Master of the Scrolls

by Benjamin Ford

  ‘I know who you are, yes, though I don’t know you personally.’

  ‘How can this be so? Where have you come from?’

  ‘I think it’s more a question of when am I from rather than where,’ sighed Gloria.

  James frowned. ‘Your words, though I understand them, are strange. When? What mean you by such a statement, gentle lady? Pray tell me your name?’

  Suddenly, in the gentle flickering light of the candles, Gloria’s countenance seemed to change, shift out of focus slightly. James squinted, not really listening to Gloria as the image of his beloved Isabella appeared, but as he reached out a hand to caress her cheek, opened his mouth to utter her name, the ghostly image dissipated and was gone.

  ‘–ria Schofield, and I am from the year 1987.’

  Struggling to regain whatever composure he had, James smiled at her. ‘Ria? My dear, it is a lovely name. You would have me believe you to come from the future?’ He remembered Isabella’s prophecy clearly, as if she had proclaimed it that very morning.

  Six months hence a woman shall come from future’s past.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered, more to himself than to Gloria. ‘Yes, that is the truth!’ His smile returned. ‘You are expected, Lady Ria Snowfield.’

  In spite of her unease at her situation, Gloria smiled too. Lady Ria Snowfield had a nice ring to it.

  She then remembered something she had read in one of the history books – now there is an odd notion, she thought; I have read of events that are yet to happen!

  She had come into the life of James Trevayne and he had called her Ria. She must be the woman the locals referred to as the Witch Ria, a fact that did not bode well for her. The Witch Ria was burned alive, along with James and their child… and later, Snowfield House was built on the land where once Neville Manor stood!

  Since historical events recorded in books seemed never altogether accurate, she put the thought from her mind. ‘What year is it, Master Trevayne?’

  ‘Please, my name is James, and it is the year of Our Lord, Fifteen Hundred and Thirty-Seven; Easter was eight days since. Celebrate you still the Resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ in your time?’

  Gloria nodded. ‘Though some might say, like Christmas, it’s lost its true meaning. It’s all about getting chocolate these days, and watching James Bond on the TV.’ She noted James’s confusion and waved her hand dismissively. ‘Forget that, it’s not important!’

  James sensed she was babbling in her confusion and fear. ‘It pains me that such burdens should find a resting place upon the shoulders of such a beauty as you, my Lady Ria!’

  Gloria shivered, with less unease this time. She was suddenly acutely aware that she was dressed only in one of her nightdresses. Such attire was wholly out of place in this time, but then no more than she herself was. ‘Have you a blanket or something I can borrow?’ she whispered. ‘I’m rather cold, even with this blazing fire!’

  ‘I shall fetch a blanket,’ James replied, aware himself that he had been rudely staring at the wondrous beauty who stood like an angel before him.

  As he disappeared, Gloria set down the manuscript on the table beside James’s journal and faced the fire, stretching out her hands to warm them. She had a hundred questions, to which she sensed James would have very few answers. Still, until she could find those answers and find a way back to her own time, she would have to endure whatever lay ahead for her, so she might as well make the most of her situation.

  James returned with a beautiful hand woven blanket, which he gently placed around her shoulders. ‘Here, warm yourself my Lady Ria.’ He pulled a large cushion off one of the chairs and threw it on the floor near the fire, indicating that she should sit.

  ‘Thank you, James, and please, none of this Lady nonsense, my name is Gloria!’

  James bowed slightly. ‘As you wish.’ He settled back on his chair, having turned it away from the desk to face her. ‘How came you here?’ he asked.

  He was, thought Gloria, taking things a bit more calmly than she had thought he might; after all, people of this time were still burnt at the stake for witchcraft, and with her appearance from nowhere, claiming to be from the future… well, that could be construed as witchcraft – even in her own time. ‘I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me that!’

  ‘It can be only the Black Arts!’ He smiled sadly down at her. ‘Mayhap not the answer you wished. It must be very frightening for you.’

  ‘You could say that, though you don’t seem too worried yourself!’

  James laughed half-heartedly. ‘I have seen in recent times things that I would utter not to a stranger for fear of my life. Your coming was foretold.’

  ‘By Isabella?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  There was sadness in James’s voice, which made Gloria look into his eyes. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ When James nodded, Gloria sighed. ‘I wondered. I saw her death in my dreams. In a way I was there when it happened.’

  James’s eyes widened with shock. ‘You bore witness to her death? Pray tell me, who slew her?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, though recent events in my life lead me to believe it was Samuel Wylams.’

  ‘Describe him!’ James commanded authoritatively.

  Gloria recounted the dreams that had plagued her, describing the wicked scar down the cheek of the man who killed Isabella.

  James nodded. ‘That is Samuel Wylams, of this there can be no doubt.’

  ‘So it was him!’ gasped Gloria. Sensing James’s confusion, she continued. ‘In the history books there are conflicting reports concerning Isabella’s murder. Most claim it was at the hand of Samuel Wylams, but others implicate either Peter or yourself!’

  The absurdity of the notion that he should have killed his wife caused James to laugh mirthlessly. ‘Why would I wish to kill my beloved Isabella? I loved her with all my heart and soul. I love her still. I shall love her till my dying day!’

  ‘I figured that the most likely candidate would be Samuel. You say you still love Isabella – even after all that she did?’

  A faraway look passed across James’s face as his mind drifted back to happier times. ‘Yes, I love her still, in spite of her liaisons. You know a great deal about my life, it would seem.’

  Gloria chuckled. ‘What has yet to happen for you, is for me recorded in history books, though much of that is not necessarily the whole truth.’

  ‘And what part are you to play in our history?’

  Gloria shrugged, reluctant to divulge too much information. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t read my name anywhere in the history books.’

  She wondered fleetingly whether she should tell him about Ria. She knew his destiny and she knew Peter’s, she knew Samuel’s, and now she apparently knew her own.

  At least she had thought she had known hers, revealed as it was within the pages of The Master of the Scrolls. Yet now, could she be the Witch Ria referred to in the history books?

  If she was apparently the reincarnation of Isabella, how could she be burned alive with James at some point in the future? Maybe that part of Isabella’s novel was not the truth then, and perhaps there were other truths hidden within Isabella’s writings?

  She felt a headache beginning to surface as a confusion of thoughts did somersaults within her mind.

  I must stop thinking of the future and live for the moment, day by day! I don’t know which historical events are real and which are false, so I cannot start second-guessing them.

  ‘Are you all right, my Lady Ria – Gloria?’ asked James in concern, as he witnessed the sadness and fear in her features.

  Gloria shook her head. ‘No. I’ve made a decision though. Since this is clearly going to be where I will end my days–’

  ‘You shall find a way to return whence you came,’ interjected James suddenly.

  ‘How can you know that with such certainty?’

  ‘As I knew of your coming, so I know of your passing. I shall reveal more in time, but pray,
continue.’

  ‘Well, whether I manage to get back to my own time or not I’m clearly going to be here for a while, so I may as well live as though I belong here. You seem to like calling me Ria, even though it’s not actually my name, so while I’m here that’s the name I shall adopt.’

  James inclined his head slightly. ‘As you wish, Ria!’

  ‘Tell me then, just how did you know about my arrival? How do you know I’m from the future?’

  James carefully recounted the tale of his meeting with the Seer, Thaumaturgia Anathemas, of how she had conjured up the spirit of Isabella in order to reveal the murderer’s identity, and how she instead foretold of Gloria’s coming.

  ‘Necromancy?’ gasped Gloria in awe. ‘I’ve read about that, but I’ve always been sceptical about the validity of such things. I guess now I shall have to be less sceptical about a great many things! So how long have you known all this?’

  ‘A full six months.’

  ‘And you’ve been awaiting my arrival all this time?’

  James nodded, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. ‘You say you know of Isabella’s murder from your history books, as well as dreaming of it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What know you of my own future?’

  ‘More than you wish to know, believe me. It does not do to know too much of one’s own future. Trust me on that.’

  ‘Then I shall press you not for more knowledge, Ria,’ James concluded with a reassuring smile. ‘Come; let us find you some proper attire. And mayhap you would wish to retire for the night?’

  Gloria nodded, rising to her feet. ‘That sounds a wonderful idea. I have a terrible headache, and I am rather tired. I’ve had far too much excitement and done too much hard work! I’ve been doing a lot of research into this period recently. I’m a storyteller, much like Isabella, and my new novel is set in this period. In fact, it was my research into this era that led to the discovery of this manuscript of Isabella’s.’ She reached past James to retrieve the hidebound book.

  ‘You say it is by Isabella’s hand? That is most unlikely.’

  Gloria opened the cover to reveal the handwritten title page. ‘See,’ she said.

  The Master of the Scrolls

  an unfinished tale by Isabella Neville

  ‘That is not Isabella’s hand, but it is the title of the last tale she began,’ James muttered. ‘It is unfinished. She died afore she could complete it. I still have the pages she wrote.’

  Yet again James’s thoughts recalled Isabella’s prophecy.

  She shall have about her person something both old and new.

  That could mean this manuscript.

  She shall be in mortal danger.

  Well, where Samuel Wylams was involved everyone was in danger! ‘Come,’ he said, lifting the candelabra and indicating that she should follow him. ‘I shall show you to your bedchamber.’ He led her out of the parlour and up the stairs. Gloria was unsure whether he would lead her to Isabella’s chamber, and was slightly unnerved when he opened the door at the corner of the L-shaped passage.

  Still, any bed was welcome.

  Gloria walked over to the bed and sank down onto its luxurious softness as James set down the candelabra on the desk to one side of the door. The bed seemed a little on the short side, but as Gloria often slept curled in a foetal position she was not unduly bothered. It was soft enough for her, and the coverings would keep her warm, even though there was no fire lit, so she believed she would sleep well. ‘This room is lovely. It is really most kind of you. Thank you.’

  James crossed to the window, and drawing closed the drapes he then walked around the bed and opened several discreetly hidden door panels in the wall opposite. ‘These garments are Isabella’s. They will unlikely be a good fit, but are the best I can offer for now.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

  ‘Shall I light the fire for you?’ James asked as he closed the doors again.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  After the fire was lit and burning brightly in the hearth, James bade her goodnight and departed, and Gloria slipped beneath the covers of the bed. So exhausted was she that the instant her head touched the pillow she was asleep.

  *

  When Gloria awakened some time the next morning, bird song drifted lazily through the panes of glass, still obscured by the drapes. Very little light filtered into the room, and in the murky gloom Gloria stretched, threw back the bedcovers and walked over to the window, tugging at the heavy fabric until at last brilliant spring sunshine cascaded over her. She threw open the window and breathed in the fading scent of heavenly morning dew.

  Turning her attention back to the room, Gloria straightened the bedclothes and picked up the manuscript from where it had lain beside her all night. Still dressed only in her nightdress, because it was her usual morning routine, she opened the door and stepped into the gloomy passage. Besides not putting a balustrade on the stairs, the architect of Neville Manor also made a mistake with the size of window at the end of the passage, Gloria mused. She carefully negotiated the narrow stairs and made her way through to the parlour, where she found James scribbling once more in his journal.

  ‘Good morrow, my Lady,’ he said as he turned in his chair.

  Gloria inclined her head slightly. ‘Why thank you, kind Sir! What time is it?’

  ‘An hour afore noon. Slept you well?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock? My God, I never sleep that late! I obviously slept like a log!’ Once again Gloria’s simile was lost on James, and she realised she would have to choose her words more carefully. ‘Yes, I slept very well, thank you.’

  ‘Please, be seated.’ James indicated the comfortable sofa nearest to him, into which Gloria lowered herself, suddenly aware that he was staring at her attire. She clasped a hand to her breast, self-consciously fingering the large gold locket at her throat. She realised she should have changed into more suitable clothing; just because she was accustomed to moving freely around her own home in her nightdress did not make it the correct etiquette here. James’s soft voice broke through her thoughts. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Gloria shook her head. ‘Not at the moment.’ Uncertainty crept once more into her voice. What was the food like in this time? Would it be palatable to her more refined taste buds? Just how long would she have to remain here? Was there really a way for her to return home? To do that she would first have to unlock the secrets that had brought her to this time. Would James be willing or even able to help? Would it involve Samuel Wylams? ‘Just before I found myself here, I was being tormented by Samuel Wylams,’ she said. Noting James’s look of alarm, she continued. ‘Not physically… this time anyway. His reincarnation died a little while earlier. This time it was his spirit tormenting me.’

  James regarded her thoughtfully. ‘His reincarnation you say, and latterly his spirit? Neither is impossible to believe. Since his banishment of Isabella’s spirit six months since, I have seen and heard nothing of that evil man. It is said he has himself been taken by his own magic to a faraway place.’

  ‘That’s a relief. However long I am here with you, it will be easier knowing he’s nowhere near.’

  ‘It is possible he might at any time return. We must also think of an explanation for your presence here, else the villagers might ask questions.’

  ‘We can say I am from foreign lands, that my English is strange because it isn’t my native tongue.’

  James laughed. ‘You have a good imagination, my Lady.’

  Gloria brandished the manuscript. ‘It’s all in here!’

  Realisation entered her mind. It was all in the manuscript; Ria was mentioned quite clearly. Suddenly it was obvious: within its pages, the manuscript foretold her destiny, but her destiny was not that of the woman from the future possessed by Isabella’s spirit. She had latched onto that notion because of events that had happened before she arrived here… events that she could still not explain. She had missed the glaringly obvious connection. She touched t
he locket again, her mind drifting back to her very first meeting with her grandmother, the day the dreams had all started.

  So, child, tell me… what’s your name? – Gloria. – Yes, I thought it might be something like that.

  Good Lord, her grandmother had known, even back then! Gloria – Ria. It was all so clear now.

  ‘All?’

  Brought out of her reverie by James’s voice, Gloria nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all here. But it’s fiction, begun by Isabella, possibly completed by one of her descendants. Or rather, I’m thinking perhaps one of Peter’s descendants, since Isabella died childless.’

  James was intrigued. ‘This is a fiction concerning her life? I know she began the tale to reveal the truth about Samuel Wylams. Her original manuscripts contain much more than a mere tale though.’

  Gloria’s heart leapt into her mouth as James rose sharply, a long dagger clasped in his hands. However, her anxiety was short lived as he moved to the fireplace and plunged the blade into a tiny gap between the stone blocks of the hearth and the floorboards. Setting the book that she held down onto the sofa, she leaned forward more closely to see what her benefactor was doing, watching as he twisted the knife, dislodging one of the boards, which he lifted to one side to reveal a hidden chamber.

  James lay on the floor as he reached deep into the dark recesses of the secret chamber, and when he withdrew his arm, he clutched in his hand several books of papers bound in animal hide and a rolled up piece of parchment.

  Isabella’s words echoed in James’s mind.

  You must give unto her custody the parchments and offer her your own protection, until she is able to return whence she came.

  He selected one of the books and the parchment, placing the others back within their hiding place. ‘I believe the answer to your quest lies within these papers. When Isabella’s spirit was conjured by the Seer, she warned me to protect you and to give you these. She was quite clear that you shall find a way home.’

  Gloria took the book and parchment. ‘How reassuring.’