Page 49 of The Hidden Lord
Yet even as Gabriel acknowledged his own limitations, he found himself genuinely wanting to bridge the gap between them. Henri’s passionate defense of her right to know the truth, her frustration with his secretiveness, had stirred something in him that he had thought long dead. For the first time in years, Gabriel found himself caring more about another person’s opinion of him than about maintaining his protective barriers.
Perhaps that was the beginning of hope. Perhaps wanting to change was the first step toward actually accomplishing it.
As they returned to the turnpike and settled into the steady rhythm of travel, Gabriel reached into the leather portfolio where he had been keeping the sketch safe from damage. The delicate parchment unfolded carefully in his hands, revealing once again the intricate details that had proven so revealing when deciphered.
Gabriel studied the drawing, his mind turning over the puzzle that had consumed so much of his attention. The knight standing before the smoke-shrouded arch, the serpent coiled around fragments of a shattered crown, the coded letters and numbers that had revealed their hidden message when matched against the Malory manuscript. It was undeniably brilliant work, the creation of someone who understood both artistry and cryptography in equal measure.
But what did any of it have to do with Horace’s murder?
Gabriel’s mentor had been an avid scholar, a man whose greatest passion was the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. Horace had possessed one of the finest minds in Oxford, had corresponded with antiquarians across Europe, and had devoted his life to understanding the historical Arthur behind thelegends. Yet his study had been ransacked, his papers scattered, his books examined and discarded by hands that had clearly been searching for something specific. Something worth killing for.
What would they find in Roseberry Topping?
The connection between a Renaissance artistic puzzle and the murder of a modern scholar remained frustratingly elusive, but Gabriel’s instincts told him the link was there. Too many coincidences, too many threads leading back to Arthurian manuscripts and hidden knowledge for it all to be mere chance.
“You look troubled,” Henri observed. “Are you having second thoughts about our destination?”
Gabriel looked up to find Henri watching him with a quizzical gaze that saw far more than he was comfortable revealing. “Not second thoughts, exactly. More … questions about what we might find there.”
“You mentioned that you were posted near Roseberry Topping once,” Henri prodded carefully. “Was that recently?”
“Many years ago,” Gabriel replied, grateful for a topic he could discuss without revealing too much. “I was stationed near there. The hill is quite distinctive, impossible to mistake once you’ve seen it.”
Henri leaned forward slightly, her curiosity evident. “What did the locals tell you about it? The sketch mentioned legends, and you said your tutor spoke of Arthur fighting there.”
Gabriel found himself relaxing slightly as he recalled his time in that wild, beautiful country. “The people of the region have long memories and rich traditions. They speak of ancient battles fought on the moors, of kings and warriors who sleep beneath the hills waiting to return when England has need of them. Roseberry Topping itself has always been considered a place of power, somewhere the old gods walked before Christianity came to Britain.”
“And Arthur? What did they say about Arthur?”
“That he made his final stand somewhere in those hills,” Gabriel said slowly, remembering conversations with local shepherds and farmers who spoke of such things as matter-of-fact history rather than mere legend. “Some claim his sword lies buried there still, others that his body rests in a cave that appears only when the conditions are precisely right. The usual blend of folklore and wishful thinking. But”—he hesitated, not wishing to mislead her about what they might find in Yorkshire—“you hear much the same in Wales and throughout the West Country, especially Cornwall.”
Henri was quiet for a moment, studying the sketch with new interest. “You know much about Arthurian lore?”
Gabriel met her gaze, seeing in her expression the same mixture of excitement and apprehension that he felt himself. “Yes,” he admitted. “I do.” He knew she was fishing for more, but Gabriel was not yet willing to discuss Horace’s death.
As the carriage carried them steadily north toward Yorkshire and whatever answers awaited them at Roseberry Topping, Gabriel found himself cautiously optimistic about more than just solving the mystery. Perhaps Henri was right to insist on being his partner in this investigation. Perhaps sharing this burden, working together toward a common goal, might indeed be the beginning of the kind of marriage she deserved and he had tentatively begun to imagine. A paradise glimpsed through a veil of mist if he could only find the path that would lead him there.
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
FEBRUARY 3, 1822
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 couldsee 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.”
