The Dark Island

Queen Anne’s

Curse

Revised edition 01/2024

Stephen Challis

The author and editor wrote and edited this book in Microsoft Word, using United Kingdom English.

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Publisher’s note: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the unknown archer whose remains were recovered from a storeroom in the wreck of the Carrick Warship, Mary Rose, by divers from The Mary Rose Trust, and to the rest of the crew who perished with him on 19th July, 1545.

May they rest in peace.

Forward

John Rombaud was a troubled man.  He had recently returned from England to English occupied Calais after his latest and most notable execution.  The year was 1536 and his latest victim had been the consort of the English Monarch Henry Tudor.  Henry the VIII as history would record him.  Queen Anne Boleyn had paid the price for her indiscretions in court.  She had faced death with dignity, and a courage beyond that of her 34 years.  Rombaud was a professional.  If he had any pity or concern for his victim, it did not show.

The well-placed blow instantly severed her head, and the loose fitting blindfold had come loose as it struck the floor.  Her eyes flickered open and seemed to focus on her killer before her head rolled away, coming to rest in the straw on the scaffold.  Blood from the severed jugular continued to pump from the torso while most of the small crowd watched in sombre respect; there was no cheering.

The vision would haunt his dreams for many years.  He did not know this woman, only her status.  In the power struggles of 17th century England, it seemed unlikely that she had committed any of the crimes she had been accused of, but he was not concerned about that.  He received a generous payment for his work, and the queen’s distraught ladies-in-waiting swiftly covered the bloody body and severed head.

Henry did not attend the execution, but he gave strict instructions for disposing of the body without ceremony, in a private chapel.  One of the tearful ladies-in-waiting had approached him and thanked him for doing his duty swiftly, and without causing suffering.  As she bent forward, she clasped his hand; startled, he looked down at the gold and Emerald encrusted ring pressed into his palm.  She whispered softly;

Good sir, this is my ladi’s ring.  It has brought her nothing but pain and suffering in this world.  Please take it far from this land, ensure it does not bring misfortune to any other woman.  My Lady cursed it in our presence and all who would wear it.

Then she was gone, back to the body, in tears. 

Now, back at his home in France, Rombaud stared at the ring.  He knew it was valuable, no doubt, worth a king’s ransom. He chuckled at the irony, but he was also aware he could hardly sell it.  Henry had decreed that all portraits of the late queen be destroyed.  Her name and memory were to be stricken from public record.  Should he find out that Anne’s personal gift from him had been stolen by a lady-in-waiting, and given to her executioner, his rage would be indeterminable.  So he needed to dispose of it, discreetly, and preferably swiftly.

Until then, the ring must disappear.  Of course, the obvious thought occurred to him he should just destroy it.  He seriously considered doing just that for several days.  But the ring was exquisite, a gift from one of the most powerful rulers in the world to his wife.  In this day and age, people believed emeralds offered the wearer the protection of God, a powerful image.  Of course, Rombaud had no such beliefs. The demise of its former owner testified to the shallowness of such claims, yet still he could not see his way to destroy it.  The following morning, he set off for Loire Valley.  There, he maintained a summer residence, obtained some years before, in payment for a job that was, shall we say, not strictly legal.  There, he had placed the ring in a lead box, and sealed it inside with a hot iron, before burying it adjacent to an outside privy: a place where no man would tarry longer than he had to.  And there it may have remained for all time, save an incident in the life of Rombaud that resurrected it, and set it on a course that would change many lives forever.

Six years later, with no sign of interest from England, or its monarch, regarding the ring, the master swordsman and executioner had moved on, no longer taking commissions for legalised murder, he was earning a good living as a sword maker, and instructor.  He had married, and the unpleasant memories of Queen Anne Boleyn had faded from his daily thoughts.  His country retreat in the Loire Valley was becoming a very much under-used facility.  His wife had been urging him to sell it and use the capital to expand the sword academy.  It was a sound plan, but then there was the ring.  It is highly unlikely that anyone would ever find it.  However, if a new owner discovers it and attempts to sell it, someone might identify its unique design.  And as the previous owner, the trail would lead back to him.  Quite simply, it was a chance he could not take.  His wife, though aware of his previous occupation, and even the fact he had wielded the sword that dispatched King Henry’s second wife, still did not know of the ring, and he intended to keep it that way.

On his next visit, he would retrieve it and dispose of it in the jewellery markets of Boulogne.

That did not happen. Relations between England and France had deteriorated over France’s support for the Scots, and the English who already occupied Calais marched on, and then lay siege to Boulogne.

Having safely recovered the ring, he once again considered destroying it.  But aware of its significance and value, he again could not bring himself to take that last step.  Despite it being sealed underground for 6 years, the ring was in remarkable condition.  Set in gold, the 7 emeralds sparkled with a light of their own.  Radiant and alluring, like a beautiful woman, but behind the façade lay the hint of a dark and malevolent heart.  For three days he kept the ring hidden at his residence in St. Omer, but then disaster hit.  His housemaid found it, and assuming it belonged to his wife, had handed it to her.  This inevitably had led to a somewhat awkward conversation.  Faced with little choice, he revealed to her the full story behind his possession of it.  For a moment, she stared at the ring.

And you say the Queen cursed the ring and all future owners?

Rombaud nodded.  Well, even if Henry has no interest in it, what woman would want to own it, let alone wear it?

His wife smiled.

You know little of women, my love.  I know of many who would love to own a royal ring, regardless of any curse.  We have to find a buyer who is not likely to betray us to the King.  I know of such a man.  Oh, he will haggle over the price, and I will allow him to cheat me a little, and he can sell it on for a good profit.

Rombaud was unsure.

How can you be sure he won’t just inform the English?

His wife smiled and patted his hand.

The man I have in mind lost two sons to Henry’s army in Ireland, fighting for the Earl of Kildare.  He hates Henry Tudor, and all the English, for that matter.

Rombaud realised he was no longer in control.  The plan seemed foolproof and the following day, Marie Rombaud travelled to Calais and visited the shop owned by a Monsignor Francis De Winter.

British born De Winter was a renowned jeweller and traded with many rich and aristocratic residents of both French and British descent.  The sight of the ring intrigued De Winter immediately.  Marie told him the story, but omitted her husband’s name; just that he had received it from a man who had got it from a lady-in-waiting at the scene of the execution. 

De Winter was a shrewd entrepreneur and knew the story was likely true.  He had heard stories of a ring that seemed to have vanished after the queens’ execution.  Such a history would command a top price.  After examining the ring, he handed it back to Marie.

Well, it is a fine ring, madam, and of course it may have come from England, but there is no proof it did so.  And with the current situation between France and England, money is, of course, tight.  However, to help you out, I can make you a fair offer of 20 testoons.

Marie knew the offer was woefully below the value, and decided to play a short round of haggling.  Just enough to make the dealer worried he may lose the deal. 

She replied,

Well!  Your offer is considerably lower than a friend of my husband, a Monsignor Rabat, who also deals in fine jewellery offered me.  Do you know him? 

De Winter knew him well, and that he was a man of greater means than himself.  He did not relish the thought of losing such a valuable piece to him.  He thought for a moment before replying,

Of course you could sell to Monsignor Rabat, but he is friendly to the British Governor here. There may be, shall we say, awkward questions.  However, I want to give you a fair deal.  So I may stretch to 25 testoons.

Marie waited for what seemed like ages before replying, putting on the most reluctant voice she could muster.

If you make it 28 testoons, we have a deal.

De Winter could hardly believe his luck, 28 Testoons for a ring that could easily fetch 75 in the right market. 

He extended his hand.

I think we have a deal, madam.

Table of Chapter Contents

Confrontation

Going back

Doubts

Reaching Out

Night Terrors

The Séance

Revelations

Challenges

Disaster from the Sky

On the Trail

Ghosts from the deep

Answers

Confronting the evil within

Death reaches out from the other side

Off the Radar

Opposites Attract

Dark Forces

Dark Days for the Spencer’s

Confrontation

Epilogue

Bibliography & Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

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Questions

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David Spencer awoke suddenly.  His breathing was rapid, and his heartbeat seemed abnormally fast.  He glanced around the room.  Slowly, it came into focus.  It was just a dream, an intense dream which was now evaporating into the sunlight and the sense of reality that flooded into his world.  What was it about?  Did it involve some sort of warning questions he could not answer?

He looked to his left, where last night he had seen Debbie lying alongside him.  Now there was an empty space, covers thrown back.  A quick glance at the alarm clock showed the time: 7:47 AM.  He lay there for a few minutes.  It was Sunday.  No work today, so why was Debbie up so early.  The sounds of clinking dishes from the kitchen told him she was still in the house.  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

His heartbeat was now returning to normal, and the sweating had subsided.  His first thought was to head for the shower, but hell, it was Sunday, and the shower could wait.  He threw on his short dressing coat that barely covered his naked form and headed for the kitchen. Hi sweetheart, you’re up early.

Debbie turned to look at him directly and started to answer; instead, she smiled half-heartedly and asked if he fancied a coffee.

David smiled back. That sounds like a plan.

Debbie took the coffee filter jar and began to fill it while David looked around for his cell phone.  Finally, he gave up.

Sweetheart, have you seen my phone?

His wife looked up and momentarily, a look of almost guilt flashed over her face, before she replied.

Yes, I picked it up this morning on the bedroom floor.  I thought it was mine. 

She took the phone from her robe pocket and handed it to him.  He nodded and sat back down. As he turned on the phone, he failed to notice that it was set on contacts, but he quickly switched to messages and scanned through them.

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Debbie looked calm and pretty cute in her skimpy baby doll and open robe, but inside, her mind was anything but calm.  Finally, she looked up. 

So, how did you sleep?

Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. I woke up suddenly.  I think I was having a nightmare, my heart was racing, and I felt pretty scared.

If he had been expecting sympathy, then he was to be disappointed. 

What was the dream about? she said softly.

He looked up at her; she was not smiling, but had a determined look on her face, a look that all but demanded an answer.

That’s the weird thing I don’t know.  I cannot recall any details.  Something about being trapped, being alone, and being terrified.  It was surreal.  I’ve had nightmares before, but I always remembered them, this time, nothing.

David’s reply wrong footed her and left her with no opportunity to access his inner thoughts.  She sipped her coffee before replying,

I think you have had several dreams recently.  I think something is troubling you.

David nodded. 

I’ve noticed that, but I can’t imagine what it is.  Work’s OK.  Our relationship seems pretty good, and we do not seem to have any money problems.  What do you think?

Debbie shrugged

Beats me, sweetie, but it is a worry.  Maybe you should speak to your doctor.

David laughed.

I’m sure the inspector would love that.  The force shrink would have a field day.

Of course, Debbie knew that only too well.  Both were serving police officers in the Hampshire Constabulary and had been married in 1998 almost 3 years ago.  So far, the force had assigned both of them to the western area, and they were serving at Portsmouth and Portswood stations on corresponding shifts.  However, that accommodation was not a forgone conclusion.  It was not unknown for couples out of favour with the hierarchy to separate them to encourage resignation.  The golden rule was not to rock the boat, and keep private matters private. 

There the matter rested, but David knew it would not go away.  The events of that night proved him right.

David got in at 10:30 PM after his day shift.   Debbie was on split shift, and would be off at midnight.  After changing and pouring himself a Rum and Coke cocktail, he settled down to await her.

It had been a pretty rough shift, and the local news was showing a repeat of the salvage operation of a Tudor warship in the Solent, called the ‘Mary Rose’. They had recovered it in 1982 the year he had been born.  David had never been that interested in history; and although the operation had been the talk of the region at the time, he thought it was all ancient history. Nothing connected with his real passion, supporting the Saints, Southampton’s premier football club.  He quickly began to doze. 

At a quarter after midnight, Debbie pulled into the drive.  Noticing that the ground floor light was on, she picked up the pizza from the passenger seat and entered the house.  The disturbance awoke David, who immediately began coughing and choking.  As Debbie reached him, he was already on his knees. He reached out and grabbed her hands tightly and painfully, almost as if his life depended on it.  She struggled free and yelled his name. The effect was instantaneous.  He opened his eyes and looked wildly around. 

Thank God, he murmured before embracing her.  Debbie could feel the sweat moistening his t-shirt and felt his pounding heart.  This was not the first nightmare her husband had experienced.  Sometimes he called out a woman’s name, other times he swore, before waking.  Debbie still did not know what was troubling him, but was beginning to suspect it was nothing to do with any other woman.  This was something far deeper and scarier.  They both sat up late talking, in part, because David did not want to return to sleeping, for fear of what awaited him in the subconscious area of his mind.  As for Debbie, she knew she needed to do something.  When she really needed advice, the one person she could always count on was her father.  A retired police Chief Inspector with 25 years’ service. He earned great respect and held various achievements, including being the Master of the local Masonic Lodge. This position allowed him to connect with professionals from different fields, such as doctors and individuals with academic backgrounds.  That morning, she called him.

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Two days later, Retired Police Chief Inspector Geoffrey Hawthorne arrived at the Spencer’s.  David was not home, so his daughter requested this meeting to be arranged for that time.  Hawthorne greeted her warmly, with a hug and kiss on the forehead.  But he sensed right away that this was no normal social visit.  Debbie was nervous, and at least to a trained police officer, it was obvious.  She made two mugs of coffee and sat down.  There was a moment’s awkward silence, which her father broke.

"Ok Kitten, so what’s the