Page 65 of Mesmerized

“Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith,” Rafe suggested. “Love isn’t a matter of logic. It’s feeling.”

“I know. But I find it easier to trust my head than my heart.” He paused, looking down at the glass of amber liquid in his hand, idly swirling its contents. When he raised his head, his eyes were lit with amusement. “By the way, you will have a chance to meet Pamela. She is also here.”

“Here?” Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. “Under the same roof? Well, you do like to live dangerously.”

“I could scarcely toss her out. She is my brother’s widow, after all.”

“Interesting situation.”

Stephen chuckled. “That’s the least of it. Things have happened that are so bizarre I have wondered if I am going mad. Fortunately, Olivia witnessed them, too.”

Stephen told his friend and former partner about the medium and her séances, including the one in which Mr. Babington had fallen into a seizure, and also recounted the ghostly apparition he and Olivia had seen, and their dreams involving the same woman.

Olivia and her great-uncle appeared in the midst of this discussion, and Great-uncle Bellard listened with great interest to what had taken place in Blackhope since Olivia had sent her letter to him. Small, bright eyed and balding, with a burst of white hair ringing his head just above his ears, he reminded Olivia of a bird.

He nodded several times and murmured, “Intriguing, most intriguing,” during the course of Stephen’s description. When Stephen fell silent, the older man reached down beside his chair, where he had set two large books that he had carried into the room and picked up one of them. He put it in his lap and tapped it.

“This is a history of the western counties, written by a rather thorough fellow. Eighteenth-century chap.” He sighed a little wistfully. “Too bad. I would have liked to have spoken to him. He raised some very interesting points about the—well, never mind. That’s neither here nor there. Thing is, he’s a trustworthy historian. In here, I found a passage about the Scorhill family and Blackhope.”

He opened the book to where a bookmark held his place. “During the time of Stephen of Blois—if you will remember, he was the king before Henry II, and his was a chaotic reign. He did not have good control over his lords. There had been years of fighting already between him and Mathilde, Henry’s mother. Well, it was all very unsettled, especially in the west, with the threat of the Welsh. Many of the barons seized the opportunity to conduct their own private wars amongst themselves—the strong preying on the weak, increasing lands and power, settling old scores and the like. Anyway, it said in here that during this time, the Norman keep of Blackhope was besieged by an enemy of the Scorhill of the time, one Sir Raymond.”

Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. Uncle Bellard smiled at her.

“Yes, my dear. I think it must be the same one as your Sir Raymond. The castle was attacked, but Sir Raymond was not at home at the time. He had gone to another noble, his liege lord, actually, hoping to enlist his support in Sir Raymond’s ongoing feud with Lord Surton, whose men were even at that moment laying siege to Blackhope. Surton’s men took the castle. There were rumors at the time that there was treachery involved, that someone let them into the castle. Whatever happened, they took the castle and a good deal of it was destroyed, by battering rams and by fire. And Sir Raymond’s wife—it does not say what her name was—was killed in the siege.”

Olivia felt tears prick at her eyelids. She told herself it was foolish, that she did not even know the woman, but she could not help but feel pity and sorrow at her death. “Alys,” she said. “Her name was Lady Alys.”

“Was it?” Great-uncle Bellard asked and patted his niece’s hand. “Well, Sir Raymond upon his return managed to take back the castle, and with the aid of his allies, decisively defeated Lord Surton. So that is how the castle was destroyed. It was, however, rebuilt by Sir Raymond on almost the same spot.”

“Now,” he went on, caught up in his story, “this is where it really gets interesting.” He set the tome back down on the floor and picked up the other book. “This is the history of the Scorhills written by one of the St. Legers. It was written during the reign of Charles I, before the Civil War.”

At Rafe’s confused look, Bellard added kindly, “I mean ours, of course, not yours.”

“Oh. Sure.” Rafe grinned. “I’m with you now. The Cavaliers, right? The fellows with the big hats and plumes?”

“Heathen,” Stephen joked in what was obviously a long-running line of verbal sparring.

“Of course, as I said, this Cecil St. Leger had a vested interest in the Scorhill family appearing as black and unworthy as possible. In that regard, he is rather harsh regarding the Lord Scorhill, who incurred Henry VIII’s displeasure, primarily because of his ‘treason’ and ‘popery.’ However, he also has several juicy tidbits regarding Sir Raymond.”

“Really?” Stephen leaned forward, intrigued. “What?”

“He accuses the man of having dabbled in the black arts,” Great-uncle Bellard said, and sat back, looking pleased at the astonishment on the faces of his listeners.

“What?” Olivia gaped. “You mean witchcraft?”

“He said the man was a witch?” Rafe asked. “I mean, whatever a male witch is.”

“Warlock,” the historian supplied and nodded. “That is exactly what I mean. He said that Sir Raymond was reputed to be a powerful sorcerer, a wicked and cruel man. Of course, it all sounds like rumors and gossip. There is no way to know the truth of any of it. He does lay out several instances of the man’s deceit and wickedness, many of them concerning his dealing with the aforementioned Lord Surton. But chief among them is the claim that it was he who really arranged the ‘betrayal’ of his own castle. The author puts forth that Sir Raymond not only knew they would attack the castle, but that he actually lured Surton into it, that he paid someone to open the gates to the man’s forces, and that he then returned with a much larger force and defeated the invaders, killing his enemy in the process and getting rid of a wife who had not provided him with any heirs.”

“How awful!” Olivia exclaimed. “What a wicked man!”

Her uncle nodded. “He certainly was, if these reports have any truth to them. According to this book, he was reputed to be in league with the devil. Supposedly he summoned his dark master and cavorted with him, holding orgies and such and communing with witches. He was feared by all around him, it says, and his death was met with much rejoicing. He was generally held to be cursed by God, as he married twice more and still never produced an heir. The other two wives were also said to have died mysteriously. Since he had no heirs, Blackhope went to a distant cousin, who, this book admits, did his best to restore the house to a proper godly state.”

Great-uncle Bellard closed the book and sat back in his chair, watching them expectantly. Olivia did not know what to say. She glanced at Stephen, who seemed to have the same problem. It was Rafe who finally spoke up.

“Well, I have to say, I’d be glad, if I were you, St. Leger, that this fellow wasn’t an ancestor.”

“I am. The problem is, we know more about him, perhaps, but we still don’t know what’s going on.”