As she fell asleep, Gloria decided to spend the following day reading the manuscript, desperate to find out how the gripping storyline was resolved.
*
extract from
THE MASTER OF THE SCROLLS
As she stood on the threshold of the eerie cave, in the hills some miles from her beautiful home, the bleak contrast with her house chilled her heart.
Why am I here? she asked herself, but there were no answers to her question.
The abomination of a man she had grown to loathe with every fibre of her being stepped into the dim twilight, made darker still by the copse of trees that surrounded the cave entrance. He beckoned to her.
“Come, Isobel!” he commanded in his deep, resonant voice. When she failed to respond he roared with anger and gripped her tiny wrist painfully tight. “Do as I bid you,” he thundered, “if you want to live!”
His deep penetratingly black eyes bored into her mind, and as he released her hand, Isobel felt she could do nothing but obey his command. All else fell by the wayside. Vilam was all that mattered. He was her Lord and Master. She had to obey. She had no choice.
“Yes, Lord Vilam,” she whispered with near reverence. His booming laughter at her servitude echoed all around the cave, for the way she now spoke held him up above the Gods.
“Come, Isobel, my slave,” he repeated. “We have much to do this night.” He retreated within the inner sanctum of the cave and totally unwilling, but submissive to Vilam’s very will, Isobel falteringly followed.
Gloria stopped reading for a moment. A frown, deeper than usual, creased her already furrowed brow. Somehow, this was not right; something was awry with the tone of the book. The style of writing was very close to Isabella’s, and yet it was not the same. It could just be that she has developed her style and was a more talented and accomplished writer when she wrote this, Gloria thought. Nevertheless, in her mind a nagging doubt was slowly increasing in strength. There was little doubt that Isabella had written this book originally, but it now seemed almost as though Ria Neville had rewritten it entirely at a later date. Yet still something did not seem quite right.
Gloria continued reading, and some considerable time later the doubts came to the forefront of her mind as she realised what was wrong with the book. She considered herself a connoisseur when it came to literature; she knew Ria Neville’s style and she now knew, vaguely, Isabella Neville’s style, but this novel – purportedly by both women – resembled Gloria’s own almost fledgling style even more. There was, she thought, a curious yet definite Twentieth Century touch to the work.
A timid knock on the door of her room caused Gloria to glance up from the book. ‘Yes?’
The door opened and Mary hobbled into the room. She smiled. ‘Good morning, child. I trust you slept well?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Gloria set the book to one side. ‘Sorry I missed lunch and dinner yesterday, and sorry I missed you at breakfast.’
Mary waved her hand dismissively as she came and sat down on the bed beside her granddaughter. ‘It’s not important. Just because you are a guest doesn’t mean we have to eat all our meals together, and I certainly wouldn’t dream of keeping tabs on you. I hope you had an enjoyable day in the village yesterday?’
‘Oh I wasn’t...’ Too late, Gloria remembered what Phil and Wilma had told her.
‘You weren’t in the village?’ questioned Mary in a gentle tone, which seemed to imply that she already knew this small fact. ‘Then where were you?’
‘Down by the lake,’ Gloria began, and then hurriedly added, ‘but I didn’t know–’
Her grandmother held up her hand. ‘It’s quite all right. There’s no need for an explanation. Thank you for being honest. It would have been so easy for you to lie and spare my feelings, like Wilma tried to, but I had worked out the truth anyway, after all, there isn’t exactly much to do in the village, and certainly nothing that would have kept you there all day.’ She allowed her smile to linger, which reassured Gloria that her feelings had not been hurt too badly.
‘So, Nana Turner, to what do I owe this early morning visit?’
‘I have a belated birthday gift for you,’ replied Mary, reaching into the pocket of her cardigan. Holding out her clenched hand she waited for Gloria to extend her own, into which she dropped the heart-shaped locket she always wore.
Gloria gasped in surprise. ‘Oh, Nana Turner, I can’t. It’s yours!’
Mary smiled at her. ‘It was given to me by my own grand-mother as a twenty-first birthday present. I think it should now be passed on to you.’
Gloria held it up to inspect it closely, marvelling at the intricate decoration on the reverse, which seemed to depict some kind of family coat of arms. She had never seen the locket up close before. ‘It really is beautiful, Nana Turner. Are you certain you want me to have it? I’ve never seen you without it before!’
Mary took the locket from Gloria, unfastened it and placed it around her granddaughter’s neck, closing the clasp again. She fiddled with it until it was positioned perfectly. ‘It suits you, child. It should be yours. It’s an heirloom to be passed down through the generations, and now it’s your turn to have it!’
Gloria smiled and hugged her grandmother. ‘Oh, Nana Turner, I love you so much. Thank you, I’ll treasure it until I pass it on to my own daughter or granddaughter.’
A wistful look crossed Mary’s face, but then she caught sight of the manuscript on Gloria’s other side. ‘Ah, I see you’ve found the book. How much have you read?’
‘Not much; a couple of chapters. What do you know about this book, Nana Turner?’
Mary shrugged. ‘My grandmother introduced me to it when I was a little younger than you are now, at the same time she gave me this locket, actually.’ She fingered the large gold heart-shaped locket, suspended on its thick gold chain at Gloria’s throat. ‘The book has been in the library since the day she died. I’d forgotten all about it until yesterday.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes, I have read it. I was going to wait until the time was right, child, to tell you some family secrets, but now I think it would be better if you were to read the book and judge for yourself. Your mother doesn’t know it exists, any more than my own mother did, and for the moment that is the way it must remain.’
‘That sounds very mysterious, Nana Turner. You say this book contains family secrets. Are we descended from James Trevayne’s family? Is there any particular reason that you don’t want Mother to know about the book?’
‘Just read the book, child, and don’t be frightened by what you will discover. All of the answers are there... well, most of them, anyway.’
‘This is Isabella’s life story, isn’t it?’
Mary nodded. ‘Yes, that is true, but it goes so much deeper than that. Read it, and if you need to talk to me I shall be downstairs in the drawing room.’
‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Nana Turner, something you’ve known for a long time, something you didn’t tell Mother. What is it?’ There was a tinge of unease to Gloria’s voice, which did not go unnoticed by Mary, but there was nothing the old woman could do to ease the burden which was about to be unleashed upon her granddaughter’s shoulders.
‘Read the book, Gloria,’ she sighed wearily, and she left the room, closing the door behind her. As she slowly descended the stairs, Mary began to wonder whether she was doing the right thing by allowing Gloria to read the book through to the end.
Would it be easier just to tell her everything?
Should I perhaps have done more in the past to prepare her for the truth?
Mary felt fairly certain it was better for Gloria to discover the truth herself, but there was still a slight lingering doubt.
What was that saying: forewarned is forearmed?
Yes – she had made the right decision.
*
Gloria’s mind was whirling. For a long time after Mary had left the room she remained unsure whether she wanted t
o continue reading the manuscript.
Although her grandmother must have had good reasons for wanting her to read it, on the other hand, did she wish to read it? What secrets held within the manuscript could have provoked such a reaction in the old woman? It must be something completely devastating.
Half an hour passed with no movement from Gloria other than fiddling with the locket, but then she sighed deeply, picked up the weighty tome once more and continued reading.
extract from
THE MASTER OF THE SCROLLS
Isobel turned as someone entered the room. She had hoped it would be Philip, but was dismayed to find Vilam standing in the doorway. “What do you want?” she demanded. “You had better say what you want and leave. My husband will return shortly.”
“Ah, yes,” Vilam hissed venomously, “dear, saintly John Trelawney himself.” There was contempt in his voice. “I do not much care when your husband returns, my dear, because I shall not be here. And neither will you!”
Isobel had no strength to scream and failed to move swiftly enough as Vilam pounced. He held her tight. The times when Vilam had frightened her were long past. She was angry with herself for not heeding John’s warnings to bolt the door behind him when he had left for the village earlier. “Let me go,” she cried indignantly.
“Let you go, after all that you, your husband and your cousin have done?” His unnatural laughter was loud as thunder. It rattled the ceiling beams ominously. “Never!” he roared. “You must be made to suffer for the humiliation you have caused. You will not escape a second time!”
Fear slowly crept into Isobel’s mind as he carried her from the house, kicking and struggling in a vain attempt at freedom.
Tiring of her constant struggling, Vilam hit her hard, just once. The blow was severe enough to cause loss of consciousness but was not so hard that it damaged Isobel’s beauty. As conscious cogitation fled her mind, Isobel’s last thoughts were of her husband.
When finally she awoke, Isobel found her surroundings instantly, regrettably familiar. With a chill in her heart, she knew she was once more within Vilam’s lair – his cave, hidden deep within the bowels of Wicca Hill, west of her home in Ashfield. As she grew accustomed to both the twilight and the pain in her aching head, an involuntary groan of despair issued forth from her parched lips. How long had she lain in an enforced slumber?
A shadow, illuminated briefly from behind by flickering torch light, loomed threateningly over her. “So, you are awake at last!”
Clutching her head, Isobel lurched awkwardly into an upright position. Vilam, however, shoved her roughly back onto the rock floor. A sharp pain jarred through her body as a jagged shard of rock pierced her clothing.
Isobel did her best to ignore the pain. “Why have you returned me to this place, Vilam?” She struggled to keep the tears from her eyes, but in the light of the flames beyond Vilam, her fear flashed across her face before she could be suppress it. She knew how dangerous this evil man could be. He had once seduced her with his false charms, and only when she was completely submissive to his powerful will did he reveal his true persona, but by then it had been too late.
Isobel also knew the madman’s powers were not unlimited: there was only so much he could do before he was required to rest – and that was the very weakness she, Philip and John had usurped to allow her perilous escape from his clutches ten days ago.
“You know why you are here!”
His harsh tone shattered her thoughts. Indeed, she did know the reason for her presence. When Isobel had discovered what Vilam sought, she knew it would be a dangerous weapon in his hands and that somehow she had to prevent him from using the secret once it was his.
John had called her The Mistress of the Scriptures because of her writings and she in turn had named Vilam The Master of the Scrolls because, while searching for the ultimate secret, all his calculations had been scribed upon parchment. When she realised how close they were to discovering the terrible secret, she knew she had to do something. Of course, it would have been easy enough merely to destroy every parchment, which would necessitate Vilam starting again – which he did not have time for since his extended life span was ending – but had she done that he would surely have killed her.
Isobel was not yet ready for death. While Vilam slept, recovering his strength, Isobel managed to escape to alert Philip and John. The shock of what she was doing had finally broken through Vilam’s spell that ensnared her mind.
Upon hearing of Vilam’s plans, John had agreed that, in the wrong hands, the secret would indeed be a deadly weapon, but a Saint could use it exclusively for infinite good.
Reluctantly, Philip and John allowed Isobel to return to Vilam, and as she predicted, Isobel herself uncovered the secret soon after. However, with Vilam still weak from too much effort and not enough rest, Isobel managed to keep the discovery secret until it was too late for Vilam to do anything. That was when John and Philip rescued her. Isobel took the secret with her, having destroyed all Vilam’s other work, and as the trio fled they knew it would only be a matter of time before Vilam came after them.
“You want the parchment,” she said as calmly as possible.
Vilam’s eyes gleamed insanely. “I do!”
“It has been destroyed.”
Vilam laughed. “It can no more be destroyed than can any of my other parchments.” He showed her some of the others she had left burning: they were intact. Isobel’s face fell. “Of course I want that parchment,” Vilam continued coldly, “for it contains the secrets I have spent centuries in search of. It is mine by rights.”
Isobel laughed this time, albeit rather uncertainly. “You still persist in that falsehood?”
She could see Vilam’s fury boiling within his blood and fervently hoped she had not pushed him too far.
“Do not mock me, Isobel, for you know it to be no falsehood. You know my words to be the truth. Have I not shown you proof enough?”
Isobel chose to ignore his question, unwilling freely to recall the manner in which he had shown her such proof. “When John discovers my absence he will realise what has occurred.”
“He is a mere mortal. He holds no fear over me.”
“It is most unwise to underestimate the power love and anger can imbue within a man, Vilam. Beware, for you are not immortal yet!”
Constantly alluded to in the narrative, but never revealed, the mysterious secret finally came out nearly half way through the book. Was that why Isabella died, pondered Gloria: for the secret of immortality? If, as he claimed to be, this Vilam was nearly one thousand years old, then surely he was already immortal?
Gloria continued reading and discovered that by using secrets purloined from Merlin, his teacher in the art of sorcery, Vilam had prolonged his life, but the effects of this stolen power were about to wear off and could not be renewed.
She read of Vilam’s attempt to ransom her for the parchment and how, finally, Philip and John wounded Vilam almost fatally during their second daring rescue.
Then she came to a chapter that chilled her, for it bore too many similarities to her dreams to be coincidence.
extract from
THE MASTER OF THE SCROLLS
Isobel waited patiently for Philip to return to her warm embrace that night, even though, as darkness fell beyond the cold, stone walls of Snowfield Hall, her leaden heart informed her he would not come that night, nor any other.
The candle in one of the windows of the Great Hall, now all but extinguished, once burned brightly to guide her lover across the lonely Sussex Marshes. There was little point in replacing the candle. She knew now that he was not coming to her. She had been foolish to believe he would.
Sighing, she wondered why she felt such utter despair, when all along they had both known their illicit love for each other was both foolish and hopeless. If it should be discovered it could only court disaster. Philip obviously felt the danger of discovery was now too great.
As the tears flowed down her chee
ks, as the candle spluttered and finally died, so too did the last remnants of her hope.
I have been a fool, she thought to herself as she turned away from the window. She wandered as if in a daze through the cold, dark passages of the large house that she had called home for her entire life, her bare feet making hardly a sound upon the oak timber of the floor. Up the stairs she crept, pausing outside her husband’s bedchamber, wondering whether she ought to disturb him.
She decided against it. Let him sleep. He had worked long and hard that day. He deserved his rest.
She continued on to her own bedchamber, and suddenly her thoughts fixed upon Vilam. The inexplicable thoughts plunged her into depths of fear. She had not thought of him in over a year. Not since the kidnap. Why should she suddenly be thinking of him now?
Vilam was a dangerous man, she knew that all too well. Was that not the reason she had originally severed all ties with him? Was that not why he had refused to give her up willingly? John and Philip had helped her escape his clutches. She could not have succeeded without their assistance.
Now she was in possession of a dangerous secret, a secret that put not only her own life in jeopardy, but also those of her cousin and her husband, for they too knew the secrets that Vilam had almost possessed.
She knew that Vilam would one day return from the dead to reclaim that which once was his. Vilam’s powers were limited, but if he could live for a thousand years then it was possible he had survived the sword blow John had dealt him. The blow would have killed any ordinary person, but Vilam was far from normal.
So engrossed was Isobel in her thoughts of The Master of the Scrolls that, as she entered her bedchamber, she failed to hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.
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