Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Michael
He was on the ground, looking up at Scottie, needing a moment to find his bearings. Could he move? He flexed his arms, then pushed to his feet, shaking the mist from his thoughts.
“How long was I like that?”
“Not sure. I was transfixed myself, but we’ve been out here an hour.” She collected their rucksacks.
“I must sit.” He took a sloppy step before falling against Scottie. “My legs are wobbly.”
“I got you.” She roped his arm around her shoulder and cinched hers about his waist. Settling him on the bench, she handed over his water bottle. “He said what we’re doing was good.”
“Wh-who said?” Michael flipped the top of his water bottle and drank deep, feeling as if he’d emerged from a rabbit hole.
“Emmanuel. You don’t remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He patted his chest. Something felt different.
“When He walked out of the woods, you said ‘Sir’ then froze. You melted to your knees when He touched you.”
“Did He touch my head?”
“Yes, and whispered something to you. I couldn’t hear it.”
Again Michael patted his chest. Something was missing— He glanced at Scottie. “Did I say something to you?”
She lowered her expression. “No, why?”
He didn’t believe her but decided not to press. “Did Emmanuel say anything to you?”
“Yes, though I’m not sure I understand any of this.
He said something about climbing the mountainous pathway and how the Eye had been watching me.
He wanted to meet me face-to-face. He seemed to know why we were here and said it was a good thing.
He walked off into the woods but looked back at me like He was—” She stared in that direction for a long moment. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Michael took a breath, stirring that clean and swept feeling with the air of the chapel. “What we’re doing here is searching for evidence of Fickle’s claim.”
“So maybe we’re on the right track. We’ll find what he needs to back his story, or we’ll find what we need to debunk it.”
“Did Emmanuel mention Wenthelen? I remember hearing her name.”
“Oh yes, He was glad I found the painting. Said it was Wenthelen’s favorite.”
Michael sagged a bit with the weight and magnitude of what just happened. As a Cross man, he’d heard stories of his family members, and others, encountering the Man, but he never imagined he’d be on Emmanuel’s call list.
“Let’s go back down to the cellar, light all the oil lamps we can find, and start seriously going through the archives, beginning where you found the portrait.” With another gulp of water, his strength returned with a bit of creative clarity. “Scottie, tell me, please, did I say something to you?”
She shook her head. “Besides asking how long you’d been out? Nope.”
Okay. He’d believe her, though he could hear his voice in his head talking to her.
Back to the cellar, they found oil lamps everywhere.
When the cellar was ablaze with the cozy, romantic light of oil lamps, Michael took it in, especially the woman in the middle of it all.
He didn’t care if she rejected him. He loved her.
For some reason, he felt free to feel it.
Maybe even say it. Even better, he didn’t need her to love him back, which felt utterly and completely freeing.
“Can you believe these lamps still have oil?” Scottie heaved an armload of books onto the table.
“Scottie, love, we just encountered Emmanuel. There’s nothing I won’t believe going forward.” She returned his smile, and the last of his heart’s boarded windows opened.
What’d You do to me, Emmanuel?
“All right, let’s see what we got.” Scottie opened one book. Michael another.
“We should wear gloves,” he said. “But—”
“Somehow I don’t think our brand of preservation matters in this room.”
“You might be right.” He pointed to the table and the lamps.
His determined rigidness toward Scottie, his determination to be nothing but profesh, didn’t seem all that important in the light of the lamps, the excitement of exploration, and the realization that Emmanuel had come.
“What do you think? Should there be romantic stringed instruments and a seven-course dinner on the way?”
“I don’t know—” Scottie surveyed the table then the page of an open book. “Were you a romantic with Purnell?”
“Not very. Not in the beginning.” He was an open book. If Scottie wanted to know something, he’d tell her. Everything. “She brought it out of me eventually. This sort of atmosphere spoke to her heart. What about you? Are you romantic? How about your bloke, Cap?”
“I’m not a romantic. As for Cap—” She thought for a moment. “He tried, but deep down he was pining for his ex-wife. I’m glad they’re back together. I told him to invite me to their wedding.”
“That’s very big of you.” Michael closed the book he’d been perusing—nothing but husbandry numbers—and selected another. Across the table, Scottie gently turned the pages of her volume of Lauchtenland annals. “You’ve not met the right man yet, that’s all.”
“Nope, guess not.” She attempted to glance his way but aborted the effort. Instead, she held up the leather-bound book with its collection of uneven pages revealing a rather smooth handwriting over the miniscule clumps of threads and fibers found in the paper of the day.
“This looks like a journal,” she said. “By, well, um—it’s hard to read—a Lord Midlands, I think?
The writing is faint and very old-fashioned.
I don’t recognize some of the letters.” She slid the book over to Michael.
“I’m not sure I believe there’s a right man for me.
To be honest, I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.
” She reached for another large leather-bound book.
“But I feel different. Do you feel different?”
“From what happened? Up there?” He tilted his head toward the stairs. “Yes, I feel different.” Very different. Free might be the appropriate word.
Michael studied the lettering on the page Scottie passed to him.
“Yes, this is the journal of a Lord Midlands. For a long time, Lauchtenland spoke a blend of English and Danish, which displayed in our written word as well. We adapted more to the British English in the early 1700s.” He returned the book to Scottie.
“Some of these volumes will be in Latin.” He tapped the page from the book he’d selected.
“What I see is a record of land gifts from various kings to commanders of the Lauchten army and to various merchants who paid large taxes. The script is very faint, but I believe that’s the scope of it all. ”
“Anything about Lord Midlands?”
“Not so far.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Scottie sighed and closed her book. “Is there a Lord Midlands today?”
“If so, the chap’s in hiding. I don’t believe there’s been a Lord Midlands in recent history.”
Scottie reached for another book. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Hamish Fickle were—”
“Not funny at all.” He glanced at her, smiling. “Can you see that little man with a title?”
“If you ask me, he already has one. Self-proclaimed.” She reached in her rucksack for her bottle of water and, backing away from the table, took a sip.
Michael had just perused another book of records and taxes when Scottie said, “I think I found something. It’s in Latin, but I see Wenthelen’s name.”
“Here, let me.” He came round the table, hovered over her shoulder, and began to read.
“‘King Magnus the Third, ruler and sovereign of Lauchtenland, declares this day, Wednesday, the Second of October in the Year of Our Lord Fifteen hundred and Forty-Nine, at Hadsby Castle, Wenthelen Blue of Dalholm and The Haskells—’ Interesting, I’ve not heard of that styling either.
‘—is legally wed to Mister Caspas Matthias Fickle.’ It’s signed by the king and a bishop.
I can’t make out his name.” Michael pointed to a crumbling wax seal. “It looks like the Seal of Hadsby.”
“Michael,” Scottie said. “You just read a historical document declaring the marriage of Wenthelen Blue to a Fickle.” She rubbed against the chill running down her arm. “We just stumbled upon the irony of all ironies. Oh my stars…”
“Hold on, hold on.” Michael drew a lamp a bit closer—but not too close—and read softly aloud, making sure his Latin understanding was not failing him.
“‘Wenthelen Blue of Dalholm and The Haskells is legally wed to Mister Caspas Matthias Fickle.’ We need to find the record of her dowry.” He turned the page with the tips of his fingers. “And here it is.”
“The irony continues.” Scottie leaned over his shoulder and into his heart. He did not resist. “This makes the Fickles related to the Blues.”
“Yes, nearly five hundred years ago but—”
“So what? Are you saying they’d have no claim now?
” Scottie said. “If MP Fickle saw this, he’d go on every talk show, maybe even to the courts, making his case.
” She turned to the bookshelves. “Do you think any of this is in the Hall of Records at Perrigwynn? Why would it be stored up here where no one goes except, well, Emmanuel and whoever supplies the bread and the wine?”
“Hold on, lass. Let me read for a moment. The dowry seems to be a declaration of a land gift and title.” Michael worked out some of the faded script and used his phone to understand the Latin he’d forgotten.
“Here we go. ‘King Magnus the Third, King of Lauchtenland and Protector Lord Perrigwynn by the Grace of God, do on this day, Wednesday, the Second of October, in the Year of Our Lord, Fifteen-hundred-and-Forty-Nine, recognise Wenthelen Blue as his legal daughter and do elevate her husband, Caspas Matthias Fickle, to Duke of Midlands.’”
“Then the journal I found might belong to Caspas,” Scottie whispered. “Lord Midlands. I can’t believe all this is here. No one has ever bothered to look?”