‘Oh, time travel you believe, but me falling for someone you cannot believe!’ Louise laughed too, leaning close to Gloria. ‘I can’t believe it either,’ she whispered in her friend’s ear. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow lunch time and we’ll have a good chat, eh?’
Gloria nodded. ‘Yes, that’d be great.’
When everyone had gone and Gloria was quite alone, she went upstairs, her head spinning from all the information she was trying to digest. She sat on her bed, resting her head on the headboard, staring at the now infamous manuscript, which lay undisturbed where she had left it on the bedside table.
Her mind filled suddenly with images from long ago, another life; memories from another time, but these were not Isabella’s memories – they were her own.
Lying down on the bed, she screwed her eyes tightly shut and tried to obliterate every sensation and noise from her own time, concentrating on the images that poured into her mind.
She could see rooms of Neville Manor that had not appeared in her dreams; she saw James Trevayne, seated at his desk, writing in his journal...
Isabella’s journal…
The parchments!
Gloria sat bolt up right. ‘Oh dear God, I’ve left them back in 1537! I’ve got to get back and retrieve them!’
A familiar nauseous wave of dizziness enveloped her senses, her body again felt as though it was on fire, but this time she rode the pain a little more calmly, and when it subsided, she opened her eyes.
She was back.
Late Spring 1537
After the disappearance of Lady Ria Snowfield, a scant one day after she came into his life, James Trevayne realised it was folly to think she might return. Samuel Wylams was still at large, most likely hungry for revenge, but biding his time. If there was one thing that James was certain about when it came to the subject of Samuel Wylams, it was that the Warlock possessed patience above even the endurance of any Saint.
He secreted the main parchment inside the cover of Isabella’s incomplete manuscript, hiding the small parch-ment in a place he knew Samuel would never find it, and then when the manuscript was back in its original hiding place, he felt not a lot safer. It was only a matter of time before the Warlock came looking for his secrets.
It was three days since Ria had departed, and he felt more bereft even than he had after his beloved Isabella’s murder. It was only now, as he sat silently looking at the locket in his hand, that he realised the true nature of his pain. He was in love with her; hopelessly, desperately, inexorably lost without her. Heart and soul, his spirit belonged to her, just as Isabella’s spirit had been bound to him.
Two nights of insomnia drained him, weakened his resolve, and yet now, as he looked upon the locket, he knew his love would not diminish; it would be one day rekindled, though he knew not when. He knew where he might find the answers he sought, but dare he return to seek the counsel of Thaumaturgia Anathemas once more?
Yesterday morning, Sir Henry Fitzwilliam had descended upon him unexpectedly. Since James was last in the village, two weeks before the appearance of Ria, many of the villagers had apparently grown concerned about James’s self-imposed confinement to Neville Manor, and so they had sent word to Sir Henry in London. Sir Henry was James’s oldest family friend, and if anyone could bring James out of his torpor, it would be him.
Sir Henry rode into Ashfield on horseback like he had the very Devil himself on his coattails, and a small group of villagers watched from the other side of the moat as he dismounted, striding purposefully into Neville Manor. Two hours stretched into three, three into four, and with each passing minute the villagers grew more anxious.
Inside the Manor, James poured out his heart to Sir Henry, disclosing many secret thoughts and beliefs he would not normally have said to anyone, not even his oldest friend.
Sir Henry Fitzwilliam, a sometimes cruel and callous man, was cold and feeble when it came to love, for he had never cared about anyone enough during his lifetime to be particularly affected by their demise, and had certainly never felt the warm embrace of a loving woman. He detested his siblings and his father. Too young when his mother died to remember anything much about her, as the oldest of the children, Henry blamed his brother for sapping their mother of life after he followed him into the world, and then their sister for killing their mother as she gave birth to her. Most of his vitriol, though, he saved for his father, whom he blamed for making his mother pregnant twice after his own birth, when he should have been enough for them to lavish their love upon.
Considering how James had reacted at the suggestion that he should take a new wife the last time they had met, Sir Henry never thought his old friend might suddenly speak of another woman. Back then he had struggled to understand the helpless state of loss James felt following Isabella’s death, but he was now more concerned that James had fallen in love with another woman, about whom he knew barely anything. Though they had yet to consummate the relationship, James seemed distraught at her disappearance the day after he had met her, and he claimed to be hopelessly in love with her.
Sir Henry inexplicably felt that James had betrayed Isabella’s memory, and suddenly James’s love for Isabella made a little sense to him. He could not fully appreciate never getting over the love of one’s life – but to mourn the disappearance of someone you had known less than one day… well, such feeling was folly, and he made certain James was under no misapprehension that he believed this woman Ria, whoever she was, spelled doom. ‘She is a witch, who has ensnared you within her web of deceit. She has bewitched your senses, James.’ Yes, that was the only reasonable explanation for James’s feelings towards the woman.
What might Sir Henry say, should he discover I have sought counsel from the Witch of the Woods? James wondered. He decided it prudent to keep that piece of information to himself. ‘Is that what you have come to tell me, Sir Henry? That I am bewitched?’
‘The villagers are concerned for you.’
‘Tell them my grief is strong still, that I begin to overcome it. Tell them no more, no less!’
Sir Henry left him, and James knew not what he told the villagers who congregated on the other side of the bridge that crossed the moat surrounding Neville Manor.
James’s thoughts also dwelled upon Peter, who had wanted to hunt Samuel Wylams down, slaughter him like the animal he was. James had persuaded him it would be madness to take on the power of the Warlock alone. When the pair had rescued Isabella from Samuel’s clutches, although they had dealt him a savage blow that might have killed a mortal man, they had themselves barely escaped with their own lives.
Unable to reconcile the fact that Samuel should live while Isabella lay dead, Peter had put a great distance between himself and everything that would remind him of his cousin. He grieved somewhere north of the border with a cousin, whose father had championed King Richard iii and been forced to flee England for his very life when the new King, Henry vii took the crown.
Following Sir Henry’s visit yesterday, James decided it was time for Peter to return home, for Neville Manor was really more Peter’s than his, and so he had sent a messenger to deliver to Peter the news that Isabella’s spirit had returned.
As he sat on the window seat in the parlour, staring out across the beautiful lawns and flowerbeds, and the vegetable garden nearer the kitchen, he watched the roiling clouds of the fast-approaching storm, wondering whether Ria felt the same emotions as he did.
The sky was lit by a distant flash of lightening, followed seconds later by a violent crash of thunder, and in an instant the aspect beyond the glass was transformed by an incredible downpour that hammered down on the roof above, smashed against the windows, and pummelled the immediately sodden ground outside, turning it to a slimy, muddy quagmire.
James sighed. The shift in weather was as a physical projection of his bleak mood.
If I were to weep, I would shed more tears than the sky. Why does the sky weep so? Is it sympathy for my plight? Is it a portent of ill tidings? It is
as well that Sir Henry chose to return immediately to London rather than linger as he had planned!
There was one thing of which James was certain – he would not be paying Thaumaturgia Anathemas a visit any time soon. The path through Dead Man’s Wood would most likely be more difficult to traverse than it had been the last time, the climb up Serpent’s Crest more treacherous, and the journey through the fields to get to the forest definitely impossible.
Rising, he moved through the otherwise silent house, listening to the incessant drumming of the rain all around. He threw open the great oak door and stepped out into the downpour, drenched to the skin the second he set foot beyond the threshold. He ignored the rumbling thunder and great sheets of lightning that split the very sky for miles around. He just stood there, luxuriating in the refreshing coolness of the rain as it all but drowned him, washing away all the cares from his weary body, cleansing his soul. If he had hoped it would wash away his sorrow, he was sorely mistaken. Nothing could erase the pain in his heart.
Sighing despondently, he turned, re-entered the house, and slammed the door behind him, throwing the bolts as he resigned himself to the fact that Ria would not be returning any time soon.
Having dried himself, he changed his clothes and then silently set about his usual routine, a little earlier than usual considering how dark the evening had become with the inclement weather. He lit the fires in the Great Hall, but decided against lighting the chandelier, his fear of the dark greatly diminished now there were other concerns on his mind.
He carried the candelabra into the kitchen, where he uncorked a bottle of wine, cut himself a chunk of bread and pulled a leg off the recently cooked chicken, then returned through to the parlour, trying to balance all that he carried.
He came through the door from the kitchen into the Great Hall as another flash of lightning illuminated the immense room. An instantaneous crash of thunder rattled all the windows, drowning out both his cry of alarm and the clattering noise of the dropped the plate, as from the corner of his eye he saw a figure standing at the bottom of the stairs, as still as the air had been before the storm. The figure watched him intently.
He felt a chill creep up his spine as he fought to regain control of his breathing. Holding up the candelabra, he summoned enough courage to brave the few steps towards the figure, enshrouded once more in shadows, praying it was not Samuel Wylams, hoping it would be someone altogether more welcome.
His step faltered, his resolve uncertain.
Then the figure slowly moved, as cautiously as he had.
‘Ria?’ he said, narrowing his eyes against the gloom, certain that the figure was indeed feminine in stature. ‘Is that my Lady Ria Snowfield?’
Gloria stepped forward into the soft glow cast by the candles he held, her pain filled face pale, shining with perspiration. ‘Yes, James, it is I!’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. She looked ill, trembling against some otherworldly chill in the warmth of the room.
James moved swiftly, barely catching her before she collapsed.
Setting the candelabra on the floor, he carried her through to the parlour where he laid her gently on the sofa, returning for the illumination and pausing only to fetch another goblet, which he filled with water from a pitcher in the kitchen. When he went back to the parlour, Gloria was struggling to sit up.
‘You are unwell, my Lady Ria?’ he asked as he handed her the goblet, and then settled himself beside her.
He longed to touch her beautiful face, to run his hands through her glorious black hair, to kiss her delicate lips and feel her yield beneath him as he made love to her. He was a gentleman, so his restraint remained unsurpassed, his concern for her wellbeing genuine.
‘I am back from my own time,’ Gloria mumbled amid soft choking sounds as she fought to clear her throat. ‘It’s disorienting.’ She rubbed her chest vigorously where the burning sensation, though diminished, still prickled her skin. ‘Not to mention painful!’
James smiled at her. ‘It is good to see you, my Lady. For three days have I thought little else than to gaze upon your beauty once more.’ Seeing that she was still shaking, James reached out to grasp her hands in his. Her skin was icy to his touch, so he gently rubbed them in his, allowing his own body heat to radiate through. His hands slowed their movement, lingering tenderly.
‘I can’t say I’ve thought of much at all since leaving here,’ responded Gloria, not attempting to move her hands from his. ‘Has it really been three days?’
James nodded.
‘Curious, it’s been three days for me too.’
‘What mean you, my Lady?’
‘When I went back to my own time, someone robbed me of my thoughts. I couldn’t remember being here, not until just before I came back.’
‘Someone robbed you of your thoughts? Who might do such a thing, and how? Was it Samuel Wylams?’
Gloria shook her head, still trembling slightly from the pain-fuelled exertions of her passage through time. ‘No, it wasn’t him. Have you nothing stronger to drink than this water? I need something to steady my nerves!’
James fetched the wine from the kitchen, along with some bread and chicken, and they ate in silence for a few minutes.
‘This wine is good,’ Gloria said through a mouthful of food, not exactly ladylike in her manners.
‘Thank you, my Lady. Tell me, why have you returned?’ There was a note of anxious regret in James’s voice as he spoke, almost as though he would not be pleased at the reply.
‘I came back mainly for the parchment. When my mind cleared in my own time, I realised I’d left it here. Is it still safe?’
James nodded solemnly. ‘Samuel attempted no retrieval of the parchment, my Lady. It remains safe.’
‘Stop with this ‘my Lady’ crap, okay. Just call me Ria, like we agreed last time.’
‘As you wish, Ria.’
Outside, the storm raged on. Wind hammered the heavy raindrops against the windows, and though diminished with distance, thunder rumbled still ominously.
‘Is there, mayhap, another reason you returned to this place?’
Spluttering, Gloria wiped wine from her chin as she gulped too deeply. She glanced at James as he spoke, and instantly recognised the look in his eyes. She had seen it in Phil’s eyes; the look of love, a look so pure and innocent it could not be falsified. She set down the goblet and faced him. ‘Do not fall in love with me, James Trevayne. I’m bad news!’
James chuckled. ‘Sir Henry spoke much the same of you.’
‘Who’s Sir Henry?’ Gloria realised she knew nobody from this time. If she were to spend more time here, she would have to become acquainted with at least some of the people James knew.
‘I speak of my good friend, Sir Henry Fitzwilliam. Too late are you with warnings, Ria, for I am already smote with love for you.’
Gloria was not sure how to react to such a fact. She knew her destiny lay in this time, and that she was to become James’s wife, but at that moment, she felt little akin to love for him. How could she be in love with a man she knew so little about, and more to the point, how could he be in love with a woman whom he knew nothing about?
‘You cannot love me, James. You don’t know anything about me.’
‘I know you to be kind and gentle, and I know you to be beautiful.’ He reached out to touch Gloria’s cheek tenderly. ‘What more needs a man to know, except what is in his heart?’
James leaned in and kissed Gloria on the lips, a soft lingering kiss filled with passion. She did not resist. She could not resist. She gave in to the feelings that overwhelmed her, uncertain whether they were her own feelings or Isabella’s. She could feel Isabella stirring within her, but she was in complete control of her own faculties, and her own actions. She brought her hands up, encircling James’s back, holding him close, caressing his neck as the eclipse of passion swallowed them whole.
Surrendering to the encompassing sensations of contentment that washed over him, James held Gloria tight, seeking so
lace from her warm body, all chills driven from her skin by the heat of desire.
‘I love you, Ria Snowfield,’ he breathed into her hair as their embrace relaxed slightly. There was no urgency about them, for true love had overcome the lust fuelled embrace that had ensnared them.
‘What of Isabella? I thought you loved her with all your heart?’
‘She shall be my first love always, but not my one true love. She betrayed my love the night she lay with Peter.’
‘You know of that?’
James held Gloria at arms length. ‘As do you, it appears. How so?’
Gloria sighed. He had to know eventually, so it might as well be now. ‘Isabella’s spirit still resides within me. She is here, until such time as she can return to her one true love.’
‘Then you shall soon be free of her. I have sent word for Peter to come here.’
‘She will depart only once we consummate our union.’
The very notion appalled James. Isabella would betray him yet again, so why did he love her still? Love her enough to allow this? To allow the new love of his life to lay with the man who stole his first love’s heart? ‘If you shall be freed, then you must do what you must. If it requires but one union, then it must be so.’
There was such resentment in his voice; such repulsion that she must do such a thing, that no doubt remained in Gloria’s mind as to James’s true feeling for her. She turned his head sideways. ‘Isabella’s one true love is not Peter. That scenario already played out in my own time, with Peter’s spirit trapped in the body of an innocent. The union took place, and still Isabella is here in my head!’
‘Then who–’ James’s words were silenced with a kiss.
‘I love you, James Trevayne,’ Gloria said as she broke the kiss she had initiated. ‘You are Isabella’s one true love. When you and I consummate our love, Isabella will be reunited with you one last time, and we shall be free.’
‘And should she decide not to release you from her grip, Ria, my love?’
‘She must! As I understand it, the curse is that she will wander through eternity until her spirit is reunited with her one true love, and when that happens she will be free. A curse cannot be broken; it can only be lifted, either by that which placed it in the first instance, or by the culmination of whatever the curse entails.’
Master of the Scrolls Page 23
