Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) (2 page)

“Ah ha!” he cried gleefully, straightening his glasses. He pulled out a giant old book. The brown cover was decorated beautifully, covered in gold and jewels. It looked magical, like it belonged in a movie, bursting full of secret spells, and the itch to peek inside slightly weakened the compelling pull I had been fighting. He glanced around and found a metal cart that was used to haul the items back and forth, wheeling it back to me as he laid the book flat on top of it.

“This book is a rare artifact,” he began softly. “Back in the medieval era it was very uncommon for anything to ever be written down. Only the nobility were educated in reading and writing and even so, it was difficult to transfer everything by hand. They didn’t have the resources they do now.”

I was slightly offended that he would assume I didn’t already know the lack of writing they had in this era
, but I nodded my head politely to humor him.

“This book came from one of the royal families, hence the b
eautiful decoration.” He winked. “It has been in my family for hundreds and hundreds of years.”

I wrinkled my brow.
“
Royalty
?”

He laughed.
“Well, I’m not royalty, but a great ancestor of mine was a scribe and worked in the castle for one of the royal families.”

“Wow, that’s incredible Mr. Riley!”
I said, and I meant it. I couldn’t believe he had an ancestor who had lived in a castle. I had to force myself to not bombard him with questions.

He smiled cheerfully. “W
ell, anyway, this book has been passed down. A lot of historians have begged and,” he lifted up his pointer finger, “on a few occasions have even tried to steal it. You see, even though some might call these stories, or myths, or legends, it can actually hold some historical value considering it was one of the few written documents on Arthur and his Knights.”

“You mean
King
Arthur?”

“Yes,” he said, clearly pleased at my interest.

“But Mr. Riley, King Arthur
is
just a legend.”

He laughed.
“Or is he?”

I shook my head, not willing to argue fact and fiction with a man who believed in magic.

“My family has always been very protective of this book,” he continued. “Every generation had it engrained to never let it get into the wrong hands. So naturally, it was best to keep it in the family.” He smiled excitedly, and I figured it was most likely because he finally had company to tell his crazy stories to, but maybe I was just as crazy because besides drooling over sinister eyes, there was nowhere else I would want to be at the moment but here listening to his tale.

He flipped through some pages that were written in a language I couldn’t decipher.

“Is that Latin?” I asked, knowing it had been a language they used.

He stopped on a page that had a large cross drawn on it with a man kneeling beside it
, but the most interesting part of the picture was the way the clouds swirled into eyes that looked down upon him.

“Yes,” he said smiling, “and here,” he pointed to the large print below the cross with the words
Ego vobiscum sum
, “says, ‘I am with you.’ Arthur and his knights fought to spread Christianity to the land; they fought against wickedness and shared the word of Jesus Christ’s love, and that the Lord was always with them. It helped many of the men get through the dark times of battles and long harsh winters away from their loved ones.”

I nodded my head, recognizing that the language matched one from an old journal my gra
ndfather had from his ancestors. “I think my grandfather had a journal with Latin in it,” I told him.

He looked at me curiously. “A
h, so he was holding out on me,” he joked. “Maybe one day you could bring it in?”

“Sure,” I said smiling. I
t would be exciting to have some of it translated, and maybe I could even share it for my presentation.

“Now,” he began seriously, looking back to his book, “this time was no fairy tale as we hear of it today
, and it certainly wasn’t the way it is depicted in romances and movies. It was harsh and cruel; there were many bloody battles and more death than one would want to see, but King Arthur helped to bring light to the land in that dark and perilous time.”

The way he spoke made it difficult to remember that he was telling me a tale, not factual evidence. 

He continued flipping through the pages, briefly elucidating some of the stories, and the pages were filled with drawings that helped me to understand what was being said.

He skipped past drawings of some knights when suddenly I caught a faint glimpse of a familiar crooked grin.

“Wait! Wait!” I practically yelled, making him jump. “I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks reddening. “Can you please turn it back to that picture?” He wrinkled his eyebrows but flipped backwards a few pages. “Yes that one!” I cried excitedly. It was the knight! The drawing didn’t do his beauty enough justice, but I could tell from the soft curl by the ear and the self-assured half-grin mixed with menacing eyes, that this was the same knight.

Mr. Riley shifted his jaw and scrunched his eyes together causing a deep wrinkle in the center of his forehead. For a moment I was afraid I had let my secret out that I had seen the beautiful painting. Would he even care that I had? Or maybe it was covered up for a reason. After all
, it hadn’t been placed on his medieval lore aisle. And if it was, why was he trying to keep it hidden? The questions blazed in my head but “Who is that?” was all my mouth could blubber out.

“Umm… this here is Sir Brendelon,” he answered carefully. 

Bren-de-lon
. Even the name seemed to hold a power over me. 

Mr. Riley covered a smile. I frowned. I could only imagine how I must have just looked, probably like some awe-struck little teenybopper drooling over a pop star in a boy band. My cheeks burned.

I cleared my throat. “Was he a knight?” I continued. I hadn’t missed the
Sir
part, but I played dumb to fish out more details.

“Yes,” he replied
, as he began flipping through the pages once more. Oh gosh, was he really going to make me pry information out of him? What happened to all that carefree chatter?

“Why is he in the book?” I questioned.

He glanced at me carefully, watching my face for a minute. “Maybe we should discuss Sir Brendelon another time. It’s already late, and his story might take a while.”

I was utterly disappointed
, but I tried to hide it vigilantly. After all, I didn’t really want to give away to Mr. Riley how infatuated I had become with some portrait. It was embarrassing enough that he caught me acting awestruck; I didn’t need anyone else knowing my dirty little secret. But his sudden discretion only mesmerized me more, and the obsession of the mystery grasped me tighter in its hold. 

He continued through the book and showed me some old drawings of the castle halls. He explained how the land was d
ivided up into different realms—where kings ruled—and within their own kingdom, they gave land to high nobles, whom they called lords, in return for their fealty. He explained the jobs of the servants, the roles of the hierarchy, and how knights were championed in tournaments. He showed the pictures his ancestor had drawn and briefly explained some of the battles that had been fought and won, but I didn’t see or hear anymore of Brendelon.

“These are some cups that actually came from the castle my ancestors lived in.” He handed me two silver cups and despite my disappointment of not finding out more about the knight, I was truly intrigued. I loved this kind of stuff and carefully grazed my hand over the silver cup.

“It’s like transporting into the past,” I whispered, finding myself becoming swept away with the romance of it, feeling as though I were right there in the medieval times.

He smiled down at me. “W
ell, I suppose if you are very careful, I could let you borrow these cups to show your class since they belong directly to my family and weren’t donated.”

My eyes lit up.
“Oh, thank you! I promise to be very careful with them!”

“I know you will. You can pick them up before your presentation.” He looked down at his watch. “I
t’s getting really late my dear. We better get going.”

My stomach dropped. I really didn’t want to leave. “Um, do you think that maybe I could come back tomorrow?
To uh… take some pictures?” I added.

He smiled genuinely.
“You’re welcome back whenever you want.”

I beamed, squeezing my hands together in glee. I couldn’t wait to come back
, and even though I loved hearing Mr. Riley’s stories, I really wanted a chance to snoop around alone once more.

*****

I trudged up the stairs to the third floor, stopping in front of the white door to the small apartment I shared with Stacey. It was in my hometown, only a mere ten-minute drive to Maridon University where we went to school, and though I had always wanted to go away to college, longing for knowledge and curious of the unknown, I had chosen to stay because I didn’t have it in me to leave my grandfather—the man who had raised me since I was twelve—alone when he was at his sickest. He had been diagnosed with lung cancer in the middle of my senior-year in high school. It was already at its final stages, and we weren’t sure how much longer he would have, so I took the partial scholarship at the local university to be near him. He passed quickly after, and here I was, still stuck in this monotonous town without even the comfort of his presence.

I sighed and pushed open the door
, smelling the familiar vanilla scented candles that burned from their wrought iron holders on top of the dark wooden coffee table. Stacey was sprawled out on the brown leather couch her parents had bought her as a house-warming gift, flipping through channels so fast I wasn’t sure how she even knew what was on each channel.

“Hey,” I said.

She casually glanced at me. “I cannot believe you
chose
to stay at that creepy place.” She shuddered dramatically.

I rolled my eyes
. “It’s not creepy. Actually, it was quite interesting.”

She snorted in disgust
, so I decided to not give her the details. I yanked the white refrigerator door open, reaching for the plastic container of leftover spaghetti I had made from the night before and popped it into the microwave before plopping down at the small round kitchen table made of the same dark wood as the one in the living room. I pulled my notebook out of my bag and began reading my Anthropology notes while I waited for my dinner to heat, fighting against the boredom of it. I couldn’t wait until I could just focus on my major. I wanted to be a journalist; it would set me free, allowing me to travel and find the answers to the questions I had about the world around me, but I was stuck taking general education classes for at least another year.  

I glanced up as Stacey let out a deep sigh, clicking the TV off and dropping the remote to the floor. She was in my freshman history class too but was planning on majoring in business and design. Her parents were wealthy and would surely plug her into their company. A college degree was simply a formality for her. For me, it was a lifeline. I couldn’t help but feel envious
, as my stomach took a dive, thinking about the student loans I was accumulating even with my partial scholarship.

Stacey finally rolled off the couch and bounced her way over. She sat across from me, resting her elbows on the table, as she placed her chin delicately on her hands, dark brown hair contrasting beautifully against the sage gre
en paint on the wall behind her. “So what did you find for our project?”

I cringed, not wanting to tell her I hadn’t even taken any pictures.

“Oh my god, Kate, please don’t tell me you spent hours there and didn’t even get anything for our project!”

“Well
, that’s not entirely true,” I started as the microwave beeped. I jumped up, thankful for the distraction and grabbed the spaghetti out of the microwave.

“What do you mean not
entirely
true?” She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms as she stared at me.

“Well
, Mr. Riley told me some interesting stories about King Arthur and his knights…”

“Katarina Cole!” she scolded
, as though I were her child. “We need facts not fiction!” She threw her hands up, rolling her eyes to towards the ceiling. 

“Well, he also said I could borrow some medieval cups that were handed down from his relatives
, and I’m going back tomorrow so I can take pictures then,” I added, grabbing a fork from the drawer and shutting it with my hip, before I sat down again, hating that she was upset.

She leaned forward on the table again and rubbed her
temples with her index fingers. “Alright. Well, while you work on that, I’ll get everything typed up for the presentation board. The cups will be great.”

I nodded taking a bite of the spaghetti.
Ah
, still too hot.