“My warriors are ever beside you, Charles. Never fear. I am your refuge and your fortress.” The man spread his hands, and Charles could see the nail prints.
The human fell to his knees, kissing the Saviour’s hands. “I have no right to your kindness or your love. I am nothing but a sinner, my Lord.”
“You are my child, Charles Robert. Arise and be strong. You will become a mighty man in England, and all will seek your counsel. Follow me, and I shall lead you into paths that will shake the world.”
The Lord then kissed Charles on the head and rose up into the air, vanishing from sight.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
11:50 pm – 31st December, 1888
Charles Sinclair sat quietly before the drawing room fire, watching the gas flames, his thoughts slowing, his mind already anticipating a good night’s rest.
“Sleepy?” his wife asked as she joined him on the sofa.
“Contemplative. I was just thinking about the year ahead. In a few minutes, it’ll be 1889.”
“Would you rather be downstairs with Grandfather and the others, toasting the new year?”
“Not in the least,” he answered. “I prefer spending it with you alone. Did I make the right decision?”
“About what?” she asked, snuggling close.
“The queen’s offer.”
“I think it’s a brilliant compromise, and allows our estates to remain in the family. Are you second-guessing yourself?”
“No, just thinking ahead, I suppose. Will Parliament accept it?”
“If the prime minister and Bertie agree, which they’ve already pledged to do. Charles, this is already done and signed. You’ve agreed to become a shadow sovereign. Just yesterday, you received your first red boxes, addressed to ‘HRH, Prince Charles’. Honestly, Bertie doesn’t want to be king. He looked quite relieved when the Archbishop placed those ceremonial robes on you.”
“Yes, but shadow king. Is it a coward’s way out?”
“It’s God’s plan to place you in a position of authority and influence. Darling, this year is going to bring all sorts of changes to our lives.”
“Good ones as well as... What I mean is, there will be shadows now and then, Beth.”
“But we’ll face them together,” she assured him. “We made it through Christmas. Della loves her new horse, by the way. She’ll have to train it to be more reliable, but Clark can help with that. Paul’s made a start on his new life, and Seth is on the mend. Are you sure you don’t mind having him stay at Branham?”
“Not at all.”
“You don’t suspect him any longer?”
He held her close, enjoying her raspberry and vanilla fragrance. “He can’t have murdered Collinwood, and Patterson’s death bears hallmarks similar to those in Whitechapel. Seth’s innocent of any crime. Given time, I may even grow to like the man.”
“I never would have married him, Charles. Yes, I care deeply for Seth, but it’s you I love. Only you. My heart is yours alone.”
“It’s a precious heart,” he whispered. “But I shall have to leave it now and again to pursue evil. I’ll do my best to be home with you each night, but it may require long hours. There’s a great deal to do in the coming year. I need to unmask the demons behind the crimes in Whitechapel, Beth. And find out what really happened to Lionel Wentworth. We’ve murders to solve, both here and in London. Do you prefer I put away my detective hat for good and store it in a box?”
She kissed his cheek. “Not at all, Captain. I married a policeman, after all. I may even buy you a new detective hat, should you require it.”
He laughed, kissing her forehead. “The Lord is very good to us, Beth. I bless his name for all the wonderful things he’s brought me this year.”
“And next year?” she asked happily as the clock chimed midnight.
“This year,” he corrected, kissing her mouth. “This year, we shall conquer a thousand foes, solve a thousand crimes, build a teaching hospital in Whitechapel that will heal the sick and instruct those with desire but no money—and we’ll greet our children. Robby and Georgianna. What a year this will be!”
“The year of promise,” she whispered. “Four hundred years since the Branham duchy was founded, and we’ll celebrate by bringing a new set of twins into the world. Happy New Year, Captain.”
“Happy New Year, little one. May the Lord keep us safe and in his wonderful hands, each and every day.”
Epilogue
1st January, 1889 - Goussainville, France
Seven-year-old Marie du Pont had never seen so many outsiders in one place at the same time. “Mama!” she cried in French. “Come! Hurry! Horses and horses with great waggons!”
Louisa du Pont was a weary widow with six children, who took in washing, repaired clothing, and cleaned houses to support her brood. Even with three means of income, the thirty-four-year-old had trouble making ends meet. She’d been scrubbing out copper pots near a kitchen window when her daughter called, and she peered through the leaded glass. Marie had an active imagination and was prone to exaggeration, but this time, the girl’s report proved true. Someone was moving into St. Roseline Abbey.
Du Pont dried her hands, checked her hair in the mirror near the door, and dashed into the yard of her small cottage.
“See, Mama?” sang little Marie happily. “Waggons and waggons!”
“Yes, I see,” Louisa said, looking down at her clothing and wondering if she should change. Word had come to the village of a wealthy Romanian who’d purchased the crumbling abbey with plans to convert it into a home, but such rumours arose from time to time; and yet here was evidence.
Emile Brelon, the village blacksmith, ran over, a heavy hammer in his right hand. “Is this the man?” he asked Louisa.
Soon, dozens of villagers had gathered in the gravel yard of the small cottage, which offered the closest view of the abbey and its activities.
“Are they real or ghosts?” asked Marie as she tugged at her mother’s apron.
“They are real, mon petit,” she answered. Little Marie often claimed to see invisible people and animals, and even played with phantom friends from time to time, especially at night.
Upon the great waggons, they could see many large boxes, barrels, and draped furnishings—and on the last two rested a pair of matched stone rectangles: obsidian sarcophagi. In all, sixteen heavily laden waggons passed through the abbey’s iron gates, and lastly a magnificent carriage appeared upon the horizon. A team of four black mares, stepping in perfect harmony, pulled the black and gold brougham. As it neared the gates, Louisa could see a red and gold crest upon its door.
“What animal is that, Mama?” asked Marie. “One is a bird, but what is the other?”
The entire group began to cross themselves, and the blacksmith clenched his hammer as though holding a weapon.
“What is this devilment?” asked Gerard Montpelier. “A dragon? Does this invader bring so hated a symbol to our sacred place?”
Father Henri Gigot, the local priest, disagreed. “It is the crest of his family, I should think. He does not intend it as blasphemy. I’ve observed this symbol in many of these old houses. Romanians see it as a sign of righteousness and defence of the church. We must not judge too quickly.”
To the surprise of all, the coach stopped, close to where they stood. A footman in black and gold livery with braided red trim opened the door. The footman and driver bowed as the mysterious occupant emerged.
Louisa had never before seen so beautiful a man in all her life. His movement was that of the most graceful dancer, and he seemed to float as he approached them. His tall, muscular frame was bedecked in satin and silk, all of it black; but as he walked, she perceived red lining to the knee length coat. His hair was long and wavy and as black as night.
Despite their reservations regarding the crest, everyone bowed or curtsied as t
he man approached. He walked directly to Louisa.
“Good day,” he said in accented French. “I am Prince Aretstikapha. It is a difficult name for some, but you may call me Prince Araqiel, if you wish.”
“Prince Araqiel?” repeated the lovestruck widow. “Yes, it is easier. Welcome to Goussainville.”
Father Gigot stepped forward. As curate of the church, he assumed command. “We were not told of your arrival. Had we known, we would have greeted you with flowers and music, Your Highness.”
Ignoring the priest, the prince’s intensely blue eyes bored into Louisa’s, and it felt as though he entered her thoughts. Louisa listened in enthralled wonder as he whispered of primordial days and ancient wars. A hand tugged at her apron; her daughter, calling to her.
The spell was broken.
“Forgive us, Your Highness,” she muttered. “My daughter does not yet understand how to speak to strangers. We see so few here.”
“So I know,” the prince answered. “It is why I chose to buy this so beautiful abbey. The quiet pleases me. I wonder, is there someone here who represents the village? A leader?”
The priest replied with another bow. “If you please, sir, I am Father Gigot. May I help?”
“Ah, forgive my rudeness. You are the local priest, of course. You and I will have much in common, Father Gigot. Latine loqui?”
“Sic ego Latine loquimur,” replied the priest eagerly. “Though not fluently, of course. I’m sure the old abbot and his monks spoke it daily, but now we use it only for mass and rituals. My conversational Latin suffers for lack of use.”
“Then, we shall see if we might improve it!” Araqiel declared, instantly winning a friend. “Might I ask the whereabouts of Sir Richard’s estate?”
“Would that be Sir Richard Patterson-Smythe?” enquired the priest. “He is away in England at present, but his manor house is nearby. Five miles to the north.”
“He is in England? Ah, such a pity. I had looked forward to inviting him to my home this evening. You see, he and his investment bank aided me in the purchase of this property.”
“There’s also Lady Victoria,” suggested the local butcher, a man named Laconnier. “But she also is away in England. However, my daughter Yvette works at her château and tells me the good lady plans to return here in a few weeks.”
The beautiful man bowed slightly, causing the gleaming locks of waving hair to fall forward. He brushed them back as he spoke; a gesture that sent the pulses of all the women racing.
“Thank you for your help. You have made me feel most welcome.”
He smiled, and it seemed to Louisa that his white teeth had a sharp look to them. Somehow, she found the unusual formation tantalising.
Araqiel snapped his fingers, and a man leapt down from the nearest waggon. He was modestly tall—six feet or so—and wore an English suit. He limped as he approached, and he held his side as though in pain.
“Yes, my lord Prince?”
“Wentworth, these are the good people of Goussainville, and this is their religious representative, Father Gigot. I want you to work with him to arrange for my builders.” The prince’s gaze fell upon the priest. “This is Lionel Wentworth, sir. He is my manservant, you might say. If you would join together to assemble workers for my estate, I should be most grateful. There are many dozens of positions to fill. Perhaps, you could commence these plans tomorrow morning at ten. Go to the gatehouse and speak with my legal agent. Wentworth will introduce you. His name is Albus Flint.”
“Yes, of course, my lord. We’d be honoured. I’ll speak to M’sieur Flint right away.”
The enigmatic prince bowed one last time, and then returned to his coach, followed by the loping Mr. Wentworth.
Slowly, the gossiping gaggle of villagers divided into small groups to discuss the extraordinary luck which had come their way. Dozens of positions? Apply to an agent? Did it mean work and money for their families?
Louisa was the last to depart, and she took Marie’s hand, wondering if the prince might need a seamstress or a cleaner. Or perhaps even better... A woman.
“Did you see the funny birds, Mama?” her daughter jabbered as they entered the cottage. “Flying all around him? Funny little birds.”
Our story will continue this fall in:
About the Author
Science, writing, opera, and geopolitics are just a few of the many ‘hats’ worn by Sharon K. Gilbert. She has been married to SkyWatchTV host and fellow writer Derek P. Gilbert for nearly twenty years, and during that time, helped to raise a brilliant and beautiful stepdaughter, Nicole Gilbert.
The Gilberts have shared their talents and insights for over a decade with the pioneering Christian podcasts, PID Radio, Gilbert House Fellowship, and View from the Bunker. In addition to co-hosting SkyWatchTV’s flagship interview program and SciFriday each week, Sharon also hosts SkyWatch Women and SkyWatch Women One-on-One. She and Derek speak several times each year at conferences, where they love to discuss news and prophecy with viewers, listeners, and readers.
Sharon’s been following and studying Bible prophecy for over fifty years, and she often says that she’s only scratched the surface. When not immersed in study, a writing project, or scouring the Internet for the latest science news, you can usually find her relaxing in the garden with their faithful hound, Sam T. Dachshund.
Learn more about Sharon and The Redwing Saga at her websites:
www.sharonkgilbert.com and www.theredwingsaga.com
OTHER BOOKS BY SHARON K. GILBERT
Ebola and the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse (non-fiction)
Blood Lies: Book One of The Redwing Saga (fiction)
Blood Rites: Book Two of The Redwing Saga (fiction)
The Blood Is the Life: Book Three of The Redwing Saga (fiction)
Realms of Stone: Book Four of The Redwing Saga (fiction)
Winds of Evil (fiction)
Signs and Wonders (fiction)
The Armageddon Strain (fiction)
CONTRIBUTING AUTHOR
God’s Ghostbusters (non-fiction)
Blood on the Altar (non-fiction)
Pandemonium’s Engine (non-fiction)
I Predict (non-fiction)
When Once We Were a Nation (non-fiction)
The Milieu: Welcome to the Transhuman Resistance (non-fiction)
Realms of Fire Page 59