Grayson said, “And I wonder if he was wearing his satin hood when he was found.”
Cibalto handed back the book. “There is another page, and of course I cannot read it.”
Grayson turned the page and read:
When Bothwell knew he was dying, he placed the care of his daughters Margaret and Mary, aged fourteen, in King Frederick’s hands. The king treated them finely, and when they were seventeen, he presented them to his nobles at an elaborate ball. The princesses were richly gowned, laughing and dancing. They are both red-haired and very tall, like their mother, but their eyes are so dark as to be nearly black, like Bothwell’s. The king said their miens were “of a perfect counterpoint.”
Grayson slowly closed the book. “Cibalto, the last line, it is identical to what John Culver wrote about King Frederick.”
“Ah, this makes me want to tear out my hair. Are we to believe then that John Culver wrote as Darnley, then added the final few lines about Bothwell and his twin daughters and King Frederick? Repeated himself? If so, then why is his name not on the cover? Why would he write as if he were Darnley?”
Grayson said, “It is doubtful we will ever know, but, Cibalto, we now know the twins’ names. We know the year of their birth. We know they looked like Mary, their eyes dark like their father’s, Bothwell. We have enough to discover if their descendants still live today. Can you imagine what their existence would mean to history? How their father, Bothwell, would be regarded?”
Cibalto was rubbing his hands together. “The elaborate ball Frederick gave—might there not be records in the Danish royal archives of the expenses for the ball and certainly mention of the identical twins Margaret and Mary? Perhaps they married. If so, there would be records. Did Frederick give them a dowry? Were their husbands Danish nobles? Ah, the possibilities.” He paused. “But, Grayson, this doesn’t change the fact Mary wants to kill me, and we still do not know why.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sunday morning
Adults and children attended the morning service at Old Saint Paul’s, a Scottish Episcopal church on Jeffrey Street, only a short walk from Abbotsford Crescent. It was another a fine day, no darkening clouds in the sky, but it was chilly, as it usually was. They walked to the church, which, they saw, was both ancient and beautiful, and in dire need of repair. They were regarded with some interest, given tentative smiles, and settled in uncomfortable seats. They were surrounded by voices, some speaking in a Scottish accent so thick it was difficult to understand.
Grayson appreciated the lengthy homily, which did sound heartfelt and rigorous. It gave him time to think through what he knew: Cibalto believed Mary would kill him, but he didn’t know why. Ah, but the curse was ridiculous to Grayson’s mind—when the night bleeds red onto the moon. And Mary, by her third husband, James Hepburn, Lord Bothwell, had twin daughters who never knew their mother and were raised in the Danish court of Frederick II. If they discovered why Mary had cursed Cibalto, would she stop if they could find her descendants so her spirit would be at rest?
Of course Pip didn’t appreciate the length of the homily, but Miranda, bless her, had brought him a small letter box, filled with finely cut puzzle pieces of a cat he put together on her voluminous skirts. As for P.C. and Brady, since they were older, the occasional fish eye kept them quiet.
Grayson thought again of the curse and frowned. Not for the first time did it seem to him it sounded overly dramatic. And there was no name given to the betrayer. There were so many betrayers to choose from back in Mary’s time, so why Cibalto Terduck, a modern man?
When the night bleeds red onto the moon, the betrayer will choke on his own blood.
Grayson found himself wondering,
Mary, why the ridiculous hyperbole? And why Cibalto?
He didn’t feel her, but he persevered.
Your twin daughters arrived in Denmark, to Bothwell. We will find what happened to them, Mary, and we will discover if they have descendants. Then you will have no need to harm Cibalto.
But Mary wasn’t there.
When they returned to Abbotsford Crescent, the children were in tearing spirits because it was Sunday and they were to share the light luncheon with the adults in the formal dining room. Young Agnes served thinly sliced ham; special Scottish goat cheese, creamy and tart; freshly baked warm bread; and a dessert of clootie dumplings, a sweet pudding filled with raisins and dried fruit the children shoveled into their mouths. As for the adults, they were more discreet in their shoveling.
Young Agnes, a twinkle in her eye, whispered to Grayson to tell everyoneclootiecame fromcloot, meaning cloven hoof and found on cattle and goats and sheep, to name a few.
“Papa, what does that mean?”
“It means their hooves are split in the middle.”
Lise Marie waggled her eyebrows and whispered, her eyes on the children, “And a sign of the devil.”
This didn’t scare the children, only excited them. P.C. asked, “Why do people think the devil has hooves? If he does, why are they split in the middle?”
George said matter-of-factly, “In the Middle Ages, European artists began drawing Satan as a terrifying creature, often looking goatlike and with cloven hooves like a goat. Evidently everyone liked this representation, and so it’s come on down to the present. Will the cloven hooves disappear in the future? Who knows, but it is certainly an image to scare a sinner into good deeds.”
P.C. announced, “I am pleased the eighth Baron Worsley is so smart since he will be my papa-in-law in the future.”
“I will continue to endeavor to impress you, P.C.,” George said, reached over and patted her small hand.
Grayson felt the laughter flow through him. He hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been since his first meeting with Cibalto. There was so much happening in another realm, and he was a part of it. He knew to his heels he had to act, but what to do now?
