To be a wife meant servitude. As a much-loved and indulged daughter, Eleanor had a freedom she might lose if she married. Sir William was an enlightened man. He had taught his daughter to enjoy study for its own sake, and her intelligence delighted him. She spoke French fluently, a little Italian, and could read some Arabic and Latin, of course. Her main interest was ancient history, which she could discuss at a level above most men of equal rank, and she had thought that when the time came for them to leave England, she would enjoy seeing the places of which she had only read.
Indeed, she had enjoyed her visits to Venice and Rome, drinking in the beauty of old palaces and wonderful scenery. It was only since they had come to the villa that she had begun to feel restless.
Count Giovani Salvadore was too attentive! He made Eleanor feel as if he were trying to smother her with his generosity and his compliments caused her to be uneasy. She was afraid he meant to ask for her hand in marriage. Eleanor was almost sure Sir William would consult her in the matter, but she could not be certain. She would not feel comfortable until they were on the ship taking them to Cyprus!
‘There you are, Eleanor! Father sent me to find you.’
Eleanor saw her brother coming towards them and went forward eagerly to meet him. At fifteen, he was slight and fair, a merry, happy boy—and she loved him dearly.
‘I am sorry if I worried you, Dickon.’
‘Father wants to talk to you,’ Richard said, his smile shy and engaging. ‘He has something to show you—an illuminated manuscript. He wants you to help him decipher it.’
At last! Eleanor felt her spirits lift. She had missed working with her beloved father on his collection of old manuscripts. He was beginning to build them up again. When they had their own house, everything would be as it always had been. Sir William would not force her to marry. He cared for her too much!
She glanced at the Count and smiled. ‘Forgive me, signor. I must go. My father waits for me.’
‘Oh, Father!’ Eleanor cried as she saw the manuscript for the first time. ‘I do not think I have ever seen anything quite as lovely.’
The manuscript was tiny, and when rolled could be stored in a space no larger than the handle of a woman’s fan. Its container was made of pure gold and inlaid with emeralds and pearls, and there was a loop to suspend it from a chain or a ribbon so that it could be worn on the person.
‘It is writ in Arabic,’ Sir William said. ‘But my eyes are not good enough to make out the words.’
The script was very small, though the decoration of gold leaf, rich crimson and deep blue was as clear and bright as the day it had been painstakingly inscribed.
‘It is a part of the Qur’an,’ Eleanor said. ‘Or the Koran, as the Western world would name the Muslim’s holy script. But there is an introduction…it praises the goodness of Allah, and asks for his blessing…’ She paused. ‘I think it says for the Abbey of the Far Cross…surely that cannot be, Father? I do not understand—would an Islamic prayer ask for Allah’s blessing on a monastery?’
‘Yes, that it is correct,’ her father said and she saw the gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘It is the work of Abbot Gregorio. He was a very learned man who lived at an Abbey on an isolated island in Greek waters some three centuries ago. The monks were a silent order, but they had many secrets and there were legends of their fabulous wealth—though where it came from no one knew. According to the story, the Abbot believed that all religions stemmed from the same source and it is said that he was very interested in Islam—but his great wisdom did him little good. Not long after this manuscript would have been created, the Abbey was burned to the ground by Saracens and all the monks were slaughtered. No one knew what had happened to the treasures of the Abbey. They were thought lost…’ Sir William’s excitement was intense. ‘This was discovered in an iron pot in the ground on Cyprus—on our land, Eleanor. Who knows what more we may find hidden away?’
‘No, indeed, if the story be true—we might find untold treasures.’ Eleanor caught her father’s excitement. ‘It is very intriguing,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘This must be worth a great deal in itself. Did Sir John send this to you?’
‘He writes that it was discovered when the gardeners were working near to the house he purchased in my name. Knowing of my interest in such things, he sent it with his warm wishes for our speedy arrival.’
‘Does that mean that we are to leave Italy soon?
‘Yes. It pleases you that we are to leave this house?’ Sir William’s eyes were a faded blue, his hair silvered by age but showing traces of the gold it had once been. ‘Have you not been happy here, daughter? The Count has been kind…’
‘Very kind, Father—but I shall be happier when we are in our own home and may begin to gather our things about us again.’
‘My poor daughter,’ Sir William said, tenderness in his eyes. ‘You miss your books, I dare say. It was a pity we could not bring more of them with us.’
‘We dare not seem to be packing everything,’ Eleanor replied, a flicker of fear in her eyes as she recalled the way they had been forced to flee in the night. ‘You were likely to be arrested at any time. Your life is more important than books—however precious.’
‘England is a dangerous place for a man who was known to be a friend to Cranmer,’ Sir William said. ‘Queen Mary senses treachery in the actions of any man not of her own faith.’
‘But you took no part in any plot against her.’
‘No—yet I knew those who did,’ Sir William said and shuddered. ‘Several of my friends had been seized and put to the torture. I was warned that the same was planned for me. Had it been myself alone…but I had you and your brother to consider, Eleanor. Better a life in exile than a painful death. Fortunately, I have long traded with the merchants of Venice, and much of my fortune was safe in Italy. We have good friends here and in Venice—and Cyprus. But it is there that I believe we should settle. Sir John is brother to your mother and a good, kindly man. If anything should happen to me, he would take care of you and Richard.’
‘Pray, Father—do not speak of such things,’ Eleanor begged him. A chill wind had seemed to blow across her heart as he spoke and she was afraid, though she saw no reason for it. ‘You are safe from those who would see you burned.’
She shuddered as she thought of the cruel deaths suffered by the Archbishop Cranmer and others—and all done in God’s name. She did not believe that the God she knew in her heart would demand such wickedness—for it was surely wicked to kill a man simply for worshipping in his own way. She thought that she quite liked the ideas of the Abbot, who had embraced both Christianity and Islam, though of course she would never dare to voice those opinions aloud. The question of religion had caused fierce fighting all over this region of the Mediterranean for centuries, Christian against Muslim, west against east—and, indeed, she could not condone the culture of the Eastern potentates!
‘Yes, we are all safe, child,’ Sir William said and smiled at her. ‘So you do not wish to marry Count Salvadore? You know that he means to ask you before we leave?’
‘Please do not allow it,’ Eleanor pleaded. ‘Tell him that you wish to settle in your own home before you consider the question of my marriage.’
‘Very well, Eleanor.’ He was not displeased by her decision, because there was no hurry for her to marry. Sir John had a son of twenty years. It was possible that the two might please each other. ‘We leave the day after tomorrow. Sir John has sent his own ship to carry us to our new home. It is a stout vessel and will have a precious cargo of rare treasures. Sir John trades much with the ruler of the Ottoman Empire and he has spent