Halting in front of a door, the curator reached for his ring of keys and bent over the lock. “He limped.”
“Who limped?”
“The gentleman. Not a severe impairment. He might have returned from a grueling ride.”
John Randolph, Elizabeth thought. “Was this visitor in his early thirties, a shade over six feet, with dark hair and blue eyes?”
“Could be.” Mr. Waterman removed the key from the lock and returned the ring to its rightful place. “It’s so hard to say.”
“Was his name, by any chance, John Randolph?” Elizabeth pressed. “Did he say where he lived? Anything concerning his occupation? Anything at all that you can remember?”
Even as she tried to jog the curator’s memory, she knew the odds against John strolling into London’s central library, looking for the Alcester Chronicles. Such a coincidence defied all reason. And yet, by his own admission, he had read her books. Maybe he had been particularly interested in Castles of Doom, and wanted to learn more about the ending. But how would he have heard of such an obscure chronicle? And if he had stumbled across its existence, why not just reach for a dozen translated histories? Why would anyone save an historian or a desperate Gothic novelist show any interest in the ancient manuscript?
It must be somebody else, Elizabeth decided. In a crowd of people, at least one individual would possess a limp. A person could fall from his horse, be born with a bad leg—a dozen things might cause such a condition. Why, even the gallant who had escorted her through Vauxhall Gardens had affected a rather sprightly hobble.
“My treasure house,” Waterman said, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth entrance. “I would not trade one of these manuscripts for all the gold in the kingdom.”
Glancing around, Elizabeth felt a smile crease the corners of her mouth. She saw that a skylight bathed the tiny room in a pleasant natural light. The furnishings consisted solely of a huge cluttered desk and a chair. Glass bookcases, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling on three sides, displayed dozens of bulky manuscripts.
“Just think,” Waterman said, gesturing toward the cases with his elegant hands. “Some of these works are hundreds of years old.”
“Yes,” breathed Elizabeth.
She imagined a monk, his tonsured head gleaming softly in the light from a large window. Seated in a high-backed chair, his legs rested on a footstool beneath his desk. His right hand, encased in a fingerless glove, toyed with a quill. Raising the quill, he dipped its tip in a nearby inkhorn and began writing on the lined parchment. He paused to flex his fingers. Lowering the quill, he gazed out the window. He looked mortally sad. Something terrible had happened, a great tragedy that he must record…
Elizabeth blinked and the monk faded. Sometimes, during her writing, she conjured up vivid scenes so realistic she could almost believe she had actually witnessed them. When Mr. Waterman said she aimed for historical accuracy, he could not know that much of her so-called research was her imagination.
“Do sit down, Miss Wyndham.” The curator pulled out the lone chair. From behind one of the glass doors he retrieved a manuscript. Then he cleared a place atop his desk.
Elizabeth noted that the book’s binding was adorned with a plate of carved ivory, while its clasp was of worked silver.
Waterman maneuvered his spectacles atop the bridge of his nose. “St. Bernard used to say, ‘Every word you write is a blow which smites the devil.’ A very Catholic concept, but I find it charming, don’t you?”
“Charming,” she echoed.
He opened the Chronicles. A shaft of sunlight fell upon the book, illuminating each page as he carefully turned it. Elizabeth saw an occasional huge initial denoting the beginning of a chapter, plus numerous illustrations too small to identify. Such startling colors, she thought, experiencing a mixture of anticipation and disquiet. I never dreamed they would be so intense.
“Would you like me to begin with the Battle of Evesham, or earlier?” Waterman asked.
“Earlier, please. There’s so much I don’t know.”
The curator ran his finger down the column of Gothic script, uttering a word here and there. “Yes. This seems a likely place, Miss Wyndham.”
He began with Simon de Montfort’s lineage. The Montforts were from France, where Simon’s father had been one of those who had crushed the Cathari heresy. Which meant that Simon’s heritage was a dark one, for thousands had died rather than recant their beliefs.
A legacy bathed in blood, Elizabeth thought, suppressing a shudder. When Mr. Waterman continued, she squeezed her eyes shut. His voice was gentle, even soothing, as he recounted Simon’s marriage to Henry the Third’s sister, Eleanor, and the events that gradually tore apart the king and his brother-in-law. Mr. Waterman detailed Simon and Henry’s struggle for power—the profligate ruler and his unyielding subject fighting over the power of the barons.
Concentrate, Elizabeth! Soon you will know. Know what?
The curator’s voice lulled her into a peculiar relaxed state, which hovered between sleeping and waking. Images swam before her. Images of cavernous rooms and narrow stone hallways. Images of armed riders racing toward forests so dense they looked like black walls. Images of bearded men clustered together, hatching conspiracies.
“We’re nearing the civil war,” said Waterman, and Elizabeth could tell by the sound of his voice that he had looked up from the Chronicles. “Of course, this accounting favors the barons’ point of view. However, this is the part that should interest you most, Miss Wyndham. Am I correct?”
“Yes.” Her feeling of well-being faded, along with her sensation of floating upon a river of timelessness.
Waterman resumed reading. His tone was louder, more forceful. “For that short time, de Montfort virtually wrested the crown from King Henry and ruled England. His enemies termed de Montfort’s rule the blackest time in history.”
“Black,” Elizabeth whispered. Somewhere, Simon de Montfort was connected with something black. Yes. That was important. That was the key. Opening her eyes, she leaned toward the curator. “Was the color black related to Simon de Montfort? Was it used as an epithet, something like ‘the Black Montfort’ or ‘Simon the Black’?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
A memory stirred in her mind, a memory from long ago. “Did the monks refer to his black deeds or his black heart?”
The curator shook his head, but she persisted. “What about his followers? Somehow I associate the color with him.”
“Not that I can recall.” Waterman removed his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. “But perhaps it could be so, Miss Wyndham. I have read much, and my memory grows as feeble as my body.”
Staring at the pages, Elizabeth felt her uneasiness turn once more to an overwhelming, inexplicable fear. She gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to remain seated, even though every instinct urged her to flee.
“This year saw a great battle between King Henry and many of the barons of the realm,” Waterman read. He went on to detail the army that His Majesty was assembling and Simon’s response. “The news concerning the King’s actions reached the wiser party, including the much to-be-revered Lord Simon and his most trusted barons, men such as Gilbert of Clare and Ranulf Navarre, also called Ranulf the Black.”
“Stop!” Elizabeth cried. An icy gust of wind seemed to blow across her. “Ranulf Navarre. Ranulf the Black. There it is.”
The curator smiled. “You are well informed, Miss Wyndham. His is not a name well known outside scholarly circles. I have read countless histories, but only a few lines about Navarre. The Chronicles deal with him more extensively than any other source.”
“Tell me about… this man.”
I must have read about him before, she thought. But where? Especially if he is only an incidental footnote.
Most likely she had heard a similar name and confused th
e two. But how could the name Ranulf Navarre cause confusion? And why would the mere utterance of a dead knight’s name cause her to feel something akin to panic?
“Tell me about this man,” she repeated. “Please.”
“Ranulf Navarre was Simon’s most trusted advisor, Miss Wyndham, but the Chronicles mention very little about any man’s personality. The king’s chroniclers merely refer to him as evil.”
“Yes,” she said faintly. “Is there a physical description of Ranulf Navarre?”
Ranulf Navarre. Ralf Darkstarre. The two names echoed off the corridors of her mind. Ranulf Navarre. Ralf Darkstarre.
The curator peered at her from above his spectacles, and for the first time Elizabeth sensed disapproval. An historian would never concern himself with the physical description of a footnote. Only a silly woman would favor such a description.
“The monks did not devote their efforts to a man’s appearance,” Waterman said, his voice brusque. Then, relenting, he added, “The monks might occasionally describe a king, Miss Wyndham. However, they did not detail the few men who stood on the perimeters of history.”
He returned to his reading, but Elizabeth no longer listened, for she now knew that she could never finish her novel.
Navarre-Darkstarre, Navarre-Darkstarre singsonged her mind.
“They assembled at the vale of Evesham and—”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Waterman.” Elizabeth bolted to her feet. “You’ve been too kind. I’ve found out everything I needed to know.”
The curator looked startled. “Well, I hope I have been of some help.” After returning his spectacles to his pocket, he extended the Chronicles toward her. “Would you care to hold the manuscript, Miss Wyndham? I feel you are a kindred spirit, that you revere history as greatly as you do the printed word. I have found that the mere feel of parchment beneath my fingers is quite moving, and I believe that you would feel the same way. Am I correct?”
“Yes. No. Yes.” Elizabeth stared down at the manuscript, at the brilliant red and gold initial writhing like a serpent down the right margin, and she knew that no power on earth could make her touch that book.
“Go ahead,” Waterman urged. “Touch your history, Miss Wyndham.”
“What do you mean, my history?”
“It is all our history, is it not? Don’t fret. The parchment is extremely durable. You cannot hurt it.”
“I must go,” Elizabeth whispered, and before the curator could protest, she turned and fled from the room.
Five
Elizabeth braced her feet against the opposite side of the coach. The road was abominable, and they hadn’t even begun the last steep climb toward the White Hart. Her gloved fingers tightened around a leather-bound copy of Castles of Doom. Inside the hollowed-out book was two hundred pounds, one-fourth the sum she needed to pay off her father’s gambling debts. Charles Beresford had promised to transfer the remainder by post.
“I cannot allow you to travel with eight hundred pounds on your person,” he had said, his voice decisive.
Penelope had agreed. “Remember Lady Avery’s dreadful happenstance,” she had warned, thrusting a small bronze of Calliope, the Greek muse of poets, into Elizabeth’s hands. An appropriate good-bye gift.
Charles Beresford’s “gift” had been even more agreeable, for he had handed over her financial balance sheet.
Contemplating the fiscal rendering, Elizabeth felt a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I don’t need a man for anything, she told herself. A plague on men in general, and John Randolph in particular.
After she devised a suitably inaccurate ending for Castles, she would write a book about John. She would concoct some dangerous profession for him, perhaps soldier of fortune. Or pirate. Did pirates exist in the Middle Ages?
No matter. Whatever the vocation, John would be jilted by the woman he adored, then die of some dreadful, lingering disease, perhaps leprosy.
Elizabeth’s more immediate concern, however, was with her homecoming. She had hired an expensive coach at Harrogate, and she wore a fashionable muslin purchased in London. “There goes Bess, the landlord’s daughter,” everybody would say. “Doesn’t she look the stupendously successful authoress?” All right. Maybe they wouldn’t say stupendously successful. Maybe they’d say she was sitting pretty. Or well-heeled.
At the thought, she slumped down and pressed her heels harder, allowing her legs, rather than her rump, to absorb the jolts.
“I swear, when we reach home, no one will ever talk me into leavin’ again,” Grace said, her voice somewhat muffled by her handkerchief. “I cannot tell ye how much I hate travelin’.”
Elizabeth removed her gloves and flexed her fingers, trying to alleviate their stiffness. It had rained much of the day and she looked forward to nestling beneath a mound of quilts in the privacy of her own bedroom. Still, after five days spent listening to Grace’s coughs and groans and complaints, she felt duty bound to contradict everything her maid said.
“Travel is a wonderful experience, Grace.”
“Not when ye’re carryin’ all that money.” Leaning across the seat, she tapped Castles of Doom with her index finger. “What’ll ye do if we’re robbed?”
“Who’s going to rob us out here? Ghosts?” Elizabeth pulled back the curtain and stared through the window. Patches of fog crisscrossed the highway, catching on bare branches, rock walls, and the stubble of surrounding fields.
“I like ghosts better than highwaymen, Mistress.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, deflecting an acrimonious retort. During the first part of their journey, they had shared the coach with a hangman who had spent the trip from London to Coventry regaling them with tales of the highwaymen he had executed.
“Remember when Mr. Cooke told us ’bout that one highwayman what cut the finger off a lady who wouldn’t part with her ring? Ah-ow-oo!” Grace’s screech echoed throughout the coach’s tight interior. “Then there was another what slit open the stomach of a passenger who’d swallowed her jewels.”
“That was merely Mr. Cooke’s way of flirting with you, Grace. Highwaymen are more likely to be patricians down on their luck. Don’t you remember what the papers said about the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion?”
“Ye know I can’t read.”
“They said that highwaymen are the elite of the underworld.”
Grace sneezed into her handkerchief. The coach plunged forward. Elizabeth tried to gauge their whereabouts from various landmarks. Earlier, they had passed through the town of Ripon, which meant they must be somewhere near the ruins of Fountains Abbey.
With a sigh, she resumed her former position, and—during a particularly loathsome jounce—nearly smashed her head against the top of the coach.
“Well, I can tell ye this much,” said Grace, her cheeks flushing a dull pink. “The only reason the Dales’ve not been overrun by cutthroats is ’cause of Lord Stafford, God bless ’im.”
“It has nothing to do with Lord Stafford, Grace. What self-respecting highwayman would waste his time in a place that has more sheep than people?”
“Ye’ll not give Lord Stafford credit for nothin’, Mistress. What’ll ye do if a highwayman swoops down on us this very moment and takes every shillin’?”
“I still have over two thousand pounds on account at Minerva Press.” Dropping Castles of Doom into her lap, nudging the statue aside with her hips, Elizabeth rummaged through her traveling bag until she found her statement, which she waved before Grace’s eyes. “Look at this. I’ve saved more money than most people make in a lifetime.”
Even as she pointed to the bottom line, she thought: Why am I justifying myself to my maid, who cannot read the bottom line and would not be convinced if she could?
She jammed the paper back into her bag. “I know this may seem strange, but I’m proud of my independence. Even if I were nicer to Lord St
afford, and he really meant his marriage proposals, once we were wed I would have no say over any of my funds. He could burn every pound if it pleased him, and the law would be on his side. I shall never risk losing what I have worked so hard to achieve.”
Which sounded fine enough, thought Elizabeth, except that, despite her brave words, despite her considerable fortune, after she finished paying off her father’s debts, she would be considerably less independent. Especially if she couldn’t finish Castles of Doom.
Suppose her writing career was indeed over? Then she’d simply devise some new way to earn a respectable living. She might return to teaching; years back she had taught reading and spelling at a dame-school. How about portrait painting? She had a bit of talent with the oils.
Grace unballed her handkerchief and searched for a dry spot. “Ye’re a peculiar woman, Mistress, if ever I’ve known one.”
“You’re right, Grace.” Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the window and the darkness, as if seeking something beyond the fog, beyond the abbey ruins. This was one of those moments when she knew she had made a monumental mistake by not marrying and having children and conforming to society’s dictates.
Where did it all go wrong? she wondered. How did I ever get so out of step with the rest of the world?
Once she had thought herself in love with a local sheepherder. She had terminated that relationship when she realized that she and her shepherd had little in common beyond the physical.
Her stepmother, Dorothea, had never unearthed the affair, not that Elizabeth gave a tinker’s damn what her stepmother believed or disbelieved. Dorothea, however, had set her sights on Lord Stafford, and Elizabeth’s lack of virginity might be considered an impediment.
Lord Stafford reminded Elizabeth of her father, except Walter Stafford accrued possessions while Lawrence Wyndham accrued debts. Elizabeth knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if Walter meant his marriage proposals, and if she accepted, she would be nothing more than a Lord Stafford possession. She also suspected that her frequent refusals merely fueled Walter’s desire to possess her.
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