“Beth, oh my Beth! What has that wretched man done to you?”
Charles lay across the hall being examined by the housekeeper, and he jumped suddenly, his guilty mind hearing this and wondering what Paul might suspect. Was the reference to a ‘wretched man’ referring to the treasonous doctor, or to him? Did Paul somehow know what had happened in the cottage? But then, what had actually happened? Had anything occurred? Charles had no way of knowing…unless she could remember it. He only knew he had dreamt of passion in a woman’s embrace and then awakened in her warm bed. Perhaps, nothing happened.
But their clothing had been scattered on the floor, he reminded himself. And he thought he recalled seeing bright blood upon the sheets—but he forced the memories down, praying the drug now played tricks with his mind.
He shut his eyes, longing to remember truly, worrying about the woman he loved more than life, but his memories remained little more than a confused garble of ghosts and guilt. “Lord help me, I cannot remember!” he cried out, weeping, and the housekeeper hushed him.
“There, now, sir. You’re all a-fever. Mr. Laurence, can you hold him? He’s thrashing about like a madman!”
Standing nearby, Drummond feared for his loved ones. “What happened out there?” he asked Laurence as the butler looked up from his position near Sinclair’s couch.
“Wolves, sir.”
Drummond’s face pinched with concern and dread. “How many?” he asked, tensely.
“Six, sir, plus the leader. As usual, the pack went down easily, but the leader cannot be taken with bullets. He left off the chase though with the sunrise. Lord Haimsbury, sir, he said something about a farmer and his wife—and gypsies. He wasn’t making much sense, my lord. His eyes, the pupils are so wide; they’ve nearly gone black. So have those of the duchess.”
James kicked at the wall, his poorly aimed boot glancing off the polished woodwork. “Fool!”
“Sorry, my lord,” the butler said softly. “We tried, sir.”
“Not you, lad,” the duke replied gently, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You did well. Better than I at your age. Your father, rest his soul, would have been proud of you tonight, Matthew. No, I’m the fool. This was clearly all a ruse. I was meant to send Sinclair out after the doctor. Wait, you said there was a farmer? What farmer?”
“I don’t know, sir. We can learn more when Mr. Sinclair—Lord Haimsbury, I mean—is making more sense.”
The duke turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. MacAnder, do you know what this drug might be?”
She opened the detective’s eyes, prying the lids apart with her fingers. They looked like midnight pools, and his cheeks were flushed. “I canno’ say for sure. He is feverish, sir. I am worried he may have been poisoned. I’ve seen devil’s cherries do this to a man, dilate the pupils and cause nervous prostration—the old wives called it dwale, I believe, and it’s said to be a favourite of witches.”
Paul appeared at the door, leaning against the moulding of the frame, his own face flushed. “Whatever they gave Charles, they gave also to Beth. Her eyes look the same. Did I hear you say the wolves attacked?”
Laurence helped the earl to a chair, nodding. “Yes, sir. The big one was the leader—like before. We killed the six, but nothing takes down the big grey.”
“With red eyes,” Charles moaned. “Red eyes! God help us! Save us! What have I done?” he moaned, his body shivering.
“This is all my fault,” Paul said, looking with concern to his friend. “If I’d been more careful on the train, then I would have avoided injury, and none of this would have occurred.”
James kissed his nephew’s head and looked into his face. “Son, we are in deep waters now. All that we know—all that we’ve done has been but prelude. Everything has changed, and the enemy knew it before we could realise the change had come. He is piping a new tune, but we must not dance. We may seek our Lord’s guidance and protection, but He asks that we use the brains he gave us in this battle. Our fight is, as St. Paul said, against spiritual wickedness, and against powers and principalities. Not things of this world, but of an unseen realm of beings who are at war! That big grey may not flinch at a bullet, but he’ll bow to the Christ, will he not? Good, then, buck up! Our Saviour is still at the head of this war, so no more despairing, nor blaming yourself. We must take our places on the battlefield in the armour we’re given and trust to Him for the rest. Now, I say we all sleep if we can. It’s been a restless night, and we’re all exhausted.. We shall investigate more tomorrow.”
The duke then turned to the young butler. “Laurence, a word.”
He walked into the hallway and led the butler toward the guest library, going inside and shutting the door. “Lad, do you think you could try to find this farmer that my nephew mentioned?”
“Yes, sir. Do we have a name?”
“Ask Charles if he can remember it, but do not push him. He’s been through much this night. Your loyalty and quick thinking have revealed you to be worth your weight in gold, my boy. We must discuss a new position for you soon—as one of our agents. For now, you go sleep ‘til you’re rested, and then tomorrow take your men to find that farm.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t fail you.”
“You need only be concerned with pleasing Christ,” James said, tapping the man’s shoulder with pride.
Laurence left and returned to Charles, who had calmed somewhat in the past few minutes. “Sir, can you tell me anything more about the farmer?”
Sinclair’s face flushed again, and his fists clenched. “They did something! The tea! Or—music, wolves. I’m not sure. Farmer?”
“Yes, sir,” the lad persisted patiently. “First name? Last?”
“Hamish and Maggie,” Charles said suddenly, his mind miraculously clearing for a moment. “Two cottages, a barn, sheep, cows. A large windmill. Wait—wait!” he said, gripping Laurence’s arm and turning to look into his face. “The barn. A great red one, but it had something painted on it. Just above the doors. A large, white bird.”
Sitting nearby, Paul’s face grew ashen. “A bird?” he repeated, his stomach knotting. “Did it—did it have a red spot on its wings?”
Charles nodded, his pupils like saucers. “It did. But only on one of them.”
Laurence looked at the earl, and both men knew.
Redwing had infiltrated the county.
It was past four in the afternoon before Charles awoke, his head pounding, but his fever gone. He could vaguely recall the events in the cottage, remember the dream dance and awaking next to Elizabeth, but he had no clear memory of what may have truly happened between them. He prayed it was all merely a dream and decided the best course for him to pursue now was to find his courage and serve her cause by joining the inner circle.
As he rose to dress, he found a note, written in the duke’s strong hand telling him a meeting had been called in his private library, and it would commence as soon as Sinclair could join them, anytime that afternoon.
Still somewhat unsteady on his feet, Charles sat next to a table where he found a pitcher filled with water. Pouring the water into a beautifully painted porcelain bowl, he glanced into the mirror Carlton had brought him. As he shaved, Sinclair wondered if his face held the secrets of his lineage, for in truth, he did bear a striking resemblance to Paul Stuart. Their foreheads were identical, high and broad. His own nose was slightly straighter and a bit wider in the bridge, and his brows and hair much darker. His chin bore a cleft like the earl’s, though not as deeply chiseled. Both had almond shaped eyes, and his irises shone with a variant of Paul’s blue. Even their hairlines and ears were similar. They could indeed be brothers.
Sinclair heard a gentle knock and turned to find Matthew Laurence, looking tired also, standing in the open door to the drawing room. “Sir, the duke asks if you are ready,” the young butler said, his face drawn, his green eyes rimmed i
n red.
“Yes, thank you, Laurence. And thank you for last night. Had you and your men not arrived when you did, we would never had made it. The duchess and I owe our lives to you.”
Laurence bowed. “It is my honour, sir. Now, if I may, I shall take you to the others.” As they walked, Charles asked about Elizabeth and Paul. “The duchess still sleeps, sir, but she is in no danger now. Mrs. MacAnder is keeping close watch over her, and she believes the duchess will recover fully by evening. And the earl has much improved with sleep and awaits inside the library with the others.”
Their journey took them along the main foyer and into the central part of the house, where a grand gallery, lined with the portraits of dukes and earls, shepherded them through a series of large meeting rooms and a small anteroom that ended at two enormous, oaken doors. Pushing one open, the butler showed Charles into the immense room beyond.
If Elizabeth’s library in London had impressed the detective—had that been only a week before?—then, this room would fit a king’s idea of perfection. The domed ceiling soared forty feet above their heads, decorated with gold-leafed mouldings and hand-painted murals, whilst four golden chandeliers provided sparkle and light. Along each wall, red and gold, handcrafted wallpapers peeked from between massive shelving, each vertical carved and embellished with roses and vines. Above each, in the centre of the lintel moulding, a curious symbol that looked like a circle enclosing a stylized shepherd’s crook or perhaps the letter ‘P’ crossed by what looked like the letter ‘S’ stood out in relief, and every shelf was crowded with priceless volumes and many, many Bibles in all languages, as well as roll upon roll of original manuscripts contained within leather tubes.
The room smelled like leather and wisdom, and in the centre of this remarkable space, around a single, rectangular table of gilded mahogany sat the duke, Paul, two men unknown to Charles, and to his great relief, Martin Kepelheim.
The latter rose as Sinclair entered. “My dear friend!” the tailor exclaimed. “It is so good to see you, and in surroundings that suit you, I think.”
Charles stepped forward eagerly and embraced the older man. “Kepelheim! It is a joy and relief to see you, my brave friend. How fares Branham?”
“Bent but unbroken,” he answered, walking Charles to a chair to the duke’s right. “Sit here, my friend, and we shall all hear it together. I will make my report, and then others will share theirs. You listen now. And learn.”
He sat, pleased to see the earl looking much stronger, less pale. “Lord Aubrey, I am delighted you’re well enough to join us—whatever ‘us’ means. This is a mystery to me, to be sure.”
Paul smiled, his eyes brighter than they’d been in days, although his face still carried pain. “You will know very soon. And you must stop calling me Lord Aubrey. But I perhaps race ahead of the agenda. Uncle James?”
The duke sat at the head, Paul to his left, Charles to his right. “This has been a long time in coming,” he said, “but here we are, at last, come to a day we have looked to for decades, nay perhaps centuries. Charles, you have joined a group of men—and women, as you will learn one day soon—who have taken vows to stand against an enemy not made of flesh and blood. Our chief historian and keeper of the lines, Mr. Kepelheim, will begin. But first, we must pray.”
Charles was surprised at this, but he bowed his head along with the others, and he heard the duke’s manly voice speaking in penitent tones.
“Dear Father of all that is good, thank you for keeping our circle safe, and for protecting Paul, Charles, and our darling girl Elizabeth. Thank you for the miracle taking place before my eyes—the return of one beloved and sorely missed,” he continued, his voice cracking with emotion. “You have preserved Charles for your reasons, and through your power, no matter what the enemy might believe. Help him now to accept his part in your plans with courage and grace, and may he never again leave us. Now, oh Lord, help us to see with your eyes the battle that surrounds us. Help us to follow your leading when our mortal eyes are blind. Help us to fight until our strength fails, and then rally as your Spirit renews and revives us. Help us to be wise as serpents, for it is against such that we fight. Help us to recognise the serpent’s path and to strike as you lead us to do so. And may all we do honour you. In our Saviour’s mighty and wonderful name, we ask it. Amen.”
All said ‘amen’ after, and Charles raised his eyes to a table filled with men of purpose. He knew not exactly what their purpose was, but he was about to find out.
Kepelheim began, standing as he spoke. “History. It is a strangely mutable topic, gentlemen. Schools teach it as if a simple list of names and dates suffices to explain a complicated tapestry that reaches from the Garden of Eden to our table here today. Without repeating much, but providing enough so that our new member may understand our core command, let me say the name we hate. Redwing. It is an ages old cabal of men and women in league with devils, and its sole purpose is to unseat Christ and usher in Satan’s eternal reign upon the earth.”
Charles listened, his mind slowly clearing after the night’s vivid dreams and terrifying events. That same mind, similar in design to Paul Stuart’s, could not help making connexions, and this very quality, which had made him a superior investigator, would now help him to understand a deep, supernatural mystery.
“Redwing,” Kepelheim continued, “began officially under that name in 1420, though its roots reach back into ancient history, ultimately to Eden and perhaps earlier. But for now, we shall concern ourselves only with the Redwing face of this many-headed dragon.
“In December 1421, Henry the Sixth was born. Our official histories record that he reigned until 1461 in times of great confusion and conflict, leading to a Lancastrian civil war that put a York on the throne, whom school children memorise as Edward the Fourth, no? The War of the Roses is always on their examinations, is it not? Yet, how many historians have read the obscure diaries of the time, the banned letters, the secrets that passed from hand to hand, generation to generation, and were surreptitiously recorded and catalogued? Do they consider the burnt books and the deathbed confessions and even church documents that rarely see the light of day? Charles, my good friend, your teachers at Harrow and Cambridge did not tell you—could not tell you of the children born who have been erased from official history. Of the deals made, or of the agreements signed, but here—in this magnificent library—we have copies and in some cases originals of them all. And lest the enemy think to destroy these copies is to destroy truth, then that enemy is mistaken, for many such copies have been hidden throughout the world, and as you will see in a moment, my friend, the original of one such document has been signed by kings and queens, prime ministers, and archbishops.”
The duke put a hand on Charles’s arm as if to encourage him, but the detective suddenly felt lost. “Martin, are you saying that our succession of monarchs is corrupted?” Sinclair asked.
“Good, you follow. Yes, in fact, I am saying precisely that,” the little tailor said plainly. “We are taught that Henry the Sixth was the only son born to the hero of Agincourt, but is that so? Our teachers say it is, our history books say it is, but can we trust it? Charles, if I told you now that even Queen Victoria and Lord Salisbury know that it is not, would that shock you?”
“Frankly, yes!” he said, his mind struggling to sift through it all, but a small part of his memory not only believed it, but even seemed to recall it. “Wait, wait a moment. I think—I think I remember hearing this as a boy, but that cannot be true.”
“Yet it is true, Charles,” Kepelheim explained. “You have simply been taught to forget it. Your childhood memories were stolen from you. Not by a train or shipping tragedy, but by design! Charles, the Burkes adopted you when you were seven, but you were separated from your dear mother on the docks of Liverpool when you were five. Someone found you there, perhaps stole you, and that man then spent the next two years making sure you did not remember an
ything about this castle, or Briarcliff, or Branham—or about your own family’s estate, Rose House!”
Rose House. He had a vague memory—something tiny, small, like breath on a mirror. “Perhaps…” he said.
“Yes, perhaps,” Paul told him. “Charles, I remember a little about my friendship with you when we were boys. You visited Briarcliff a few times, and I spent a Christmas at Rose House. Later, when I was only six, I remember visiting Rose House with my father and Uncle James when they went there to close it, and I saw a portrait of you. I told Father that the boy in the painting looked like he could be my brother. He said that we’d always resembled each other but that you were missing. Presumed dead. It never occurred to me that the detective I’d befriended in ’79 might be my own true cousin, but something about you always felt familiar, even from the first time we met.”
“It has been a long plan that we missed,” the duke explained. “Charles, we’ve spent years protecting a secret bloodline that maintains both the Plantagenet and Stuart royal houses, but we missed your part in it, because we thought you were dead, son.”
“Wait, it’s too much,” he said, his head aching. “My mother? Angela. She was your sister, sir. Is that right?”
The duke nodded. “Aye. Angela and Abigail were twins. Not identical, you know, but nearly so. Your mother, laddie, loved you as few mothers love a child. And you wear her eyes, son.”
Charles felt as if his heart had taken on the weight of a thousand dark regrets, and he recalled the portrait of the duke’s sisters. The beautiful Stuart ladies. “But, I... I cannot remember her at all. Why is that?” he asked, tears staining his cheeks.
“You will remember both her and your good father, I believe,” said Kepelheim gently, “and we must be prepared for it at any time. Redwing set this plan into motion many years ago, but we kept thinking that it was Elizabeth they were after, her blood, for she is the direct descendant of King Henry the Fifth’s firstborn twin sons, the ones born in France after his secret liaison with Catherine—it is the true reason he married her that June. These sons were taken at birth and kept in a remote abbey by Henry’s French father-in-law, Charles the Sixth.”
Blood Lies Page 32
