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Back at ground level, I led Yvette into the Great Tower, the keep, which formed the oldest part of the castle. A Norman structure, the kind I preferred. Yvette wandered aimlessly and kicked a pebble along with the toe of her shoe.
I pressed the camera shutter, the icy metal. Without the tripod, the camera was exposed to the slightest shiver of the hand. I retreated to shelter by an interior wall and, with my blue-tinged finger, traced the unusual wall of sandstone blocks; each one eroded into a unique pattern by a constant barrage of wind and rain, forming pits like miniature caverns. Time had ensured the erosion had been kind, creating a beautiful array of patterns and smooth indentations; a unique façade of tiny pockets, rather like the grooves of fingerprints, and impossible to reproduce artificially.
Between shutter presses, I returned to stroke the contours. There was no warmth, no transmission through the stones; it wasn’t how it worked, or so I believed.
An expressionless Yvette studied the ruined walls. ‘Shame it didn’t survive. I’ve seen paintings of Elizabeth I, portraits extolling her beauty and elaborate clothing. The virgin queen with her pure white face. Underneath…. Do you think it was all a game to her? Courting, being wooed, when in truth she was quite content to remain single?’
‘Possibly.’
‘But all those royal progresses entertained her. She loved being the centre of attention. I think she played it right. Rule in isolation; a life without men.’
‘Do you think I want to emulate her? That by travelling, I escape my responsibilities? My grand plan to avoid commitment, is that it?’ I tried, and failed, to sound sarcastic.
‘Robyn, please,’ Yvette said with a slightly impatient tone. ‘If you’re inferring parallels, they’re of your own making. I’m talking about Elizabeth.’
My fragility had been laid too bare.
Yvette had painted a different portrait of Kenilworth. I preferred to see it as embodying romantic court life with indulgent feasts; a castle “modernised” in the hope of creating love between friends and not the dark scheming of a power greedy earl. If exploring history uncovered variants of the truth, then at least I could rely on the camera always capturing solid and informative facts. Was that the reason I hankered for Medici and his strange project?
Yvette’s canvas lace-ups were soaked.
I pointed at Yvette’s shoes. ‘Sorry. I should have suggested you wore boots or something,’
Yvette answered with a little shrug of indifference. ‘Did he marry again? Dudley?’
The abrupt question echoed within the walls of the gatehouse. ‘Yes. Lettice Knolls.’
Yvette chuckled. ‘From Elizabeth, the Great Queen Bess, to somebody named Lettice. I bet she was a bit limp after the grandeur of a queen.’
Dudley had found happiness, of sorts. My shoulders slumped and I sighed, miserably.
‘Penny for them,’ Yvette said, fishing out the car keys from her exquisite handbag.
‘Just, you know, thinking,’ I said vaguely.
I wanted the camera to be my tool and enable me to record a historical landscape that might one day be lost to time. Cautious about who I spoke to and how I shared my thoughts, I had bottled aspirations and avoided expressing them to others, including Yvette. Until David’s offer had partially resuscitated me, I had been paying the price for that introversion. And now the perceptive Yvette, sensing my reticence, had brought me to Kenilworth. Examining the camera, I noticed I’d used a forty-eight exposure of film. It couldn’t go on, this lunacy; reel after reel with no purpose other than to sit in a box waiting for an occasional viewing.
I opened the car door. ‘Thanks for bringing me here.’
‘My pleasure. Thanks for the tour. I think I understand a little better what it is that inspires you.’ Yvette disappeared below the car roof, hiding her windswept features from scrutiny.
I doubted Yvette understood; she’d not asked the right questions. A spot of rain landed on my nose, and I ducked into the car.
The engine started.
‘I’ll tell Mum and Dad tomorrow. Sign the contract. Hand in my notice.’
Back at home, Yvette followed me into the house to greet my parents and engage in friendly chit-chat. Mum, though, rose from her seat before Yvette could speak, and with knotted eyebrows, addressed my friend.
‘Everything okay?’
I exhaled heavily and stepped between them. ‘It’s alright, Mum.’
‘No funny turns this time, or dizziness?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’ She expressed her pleasure with a nod at my father. ‘See.’
