Now And Always - Diana Rubino

Now And Always by Diana Rubino

Book excerpt

Donington-le-Heath Manor House, Leicestershire, England

“I know it’s five o’clock, but I want to keep working.” Leah stood inside the medieval fireplace, running her hands along the rough bricks. “I can’t quit until I find that secret passageway, and where it leads to.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, you can.” Her partner, Viv, shut her laptop. “Sorry, Leah, but I’m beat. Come on, it’s your birthday. Can’t you knock off early?”

“Being here is my birthday present.” She inhaled deeply, imagining all the long-ago fires that cooked meals and warmed chilled bones.

“Okay, then, see you tomorrow.” Viv gave Leah a grin as she turned to leave. “You’re so steeped in English history, it seems to consume you.”

But Viv hit it right on the head: English history did consume her, ever since she read the epic novel SARUM by Edward Rutherfurd, which spans the entire course of English history.

Restoring a medieval house was every historic preservation architect’s dream, and winning this bid was like winning the lottery. This project gave her the chance to spend the summer here, explore ancient sites, and sip mead in the same pubs as Crusaders.

Besides its rustic charm and secret passageway, the 13th century Donington-le-Heath boasted a one-of-a-kind artifact: the bed of King Richard III. In medieval times, important people traveled with their own beds, and it was a prized possession. The bed accompanied King Richard on every journey, and on the eve of his final battle, it awaited the king who never returned. Still it waited, five centuries later.

But where could that secret passageway be? According to legend, it had started as a hidey hole for heretics, but later owners lengthened it until it led somewhere—and the answer to that was a dead end. Not until now had anyone even tried to find it. She hoped to be the lucky one. The renovation was extensive enough to probe a few dark corners and discover the portal, hidden for five centuries.

“Maybe it’s lower to the floor,” she murmured as she crouched and probed the bricks with her fingertips, sneezing in the dust. Walking on her knees, she covered the width of the fireplace. Nothing but a solid wall. Nope, it wasn’t here inside the fireplace.

She stood and brushed her hands together, battling a sense of defeat. She had another three weeks of work in this house, plenty of time to find that passageway.

Heading to the second floor, she met the curator on the staircase, an oil painting tucked under his arm. “Hi, Pete. What have we here? I mean whom have we here?”

He propped the portrait on his knee. “The Leicester Museum delivered it. It was in their archives. It dates from the late fifteenth century.”

The man in the portrait wore medieval nobleman’s garb, draping him in fashionable regality. She looked into his kind, trusting hazel eyes. A hint of amusement played on his lips. A rolled brim hat topped his shoulder-length hair. He bore a faint resemblance to her late husband Matthew—the intelligence in his eyes, the dark auburn hair, the intense gaze, the way he looked at her when he told her he loved her. He evoked mixed emotions: comfort, curiosity, and grief. She took a step back. “Who is he?”

“According to the museum records, his name is Hugh Radcliffe, earl of Sussex. Richard the Third executed him for treason.” Pete turned the portrait to look at it. “But some sources claim he was innocent of his alleged crime, and framed by a mad Welsh brood, the Griffins.”

Leah’s heart went out to Hugh Radcliffe across five hundred years. “Oh, yes, I read about the Griffins. I also read about Hugh Radcliffe in a few obscure history books. I always wondered if he really did commit treason or if he was framed. Even if it were true, being beheaded was a horrible way to die.”

“That was the penalty for treason in those dark days,” Pete replied in a somber tone.

“Barbaric.” She shuddered. “But since we can’t be sure of his guilt, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.” She followed Pete down the hallway and into the chamber that displayed King Richard III’s bed.

“The higher-ups at the National Trust want the portrait in here because of the connection between Radcliffe and King Richard.” Pete searched the walls for the best place to hang it. “And if tourists ask about it when they come to see the bed, I can tell the story.”

“Does Radcliffe have any living descendants?” She ran her fingertips over the bed’s carved frame.

“Not that anyone knows of. His only son died as a boy.” Pete started hammering a nail into the far wall. “Oh, and he drowned his wife in a lake in Wales.”

Taken aback by his words, Leah stifled a gasp. “My gosh. Was he framed for that, too?” With the picture hung and straightened, she studied Hugh Radcliffe’s gentlemanly features, unable to imagine him doing anything so heinous.

“Who knows?” Pete hung the portrait and straightened it. “It may be another of those old legends that can’t be proved or disproved.” He turned to face her. “Like King Richard murdering the little princes in the Tower of London.”

She shooed that away with her hand. “That’s Shakespeare taking license for dramatic effect. I’ll never believe it’s true.”

“Facts do get a bit distorted over five centuries.” He smiled and stepped back to observe the portrait. “This chap may have been the kindest knight in the kingdom.”

“And one of the handsomest,” she commented, but she knew that portraits were idealized in those days.

Pete pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “It’s just about closing time. You ready to call it a day?”

“I’m going to work late tonight,” she told him. “I’m not really finished yet." And she wasn't. She wanted to be alone for a while, to wander through the chambers adorned with medieval furnishings, the uneven boards creaking beneath her, with only a candle’s flame to lead the way. She wanted to watch YouTube videos and hear the way medieval people spoke before English evolved into today’s vernacular and unaffected speech. She spent hours at this hobby of sorts after taking medieval English online courses.

He gave her the old skeleton key and asked her to shut all the lights before leaving.

She lit a candle and started on her journey through history. Passing through the great hall filled with paint cans, ladders and tarp covering the coppery tile floor, she marveled at the tapestries and sconces that graced the walls. The diamond-paned glass glowed like jewels in the flickering shadows. Fading shafts of daylight slanted in through the arched windowsDownstairs in the kitchen, a trestle table displayed pewter trenchers and goblets as it would have long ago. Herbs hung from the ceiling beams, suspended over the wide hearth, its bricks blackened and charred. A cast iron cauldron hung over a pile of firewood, where brews of every concoction had once simmered. Taking a deep breath she could almost smell the smoky aromas of roasted meats and boiled herbs from centuries ago.

The cold flagstones bit into her stocking feet as she went back up the narrow staircase. Entering the bedchamber, she approached the king’s bed. Tourists came from everywhere to gape at it. But for now, it was all hers.

She gazed at the frame’s pristine condition and the secret compartment where King Richard had stashed money. The present melted into the past as she wrapped her fingers around one carved post. A current vibrated through her, almost as if the bed were electrically charged. Then she remembered something else that made this bed a major attraction. It stood directly on a Ley Line. Ley Lines were straight lines all over England; they apparently held mysterious properties of earth energy. Strange occurrences happened on Ley Lines. Pilgrims flocked to them for thousands of years, for everything from ceremonial rites to miracle healings. She’d visited many ancient sites built on Ley Lines, but nothing otherworldly ever happened to her. She could sure use something otherworldly right about now. The reality of life was too much for her to bear lately.

Ah, to lie in a bed that a monarch slept in centuries ago…

It tempted her, called out to her. Come hither, lie down!

She leaned over and smoothed the bed covering with her fingertips but snatched her hand away. No, it’s a historic relic, I have no right to even touch it.