Tower of London, 1530.
They found Thomas Daines slumped against the locked Chapel door. Laid out, he looked like he was sleeping, but for one hand which was stiff and still reaching out. Both palms were black with soot. When we came out from tending him, the air smelled sweet. Perched in the yew tree, sat a raven, silently watching us.
His wife Agnes got sick first. The illness made her sensitive, saying she could see things. I’d mop her brow, but she would push away my hand and point through the window to the Chapel and say she could see a woman and child walking in and out.
“There’s nothing there, child, hush, now.”
Thomas looked as well and there’d be nothing there. He thought it was just the fever talking. But then little Margaret started seeing things.
That’s when ravens came to sit on their windowsill. Agnes said they knew.
“They’re just silly birds. Hush now and rest.”
Their breathing was slow and rasping as they clung to life. Little Margaret in her wooden cot and Agnes on the bed. Even bloodletting hadn’t worked. The physician looked at Thomas and me and just shook his head. Thomas stood at the door trying to breathe in the fresh air of the courtyard, like breathing in and out was now as hard for him as it was for them.
The day they buried them I could smell woodsmoke. It was just the burning of old logs and twigs - the usual jobs that we do about the place because life has to go on.
Later I roasted a hog on a spit in the kitchen. It crackled as the fat hit the flames. That was Agnes’ old job, but now it was mine. Those ravens were flying around, looking for scraps and cawing.
Agnes and Margaret were buried in the Chapel. It was a comfort to know they would always be safe there in consecrated ground, secure under the heavy slabs.
That evening I retired to my bed. I could see candlelight flickering in Thomas’s room across the courtyard. I’d been over to take the bed linen out to be burned and he’d spent a long time just sitting there, looking at the bare bed and empty cot where Agnes and Margaret used to sleep.
After dark, Thomas heard a tapping at his window. It was a breezy night, so he thought it was just a twig slapping against the window. But then again, a tap, tap, tap. He opened the door and a large, black bird flapped up in his face. He dropped his candle and wax splashed against his bare leg and scolded him. ‘Stupid bird,’ he’d said as I nursed his wound.
Later, about midnight, I was sitting in my doorway watching the clouds scudding along over the twinkling stars when I saw Thomas at his door. He came over to me.
“I saw her. She went into the Chapel, holding the little girl by the hand. They went through the wooden door.”
Before I could say a word, he’d lurched onwards to the Chapel. The heavy, wooden door would not budge, of course, as it was locked. He rested his two hands flat against the old wood as if his palms could somehow feel what was happening inside. But all I could hear was the wind rustling the trees round the courtyard. He shuffled back to his room.
“Time can heal, Thomas. Sleep if you can, it will help,” I told him as he walked past me.
He was spent with grief, poor man. His door closed and the light went out.
Next morning, I heard a commotion – raised voices, but not the usual daily good mornings and how do you do’s but fretting. I arose and went to my window. At the Chapel door, the guards and some of my kitchen ladies were pointing.
I went over to see what the fuss was. The guards were gathered, their large keys jangling on their belts while they examined the door. There were two dark handprints like someone had burned them into the wood. I went to look and reached out and placed my hand into one of the prints. Black soot came off. I felt it between my fingers and rubbed my hands together to get it off. It was the talk of the staff all over the Tower that day. Those two black handprints. I felt unnerved and puzzled all at once, but I said nothing to no one.
Thomas woke late that morning. It was as much as he could do to put one foot in front of the other, poor man. He came to work late. We all understood. A man without work sits and thinks and that’s not good, so you try to find solace in ordinary daily tasks.
That evening after prayers and supper I retired to my room. I lay on the bed and watched the candle shadows dance on the ceiling. I often sleep badly and find it a comfort. I thought of the black handprints. I was too heavy-laden to make sense of things. I listened to my breathing to calm me. Breath after breath, counting the seconds away as the night stretched out before me. Eventually slumber took me and I drifted off to sleep.
Deep into the night, I woke with a start. The candle wick had burned all the way down and the dying flame was crackling in the molten wax. A thin plume of grey smoke rose from its embers, filling the room with its odour. I watched the last glowing specks perish and leave me in darkness. Through the window I could see white clouds gliding past against a dark-blue glittering sky. Then I heard it. Tap, tap, tap. My breath stopped, and I felt my eyes bulge in their sockets. I remembered what Thomas had said about that stupid raven. I sat up and put on my gown and went to the window. I saw Thomas open his door. He would not suffer that bird near his face again, so he leaned back a little with his hand up. It flew off towards the Chapel. I watched it disappear into the darkness, blending in with the night. My eyes adjusted to the gloom of the courtyard, and I peered where the raven had flown, towards the Chapel door. Was there someone there? A figure by the door, or a shadow? I saw Thomas leave his room, his eyes fixed on the Chapel and keeping his hand on the wall as he edged along. I was fearful and fascinated all at once. Thomas reached the corner. The Chapel was still in darkness, the half-moon hidden behind a cloud. He put one stockinged foot in front of the other, while he reached out to steady himself. He passed the doors of his kith, including mine, not once taking his eyes off the Chapel door. He moved forward and reached out his hand. I opened my door and whispered, “Thomas!” but his eyes were glazed, and he did not respond. Sweat was glistening on his face and neck.
He was frightening me now, so I shut my door, and prayed. That was the last time I saw Thomas alive.
He was laid to rest in the Chapel, underneath the heavy stone slabs, along with his wife and daughter. I often look over to the Chapel door and imagine them together in their long, dark slumber.
But at night I stuff up my ears and keep my door locked and count my breaths till I fall fast asleep.
Photo: Mark Timberlake on Unsplash
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