“Henry VIII to be exact,” Queensborough said, his manner clipped. “That’s not exactly Medieval. The lands were given to an ancestor of mine, a great friend of the king’s, but most of it was sold in the eighteenth century and our family retained just this small parcel of land and this house. The rest of it went to different owners.”
Abigail looked around the dining room, magnificent in its aged state. “How old is the house?”
Queensborough opened up the top of the box, the iron joints creaking. “These two front rooms were built in the time of William Rufus. It was a house for the abbot of Battle Abbey but legend says that his mistress and their children lived here. The rest of the house was built with stones from Battle Abbey when Henry demolished it during the dissolution.” He paused to look at her, his old eyes intense. “Tell me something, Miss Abigail Devlin – tell me why you’ve really come here. What stories do you intend to tell about us?”
Abigail was a bit taken aback by the question because it bordered on hostile. In fact, Queensborough hadn’t shown anything but hostility since they’d arrived. He was either an ass or just extremely socially awkward. But something told her it was more than that; there was a look in his eye that suggested… protectiveness… even fear.
An old man with a secret.
Not looking at Groby, Abigail answered calmly.
“I only intend to tell the truth,” she said. “Mr. Groby explained who I am. I’m researching my….”
“I know what he said,” Queensborough cut her off. “I know you’re from university. You want to know about what’s been buried.”
Abigail regarded him. Having parents who were trial lawyers, she was used to aggressive people. His manner didn’t bother her. “I want to give a voice to those who have never had their stories told.”
“You? An American?”
“Americans have done pretty well at telling English stories and vice versa.”
Queensborough’s bushy brow furrowed. “But this isn’t your right. You know that, don’t you?”
Abigail leaned forward on the ancient table. “Why not? Because I wasn’t born on this soil?” she asked, trying not to sound defensive. “Mr. Browne, I have had a fascination with England for as long as I can remember. I probably know more about its history than most Brits do. Just because I wasn’t born here doesn’t mean I don’t have a great love for it. It doesn’t mean I can’t do justice to telling the story of those whose glory isn’t yet known. In fact, I don’t see any of your native British students taking a stand and demanding to tell the stories I want to tell. So why not trust me with them? I don’t love England because it’s in my blood; I love it because it’s in my soul.”
Queensborough considered her declaration. She was well spoken and passionate, and that impressed him just the slightest. But he was still hesitant.
“All right, Yank,” he said after a moment. “Then tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want to know.”
Abigail could sense that they were getting somewhere now and she didn’t waste the opportunity. “Mr. Groby told me that your family has artifacts that no museum has seen,” she said quietly. “Artifacts pertaining to exactly what I’m looking for – the knights and soldiers who were on the front lines of the Duke of Normandy’s fighting force when they arrived in England. These are the men who really won the Battle of Hastings, Mr. Browne – the Duke of Normandy was a great commander, but it was these line officers who fought and died for England. It’s their stories I want to tell and Mr. Groby says you know something about that. Will you please tell me what you know?”
“And you’re going to write a paper about it?”
“I am writing my doctoral dissertation about it, yes.”
Queensborough looked like he was considering it. Then he looked at Groby. “You have been begging me to turn these things over to the museum,” he said. “Is this how you intend to force my hand? Once she publishes her sources, every Medieval scholar in the world is going to want to see them.”
Groby cleared his throat. “I’m not trying to force your hand. But this young woman may be the perfect way to introduce your artifacts to the world.”
Queensborough pondered that a moment before finally shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He’d been hiding the artifacts for so long that he really didn’t know any other way. It was a difficult mindset to change. “Maybe… maybe you should come back tomorrow. I must think.”
Abigail didn’t want to lose control of the conversation, not now. She didn’t want to leave and take the chance that she’d never be invited back.
“Mr. Browne, do you have any children?” she asked pointedly. “Children that you plan to pass all of these artifacts down to?”
An expression of regret, perhaps even concern, flickered across Queensborough’s face. “Only nieces,” he said. “But that shouldn’t concern you.”
Abigail wouldn’t let go. “Do they care about these artifacts?” she asked. “I mean, are they going to take good care of them? Hide them away from the world like you do?”
“I’m sure they’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Do you really want to take that chance?” Abigail asked, her tone nearly pleading. “Why are you hiding these things away? If what Mr. Groby tells me is true, then you have a story that has never before been told about men whose names have been lost to time. Why are you hiding away these men who lived and died in a battle that changed the course of history? Don’t they deserve better than to be hidden away? Don’t they deserve to have people know of their bravery?”
Queensborough simply looked at her; it was clear that her words were having an impact on him. She made a good deal of sense. Truth be told, he’d been wrestling with the same thing for years. Next to Abigail, Groby spoke softly.
“That’s what I’ve been telling you for years, Queenie,” he said with some regret. “For you not to let these stories be told… they’ll die with you. You know that. Your nieces don’t care about these family artifacts. They’ll probably donate them or just let them rot. Why not let Abby take a look at what you have? At least let someone who will love these artifacts like you do tell the story you can’t tell.”
Queensborough’s gaze hovered on Groby for a few long moments before, finally, he turned his attention to the open box in front of him.
With a heavy sigh, he reached into it and pulled forth what looked like an extremely old cloth covering up something square shaped, roughly twelve inches by twelve inches and maybe four inches high.
In fact, Abigail stood up as Queensborough sat down with the package in front of him, leaning over the table so she could get a good look at the object as Queensborough unwrapped it, revealing a rather thick book with ancient yellowed pages and writing that was more artwork than letters.
Classic Medieval writing.