Still carrying the lantern I went to his room. It was as I expected—the crucifix on the wall, the hard pallet, a desk, a chair and no other furniture.

“Valerian!” I cried.

He started up from his bed and I said: “I have just come from the tunnels. I followed Bruno there tonight. There has been a terrible accident.”

“Bruno is dead,” he answered quietly.

“How can you know that?”

“I know it,” he replied. He put on a fustian robe and went on: “We will go back to the tunnels.”

I said: “I must explain to you. I followed him. I felt a compulsion to do so.”

He nodded.

“I found him in a sort of chamber. There was a great glittering figure there. I had seen it before because he had shown it to me and to Kate when we were children. I think he was going to kill me. The figure fell…he was beneath it. I came away and a sort of door descended.”

He did not speak but taking the lantern, led the way through the tunnels. I could see that he knew the way.

He paused at length and said: “This is where you entered the chamber.”

“It would be here, but I see no sign of it.”

“Here is what you call the door.”

“We should bring him back to the house. He will need a doctor.”

Valerian shook his head. “He will never need a doctor again.”

“Open the door and go in.”

“I cannot open the door.”

“Please do.”

“It is not in my power.” Nevertheless he attempted to do so but his efforts were in vain.

He held the lantern so that he could see my face.

“You have been through a terrible ordeal,” he said. “I must talk to you…now. But this is not the place. Come back with me to the scriptorium.”

“There must be something we can do. Bruno needs attention.”

“He is in the hands of God.”

“You are sure that he is dead?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“How can you be?”

“I know these things. Come. We cannot enter the chamber. The way is not known to any of us. He was the only one who knew. But we must talk.”

I followed him out of the tunnels to the scriptorium. There he bade me be seated and gave me a cordial to drink. It was hot and burned my throat but it revived me.

“The miracle must live,” he said.

“There was no miracle. It was because I had proved this that he hated me and tried to kill me.”

“Yet the miracle must live.”

“How can it when it was not the truth?”

“It will be the truth in the minds of many, and it is what is in the mind which is important.”

“He will be found there in the tunnels.”

Valerian shook his head. “Only he knew how to open the door. The secret was told to him by the Abbot. Only the Abbots of St. Bruno’s knew how to open that door and they passed the secret on to their successors. The code was written down and hidden—none knew where but the Abbots and those destined to take their place. Treasures of the Abbey have been stored there through the ages. Bruno would tell no one. The secret was his alone.”

“It was there he found the wealth to rebuild the Abbey. It was from the jewels of the Madonna. He took them as he needed them. I can see it all so clearly now.”

“They were such jewels that it was necessary to show the utmost caution in disposing of them. He had to let time elapse before he went abroad to sell the first and the smallest of them.”

“That was why he came to us when he left the Abbey. He was biding his time, waiting until the hue and cry over the Abbey jewels had died down.”

“That was so and the first and the smallest of them realized such a sum that he was able to buy the Abbey. He knew that he had a great treasure store and when he needed money he took a jewel and sold it abroad.”

“So when Cromwell’s men were coming to the Abbey they must have taken the Madonna down through the tunnels to that chamber. How could they have done this?”

“It must have been a great undertaking. All we knew was that it was in the sacred chapel one day and the next was gone. It was thought to be a miracle because a few days later Rolf Weaver’s men came. I think I know what happened. The Abbot’s giant servant could have carried her down. If her jewels were taken from her she would not be so heavy, of course. Among them, the Abbot, the servant and Bruno would have taken her there and replaced the jewels about her when she stood in the secret chamber. That is the only way it could possibly have been done.”

“And only Bruno knew.”

“The Abbot died. The servant was a mute. He is dead now. All three who knew the secret are dead. This is the end. I have seen its coming. I am aware of these things. Bruno is gone. We know where, but no one else must. This is the Madonna’s answer. A new reign is almost upon us. We could not have survived as we are under a new sovereign. But the miracle must live…and this is the only way it can do so.”

“You mean that no one must know what happened tonight?”

“I am commanding your silence. Go back to your room and say nothing of this night’s events.”

“But I must.”

“Most certainly you must not. This is ordained. I know it. Bruno is dead. He had to die to preserve the miracle and the miracle must live. He will have gone as strangely as he came and in the generations to come people will talk of the Miracle of St. Bruno’s Abbey and good will come of it. Go now. You are distraught. You are weary. Go and rest. The cordial may make you sleep. In the morning it will seem more clear.” I went back to my room and waited for the morning.

Kate stayed with us all through that year. She did not wish to go back to Remus Castle now for Carey was there to reproach her.

For months after that night when Bruno had died in the Madonna’s chamber his return was awaited. He had gone away before on those trips to the Continent to sell jewels, and at first it was assumed that he had gone away as he had on other occasions. But as the months passed and he did not return it began to be said that he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come.

“It was a miracle,” people said. “He appeared on Christmas Day in the Lady Chapel—a babe in a crib—and he disappeared in the thirty-sixth year of his life.” It would never be forgotten.

Kate and I had returned to the old ways. She used to come to my room and talk of what was happening in the outside world just as she had always done: How the old Queen was dying of a broken heart because her husband Philip of Spain neglected her. How she declared that her heart had been broken in any case by the loss of Calais and when she died that name would be written across her heart.

“The name of Philip will be there too perhaps,” said Kate, “if I may continue with such a flight of fancy.”

She became gayer every day. “One cannot go on mourning forever,” she said.

Honey was happy for she was to have a child; I insisted that she come to the Abbey that I might look after her. Catherine began to regain her spirits although she was never again the same lighthearted girl.

“Catherine will forget in time,” said Kate. “So will Carey. You’ll forget. I’ll forget. Everyone forgets, so the sooner one starts to do so the better.” She looked at me intently though and went on: “How strange that Bruno disappeared. Do you think he will come back one day?”

“No,” I said. “Never.”

“You know more than you betray.”

“One should never betray all one knows.”

“I often wonder,” said Kate, “where he found the money to do what he did. I believe he was in the pay of, Spain.”

“One must have some beliefs,” I told her.

“The only conclusion I can draw otherwise is that there was truly a miracle at St. Bruno’s.”

“It is not a bad conclusion to which to come.”

That September the Emperor Charles, the father of Philip of Spain, died and in his will he exhorted his son to inflict even more severe punishment on heretics. The Smithfield fires would be intensified, said the people. They were in a sullen mood.

But in November the Queen died and a new sovereign was proclaimed at Hatfield where she had been living in a seclusion which could have been called a prison.

There was rejoicing throughout the land. The dark days are over, said the people. There will be no more smoke over Smithfield now that Elizabeth was Queen.

We took to our barge and went down the river to see the new Queen brought in triumph to London. Kate and Catherine, my mother, Rupert and I joined in the loyal shouts of “Long live the Queen.”

She was young; she was vital; and she glowed with purpose. She told us that she would dedicate herself to her people and her country.

And we believed her.

I knew that as we were rowed back along the river leaving the grim gray fortress of the Tower of London behind us we were—every one of us—convinced that there would be changes in our lives and our spirits lifted and our hearts rejoiced.