Chapter 3
The storm that had come with the unusual heat of summer rampaged for another day before easing into the steadier, slower rain that filled the rivers and streams and made all the roads around Castleton nearly impassable.
As Rose guided the old mare and cart over the neatly manicured drive toward the back of Mrs. Simpson’s cottage, she peered up at the welcome break in the sky.
It had taken her over two hours to travel a mere four miles.
Even wearing heavy boots, she could have walked the way faster.
Once she reached the trough, she jumped out of the cart, careful to avoid the mud as Jack set the brake.
Though her breeches and natty tweed jacket had not escaped mud splatter, her boots were not proof against mud, and her stockings were already as soggy as milk-soaked bread.
“Do ye want me to gather the eggs, Miss Rose?”
Rose smiled. “Thank you, Jack. And if you tend to the stalls in the barn as well, I am sure Mrs. Simpson will thank you with your favorite pastries.”
She removed the knapsack filled with stores from behind the bench and turned toward the cottage. Today was almost cold in the shade, but the sun felt wondrous. She knocked on the door and, without waiting, entered the cottage.
“Mrs. Simpson?” Rose peered around the cluttered room filled with artifacts and shelves of dusty books that had once belonged to the woman’s husband.
Sunlight spilled into the room from the windows revealing dust moats dancing in the air.
A breeze puffed the yellow curtains and brought with it the scent of mint from the flower box outside the window.
A small but comforting fire burned in the stove.
Rose removed her hat and shook out her hair. A black leather tome about sorcery sat upon a table in the kitchen. Her heart gave a thump as she set the knapsack on a chair and picked up the book.
With the exception of maybe Mrs. Graham, most in the village considered Mrs. Simpson a witch. Rose loved that mystique about her.
She had been a skinny six-year-old with tangled hair and skinned knees the first time she’d met Mrs. Simpson.
Dressed all in black, the widow had arrived at the abbey in a coach, her husband being a baronet.
Friar Tucker had paraded all the girls outside to meet the abbey’s new patroness.
Mrs. Simpson had taken one look at Rose and clucked her tongue.
It wasn’t that Rose set out to be a hoyden.
It just happened. On that particular day, Rose had been trying to glimpse the new-hatched tits and had fallen from a tree.
But Mrs. Simpson had seen something in Rose, an inherent curiosity about the world.
Over the years, the coach had gone the way of the fine clothes as Mrs. Simpson’s circumstances changed.
But she never ceased sharing the wealth of her books and journals her husband had accumulated through his world travels.
She’d taught Rose about herbs and medicinal potions, knowledge that Rose used to make the special liniment now healing Lord Roxburghe’s beautiful stallion.
Last month when Rose had discovered her treasure in the abbey’s crypts, she’d gone at once to Mrs. Simpson. The discovery was their secret.
“You give an old woman heart palpitations, Rose,” Mrs. Simpson said from the doorway leading into her cellar. She wiped her hands on her apron. “With the roads as bad as they are, I didn’t know if I should expect you.”
Rose looked up from the tome. “You have found another book on Merlin?”
“I’ve done more than that. You were right. The box contains a wishing ring.”
“You have translated the rest of the symbols!”
Mrs. Simpson removed her dingy apron and set it on the stone countertop next to a bucket of soapy dishes. “You might not want to know what I have discovered, dear. Especially since we are studying something unfamiliar and possibly dangerous, in our ignorance.”
“Then you believe whatever is inside the puzzle box could be authentic? What have you discovered?”
“Did you bring it?”
Rose dug into the pocket of her woolen jacket and withdrew the small, intricately carved wooden box. Sunlight streaming through the windows in the kitchen warmed the wood and tingled her hands.
“Put it in the sunlight and sit.”
Rose set the box on the table, then took her place beside Mrs. Simpson in one of the spindle-back chairs and waited. For what? She didn’t know, but Mrs. Simpson watched the box, and so did she.
“Arthurian legend claims Merlin was a metallurgist,” Mrs. Simpson said.
“The source of King Arthur’s power came from his sword Excalibur.
Of course, most people consider the entire legend of Camelot and Arthur a myth.
But Merlin did exist. And if Merlin somehow forged Excalibur, then it stands to reason the sword was not his only creation. ”
“How did the box come to the abbey?”
“Merlin hailed from Scotland, which means he could have once visited Hope Abbey. Heaven only knows how many times the abbey keep has been rebuilt over the centuries. The vault itself is centuries old. From your own words most of what is down in the crypt has never been catalogued.”
As the widow spoke, the various symbols carved into the box began to darken as if someone put a hot poker to the wood.
Rose stared in awe at the transformation.
The image of the sun on one side became darker and the full moon on the other lighter.
Opposite from what Rose would have expected as the sun usually meant light and the moon darkness.
“The sun and moon represent the continuing cycle of the seasons,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Each side opposite the other yet coexisting, like day and night.”
“With no beginning and no end. The symbols for infinite or eternity.”
“And symbols for happiness and sadness, pleasure and pain, love and hate.” Mrs. Simpson cocked a brow. “A warning to the one who opens the box?”
Rose withdrew her hands to her lap, confused by Mrs. Simpson’s sudden caution. “Or perhaps the clues are telling us that it takes both sunlight and moonlight to unlock the secrets of the box,” she suggested.
“Aye, that as well. From what I can interpret from these other etchings”—her finger traced the Bjarkan symbol, the two sideways triangles touching at the corners, symbolizing phases of life and great change—“the ring has power to pull darkness from a man’s soul and give it light.
But once the ring is on your finger, nothing in your life will ever be the same again.
Once the ring is on your finger, it will not come off until your wish is fulfilled. ”
“Why would Merlin make such a ring?”
“His grandson wanted a child by a wife who had been barren for seven years. Merlin made the ring for him. Unfortunately, the woman died in childbirth.”
Rose leaned over to look at the page. “Is that what this says?”
Mrs. Simpson shut the book. “The truth is, we do not know what will happen once you open the box. What you think you want may not be what your heart wants, and nothing great is ever accomplished without sacrifice.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Perhaps that is your failing, dear. I have learned that it is wise to proceed with one’s eyes wide open, especially if you are about to walk into darkness.”
“I can take care of myself in the dark.”
Mrs. Simpson’s tin-gray gaze gentled. “Is it family for which your heart searches, Rose? Or something else? Are you not beloved and needed everywhere you go? Are you so eager to leave us?”
Rising to her feet, Rose folded her arms and walked to the window to look outside. ’Twas not family for whom she searched. How could she explain her heart when she did not understand the thing herself?
She closed her eyes. “I have only a vague memory of my mother. Her softness. The way she smelled—like lilacs. I can almost see her face when I look at my own in the glass. Perhaps I am merely searching for myself.”
She laughed at the maudlin sentimentality.
“All I know is that ever since I found the puzzle box, the need to be free of the walls surrounding my life has grown into something . . . something almost violent inside me which I am unable to control. You have lived your life unafraid of who you are. I want . . .”
What? To rid herself of the darkness in her heart? To be loved for herself? Despite herself? To seek retribution against the man ultimately responsible for her mother’s death and forcing Rose into hiding for seventeen years? Justice?
The mere thought smoldered inside her like a hot ember burning away at the edges of her soul.
She had never told Mrs. Simpson who she was.
Never spoken her father’s name aloud. Her very safety had always depended upon secrecy.
Friar Tucker had hammered vigilance into her mind from a very young age, so she had lived in silence, never seeking answers to her questions for as long as she could remember, until her father’s return to England a year ago.
Most people knew him as the son of an aristocratic family who had made their names as captains and admirals serving in His Majesty’s Navy.
He had sought the appointment as the king’s warden upon his return.
The English respected him, while the Scots had great cause to fear and hate him.
He showed no mercy to suspected rebels and no tolerance to suspected thieves and lawbreakers.
He’d hanged a hundred men in the past year.
Only last month she had asked Friar Tucker why her mother had wed him, why she had been running from him, but the priest had no answer. Rose had wanted to believe that her father could not be so evil. That he could have once loved her mother. That the blood running through her veins was not his.
Rose touched the sorcerer’s puzzle box, disturbed by the undeniable shame and need that welled within her. Shame because of who she was. Need to be someone who was more than nameless and forgotten by the one to whom she should have held importance.