She had caught him with that bait. He sat forward, his eyes intent on her face. She was reeling him in quite nicely.
“What is it?”
Helen looked at him for a very long time, then said, “Will you be my partner? Will you help me find the lamp?”
He thought about his life until his thirty-third year. There were black clouds strewn throughout the years, particularly the young years, when his father had been alive. But surely everyone had tragedy or appalling situations to deal with. Perhaps his were blacker than most, carved more deeply into his soul. Perhaps his endless, relentless search for pleasure and its immediacy and its anticipation, its urgency, had kept him from succumbing to the black pit that he knew yawned at his feet.
No, he was being a fool. His life was in his control now, at least most of it. He enjoyed his pleasures, the women who favored him with their attention and their bodies.
He sat there and pondered. A magic lamp given to King Edward I by a Knight Templar. The chances of such a lamp’s even existing in the first place were very close to none at all in his mind. And this same magic lamp that couldn’t possibly exist was hidden somewhere in England, now, in modern times?
It was impossible. It was a chimera, a dream, nothing more. And he shook his head even as he said, “I will be your partner, Miss Mayberry. Now tell me what else you have discovered about the lamp.”
She stuck out her hand and he shook it.
“All right. Now, tell me.”
7
HELEN LEANED VERY close to him and whispered, “Not three months ago when I was in Aldeburgh, again searching as I have searched for the past six years, there had been a vicious storm that had destroyed parts of the beach just the week before. It had even torn away parts of cliffs. I found a small cave, uncovered by the storm.
“At the very back of the cave an iron cask had been dumped over onto a ledge. There was a hole in the wall where it had been hidden. Inside the cask was a rolled piece of leather, barely holding itself together. I don’t know what language is written on that scroll, but it is very, very old.”
“You’ve taken it to none of the medieval scholars at Cambridge?”
“Oh, no, that would surely be my last resort. I want you to look at it, Lord Beecham. I want you to translate it. It would be your first act as my partner.”
He said very slowly, “How did you find out that I spent two years at Oxford studying the medieval parchments and manuscripts vaulted there, specifically the ones brought back from the Holy Land to England? You are not thinking about laying this at Blunder’s door, are you? He couldn’t have told you about my studies at Oxford. He has no idea.”
“One of the churchmen once told me about you. His brother taught you at Oxford some twelve years ago. Sir Giles—”
“—Gilliam,” Lord Beecham said, looking inward, remembering those exciting days when there was a discovery around each corner, on each page of some precious bit of parchment that Sir Giles had managed to unearth from the Oxford vaults.
“Yes. His churchman brother is Lockleer Gilliam, a vicar in Dereham. He married my father and mother once, about two years before she died.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I forgot. My father is a vastly romantic gentleman. He wed my mother on three different occasions. Vicar Gilliam is a man of flexible mind and infinite kindness. He and my father became great friends.”
“But why did you not simply take the writings to Oxford to Sir Giles Gilliam?”
“He died last year.”
“I didn’t know,” Lord Beecham said, and he felt a blow of guilt so swift and powerful it nearly bowed him to his knees. He hadn’t heard. No one had bothered to tell him because—because he was nothing more than a pleasure-seeking nobleman who didn’t give a damn about anything other than his own gratification. He looked down to see her hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I met Sir Giles once at his brother’s vicarage in Dereham. He was always talking, only it wasn’t to any of us. He was conversing with people who lived back then, in thirteenth-century England, and he was explaining to them that he needed to know more about this or that. Then, and I swear this to you, he would pause and it seemed that he was listening to someone speak who wasn’t there.
“The vicar told me not to pay any attention to Sir Giles. He said, however, that after Sir Giles’s conversations he wrote the most remarkable documents.”
Helen clearly saw Sir Giles, his head cocked to one side, listening intently to a shelf of books, a picture on a wall, a carpet at his feet. “It was disconcerting. When Sir Giles finally realized I was there with his brother, he said, and I will never forget this, ‘How magnificent you are. But that is not important. What is important is that you not allow your mind to become mulch.’ ”
Lord Beecham laughed, a free, full-bodied laugh this time that resonated throughout his head and into the air around him. It brought back marvelous memories of a young man of twenty, so very eager to learn everything Sir Giles knew. And Sir Giles had even told him once, patting his shoulder, that he was so very bright, and that Sir Giles was thankful that Spenser had given his brain over to him, Sir Giles. Ah, the medieval mind, there was nothing like it, Sir Giles would say, then drink down a snifter of delicious smuggled French brandy. But Spenser hadn’t remained at Oxford. His father had died, and he had become seventh Baron Valesdale and fifth Viscount Beecham.
He had left Oxford at the age of twenty-one. And become a nobleman.
“I remember,” Lord Beecham said, his voice rich with memory, “Sir Giles once telling me that the Catholic Church was quite wrong. A man didn’t need to give up lust in order to be obedient and holy and committed to God. He needed only to truly mean both his vows to God and his vows to a woman, and his life would be balanced and no part of him would ever wither.”
“I fancy that his brother, Vicar Lockleer, is relieved to be Church of England,” Helen said, smiling. “He has two children. His wife died last year, but he loved her very much. He is also a very practical man, unlike his learned brother.
“He didn’t know how to begin to translate the scroll. That was when he recommended you. What do you think, Lord Beecham?”
He was silent for the longest time. The big girl sitting beside him jumped up once, patted Eleanor’s nose, then returned and sat down. She began to tap her foot. She whistled.
“I have forgotten so very much,” he said at last.
“It won’t matter. You’ll see,” she said, still now, all her attention focused on him. “The vicar now has many of the translations, texts, and notes his brother made at Oxford. Perhaps there will be enough to help you remember.”
He said as he turned to take her hands between his. “I have never been a woman’s partner before. This should prove interesting. I want to see that iron cask and the leather scroll.”
“The iron cask is old, very old. Medieval? Very possibly. Perhaps even older. As for the leather, I am very afraid that it will crumble if we work with it very much.”
“We will take the greatest care.”
She rose and shook out her skirts. She gave him a brilliant smile. “Let’s go home to Court Hammering.”
Lord Beecham and Miss Mayberry elected to ride, since it was a beautiful, warm day. Lord Prith and Flock followed in the carriage behind them. Engulfed in their carriage dust in the second carriage was Lord Beecham’s valet, Nettle, and Teeny, Helen’s maid. He had given Pliny Blunder a short congé, telling him to exercise his wit on the seashore in Folkstone, where his parents lived. Lord Beecham had noted before they left that Nettle was casting interested looks at Teeny, much to Flock’s annoyance. At least Flock was riding with his master. That should keep poor Nettle safe.
As for Helen, she just couldn’t seem to stop singing. Everything was working out so very well. Her enthusiasm was catching, and even her father, Lord Prith, said to Flock, “There is a song in the air, Flock. It makes my thoughts turn to champagne and the trappings. I
fancy to attend another wedding. The last one was charming, surely it was, and the champagne was excellent. I just wish I’d known the participants.”
“Ah, it was Lord and Lady St. Cyre.”
“That’s right, Gray and Jack. Flock, you must find me a wedding where the principals are known to me so that I can trade jests with the bride and groom while we are drinking champagne. Then I will be dancing about and singing at the top of my lungs, just like my lovely little daughter is right this moment. It was always so. Put Helen atop a horse, provide a sunny day, and she’s singing.”
“Consider it done, my lord,” Flock said, looking out the carriage window to see Miss Helen laughing now, her hand on Lord Beecham’s arm. He didn’t think the sunny day was the main reason for Miss Helen’s high spirits. Lord Beecham was a man of vast experience, a man who knew what was what, particularly when the what had to do with women. On the other hand, it didn’t make much sense to worry about Miss Helen. She had three fellows working for her at her inn. All of them held her in awe. All of them, he suspected, were also deliciously afraid of her. If there was going to be any goose or gander sauce, he would lay his groats on Miss Helen.
He turned back to his lordship, whose head was only half an inch from the ceiling of the carriage. Whenever the carriage hit a rut, there was a pained grunt.
“I hope that damned Frog chef, Jerome, isn’t sniffing after our trail, eh, Flock?”
“I left the Frog in his kitchen, my lord. I doubt he will intrude on us again.”
“Delicious oyster dishes he prepared, though,” Lord Prith said, and sighed as he folded his arms over his chest.
“His aim with the oysters wasn’t your culinary pleasure, my lord—rather it was his attempt to seduce Miss Helen.”
“I know that, Flock. The poor fellow. My father used to say that you should always be careful what you wished for. Just imagine Miss Helen setting her eye on the Frog because he got her attention with his oysters.”
“It fair makes my scalp itch, my lord.”
Lord Prith actually shuddered.
About twenty feet ahead, Lord Beecham was saying to Helen, “What have you told your father about my entry into your lives?”
“I told him the truth, naturally. The only secret I have ever kept from my father was when I struck young Colton Mason across his shoulders with my riding crop because he had tried to take liberties with my eighteen-year-old person. It was the oddest thing—he really liked it, begged me to hit him again.”
“I have heard that some people, men mostly, like that sort of thing, particularly if a woman metes out the blows. If there is a desire for anything at all, you’ll find it in the fleshpots of London.”
“I believe that is where poor Colton ended up.”
“I hope you are not confusing that sort of strange sexual fervor with the application of good clean discipline?”
“Oh, no,” she said, her eyes twinkling wickedly at him. “I’m not a fool. At eighteen I realized I was on to something. Certainly whipping is part of it, but there is so much more, don’t you agree?”
He would have her explain that to him in great detail, later. “You told your father that I was a medieval manuscript scholar here to translate your leather from the iron cask to help you find King Edward’s Lamp?”
“Oh, yes. He just looked at me and finally said, ‘Lord Beecham has the look of a man with too much knowledge crammed into his head. I do not know just how ancient that knowledge may be. He is dangerous as well as valuable to you, my girl, make no mistake about that. He is bound to want something other than some dented, hoary lamp.’ ”
Lord Beecham laughed. “Not so much crammed in my head anymore.”
“I believe he was commenting on your current state of knowledge, my lord.”
“Fleshpots again.”
“Very probably. Do you think you will require something of me other than the lamp?”
He looked thoughtfully between Luther’s ears. The road ahead was straight and flat. On either side of the road, the fields were laid out like rich green and yellow squares on a nicely sewn quilt. Yew bushes lined the stone fences that marked the boundaries. It was a warm, breezy day. Every once in a while the strong scent of sheep wafted through the air, just to remind you that this wasn’t a beautiful painting or an idealized setting.
“Actually, truth be told, when I first saw you, I wanted you in my bed by early afternoon. It was sunny that day, and I had a very clear picture of you lying naked on your back, your arms out to me. However, when it did not happen, I was not cast down. I decided it would be all right to have you in my bed by nightfall. When that did not happen, I was forced to forgo poor Jerome’s remarkable smoked oysters, else I would have become quite mad with unfulfilled lust.”
She was laughing so hard that Eleanor whinnied in response and took several side steps.
“You find that amusing, Miss Mayberry? My physical discomfort doesn’t make you regret not complying with my very understandable man’s lust?”
“I am on the shelf, Lord Beecham. I beg you not to make such jests at my expense.”
“I really don’t believe you had the gall to say that. You, my girl, know very well that you are quite the most magnificent woman to grace three counties. Your pretense at old age makes me remeasure your level of guile.”
“I have no guile to speak of. I am straightforward. I will not give you coy speeches about bedding you at noon or at twilight or at the rise of the moon. No, I will tell you very honestly exactly what I thought when I first saw you, Lord Beecham. I saw you standing in front of me. I stripped off every article of clothing covering your doubtless magnificent self, beginning with that very artfully arranged cravat of yours. I was all the way to your boots before I was pulled from my very pleasant fantasies.”
His eyes were nearly crossed.
“Where is your father’s carriage?”
“Not more than twenty feet behind us.”
“There are quite a few maple trees off just to my left. We could find privacy.” Then he sighed deeply; he shook himself. “No, this is ridiculous. I am a man with a man’s control. I will not be drawn into your damned woman’s fantasies. I will enjoy my own. I can control them more readily.”
“Very well,” she said, her voice as demure as a school-girl’s. “Goodness, if I just close my eyes a moment, I see myself now bent over in front of you, and you are sitting down. Your left boot is in my hands and I’m nearly ready to pull it off. I’m looking over my left shoulder, smiling at you, and—”
“You will hold your tongue or I will send Flock out to ride with you and immure myself with your father.”
“Victory over a man is nothing at all,” she said, and began whistling. “You are such a simple species. Paint you one small picture and you are slavering and shaking, ready to swoon.”
He laughed, there was simply nothing else to do. Then he turned in the saddle and gave her a very slow smile. “Trust me, Miss Mayberry. When I have you away from your fond parent, I plan to introduce you to a very intriguing course of discipline.”
It was his turn to see her eyes go vague and watch her swallow. He picked a small bit of lint off his riding jacket. “I have always thought that ladies were such easy creatures. They think of me mastering them and I invariably find myself with a very excited female in my arms, begging me to do my worst.” He smiled at her. “You may be the discipline mistress of Court Hammering, Miss Mayberry, but I am the master of London. Don’t try to compete with me. You will lose.”
“I will compete with you,” she said slowly, “but just not yet.”
“Very well. I agree, not yet. Now, let us see where this ancient leather scroll leads us, Miss Mayberry. As to the rest of it, I will let you know what I wish to do with you, and when.”
“Men love to be mastered more than women do.”
A dark eyebrow shot up a good inch. “Where did you hear such nonsense as that?”
“It’s true.”
“We will doubt
less see. Someday. If I wish it.”
He had routed her. Helen had never before in her life been routed. She had never before met his like, either. He had reduced her to an idiot. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would improve matters, so she pulled Eleanor back until she was riding beside her father’s carriage.
Lord Beecham heard Lord Prith’s booming voice asking Helen what the devil she wanted with an old man like him when she could torment a handsome young devil like Lord Beecham. He didn’t hear Miss Mayberry’s reply, but he could not imagine that it was very complimentary to him.
He began whistling. It took him a good mile before he could get his brain back in harness and focus it away from Miss Helen Mayberry’s sublime self.
King Edward’s Lamp.
What was it? He had little doubt that some lamp somewhere once existed. Hanging about for six hundred years, however, was a vastly different matter.
King Edward’s Lamp was a specific lamp that a Knight Templar gave the king, telling him it would make him the most powerful man in the world. But the only thing that had happened was that Queen Eleanor had gotten well, and the lamp could possibly have had something to do with it.
The only other lamp Lord Beecham knew about was Aladdin’s Lamp, a magic lamp from a tale in the Arabian Nights, a collection of stories to come out of the Middle Ages. It was one of the thousand and one tales that Queen Scheherazade had told her husband to avoid being put to death after her wedding night. Lord Beecham believed that the royal husband was eventually so overwhelmed by the woman’s creative stamina that he canceled the death order.
When Helen rode beside Lord Beecham again, her equilibrium doubtless restored to its usual level of confidence, he spoke aloud what he was thinking. “If we are talking about Aladdin’s Lamp, historically it all fits. Back in the Middle Ages, stories like this one were immensely popular all over Europe. It is old, I know. I just don’t remember how old.”
“It’s Persian,” Helen said. “From the Persian Hezar Ef san or ‘Thousand Romances’. I think the magic lamp was based on a real story that had floated about for a good long time before it was ever recorded. And I suspect that the relic we know as King Edward’s lamp is the item that inspired the tale.”