Chapter 1 #2
Barnaby removed his dusty hat. “Barnaby Ash,” he announced himself. “I am expected.”
The butler nodded. “So you are, sir. Won’t you come in?
” He gave a curt nod to the footman beside him.
The tall lad collected the luggage Barnaby had set down beside him.
“Ralph will take those to your room, if you will be so good as to follow him. The master has been called away but has asked that you begin your work in his absence. He hopes to be back tomorrow night to dine with you. Please do not hesitate to ask should you have need of anything. You have simply to ring the bell.” Without waiting for a response, the butler turned away and marched off smartly.
The interior of the house, Barnaby noted as he followed the footman, lacked a woman’s touch. Moreover, Lady Brathwaite had not come out to meet him, a guest under her roof. Her illness, he deduced, must be so severe that she could not see to such matters.
Barnaby was used to being on his own, yet it was strange that the silence of a single person should linger in this home, too. Where was the laughter of the little boy? Where was the softness of a woman’s voice?
He entered the room assigned to him. His belongings were deposited at his feet, and the footman left him to himself. The silence of the house was almost oppressive.
Barnaby had not always been alone. He had known the love of family. It had been present in everything, hanging in the air like perfume. It was the invisible thread that bound them together. But his father had not known the worry of losing his beloved wife…
Barnaby sat down with a thump on the bed. His heart welled with pity for his lordship. Perhaps, in the process of cataloging the library, he might find a book of poetry Lord Brathwaite could read to his lady. There must surely be something inspiring amongst the collection.
He could not heal what was broken here. But—Barnaby set his jaw—he would do the task he had been given with excellence.
First thing in the morning, he would begin.
By the time his lordship was home again, Barnaby fully intended to have something worthwhile to offer as a distraction to Lord Brathwaite and his wife.
The morning sun filtered softly through the library window, coating the floor with its milky light. Every surface in the room was piled high with books. Barnaby allowed himself a contented sigh. Who knew what wonders he would find among these many covers?
His first task, he decided, would be to group the hundreds of volumes into categories.
Poetry, history, novels (if the previous owner had allowed such frivolity), philosophy…
His fingers itched with anticipation. His shoulder blades itched too.
Barnaby reached behind him and scratched as best he could through his tailored coat.
The effort provided very little relief. Best simply to get going with the task at hand.
He would soon forget this minor annoyance.
After several hours, the mounds of literature had almost entirely been reshuffled to Barnaby’s satisfaction.
He had set aside two short anthologies of verse that looked promising to present to Lady Brathwaite.
All that remained to sort was a mismatched pile on the floor, consisting of oversized books, possibly atlases or illustrated works.
Barnaby had not discovered anything particular to excite him.
It was the usual fare a gentleman might consider having in his home.
These last few publications on the floor held the only hope of revealing something special to make the otherwise mundane task of cataloguing worthwhile.
If not, Lord Brathwaite would likely be disappointed too.
At the bottom of the haphazard stack lay a thin volume wrapped in oilskin cloth.
Barnaby perked right up. Books requiring protection were old and valuable. He was amazed it had been placed on the floor and crushed beneath the weight of the larger books. Then again, the servants who had unpacked the storage crates would have been ignorant of how precious such an item might be.
Carefully shifting the rest of the pile aside, Barnaby lifted the wrapped book and carried it to the sofa, the only surface not covered in books. He untied the string that kept the parcel bound. Then, with trembling fingers, he folded back the oilskin wrap.
Barnaby paused to scratch his back once more. It really was very annoying. What could be irritating his skin? His shirt was good quality linen. Not scratchy at all. He hoped it wasn’t something contagious. He certainly felt well enough.
With one arm arched behind him to try and reach the irksome spot, Barnaby peeled back the last layer of treated leather to find, to his immense delight, a handwritten manuscript!
His heartbeat quickened. This was it! The reason he loved the work he did.
He inspected the front page closely. It was not paper.
More likely vellum, thinner and of finer quality than parchment.
The loose sheets had been sewn together along the left side with strips of leather.
It had been done with care. The writing, too, was painstakingly neat.
This was the work of an experienced hand.
The manuscript appeared very old indeed, its pages yellow, the faint writing barely legible.
In fact, at first glance, Ash would hazard the language was Norse.
Perhaps it was Old English. He certainly could not read it.
The text must be many centuries old, for Barnaby was familiar with Shakespeare and Chaucer, and this work predated them by several hundred years.
He turned the page gingerly. The irritation at his back intensified. Could there be something in these sheets of vellum that was setting it off?
He pondered the matter for a mere moment before the beauty of the colorful illustrations drew his full attention. They were exquisite, almost magical, as if the ink quivered with life.
Only…
The words shimmered now, too. The black ink seemed to sink into the page, resurfacing again in new, bolder form.
Barnaby blinked. He rubbed his eyes. The writing was definitely clearer. In fact…
He peered more closely at the page.
“These are the writings of Alwin the Scribe, in the Year of Our Lord 924.”
A chill seeped down Barnaby’s spine. His chest grew tight. He held his breath.
The words were new and familiar. How was this possible? It shouldn’t be possible.
He could read them!