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It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing. It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her. Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right. It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it. It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.
In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship. It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order. Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.
Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side. They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes. They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing. He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.
If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.
Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill. Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!” Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.
“It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much. A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”
“Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.
“Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”
“Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go. Like my Bert…”
“Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.
It was a wonder that the letter had reached her at the guest house, the post being so slow and unreliable these days. It didn’t give Elara much time to plan the trip, but it was enough ~ just. If it hadn’t been so easy to get to Paris from Dover she’d probably have said she couldn’t make it. The study could wait while she took a few days off, progress had been made on the project, more than expected. The additional properties of the chalk at Samphire Hoe were exciting, but would need much more work.
I’m supposed to be retired, Elara reminded herself, wondering how she’d allowed herself to get roped in to another field trip. A few weeks back in England, all expense paid, had swayed her, but the weeks were turning into months.
Looking at the envelope again, Elara wondered what the stain was. It didn’t look like paint. Tempted to run it through some tests at the lab, she realised she didn’t have time. She had to book tickets and pack a few things, and send a message to Florian to thank him for forwarding the letter. I wonder why he didn’t just tell me about the letter in a message? she wondered. I’d have suggested he open it and tell me what it said. And how unusual to send an actual paper letter! It was partly this intriguing point that was making her determined to go and see what it was all about.
But you know what Lucien is like, she reminded herself, wondering if he was still the same. Five years wasn’t long, but it was relative. The past five years had flown by, but a lot had happened. But have I changed? A few more wrinkles, grey hairs more prolific, arthritic hips a little more troublesome…. and my interests have changed…
Elara wasn’t sure if she had changed more than she had stayed fundamentally the same. Mutatur autem idem, vel in diversum…..
If everything went according to plan she would arrive in Paris at 10:39 tomorrow morning, and with a bit of luck the ferry crossing this afternoon wouldn’t be too rough. Thank god I don’t have to fly anywhere. Elara had a good feeling about the trip. To be so conveniently situated near Samphire Hoe, close to the Dover ferry ports to France, when the invitation to meet in Paris had been suggested, seemed a good sign. The old dear at the Churchill Guest House had agreed to keep her self catering suite empty for when she came back, so she didn’t need to concern herself with all the stuff she seemed to have accumulated in just a few short months.
Elara zipped up the small travelling case. The taxi wasn’t due for another 17 minutes but she was ready, so she went downstairs to stand outside.
Samphire Hoe. Nobody would have expected to find that. Elara shook her head wonderingly every time she thought about it. It would be good to have a few days away, think about something else.
The vine smothered statue proved to be the perfect place to hide behind to watch the events of the picnic unfolding. Cedric had been in a quiet turmoil of conflicting emotions, biting his bony knuckle to stop himself from uttering a sound as the extroadinary sequence of dramas and comedies played out before him.
He hadn’t expected to see Frella again. His mental confusion about his job as well as his troubling fixation on the witch had brought him to the brink of jacking it all in. Just leave everything, he told himself, Move away, get another job doing something else, something mundane and manual. And forget her. He’d almost made up his mind to do just that, and, feeling pleased and sure of himself for making the decision, tapped his device to locate and observe Frella one last time just to mentally say adieu, and to see her face again. And then quietly disappear.
When Cedric realized that the witches were going on holiday, and heard Truella saying that no spells were allowed, his heart leapt. If he was giving it all up and moving away anyway, why not have a holiday first? Why not go to Rome? I may not even bump into her, Rome’s as good as anywhere else. I deserve a holiday. And if I do bump into her, it will just be a holiday coincidence, and nothing at all to do with spells. Or work.
All pretence of not minding whether he saw Frella or not left his mind almost immediately, and he began to make arrangements. He didn’t want Frella to use spells, but it didn’t occur to him to wonder why he was still using the tricks of his job. It was easy to track them to Italy.
His disguise as a North African on the coach full of Italians had worked well, even sitting so close to Truella and Giovanni he hadn’t been recognized in his hooded djelaba, and had been able to hear most of their conversation. A quiet word and a large tip secured his trip with their tour guide.
The picnic started out normally enough. They each had a short wander around, and then sprawled on rugs and cushions by the whicker hampers of food and champage. Cedric lurked in the shadows of an arch, sometimes slinking to peer from behind a statue. The temptation to pick a posy of wildflowers to give to Frella was all but overwhelming, as he watched her sitting pensively. Silently sinking to his knees behind the marble bulk of Tiberius, Cedric plucked a daisy from the grass. And another.
When Cromwell appeared on the scene, Cedric, alarmed and almost angry at the intrusion, unwittingly crushed the flowers in his hand. He had no choice but to remain hidden and immobile as the scene rolled out.
As the day progressed, the mood changed and Cedric felt hopeful again. He even had to stifle a laugh as he watched them play cards. Watching Eris pour champage into everyone’s glasses reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink all day. He was parched. He had to make a decision. He wanted to sneak off quietly and call it a day, find a nice restaurant. A part of him wanted to be bold and openly seductive, to stride into the scene and charmingly state his intentions. But he had no opportunity to further consider the options.
“You!” In the moments Cedric taken his eyes off the picnic to ponder his dilemma, Frella has risen and was heading for a necessary bush to go behind. “You! Spying on me!”
“Who?” shouted Truella, “Cedric! What on earth is he doing here, we’re on holiday! Now stop spitting nails, Frella, and invite the man over for a drink!”
Cedric seized the moment.
Thanks to Eris’s undeniable aptitude and professionalism for choosing the most efficacious spells and implementing them perfectly, and before Truella had got to grips with the first layer of the costumes undergarments, Cromwell was back at Austin Friars, and Malove stood before them, quivering with rage. Or was it panic?
“Fancy some of this cheese and some olives? The bread’s amazing, we’re having a picnic, and there’s some champers if Jeezel hasn’t guzzled it all,” Truella thought a casual nothing is wrong approach was worth a shot, however futile. It might delay the inevitable.
“Thanks,” replied Malove, sinking down on to the tartan picnic rug with a grateful if shuddering sigh. “That was awful, don’t even ask! I will never complain about anything ever again!”
“Really?” Truella wasn’t convinced. “What was it like?”
“No iboprufen. It was just awful. So damp, and no iboprufen.” Malove shivered. “My arthritis played me up something rotten.”
“Well, why on earth didn’t you just magic some up then?” Truella blurted out.
“Do you remember to just magic up a spell for your arthritis?” Truella quaked under the force of Malove’s terrifying glare.
“She doesn’t, but I do,” interjected Jeezel, scrolling through the images she’d just captured of the ongoing scenario and capturing a few more.
Does this mean I’m on holiday now too? Malove wondered. Jeezel caught the pensive but hopeful expression, Malove’s harsh profile softened with a fortuitous wisp of Truella’s cigarette smoke against a backdrop of bramble and vine covered ruins, an exotic foreign flower dangling lanquidly beside her ~ what a picture!
“You! I never expected to see you here!” What was Thomas Cromwell doing in the colosseum in the year 1507? “Oh, of course, you were in Italy…what on earth are you wearing?” Truella asked, in some confusion. Never had she seen such an elaborate codpiece, and nobody else was wearing one.
He took his feathered cap off and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been to the very gates of purgatory trying to get back to Austin Friars, I unintentionally left Malove there.”
“In what year?” Truella was aghast. “How long has she been there? Who is she with? Is she safe?”
“There is no time to lose, how do I make this ~ this ~ thing go where and when I want?”
“Never mind that now, you had better come with us,” Trella was looking around to see where the others were. “We’ll all have to go. What’s the weather like? What are we going to do about clothes?”
“Clothes?” asked Jeezel, sneaking up behind them through some exotic foreign bushes, “Just you leave that to me! I’ve already found a marvellous museum costume shop. Did you get that codpiece there?” she said to Cromwell. ” I saw one in there similar to that, but with less padding.”
“Here you are,” announced Frella, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with her arms draped in costumes. “No time for shopping, so I did a quick spell.”
Why didn’t I think of just doing a spell? Truella wondered, not for the first time.
You never do was the unspoken reply that entered the scene with the appearance of Eris, armed with the approriate spells. “Right then. Here we go.”
“Maybe I’m just old fashioned but those things are just weird,” Truella shook her head as she tried to get her focus and equilibrium back. “Great pics though, Jez. Look how clean my nails are.”
“I thought we were going to Amalfi, I was looking forward to that,” said Frella, not sure whether she liked the VR pod experience.
“So was I until I found out about the Limoncello. Can’t stand that evil brew, instant heartburn.”
“You don’t have to drink it, Tru,” Eris replied with a withering look. “We need to buy a few things before Giovanni’s time travel trip to the abandoned Colosseum. Secateurs and zip lock plastic bags for the seeds and plant cuttings. I wonder where the proper stores are, we seem to be surrounded with souvenir and gift shops and bakeries.”
“I’ll get a trowel. No, I’m not planning to start a dig, but it might come in handy. I’ll go with Eris and you two can mooch about buying over priced tourist tat. Get me a dozen postcards, will you? And some shawls and scarves for the photos at the Colosseum.”
“Roberto,” the vista of the waterlogged garden had given Liz an idea, “Let’s turn it into an oriental garden with pools and rills and fountains, gazebos and temples, floating pontoons bedecked with tropical flowers and exotic cocktails, holy wells, tiled nooks and whispering cloisters, and vines, lots of vines, and wine. Imagine it! Roberto, we can do it!
“We?” replied Roberto weakly.
Although the small hotel was tucked in a relatively quiet corner, and despite the authentic but delightfully shabby interior of soothing dimensions ~ roomy and airy, but not vast and terrifyingly empty ~ the constant background hum of city life was making Truella yearn for the stillness of home. Not that home was silence, indeed not: the background tranquility was frequently punctuated with noises, many strident. A dog barks, a neighbour shouts, a car drives past from time to time. But the noises have an identifiable individuality and reason, unlike the continual maddening drone of the metropolis.
She was pleased to find her room had a little balcony. Even if the little wooden chair was rickety and uncomfortable, it was enough to perch on to enjoy a cigarette and breathe in the car fumes. Truella slept fitfully, waking to remember Tolkeinesque snapshots of dreams, drifting off again and returning to wakefullness with snatches of conversations in unknown tongues. Sitting on the balcony in the deep dark hours of the night, the street below, now quiet, shivered and changed, her head still swimming with dream images. She caught glimpses of people as they passed, vivid, clear and full of character. Many who passed were carrying bunches of grasses or herbs or wildflowers in their hands, the women with a basket over their arm and a shawl draped over their head or shoulders.
Hardly any men though, I wonder why?
When Truella mentioned it over breakfast the next moring, Eris said “You’ve been reading too much of that new gender and feminist anthropology stuff over on GreenGrotto.”
Laughing, Truella tipped another packet of sugar in her coffee. “I love the colour of the walls in here,” she said, gazing around the breakfast room. “A sort of bright but muted sun shining on a white wall. Nice old furniture, too.”
“Tell me about the old furniture, the mirror in my room is all speckled, makes me look like I have blemishes all over my face,” said Zeezel with a toss of her head. “Can I have your sugar, Frella, if you’re not having it,” adding I’m on holiday by way of excuse.
Absentmindely Frella passed over the paper packet. “I had strange dreams last night too…about that place we’re supposed to be going to a picnic to later.”
Catching everyones attention, she continued, “The abandoned colosseum with Giovanni, with all the vines and flowers. It was like a game board and the stone statues were the players and they moved around the board, Oh! and such a beautiful board it was with all the vines and flowers ….. ”
“Gosh” said Truella, leaning back and folding her hands. What an idea.
“That was such a pleasant trip!” Truella said with a happy sigh, “First time I’ve ever been on a coach full of Italians, but weren’t they fun! Especially that Ravioli dude.”
“I think you mean Giovanni,” Frella said with her usual eye roll.
“Giovanni, yeah, he said he’d take me on a time travel tour of the Colosseum.”
“That sounds awful! You can’t be serious!” Jeezel said with a look of horror.
“No, not back to when it was in use, but back through the ages of its abandonment. It sounds ever so interesting. Apparently there were flowers and plants growing in there that nobody had seen before, they reckoned the seeds must have come in with the exotic animals.”
“Now that does sound interesting,” Eris said, “I wonder if we could time travel back and collect some herbs and seeds to use in our spells.”
“Well we’re supposed to be on holiday, not thinking about work,” Truella glared at Eris, “But I don’t see why not. Giovanni said there was a hermitage for pilgrims inside the colosseum, and it was covered in vines, a botanical paradise in the midst of the city, he said. We could take a picnic!”
“Yeah, that does sound good,” Frella was warming to the idea.
“Oh there you are Finnley, and about time too! I dread to think what you were doing down there for so long… no! don’t tell me now, I haven’t had a decent cup of tea for two months. Go and put the kettle on, there’s a dear.”
Did Romans iron their toga’s? Liz wondered, thinking not for the first time that all that cloth draped over one shoulder couldn’t have been very practical.
“I should think that toga needs a good wash by now, Godfrey, take it off and give it to Finnley. No, not here! That boatman is peering in the window at you.”
“Steady on, Jeezel”, Truella said, thumping her on the back. “Cough it up, girl. What on earth are you reading?”
As Jeezel composed herself, Truella picked up the book she’d been reading. “Oh, it’s a Liz Tatler! And I haven’t read that one yet. Can I borrow it when you’re finished?”
“You can borrow this one too when I’ve finished,” Eris joined in with a titter. “It’s called The Trouble With Tremendousness.”
“That’s not by…”
“Indeed it is, Frella, and no need to look so horrified. It’s quite good, actually.”
“Lounging by a pool sipping champagne sounds good though, doesn’t it,” said Truella, flicking through Jeezel’s book. “Visiting Roman ruins, reading books by the pool. We should go on a holiday. No work, just play. Let’s do it!”
“With full pay AND a bonus?” Truella was incredulous. “For all of us?”
“Yes, regardless of past performance,” Frella said pursing her lips.
“Nobody can fault my performances,” Jeezel said with a toss of her magenta feather boa. “Where shall we go, Eris?”
A smile slowly spreading across her face, Eris replied, “We’re on holiday. We don’t have to decide anything yet.”
The inefficiency of the Quadrivium had been obvious from the start, but the solution was becoming clear to Cromwell. First, the witches needed an extended holiday, a sabbatical. They had become jaded, and unfocused. While they were away, he would put some of his own clerks and auditors in to sort everything out. Before the witches returned, he intended to separate the financial side of the enterprise from the creative side, retaining his own staff for the business side. The creative spellworkers need never hear another word about profits or sales.
Malove needed a holiday too, but he would need to keep her physical presence to enable him to use it. Perhaps once he had his own staff in place and had made arrangements for them to communicate directly with him, he could dispense with the body of Malove and send her away too.
“Permission to speak, My Lady Malove?” Truella asked respectfully. She was still wearing Frella’s raincoat of respect as it hadn’t stopped raining the whole time she’d been in Ireland, although the respectfulness was becoming tedious. But she was inside the Quadrivium building now, facing her agitated boss. She shrugged the raincoat off and tossed it aside and squared her shoulders.
“Speak!” Malove replied, rude and abrupt.
“I say, would you like some new pyjamas by any chance? No, never mind that now. Someone needs to say this to your face, as you haven’t figured it out for yourself yet.”
Gasps of astonishment echoed around the great hall and the air quivered with tension.
“You have been so obsessed with the fact sheets of the merge and the number crunching that you’ve been blind to a more significant merge.” Truella boldly held her hand up to silence Malove whose mouth was gaping open like a goldfish, or perhaps more like a carp.
“No, you listen to me for once,” Truella almost quaked at her own impudence then, but caught the merest glimmer of amusement from the depths of Malove’s being, or rather the essence of Cromwell who was lodged there.
Don’t you dare leave me now, Thomas, stay right there until I’ve finished or I’m toast.
“You have been so outwardly focused that you’re not paying attention to your own self, or you’d have noticed. Which just goes to show the immense efficiency and subtley of Cromwell’s merge tactics. It would behoove you to admit that you needed direction, and to appreciate the help that has been provided for you. You are not entirely yourself, or rather, you are entirely yourself, but at times lately you are more than that.”
Taking a deep breath, Truella continued. “At first it may be unsettling, but you must persevere and don’t fight it. Accept that you needed help, give thanks that you received it, and work well with Cromwell’s suggestions.”
“Saints preserve us,” whispered Malove, shocked to the core. “I don’t mean papish saints though,” she added hastily, unsure how to proceed.
Truella laughed nervously, her courage suddenly evaporating. She felt a strong urge to flee.
I asked you not to leave me alone with her!
November hadn’t counted on May, and the insurmountable difficulties in dealing with May, who may or may not do anything you may care to predict.
Maybe May would and maybe May wouldn’t, May may be there or May may not, May may do this or May may do that, in short, May was either or, this or that, yes or no and maybe never. May was better or worse or maybe May was neither, or both. May was red and blue and maybe purple, or maybe May was sunny yellow, mellow yellow, maybe May was just a banana, for scale.
“You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”
Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.
“What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders. “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”
Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently. “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”
“You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning. “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”
As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room. The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl. Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her. She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.
Frella rolled her eyes. What were the odds of Truella turning up now!
“Well, don’t look so pleased to see me,” Truella said sarcastically. “I could have drowned you know, if Thomas hadn’t saved me. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Frella looked helplessly at Oliver. “Perhaps you’d better go now, it’s all getting too complicated.”
“My good lady, would you curtail my pleasure at this unexpected meeting with a nephew I knew not existed?” Thomas interrupted, taking control of the situation, in as much as an out of control situation could be managed.
“My good man,” Frella replied tartly, “Would you curtail my pleasure with your nephew?”
“Now, now,” butted in Truella, trying to get a handle on the situation, “Surely nobody needs to have any pleasure curtailed. But Thomas has to get the boat back quickly, so I suggest someone explains to him who his nephew is. Then he can get back to the Thames. And I’ll walk back to your cottage, Frella, and borrow some dry clothes if you don’t mind, and then you can get on with….it, in peace.”
“Get on with what exactly!” Frella retorted, blushing furiously. “Oliver, why don’t you go back with your uncle, you know where the Thames is, don’t you? It just seems easier that way.”
Oliver laughed at the very idea of not knowing where the Thames was. “But my great great grand uncle Thomas died before I was born. I know of him, but he knows not of me. Well, he does now, admittedly.”
“So your name is Oliver,” mused Thomas, “Oliver Cromwell. And by the look of your doublet and hose, you’re a wealthy man. We have much to talk about. Pray step into the boat, my good sir, and we’ll find a way to get you back to your own time later. We must make haste for the sake of my boatman, Rafe.”
And with that they were off in a puff of river mist.
The postcard was marked URGENT and the man in charge of postcards made haste to find Thomas Cromwell but he was nowhere to be found. The postcard was damp and the ink had run, but “send your boatman asap” was decipherable. The man in charge of postcards was not aware of any boatman by the name of Asap, but knowing Thomas it was possible he’d found another bright waif to train, probably one of the urchins hanging about the gates waiting for scraps from the kitchen.
“Asap! Asap!” the postcard man called as he ran down to the river. “Boatman Asap!”
“There be no boatman by that name on the masters barge, lad. Are you speaking my language?” replied boatman Rafe.
“Have you seen the master?” the postcard man asked, “And be quick about you, whatever your name is.”
“Aye, I can tell you that. He’s asleep in the barge.”
“Asleep? Asleep? In the middle of the day? You fool, get out of my way!” the postcard man shoved Rafe out of the way roughly. “My Lord Cromwell! Asleep on the barge in the middle of the day! Call the physician, you dolt!”
“Calm yourself man, I am in no need of assistance,” Cromwell said, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he rose to see what all the shouting was about. Being in two places at once was becoming difficult to conceal. He would have to employ a man of concealment to cover for him while he was in Malove’s body.
I must have a word with Thurston about licorice spiders, Cromwell made a mental note to speak to his cook, while holding out his hand for the postcard. “Thank you, Babbidge”, he said to the man in charge of postcards, giving him a few coins. “You did well to find me. That will be all.”
“Rafe,” Cromwell said to the boatman after a slight pause, “Can you row to the future, do you think?”
“Whatever you say, master, just tell me where it is.”
“Therein lies the problem,” replied Thomas Cromwell, promptly falling asleep again.
While Malove was tucking into some sugared ghosts at the party, she felt an odd plucking sensation, as if one of her spells had been accessed.
A split second later, Cromwell woke up. There was no time to lose gathering ingredients for spells, or laborious complicated rituals. Cromwell made a mental note to streamline the future coven with more efficient simple magic.
“Take all your clothes off, Rafe.” Astonished, the boatman removed his hat and his cloak. Thomas Cromwell did likewise. “Now you put my clothes on, Rafe, and I’ll wear yours. Get out of the boat and go and find somewhere under a bush to hide until I come back. I’m taking your boat. Don’t, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.”
Terrified, the boatman scuttled off to seek cover. He’d heard the rumours about Cromwell’s imminent arrest. He almost laughed maniacally when the thought crossed his mind that he wished he had a mirror to see himself in Lord Cromwell’s hat, but that thought quickly turned to horror when he imagined the hat ~ and the head ~ rolling under the scaffold. God save us all, he whispered, knowing that God wouldn’t.
In a split second, boatman Cromwell found himself rowing the barge through flooded orange groves. I must fill my pockets with oranges for Thurston to make spiced orange tarts, he thought, before I return.
“Ah, there you are, bedraggled wench, you did well to send for assistance. A biblical flood if ever I saw one. There’s just one small problem,” Cromwell said as he pulled Truella into the barge, ” I can save you from drowning, but we must return forthwith to the Thames. I can not put my boatman in danger for long.”
“The Thames in the 1500s?” Truella said stupidly, shivering in her wet clothes.
Cromwell looked at her tight blue breeches and thin unseemly vest. “Your clothes simply won’t do”.
“Some dry ones would be nice,” Truella admitted.
“It’s not that your clothes are too wet,” he replied, frowning. He could send Rafe for a kitchenmaids dress, but then what would the kitchenmaid wear? They had one dress only, not racks of garments like the people in the future. Not unless they were ladies.
Lord Thomas Cromwell cast another eye over Truella. She was a similar build to Anne of Chives.
“If you think I’m dressing up as one of Henry’s wives…”
Laughing, Cromwell admitted she had a point. “No, perhaps not a good idea, especially as he does not well like this one. No need for her to be the death of both of us.”
“Look, just drop me off in Limerick on the way home, it’s barely out of your way. It’s probably raining there too, but at least I won’t have to worry about clothes. I’d look awful in one of those linen caps anyway.”
Cromwell gave her an approving look and agreed to her idea. Within a split second they were in Ireland, but Cromwell was in for a surprise.
“Yoohoo, Frella!” Truella called, delighted to see her friend strolling along the river bank. “It’s me!”
Thomas Cromwell pulled the boat up to the river bank, tossing the rope to Frella’s friend to secure it. Frella’s friend grabbed the rope and froze in astonishment. “You! Fancy seeing YOU here! Uncle Thomas!”
“Why are you grunting like that Chantelle”, Maurice asked, “Are you in pain?”
Laughing, she replied that she was only grunting out of politeness because the woman in the future expected it. “I don’t think they’re very bright, to be honest. You should see the postcards she sends, everywhere looks weird. Hardly any trees or animals, but all cluttered with strange lumps of grey. And their writing has no sound, not like ours. I’m struggling to decipher the messages”
Maurice leaned his best spear up against the cave wall. “Here, I brought you some nice feathers for your hair.” He wasn’t sure what to make of Chantelle’s invisible friend, and rather wished she’d drop it and do some more painting on the walls.
“Ooh, how pretty! Glad you didn’t bring any more shellfish home, I’m absolutely stuffed on shellfish.”