Grayson’s tongue did indeed spring to attention. He imagined Mrs. Brush’s tea would make a dead man’s tongue dance a jig. He dutifully took another sip, even though his fingers itched to examine Queen Mary’s diary, now sitting quietly beside him on the sofa. Grayson couldn’t help himself. He laid his hand lightly on the heavy, rich leather. Had it moved closer to his leg? Was it the sound of faint breathing he heard? Since it recognized him, why wouldn’t it open for him?
When Grayson swallowed his last bite of scone, he carefully wiped his fingers on a white napkin and picked up the book. It wouldn’t open.
Cibalto sat forward, hands on his knees, and stared fixedly at the book. “I’ve wondered if the poor doomed queen used magic to close her diary for all time so her private thoughts would never be revealed, perhaps hired a witch to seal it. As I said, you are the only person who has ever gone directly to that shelf and immediately pulled it out, without thought, as if it had somehow called to you.” Cibalto sat back, laced his hands over his skinny middle, his eyes never leaving the diary. “When I read of events from a thousand years ago and the events of Mary’s time, I see only names change, rendering history rather tedious. Men’s greed and hunger for power never lessens. A treaty made, readily broken, invade a neighbor’s lands, bring devastation, and take over. Was greed and lust for power more pronounced in Mary’s time? No, of course not. I doubt it will ever change, but who can tell?” He fell silent, still staring fixedly at the diary.
Grayson had no doubt the diary had waited for him, no one else, and didn’t that bespeak fate of a sort? Was he meant to come here, meant to go like a homing pigeon to Mary’s diary? He continued to smooth his fingers over the faded red Moroccan leather, felt the warmth intensify, as if his fingers were getting close to a candle flame. And he wondered:
Mary, what did you write that you didn’t want anyone to see? If you want me to help you, you must open your diary for me.
The diary sprang open. Cibalto leapt to his feet, shaken. “I-I cannot believe this, yet I hoped for it above all things. Still, it is outside my ken. It forces my beleaguered brain to reexamine assumptions I always considered nonsense. But this, sir, this has to be magic that’s hovered near me for three years. It needed but you, Grayson.” He floundered to a stop, without more words, probably for the first time in his life. “Can you read it, Grayson?”
The book had parted itself toward the end. Oddly, the pages looked smooth and modern, as if the diary had been bound yesterday not in the sixteenth century. The black ink was bold, looked as freshly inscribed as if it had come from his own pen. At the top of the page, he read the French2 Mars 1566. He felt his heart quicken as he stared at the date. “Cibalto, when was David Rizzio murdered?”
“The ninth of March, 1566. He was dragged from Mary’s supper room to the main stairs and stabbed over and over. Tomorrow, I will show you the bloodstains, still there after nearly three hundred years. Workers will scrub them clean, but then the bloodstains come back. And how can that be?
“The diary—Grayson, it is beyond a man’s comprehension, even though I prayed for it. I—” Cibalto ran his tongue over his lips, then, his voice a whisper, “M-may I inquire what is written?”
“I fear my French is merely adequate, and this diary was penned three hundred years ago in Old French.” Grayson looked back down at the open page, and suddenly the words were as clear to him as if he were reading a Dickens novel to Pip. He swallowed, accepted it, and read aloud:
The babe thrashes around inside me, butI can do nothing but endure the relentless pressure, the pain in my back. But once I birth this child, I know my bloodline will rule far beyond my own earthly years and my marriage to Henry Stuart will have served its purpose. It is my only consolation for being wed to this drunken, lying lout. He charmed me at first, but I soon realized what he really was—vain, deceitful, wanting to make himself the king and take my place. His father, the Earl of Lennox, is as ruthless and untrustworthy as his son, but I sense his hatred for me behind his façade, me the French-raised interloper who doesn’t belong here. I am nothing more than a vessel to him to achieve his ambition. I see him staring at my pregnant belly and his mean mouth smiles. Lennox doesn’t drink, but his son drinks enough for both of them. Tonight I watched Henry stumbling about, bragging how smart he is. Smart? The fool has syphilis. Thankfully, I did not contract this vile disease from him.
But I mustn’t forget my traitorous husband is dangerous, and of course Lennox. For weeks now he drunkenly screams at me, accuses me of infidelity with David, amazing since I know he and David are occasional lovers. I wonder if David broke off his sexual encounters with Henry, or does Henry want me to question David’s loyalty to me? He does not know I found out he was acting behind my back, promising alliances without consulting me.He has many enemies, but in his conceit I doubt he realizes he’s a pawn of those sycophants surrounding him. And the fool believes I will sign the official papers giving him the legal title of King of Scotland.
Deceit and betrayal are my daily diet. If I survive childbirth, I must take action. But who can I trust?
Before Grayson could turn another page, the book slammed shut.
Cibalto and Grayson stared at each other.
Cibalto said into the still air, “I have always believed myself a man of no imagination, my long feet always firmly planted on the ground, but now I admit, what just happened—your being able to read the book and it slamming shut by itself—it fair to curdles my innards. I didn’t want to, but mayhap now I must believe in the curse. Is it black magic, Grayson?”
“I have no idea what it is.” Grayson knew Mary wanted him to do something, but when would she tell him?
Cibalto said, “Mary was twenty-three when she married her cousin Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. He was only nineteen, but as the first son of the Earl of Lennox, his lineage traced back to Margaret Tudor. Of course, all Mary wanted was his child, who would one day assume the English throne.” He sighed. “I had hoped she would present you with an entry that spoke of the curse.”
Grayson said slowly, “I believe what the book allowed me to read is meant to set the stage, so to speak.”
Cibalto said, “Are you a wizard, Grayson?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Was he a wizard? No, he was not, surely he was not. Grayson made himself settle. Mary’s son, James VI of Scotland, had indeed succeeded Elizabeth I to become James I of England in 1603. Mary’s dynasty had flourished, with the exception of the ten-year rule by Oliver Cromwell, until the Hanoverian George had come to the throne in 1714. So what concerned her so much now? What did she want him to know? What did she want him to do? And what of the curse that Cibalto was convinced was aimed at him specifically? The closed diary in his hands no longer pulsed. It was no longer warm to the touch. Was she going to dole out only small bits of information at a time? Why? And why had she sent him a dream of her on her wedding day to the Dauphin of France, followed by Rizzio’s brutal murder? It made no sense.
Grayson said, “No, Cibalto, I am not a wizard. Sometimes I seem to connect to other times, other places, sometimes share feelings with those before or those from other realms.”
Cibalto sat forward. He said slowly, “What do you mean, those from other realms?”
How to explain demons from a strange place called Border? How to explain a kelpie falling in love with a ghost? How to describe walking with a princess three thousand years ago along the Nile? He said, “There are many kinds of beings that share our world, Cibalto. Sometimes it seems I’m a conduit, sometimes a participant. Perhaps it will prove to be so with Queen Mary.” He shrugged. He’d said too much about things he scarce understood himself but had long ago learned to accept. And now this strange connection to the tragic long-dead queen who’d been manipulated by those who promised to free her of her captivity, promised her the return of her throne. She’d agreed to an insane plot to overthrow Queen Elizabeth and paid for her agreement with her life.
Grayson pulled Cibalto’s letter from his vest pocket and read aloud:
There have been alarming disturbances I am unable to explain. Just yesterday I went into the long portrait gallery, and paintings of all the kings of Scotland that normally line the walls were lying haphazard on the floor, some of the frames torn apart, as if by enraged hands. And in my own house I was working at my desk when books flew through the air out of my bookshelves, some striking me before I could hide under my desk. I fear I myself am in danger. I found a curse, sir, a curse I believe made by Queen Mary herself.
Grayson said, “You wrote to me you found the kings’ portraits lying about, frames torn apart, and the books here in your study hurled at you. That is terrifying in itself. All of it appears to center around Mary. Let’s begin there, Cibalto. Tell me why you believe Mary has cursed you.”
Cibalto said, “When I first arrived here to take up my post as commendator, I did not believe in ghosts. Indeed, I laughed at such nonsense. I knew of course everyone who worked here believed in them, but still I scoffed, but only to myself. I spent many hours weekly at the palace, walking the rooms, making certain all was kept clean and in good repair. One day I was working in my small office where I keep records of expenditures, issues with the palace itself or with the dozens of workers whose jobs, like mine, are to keep the palace in good order after King George IV’s renovations twenty years ago.
“I remember clearly as though it was but a moment ago when I was in my palace office and I simply felt another presence and somehow I knew it was Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, Mary’s second husband and son of the fourth Earl of Lennox. Ah, what a nasty piece of goods he was—well, really, both the father and the son. Rather than asking Darnley what he wanted, I asked him aloud how he could be here at Holyroodhouse when he hadn’t died here. Did not ghosts remain where they died? So should he be ghosting about in Kirk o’ Field where he’d been murdered? Then, I swear I saw a slash of impenetrable darkness—like black lightning—and I felt a soulless cold sear to my soul. The candles on my desk went out, and the door slammed shut. And this, Grayson, was the first time it happened.” Cibalto stopped, and Grayson saw a flash of raw fear in his eyes.
