Rosalind said, “Grayson, let’s go to that bookstall. Would you take us there?”
“Well, all right, but it was the only copy, you know. There’ll be no more there. I asked the old man. He shook his head at me, never stopped his whistling.”
Nicholas nodded, then stuck out his hand. Rosalind didn’t hesitate; she took his hand and stayed close to his side as they weaved through the crowds. When Grayson spotted the decrepit old stall leaning against an oak tree, set a goodly distance away from the other bookstalls, he broke into a trot, calling over his shoulder, “I don’t remember that it looked quite this bad when I was here just minutes ago. Something must be wrong.”
They stood in front of the dilapidated stall. There were no piles of old books on the rough plank counter, and no whistling old man. There was nothing at all except a collection of very old boards looking ready to collapse.
Grayson said, “Where could he have gone? And the books? There’s not a single one. Do you think he sold all his books and simply left?”
Nicholas was silent.
Rosalind said, “Are you certain this is the right stall, Grayson?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Let’s ask the other vendors. I would like you to meet this old man.”
Nicholas and Rosalind helped him make inquiries at all the nearest bookstalls. Two of the booksellers remembered, vaguely, seeing an old man—Yes, yes, he was whistling, wouldn’t stop, the old bugger—And he set up away from the rest of us, and why did he do that? The next thing there was this raddled old stall with all these dusty old books piled around. The other booksellers didn’t remember the old man or his dilapidated bookstall set against the oak tree. At Nicholas’s suggestion, they spoke once more to the first two booksellers, the two who had seen the old man—now all they remembered was seeing some ancient boards nailed together, but no books, nothing but those dilapidated boards.
Nicholas said, “I wager if we speak to them again in an hour, they will have no memory of anything.”
“But—”
Nicholas merely shook his head at Grayson. “I don’t understand it, but there you have it. You have the book, Grayson, and that is enough.”
“But this makes no sense,” Rosalind said. “Why did the booksellers remember him, then ten minutes later, forget him entirely?”
There was no reply from either Grayson or Nicholas.
“Why do you remember the old man and the stall if the others don’t, Grayson?”
“I don’t know, Rosalind, I don’t know.”
When they turned back to the decrepit old bookstall, it was to see several rough boards littering the ground.
Grayson felt a quiver of something scary deep inside. “This is passing strange.” He gave them a false smile. “Nicholas is right. I have the Rules of the Pale. And that’s what’s important. Perhaps the book broke through the Pale to come to me through the old man. Maybe the old man was the ancient wizard. I remember Mr. Oakby said he’d heard from his own mentor many years before that Sarimund wrote of his talks with ghosts. Perhaps that is why the old man wanted me to have it. He knows of all the ghosts that litter my mental landscape.” And he laughed, a laugh that hid questions and the fear of something not to be explained. He looked down at the book he held reverently in his hand. “I must think about all this. I will see you at home, Rosalind.” He nodded to Nicholas and quickly left them.
Nicholas wanted that book, wanted it badly, but there was nothing he could do. As he escorted Rosalind back to his carriage, Rosalind said, “How do you know of Magnus Sarimund, my lord?”
“We have watched a drunken juggler, listened to a group of young men sing to you, and I have even eaten part of your lunch. You should call me Nicholas, if you please. How do I know of Sarimund? Well, my grandfather visited the Bulgar. He told me he supped with the Titled Wizard of the East, as he is called, an ancient relic whose beard tip actually brushed over his sandals. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that Sarimund lived five years in the caves of the Charon Labyrinth with other holy men and wizards, the caves more dangerous than any other caverns in the Bulgar, what with their sheer abysses and knife-sharp stalagmites to stab the unwary, more dangerous than even a mad sirocco, he said. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that during the five years of Sarimund’s stay, travelers who happened to venture too close to the caves were met by strange frightening visions and plagued by demons in their dreams. My grandfather asked him if wizards still inhabited the caves and the wizard gave him a smile that bespoke many things he couldn’t begin to understand, he or any other human being, for that matter. The wizard said only, ‘Of course,’ and nothing more.”
“Did this Sarimund really speak to ghosts?”
“My grandfather believed he did.” Nicholas assisted her up into the carriage. He nodded to the man sitting in the driver’s seat, a leather hat pulled low over his forehead. “Back to Putnam Square, Lee.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Rosalind said, “He sounds like a gentleman.”
“He is,” Nicholas said, and nothing more.
“Why is he wearing that lovely leather cap pulled nearly to his nose? Why is a gentleman your servant?”
He gave her a charming smile. “It is none of your affair, Rosalind.”
When Nicholas had settled himself across from her, Rosalind cocked her head at him. “All right, it is none of my business. Now, you swear to me this Magnus Sarimund was a real man?”
“Oh, yes, Sarimund was quite real, according to my grandfather. He lived in the sixteenth century, mostly in York, but also spent a lot of his time in the Mediterranean. On the islands, I suppose, though no one knows where exactly. It is said he had a hidden sanctuary there where he conducted his magical experiments. Then he journeyed to the Bulgar. When he came out, he went to Constantinople, to be welcomed by Suleiman the Magnificent. He wrote the Rules of the Pale there. I believe he had twenty or so copies made of his manuscript. It is indeed something of magic in itself to find one of the copies here. And that Grayson found it.”
“Evidently the old bookseller made certain Grayson had it. And now it would seem that the old bookseller simply disappeared—that was very strange, Nicholas.”
He said nothing.
“How odd that both you and Grayson know about the Rules of the Pale and this Sarimund.”
He merely nodded.
“Very well, keep your secrets. Did this Sarimund write other books?”
“Not that I know of, at least not that my grandfather said.”
“And now the bookseller is gone,” Rosalind shivered. “As if he never existed. You have read it, haven’t you, Nicholas? You have actually seen another copy of the Rules of the Pale.”
“Yes, I have. My grandfather said he found a copy in a dusty old bookshop in York where Sarimund had lived.”
“Did he read to you from the Rules of the Pale? Discuss it with you? Do you remember what it said?”
“No, he never exactly read to me from the book itself, simply told me stories about Sarimund before—well, never mind that.”
“Was your grandfather a wizard, Nicholas? You said he visited the Bulgar, he met with this old man called the Titled Wizard of the East.”
Nicholas said slowly as he stared out the carriage window, “I cannot really answer that. I remember he knew things that most men didn’t, he could tell me things about people’s thoughts and feelings, but did he simply make it all up? I don’t know.”
“Did you live with your grandfather?”
“After my mother died, yes, I did. My father remarried, you see, and his new wife didn’t like me, particularly after she gave birth to a son of her own. I was five years old when my grandfather welcomed me to Wyverly Chase, the country seat of the Vails since the sixteenth century. He was the Earl of Mountjoy, you see, and there was nothing my father could do about it, not that he wanted me to remain.”
“You were only five years old.”
“Yes. In the following years, my father
and his new family rarely visited Wyverly Chase. I remember my father was angry he had to wait to come into the title and my grandfather’s wealth, though I knew he was very rich in his own right.”
“But you were your father’s heir. Surely that was more important than any dislike on the part of your stepmother. You were only a little boy, why—”
Nicholas merely shook his head at her and smiled. “Remember our giant drunk juggler? Before we left the park I saw him snoring beneath a bench by the Serpentine.”
“Very well, Nicholas, keep your secrets. But I will clout you if you are not more forthcoming in the future. The near future.”
He reached over and lightly clasped her hand in his. He smiled at her, an intimate smile, one that made something very deep inside her stir to life.
How very odd, she thought later, that she knew to her bones that there would be a future. He was now in her life, and he would remain in her life.
7
An old man walked toward her, his long white robe brushing his sandals. A thick, twisted rope belted the robe, its frayed ends nearly reaching his knees. His beard was so long the tip nearly touched the hem of his robe. She saw large white toes. He smiled at her, his teeth shining as white as his toes. It was odd, but she wasn’t the least bit afraid even though she was lying on her back on her bed and her bedchamber should be dark, but it wasn’t. His skin looked soft and pale, as if he hadn’t spent any time in the sun. He looked like a prophet, she thought, and he was here to see her. He bent down beside her bed, leaning close to her ear. She heard his voice, gentle as a soft whistle of a warm breeze. I am Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East. All know you will come into your own. You— He turned to look toward her door, his head cocked to one side, as if listening to something she couldn’t hear, something coming here, to her bedchamber. He turned back to her, his beard brushing her shoulder as he leaned close once again. She heard his whisper in her ear, Obey the rules, obey the rules, obey—
Rosalind jerked awake, heart pounding, her nightgown damp with sweat. She jerked up in bed, her palms against her chest, trying to grab a breath, trying to bring herself out of that dream. The strange old man standing over her—no, he wasn’t here, standing by her bed, his beard brushing her shoulder, there was nothing here at all.
She looked over at the thick shadows on the other side of her bedchamber that could easily hide something frightening—she sucked in her breath—no, she was being absurd. It was a dream, only a dream about the Rules of the Pale, and that wizard Nicholas had told her about, and her mind had spun it into that strange dream. How odd that she’d seen the wizard in the greatest of detail. Rennat—that was his name, an odd name that tugged at something deep inside her. Had Nicholas said that name? Perhaps so, but she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter; if he hadn’t, that simply meant her mind had supplied it.
Obey the rules, obey the rules. Her heart thrummed, gooseflesh rippled her skin. She was not about to fall asleep again, not with those dreams waiting to leap out of the corner of her mind when she closed her eyes.
All know you will come into your own. That’s what the old man had confided to her, so close he’d been she fancied she could still feel his warm breath on her ear, and his breath—she’d swear she could still smell that light scent of lemon. Come into her own what? Rosalind sat very still, calming herself, her breath slowing, her squirreling brain righting itself.
She wasn’t afraid, not really, since she knew ghosts—at least, that’s what she called the voices, for want of anything better. She’d lived with them for years. Sometimes she heard them murmuring from shadowed corners, but more often they came like thick mist in her dreams, whispering, always whispering, but unfortunately she could never understand them. And she wanted desperately to see them, but never could. Rosalind wished her ghosts would say actual words, as Rennat had.
Then she could ask them what her real name was.
Enough of mad hoary old men with skinny gray beards dangling to their big white toes, their breath smelling of lemons. She felt restless, twitchy, and strangely cold as well. Rosalind put on a robe and slippers, lit a lucifer and touched it to her bedside candle, and went down the great wide staircase, her hand cupping the candle flame. She was going to steal some of Uncle Ryder’s brandy. Her hand was reaching toward the doorknob when she saw a flickering light coming from beneath the library door. What was this?
She raised her hand to knock, lowered it, and quietly opened the door. She saw Grayson sitting at the great mahogany desk in the far corner, a single candle at his elbow illuminating what she knew was the Rules of the Pale.
The candle was nearly gutted.
She hadn’t seen him since he’d left her and Nicholas at Hyde Park. He hadn’t appeared at dinner nor had he come to the drawing room for tea. Since his writing hours were erratic, no one else had thought anything of his absence—but she had. His hair was disordered, his shirt open at the neck.
She lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. “Grayson?”
He nearly jumped out of his chair. “Oh, Rosalind, you gave me a royal scare. It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”
“I had a strange dream,” she said. “You’re still reading the Rules of the Pale?”
“I can’t read it, at least not yet. It’s in some sort of code I haven’t been able to figure out. Sarimund starts off in an old formal sort of English I can read. Then he tells the reader he has written the Rules in his own personal code and he doubts the reader will be able to decipher it. You can almost see him preening over his own cleverness, the bastard. I’d shoot him if he weren’t already dead.”
The book lay open on the desktop. She waved to it. “Why didn’t you tell your parents about it?”
“My parents are very comfortably set in the modern day, you know that, Rosalind.”
“They accept the Virgin Bride. Even though Uncle Ryder carps about it all being a bloody myth nurtured by the ladies of the family. You know as well as I do both of them believe in her.”
Grayson shrugged. “Oh, aye, I believe in her too, this unfortunate young lady who’s lived at Northcliffe Hall since Queen Bess was in full flower—but she’s different. She’s a ghost, long dead, yes, but she’s not a chain-dragging ghoul out to terrify. She’s part of the damned Sherbrooke family. Corrie tells me the Virgin Bride has visited the twins many times and they accept her just as they accept their nanny, Beth.”
Of all the ghosts that hovered around Rosalind, the Virgin Bride wasn’t among their number. On the other hand, she doubted the Sherbrooke ghost ever would visit her—she had no plans to marry a Sherbrooke and that seemed to be the prerequisite if you weren’t of their blood.
Grayson threw down his pen. “When I read Sarimund’s sniggering claim, I’ll tell you I laughed. I truly thought I would be able to break his code. It’s all written with what look like random letters, spaced apart like they’re words, only they’re not and I can’t figure out how to make them into real words. I’ve spent the past”—he stared over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece—“well, since this afternoon trying to figure it out, but I haven’t yet succeeded. My brain wants to explode.”
Rosalind frowned. “That surprises me since you’ve always been good at solving puzzles and deciphering codes and such.”
“Yes, until now. It’s fair to driving me to the edge.”
“Does Sarimund use any proper names, or are the names in code as well?”
“Well, he did write one name—Rennat.”
Her heart started up a hard drumbeat again. “Rennat?”
He nodded. “Yes, strange name, isn’t it?”
Rosalind thought she would expire. “Rennat,” she repeated, her voice a skinny thread of sound.
“It could be a dog, really, but it makes sense to me that if Sarimund went to the trouble of not encoding the name, it must be a man, an important man.”
“Grayson, my dream”—Rosalind swallowed—“that is the name of the old ma
n who came to me in my dream. Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East—that’s who he said he was.”
Grayson stared up at her, then threw his nib pen at her. She snagged it right out of the air with her right hand. She always did. It had been a game between them for many years. No spattering ink since the nib was dry. Grayson said, “I can usually count on you for a better jest, Rosalind. Rennat came to you in a dream?—that isn’t worthy of you. Come now, don’t try to make me any more befuddled than I already am.”
She opened her mouth to tell him it was no jest, but he’d already turned away, staring back down at the book.
“May I look at it?”
He shoved the book over to her. “I’m so bloody tired my mind’s decided you’re my mother.”
“In that case, I could smack you and you’d have to take it.”
Grayson rose and stretched, waved her to his chair. Rosalind sat down and slowly drew the book toward her. She looked down at the small, spidery handwriting, the faded black ink still quite legible. She lightly touched the pages. “Sarimund never had it printed. So twenty copies were hand-copied?”
“That’s what Nicholas said. I don’t know. Mr. Oakby at Oxford never said. I don’t think he knew either.”
Rosalind looked down at the page and her heart nearly stopped. Grayson was wrong. It wasn’t a difficult code at all. She reached out and touched her hand to his arm. “Grayson, it’s easy. I can read it.”
8
Grayson was so startled he spurted out the tea he’d just gulped down, and coughed. “No,” he said, staring at her, “that’s not possible. Stop it, Rosalind.”
“Listen to me, for whatever reason, I can indeed read it. And I did dream of this old man Rennat, it wasn’t a jest. I can tell you what he looks like. He spoke to me. Maybe that’s why I can read this. It’s not in old stilted English, either—it’s in modern English. I don’t know, maybe he’s allowing me to read it easily.”
Grayson carefully set down his teacup. He looked bewildered. “No, that’s not possible, Rosalind.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 131