‘Diocletian! He had my sister and my cousin killed, and he murdered my close friend, Spiridon, and Spiridon’s brother, Constantine. He also nearly succeeded in killing me too.’
The woman’s voice faltered at precisely the moment Reynard decided he was standing in the spot from behind which the voice emanated. He stood, staring at the wine rack that backed against the wall, every one of its slots filled with bottles. He turned to Summer and Benjamin, who hovered uncertainly at the foot of the steps. ‘I think there’s a hidden door,’ he shouted. ‘Come and give me a hand!’
‘I can’t find a handle,’ called the woman on the other side.
‘There must be a secret catch on our side then.’ Reynard motioned Benjamin to assist him as he ran his hands over every shelf, fiddled with every bottle, did everything he could think of to open the secret door short of pulling out all the bottles.
He shone the torch into the back of the wine rack. ‘Can you see the torch beam?’ He moved it slightly to the right, until the woman squawked an affirmative, that he was shining the torch directly on one edge of the door. He slowly moved it up. ‘Can you make out whether this is the hinge side or the latch side?’
There was a moment of silence before the woman responded. ‘You’ve reached the top of the door, and there’s no sign of a catch or a hinge. Move the torch down again.’
Reynard did as she asked, and when the torch hit the fifth row from the bottom, the woman squealed that she thought she could see the outline of a latch. He pulled the end wine bottle out and shone the torch into the gap, but could see nothing. He removed the second, and still could see nothing.
Except…
He went back to the first hole and shone the torch back in, then looked at the second one, and finally removed the next bottle along and peered into that gap. The brick at the back of the second gap seemed a little further recessed than the others. It was not particularly noticeable, and he had only spotted it because he was looking for a secret catch.
Reaching his hand in he pushed against the brick, and it slipped even further back until it would go no further, and then he felt it give slightly against his touch. He managed to twist it counter-clockwise, and the wine rack moved slightly beneath him.
He pushed, but nothing happened. ‘I think the door must swing outwards,’ he called. ‘Put some pressure against it and see if you can move it.’
He stood back slightly, and watched spellbound along with Summer and Benjamin as the whole rack swung smoothly outwards revealing the hidden chamber, and the raven-haired woman who stepped out into the torchlight.
Eudora let out a huge sigh of relief as she was finally freed from her prison. She looked up into the young man’s face, lost in the radiance of his green eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Reynard smiled at her, in spite of his previous anger. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said warmly as he reached out to brush a few stray cobwebs from her hair. ‘I am Reynard Clayton. This is my good friend, Benjamin Delamare and his fiancée, Summer Lassalle. This is my château, so perhaps you’d kindly tell me who you are and what you are doing here?’
Eudora glanced at Benjamin and Summer. She recognised their names instantly, and when she looked at her face, she knew Summer was indeed the grandmother of Storm Delamare, her friend from Christies. She was younger than Eudora remembered, in the prime of youth, but undeniably his grandmother.
And then she looked at Reynard properly. He so resembled Nola Clayton that Eudora realised this man must be the girl’s grandfather, Dino’s father – Dorothea’s husband.
In her mind’s eye, Eudora could see Dorothea quite clearly, as she had looked in 1989, telling her that the last time she had seen Dion Taine’s Trinity was at the Château Clétiàn just outside Paris, months before the beginning of the Second World War.
In her mind’s eye, Dorothea changed, became younger and very recognisable, and Eudora finally realised why Spiridon had forced her into this particular time and place.
She realised at last that she herself was Dorothea Clayton.
And with that thought, she passed out.
C hapter Twenty
When Eudora regained consciousness, the shock of the revelation caused a momentary lapse in memory. Sitting up in the strange bed with no memory of whom or where she was, she ran a hand through her tangle of black hair and ran the other hand over the crisp white cotton sheets. She loved the cool feeling of freshly laundered cotton against her skin.
She became aware that she was naked beneath the sheets and blushed, hoping that she had undressed herself. Had she been drunk? Was that why she could remember nothing of how she came to be in this bed? Was it indeed her bed?
Daylight struggled vainly to push its weary way through the heavy drapes, which seemed to adorn the entire wall opposite. Precious little managed to permeate the coarse folds, only a little around the top and down the middle where the two drapes did not quite meet.
Little enough daylight to comfort her, but enough to dapple snatches of the room in honey hued lambency, which allowed her to see the ornate blue silk clothes folded neatly on a chair next to the bed, along with a much less ornate linen robe, into which she gratefully slipped.
Tying the belt in a loop around her waist, she tugged gently on one of the heavy drapes, and after her eyes had adjusted to the sudden influx of brilliance, she peered cautiously out into the sunshine.
It really was a glorious day. Fields of vines undulated gently as far as the eye could see, interspersed with the odd woodland glade here and there, and beyond that she could just make out the vague skyline of a distant town.
Hearing the clatter of horses’ hooves below, she craned her neck down and saw two men on horseback cantering gently up the cobblestone pathway that seemed to lead around the side of the house. As they approached, one of the men glanced up in her direction. Raising his cap, he waved it at her, smiling happily whilst sharing some private joke with his rotund companion. She returned his gesture, smiling weakly at his familiar countenance, and then the riders were gone.
Now she had seen Reynard Clayton and Benjamin Delamare, Eudora’s memory came flooding back, and it did little to quell her unease.
She was a woman of the latter half of the Twentieth Century; she had visited the latter half of the Sixteenth Century, and now found herself in what could be only the first half of her own century.
Her own century, perhaps, but not her own time.
But when was her time?
Eudora felt as though she did not belong anywhere, any time. She no more belonged here than she did in 1989 or 1568, but here was where she must remain: there was little doubt of that any more.
She was Eudora Donat; she was Theodora Dieudonné; she was Dorothea Clayton.
She was sister to Isadora, cousin to Gaia.
She was concubine to Selim – though that, it seemed, was a fantasy on Selim’s part; she was lover of Nathan Bosporus, who had yet to be born; she was lover to Spiridon.
She was to become mother to Dino Clayton.
Eudora crossed herself. She was going to give birth to a child who would grow up to resemble Dion Taine the great artist, and who would be the vessel through which the evil Diocletian would again return to the world in the hope of exacting his cruel vengeance upon Spiridon and Constantine.
I am Queen of Atlantis! One day this will all be over and I shall return to my rightful place.
Yes! That was where she belonged. She had no memory of that mysterious place, yet instinctively knew it to be the only real home she would know – once she had fulfilled her destiny as Dorothea Clayton.
She found herself wondering how Dorothea – the Dorothea she had met before all this terror entered her life – had protected herself against the threat of Dino discovering who she really was.
Perhaps before I get rid of the Power Jewels I ought to try contacting her in the future to ask her advice, Eudora mused as she turned away from the stunning views to survey the room.
She knew
it was the last thing she should do, but she felt like an impostor, living out someone else’s life, terrified of making a mistake that might alter history.
If I don’t marry Reynard and bear him a son then Diocletian won’t be able to gain access to the world. The terror he brings with him will be ended!
But will it?
It might merely delay his resurrection. For all I know, after my disappearance in 1989 Diocletian might yet be vanquished. If I prevent his rebirth, those events will not happen, and that might be the one chance for his defeat!
As she dressed in the blue silk kaftan she had worn from Constantinople, she chastised herself for faltering from the path destiny laid out before her. She had no other option than to follow that path, and should not start second-guessing what might occur. Dorothea lived until 1989 at least: that much was history to her; if she were Dorothea, then she too would live to see Nathan again, many years from now.
At least I shall have the opportunity to say goodbye to him!
Fastening the final strap on her shoes, she left the bedroom, descending the wide wooden staircase that was almost opposite the door to her room, and found herself in a cold flagstone-floored entrance hall. The wood panelling of the walls and high vaulted ceilings of the bedroom and passage on the upper level gave way to more decorous surroundings on the ground floor. Huge Persian rugs spread across the vast expanse of floor, which she could see through the open doors that led off one side of the hallway, and enormous woven tapestries seemed to adorn every wall – some of which she felt sure she had seen before, either in the future or perhaps during her brief sojourn to the Seraglio of Constantinople. They were not in any way intrusive to the subtle beauty of the stone walls of the ground floor.
The hallway echoed eerily with every footfall as she inspected her surroundings more closely. The place was oddly archaic, yet majestic at the same time, and every piece of furniture, every item of object-d’art, every painting, rug and tapestry seemed to fit in completely without looking in any way out of place.
Facing directly opposite the impressive staircase, floor to ceiling windows flanked an imposing pair of solid wood doors. Eudora peered through one of the windows. To the left, a tree-lined driveway as wide as an avenue stretched far into the distance, ending in enormous wrought iron gates that split a high stone wall in two. To the right, the drive became cobbles and led around through a stone archway to the stables, where she could just make out the figures of Reynard and Benjamin as they removed the saddles from their magnificent chestnut steeds.
She heard footsteps approaching from a passage to the left of the staircase, and turned almost guiltily.
Summer, as gentle and frail in appearance as her yet-to-be-born grandson, approached with tentative caution, clearly unsure what to make of the beautiful, enigmatic intruder. The uneasy wariness in her face tempered the compassion in her eyes. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ she said, summoning a smile.
‘Hello. Where am I?’
‘You do not know? Why, you are in the Château Clétiàn, of course.’
‘What year is it?’
It was such an absurd question for anyone to have asked that Summer could not help laughing, but quickly realised it was a genuine question. ‘You really do not know?’ When Eudora shook her head, Summer sighed. ‘Today is July the second. The year is 1939.’
‘And I arrived yesterday?’
Summer nodded. ‘Well, that’s when we found you anyway.’
My birthday, Eudora thought solemnly, twenty years before I am born!
‘How did you get into that room in the cellar?’ asked Summer.
Eudora shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She knew she could trust Summer implicitly, but was unsure it was proper to involve the young woman with the truth.
‘Can you at least remember your name?’ Summer continued hesitantly.
‘Yes. My name is Dorothea. Dorothea Dieudonné.’ She realised she did not actually know Dorothea’s maiden name, but it made sense to use one with which she was familiar. ‘I think my ancestors once lived in this château!’
Summer laughed. ‘I think you might be mistaken, my dear. The Clétiàn family has owned this land and all properties that have been built on it for centuries.’
‘Well then somewhere in the past one of my ancestors must have been a member of the Clétiàn family.’
Having stood in the entrance listening to the conversation with interest, Reynard clapped loudly, startling the two women. ‘A very plausible story, my dear; however, I happen to know that each generation of my family has produced but a single male heir and no other offspring, so what you have said cannot possibly be true. Who are you really, and what were you doing in my cellar? And more to the point, how did you come to be in my cellar in the first place?’
Eudora sighed resignedly. ‘Please, don’t ask me to tell you the whole truth. You simply wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try us,’ said Reynard as Benjamin appeared behind him, as eager to hear this raven-haired woman’s story as Reynard and Summer were.
Feeling a growling deep within her from lack of food, Eudora clutched her stomach. Reynard, Benjamin and Summer heard the gurgling distinctly. ‘Could I please have something to eat? I’ve not had any food in what feels like hundreds of years!’
‘Of course,’ said Reynard, ‘and will you then tell us the truth… all of it… no matter how unbelievable you say it is?’
Eudora nodded. ‘As you wish.’
* * *
Sitting in a comfortable, overstuffed chair opposite three gaping, disbelieving mouths, Eudora managed to repress her self-satisfied grin. She had known they would not believe her, but leaving nothing out, she told her audience of her unfathomable exploits in the Constantinople of Selim II, of how it all began for her with the discovery of a painting in 1989, and how that painting was hidden at that very moment within the secret chamber down in the wine cellar.
She could scarcely believe she had told them so much, but knew they did not believe her. They almost certainly thought she was mad, and perhaps they were right in that assumption.
Summer was the first to speak as she rose to her feet. ‘It is, as I’m sure Benjamin and Reynard will agree, a most peculiar tale that you have told us, Dorothea Dieudonné, or whatever your name really is. It is so completely unbelievable, that I am actually inclined to believe you. I might not have accepted it as the truth, but as it stands… well, if you were going to lie for some reason you would have thought of something more mundane and realistic.’
Eudora smiled her thanks at the young woman, while Reynard maintained a cool silence as he continued to appraise the situation.
On the one hand, there was this stranger in their midst who had told them the tallest tale imaginable. But why should she lie? What possible motive could she have for such a fanciful fabrication?
On the other hand, there was the indisputable reality that she was a stranger to them, trapped within a secret chamber in the wine cellar that none of them knew existed.
Benjamin glowered at her frostily. ‘Well I for one would like something more substantial than mere words! I should like a demonstration of this mysterious painting’s magical properties.’
Reynard was about to counter his cold words, but Eudora smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.’ Glancing at the ring adorning her finger, she caressed the amethyst pendant around her throat and felt the amulet pinch the skin of her upper arm. Whoever had removed her clothing and put her to bed last night had not removed the jewellery. She recalled that no one could take them from her forcibly. Had the person tried yet failed to remove them, or had they just chosen to leave them? She neither knew nor really cared. ‘I would like to see the painting one final time.’
Reynard and Benjamin leapt to their feet in astonishment, and Summer emitted a stifled scream of terror as Eudora vanished suddenly from the room before their very eyes. When a woman disappears into thin air, it can mean only one
thing: witchcraft!
‘Where has she gone?’ gasped Reynard, staring all around the room as though expecting her to step out from some secret hiding place. Besides the fact that she had disappeared into thin air from the middle of the room, there was nowhere to hide. He knew of no secret hiding places within the four walls of the Château Clétiàn – except the secret chamber down in the cellar.
The woman, Dorothea, had said she wanted to see the painting one final time, literally moments before she had disappeared, and the painting was most likely down there, if what she said about it being the means through which she entered the château was true. Grabbing the torch from its resting place, Reynard dashed from the room, calling over his shoulder for the others to follow. They did so, excising their rights to an explanation as they finally caught up with him out of breath down in the wine cellar, just in time to witness the opening of the secret door. Reynard shone the torch into the gloom to reveal Eudora’s smiling face.
She laughed at their bewilderment. Reynard seemed to have worked out where she would reappear, even though he could not work out how she had performed the feat of magic.
In the torchlight, she noticed a light switch adjacent to the door and pressed it. The subdued glow of a single flickering bulb revealed the secret room to be small compared with the wine cellar. It was about ten feet by six feet, and was surprisingly dry, which was just as well considering that on the walls hung some of the most beautiful paintings any of the four had set eyes on.
‘I never knew these were here!’ gasped Reynard in awe as he inspected each one in turn. The Château Clétiàn housed many treasures and works of art that the family had collected over the centuries, but none matched any of these hidden paintings in their splendour. ‘They are exquisite. Who are they by?’
‘An exceptional artist by the name of Dion Taine,’ Eudora sighed.
Reynard glanced at her. ‘He is the artist of whom you spoke, from Sixteenth Century Constantinople?’
Portrait of Shade Page 26
