“And your name is Wayncroft?” asked Bonneur.
“You must have heard of the Wayncrofts of Chillingham Place.” Robert glided smoothly away from the topic of jewels. “We had to move out, patriotic duty, of course, in wartime, but we’ll go back when the war’s over. The old pile’s falling down, though.” Even then he had thought it was a pity that the family hadn’t put the jewel to better use.
To his horror, Christophe had replied casually: “I’ve heard of this Regale, mon ami. It belongs to France, you know. It was our King Louis the Seventh who gave it to the shrine.”
Robert had tried to be equally casual. “He tried very hard not to, you mean. He offered a mint of money to the Archbishop in compensation for loss of the jewel, and it was accepted, but the Regale had other ideas. The story is that it simply flew out of his hand and stuck like glue onto the shrine.”
“So our poor king lost money and jewel, too.” Christophe laughed. “That is evidence, is it not, that the jewel belongs to France, not once but twice. Yes?”
Johnnie Wilson, who had been listening quietly, now contributed to the conversation: “How did you Wayncrofts get it, then? Nicked it, did you?”
The nightmare had begun, a nightmare Robert had managed to suppress, until this evening. As he came out into Broad Street, every shadow seemed to hold a threat. It wasn’t like him to be jumpy, he told himself; maybe he was being followed. He’d go back to the house at Lady Wootton’s Green just in case, he decided, and come out later. No one would expect him to leave it so late. It would be safer then. Another hour or two would not matter.
The jewel had waited for over four hundred years.
Sir Walter Barbary dismounted at Harbledown, for Canterbury was in sight. He had no penance to perform as pilgrims usually had, only a mission on behalf of his dying monarch. It was cold and raining, and he took refuge in the inn from the November chill while he made his final decision as to what he should do.
“Walter,” Queen Mary had rasped last evening. “I know you to be a good Catholic and true to our faith, as you are to me. Would you do me one last service?”
He bowed his head. “Your Majesty.” It was well known that the queen was near her end. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness, and it was rumoured she was dying of a broken heart. She had good cause; the child she longed for had never come, despite all her fierce endeavours she had not completely restored the Pope’s supremacy over the English Church, and now Calais, England’s last foothold in France, was lost.
When he had been summoned to St. James’s he had guessed it was not merely to give him thanks. Queen Mary had something more in mind.
With an effort, the queen withdrew a shabby velvet pouch from among the cushions of her bed and handed it to him. It was heavier than he had expected from its size and within seemed to be a large oval stone that felt cold even through the velvet.
“Do not stay to open it, Walter. We may be disturbed. Take this to Canterbury for me, back to the place from which it was stolen by those rebelling against the true faith. Those who influenced my misguided father.”
Sir Walter did not proffer his own views on the part played by the late King Henry VIII in establishing the new Church. It had been, as his daughter Mary knew full well, imposed on England to satisfy his own lusts with the sanctity of a so-called marriage to Anne Boleyn — a marriage that had failed to produce the male heir he wanted.
“My father used it as a toy, a huge ring worn on his thumb,” Mary whispered, “and when he tired of it, he gave it to me to wear in a golden collar. I have done so for his sake but it lies heavy on my conscience. I would have my soul at peace as I face God. When Cromwell’s Royal Commission destroyed the shrine of the blessed Saint Thomas, they stole the Regale and it must be returned.”
“Your Majesty,” Walter chose his words carefully, “despite all you have done to restore England to the guidance of the Holy Father the Pope, the cathedral might not yet be a fitting place for the Regale. Once more it might be treated as a toy.”
“You are a diplomat, Walter.” Queen Mary smiled with great effort. “You mean if — when — my sister Elizabeth rules, she will bow to no Pope. Walter, you must ensure that the stone is kept safely in Canterbury until the true faith is established there once more.”
He had left for Canterbury immediately. This morning, as he left the inn, news had just arrived that the queen had died at dawn. By that time, thanks be to God, he was well set on the pilgrims’ route to Canterbury. They would have sent to Hatfield for the new queen and once she entered into London the hunt for the Regale would begin. If he knew Bess Tudor, who had a great liking for jewelled collars, she would waste little time. He must be gone, and gone forever.
Walter decided to lead his horse for the last mile or two in order that Our Lady might grant him inspiration, for despite his halt at Harbledown, he still could not decide what to do with the jewel. As he neared Canterbury, he could hear the bells ringing — but for no Pope. He knew he could not hand over the jewel, nor keep it for himself, for this would go against his promise to Queen Mary, yet he would instantly be suspect when the jewel was missed. He had no choice. He must fulfill his mission, then ride for Dover and sail overseas for France.
He paused unrecognised at the cathedral entrance, watching as the dignitaries of Canterbury came to give thanks for the new queen, whether they were sincere or not. One of them was Sir Edward Wayncroft, whom he knew well, and Walter gave thanks to Our Lady, for surely here was his answer. Sir Edward was of good Catholic family, staunch to the last. It had been his father who had been slain in the passageway trying to prevent the theft of the Regale by Cromwell’s men. He would ask Sir Edward to guard the jewel until these rebels and their so-called new religion were swept away.
As twilight came, Robert retraced his steps to the cathedral, reasoning that anyone following him would assume the Regale was hidden there. His stalker — was he real or in his imagination? — might even be amongst those few bowed heads still in the cathedral at this late hour. Involuntarily, he glanced over his shoulder. His grandfather’s death had been announced in the Times as well as in the local newspapers. What if his avid-eyed companions on the beach at Dunkirk had remembered his chance words? He had seen neither of them since, but in theory they could be here, waiting for him to make his move to reclaim the jewel. Would one of those so earnestly praying suddenly rise up and strike him down, as Becket himself had been struck?
Robert took hold of himself. Of course they would not do so. Even if one of them were waiting for him, he could not be sure whether Robert had the letter, or when he would go in search of the jewel. In any case, he would need to follow Robert to where the jewel lay hidden. His imagination was getting out of control, Robert decided, but nevertheless he would take precautions. He would linger by the steps to the Murder Stone, then walk briskly down the north aisle to the main door — then past it. Instead he would stroll up the south aisle, and mount the steps leading to Trinity Chapel, the site of the shrine itself. Yes, that was fitting, since any pursuer would assume the Regale was hidden near there, and would pause there regardless of whether he could still see his quarry. By that time, Robert would have hurried down to the cloister door and out into the night air.
He breathed it in thankfully as he walked into Burgate Street and then through Butchery Lane and on to the Parade. Robert felt safer now, if only because it was uncommonly light, even for the end of May. There would be no air raids tonight. A man whistled; nothing uncommon in that. A few people hurried towards their homes; that, too, was natural. A cat howled as he passed the Corn Exchange and came into St. George’s Street; the sound of Glenn Miller on a wireless drifted down through a blacked-out window.