Oxford Shadows Read online

  Published 2013 by Carlux Publishing

  Copyright © 2012 by Marion Croslydon

  All rights reserved.

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-9572824-4-5

  Cover design by PhatPuppyArt.com

  Formatting by BookCoverCafe.com

  Dedication

  For my mother.

  You roar and you kick butt like nobody else.

  You are my warrior.

  And for my father,

  who showed me how a real man and

  a strong hero should live and love.

  Je vous aime.

  Author’s Note

  IF ANYONE MENTIONS the name of Henry the Eighth to you, you are meant to grow pale and have those familiar visions of a red-bearded ogre, a nasty, cruel, and not-so-sweet Shrek. And it is true that the man was responsible—directly or indirectly—for breaking countless hearts and having a terrifying number of pretty heads chopped off.

  That said there is more to the king than this gruesome legend. He was a true man of the Renaissance, an artist, a linguist, a poet …

  He married six times but I am convinced that his truest and most passionate love of all was Anne Boleyn, his first real victim. One of my favorite melodies, “Greensleeves,” is rumored to have been composed by Henry himself to court Anne, although historians have contested this fact. They might be right … but not according to Oxford Shadows and Liliana’s tragic tale.

  To help put the story in perspective, I have selected a few important dates relevant to the events in this book. It must be noted that until Henry acceded to the throne in 1509, his father kept him out of public life. He was rarely seen at court.

  28 June 1491 ~ Birth of Henry Tudor, son of Henry the Seventh.

  November 1501 ~ Marriage of Arthur, Henry’s oldest brother and future king, to Catherine of Aragon, youngest surviving child of King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella I of Castile.

  1502 ~ Death of Arthur (aged fifteen) after only twenty weeks of marriage. Henry becomes Duke of Cornwall, then Prince of Wales.

  23 June 1503 ~ A treaty was signed for the marriage of Henry and Catherine. They were betrothed two days later.

  1505 ~ Prince Henry (aged fourteen) rejects Catherine. She remains in England as an ambassador of her father, King Ferdinand.

  22 April 1509 ~ Death of Henry the Seventh.

  10 May 1509 ~ The new Henry the Eighth announces he will marry Catherine of Aragon after all. The marriage is kept low key.

  23 June 1509 ~ Coronation of Henry the Eighth, with his wife Catherine at his side.

  February 1516 ~ Birth of a girl, Princess Mary, after three previous miscarriages, stillbirths, or early deaths.

  June 1519 ~ Birth of Henry’s illegitimate son, Fitzroy.

  1 June 1533 ~ Catherine formally stripped of her title as queen, and Anne Boleyn crowned queen consort.

  7 September 1533 ~ Birth of Elizabeth of York (the future Elizabeth the First).

  1534 ~ Henry the Eighth becomes the head of the Church of England. Start of the English Reformation.

  19 May 1536 ~ Anne Boleyn executed at the Tower of London.

  29 May 1536 ~ Marriage of Henry the Eighth with Jane Seymour.

  12 October 1537 ~ Birth of Prince Edward.

  24 October 1537 ~ Death of Jane Seymour.

  6 January 1540 ~ Marriage with Anne of Cleves.

  9 July 1540 ~ Annulment of the marriage with Anne of Cleves.

  28 July 1540 ~ Marriage with Catherine Howard.

  23 November 1541 ~ Annulment of the marriage with Catherine Howard.

  13 February 1542 ~ Catherine beheaded.

  12 July 1543 ~ Marriage with Catherine Parr.

  28 January 1547 ~ Death of Henry the Eighth, aged fifty-five. His son, Edward, becomes Edward the Sixth.

  6 July 1553 ~ Death of Edward the Sixth.

  Prologue

  Florence ~ June 1533

  THE RIVER ARNO swallows my body. I float, I fly, I fall. I do not try to move or fight. The stream engulfs the pleats of my billowing dress and drags me closer to the darkness. My arms are spread wide; my eyes stare at the unknown.

  Whatever—whoever—awaits me on the other side, I will bow and curtsy. I will bid farewell to the despair that has wrecked my hopes, trampled on my love. The wait has been so long, so lonely, and in vain.

  He did not come back for me but wedded another. A prettier one, a younger one, a luckier one. With fading strength, I unclench my fingers and let the lily drift away. The flower vanishes in the tumultuous waters. My sight has become blurred, and my chest burns until the pain disappears.

  Death is an escape.

  Death will be my new beginning.

  1

  Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford ~ Today

  MADISON STARED at the man, her eyes glued to the blood smeared across his face. His lips mouthed words that the music of the orchestra rendered silent. Dread wrapped a heavy blanket around her heart and numbed her brain. Her fingers dug into her thighs. She forced herself to swallow, only for her mouth to turn bone dry.

  He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be.

  Rupert, by her side, hadn’t reacted to the apparition. His stepmother, Camilla, over whom the bloodied man hovered, didn’t even twitch at his proximity.

  Camilla sat beside Rupert’s father Hugo, opposite Madison and Rupert, on the other side of the chancel, The Martyrdom of Saint Thomas Becket spread across the window above them. Camilla paid attention only to the musicians and singers who performed in front of the High Altar. She caressed the curve of her swollen belly, pregnancy giving her a contented glow.

  The melody—a Renaissance ballad—had faded from Madison’s consciousness. She couldn’t distinguish the lute from the harp or the violin. They meshed into a distant noise. She registered only the details of the man’s ancient clothing. A reddish hat with two golden buttons topped hair that he wore chin length. A jeweled collar of roses crowned his purple overcoat, trimmed with dark fur.

  To break the spell the vision had cast, Madison shifted her gaze upwards to the vaulted ceiling from which lantern-shaped pendants appeared to hang in midair. Ribs and stone met at the center of the vault to form pointed stars, a tease of heaven for the faithful.

  Rupert’s fingers were intertwined with hers. The warm contact gave her strength. Madison turned her face and studied his profile. Her heartbeat stalled, then restarted. Rupert Vance was her boyfriend, confidant, and unofficial bodyguard.

  Suddenly darkness collapsed around her. Shapes and forms blurred, although the ballad kept resonating through Christ Church Cathedral. A chilled rush of air brushed over her face, and the short hair on the nape of her neck rose in apprehension. Candlelight flickered instead of the electric lamps that had illuminated the room seconds earlier.

  And then, silence.

  Someone—the ghost, for that was what her vision had shown—had pressed the mute button. Madison was the only audience for his show. He shook his head. Was it in anger or frustration? Madison didn’t know. He leaned forward, his head now above Camilla’s shoulder. He stared at her from the corner of his eyes. His gaze slowly moved across the chancel, from the pregnant woman to Madison.

  Air was trapped in Madison’s lungs. She let out a lungful of oxygen. Fear played havoc with her breathing.

  The man opened his mouth and started talking. His words came like
the delayed echo of thunder across a summer sky. “The girl will die before she is born. So will her mother.”

  The threat punched Madison in the stomach. She bent under the shock and let out a moan. A woman sitting in front of her threw a frown back at her. Rupert’s hold on her hand tightened. Her eyes shut, she blocked out the world around her, even him. She had to. Survival mode. When her eyelids lifted again, she checked the spot where the ghost had been.

  He was gone.

  Camilla wasn’t her friend, but she didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a homicidal ghost. Nor did her unborn daughter: Rupert’s sister. Rupert’s blood.

  2

  RUPERT SIGHED. Why was everyone so damned determined to go through this dinner as silently as possible? The concert had gone smoothly enough. Apart from Madison’s I-saw-an-undead-freak-out moment, the first part of Rupert’s family get-together had been a success, probably because they didn’t have to talk to each other. They would have to, though. Rupert had the right to a semi-functioning family. He deserved it, and he wanted Madison to be part of it.

  “Madison graduated from Yale last year. We’ve been paired up since she arrived here at Oxford at the start of Michaelmas. She’s the one who got me back on the straight and narrow.”

  Rupert’s praise didn’t spark any reaction from his father or stepmother. They were far too absorbed in going through the contents of their plates, one well-mannered bite of Scottish beef at a time.

  Rupert turned toward Madison, who sat by his side, expecting some moral support from her. Same thing there: she was eating. He sought inspiration from the décor. The Randolph was an Oxford institution and the place for his first date with Madison. He stared up at the college crests that adorned the ceiling. Let’s give it another try.

  “We had a great time in Louisiana. The food was to die for. Maddie’s mother owns a restaurant. She spoiled me.”

  His father stopped paying attention to his food—at last—and rewarded Rupert with a brief glance at Madison. “Your mother is a restaurateur?”

  Okay, here we are, some interaction at last. But had his father, Almighty Hugo Vance, meant that as a question or a social statement?

  Madison set down her cutlery and dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. “It’s more like a bar than a restaurant. I mean, nothing like here.” She gave an all-encompassing sweep of the room, which was more like a baronial hall than a restaurant. “We serve local food and mostly Budweiser.” She brought her glass of Bordeaux, a Château Lynch-Bage 1999, to her lips and took a sip.

  “I see. How lovely.” Camilla spoke her first sentences since the start of dinner. Two words each.

  She didn’t say those words. She puked them.

  “Yes, lovely indeed.” Madison emphasized the “lovely,” failing to take the sarcasm out of it.

  Madison’s answer irritated Rupert. She wasn’t a social halfwit. While he had expected a reenactment of Pride and Prejudice from his father, he had also counted on Madison’s support. This evening meant a lot to him, and it meant a lot because of her.

  “What does your father do for a living?” Hugo was now focused on his guest, his eyes practically reptilian.

  Rupert extended his arm across the back of Madison’s chair. The tips of his fingers brushed the nape of her neck, the gesture meant to reassure her as much as shout a loud “back off” to his father.

  She relaxed under his touch. “I have no idea. He left before I was born.” Madison shifted on her seat, but her tone remained neutral. With her hands now hidden on her lap, she turned her silver ring counter-clockwise. In Madison, Rupert knew, this was a sure sign of discomfort.

  “How unfortunate.” Camilla added another two-word contribution.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Madison’s speech had gone all Southern, her vowels lazily elongated. She normally kept a tight handle on her drawl, but tonight the Rebel in her was taking front stage. Time for a diversion.

  “So what did you think of the concert?” Rupert’s own fake perkiness made him nauseous, but moving to neutral ground was necessary to ensure the night didn’t turn into the American Revolutionary War.

  Who had won: George Washington or Cornwallis? The verdict was still out. The dinner hadn’t gone as well as Rupert had dreamed, but nor had it gone as badly as he had feared. How he wanted to have a smoke, but he had given his word to Madison: no more ciggies. Bugger.

  Hugo and Camilla retreated to the Morse Bar, the other tradition in the Randolph, for after-dinner drinks. Rupert lagged behind, Madison at his side. He towered above her pint-sized body. For their family outing, she had traded her usual jeans/Converse uniform for a tight black dress, opaque black tights, and black stilettos. Her cleavage was modest but enough to make him want her.

  “They didn’t fall for my Southern charm.” Her lips twisted into a sorry smirk.

  He had to refrain from bending forward and covering her mouth with his. He wanted to claim her like he had before they left his place to join his father at the concert. Right here, right now.

  “It went well,” Rupert half-lied.

  “Huh.”

  He laid his hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer, so that she leaned against the length of his body. She arched, and her breasts brushed against his chest, her pelvis against his hips.

  Yeah, we’d better make it back home within the hour. Rupert quickly changed the subject. “Something happened during the concert. Did you, I mean …” He paused, in search of an appropriate word. “Was there someone, something?”

  Her body stiffened. A thought, a memory, threw a shadow over her face, and she answered with a non-committal “Maybe.”

  A middle-aged couple walked past them, their expressions showing disapproval of Rupert and Madison’s touchy-feely embrace.

  Madison slid her hand on his chest to introduce some distance. “Yes … there was someone, someone next to Camilla, and—”

  Rupert raised his hands, palms facing Madison. “Uh-oh, let’s not scare the shit out of my dear stepmother tonight.”

  Madison’s jaw clenched. “Okay, if that’s what you want.” She stepped away from him, her head bowed.

  Rupert grabbed her elbow. “Thanks for coming tonight. It means a lot to me.” It really did, and the confession kept his gaze downward, fixed on his freshly polished shoes.

  Madison released a breath and cradled his face with her hands. “I know. I’m so happy you’re trying to patch things up with your dad. It’s a very mature endeavor, Mister Vance.”

  “Yes, it is. I want a family, and I want you to be part of it.”

  Madison’s eyes opened wider, and her cute mouth rounded into an “Oh” of surprise.

  Steady, Vance, you don’t want to scare the shit out of the girl after only a month. “Let’s go. I might treat myself to a Dirty Martini for once.”

  Rupert marched forward, his hand gripping Madison’s tightly. The ghost story could wait for another night.

  3

  MADISON PUFFED OUT a mouthful of air. Her lungs had contracted under the tension of the evening. Dinner with your in-laws: check. Encounter with murderous ghost: check. Good heavenly days. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with already. The threat always struck close to home, close to her heart. The last time it had been Pippa, her friend; this time, Camilla and the baby.

  Pippa had been her BFF here in Oxford: all bubbly and sexy … and secretly in love with Rupert. Pippa had been possessed by a vengeful spirit named Peter, who came straight from the English Civil War and used the girl’s jealousy against her. Through a painting titled The Wounded Cavalier, Peter had been connected to Madison, Rupert and their seventeenth-century alter egos, Sarah and Robert. Madison had defeated Peter eventually, but she hadn’t been able to save her friend after Pippa had tried to kill Madison.

  She rubbed her hand over her face, released one last huff and started her nocturnal walk back to her room at Christ Church College.

  At the corner of Beaumont Street she tur
ned into Magdalen Street, leaving behind the Martyrs’ Memorial. Rupert’s absence weighed on her heart. She had sent him home. Despite her near-constant desire for him, Rupert’s cuddling, cooing and ravaging just wasn’t the remedy for this particular predicament. Instead, she would dive into her grandmother Mamie’s little book of magic and maybe do a Google search for “homicidal Oxford spirit.” Whatever. She had to do something instead of sitting on her butt and waiting for Camilla to die.

  On the left side of Cornmarket Street, the church of St Michael at the North Gate chaperoned her return to bed. Three stocky silhouettes marched toward her. The gurgle of their laughter twisted her guts. The big, beefy men sounded like they were totally hammered. Madison stopped in her tracks, screening her surroundings for an avenue of retreat. Forward was the only way. It was past midnight, and the streets were deserted. She tightened her grip on her satchel and quickened her pace. Lifting the collar of her trench coat, a present from Rupert to replace an ancient duffel coat, she forged ahead and ignored their drunken swearing.

  When they were ten feet away their staggering stopped, their bodies shifting to spread across the width of the pedestrian street. She lowered her head and kept her eyes trained on the ground.

  The man in the center of the line—too old to be a college student—blocked her path, his short legs anchored wide apart. Madison couldn’t make out his face, seeing only the glistening reflection of the streetlamps on his shaved head. She took a side step, ignoring his threatening stance.

  He shifted in tandem with her step and threw his head back in a peal of laughter. “Want to talk?”

  Madison recoiled from the stale smell of beer on his breath. She wanted to shout “Asshole!” at him, but the three-to-one odds stopped any sound erupting from her throat. She stepped to her left. Once again he followed.

  “The girl’s too posh for you, mate.”

  The other voice was too close for comfort. The wingman had closed in on her. She was now sandwiched between two drunken thugs, with a third ready to join. Fear numbed her brain and limbs, transforming her into a lifeless doll. It was all happening again, like that time with Tarquin Vionnet and his filthy hands.