One Moment...

A pause, a hesitation, before the crack as shoe met stone. The sound multiplied in the echoing stillness until it became a thousand tiny crack-crack-cracks. A pearl of rain-water rolled downwards, flattening the tendril of cut-grass against the scuffed shoe and darkening the stone under-foot. As if summoned the birds began to jostle one another from their perch high above. They scattered like blotches of ink from a broken nib across the cerulean canvas framed by a lichen covered arch. One, and then two passes of swooping and cawing, until finally all was settled and calm once more.

A House Of Scandal...

I cannot take full credit for this story as the idea was originally thought up by my father. A little over three years later and I have taken it upon myself to expand upon his suggestion.

Oxfordshire, 1929.

“That’s Augustus House, sir.” The chauffeur intoned politely with a nod towards the sprawling residence that had finally come into view. Fleets Lane shifted slightly in his seat in order to gain a better look and then let out a small breath of surprise. The house was imposing in its ugliness. Its stone was weathered to a grim grey and the effect was left unsoftened by a lack of surrounding foliage. Lane was reminded of Shelley’s Frankenstein for as the motor-car drew closer it became clear that the house had been cobbled together from different parts over the centuries. A medieval great hall was sandwiched between neoclassical columns, whilst this was all flanked by great curvilinear wings that were currently the height of fashion.

“It’s not hard to believe that the family will soon be suffering financial woes looking at that heap of bricks.” Lane’s companion remarked quietly. Tyler Hill was a bit of a mathematics genius and Lane had little doubt that his mind had already calculated the cost of each of those bricks and subtracted it from the annual income of the estate. It was perhaps as a result of this analytical approach that Lane could detect none of his own admiration on the young man’s face. Hill saw only the decaying edifice that would slowly bleed away profit margins, whilst Lane was old enough to appreciate the family heritage preserved within each cracked stone.

“How bad have they been affected?” Lane kept his voice low so that their probing of the family’s private affairs was kept from the liveried chauffeur. Lord Bowles, the owner of Augustus House, was an American and only a month before the American stock market at Wall Street had crashed. Hill had calculated that in a worst case scenario the effects would be felt by economies all over the world for at least a decade. For Augustus House and its inhabitants, however, the effect would likely be far worse.

“It’s serious. They’ll probably need to sell the house and estate to recoup their losses.” Lane shook his head, his dark eyes solemn.

“Yet another old family who will be forced to sell their ancestral home. The world is changing.” He murmured more to himself than Hill. He could remember a time before the war, before the world had been turned upside down. Lane had grown up on an estate like Augustus House. On his return from the Front he had gone back, but the farm where his family had lived and worked was gone, along with the family and servants up at the big house. The war had of course changed everything, including the direction of his own life. The injury he had sustained for King and Country ultimately forced him to retire from the police force and to set up his own practice as a private investigator.

“It’s only tenuously an ancestral home now though, sir.” Hill’s logic drew Lane’s attention back to the present. “The current Lord Bowles was a very distant cousin of the late Lord Bowles, and it was the marriage between the cousin and the daughter which meant that the title and the estate could remain intact.” Hill was too young to remember the war and the unreserved respect that had previously been thought owing to the aristocratic class. Despite any youthful inexperience, Hill’s precise reasoning and talent for detecting patterns and connections made him an invaluable assistant to Lane’s investigations.

“The Bowles’ are a relation of Lady Granchester, I believe. We recovered her diamonds last year, which is presumably why Lord Bowles contacted us particularly.” Lane mused as he thought of the terse telegram that had requested their immediate presence in Oxfordshire. Yet there had been no mention of the matter which actually required their professional services. There was, however, little time for any further speculation by the pair for the chauffeur was pulling around the large turning circle.

Lane and Hill had arrived.

Of Monks And Men II

Quite a few weeks ago I posted simply this picture of one of my very favourite medieval images - a rather mischievous monk.

British Library, MS Sloane 2435, f 44v.

The manuscript dates to around c. 1285 and was made in northern France. It contains the text ‘Le Regime du corps’ by the Italian Aldobrandino of Siena. The content of this text is reflected in the other large historiated initials, which include depictions of bloodletting and physicians.

British Library, MS Sloane 2435, f 11v.

In my spare time I have been creating an embroidered version of my favourite image, which when completed will sit proudly on my mantelpiece. I have now almost reached the halfway point and thought I would share a photo of my efforts so far.

My very own monk.

A Perfect Stranger...

He was there again, sitting on the park bench which looked out onto the neat row of Victorian terraced houses. A handkerchief covered the soiled wooden slats and he unpacked his luncheon onto the make-shift tablecloth. His hands tidied the flask and sandwiches into precise patterns. It was an old routine, one his fingers knew by rote, leaving his mind empty and able to drift freely.

All this the woman observed from across the street. Of course she had no idea who this man was and it was hardly her place to comment on the state of his mind, empty or otherwise. Their acquaintance was merely a result of his strange choice to eat his luncheon opposite her house. When exactly he had begun to sit there she couldn’t really say with accuracy. Perhaps no more or no less than a year. Yet it was as if he had always sat there and would always continue to sit there. So much was this the case that she had begun to think, and even speak, about it as his park bench.

There could be, you would suppose, nothing more natural in the world than his sitting on a park bench. Except that it was that park bench. It couldn’t even be truly considered a park bench when there was no park, indeed not even a garden in a mile radius, unless you thought to include the tidy window boxes nestled under Mrs Ashcombe’s bay window. The very existence of the park bench was then a peculiarity, and his sitting upon it was so decidedly irregular that she could not help but steal glances throughout the course of her day to see if he really was there at all.

But there he really was. Always, without fail, arriving at 11.27 before proceeding to lay out his luncheon upon the same carefully pressed handkerchief. When it rained an umbrella joined him or a peaked hat might make an appearance on days when the sun was high and bright. Today a scarf enveloped the top portion of his body and most of the bottom portion of his face. The stick, however, remained a constant companion, resting faithfully against its master’s knee. It wasn’t that he was a particularly old man. In fact his hair looked to her remarkably thick and dark, his face notably unlined and unblemished. Yet his spindly frame was seemingly permanently hunched over itself in an ungainly stoop.

Her gaze wandered to the handsome clock on the mantelpiece before straying back to the man, whose hands rested patiently on his knees. An outlandish urge suddenly over took the woman. A desire to change what had become their bizarre routine. Tentatively, strangely frightened she might upset some cosmic balance, she eased open a window. Her breath expelled a relieved sigh when the universe remained as it was. She finished sliding the window onto its latch with a certain amount of liberated pleasure. Now the action was complete she glanced back towards the clock. Gathering her skirts about her she sat on the stool which had been prepared and flexed her fingers in the rapidly cooling air. It was 11.45 at last. And they could begin.

The notes were coaxed and beckoned by her manicured fingers which sought out the familiar keys. She drew the music from the instrument and allowed it to course through the well-appointed room and out into the open air. She didn’t need to check the window to know that the man would have begun to eat his luncheon by now. Today, for the first time since their peculiar acquaintance had begun, he wouldn’t need to strain and grasp for each lilting note. The music would be as crisp and clear as the autumn air and there was no breeze stirring in the russet trees to carry it away from its audience.

Of course she could not be certain whether he was in fact actually listening. For in truth she had no idea why a perfect stranger would sit there upon that park bench.

When Shall We Three Meet Again; In Thunder, Lightning Or In Rain?

Houseleeks (sempervivum tectorum) are my new favourite plant. Though perhaps not much to look at they are hardy plants which grow well in dry soil and rough conditions. Perfect for rock gardens or even growing on roofs.

In the medieval period houseleeks were believed to protect a building from lightning. They were grown on the roof for this purpose. There is actual historical evidence for this practice. The Capitulare de Villis, a document issued in the eighth century, decreed how the estates within the Carolingian Empire should be run. Within this it stated that “the gardener should grow houseleeks on his house.”

Au Revoir

When you visit a place, for however brief a moment, you take stock of your surroundings. Whether it be admiring the architecture, soaking in the atmosphere, or enjoying the scenery. But when you live in a place these things become merely the backdrop to mundane day-to-day goings on.

For the last four years I’ve been lucky enough to have Canterbury as the setting to my insignificant life dramas. As I pack up my belongings ready to leave I wonder what has changed. When did I stop gazing at the Cathedral in awe every time I walked by, when did my feet begin to navigate between the irritating blockade of tourists. I realise that though the buildings might have stayed the same, my affection and appreciation remaining constant, ultimately it is I who has been changed by my time here.

View of the Cathedral

Westgate

Castle

Canterbury Cathedral

St Augustine's Abbey

Fragments And Broken Dreams...

This past week I have been sorting through the scraps of paper that seem to perpetually appear out of nowhere and congregate on my desk. Buried amongst the long forgotten library lists and discarded train tickets are tiny pieces of past ideas. Even though they didn’t come up to scratch first time around it still seemed a nice idea to gather them together, for posterity’s sake if nothing else.

She held her father’s surcoat close, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the burnt and frayed ends of the fine material.  His image was faded around the edges now, his features a little more blurred, his figure slightly further away in the distance. Broken memories left her with only an old, empty surcoat to hold.

*

So he calls me cold. Well he certainly wasn’t saying that back then when my hand ran up his thigh and he murmured incoherently into my neck. Looking back I suppose there was always a bitterness to our relationship. But then things always have that funny way of seeming so different now, don’t they? It’s not like we didn’t know what to expect. Even I couldn’t have imagined though how he would have turned against me at the end.

*

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Freddie.” The question was addressed to somewhere between her knee and ankle. With a barely concealed sigh of annoyance she looked down from her lofty height upon the ladder. An impatient movement caused a branch to sway dramatically and shed water-heavy blossom onto the ground, and onto the elegant suit of the waiting man. The casual flick of a hand sent the petals careening to the grass to finish their journey. She bridled inwardly at the carless gesture and turned resolutely back to the tree with the loppers.

“Well you found her.” She muttered to the thick trunk.

“I beg your pardon?” He asked, wondering if the woman had misunderstood his question. If he had not still been feeling the effects of jetlag he would perhaps have made a better attempt at politeness. Instead he merely reiterated tiredly.

“I’m looking for Freddie. He’s the head gardener apparently.” The woman turned gesturing towards herself with the loppers.

“As I said. I’m Freddie. And yes I’m the head gardener. What do you want?” She demanded with a frown.

*

The summer storm which brewed that humid night was of little consequence to the man who lay still, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the lightening filled sky.

*

The tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn’t move to catch it. She let it dry on her skin in the warmth of the night air, her body stiff and tense as she watched her slumbering husband. His features were lax in sleep, his mouth slightly open as he blew gurgling bubbles, hardly the image of a rich and dangerous mercenary feared for miles around. Lying sprawled on his front with not even a stitch to cover his modesty she realised that he would never be as vulnerable as he was now. Her hand itched for the thin blade concealed amongst her carefully folded gowns. Imagining him gutted, his blood running between her fingers, caused her tears to cease. Of course she knew she couldn’t do it. She had sacrificed too much already to give up now, but the thrill of the power she momentarily held over him was a sharp bite of pleasure.

*

The tear started small. A quiet huff of breath, a shudder and a splash. But its ripples expanded until the entire bowl of water trembled with her emotion, the waves threatening to submerge her under the swell of sensation.

*

It matched! Flushed with success she slumped back into the unyielding leather chair and attempted to control the spark of excitement which caused her hand to shake. Her loud exclamatory breath had caused several stern pairs of eyes to turn her way. She sent nervous fingers brushing through her fringe before locking her gaze once more on the manuscript before her. It was true. And she had found it. Not even a hundred glaring librarians could contain the little rock of joy that creaked the chair beneath her.

*

“Girls can’t be knights stupid.” This was announced with all the disdain an eleven year old boy, weeks away from becoming a squire, could muster.

*

Sir Godfrey Pulford was dead. Isabel Woodville regarded the body slumped over her table with dismay. Death had not come easily to Sir Godfrey. The abject fear felt at the moment of death was captured in his unblinking pale blue stare. His coarse hands were stretched out across the table, and his fingernails had scored panicked marks in the wooden surface. Isabel stumbled across the threshold of the room towards the body. Sir Godfrey had been in his fifties, and the battle hardened body of his youth had run to fat. His once handsome features had bloated with the effect of regular over indulgence in good wine. It was this weakness that had eventually killed him.

Isabel’s sharp green eyes had taken in the goblet that had been knocked to the floor and spilt its contents over the rushes. She knelt carefully, picked up the goblet and sniffed. She then knew with certainty that it was not a brew that she had served at her table the previous evening. She rose and hesitatingly moved towards the body. Isabel swallowed her disgust and examined Sir Godfrey’s mouth. It, like his eyes, was wide open and she could clearly see tiny red blisters around his lips and inside his mouth. There could be no doubt that Sir Godfrey had been poisoned.