Realm of Darkness

by C F Dunn

  “But,” she started to say, “what about my work?”

  I thought about what Guy would say in such a situation, then decided I couldn’t be that cruel. “As you said, Hannah, it’s your work, it’s your choice. I’ve told you what I think; now I have work to do of my own.”

  Watching her surreptitiously as she packed her bag, I clicked on a random link without paying much attention. She was crimson. Perhaps I’d been too soft. Guy would have stamped all over her by now, but then I wasn’t Guy, and I believed there were ways of nurturing students without crushing their will to live.

  I heard her sniff, and she might have wiped her eyes before leaving my room, but if that was the extent of her suffering, I would have done her a favour. The humiliation she would otherwise face in front of hundreds of seasoned historians didn’t bear thinking about.

  Three-fifteen. Time stretches at night. I wondered what Matthew was doing now – not this, I bet. I flicked through Hannah’s latest effort, pleased – no, relieved – to see she had taken my advice after all. Something caught my eye. I sifted back through the pages searching, then slowed down and went through them one by one. I might have made a mistake; I hoped I had made a mistake. I hadn’t. There it was: Hilliard.

  Ugh. Even seeing his name revived the cold repulsion of my dream. What on earth was she doing referencing him? I began reading in earnest. She hadn’t referred to him once, but a number of times, drawing on several works plus a more recent one with which I was unfamiliar: The History of Belief: C17th Popular Culture in Counter-Reformation Europe. Very now, very Guy.

  She had returned to her original thesis, with a few amendments, but on safer ground. Except now she took it a step further and closer to my own area of interest: Coven or Covenanter? Witchcraft Trials and the Act of Uniformity, 1662.

  Right up my street – and his.

  I was still reading when Matthew returned as the sun made an appearance from an overcast sky.

  “Good morning!” he said, coming over and kissing the top of my head. “Have you been up long?” He went through into my bedroom, taking off his sweater.

  I came back from the seventeenth century, always a bit of a struggle at the best of times. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d get some work done.”

  He came back in, unbuttoning his shirt. “Anything interesting?”

  I would have to get a copy of Guy’s book to cross-reference her sources. “Act of Uniformity.”

  “I remember it well. I’m having a shower.”

  Where was Guy? What poor deluded student had he in his sights now? And why should I care? After a moment, I looked up. Matthew still stood where he had been, his shirt over his arm. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet.”

  I remembered to smile. “A bit tired, I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “Oh?” He came and put a hand on my forehead. “You’re running a low fever. Bed, now. I’ll get you something to reduce it.”

  “Am I?” I said, genuinely surprised.

  He returned from the kitchen with a couple of tablets and a glass of water. “Are you still here? Bed.”

  “Bully,” I halfheartedly objected, but recognizing the first signs of a temperature. “I’ll be OK with an hour’s sleep.” I gathered my work into a pile, which he promptly removed from my hands.

  “Sleep – not work. This will wait for a few hours.”

  By noon I entered the hush of the library having slept the temperature off, and made straight for the history section without pausing to greet the librarian.

  Thief.

  I heard the echoed whisper in the sigh of the automatic doors. The last time I had been here I had taken the journal. That very same night Staahl nearly killed me, and the journal had been in my possession ever since, pricking my conscience. I had always planned to return it – it just became a case of when. Today, though, I had another reason to visit the library and one that wouldn’t wait. Hannah must have borrowed Guy’s book, so it would be here somewhere.

  His name jumped off the book’s spine long before I registered its title. I snatched it from the shelf and stuffed it between a couple of textbooks I didn’t want and wouldn’t read. Infantile, I berated myself, but noted that I didn’t change its position nor touch the cover. Afraid of contamination? I asked myself wryly.

  Throughout the afternoon tutorial with Aydin, all during Eckhart’s customary visit, the book played on my mind, until at last, I could bear it no longer.

  I slid my chair back from the desk and stood up. “I think it’s a fantastic idea, Professor. I’ll let you get on now; you must have loads to do.”

  Eckhart nodded enthusiastically, his glasses sliding down his nose until he peered short-sightedly over them. “Yes, yes, I’m exceptionally busy. Now, I have s… some details of the accommodation I would like to discuss with you.”

  My heart sank. “I’m very busy too, Professor. Perhaps we could look at it tomorrow?” I pulled the books from my bag and put them on the desk skew-whiff where they spilled perilously close to the edge.

  He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Ah, yes, you must want to get on with your work…” His eyes fell on a book on my desk. “Professor Hilliard! My, my, well, well! Is this a new work? I must read it.” He reached for the book but I placed my hand firmly on it. I’d forgotten Eckhart held Guy in high esteem.

  “I’m sure there’ll be another copy in the library, Professor.”

  Nodding wildly and hunting in his pockets to see if he had his library card, he left the room without saying goodbye.

  Once alone I picked up the book. Seeing Guy’s face again after so long had shaken me. The photograph had been taken in an office – not the one at Cambridge, but I remembered some of the titles on the bookshelves behind him and the cavalry pistol and mortuary sword mounted on the wall. He sat obliquely to the camera but stared directly into it. His dark brown hair – now flecked with grey – looked thinner, the style shorter, but his body still had the lean vigour, his stance the intense purpose, his expression the same arrogance in which he held the camera’s eye. And he wore a burgundy shirt. It was as much as I could do just to read the biography: “Foremost in his generation… academic rigour… intelligent narration… brilliant autopsy…” Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. “Revealing a unique perspective and profound understanding of this turning-point in history.”

  That had me hooked. Despite myself I read on, hearing his voice, his turn of phrase, impaled by a single word when he made a point. It seemed to be one in a series of books he was producing, a combination of revising extant works and new research. Blast him – whatever my personal feelings, I couldn’t fault his professionalism.

  Dusk fell, had grown and darkened by the time Matthew came to find me. I threw the book in my desk drawer and slammed it shut as the door opened. I could see the worry in his eyes.

  “It’s late – you weren’t answering your cell.”

  I vaguely indicated Aydin’s notes in front of me. “Sorry, I got carried away. I didn’t keep a check on the time. What time is it?” I started to pack my things away. He came to help.

  “Past nine. Have you eaten?”

  Had I? “I don’t remember.”

  He frowned. “You seem a little preoccupied.” He stroked a stray strand of hair back from my face. “I understand you have a lot to do, but it seems more than that; something’s bothering you.”

  I stopped then because he worried, and he worried because of me, and that wouldn’t do. If truth be told I felt uneasy. Much of what Guy had written I instantly remembered from ten years before. But there was new research here as well and, more significantly, his perspective had changed, bringing him closer to my own area of specialism. If that wasn’t bad enough, the path he followed brought him straying too close to home. When I discovered Matthew’s identity it was by no random chance but through a systematic search. Even so, I would not have looked for him had I not a personal interest and a series of incidents emphasized the differences he so carefully concealed. T
he chances that anyone would hit upon a trail that led to him were remote beyond the realms of reality, but then, as I had proved, reality often depends upon the angle from which it is viewed. I couldn’t risk anyone stumbling across his trail. I couldn’t risk the journal’s absence from the library being noticed. Like the box in the wall, the safest place to hide it was where it might reasonably be found.

  Matthew tipped his head on one side and took his time to assess me. “Perhaps what you need is some fresh air and a little sunshine. Come home with me at the weekend; I would like to introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was to be sociable. “Can’t we stay here? I want to get this finished.”

  “Humour me; your work will wait until Monday, and I have to go home to meet my guests. You won’t find them taxing conversationalists and you might even discover you enjoy their company.”

  I didn’t want to – I wanted to put the journal back before any more time passed, but the library would be shut now. “All right,” I said less than graciously. “How formal is it going to be and what’s the order of dress for these guests of yours?”

  He smiled. “I really don’t think they’ll care one way or the other. Come as you are.”

  I looked down at my jeans and boots, then up at him, and wondered what he found so amusing.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Rogues and Vagabonds

  Where once snow lay, now dunes of spangled grass swept before us, lapping at the shores of the white house in its lake of malachite. In the early morning sun, drops sparkled after the night rain. I leaned out of the car window and breathed in the clear air as we drew up to the house. Better rested than the day before, I had a sunnier outlook on life, and felt less inclined to grump.

  “Hi, Emma!” Ellie sang as she crossed from the Stables. “Matthew, I managed to swap that duty with Dr Ellis and he’ll cover the whole weekend. Have we an ETA?”

  Matthew shut the boot and checked his watch. “Any time after eight. Is everything ready?”

  “Sure. Gran said if you can spare some time, Emma, she’d like you to have a look at the menu for the wedding breakfast. Oh, and she said to ask if you’ve eaten.” She laughed at my expression, tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder as she made her way towards the garage.

  “If you see her before I do,” I called after her, “tell her Matthew force-fed me at some ridiculous hour this morning.”

  “Will do!” She waved in acknowledgement. She seemed very chipper. I don’t ever remember looking forward to guests this much when her age.

  “What do these visitors do for a living?” I asked Matthew as we went inside and into the kitchen.

  He put my bag down by the table and went to the fridge. “They’re… athletes.”

  “I didn’t think you were still involved in athletics.”

  Seemingly satisfied I wouldn’t starve, he leant against the work surface with his arms folded. “I’m not much, but I like to keep up to speed.” He laughed quietly. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No thanks, you made me drink two this morning, remember? We looked up as we heard a vehicle rattle along the drive and past the Barn’s east face. Any moment it would appear in the courtyard.

  “That’ll be them,” he said, suppressed excitement making his eyes glow. “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

  The courtyard remained empty. “What are we waiting for?”

  Like a puppy straining at the leash, he urged, “Emma, come on, this way!” He led across the courtyard and out beyond the range of buildings and under the open sky. There, where the land dipped away towards a slow bend of the river, Ellie and a rough-coated man were unhitching the tailgate of a large trailer. The man disappeared inside and a moment later came out leading a bay stallion.

  Matthew accelerated, unable to contain the excitement that had been waiting to burst from him all morning. Tugging to free itself from its lead rope, the horse saw him. It neighed, its large eyes wide and staring, and reared away, the rope flying out of the man’s hands. A handsome horse, deep russet and shining in the sun, its neat head held high and long mane flowing, it trotted fearlessly towards us. Matthew put out his hand and the animal thrust its nose into his palm as he caressed its neck and talked quietly. The horse whinnied. Matthew looked over to me. “Would you like to meet one of our guests?”

  I walked cautiously towards the horse, not wanting to spook him, but he stayed still until I reached him and touched his velvet nose. “He’s lovely,” I breathed.

  He ran an experienced eye over the stallion. With the flat of his hand, he felt the horse’s neck, down his long, fine legs and across his flank. He checked his back, his hooves, and his mouth, finally patting him, satisfied. “I’ve always kept horses. He’s in good shape, aren’t you, boy?” he addressed the horse. “He’ll be ready for a ride when he’s settled later on. His name’s Oliver – Ollie. Would you like to ride him?”

  I looked at the strong, muscular body, flanks quivering with unspent energy, nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of freedom in the breeze, and thought that, as much as I would like to ride this magnificent animal, I would probably end up with a broken neck if I tried.

  “We’ll ride him together, if you’d prefer,” Matthew offered.

  “Can he take both of us?”

  “Morgans are very strong; they’re resilient and good-tempered as well. He won’t mind, there’s nothing to you anyway.”

  “In that case, I’d love to.”

  “Good. Hang on to him for a moment, I need to check out Ellie’s mare.” He handed me the lead rope, and the horse and I assessed one another.

  “Hello, Ollie,” I said softly, and rubbed the short star blaze on his nose, easing my fingers under the band of his halter. He gauged me with lustrous eyes fringed with long, dark lashes and at that point, I think I fell in love.

  After speaking to the man, Matthew was back. “Do I need to be jealous?” he asked as I gazed at the horse.

  “Absolutely,” I sighed. “How can you bear to be parted?”

  “I miss him all right, but we overwinter them in boarding stables by the coast. It suits them better over there where it’s less harsh and I know they’re well looked after.”

  Ellie led her mare, with its ivory mane and a coat the colour of pale apricots, towards us. I had never seen her so animated. “Lizzie’s so pleased to be back. I’ll take her out later; she’s desperate for a run. Isn’t she pretty, Emma? Matthew gave her to me.”

  I stroked the mare’s long blaze. “She’s adorable,” I confirmed.

  “Lizzie and Ollie love each other, don’t you?” Ellie kissed each one.

  Oliver and Elizabeth: that sounded familiar.

  “Oliver and Elizabeth?”

  “Sure, why not? Matthew named them.”

  “I bet he did. Haven’t you told Ellie who Lizzie’s named after, Matthew? That’s very remiss of you. How sloppy. Or slapdash.”

  “Then you’d better tell her since it’s your subject,” Matthew shot, grinning, removing Ollie’s halter as the horse smelled water. The stallion trotted to the trough, dipping his nose towards the surface and drinking. Lizzie joined him.

  “There, what a fine couple they make,” I said with some irony. “You’re looking at Mr and Mrs Cromwell, Ellie.” She looked puzzled. “Oliver and Elizabeth Cromwell: English Civil War landowner, Parliamentarian, Lord Protector. Demoniacal despot or enlightened leader – depending on whose history you read. Anyway, it was a happy marriage by all accounts – they had nine children, so it better have been.”

  Ellie watched the horses drink. “Why did you give them names from English history, Matthew? Why not call them… George and Martha, or something American? I didn’t know you were that interested in English history.”

  Matthew gave me I’ll get you later looks behind Ellie’s back. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, Ellie. You know what I’m like,” he said, looking over her head at me. “I enjoy stra
nge and obscure things, especially if they’re English.”

  “British,” I corrected him.

  “Are you?” he asked. “How so?”

  “My great-grandmother was Scottish.”

  “Really? I thought I was getting a thoroughbred for a wife. I didn’t know I’m marrying a mongrel.”

  I whacked him for that – not that it made any impression on his rock-hard body, but I gave it my best shot. “Cheeky inbred ingrate, you can’t talk…” I stopped even before he flashed a look. Too late – Ellie had picked up on my slip.

  “Inbred? What do you mean? We’re not inbred at all, though we don’t know that much about the family, do we, Matthew?”

  I linked arms with her and we started to head back to the house. “I’m just trading insults, Ellie. Don’t take any notice of us. Where I come from, families like mine often intermarry over many generations; that’s why we’re all a bit loopy I suspect. Saying someone’s inbred is a common slur – I don’t mean it literally.” It sounded a plausible explanation to my ears, but Ellie didn’t look convinced.

  “Gramps has always wondered where the Lynes came from. He thinks the family must have originated in England – it’s an English-sounding name, isn’t it? He’s been trying to trace the family for years but he keeps coming up with dead ends. You’re a historian, Emma, couldn’t you help?”

  I could, but Matthew kept a tight lid on his origins on the grounds that what the family didn’t know couldn’t harm them. As far as Henry knew, Matthew came from the East coast of the States around the turn of the last century, and his parents had died when he was too young to remember them. No wonder Henry found it hard to track them down, and Matthew wouldn’t be helping. He kept a steady pace behind us as we waded through thick grass.

  “Sorry, Ellie, I’m not a genealogist and it’s a minefield. It’s not something I’ve ever studied.”