Transcendence t-1 Page 2

  I run my hand over my forehead and squeeze my eyes closed. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I say quickly. I feel panicky and a little sick to my stomach, but I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I have to prove to myself that this is nothing. That the fact that what I saw in the vision is actually the truth doesn’t mean that I’m seeing ghosts—although a more rational explanation is escaping me at the moment. “Come on, they’re leaving us behind.”

  We stand in front of the White Tower as the guard talks about the kings and queens who lived there over the years. As we listen, it’s easy to imagine people from hundreds of years ago crossing this same courtyard and peering out these same windows, a fact that I’m a little less enthusiastic about than I was just a few minutes ago. I want to get through the rest of this tour seeing old men wearing black socks and sandals with big, bulky cameras hanging around their necks, not anyone dressed in velvet hats and flowing gowns.

  Perched on his little cement post, the guard is really revving up now, gesturing at each building as he describes its purpose, and I try hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. “Now that you’ve seen where some of England’s kings and queens lived, follow me and I’ll show you where some of them actually died.”

  We follow him to a grassy area with a low iron fence. He stands on a small platform and waits for us to quiet down. “Let me draw your attention to that circular memorial,” he says, pointing to what looks like a mirrored coffee table with a glass pillow on top. “That memorial is placed where the scaffold for the executions of noblemen and women was constructed. Only ten men and women were executed within the walls of the Tower itself. Who they were and why they died I’ll explain to you once we’re inside the Chapel Royal.”

  Kat nudges me as everyone else follows the guide inside the entrance to the Chapel. “I’m bored. You ready to be done yet?”

  I watch the rest of the tour group file into the stone church. Swallowing hard, I nod my head, feeling a little too fragile to hear gruesome stories of the beheadings that took place on this very spot. I have to get a grip on myself, or the rest of this vacation is going to be ruined.

  We slip away from the back of the crowd as Kat checks the map we’d been handed along with our tickets. “On to the Jewels,” she says. I follow her past the glass memorial that looks weirdly modern and out of place among the old buildings and green lawns. People actually died right on the spot where I’m standing, and if there are wayward spirits anywhere in the Tower, they should be here. I don’t feel any of the things I felt outside the tube station—no unexplained emotions, no overwhelming feelings of fear, no graphic images replaying in my head. As an experiment, I put my hand out to touch the metal railing surrounding the memorial, close my eyes, and feel … nothing. I open them again and look around, relieved.

  “The line for the Crown Jewels still looks pretty long,” I say, pointing to the snaking rows of people waiting to get into the stone building. I check the time on my phone. “It’s going to be lunchtime soon—maybe we can sneak in when everyone else takes their kids to the café.”

  Kat eyes the line and reluctantly agrees with me. “Let’s figure out which is the least boring building.” She reads from the map and points to the big castle in the middle. “That’s the White Tower. It’s where the weapons and armor and stuff is.” She rolls her eyes, and I can tell that we won’t be spending a lot of time there.

  I tap the map on the spot where we’re standing. “Let’s start with Beauchamp Tower. It’s right here, and there’s supposed to be some graffiti written on the walls by the prisoners as they were waiting to be executed.”

  Centuries-old tagging seems to appeal to her, so we walk up the stairs and into a large stone room with arched doorways and tiny windows set into the thick walls. I stop by one of the window ledges and peek out through the narrow opening to the paths and grass below, feeling my heart pound like it always does whenever I’m more than a few feet off the ground. I step back from the window and imagine sitting in this very spot, watching life pass by below, knowing that my time left on earth is almost over. It smells musty in the low-ceilinged room, as if centuries of desperation have worked their way into the walls.

  Kat peers at the designs that are etched into almost every stone surface. “I wonder what they used to carve them? You think the king was stupid enough to give them knives and let them go at it?”

  “I doubt it. See if it says on the display board over there.” I walk slowly around the edges of the room, gazing at the carvings that were done by doomed men so long ago. Some are really elaborate, with images of lions and pleas to God for mercy. Others are just names and dates chiseled roughly into the walls. I end up standing in front of one carving, a simple square filled with words I don’t recognize. I place my hand over the clear Plexiglas that protects all of the carvings and feel a subtle energy flowing from the solid stone. There are feelings of fear and loneliness, but overriding it all is a sense of peace. There’s a tug of connection, and I long to put my skin on the bare stone, to touch the lines that have been carved by another hand centuries before: For eternity. 1538.

  Kat leans over my shoulder, and I jerk my hand away. I feel guilty, but I have no idea why. “What’s that one?” She looks closer. “Ad vitam aeternam? What is that, Latin? At least I can read the date—1538. But it doesn’t say who did it or anything.”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaky. Ad vitam aeternam—For eternity. I’ve only seen Latin in a few musical scores, but I know, deep in my heart, that this is what the carving says, as plainly as if it had been written in English. For eternity. The words echo through my whole body.

  “There sure are a lot of carvings in here,” Kat says, looking back at the map. “It says that there’s a carving done by Lady Jane Grey’s husband just before they were both beheaded. That is so romantic. Let’s find that one.”

  Kat wanders off in search of her tragic graffiti and I follow her, glancing back at the small, square carving on the wall. It’s one of the least elaborate carvings here—no names, no fancy drawings, just a few mysterious words and a date.

  Somehow, it feels like the most important one in the place.

  Two

  “The line for the Jewels is a lot shorter now. Let’s go,” Kat says as we stand near the exit. Walking out, I glance up at the small window that marks the prisoners’ room. I have the nagging feeling that I’m leaving something important behind. For eternity. Goose bumps appear on my arms despite the rising temperature.

  In fact, the sun is beginning to blaze as we cross the pavement toward the entrance to the Crown Jewels exhibit, and I unzip my jacket for the first time today. Spring has finally shown up—just in time for us to be heading home. The path is wider here, and there are fewer people wandering around. Apparently, hunger calls to most families a lot more strongly than the royal diamonds.

  I can see the small line at the entry door, and next to that is a narrow wooden hut with a redcoated soldier standing at attention. He has on one of those huge fur hats like at Buckingham Palace. As soon as Kat sees him, I know what’s coming next.

  “Ooh, take a picture of me with this guy,” she says, unwinding the strap of her camera from her wrist. Most of Kat’s photo collection from this trip consists of her posing with various soldiers and guards at all of the tourist sites in the city.

  I back away, waiting for people to pass while she stands in front of the small iron railing near the soldier. “Can you get everything in from there?” she calls, shading her eyes with her hand. “I want the whole thing. I think you need to step back a little ways, otherwise you’re going to cut stuff off.”

  I move back a few feet toward the White Tower, knocking hard into someone walking behind me. As he reaches out to steady me, I start to feel dizzy, and it’s like sparks are racing through my body. My ears fill with a rushing noise and the blazing sun is replaced with the cold, gray fog of a winter morning.

  There is a hush in the air, a feeling of dreaded expectation. In one h
and I hold a small book, and in the other, a white lace handkerchief and the silk bag containing some coins and the silver pendant that is the last thing Connor gave me. My heart is beating so fast, it feels that at any minute it will rip out of my chest. I know that as much as I want to run and scream, I am to comport myself like a lady and to behave in a manner that is expected of my station in life. My heavy black dress is scratchy at the neck, and I rub the material between my fingers as the wooden surface above me is prepared. There are few other people in the yard, although there is a great deal of low whispering. The air is heavy with the threat of rain and the smell of the straw that is strewn about the wooden floor of the platform. The soldier standing next to me nods sharply, and I know it is time.

  My feet find their way first to one step and then the next, until I am standing on the raised surface. A muffled cry comes from my lady-in-waiting, and I glance at her briefly before focusing my attention to the matter at hand. I am compelled to believe that someone will call off this insanity before it is too late. I have done nothing wrong, only loved my husband with all my heart—and for this we are both to die? I go through the motions, secure in the knowledge that a just God will never allow the deed to be carried out.

  All eyes are on me as I open my little money bag and draw out the coins and Connor’s pendant, the ruby in the center blazing brightly despite the somber morning. I run my finger quickly over the curve at the top of the cross. The money means nothing to me, but handing a stranger the necklace that is the symbol of my most cherished relationship is devastating. I know Connor is dead, executed in the chaos of Tower Hill, and this feels like the last connection to my beloved.

  My fingers tremble, and for a moment I fear I will drop the coins and pendant before they land with a soft clink in the palm of the masked executioner. I find myself surprised that his waiting hand also trembles, and I glance up into his dark brown eyes, which are the only visible parts of his face. Rather than look into mine, he turns away and stares across the lawn, folding the payment into his palm with an air of finality.

  I press my handkerchief and prayer book into the waiting hands of my lady, whose silent weeping is escalating into what I fear will be a noisy crescendo. I give her tiny pale hand a squeeze, attempting to assure her, despite my pounding heart and shortness of breath, that all will be well in the end. The executioner kneels at my feet, his eyes averted, and I grant the customary forgiveness with a wave of my hand. It is as if we are in a play, with each person knowing his assigned part and dispatched to complete the tasks in order.

  With forgiveness granted, he stands and indicates the small, square block positioned toward the front of the platform. I search the crowd, wondering which one of the men standing at attention will be the one to stop this. I decline to make the expected declaration of guilt, standing tall before the assembly and saying only, “In my life I have never so much as imagined a traitorous thought against His Majesty.”

  The masked headsman holds out a simple white handkerchief to cover my eyes, but I push it away. “I do not fear the axe,” I say, loudly enough for those standing closest to the scaffold to hear. I stare into his eyes and can feel his indecision as he helps me onto my knees, for with a light touch, he holds my elbow, only reluctantly releasing it when I am positioned before the block.

  As is my part, I put my neck on the wooden block, pulling my plait aside so that the cold wind reaches the bare white skin of my neck. My breath is coming rapidly, as if I cannot force the air into my lungs quickly enough.

  The signal must have been given, for next I hear from below the scaffold, “What dost thou fear, headsman? Strike as you must!” and I am confident I will be spared. The headsman will not raise the axe to an innocent neck! Turning my head only slightly, I see his boots take one step back and the curved metal blade of the axe lift from the straw. “I cannot save you, my lady,” the headsman whispers hoarsely, and I glance up to see a blur of motion and a flash of metal as the blade rips through the air—

  “Damn, Cole, what happened?” Kat is standing over me, blocking out the bright sunshine that has reappeared over her head. “One second you’re taking a picture, and the next minute you’re flat on your ass.”

  I shake my head to clear it, panic filling my chest. The other visions I’ve had were short, like quick glimpses into another time, but this one is different. I can still feel the emotions that were running through the girl’s mind as she stood on the scaffold. Her pounding heart, the sense of betrayal. It all felt so real.

  “Don’t get up too fast,” the guy I’ve run into says. He puts his hand on my back to help me up, but as we touch, he pulls away as if he’s been shocked. “What are you doing here?” he whispers. His voice holds both recognition and astonishment.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “Visiting the Tower.” What else would I be doing here? I study him more closely. His eyes are a distinctive shade of light brown rimmed with gold, and his skin is just dark enough to make them startling. I’d definitely remember if I’d seen him before.

  He seems completely flustered. “Of course. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He puts his hand out. “Let me help you up.”

  “I’m okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. So far it just looks like this guy and his friend. I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  “Griffon has a habit of running into pretty girls,” the friend says with a Scottish accent that makes Kat’s eyes light up. “But he usually stops short of knocking them over.”

  Griffon looks irritated. “Owen. Seriously?”

  Kat takes a step closer to Owen. Griffon is obviously American, so he’s off her radar, but Owen’s accent is so thick you can barely understand a word he’s saying. “Oh, it’s totally her fault,” she says. “Not looking where she’s going again.”

  Griffon looks embarrassed but says nothing, glancing away quickly as if the whole scene is making him uncomfortable too. His gestures are quick, like he’s nervous about something. “I’m not so sure,” he says quietly. “You might need a trip to the infirmary.”

  I brush off the back of my jeans and try to slow my racing thoughts. “No, I’m sure. It’s probably just jet lag. And maybe dehydration. No big deal.”

  “Are these young men bothering you, ladies?” Our tour guide appears behind Kat. “I’ve had my eye on them all day as the trouble-making sort. I can get them tossed off the property if you wish.” The guard has a smile on his face, but I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

  “No, no,” Kat insists. I can tell that she wants Owen to stick around. “My sister passed out a little and they were just helping.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the guard says, with a look of concern. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Yes. Really, I’m fine,” I say, the images from before flashing through my mind. I need to get out of here and clear my head. Enough communing with history—I just want to get back to the hotel. “Come on, Kat, let’s go.”

  “If you won’t go to the infirmary, at the very least allow this young man to buy you a cup of tea at the café,” the guard says. He pulls out some colorful bills. “On me.”

  I know my face is beet red by now. This is all getting way out of control. “I couldn’t do that,” I say. I manage to walk a few yards toward the green and am starting to feel a little better. I find a bench and sit down hard on it. “I just need to sit down for a few minutes.”

  “As a Yeoman Warder of the Tower of London, I insist that you get some tea,” he says, handing the bills to Griffon. “As this young man’s father, I insist that he accompany you.” I almost miss the look that passes between them. Griffon shakes his head slightly as if to answer an unspoken question.

  “I’m leaving you in the boys’ capable hands. If you need any further assistance, please do not hesitate to ask,” the guard says, and with a tip of his hat, he walks toward the waiting tour group with long strides.

/>   “Wow, is that guy really your dad?” Kat asks as she watches him resume his duties.

  Griffon nods slowly. “We, ah … we don’t look that much alike.” With his curly hair and dark skin, that’s the biggest understatement I’ve heard in a while.

  “But he said on the tour that all of the guards actually live at the Tower.” Kat looks at him with growing interest. “Do you live here too? Right up next to the Crown Jewels?”

  “Sometimes. During school I live in the States with my mom,” he says. “But during breaks and summer I come over to visit.”

  Kat looks around at the buildings of the Tower. “So, which one do you live in? Is it haunted? Doesn’t it freak you out? Oh my gosh, what’s it like around here at night?”

  Griffon smiles slightly, revealing deep dimples on each side of his mouth. “That round tower by the front entrance. That’s where Dad lives and where I stay when I’m here.”

  “Isn’t that creepy?” Kat asks.

  “Depends on who you ask,” Owen says, smiling at her. “The door to the bedroom is the same prison door that’s been there since the fifteen hundreds. Late at night you can still hear the echoes of the prisoners pounding on the heavy wood.”

  “Knock it off,” Griffon says. He turns to Kat. “There’s no pounding, no bloody heads. Just a little wind through the leaky windows on a cold night. It’s really no big deal.”

  Kat shivers and looks toward the building, obviously enjoying Owen’s story more than Griffon’s.

  “Now let’s go get that tea,” Griffon says. “Otherwise Dad’ll have my hide for not being a proper host.”

  “I don’t really think that tea will help—” I begin.

  “Of course it won’t.” Griffon stands up. “But the English believe that tea cures everything, so humor him.”

  I get the sense that he’s only doing his duty, and I want to let him off the hook. How many crazy tourists does he run into every day? Okay, maybe not literally, but I’m sure he has better things to do than play tour guide. “Kat really wants to see the Crown Jewels,” I say, glancing toward the building. A quick trip to see the Jewels, and then I can go back to the hotel, lock the bathroom door, and lose it for real. I can probably keep it together that long. “Might as well get it over with.”