Oxford Whispers Part 1

Oxford Whispers.

Marion Croslydon.

Prologue.

Oxford, a clearing on the outskirts of the city a June 1650.

I CANNOT BREATHE.

A thick coif wraps around my head, and a black gown covers every inch of my body. As Mother ordered, its wide collar hides the contours of my shoulders. I must abide by the rules not only in public, but also in this clearing, where I spent much of my childhood.

I slide my fingers between my throat and the material of the coif, loosening its tightness over my neck. My chest rises and I take in a mouthful of air.

"I do not know when we will see each other again. I will stay in London for the summer months." His somber, b.u.t.toned waistcoat makes Peter look so severe. The vest is finely cut yet bears no ornament, and a wide-brimmed hat hides most of his face.

I tempt him again. "You can always give up your charge and stay in Oxford. There is a good life here away from Westminster and its fruitless negotiations."

His hands are clasped on the Holy Scriptures, as if those words were his own, and I want to steal the Bible away from him. My friend should not use the name of Our Lord to serve his own ambitions.

"Sarah, you know it is my duty to work for the protection of our rights against Charles' rule."

Peter takes my hand and brings it to his lips for an innocent kiss. Looking away I ignore his touch on my skin. My eyes catch the outline of something lying on the other side of the withered oak, among the ferns and yellow leaves.

Intrigued, I walk away from Peter. After a few steps, the discovery becomes clear.

A human form. A man. Gasping for breath.

I run toward him and almost stumble over the hem of my dress. The blade of a broken sword is embedded in the tree next to him. Playing cards are scattered amid the brambles. The Ace of Hearts stares up at me.

A feather protrudes from the top of his purple hat. His brown boots, the colored sash, and the golden hilt of the sword ...

"A Cavalier," Peter whispers, already by my side. "He must have fought one of ours and been left for dead."

Cruel pleasure poisons my friend's words.

I kneel by the soldier's side and support him with my right arm. His eyes are closed, his mouth open. Holding my handkerchief over the wound on his neck, the cloth is quickly stained crimson.

The elegant man is alive, barely. I let out a sigh of relief.

"We need to take him to a physician." My voice is steady, but I avoid looking up at Peter, who stands rigid next to me.

The Cavalier lays his left hand on mine, and my soul shivers. His eyes have opened. They bring back the cherished memory of another meadow in the spring sun and a young boy who gave me a red rose. I was a child then, but I can still remember his smile. The Cavalier's smile.

"A good thing we found him. Justice will be rendered."

Peter does not mean justice. He means slaughter. My own people will have the Cavalier executed.

I will not allow more blood to be shed. Not his blood.

I know at once, with clarity, what I must do.

Chapter 1.

Oxford, Faculty of History a Today.

MADISON SPIED ON the Puritan, and the Puritan spied on the lovers. He hid behind a tree, his hand clenched on a Bible, his mouth twisted into a snarl. His hatred radiated out of the painting into the cla.s.sroom, and punched Madison in the belly. She closed her eyes.

Violent scenes flashed behind her lids. Severe faces stared back at her, and battles played out around her. She saw blood. Blood on her hands and on the face of the Cavalier, the other man in the painting. The warm liquid stuck to her skin. To her soul.

Visions had shaken her before. But nothing like this ...

Like a freaking Taser shot.

A wave of nausea flushed through her body, and an acrid taste invaded her mouth. She stood, but her knees buckled. Shuffling the few inches back to her seat she flattened her palms on the cold surface of the desk. The contact helped, but briefly.

Madison dragged her attention back to the painting, spread by the slide projector all over the cla.s.sroom wall. In a forest clearing, a blond Cavalier lay in the arms of a young girl. Judging by his limp posture, he'd been badly injured. On the right side of the scene, a man dressed in black-the Puritan-watched. A plain hat covered half of his face. But Madison could see enough of his expression. He reeked of jealousy.

"Miss LeBon, do you need to take a break?" Doctor McCain's familiar East Coast accent took her out of her trance and brought her back to the cla.s.sroom.

As she shuffled in her seat, Madison's chair squeaked. The other students turned in her direction. Embarra.s.sment fired up her cheeks, but she managed to shake her head and give the professor a faint smile. He nodded and returned to his lecture.

Clad in dark blue jeans, he rested now on the corner of his desk. His compact body partly blocked the image of the painting behind him.

"William Shakespeare Burton was a relatively unknown artist, but this work, The Wounded Cavalier, enjoyed some success after he died. The scene takes place around 1650, after the execution of King Charles the First."

The tutorial continued, but Madison looked away through the cla.s.sroom window. One of the spires jutting into the Oxford skyline caught her attention. Her breathing slowed, and the trembling of her hands stopped. Almost.

She had been knocked off her feet before, but the ghosts had never made her sick enough to bring her breakfast to her lips. Never before had they been mere characters in a painting.

Madison gave herself a mental slap. She would not follow in her ancestors' footsteps and end up a total whacko. She would not drown herself in the Mississippi or hang her pretty neck from the branch of a cypress. She would not let anyone shut her in a nuthouse. Just because she talked to those who were not there.

Confusion seeped into her. She would stand, fight and die for her crazy family, for her blood.

But no way am I going further into the loony bin. At least, not quite yet.

When Doctor McCain signaled the end of the session, her fists were tightly clenched, her knuckles white.

Chapter 2.

ON THE OTHER SIDE of Tom Quad, Great Tom, the loudest bell in all Oxford, struck nine o'clock. The sharp November air smelled of wood smoke, and Madison longed for Louisiana's heat.

She missed her good old Converse sneakers, jeans and granny pants as she pulled a skimpy piece of material down her legs. No way this was called a dress.

Her eyes were fixed on the imposing facade of Christ Church Hall when she begged, "I'm freezing here. Can we go inside?"

Pippa gestured toward the entrance and strutted inside. Madison had met the girl-and her Irish mane of red hair-on her first day in England, on the train up from London.

For a week now she had given Madison the guilt trip. A graduate at Christ Church College, Madison was Pippa's ticket to the social event of the Michaelmas term: Christ Church Ball. Pippa's persistence had paid off and here she was, ready to cause mayhem with the male students.

Madison took a deep breath and followed the bright halo of Pippa's hair up the sixteenth-century staircase that led to the Great Hall. Oliver, Madison's dormmate, flanked her. A tuxedo had replaced his skinny jeans. She patted his thin shoulders to boost his confidence, but he kept starring at Pippa's electric-blue dress. Star-struck.

At first, Madison struggled to recognize the grand, silent Dining Hall, although its vaulted ceiling rose to the heavens as usual. Tonight, the room was overcrowded and overheated bringing instant heat to her cheeks. Still, it was a better option than being locked in her room obsessing over the morning's drama and the Puritan in the painting.

"Ollie, could you please get us some drinks?" Pippa's smile showcased her dimples. "White wine for both of us."

How to resist the musical lilt of her voice? Ollie couldn't and headed for the bar. "Jolly good. Beats dancing anytime."

Pippa turned to Madison. "I'm glad I lent you the dress. The way you look tonight, all the guys will get you a drink. You'll be the first one to get wasted."

"I need a bottle right now ... I feel like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

But Pippa's attention had already shifted away. Irish Queen Bee waved at a muscular guy and strutted in his direction. Between chasing able-bodied male victims and college gossiping, there was never a dull moment in Pippa Connelly's life. Madison could leave now and let everyone else have a great time, but she didn't want to sabotage herself again.

Her skin stung. She lifted her head to survey the s.p.a.ce in front of her and met the gla.s.sy stare of Chris Church's founder: Henry the Eighth. Hung on the other side of the hall, his portly figure spread over a full-length portrait.

Anne Boleyn, I am not.

Resolve stiffened Madison's stance and squared her shoulders. Tonight, she would face the music. Literally.

At Yale, she'd been too busy studying and juggling jobs to be part of the party scene. But things were looking up now. She was in a master's program at Oxford University, England. Take that. And in the month since her arrival, she had been pretty lucky, meeting Pippa, then Ollie. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

Thinking of Ollie, Madison gazed at the crowded hall in search of her roommate. He wasn't at the bar, and she needed a gla.s.s in her hand so she'd have something to do with herself.

With an old Madonna tune playing in the background, she marched toward the bar.

Please G.o.d, keep this dress below my panty line.

Ollie was nowhere to be seen. She ordered a gla.s.s of white and ignored the push and pull of the other students around her eager for a drink.

"First time here?" asked a clipped voice behind her at the jammed-up counter.

She turned around. A guy about her age towered over her. She leaned against the bar to support herself as she lifted her gaze from the light blue shirt he wore, to a crisp collar, and followed the line of his neck to the handsome face above. No tuxedo here.

Madison cleared her throat, but only managed a *Yes' that sounded more like a croak.

He's hotter than the hinges on the gates of h.e.l.l.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying her agitation. But his voice was soft when he asked, "American? Where from?"

The smell of his freshly laundered clothes drifted over her. Bergamot or lavender, Madison couldn't say which, but the fragrance contrasted with the sweat and cheap perfume of the crowd.

"Louisiana." Adonis is chatting me up.

The full-lips-slash-chiseled-cheekbones combo was full-on cliche, but would melt a freaking iceberg.

He gave her a rueful smile and she tried turning away, but couldn't find the necessary s.p.a.ce at the crowded bar. Pivoting her head, she strained for a better view of possible avenues of retreat.

"You arrived with Ginger Girl."

"No idea who you're talking about ... Blondie." The steel in her voice had c.h.i.n.ks in it.

Sparkles lit up in his eyes, and her heart missed a beat. Shivers-chilly then warm-ran down her spine, and back up again. The student bartender shook her elbow and signaled toward a gla.s.s on the bar. She held out the exact change, keeping her arm strong, her hand still, but her new *friend' stopped her midway.

"Allow me. I'm Rupert, by the way."

"I'll pay for it," she answered in a tone that rang flat. "Mine's Madison." No froggy sound this time. Phew.

"Well, Madison, do you want to go somewhere quieter?" His offer sounded like a naughty invite, one that said, "I wanna do bad things with you, honey." Or at least it did to Madison's wired brain.

She forced herself to articulate, "Sorry, I'm spending the evening with my friends." G.o.d, could she sound more laaaaaaame?

"I see. I'm not sure your friends will play by your rules though. Pippa Connelly doesn't often leave a party on her own. You shouldn't be left all by yourself."

Taking her wine, Madison finally managed to move out of his way. "Something tells me you don't leave parties on your own, either." Yes, more of that.

He shrugged and cast his eyes downward. "True."

"Good luck then. No doubt you'll find a desperate girl or two tonight." She flashed him the Scarlett O'Hara smile her mother had taught her. As if the LeBon women had ever been Southern belles.

Madison walked away, her chin up.

For once, she hadn't screwed up socially. She had been quite good toward the end of this verbal ping-pong, even if she did say so herself.

She peeked back toward Rupert. His eyes remained glued on her, while he ignored an anorexic blond girl standing at his side. Satisfied, Madison brought the gla.s.s to her lips. The wine tasted almost as sweet as the rum her grandmother drank back home. With relief, she spotted a dark corner to savor her social victory in peace.

After three steps, an inner storm struck. As it had done earlier that morning.

The ballroom and the laughing crowd fell away from the foreground, as if she were on a roller coaster.