Chapter 16
“For herein may be found things which never shall be known nor understood but by him that shall achieve this adventure.”
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur
Henri pulled her cloak tighter against the bitter wind that swept across the Yorkshire moors as their carriage finally crested the hill that revealed Roseberry Topping in all its stark majesty.
The distinctive conical peak rose from the surrounding landscape like something from another world, its slopes shrouded in gray mist that clung to the ancient stones with supernatural persistence.
The weather had grown increasingly hostile as they traveled north, and now a combination of sleet and snow made the already perilous moorland paths nearly impassable. Henri could see why Gabriel had insisted on leaving at dawn once more, despite her exhaustion from another night of restless sleep.
“There,” Gabriel said, pointing toward the peculiar hill that dominated the horizon. “Roseberry Topping. Just as I remembered it.”
Henri studied the imposing peak, trying to reconcile its wild beauty with the enciphered message they had discovered in the sketch. “It certainly looks like a place where legends might be born,” she admitted.
The inn where they had stopped was a rough but welcoming establishment that clearly catered to travelers hardy enough to venture into this remote corner of Yorkshire during winter.
The innkeeper, a stout man with weathered hands and sharp eyes, greeted them with the careful courtesy reserved for obviously wealthy guests.
Henri watched with growing fascination as Gabriel engaged the man in conversation about the local area.
For someone who was so secretive about his own affairs, Gabriel was remarkably skilled at drawing information from others.
He spoke to the innkeeper with the same focused attention he might have given a foreign minister, making the man feel as though his knowledge of local history and folklore was the most important thing in the world.
“Ruins, ye say?” the innkeeper muttered, scratching at the stubble along his weathered chin.
“Aye, there’s no shortage o’ crumblin’ stone round these parts.
Folk tend not to pay ’em much heed. Just old ghosts and sheep now.
But there’s one feller knows every toppled wall an’ moss-covered foundation from here to Guisborough Moor.
Walks the moors like he was born o’ the heather. ”
“And where might we find this expert?” Gabriel asked with just the right degree of interested deference.
Henri found herself studying Gabriel’s face as he spoke, noting the way his entire posture shifted when he was working to extract information.
The same charming smile, the same disarming manner, the same ability to make his target feel uniquely valued and understood.
A cold dread began to mount in her belly as she wondered if everything between them as man and wife was simply an extension of this same practiced seduction.
What if Gabriel’s interest in her was merely the application of skills honed through years of manipulation?
What if she was merely another source to be cultivated, another person to be charmed into providing what he needed?
The thought made her stomach clench with a sick certainty that she had been played for a fool by a master of the art.
But then she remembered Mr. Tyne’s words about Gabriel’s character, his insistence that despite his secretive nature, Gabriel was fundamentally loyal to those he claimed as his own.
The secretary had seen something in Gabriel that went beyond mere political tact, something that suggested genuine feeling beneath the careful mask.
And she had caught a glimpse of the vulnerability he hid behind polished manners.
Henri clung to that memory as Gabriel continued his conversation with the innkeeper, eventually securing directions to find the local authority on ancient ruins.
The man they found was unlike anyone Henri had ever encountered.
Ancient beyond measure, with wild white hair and clothes that suggested he spent more time wandering the moors than dwelling indoors, he possessed eyes that held the sharp intelligence of someone who had spent decades observing the world around him.
“Aye, I know every stone and shadow on these moors,” the old man said, rough as wind through heather.
“Been walking these hills since I were no taller than a shepherd’s crook.
Me father did the same, and his father before him.
Many generations, watching the old places sink back into the soil, like they’re trying to forget they ever stood. ”
Gabriel leaned forward with genuine interest. “We are particularly interested in anything connected to medieval construction, perhaps a chapel or religious site.”
The old man’s eyes lit up with the pleasure of someone who rarely found such an attentive audience.
“A chapel, is it? Aye, there’s talk of one. East o’ the Topping, near a little rise folk pass without thinkin’. Naught much to see these days. Just a scatter of stones and what might’ve been an altar once. Most walk by without knowin’ what they’re lookin’ at.”
Henri felt her pulse quicken. “What do you know about its history?”
“Well now, that’s a tale worth the telling,” the old man said, shifting on his stool like he meant to stay a while.
“Local talk goes, it were some medieval noble behind it centuries since. High-born, full o’ ambition, not half so much sense.
Thought he’d raise a chapel where the old gods once walked.
Folk say he meant to sanctify the ground, wipe out the old ways proper. ”
He paused.
“But the work stopped sudden-like. Walls never got past waist-height. No one knows quite why. Some say sickness, others say the men just up and left. But most reckon the land would have none of it.”
Gabriel’s expression had grown intent. “Do you know why the construction ceased?”
“Who can say?” the old man mused, rubbing his gloved hands together.
“Might’ve been lack o’ funds, might’ve been politics.
Or maybe the laborers just got nervous and decided they wanted no part of building on cursed ground.
” He gave a slow nod, as if the tale sat heavy on old memory.
“My grandparents used to call it the Fallen Chapel, though now and then you’d hear it called the Ash House on account o’ all the gray stone scattered about like the bones of some great fire long gone cold. ”
Henri exchanged a meaningful look with Gabriel. The description matched perfectly with the deciphered clue about seeking the chapel that never was.
“Could you direct us to this place?” Gabriel asked.
“Aye,” the old man replied with a gap-toothed grin.
The site, when they finally reached it after a grueling trek across the frozen moor, the wind howling in their ears, was almost exactly as the old man’s description had promised.
A roughly circular clearing where mossy stones jutted unevenly from the frost-bitten earth, with what might once have been foundation walls lying half-buried beneath centuries of windblown heather and creeping bracken.
At the center of the ruins stood a crude stone altar, worn nearly smooth by time and storm, rimmed now with a thin crust of ice.
A rim of sleet clung to the lower stones, making the footing unstable.
Even in daylight, the place held a strange hush, the kind that came not from peace but from abandonment.
A forgotten place, left to the mercy of the elements and the myths that surrounded it.
Gabriel scanned the ruins with the same deep scrutiny he had applied to the sketch.
He moved gingerly, boots crunching over brittle frost as he walked the perimeter, eyes flicking from stone to stone with the wary concentration of a man who expected more than time to lie hidden here.
Henri remained near what had once been the entrance, her breath rising in white puffs as she watched him test the altar’s edge, stoop to examine markings, pause to trace half-buried shapes with gloved fingers.
“I am going to take a closer look beneath,” Gabriel called loudly enough to carry through the whistling wind. “Some of the foundation stones may conceal a cavity.”
Henri’s heart clenched. The stones were slick with meltwater, and a wrong step could send him sprawling … or worse. “Be careful,” she said, drawing her cloak tighter against a sudden gust that cut through wool and bone alike.
A gust of sleet rattled across the clearing, needling her face. Her boots slipped slightly on the uneven ground as she took a cautious step closer to the chapel. She watched Gabriel brace himself as he crouched beside the great altar.
She knew better than to interrupt, but still that quiet fear stirred inside her. Would he tell her what he found? Or would he bury the truth beneath his habitual secrecy?
Mr. Tyne’s assurance came back to her—“He keeps faith with those he claims as his own.” She had to believe that meant her.
A cry split the stillness. Just a sharp exclamation, quickly swallowed. Henri’s stomach twisted.
“Gabriel?”
No reply.
Then, at last, his head rose above the stones, his expression tight but composed.
“I think I have found carvings on the altar,” he said, his words nearly lost in the wind.
Henri stepped forward through the biting cold, heart pounding. Thankfully, after stopping in London, she had proper half-boots on her feet to navigate the icy terrain.
Gabriel emerged from behind the altar, his face flushed with cold but his eyes bright with discovery. The wind had whipped his dark hair across his forehead, and Henri could see that despite the bitter conditions, he was energized by whatever he had found among the ancient stones.
“Henri,” he called, beckoning to her with careful urgency. “I need you here. But watch your step! The stones are treacherous with this ice.”