. Florence could have sat forever, holding the warm hand of her beloved Rebecca; for this moment she had waited for a decade. She was alive, and she looked so beautiful, and so sad; so defiant, and so confused. Well, whatever happened from now on; however the rest of this encounter would go, she would never hurt her daughter again, regardless of whatever she had become. She could burn the whole of Christendom, and do so with no condemnation, and for this moment Florence would have lit the flaming torch herself.

‘So tell us, my love; where have you been?’

The question was short, and simple enough; the answer, however, would take somewhat longer, and would be astonishing in all of its’ complexity.

‘Are you sure that you want to know?’

‘Yes, Rebecca,’ said Miles ‘we want to know everything, from the time that you ran away from the school.’

‘And take your time, my love.’

‘Very well then….very well, but I think first I should make more coffee.’

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In the event the account, or at least the beginning of the account, took somewhere over two hours; in the back garden of the cottage, Rebecca began to tell her parents everything. She began with her escape from the school; how one night she had dressed quietly and crept past the Sister who slept in the dormitory with the girls; down the empty corridor, through the dark and echoing gymnasium to the changing - room where she had, over previous evenings, worked the window latch loose with a stolen kitchen knife. Through the window, dropping onto the flower border below, and from there keeping close to the building, staying in the shadows to avoid the night – watch. Then finally and quietly across the brightly – lit gravel roadway and over the wall; there had been workmen in who had erected some temporary scaffolding whilst undertaking repairs to the decaying