Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “He drew us in? Raziel?”

  Romanov nodded. “My fallen brother believed I would yield to sin and rush after her myself—against the One’s specific command. But our most wonderful Creator foresaw this tactic and provided rescue, according to His perfect plans. He used Henry MacAlpin, and even your own children, to do what I could not, Charles. The Name above all names works all things together for good, according to His purpose. To accomplish your rescue, He ordered me to assemble the castle’s company, beginning before Elizabeth was even born. Each has played a role in her rescue, and all will continue to serve her and you—but also, your children.”

  “Children. Plural. You’ve used that word twice now. Are you saying that Beth is definitely carrying twins, or are these future children, not yet conceived?”

  The Russian smiled, his light eyes twinkling. “She is carrying twins. During the coming decades, you and your family will take centre stage in world events, my friend. I cannot reveal why this is true, for doing so could impact your future, free will choices. Recall your admonition to Georgianna against revealing too much of your own future.”

  Sinclair smiled at last. “So I did. Or rather, the future version of myself will.”

  “Then you understand,” Romanov said. “The princes and powers of the fallen realms are divided on how to combat your family’s growing influence. Some advocate annihilation, whilst others believe you and your sons may yet prove useful to their schemes.”

  “Sons? We’ll have more than just Robby?”

  Anatole began to laugh, the cold breeze blowing through his long hair, making him seem as young as springtime. “I have revealed too much. You’ve always had a way of eliciting far more from me than I intend to tell, Charles Robert.”

  “You talk as though we share a long history, Anatole.”

  “And so we do. When you were a boy, the two of us enjoyed many long conversations together, and very soon you’ll recall them, as well as all your lost childhood. However, I fear those recovered memories will bring you great pain and anguish for a season, my friend. But like the butterfly after a winter’s darkness, you will emerge stronger when the light breaks at last. When you remember that darkness, you and I shall speak again.”

  Sinclair grew quiet, his mind crowded with warring thoughts. “I’ve already begun to dream about my childhood, Anatole. Of family secrets and kings—and dragons. Is that what you mean?”

  “The dragon dreams are the first sign, yes. Soon, you will experience waking dreams, but do not resist them. Let them come.”

  “Anatole, I don’t want my children to suffer because of me. How do I keep them safe from Redwing and these rebel princes?”

  “Would that I could remove all the obstacles that lie ahead, my dear friend, but take consolation in this: The One will never abandon you. Not for one moment—not one second! He is ever and always nearby, and He has charged my brethren and me to keep watch upon you for as long as you live. Though you may not see us, we stand and fight beside you. Always.”

  Charles wiped tears from his face. “I’ve no fear for myself, but for my wife and children. I’ve already lost one child. I cannot bear to lose another!”

  The mysterious angel placed a comforting hand on the human’s shoulder. “I know this journey is difficult, for our presence is not always obvious to human eyes. Look to Henry MacAlpin for keen vision to see beyond the enemy’s lies and masks. He loves Elizabeth and will make sure no harm ever befalls her. And you will shortly meet another who’ll join her circle of protectors. Though danger stalks her steps, warriors will never leave her side.”

  “I’m aware of Henry’s affections, and now you tell me of another man? Forgive me, if I find little comfort in such promises.”

  Romanov laughed heartily. “Do I hear a note of jealousy in your voice, Charles Robert? You’ve nothing to fear where Lord Salperton is concerned. Henry’s life has been interwoven with Elizabeth’s since before the dawning of the world. Just as with you, Henry was always meant to connect with her, but only as a close and constant friend. The same is true of the gentleman soon to come. Though you will suspect and like him little at first, you and he will become great friends. I have foreseen it.”

  Charles opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but raised voices interrupted: angry, raucous sounds of men fighting.

  “Duty calls, Commissioner,” Anatole told the detective.

  “So it does,” Sinclair sighed, heading towards the altercation.

  Nearing the church, he noticed the sexton arguing with a bulky man in an ill-fitting suit of black worsted wool. Charles approached to call for calm, but before he could speak, four scarred knuckles connected with his chin and knocked the surprised duke onto the hard-packed ground.

  “Go on! Get up, an’ I’ll show you more o’ that!” the man shouted, his dark eyes wild as a pit dog’s.

  The shocked sexton pushed at the assailant’s arm in panic. “You gone daft, Eddy?” Then to the fallen peer, he said apologetically, “Gimme yer hand, sir. I don’t see no blood, but I’ll go into the vestry and fetch a cold cloth anyway.”

  Once on his feet, Charles warily rubbed his reddening chin and then brushed dirt and wet leaves from his clothing. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Davies. No harm done, though my friend Mr. Baxter’s likely to complain about the stains to these trousers. I confess, it’s the first time in seven years someone’s caught me off-guard with a punch,” he told the man called Eddy. “You should box for the Met.”

  Hamish Granger had been keeping a sharp lookout near the Haimsbury coach, and he ran over, ready to offer the pugilist a lesson in Scottish boxing. His employer intervened before the coachman’s meaty fist connected with the assailant’s face.

  “No need for that, Mr. Granger. I’m sure this gentleman has an explanation.”

  “If you say so, Commissioner,” six-foot-four Granger grumbled.

  The newcomer’s face turned six shades of white beneath a spotty, red beard. “Blimey, yer a commissioner? I’s in a right mess now, ain’t I? Look, I’s real sorry, sir,” he blustered. “Honest. I didn’ mean nuffin’ by it. It’s just me brain’s all afire, cause o’ what ‘appened. I ain’t to blame, but the guv’ll say I am. There’s no way to explain it, sir. None at all!”

  “This here’s Ed Jarvis, Yer Grace,” the sexton explained.

  “YER GRACE? Lord above, tell me ‘e ain’ a duke!” moaned the distraught man, his face turning from white to red.

  “I’m afraid I am a duke, Mr. Jarvis,” Charles informed the apoplectic fellow, “but it’s my Commissioner title that concerns you at the moment.”

  Jarvis’s eyes rounded in fear. “I ain’t under arrest, is I, sir?”

  “Not yet, but Granger here keeps manacles in his pocket. In addition to running my mews, he is also a Detective Inspector.”

  Hamish withdrew the irons and showed them to the pale man.

  Ed Jarvis swallowed hard. “Please, forgive me Yer Grace. I ain’t in my right mind, I ain’t. Mr. Quincy’s gonna have me six ways ta Sunday, when ‘e finds out.”

  Anatole Romanov had strolled to their spot. At six-foot-eight, he stood a head taller than the thick-set man in the stained suit. “I take it something has happened to upset your day, Mr. Jarvis. Might I ask what?”

  “You a duke as well?” the sweating man asked nervously, running a chubby finger round his starched collar.

  “He’s a prince, actually,” Sinclair explained, not bothering to add that Romanov’s status as human was hardly implied within that statement.

  “A prince!” Jarvis wailed, looking as though he might faint any second. “Don’ tell me a prince seen me clock a duke on the chin! This day’s gettin’ worse n’ worse. M’lords, I were never a part o’ this. I swears it. An’ I never agreed to it.”

  “Stop and take a breath, Mr. Jarvis,” Haimsbury admonished gently. “To begin, why w
ere you and Mr. Davies arguing?”

  “Cause o’ the body, sir.”

  “Body? What body?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following,” Charles admitted. “Do you refer to Baron Wychwright’s body? His funeral isn’t for three more hours.”

  “Aye, sir. That’s true, but that ain’t why I were askin’ Davies fer ‘elp. I seen it, when I ‘ad ta shoo away that bird.”

  “Bird?” Romanov asked, his dark head tilting to one side curiously. It occurred to Charles that the Russian probably knew exactly what had happened and was feigning ignorance out of courtesy; or more likely, to conceal his supernatural powers from the sexton and Jarvis.

  “One o’ them big blackbirds, sir,” Ed Jarvis gasped, his breathing growing laboured, the plump cheeks reddening into bright beets. “Some’ow, it got inside the coach, so’s I pulled the team ta one side an’ opened the doors to let it out, didn’ I? That’s when I seen the lid.”

  Charles massaged his temples, for he could feel a headache coming on. “The lid?” he asked, his left brow arching impatiently.

  “Aye, sir. The coffin lid. We don’ screw ‘em down ‘til the family’s ‘ad a las’ look. I tolds Mr. Quincy that no widow’d wanna see a body what ‘ad suffered so much woundin’, bu’ ‘e insisted. That’s why it come up, sir. The lid, I mean.”

  “It opened on its own?” asked the prince.

  “Like it were on springs, sir. That’s when I seen it.”

  “When you saw what, Mr. Jarvis?” Charles pressed, wishing the man would simply get to the point.

  “Nobody, sir.”

  “Nobody? What the devil do you mean?” the duke complained, the persistent headache throbbing behind his eyes now.

  Jarvis’s melon head bobbed up and down like a pump handle on a midsummer day. “That’s the word, sir! A right devil, or a demon, or summat! Which is why there weren’t nobody inside!”

  “You saw nobody? I fail to see what you mean, Jarvis,” the detective muttered, all good humour vanished.

  “No, you sees it, my lord, you do! Nobody at all.”

  Romanov’s smooth face twitched as he stifled an amused grin. “Not nobody, Charles. No body. The coffin was empty. Am I right, Mr. Jarvis?”

  The driver’s pale face slackened in stark dismay. “That box were empty as air, m’lords, and the body gone like it weren’t never there. Like one o’ them music hall conjurers done it in a magic show!”

  Charles took a deep breath. “I suppose that explains your behaviour, Mr. Jarvis, and why you look ready to faint. Go inside the church and sit for a few minutes whilst Mr. Davies fetches you a glass of water. Once you’ve recovered, you will tell me everything that has happened this morning. From the very beginning.”

  Chapter Six

  St. Arilda’s Abbey – Kent County

  At the very moment that Charles Sinclair stood listening to Ed Jarvis explain about a missing body, Lionel Wentworth and his Cambridge companions were commencing the final day of their lives—or rather life as they understood it. It began with a shift in the weather, from dank chill to unseasonably mild. All clouds disappeared, blown away by a strong, northeasterly breeze, giving way to a dead calm, as though a great sea storm were taking a long breath in the Thames estuary, preparing to unleash its fury later in the day. Following a six o’clock breakfast of boiled eggs, bacon, beans and toast, the trio received word that their project leader, Colonel Sir Alfred Collinwood, had decided to spend the day at Castle Anjou with the Oxford team. In his absence, he ordered Holloway, Wentworth, and Patterson to survey a newly discovered crypt at Lion Hall.

  Relieved to have a day without the stern eye of the retired army officer constantly upon them, the three men entered Lion Hall’s eastern corridor at eight o’clock precisely, carrying with them boxes of food provided by The Abbot’s Ghost: Farmer’s cheese and salted pork in tinfoil, crusty bread spread with chokecherry jam, boiled eggs, lardy cake slices, and crisp apples. Danny Stephens had even included sealed jars of milky tea, which he’d laced with cider.

  At eleven, the men paused for a break and sat upon the hall’s limestone steps, enjoying the spiked tea, bread, and jam; whilst taking in the beauty of the surrounding woods. Wentworth lit a brown cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, occasionally fanning away a persistent, greenbottle fly. The strange weather that morning was akin to early spring, and several types of flies buzzed round their faces, eager to steal a bit of jam or a crust of bread. Waving them away, Wentworth stubbed out the remains of the cigarette, for he’d observed several men approaching from the southwest on horseback.

  “Who might that be?” he asked Holloway, who was screwing the lid back onto his tea jar. “Do you recognise them, Holl?”

  “The lead man looks familiar,” replied the professor. “He works for the duchess, I think.”

  The horsemen drew close, and the tallest dismounted and walked up to their spot, leading a dappled mare by the reins. He stood about six feet in height with straight brown hair that peeked from beneath a dusty brown bowler.

  He also carried a rifle.

  “Good morning, sirs. You’re with that science team, I take it?” he began in a friendly tone.

  Seth Holloway brushed bread crumbs from his palms, then shook the rider’s gloved hand warmly. “We are indeed. It’s Mr. Clark, isn’t it? Not sure if you remember me. Lord Salter’s son. Seth Holloway.”

  “The Viscount Paynton! Of course, I remember you, sir,” declared Clark happily. “We’ve not seen you since last May’s fête, I reckon, my lord. The duchess never mentioned you were part of this project. Is she aware of it, sir?”

  Seth had a boyishly handsome, freckled face, and his sapphire blue eyes twinkled as he shielded them from the bright sun. “She is, and I hope to see her again soon.” He turned to his companions. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Edwin Clark, the finest horseman in all of Kent. I’ve seen Clark ride backwards in the saddle like an American Indian, chaps. And once, he even rode bareback whilst standing, if you can believe it. Clark helped me to improve my riding skills, though he never taught me that little trick. Mr. Clark, these are Peter Patterson, usually called Pitt, and Lionel Wentworth, whom we jokingly call Worthy. I’m afraid Colonel Collinwood is elsewhere this morning. Might we be of help?”

  Clark held his hat in one hand, the rifle in the other whilst the well-mannered horse grazed near an old well. “The duchess and her new husband will be arriving tomorrow for Christmas, my lord. In preparation, we’re riding the entire estate, as well as the surrounding villages, to make sure there aren’t any tramps or dangerous unknowns lyin’ about. You say the colonel’s gone elsewhere? Where might that be, sir?”

  “The castle,” answered Wentworth cheerfully.

  “Do you mean Anjou, sir? Lion Hall is also a castle.”

  “Oh, yes, well, we’ve been calling this place the ‘old hall’ but the big place ‘the castle’,” Worthy muttered. “I mean the one up on that great cliff, overlooking the estuary. Enormous old place. Quite foreboding. Danny Stephens claims it’s haunted.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it haunted, sir,” Clark noted with quiet amusement. “Despite local superstition, the only spirits at Anjou come from the Feathers pub. The duchess didn’t mention any activity over that way. Have you a letter with different orders?”

  “No idea,” Lionel answered, gazing at Holloway. “You’d need to speak to Colonel Collinwood. He’s in charge of our little troupe.”

  Seth walked several feet from the younger men and motioned to the chief groom, who followed, leaving his horse for a moment. “Clark, are you saying the duchess hasn’t amended the original contract in any way?”

  “No, sir. Not that she’s communicated to me.”

  “This is troubling,” Seth whispered, keeping his voice low. “I helped her design that contract, you see, and it specifies t
hat only Lion Hall may be surveyed. I suggest sending men to speak with the colonel on behalf of Duchess Elizabeth. I’ll send her a telegram as soon as we’re back at the village. And keep a sharp eye out, Clark. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to our little duchess, now would we?”

  “No, sir. Not a bit of it,” the groom replied.

  Clark signalled to the other horsemen, speaking to a muscular individual wearing a dusty bowler and brown tweed coat. “Mac, you and Gilmore head over to Anjou and make sure the colonel has permission to explore the castle. Ask for something in writing. He’ll likely try to talk down to you, but be persistent. Her Grace was very specific about this project, and she never mentioned Anjou. If she’s changed her mind, then she’ll have put it on paper.”

  “Right, sir!” Laurence MacLeod called back. Then he and Tommy Gilliam took a northeast path, riding towards Anjou-on-Sea at a brisk gallop.

  Clark turned back to Holloway. “Lord Paynton, I know you’re a capable man, but be careful round these old ruins. You’ve heard the duchess’s tales of tunnels that run ‘neath the estate. We’ve had a bit o’ business lately that I’ll speak to you about when you’re alone, but for now, promise to keep to the main ruins. Stay out o’ the tunnels. And be done and gone from here by dusk. It’s dangerous after sunset hereabouts, particularly in these old ruins.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Clark,” Seth answered, shaking the groom’s hand. “We’ll follow your advice and be safely inside Danny Stephens’s pub long before the sun sets.”

  The chief groom rode off, leaving the Cambridge trio to pack up the picnic boxes and return to their assignments.

  “Capable looking fellow,” Peter Patterson said to his friends. “What do you suppose he meant by danger after sunset?”

  “A local superstition, I imagine,” Worthy replied easily. “Danny Stephens will make much of it, when we tell him about it later. These country folk are simple in their ways, chaps. Still, we should follow the man’s admonition. After all, he does work for our hostess. I wonder if we’ll have the honour to spend any time with Her Grace?”