Chapter 3 #3
Henri opened the catalog with mild curiosity, expecting to find the usual assortment of classical texts and historical documents that serious collectors favored.
The early listings confirmed her expectations with decorated books of biblical psalms, chronicles of the Crusades, and philosophical treatises in Latin and Greek.
But as she turned the pages, one entry caught her attention as her mouth dropped open in startled realization.
Lot 128: The Hoole Book of Kyng Arthur and of His Noble Knyghtes of the Rounde Table.
Manuscript. Attributed to Sir Thomas Malory.
Vellum. Late 15th century. Written in the author’s hand in Middle English, with unique variant readings not found in printed editions.
An extraordinary survival from the medieval period, offering insights into Malory’s original conception of the Arthurian legends.
Provenance unknown. Estimate: ￡2,000–￡3,000.
Henri stared at the description, her heart beginning to race with sudden excitement. The author’s hand. In Middle English. Not a copy, but Malory’s original manuscript!
She thought immediately of the sketch, of the coded letters and numbers that had defied all their attempts at interpretation using Uncle Reggie’s Caxton edition.
What if they had been using the wrong key entirely?
What if the code could only be unlocked using Malory’s original words, written in the medieval English that predated Caxton’s printed version?
When Matteo di Bianchi had drawn that sketch three hundred years ago, there would have been more of Malory’s original works available.
Henri checked the auction date listed on the catalog’s cover.
January 28, 1822. Six days hence. Her mind began calculating rapidly.
If she wanted to examine the manuscript before it disappeared into some private collector’s library, she would need to act quickly.
But Sir Alpheus Danbury was notoriously reclusive, unlikely to welcome unexpected visitors during the busy period preceding such an important sale.
Friday the 25th would be the fitting day for a social call.
Close enough to the auction that the household would be preparing, but not so close as to be intrusive.
Henri closed the catalog and rose from the chair, her earlier lethargy completely forgotten.
For the first time in weeks, she had discovered something that demanded her immediate attention, a puzzle worthy of her intelligence and skills.
The prospect of solving Signor di Bianchi’s mystery, of proving that she could be trusted with important secrets, filled her with an energy she had not felt since the coronation.
I must speak with Signor di Bianchi immediately.
Henri quickly collected her pelisse and gloves, donning them as she called for her carriage to be sent to the front. She needed to return home at once to arrange a meeting. She made the journey back to her family’s estate with Miss Dulwich, her mind racing with the implications of her discovery.
Once home, Henri slipped out through the shared garden that connected her family’s property with the neighboring estate.
The January air was bitter, making her shiver despite the thick wool of her pelisse as she hurried along the gravel path, her thoughts focused entirely on the opportunity at hand.
If the Malory manuscript unlocked Matteo’s code, it could change everything for Signor di Bianchi.
She spotted him through the windows of the baron’s library, bent over a book with his characteristic concentration.
Henri picked up a handful of small stones and tossed them gently against the glass, a signal she and her sister had used as children to summon Simon out when discreet communication was necessary.
The Italian looked up, startled, then moved to exit the terrace doors and peer down at her from the terrace balustrade.
“Miss Bigsby? What brings you out in such weather?”
“I must speak with you urgently,” Henri called softly, glancing around to ensure they were not observed. “Can you meet me by the walled garden?”
He nodded and disappeared inside. Henri hurried to the shared garden, where the large stone urn that had served as a landmark during their first meeting stood sentinel among the bare rosebushes and the Roman gods casting long shadows in silent observation.
Within minutes, Signor di Bianchi emerged through the gateway, wrapped in a heavy greatcoat against the cold.
“You seem excited,” he observed, his dark eyes studying her flushed face with curiosity. “Has something happened?”
“I believe I have found the key to your ancestor’s puzzle,” Henri said without preamble, withdrawing the auction catalog from beneath her pelisse. “Look at this. Lot 128.”
He accepted the catalog and read the description she indicated, his expression growing animated as he absorbed the implications. When he looked up, his eyes held the same intensity she had observed before their failed attempt to decipher the sketch.
“Madonna mia,” he breathed. “This could be exactly what we need. But how can we examine it? The auction is only six days away.”
“Sir Alpheus Danbury is an acquaintance of Uncle Reggie’s,” Henri explained, her words tumbling out in her excitement.
“I could call upon him under the pretense of expressing Uncle’s interest in the collection.
Friday would be the ideal day. Saturday will be insensitive, but Friday is early enough to avoid the final preparations for the auction. ”
The Italian’s brow furrowed with concern. “But would he allow you to examine such a valuable manuscript? And more importantly, would he permit you to test our theory using the sketch?”
Henri felt a flutter of nervousness as she considered the delicacy of her request. “That brings me to a question I must ask of you. I need to take the sketch with me.”
“Che cosa?” His voice sharpened with alarm. “Miss Bigsby, that sketch is irreplaceable. If something were to happen to it …”
“Nothing will happen to it,” Henri assured him, though she understood his reluctance. “But consider the alternative. This may be our only opportunity to see the Hoole manuscript before it vanishes into some private collection. If we wait until after the auction, we may never have another chance.”
“But surely I could accompany you? If we explained the situation to Sir Alpheus …”
Henri shook her head firmly. “Sir Alpheus is extremely particular about his visitors. He is elderly, set in his ways, and has very specific ideas about proper social conduct. An unexpected visit from a stranger would likely result in our being turned away without so much as a glimpse of his library.”
She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Furthermore, I must be frank with you. Sir Alpheus belongs to a generation that holds certain … traditional views about foreigners. Your Italian heritage, however distinguished, might unfortunately work against us in securing his cooperation.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but it was clear that he understood the unfortunate reality of English social prejudices. “And you believe he would be more receptive to you?”
“I know he would,” Henri said with confidence.
“Uncle Reggie has mentioned me routinely in his correspondence with Sir Alpheus over the years, and the old man has always liked me. He knows I can be trusted with valuable documents, and my connection to Westminster politics would give me credibility that a stranger could not claim.”
The gentleman stood silent for a long moment, clearly wrestling with the decision. Henri could see the internal struggle playing out across his features, his desperate desire to solve the mystery warring with his reluctance to entrust the precious sketch to someone else’s care.
“The risk …” he began.
“Is worth taking,” Henri finished firmly. “Signor di Bianchi, this manuscript may be the key to everything your ancestor intended. If we let this opportunity pass, we may never learn the truth about Matteo’s message.”
The wind picked up, sending dried leaves skittering across the gravel path between them. Henri pulled her pelisse closer against the cold but maintained her steady gaze on his face. She could see the moment when his resolve crumbled, when hope overcame caution.
“Very well,” he said finally, his tone heavy with reluctance. “But you must promise me—”
“I swear to you on my honor that I will guard it with my life,” Henri interrupted, ringing with sincerity. “The sketch will not leave my sight from the moment you give it to me until I return it safely to your hands.”
Signor di Bianchi nodded slowly, putting the catalog under his arm, then fished out a notebook to show her the folded parchment within its pages. As he placed the notebook in Henri’s gloved hands, she felt the weight of his trust and the magnitude of the responsibility she was accepting.
“Friday morning,” she said, securing the notebook in her reticule. “I will call upon Sir Alpheus and examine the Malory manuscript. If fortune favors us, we shall finally unlock the secret that Matteo di Bianchi left for us to discover.”
And perhaps prove to myself that I am capable of achieving discretion.
As Henri made her way back into her home, she felt the familiar thrill of anticipation that had been missing for so many weeks. Friday could not come soon enough.
The dim light, barely revealed against the stone walls of the Bodleian Library’s basement archive, cast long shadows between the towering stacks of manuscripts and forgotten volumes.
Alaric Devayne sat hunched over a wooden table scarred by decades of scholarly use, the auction catalog spread before him like a map to buried treasure.
He had been poring over it for weeks, waiting for the right time to act.
And now that time was approaching and his anticipation was climbing.
His hollow cheeks and sunken eyes bore the telltale marks of too many years reading in poorly lit rooms, his angular features made sharper by the meager light.
Despite the clerk’s clothing he wore, serviceable brown wool and a simple waistcoat, his boots were of military grade, a remnant from his days as a field interrogator in Napoleon’s campaigns.
Lot 128: The Hoole Book of Kyng Arthur and of His Noble Knyghtes of the Rounde Table.
Devayne’s gloved fingers traced the entry. He always wore gloves now. He had done so since strangling that French officer with his bare hands outside Toulouse. Some habits, once learned, became permanent fixtures of a man’s character.
Provenance unknown.
A smile played at the corners of his thin lips. Unknown to the fools at Leigh and Sotheby’s, perhaps. Unknown to the collectors who would bid blindly at auction. But not unknown to him. He had learned the true power that lay hidden within Malory’s stories.
Power was not inherited. It was taken. The ideology of the Dominus burned in his chest like a sacred flame.
Too long had the world been governed by those who claimed authority through accident of birth.
Too long had true knowledge been hoarded by the weak and the unworthy.
Those who understood the old ways knew that power belonged to those with the will to seize it.
Devayne pushed back from the table and moved deeper into the archives, his footsteps silent on the stone floor.
Years of military training had taught him to move without sound, and old habits served him well in his current profession.
The other library assistants thought him merely obsessive, a harmless clerk lost in dusty tomes and ancient languages.
They had no idea what he truly sought.
He paused before a particular shelf, running his finger along the spines of volumes that few scholars ever requested.
Hidden among the theological treatises and philosophical commentaries were texts that held secrets most men would never comprehend.
Records of power that transcended the petty squabbling of kings and parliaments.
January 28th. Six days until the auction. But Devayne had no intention of bidding alongside wealthy collectors and scholarly dilettantes. The manuscript would be his long before the auctioneer’s hammer fell.
Friday.
Wage collection day. He would collect what the library owed him and then disappear from Oxford. After years of shuffling through these dusty archives, it was time to move on to greater things. There would be no return to this place of servitude once he possessed what he sought.
Sir Alpheus Danbury’s household would be busy with preparations for the sale.
A house full of servants focused on cataloging and arranging would hardly notice one more shadow moving through the corridors.
The old man’s staff would be tasked with keeping the collection secure during the public viewing days.
Friday would find the estate more vulnerable.
The manuscript would provide both the knowledge and the means to leave this life behind forever. No more bowing to head librarians. No more cataloging the scribblings of dead monks. Real power awaited.
A sound from the upper floors made him look up. Footsteps overhead, distant murmurs. The library would close soon, and he would have to wait until tomorrow to continue his research. But that was acceptable. He was a patient man when patience served his purposes.
Devayne closed the catalog and tucked it beneath a stack of legitimate research materials. To any casual observer, he was simply another library assistant, working late on some obscure scholarly project. The perfect camouflage for a man with decidedly unscholarly intentions.
As he gathered his things and prepared to leave, Devayne allowed himself one final look at the auction catalog Lot 128. Soon, the manuscript would be his, and with it, the power it contained. Power that was not inherited but taken by those strong enough to reach for it.
In the dim light of the Bodleian’s depths, Alaric Devayne smiled the cold smile of a predator who had finally scented his prey.