The Viscount's Son (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  The Viscount’s Son

  Aderyn Wood

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Dedication

  1. To begin

  2. Dear Reader

  3. They came from the east

  4. The fayre

  5. Caught in a web

  6. Love bite

  7. Fever

  8. Desire

  9. The Return

  10. A warning

  11. They came at dusk

  12. Darkness

  13. The first bite

  14. Guilt

  15. A ship in the night

  16. A terrible feeling

  17. Dear Reader

  Also by Aderyn Wood

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2012 Aderyn Wood

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Edited by Pam Collings

  [email protected]

  Cover Art by Taire Morrigan

  www.facebook.com/morriganartwork

  Created with Vellum

  About the Book

  Book conservator, Emma, loves historical mysteries, and when she gets her hands on a Sixteenth Century diary, she launches a secret online project – to transcribe the ancient text. Though Emma's colleague, Jack, believes the medieval diary is a fake, Emma decides to translate the text and leave it up to her blog readers to decide. When a dark, handsome stranger comes into her life, she wonders if she should end the blog, but is it too late? Follow Emma's journey to discern the mysteries of the medieval memoir.

  To Peter

  Chapter 1

  To begin

  Thursday 1st August

  I'm not really sure how to begin. I’ve never had a blog before, but I used to be on Facebook and I've heard they’re similar.

  My name is Emma. I work at a very large and famous museum, in a city that is also large and famous. My job entails the conservation, restoration and translation of ancient Latin texts. I'm a book conservator. This may sound as interesting as watching the man who is scrubbing the smog off the workshop window as I write, however, writing about my job, while it will be necessary at times, is not the purpose of this blog.

  So I come to the purpose – I wish to translate a book.

  On Monday, I overheard a conversation between Jack, a fellow conservator, and our department curator, Monsieur Philippe. They were discussing a book, or more specifically, a diary. When I approached them I overheard "sixteenth century" and my heart leaped. The sixteenth is my favourite, mainly because of the stream of fascinating events and people in that century. It saw the end of the War of the Roses; the reign of Henry VIII and the major bitch fight that followed when his two daughters grappled for the throne. Then there’s Shakespeare and Nostradamus (his prophecies are fascinating!). But, this blog isn’t about my obsession with English history, so let me get back to the purpose.

  When Philippe finally left, Jack let me look at the little book. Not for long enough, though. I was disappointed Jack had got this job rather than me. The fact that the book appeared to be a diary only heightened my disappointment. I longed to know the secrets it held.

  I, on the other hand, was stuck with the most tedious job in the museum (aside from cleaning those windows). My current project is just a long process of data entry: listing the soldiers who fought in major European conflicts in the later middle ages. Thankfully, I've only been given the job for British soldiers. The project is called 'The Medieval Soldier Database' and continues the work started by Dr Adrian Bell. I don't deny the significance of the job, but ploughing through reams of various exchequers' records becomes a little monotonous. At least I get to begin with the sixteenth century.

  Today, I noticed Jack had put the diary on top of the precariously high 'in' pile on his desk. I was puzzled, as it wore no special jacket to protect it from the atmosphere. In fact, sitting on top of Jack's in-tray offered very little protection from anything. We take a number of precautions when working with ancient texts; they are handled with great care. We normally only place them on the laboratory table to work on or read. When I asked him about it, I was surprised by the answer.

  "It's a fake. I don't know how they did it, but they're good!" I remembered his words because they were so unexpected; in my five years here I've never come across an actual 'fake'. When I asked him why he thought it was a fake, he just smirked and said, "Read it, you'll see.” Then he handed me the book and told me I could have it. I put the diary in a protective cover and returned to my work for most of the day.

  As soon as Jack left, I put my gloves on and took the book to the lab table. It was bound in the usual leather and had remained exceptionally intact. The cover had the letters "N.C." engraved into it. I opened to the first page, which had a single title in Latin – Anno Mortem Meam, translated it read - "The Year of my Death”.

  I couldn't help myself and read on. After skimming most of the book, I understood why Jack assumed it was a fake. Of course a story like that couldn't possibly be true. However, I only translated random segments, and the structure of the book seemed so authentic. In any case, someone had put a lot of effort into it.

  So, I have decided to translate the seemingly dark tale this little book tells, and transcribe it in this blog. As a fake it tells a riveting story – but is it a product of the twenty-first century, or the past? I think there is more to it than meets the eye.

  Cheers for now,

  Emma.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Reader

  Friday 9th August

  This blogging thing is really taking off. I checked my stats today. I have one reader – from Spain. Thank you, whoever you are!

  I spent last weekend wishing time would speed up. I was itching to get back to work to do some testing on the diary. Despite the fact that Jack believes it to be a fake, I decided to conduct the usual experiments. Perhaps the testing will support Jack's conclusion. But then again, perhaps not.

  At the back of the diary, there are a number of spare pages with no text. I made the decision to sacrifice one of them, and on Monday, carefully cut off a fragment of parchment and sent it to the lab for dating. The results came back today and they do not support Jack's conclusion. The lab report confirms the parchment was made in the first half of the sixteenth century, probably no later than 1530. It is made from sheepskin, which was typical in Western Europe at that time. So, what does this mean? Well, the book itself is an authentic artefact from the sixteenth century. The parchment and leather that binds it were put together then. Whether the ink on its pages is from the same time is another question. One I hope to investigate. At the moment, I am excited that the pages, at least, are the real deal.

  Jack had done no testing on this book; he believed it to be a fake based on the story alone. This was a little unprofessional of him, actually, but, he prides himself on his fast approach, which isn't always a bad thing. I have a habit of spending too much time on a project; at least I know my analysis is thorough.

  I have started the translation, and as promised, I will relate its story on this blog. So, here is the first page translated from Latin. It seems to be an introduction to us – the readers. I apologise for any delay in posts. The translation takes time as I want it to make sense to modern day readers, and I have to do all the translating in the lab here at work. An atmosphere anywhere else would
cause the text to deteriorate.

  Enjoy,

  Emma.

  First Translation

  Dear Reader,

  Does the spirit of a man define him? The priests tell us it is so. But what if a man is bereft of his spirit? How is he then to be defined? Does he become free of the temptations of sin? Oh reader, it is not so.

  Sin tempts me, like a whore in the finest red silk. It beckons, it calls, it flirts, it teases. I struggle, and yet I am young. I am cursed to exist like this – wild. No longer am I immune to the temptations the darkness offers. Me, a viscount’s bastard.

  It has been a year since my spirit left me a broken man. I write it down here, now, for what else is there?

  Beware, the whore in the night. She takes more than your lust, fool.

  Heed the warning within these pages and beware.

  N.C.

  Chapter 3

  They came from the east

  Wednesday 14th August

  What a week!

  Monsieur Philippe, the department curator, has been loitering around the lab lately. He drives me crazy, asking inane questions and trying to exert pressure to hurry things along. The craft of conserving, cataloguing, translating and restoring ancient texts takes time and Philippe’s interruptions have done nothing but slow me down. I know Jack feels the same way – we have rolled our eyes frequently at each other.

  I am still plodding through the Medieval Soldiers Catalogue, but it is so repetitive. All I really want to do is work on the diary. I have been working on it whenever Philippe is not around, which is not very professional, but I want to get more translation done.

  On Monday, when I thought Philippe was at a meeting for an hour, I scraped some ink fibres from a spot on one of those back pages. I knew the parchment was sixteenth century, and I wanted to date the ink.

  As I was labelling the sample for testing, Philippe returned and caught me in the act of working on the diary rather than the catalogue. I tried to think of an excuse, but I've never been good at lying. He threw one of his temper tantrums and started muttering about ‘professionalism’ and ‘schedules’.

  Then he looked at the diary. He put his hand out and said, “Give it to me.” He told me I wasn't to work on the diary at all – that it was a waste of time as Jack had verified it was a fake – and then he left with the diary in his hand!

  Philippe’s mood swings can make life awkward at work. Sometimes he seems more like an adolescent than a man in his sixties. I think he took the diary out of spite. I’m disappointed. This text has me so intrigued and if I don't get it back, I won't be able to complete the translation. And, according to my blog stats, I now have a small following of readers. Whoever you are, I don’t want to disappoint you. I want to see this through to the end.

  But, there is some good news. I got the results back from the testing of the ink. It, too, is from the early sixteenth century! I almost hit the ceiling when I read the results. This means the whole text – pages and writing (ink) – date from the early half of the sixteenth century. The story was written then! This is one interesting ‘fake’. I just hope I can convince Philippe to give me back the book.

  Luckily, I had already translated another section of the text, before the diary was taken from me, and I've shared it below. Let's hope we can complete this story. Just as a matter of interest I thought I'd point out that N.C. used the word 'Aegyptius' in Latin, to describe what I believe we now call 'gypsies', so I have used the term 'gypsy' in the following translation even though 'Aegyptius' actually translates to 'Egyptian'.

  Emma.

  Second Translation

  How far back do I dare take you?

  I recall the day the gypsies arrived. They came from the east. I was engaged in the instruction of a group of young squires, practising their footwork in swordplay, a most fundamental skill. I recall this day clearly; it was hot, the sun was a golden fury in a cloudless sky. Now that I remember it, the scent of sunshine lingers nostalgically before me. We tarried in the courtyard of my father's manor; we heard them before we saw them.

  The bells and singing of a most foreign group echoed through the heat. Our ears pricked to the aberration. A strange discordance of music and babel flowed from the woodland's path. Then we saw them. A caravan of colour. I had never seen such bold crimson, such gaudy yellow. I leaned on my sword and wiped the sweat from my visage, and what I saw next sent a chill through my heart.

  A black carriage, led by a solitary black horse, followed the caravan. It was enclosed completely – no windows. All manner of symbols and pentagrams were painted across it. I recall shivering despite the heat and my hand crossed my heart – a fickle attempt to ward off evil. The dark carriage was ominous. And, now, writing this, I know what it encased. If only I had fled, to be free, to be saved!

  Chapter 4

  The fayre

  Thursday 22st August

  Last week I buried myself in my work and made some very good progress on the Soldiers Database. Philippe, when he inevitably interrupted, was impressed.

  "Emma, you outdo yourself!" I remember him saying.

  I tried not to laugh when Jack mimicked Philippe behind his back, hand gestures fluttering, and I'm glad I didn't. Philippe asked me to come to his office at the end of the day. I felt a little nervous. The last time I went to his office he gave me a lecture for taking two weeks on a project that he believed deserved no more than three days.

  Having no choice I went, trying not to chew my nails. When I stepped in he seemed surprisingly calm. He asked me to sit down and then he picked up the plastic package – the one I had put the diary in.

  “What exactly were you doing with this?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders, trying to appear as casual as possible, even though my heart raced like crazy. I told him I was fascinated by the story it told and it had become a little side project. He sniffed and threw the book across his desk. It landed with a thud and I jumped. He told me not to work on it during work hours.

  I picked up the diary and walked out slowly, trying with all my strength to hide the wide grin that spread across my face.

  Monday afternoon I went to the department store and bought the best portable air conditioner and humidifier I could afford. If I'm to work on my little project at home I need to get the conditions right, and in the current heat we’re having here, it is particularly important. I'm not going to complain about having an air conditioner now. It will make my life, not to mention my sleep, easier, too. Agh, this heat!

  I have done a little more of the translation. As soon as I return home from the museum each day, I have been putting the diary on my desk and getting to work – enjoying the new coolness my shoebox apartment offers. There's more talk of the gypsies and things are heating up a little for N.C. I don't want to give anything away, so on to the translation.

  Emma.

  P.S. I now have a total of eleven regular readers, thank you!

  Third Translation

  It is summer now and the rich perfume from the rose outside my window wafts relentlessly through my room. The fragrance serves to remind me, more vividly, of the events years afore ...

  The gypsies had arrived midsummer, and with them their colour and fare. It was a peaceful time – but peace bodes ill for a soldier. I grew bored of training squires and polishing armour. I was captain then. A position that befitted the bastard status granted me when my father lay with a scullery maid, almost thirty winters past.

  My fellow soldiers were also bored with the scant entertainments of a peaceful kingdom. We arranged to visit the gypsy’s fayre that evening, to see what sport may be had.

  That was when I saw her. That was when everything changed.

  We had our fill of ale, and my friends dispersed, each following their own desires.

  I noticed a pavilion, somewhat removed from the rest of the fayre. The canvas was painted a dark red and the symbols and pentagrams I had observed on the carriage the day prior, I now witnessed on the surface
of the tent. A foreign fragrance filled the air; a spicy rose scent lingered and drew me to the entrance. I heard a voice entreat me – a feminine tone like none I had heard before. I drew the curtain and entered.

  The sight before me was exquisite. There were many candles burning brightly and I couldn’t help but marvel at the expense of it. Oil burners and incense like those in church lined the interior and a heady scent filled my mind. My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw before me a plethora of treasures. There were gold and silver statues of cats and dogs and many other beasts; some of them had human bodies. Intricate tapestries hung along the sides, and there were woollen rugs on the floor littered with embroidered cushions and pillows.

  In the centre of the pavilion was a bed, canopied by a red velvet curtain. My eyes drew quickly to it and the creature that inhabited it as she spoke to me, “Come; don’t be afraid.”

  I pause now, considering this memory, for fear is the precise emotion I should have felt. Rather, I was – aroused. She was, as I say, like no other. Long limbs, bronzed and slender, were exposed between the folds of a sheer, red dress. She wore a corset, the lace tied in a fragile knot at the curve of her breast, a knot so easily unravelled. A red vial on a thin thread hung around her neck, and rested seductively between her breasts. She eyed me playfully and wet her lips; her dark, charcoal eyes scanned my every move.