Warwick Manor
Valerie Mills, author of bestselling books on the lives of Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Richard III, Bonnie Prince Charlie and Mary, Queen of Scots, decided after the publication of her fifth historical biography to combine her substantial royalties with money she received from selling her Manhattan loft and purchase an old manor house in England where she hoped to write several books on the lives of Great Britain's most colorful monarchs.
Only three days after closing on the sale of her New York apartment, the bestselling writer landed at Heathrow Airport in London. From there, she took a cab to the real estate office that had handled the sale of her new house. The agent had been expecting her, and after a quick bite to eat, the two of them set out for York. The drive through the English countryside was breathtaking, but Valerie could not wait to finally set eyes on Warwick Manor. She had, up until then, seen only photographs of the property. Two-dimensional renderings could be deceiving, though, and she desperately hoped she had not invested her fortune in a white elephant.
"We're almost at Warwick Abbey," the agent announced.
"Warwick Abbey? I thought the house was called Warwick Manor?"
"It is now, but the manor was originally a Catholic Abbey. Then came the Reformation, and the land was taken from the church and given to Sir Percival Warwick, a man who supported Henry VIII's marriage to Ann Boleyn and his right to be head of the church in England."
"He knew which side his bread was buttered on, I take it."
"Precisely. Sir Percival was already a wealthy man, but his acquisition of the former abbey made him one of the richest landowners in England. You see, the abbey was a Cistercian monastery. Its monks raised sheep on the grounds, and at that time the wool trade was a major business in England."
"Have there been many renovations made to the manor house since the days when it was used as an abbey?"
"No, not really. Of course, most of the Catholic trappings were removed during the Reformation, but everything else was basically left as is. Sir Percival had several homes and traveled wherever Henry's court was being held. Although he garnered a lucrative income from the estate, he spent very little time at Warwick Manor."
"Surely someone must have lived there, or it would have fallen into ruin long ago."
"There has always been a small staff of servants and caretakers. From time to time some of Sir Percival's descendants have stayed there, but only for short periods. They complained the place was too old and drafty. That's not surprising since, except for the abbot, the priests at the monastery lived under very austere conditions. Their quarters, or cells, were not much larger than modern-day closets. There are rumors that there was even an underground cell where monks who broke the rules of the order were temporarily imprisoned."
"It sounds a bit like solitary confinement at Alcatraz," Valerie said sarcastically. "I can hardly wait to move in."
"No need to worry. In the late Sixties, the last of the Warwick line hoped to sell the place to a wealthy rock and roll star—George Harrison, I believe, or John Lennon. Or perhaps it was Keith Richards or Mick Jagger. I can't remember which. Anyway, the owner spent a great deal of money installing modern heating and air conditioning in the north wing, where the abbot's rooms were located. But the sale fell through, and the place has been on the market on and off ever since."
"Until I bought it," Valerie added with misgiving. "If the house was for sale for almost fifty years, there must be a good reason for it."
"I assure you there's nothing wrong with the manor house," the agent insisted. "It's only that there's not much of a market for medieval estates, even among that small percentage of people who can afford them. Most wealthy people nowadays would rather have a flat in London or a villa in Tuscany or the south of France."
"Not me. I've always been fascinated by history, and I want to be as close to it as possible."
"If that's the case you're bound to love this area."
Ten minutes later, the agent drove up the long driveway, and Valerie got her first glimpse of Warwick Manor. She was astounded by the sheer size of the place.
"I had no idea it was this large. I'll need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way."
* * *
Not long after moving to England, Valerie began having strange, recurring dreams. The fact that she dreamt of sixteenth-century people and places did not surprise her. Given her current surroundings, that was to be expected, she reasoned.
There were three men whose faces appeared nightly. The first was a middle-aged man, clearly one of wealth and prominent social position. Another was an elderly, high-ranking member of the church, a man of obvious power and responsibility. The last man was a common monk who lacked the status of the elderly priest. While the faces of these same three men were always present, Valerie's dreams—like most dreams—were chaotic and surreal. The images were like a collection of short, unrelated movie clips that had no plot or logical sequence.
As the weeks passed, Valerie thought less about working on her biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine and more about the men in her dreams. She convinced herself that all three of them were actual people who had lived in Tudor England either shortly before or during the time of the Reformation. Unfortunately, she had no proof to support her conviction, just a strong intuition. When the author could no longer concentrate on her manuscript, she decided to take a break from writing and devote her time to researching the history of the abbey and that of the Warwick family.
One morning, she woke up early, donned a pair of jeans and an old Yankees sweatshirt and grabbed a flashlight, or—as they referred to it in England—a torch. For several hours, she walked through dusty rooms that had long been closed to the light of day. Valerie searched through dozens of drawers, shelves and closets, but what she found was of little value, either financially or historically.
"Five hundred years' worth of junk," she sighed. "I wonder how much money I could make if I were to have a giant garage sale out on the front lawn."
She was about to give up her quest when she opened the door to the abbey's library. On the far wall, above a large stone fireplace, was a portrait, nearly six feet tall, that dominated the room. The light was dim, and she had to shine the beam of her flashlight on the painting to clearly see the subject's features. Her heart leaped. It was a face she had come to know.
"It's the elderly clergyman in my dreams," she exclaimed.
Valerie crossed the room to more closely examine the portrait. Thankfully, one of the most recent Warwicks had placed an engraved nameplate on the ornate picture frame.
"'Father Rufus Gregory, Last Abbot of St. Edmund's Abbey,'" she read. "So, you did exist! And I'll bet the other two were real as well."
But who were they? Hoping there might be a clue to the identity of the men somewhere in the library, Valerie looked through the titles of books that spanned nearly five centuries—from early Latin bibles, handwritten and illustrated by the monks, to popular works of British literature including Dickens and Shakespeare. The books—although a magnificent collection—offered no help.
The only thing that looked remotely promising was an old trunk full of papers. But it was far too heavy for the writer to carry herself. Besides, it was already after six o'clock, and she was getting hungry, so she returned to the north wing and asked the housekeeper to have the handyman fetch the trunk.
* * *
"Have you found anything of interest?" the housekeeper asked politely as she brought a cup of hot tea to her employer.
"Not really," Valerie sighed. "Most of these papers appear to be household accounts, receipts and records of repairs done to the manor. I guess the trunk belonged to one of the caretakers."
"If you're looking for information on the Warwick family, I doubt you'll find it here at the manor house. You'd do better to talk directly to Mr. Warwick himself."
"Do you think he would be willing to meet with me?"
"I'm sure he would. He's a lonely old man with a lot of time on his hands. He'll probably be quite happy to answer your questions."
The next day, Valerie made a date with Sinclair Warwick to meet him at his London flat the following week. Meanwhile, she continued going through the papers in the trunk. More than three-fourths of the way down, she found an old leather-bound book, its pages yellow and brittle with age.
It looks like a diary or a personal journal, she thought. It might be interesting.
Even though the contents failed to provide her with any further clues to the identity of the two men in question, they did give Valerie a better picture of what life had been like in the abbey during the final days of Catholic England. The journal—though not that of the abbot himself—was apparently written by a priest of some influence at the monastery. In addition to his insights into the politics of the day, the writer described his dealings with the lower-ranking monks at the abbey. Careful to refer to these men only by their first initials, the priest told of their weaknesses, misdeeds and resulting punishments. He wrote, for instance, "Brother J caught sleeping during matins; consequently, he will fast the next two days." Most of the sins of the monks at the abbey were relatively minor, all except for one. Brother T's transgression was so great, that the author expressed his deep concern for the monk's immortal soul.
When Valerie came to the end of the journal, she was disappointed because there had been no further mention of Brother T, his mysterious sin or his eventual punishment.
* * *
On Monday, Valerie woke early and set out for London. Sinclair Warwick, a retired math professor in his late eighties, warmly welcomed her to his Knightsbridge house. Over tea and scones, the host inquired how his guest was getting on in her new home.
"To be quite honest, I find it a bit intimidating," she admitted. "It's much larger than I had imagined it would be."
"That's why I sold it. At my age, the responsibility of caring for such a place was daunting."
"I'm living in the north wing for now, until I decide what to do with the rest of the building. In fact, I only began exploring the other rooms of the manor just this past week. I was delighted to find an excellent library, one with a large portrait above the fireplace mantel."
"Ah, yes, that would be the portrait of Father Rufus Gregory, the abbot."
"I also found some old papers in a trunk and a journal that dated back to the days when the house was still being used as a monastery."
The host seemed interested.
"Really? What was written in the journal?"
"All sorts of things, but what I found most fascinating was the description of the various forms of punishment meted out to the monks for breaking the rules."
"I can well imagine! The Cistercian order was a strict one that firmly believed in solitude, poverty and self-denial."
"I understand there were even rumors of an underground cell, a sort of dungeon."
"I wouldn't be surprised if the rumors were true. Several monasteries of the day had them. If a monk committed a particularly heinous sin, he was lowered into a pit and left there for days and sometimes weeks, existing only on bread and water."
"How horrible!"
"We're talking about the medieval Catholic Church, my dear," Sinclair laughed. "You mustn't forget that they were the architects of the Spanish Inquisition."
The professor then became serious.
"But enough talk about dungeons. What can I do for you? You must have had a good reason for making the trip to London to see me."
"I'm fascinated with the house and its history. I was hoping you could tell me something more about the manor and your ancestors."
Sinclair led his guest to his own library where he had several books written about the Warwick family. He opened one of the volumes to a section of photographs.
"This is a portrait of Sir Percival Warwick," he explained, holding the book toward her, "the first owner of Warwick Manor."
It was him: the nobleman in her dreams.
Now, two of the three faces have names, she thought with triumph.
"Who is this?" Valerie asked, pointing to a painting of a middle-aged, aristocratic woman.
"That's Lady Rosalind, Sir Percival's first wife," Sinclair replied.
"How many times was he married?"
"Not nearly as many as his friend Henry Tudor. Sir Percival had only three wives. He and Rosalind were married for fifteen years and had five children. Then she died. Like the king, my ancestor had a penchant for attractive young women, so, naturally, his second wife, Jane, was a good deal younger than he was. They were married only a few years when the poor woman died in childbirth. Finally, he married a third time shortly before his passing."
"Does this book contain any information about what happened to the abbot and the monks after the abbey was seized?" Valerie asked, skimming through the pages.
"I don't think so. Hundreds of priests and nuns were killed during the Reformation. Others managed to escape or went into hiding. Sir Percival's own brother disappeared during that time and was never heard from again."
"His brother was a priest?"
"Yes. Primogeniture was the custom at that time, so the lands, title and family fortune were passed to the eldest male child. Younger sons usually went into the army or joined the church. Tobias Warwick chose the monastic life. As a matter of fact, he became a monk at St. Edmund's—the same abbey King Henry later awarded to his older brother."
* * *
On her drive back to Warwick Manor later that day, Valerie recalled the images in her dreams of Sir Percival Warwick and the young priest. She now realized that there was a family resemblance, a similar set to the eyes and the jaw. The third man she dreamt about had to be Tobias Warwick. It made sense—three men whose common denominator was St. Edmund's Abbey/Warwick Manor. What she could not understand was the reason behind her nightly visions. What strange power was making faces from the past appear to her in her sleep?
When she arrived home from London, it was already dark. After a light supper and a hot bath, she crawled into bed with one of the books Professor Warwick had graciously loaned her. She read for over an hour, but the book contained little information about Sir Percival and even less about his younger brother, Tobias.
"There must be some event that brought those three men together, some secret that still haunts this old building," she reasoned as she closed the book. "But I have no idea where I can find the answer to a five-hundred-year-old riddle."
That night when Valerie fell asleep, she dreamed about her childhood in Northeast New Jersey. Suddenly, she woke up—or was she still asleep and only dreaming that she was awake? In the room around her, furnishings of the twenty-first century merged with those of the sixteenth. The two time periods overlapped as though in a double-exposed photograph.
The book on the history of the Warwick family was open on Valerie's lap. She turned a page and was instantly transported from Warwick Manor to a stately room in a grand house. Two young people, dressed in clothing of the Tudor era, were arguing. At first, she failed to recognize Tobias Warwick since he was not dressed in a monk's robe nor was his hair cut in a tonsure.
The lady, whose face the author could not see, was pleading with the young nobleman.
"If you love me, how can you even consider joining the church?"
"Be reasonable, Jane. What choice do I have?" Tobias moaned. "At least if I join the monastery I can stay in England. I'll be close to you."
"What good is it to be near one another if you're a monk?"
The page in the book turned of its own accord, and Valerie's surroundings swiftly changed again. She found herself in a great cathedral full of people. Lady Jane, dressed in an ermine-trimmed gown and festooned in dazzling jewels, was standing at the altar taking her wedding vows. The groom beside her was not Tobias Warwick, the man she loved, but his older brother, Sir Percival, a widowed father of five children.
The page turned again. Valerie now found herself back in St. Edmund's Abbey where Father Rufus Gregory was speaking to the young monk.
"This is a very serious matter, Brother Tobias," the abbot said sternly. "Not only have you broken your vow of chastity, but you have sinned with the wife of your own brother. You have thus compounded your sin of fornication by committing both incest and adultery."
"The king himself has taken his brother's wife as his own," the monk reminded the abbot. "And his marriage was sanctioned by the pope."
"Yours is hardly the same situation. The king's brother was dead, and Queen Catherine swore that because of her husband's failing health, their marriage was never consummated. Your brother, on the other hand, is alive and well. Besides, you have taken holy vows. Yours is to be a life of abstinence."
"Jane loves me," the young monk cried out passionately. "She has loved me for years. She would be my wife and not my brother's, had I not been the younger son."
The abbot lowered his head and sighed.
"We cannot change the divine order of things. We can only accept our lot in life and live as God would have us live."
Another page, another scene. Lady Jane, pale and troubled, wept in Tobias's arms.
"We cannot keep meeting in secret like this," she cried. "Your brother suspects that I have been unfaithful. I see it in his eyes, and there is suspicion in his voice."
"And if he learns the truth, what of it? My brother will not put you out, not when you are heavy with child."
There was movement in the shadows, motion so imperceptible that the two lovers did not see it. Yet despite the muted light, Valerie saw the look of fury on Sir Percival's face.
With the turn of the next page, the author found herself in a subterranean cellar. It was cold and damp and smelled of mildew and decay. Father Rufus Gregory stood above a deep pit in the ground, speaking to the monk beneath him.
"You will remain down there until I feel you have repented your sins," the abbot decreed. "I urge you, Brother Tobias, to spend the time in prayer and contemplation of your transgressions if you ever hope to obtain absolution."
A final turn of the page. The setting remained the same, but now the man at the edge of the pit was Sir Percival Warwick.
"Your abbey is no more, brother," the nobleman announced malevolently. "Henry Tudor is now the head of the church in England. The nunneries and monasteries have been dissolved. I now own the building and grounds of St. Edmund's Abbey, or as I have chosen to call it, Warwick Manor."
Tobias, naked, covered with filth and vermin and thin to the point of emaciation, looked up and asked weakly, yet insolently, "Is that why you have come here, brother, to bring me the latest news from Henry Tudor's court?"
"No, I have come to gloat. All your brothers in God have fled the monastery—those that haven't been killed, that is. Your abbot has left England and taken refuge in France. You have been left here alone, forgotten and abandoned."
"I cannot blame them. I did not keep faith with my church," Tobias said sadly.
"Nor with your brother!" Sir Percival thundered.
"I am sorry, but Jane was mine before she married you."
"She is mine now, damn you! She is my wife, and she will bear my children."
"Don't be so sure, brother," Tobias taunted with a mysterious smile. "Don't be so sure."
Sir Percival's eyes blazed with jealousy and hatred.
"Farewell, Tobias," he spat as he walked up the stone steps, closed the thick wooden door at the top of the stairs and locked it.
The book resting in the American's lap finally closed, and she slipped into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.
* * *
The following morning, Valerie contacted a builder and asked him to locate the subterranean chamber, ostensibly to prove or disprove the old rumors of its existence.
"It's probably long been sealed up," he said, "if it was ever down here at all."
"I have reason to believe it did exist."
The next day, after removing the wall Sir Percival had built to conceal the way to the dungeon, the builder discovered the locked door and stone staircase.
"Be careful, mum," he cautioned the homeowner as she followed him down into the cavernous cellar. "This staircase is centuries old. The stone could crumble beneath your feet."
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, the builder shined his flashlight along the floor. Four feet from the bottom of the staircase, there was a large pit.
"What do you suppose is in there?" he asked.
"I believe we'll find the remains of a young monk who died at the time of the Reformation."
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"I discovered the truth about this place from an old book on the Warwick family," she replied, only half truthfully.
The two of them walked to the edge of the pit and leaned over. The builder shined his light down into the darkness.
"Good God!" he exclaimed when he saw not one but three skeletons: the remains of two adults and one infant.
"A monk, you say? Then how do you explain the bones of a baby being down there?" the builder asked, but there was no longer anyone standing beside him.
The startled man looked down again. For a brief moment, he thought he saw Valerie Mills, dressed in sixteenth-century attire, lying at the bottom of the pit next to a young monk, with a newborn infant nestled between them. When he blinked his eyes, however, the tragic image of Tobias Warwick, Lady Jane and the innocent child born of their love was gone, and only their skeletons remained.
A British Beefeater and an American chocolate-eater: what a pair!
