Preorder Now and Save Half Off the eBook Price!
Circle of Time
By
Debra Shiveley Welch
From the Author
I have studied
Tudor history for over fifty years; the fascination for that era and the people
who made up the family of Henry VIII has never waned. I used to say to people,
“When I read about Henry VIII, his siblings or his wives, it isn’t as if I’m
learning something; it’s more like I’m being reminded.”
Reminded indeed
– so perhaps I wasn’t that surprised when I discovered through DNA analysis and
genealogy that I am a direct descendant of Margaret Tudor, and therefore Mary
Queen of Scotts. Henry VIII is my eighteen-time first cousin! So, I decided to
visit my kin.
What fun! Within
the following pages, you will travel with
Bridget Littleton, a rich and beautiful young woman who, with the help of the
Bermuda Triangle, is transported back in time to Tudor England.
Most of the book
is fantasy, of course. Were it not, we’d all be paddling our way to Tudor times
for a visit, but I have stuck to the basic facts of life in Tudor history. Yes,
I have played with it a bit, but the basic facts are there.
I have also
taken the liberty of using my not so royal ancestor John Lyttleton and his son
Sir John Lyttleton whose wife was, in fact,
named Bridget. I’m having such a good time!
So,
read on faithful companion
Much
mischief to beget
As
we travel through the mists of time
With
our wondrous fair Bridget
Debra Shiveley Welch
Pastime With Good Company
By Henry VIII
Pastime with good company
I love and shall unto I die;
Grudge who list, but none
deny,
So God be pleased thus live
will I.
For my pastance
Hunt, song, and dance.
My heart is set:
All goodly sport
For my comfort,
Who shall me let?
Youth must have some
dalliance,
Of good or illé some
pastance;
Company methinks then best
All thoughts and fancies to
dejest:
For idleness
Is chief mistress
Of vices all.
Then who can say
But mirth and play
Is best of all?
Company with honesty
Is virtue vices to flee:
Company is good and ill
But every man hath his free
will.
The best ensue,
The worst eschew,
My mind shall be:
Virtue to use,
Vice to refuse,
Shall I use me?
Chapter One
Whereto should I express
My inward heaviness?
No mirth can make me fain
Till that we meet again.
Henry VIII
From Where Should I
Express
Bridget Littleton raised her face to the darkening sky. Stars sparkled
and shone, accentuating the soft feel of the salt-scented air. Leaning against
the rail of her father’s luxurious yacht, she gave herself up to the gentle
listing of the ship, enjoying the sound of the slap of the waves against the
yacht’s steel hull. To her left, a seagull flew – just at eye level, so close
that she could hear it pull the wind beneath its snowy wings. Intermittently,
the maritime bird would glide and soundlessly ride the air currents, like a
silent phantom above the blue-green waves of the sea. Flap, glide, dip and
climb, her airborne companion followed the yacht for a short time, then soared
off in the quest of an aquatic snack.
She’d brought an opened
bottle of red wine to the aft deck of the yacht. There comfortable chairs and
couches were placed for the ease of her father’s friends and clients. She still
wasn’t sure as to how she was able to convince her father to let her use his
yacht, but she was grateful. The Bridget, so named by her late mother,
was a large, well-appointed vessel, its primary use being for the entertainment
of her father’s business associates. Somehow she persuaded him to lend it.
She preferred this part of
the large, luxurious yacht, preferred to see where she had been rather than
where she was going. She’d always felt that way, felt the pull of a past she
couldn’t quite bring into focus.
Lifting a crystal goblet to her lips,
she drank of the Bordeaux she preferred, savoring the taste of black cherry on
her tongue. She held the wine there for a few seconds, savoring the taste, then
let it slip down her throat, enjoying the chocolate finish of the wine.
The evening was a little
cool, pleasantly so, and there was a slight wind carrying the scent of salt, a
briny perfume she found enticing, seducing. She loved the smell of the sea. To
her, it was a fragrance that called up phantoms of memories she could not quite
grasp.
The wind began to pick up,
and as her hair lifted in response to its urging, she shook her head, reveling
in the feel of soft hair moving against her neck and shoulders. She delighted
in the wind in her hair – enjoyed the pull of it, the slight tug as hair and wind
became playmates, dancing around her neck and cheeks, then billowing upward
creating a silky parachute of silver and gold. Leaning her head back, she again
looked up into the vast dome of sky above her. She loved to be at sea. She felt
as if someone were calling to her; the pull of the sea was as strong and as
insistent as a lover.
Footsteps caused her to turn
from the rail. “Ah, Liam, good evening.” She smiled in greeting as one of her
guests approached her – a second bottle of wine in one hand and a shawl in the
other.
“I was afraid that you may
catch a chill, Bridget. The wind is picking up.”
“Please, call me Bridge.
Thank you, Liam. That was kind.” Both turned to the rail and observed the wake
of the boat as it made its progress.
“Aren’t we in the Bermuda
Triangle?” Liam asked.
“Yes, we are. Not afraid are
you?” Bridge teased.
“Nah – not really.” Liam
chuckled but finally admitted, “Well, not too nervous anyway.
“Say, this is some yacht
your dad has here. Who named it The Bridget?”
“My mother did when I was
born.”
“I see. Not bad to have a
whole luxury yacht named after you.” They fell silent as both gave in to the
beauty of the night and the softness of the breeze. Bridge lifted her glass for
another sip and Liam noticed a ring on the middle finger of her left hand as
she raised it to her lips. The kiss of the moon’s ethereal rays made the stones
dance with light as if it were enchanted.
“Wow, Bridge, beautiful
ring.”
“Thank you. It was my
mother’s. By tradition, it is given to the eldest daughter of the eldest son.
There is some kind of mystery to it. My ancestress through my mother, Bridget Lyttleton,
supposedly owned it. That is why I’m named Bridget, by the way. My father’s
name is John, and he is also a Littleton, but my parents are something like
seventh cousins. Anyway Bridget’s father-in-law was named John, as was her
husband, Sir John, actually, and my mother thought it would be nice to honor
her, especially since the ring originated with her. So Bridget I am, but of
course it got shortened to Bridge.”
“Well, it certainly is a
beautiful ring. The gold is exquisite and, those are rubies, right?”
“Yes. Actually, it’s a Tudor
Rose.”
For the second time that
evening she held up her hand. The moonlight again caressed the stones and they
seemed to come alive. Set in heavy gold, the center gem was a perfect four
grain (equivalent to a karat) pearl surrounded by five slightly smaller rubies
which shimmered in the moonlight. It was stunning, but Bridget measured
its value by the previous owner, her mother, who wore it on the same finger
until she died of cancer when Bridge was three.
“Tudor Rose?”
“Yes, it’s a rather long
story, but basically, a rose bush bloomed with both red and white petals
signifying the union of two royal houses. Don’t get me started or I’ll talk for
hours about it. My hobby is Tudor history,” she laughed.
“Oh, this may interest you,”
Bridge said. Lifting the shawl she now wore and showing him an unusual brooch
which was pinned to her gown.
“Hey, that’s an interesting piece of
jewelry you have there.”
Bridget glanced down at the pin and
smiled.
“Yes. Actually, it has an amusing story
behind it.
“Upon hearing that I was intending a
cruise which necessitated my basically staying within the Bermuda Triangle, my
friend Cynthia became frightened. It is superstitious nonsense, of course, but
what can you do?
“So, she went to Tiffany’s and had it
made for me as a good luck talisman.”
“What is it? I can’t quite see.”
“It’s a sixteenth-century ship. She
knows of my love of Tudor history and this is a replica of one of Henry VIII
ships named the Mary Rose, after his favorite sister. Here, dangling from the
figurehead is a diamond. Supposedly representing the North Star. Here on the
back of the ship, on the quarter-deck, is a woman. I guess that’s supposed to
be me.
“These scrolls along the water line are
waves and represent that the ship is in a storm, but the woman will be safe
because she has the North Star to guide her. She calls it the ‘Storm Tossed
Ship’.
“Oh!” Bridge exclaimed as
the yacht lurched. The wind, heretofore a gentle breeze, was picking up, and
the sea was becoming choppy. The shawl which Liam brought to Bridge rose into
the air. She made an attempt to catch it, slipped and almost fell into the sea,
the goblet of wine crashing to the deck with a splintering sound of shattering
glass as red wine coursed down the planks in blood red streams.
The wind increased and
began to howl.
“Bridge!” Liam yelled.
Grabbing her arm, he attempted to keep her from sliding over the rail as the
yacht tossed and pitched as if it were deliberately trying to throw her
overboard. Below her, Liam watched in horror as a whirlpool appeared starboard,
and like a tornado, began to draw Bridge into its depths. He held on
frantically, his eyes stretched wide as he looked into Bridge’s fear-filled
face. Slowly her arm began to slip from his hands until the whirlpool claimed
her and she was gone.
The storm quieted and the
ship ceased its tossing. Crashing to his knees, Liam covered his face with his
hands and cried out, “Bridge!”
Chapter Two
I make you fast and
sure;
It is to me great pain
Thus longë to endure
Till that we meet again.
Henry VIII
From Where Should I
Express
Bridge slowly
rose from the bottom of a deep chasm. Slowly, slowly, darkness turned to mist
and mist turned to light. She could hear voices, faint at first, but as she
drifted up through a veil of unconsciousness they became clearer, more
distinct. Something in her brain, or maybe it was her soul, whispered caution.
She waited, like a small animal, not sure if it should come out of its burrow.
As she floated slowly to the surface, she
listened. There was a clacking sound which she decided was the sound of wood on
wood – perhaps clogs on a floor. Yes, the rhythm of the clacking was definitely
that of walking. Someone raised a window and a faint breeze wafted into the
room accompanied by an odor she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Her nose
twitched in an attempt to ascertain its identity: something earthy mixed with
the smell of rain. The clacking began again, moving closer until it stopped
near where she lay. Holding her breath, Bridge waited.
“It was a miracle, that’s what I say:
him just riding along and finding her there on the banks of the Avon. Why, she
could have drowned, poor poppet! And what a beauty! Imagine if some bad sort
come upon her first? Makes a body shudder.”
“And her shift. I ne’er seen cloth like
that, and what was that she was wearing….underneath?”
“Thee knows as well as I do. The
poor maid, and she but a girl not yet fifteen I’ll warrant. We’ll bring her
about, Bessie, thee can be assured of that!”
The clacking started again, this time
moving away. There was another sound, like cloth on cloth, or the whisper made
by limbs moving over linen sheets.
Bridge was confused. Have I ended up
in some Amish home? She held her breath and opened her eyes just enough to
peer through the merest slit. What she saw almost caused her to sit upright.
Two women were in the room, gathering
what seemed to be mounds of linen. They both wore what looked like corsets over
what appeared to be white linen blouses with full skirts falling to the tops of
their shoes, which were square of toe. Aprons covered their skirts, presumably
from any dirt that could be transferred while performing their duties. On their
heads, they wore what resembled a stocking cap, but they were made out of some
kind of cloth: linen, she guessed. They appeared to be as though they existed
within a living Hans Holbein the Younger painting. Bridge’s confusion grew and
a trill of alarm began to course down her spine.
Closing her eyes and pretending to still
be unconscious, Bridge waited. I think I need to be careful here until I
know where the hell I am!
She had seen the room as well during her
undetected peek. Occupying one wall was a large fireplace. The furnishings were
simple, but the room wore a comfortable feel. The mattress upon which she lay
was undeniably stuffed with feathers, and beneath it felt as if there were a
second mattress which gave firmness to the bed. Were it not for the two women
in the room, she may have been tempted to curl up and enjoy the comfort. But
something here was strange. Where am I? she wondered, and how did I
get here? And where is here?
Avon, she said that I was found on the
shores of the river Avon. Avon? England? What happened to me?
Bridge tried to dredge up through the
mists what exactly happened, but the memory would not come. She remembered
being on deck with Liam and showing him the pin. The wind picked up suddenly
and…and then…and then…what?
She remembered water! Somehow she was
surrounded by water and it kept spinning and spinning. It was hard to breathe
and a blackness fell over her, then there was nothing.
The women left the room and she dared to
open her eyes to look around. Sitting up, she looked down at the bed and, her
ring! Her ring was gone! What happened? Calm down. They probably took it off
of you and put it somewhere.
Swinging her legs over the side of the
bed, she hopped to reach the floor. Only then did she see the three steps
leading up to the bed. “Wow, a new way to get high,” she remarked sotto voce.
She ventured deeper into the room. Passing the fireplace, the sound of wood
popping and cracking filled the now silent room, the fire within its recesses
casting a dancing glow on nearby benches and filling the room with the scent of
burning wood. Shafts of light cast through a mullioned window fell in pools
upon a solid, wood floor covered by layers of carpets upon which was placed plain
but solid furniture…and no lamps. Not a single electric lamp. All she could see
was candles. Could this indeed be an Amish home? “Wow,” she said aloud
and immediately slapped her hand across her mouth.
Something tells me that I need to be
careful here until I know where I am and whose house I’m in.
It was then that she noticed that she
was wearing a shift of some kind. Made of snowy white linen, the garment
covered her from the collar bone to mid-shin. The voluminous sleeves were
gathered at the wrist by a blue ribbon threaded through sewn eyelets in the
cuff. A chill, like a bucket of ice water, washed down her spine a second time.
What is going on here?
Approaching
footsteps drove her back into the bed. Diving in, she barely managed to get
under the covers and back into position before the door opened and the lady
named Kate, if she was remembering her voice correctly, walked in with another
person.
“Here she is, Missus.”
“So, how does she?” a pleasant feminine
voice queried.
“I think she will awaken soon, Missus. I
have seen her move about a bit, natural like, so I don’t think it will be
long.”
“Excellent, Kate.” So it was Kate.
“When doth Mister Lyttleton return,
Missus?”
“Any day now, Kate. Until then, we must
care for our guests. Mister John Lyttleton, my dear husband’s brother, will
tarry until yon maid is able to travel.”
Bridge could hear the rustle of clothing
as either the woman, whose name was obviously Missus Lyttleton, or the woman
named Kate walked over to the bed where Bridge lay and pretended to still be
unconscious. A cool hand was laid upon her forehead.
“Her skin is cool to the touch. ‘Tis
certain she is noble. Regard her brow, her well-kept hair and hands – and her
beauty. ‘Tis not well that we offend by ill care, Kate. Perchance she is of
noble blood. We must take special care of the maid. Do you take my meaning?”
“Aye, Missus!”
“Very well. Let me know of any change. I
shall return anon. And close yon window, one half is open allowing a breeze to
enter; the street reeks.”
“Yes, Missus.”
There was the clacking sound again
followed by a creak as the door opened and closed.
Slowly
Bridge slipped from beneath the covers and stepped out of bed, this time using
the small stair steps provided. Looking around, she tried to orient herself as
to where she was. Her last memory was of standing at the rail of her father’s
yacht with Liam, then a sudden storm, the whirlpool, and…nothing. How did she
get here?
Walking on tiptoe to the window, Bridge
gazed through one of the diamond-shaped panes which made up the aperture.
Discovering the latch, releasing it and hearing a slight click, she slowly
opened the window. The smell of dust mixed with mud, animals and another odor,
rotting vegetation and dung, she guessed, greeted her immediately. Gasping and
backing away, she closed the window, placing the latch back into position.
“What is going on here!” she exclaimed. “Where am I? WHEN am I?” The opening of
the door, heralded by a now familiar creak, alerted Bridge to the fact that she
was no longer alone. Swinging around and facing away from the window, her back
pressing against the sill, she beheld a man.
He stood approximately five-ten. Dark
hair framed a handsome face from which her own eyes, the color of orchids,
sparkled with intelligence. Smiling, he walked toward her slowly, gently, as if
approaching a wild animal that was in danger of bolting. Bowing he said,
“Hello, Mistress. I am called John
Lyttleton. I am he who found you on the banks of the Avon. I’m glad to see that
you have come ‘round. I am here to help you.”
John Lyttleton! She looked at him
closely. He appeared to be in his early 40s. Is it possible? She
examined his clothes, the room, remembered what she had seen out of the window.
Have I lost my mind? The time…the street outside…the house…he has my eyes.
Other than my parents, I’ve never seen anyone with my eyes. I remember a
John Lyttleton from my research into my family roots. Is this my twelve-time
great-grandfather? This doesn’t make sense. What happened to me? Was it the
Bermuda Triangle? It can’t be; I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo, but mumbo
jumbo or not, I’m in a room without electricity, in a city with people walking
around in the mud in Tudor dress with horses and carts and garbage in the
street, and now here is this man, claiming to be John Lyttleton, looking at me
with my own eyes!
Bridge, because of her love of history,
and her inheritance of the Tudor Rose ring, had thoroughly traced her lineage,
and the name of John Lyttleton, later spelled Littleton, was found in her
family tree as early as the late 1400s to as late as the 1700s where Pharell,
grandson of Sir John Littleton, MP, appeared in Virginia as one of the
overseers on George Washington’s plantation. Amazed and confused, she backed
away slightly, fumbling for something on which to hold.
She could feel her heart slamming
against her ribcage and hear her breath as it escaped her lungs with a soft
wheezing sound. Sweat sprung out upon her brow as she fought to not lose
consciousness. This was unreal – this couldn’t be!
Why, the little maid is frightened, John thought
with regret. Smiling, in an attempt to calm her, he said, “Good morrow.
Prithee, little one. Let us sit upon yon bench. I am sure you are confused, and
mayhap I can answer questions which I am sure run rampant in your mind. Pray,
sit ye down. I will not harm you!” he said, chuckling and lowering himself onto
the bench. Sweeping his arm to the right, he indicated where she should sit.
Walking over to him slowly, Bridge
continued to stare into his eyes. He did appear to be kind, and she did feel
safe with him. She sat down gingerly, yet still left some space between them.
The bench was cool beneath her sweaty palms and as she fought to quiet the
beating of her heart, she attempted to draw in a deep breath.
“You…you found me?”
“Aye, I am he what discovered you. I
found you awash in naught but a shift, a wondrous garment, but alas, worse for
the wear. How fair you?
“Sir, ummm … prithee … ummm … where am
I?”
“Ah! Aye! You would not know. Why you
are now in Bristol, and here you shall abide in the house of my good brother
William until such time as I may take you thither to mine own home in
Worcester.”
“Bristol?”
“Aye.”
Bristol, apparently somewhere back in
time. Bristol – once called Brigg Stow or meeting place at the bridge. Main
industry import and export…wine, wool. How did I end up here?
“Sir,” Don’t give away that you don’t
know what year it is. Think….your knowledge of Tudor history can help you
now…think…. “That is, kind, good sir. What is the latest news of Bristol?” There,
maybe that will help me hone in on when I am!
“Fancy you should ask! Why, Bristol is
right proud, for a new grammar school has been founded and all may now boast of
an education.” He beamed his joy, which began in his sparkling, orchid eyes and
slipped down to a surprisingly well-preserved smile.”
Oh, my god! Let me think…1532? Really?
1532? And if this is indeed my twelve-time great-grandfather, that would make
him….forty-two, maybe forty. John interrupted her thoughts,
“Mistress, where hail ye from, for I do
declare, you have mine eyes. Never have I beheld such as mine in another living
creature outside of mine own family. From whence hail ye? Are we perchance
kin?”
Almost blurting out “Yeah, real distant
relatives, grandpa!” Bridge metaphorically bit her tongue. This was going too
fast. She needed time to think, needed time to assimilate all that was
happening to her, needed time to figure out how to speak without drawing
attention to herself or making everyone think she was looney tunes.
She had to admit that his language was
seeping into her brain and becoming more and more familiar. Her penchant for
reading letters from this era was turning out to be a godsend. More and more
she was hearing his language as if it were modern English. That is, she
understood as quickly and as intuitively as she did her own.
These were very dangerous times, and if
I am indeed in 1532 Tudor England, fascinating as it may be, I will have to
tread softly. There is the issue of allegiance to the Queen versus….oh, my!
Anne Boleyn! Religion!
“I…I…” Taking note of her confusion,
John immediately associated it with fatigue.
“By your leave, Mistress, I will leave
you now for you are quite wore out. Know this: I will take care of you. When
you are strong and able to travel, we shall journey to mine home where my good
wife Elizabeth will aid you in any particular of your wellbeing. I will
be your protector and friend; you need have no fear. Now, allow me to help you
to your bed. I will tell Missus Lyttleton that you are in need of sustenance.”
“Thank you,” Bridge mumbled. She was
tired, overwhelmed, incredulous, unbelieving, half believing and just plain
frightened. Then she remembered.
“Pardon, good sir, where is my ring?”
“Your ring?”
“Ye…aye.”
“Why, Mistress, there was no ring, but
ah, aye, I have forgot me, I did manage to save this.” Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out the brooch, the “Storm Tossed” pin; the diamond was still
attached.
John bowed and left the room. Walking to
one of the benches situated by the fireplace, Bridge sat. Cradling her face in
her hands, she wept. She felt horribly alone, extremely frightened and
vulnerable. To make matters worse, she somehow lost the one anchor she had to
her old life that she really cared about: her mother’s Tudor Rose ring.
Chapter Three
And if any
person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best.
Anne Boleyn.
The air smelled
of beeswax. Candles blazed, their light reflecting off of various jewels and
dancing within the eyes of beautiful women. The room was warm and filled with
the sounds of lutes and flutes, trumpets and drums.
The king sat at the main
dais, the jewels on his fingers and adorning his gem encrusted hat shot flashes
of fire as candlelight played within their facets. Henry sat watching the
dancers, sipping a goblet of Bordeaux and absentmindedly nibbling on a
Deception, a relatively new art form in which the cook in charge of all things
sugar in the kitchen created edible sweets and modeled them to look like
castles, unicorns, even goblets and bowls. Considered by many future scholars
to be the ancestor of the wedding cake, Deceptions were very popular in Henry’s
court. Made of sugar icing and formed to represent a mermaid, the confection
was sweet, perhaps overly so, and he decided that he’d eaten enough of the
sugary treat. Besides, he wanted the main form to remain intact as it was made
to honor his guest, a beauteous maiden by all reports, pulled from the edge of the
river Avon.***
Preorder Now and Save!
1
