Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
FEBRUARY 7, 1822
Alaric Devayne pulled his worn coat tighter against the bitter coastal wind as he approached the fifth inn of the night, his hollow cheeks stung raw by the relentless coastal air. The obsessive pursuit that had driven him across the country was taking its toll. His gaunt frame had grown even thinner during the days of hard travel, and his sunken eyes burned with the fevered intensity of a man who had not allowed himself proper rest since Dover.
Engaging in conversation with the viscount’s coachman in Yorkshire had been worthwhile. A few pints of ale and somewell-chosen questions about the quality of roads to various destinations had yielded the crucial intelligence. Cornwall. Tintagel, specifically, though the coachman was puzzled by his master’s interest in such a remote location during the winter months.
Once they had departed, he struggled to keep pace with the grand carriage and its four matched horses, though at least he knew the direction to take.
Tintagel. Alaric had rolled the name over in his mind during the grueling ride south, trying to piece together what connection the legendary Cornish castle might have to the manuscript he had pursued with such determination. The place was famous for its Arthurian associations, that much he knew, but the specific connection to the Malory text remained frustratingly elusive.
Now, as he surveyed this latest inn from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, Alaric felt the familiar surge of anticipation that had sustained him through months of investigation. The establishment was larger than the previous four he had checked, with a substantial carriage house that suggested it catered to travelers of means. If his quarry had indeed reached Tintagel, this would be exactly the sort of place they would choose for their accommodation.
The inn’s courtyard was empty after midnight when Alaric ventured in, moving with the stealth that had served him well during his military campaigns. The carriage house stood separate from the main building, its large doors secured with a simple latch.
The interior was dark and smelled of leather, hay, and the lingering scent of well-maintained horses. Alaric moved between the vehicles stored there, running his hands along their surfaces and checking for the distinctive markings that would identify his target. The first three carriagesappeared to belong to passing merchants or minor gentry, their modest appointments and provincial styling immediately distinguishing them from what he sought.
But the fourth vehicle made Alaric’s pulse quicken with recognition. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the high windows, he could make out the elegant lines and superior craftsmanship that marked it as the property of someone with both wealth and taste. More importantly, he could see the coat of arms emblazoned on the door panel.
Finally.
Alaric circled the carriage slowly, confirming his identification and noting details that might prove useful later. The vehicle showed signs of hard travel, with mud splattered along its lower panels and dust coating its normally pristine surfaces.
The discovery filled Alaric with a satisfaction that went beyond mere professional accomplishment. For weeks, he had been pursuing a quarry that seemed always to stay one step ahead of him, possessing both the resources and the intelligence to make his task genuinely challenging. But now, at last, he had them within reach.
Alaric examined the carriage’s interior through its windows, though the darkness made it impossible to determine whether the precious manuscript and sketch were stored within. More likely, such valuable items would be kept close, probably secured in their rooms at the inn itself. The thought of the ancient text being so near, yet still beyond his grasp, sent a familiar surge of frustrated desire through him.
He had come too far and sacrificed too much to allow proximity to substitute for possession. The manuscript represented more than just a valuable artifact to Alaric. In the right hands, the knowledge contained within those ancientpages could open doors that had remained closed to him throughout his life.
Satisfied that he had learned everything the carriage could tell him, Alaric slipped back out of the building and secured the latch behind him. The inn’s main building showed several lighted windows, suggesting that not all the guests had retired for the night, but Alaric did not wish to enter and possibly encounter Lord Trenwith who would assuredly recognize him.
Instead, he made his way to the collection of outbuildings that surrounded the inn, searching for somewhere he could shelter for the remaining hours until dawn. He would need all his strength and mental clarity for whatever challenges the morning might bring.
Alaric eventually settled on a small storage shed that offered shelter from the wind while providing a clear view of both the inn’s entrance and the carriage house. The space was cramped and uncomfortable, filled with the detritus of rural life, but it would serve his purposes adequately.
As he arranged his coat to provide some cushioning against the hard wooden floor, Alaric allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The manuscript that had eluded him for so long was now within a few hundred yards of where he lay. By tomorrow evening, if his planning proved sound, the ancient text would finally be in his possession.
The thought of success, so close he could almost taste it, helped Alaric ignore the discomfort of his makeshift shelter as he settled in to wait for morning. Soon, very soon, his long pursuit would reach its conclusion.
By the timeGabriel and Henri returned to their inn, most of the lights in the local village were extinguished. Gabriel was acutely aware of Henri’s rigid posture and the way she had avoided meeting his eyes whenever he had attempted to assist her over the more difficult terrain back at the castle.
Their room felt almost luxurious after the bitter cold of the clifftop, but the atmosphere between them remained as glacial as the winter night they had just escaped. Henri moved about the space with sharp, precise movements that spoke to barely contained anger, preparing for bed with an efficiency that suggested she wanted this evening to end as quickly as possible.
Gabriel watched her preparations with growing unease, recognizing the signs of the deep resentment he had somehow managed to seed. He wanted to bridge the gap that had opened between them, to explain his protective instincts and the fears that had driven his sharp words at the cave entrance. But the weight of his secrets, the complexity of emotions surrounding Horace’s death and his own desperate need for answers, made such explanations feel impossible.
“Henri,” Gabriel began tentatively as she settled into the bed with her back pointedly turned toward him.
“I am quite tired, Gabriel,” Henri replied coolly with a finality that discouraged further conversation. “Perhaps we could discuss whatever matters you feel need addressing in the morning.”
Gabriel stood uncertainly beside the bed, the parchment rubbing from the cave weighing heavily in his coat pocket. Henri’s dismissal stung more than he cared to admit, but he recognized that pushing for conversation now would likely only deepen whatever damage had already been done.
Instead, Gabriel quietly retrieved the Malory manuscript from his traveling trunk and settled into the room’s single chair with the ancient text and his collection of sketches and rubbings.If sleep was to elude him as it had for so many nights recently, he might as well use the time productively.
Further analysis of the rubbing revealed additional clues that pointed toward a specific location, though the manuscript’s archaic language made precise translation challenging. Gabriel found references to “where the grim fell sings,” which he assumed meant a location known for particular acoustic properties or perhaps wind patterns that created unusual sounds.
By the time Gabriel had completed his preliminary deciphering, dawn was breaking properly outside their window, and Henri was beginning to stir in the bed behind him. Gabriel gathered his materials and prepared to face what he suspected would be a difficult morning conversation.
The inn’s dining room was sparsely populated when Gabriel and Henri descended for breakfast, with only a handful of other guests making use of the early morning meal service. Henri had dressed with her usual care, but Gabriel noted the way she maintained careful distance between them and avoided his attempts to engage her in casual conversation.
