The Grotto's Secret: A Historical Conspiracy Mystery Thriller (5 page)

15

Kelby lifted the chain over her neck and placed the necklace on the table between Roy and Marina.

‘How did he know the symbol?’ Marina asked.

Kelby shrugged.

‘Maybe he saw it on the internet? Apparently, it’s one of a few ancient symbols no-one understands. A cipher that has never been cracked. I’ve been researching and —’

Roy touched Marina’s arm to quieten her. ‘Don’t go into that. Kelby has very little time and it’ll just side track us.’

But Kelby stayed on the subject and said, ‘Gary did some cycling training in Spain before he died. Could he have seen it there?’

‘Possibly. But where?’

‘I think he was cycling around the Sierra del Torcal.’

Marina and Roy gaped at each other and Roy said, ‘That’s near Marina’s find. It’s too close to be a coincidence. Do you know any more about this?’

‘Nothing. Except he came home and had this made for me.’ She fondled the pendant and frowned, ‘I remember him saying he was onto something, but he went quiet for a while and then—’

Kelby dropped the chain back over her neck.

Marina said, ‘At first we thought the two CCs was something to do with the occult. When I was a child I heard whispers of a secret society in Torcal so I looked up symbols and I found out there is a secret society protecting medieval manu—’’

‘Not now, Marina, we must finish this before you discuss other issues.’ Doctor Robson whispered to his sister. His gaze swept back to Kelby, as he said in a gentle tone, ‘The pendant’s precious to you.’

Kelby nodded, reached out and lifted the ancient book. Her fingers traced the grooves, along the sides and corners. The book sent a bolt of exhilaration to every nerve fibre in her body, electrifying her.

Even though most of the outer brushed leather had cracked and dried out, something about this book touched her deeply, as though the author’s warmth still radiated through it. She had spent the past ten years touching every conceivable product entrepreneur’s invented. None of them had ever caused her to react in this way. Her heart skipped a beat as though a mystery rippled through the centuries and struck a chord within her.

Kelby fondled the knot. It gave her an odd sensation, as though she had stepped into the shoes of the creator, and now, centuries later, took the same pleasure and satisfaction in their handiwork.

A slight bump near the top caught her attention, but she ignored it for the moment. As Kelby balanced it on her fingers, she muttered, ‘It’s so unusual.’

‘
Si,
it’s made to dangle the girdle from your belt.’

‘Thankfully, otherwise it could bring their trousers down!’ Doctor Robson grinned.

Marina slapped his arm in disgust, ‘No!’ She turned to Kelby and said, ‘Anyone who carried girdle books in the Middle Ages wore dresses or habits, not trousers! My brother is full of, how you say,
diablura
.’

‘Mischief.’ Doctor Robson’s eyes twinkled, ‘That’s my middle name.’

Kelby marvelled at how his face lifted as the corners of his eyes crinkled. A tender warmth filled her. Even as she watched this brother and sister’s banter, it reminded her of Gary. Instead of filling her with the usual sadness she felt when remembering him, it gave her fond memories of how they used to tease in much the same way.

‘Aside from my devilment,’ he chuckled, ‘one opens a girdle book pretty much in the way one opens any bound book. The only difference is there’s the extra length of leather hanging from the book.’

Marina pulled Kelby back into the moment as she said, ‘
Es triste
, it’s sad. Very few of these book carry-bags have survived.’

Kelby’s index finger hovered over the book, resting like a butterfly on the stiff cover. ‘It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’

Marina gleamed with pride. ‘
Mira aquí
, you see inside is an elaborate family crest and the word “Carbonela”.’

Kelby pushed her glasses closer to her eyes and leaned in to examine the.

‘Marina has done so much work on this. She found out there were a variety of ways in which medieval ink was made. In general, the recipes produced very long-lasting inks that typically don’t fade.’

‘Don’t we need gloves to touch it?’ Kelby kept her gaze on the book.

‘But this is not papyrus, it’s parchment!’ Marina spoke as though everyone should know the difference between papyrus and parchment.

Doctor Robson blushed and explained, ‘Parchment is a strong material. Remember, it’s animal skin, and not like papyrus or paper in consistency. Pages made from early papers or papyrus are fragile, turning them can cause damage.’

Marina chipped in, ‘And wearing gloves can make it worse.’

‘Yes, true. But Kelby is right to ask because medieval books are not to be taken for granted.’ Doctor Robson said to Marina.

Kelby squirmed in her seat.

‘I checked with an old friend of mine from university who’s now an expert on this. Tim studies medieval documents across the globe. He said institutions have different policies. He’s never been asked to wear gloves in the British Library’s manuscripts room. And he was only asked once to wear gloves when he was consulting a heavily illuminated manuscript in the Bodleian Library in Oxford.’

His eyes stayed on Kelby making her uncomfortable. ‘Tim said the gloves make sure hands don’t mark the parchment, but it could be beneficial for parchment to absorb the natural oils on fingers.’ Doctor Robson chuckled, ‘Either way, it’s best to make sure our hands are clean.’

Kelby saw Marina’s outstretched hand. A sharp lemon odour filled the room as she wiped her hands.

‘Phew!’ Kelby finished wiping her hands. ‘I wouldn’t want to ruin this lovely old book.’

‘But of course, best practice is to handle it as little as possible.’

‘Okay.’ Kelby said.

Each page illustrated details of a different herb in a flowing handwritten script. Beside the inked words, an elaborate decorated first letter, naming each herb had been drawn with intricate designs. Despite its age, every page in the book had high-quality drawings of the plant and its seeds.

‘It seems to be a practical book.’ Marina’s voice filled with pride. ‘Look,’ she pointed at the page Kelby was on, ‘There’s details about each herb’s medicinal properties and even directions for compounding the medicines extracted from them. They’re on every page. And these are symbols of the different planets, a sort of shorthand showing medicinal properties. Astrology was a big part of medicine in those days.’

‘What does this say?’ Kelby pointed at a large A.

Marina leaned over and squinted at the words. ‘It says “anemone”. Then it goes on to explain its juice is applied externally to clean ulcerations, infections and cure leprosy or inhaled to clear the nostrils.’

As Kelby listened to Marina, the tips of her fingers tingled. Kelby shook herself and pulled back. The girdle book magnetised her. Locked in, Kelby leaned forward again, one hand still resting on the leather knot.

Marina’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘When I was researching herbals, I came across a woman author who’d written several stories in Barcelona in 1492!’

Doctor Robson reached into Marina’s folder and showed Kelby a printed list.

‘They’re now held in manuscript archives in Madrid,’ said Marina. ‘Some of these old documents are preserved in private repositories, such as Abadía de Torcal. My uncle runs an exclusive retreat there.’ She glanced at her brother.

‘Not now, Marina,’ he said.

Marina sighed, and continued, ‘But this particular author’s work is in public administration.’

Kelby nodded and made some notes.

‘I wanted to be a hundred per cent sure, so I went to the Instituto de Enseñanza.’

‘What did you find?’ Once again, the book winched Kelby closer. A shadow lingered between the pages, leaking an aura of a medieval struggle.

Marina tossed her head and twanged in her thick accented English, ‘The stories appear to be written by the first female Spanish author.’

‘Wait,’ Doctor Robson cut in, ‘she may not be the first as such. Remember Egeria.’

‘We don’t know if Egeria was Spanish,’ Marina retorted.

Kelby watched the sparks fly between them and held up her hand. ‘Can someone fill me in here?’

Doctor Robson cleared his throat, ‘Um, sorry, Kelby. Nothing like a little tiff to add excitement.’ He gave her his sheepish grin and continued, ‘Egeria was a fourth-century female pilgrim who wrote an account of her pilgrimage to Jerusalem in Latin.’

Kelby watched him stroke his sister’s arm.

‘When Marina was researching she came across Egeria. While we’re not sure who was the first female author. We’d like to believe our journal author is the first, because of her numerous short stories and her detailed journal.’

Marina leaned forward, ‘
Si.
There’s so much written speculation about her, yet no-one can say what happened to her. Her disappearance is a mystery.’

Suddenly a thrumming vibrated through Kelby’s veins.

‘What was her name?’

‘Ana-María de Carbonela.’

16

Fuente Prado, Castile de Granada, March 1492

Ana-María de Carbonela stood on the rocky ledge beside the waterfall inside the cave. She loved how the sun glinted on the surface of the pool below. A fine spray from the plunging water drifted over her body, cooling her and drenching her skin.

Even though the cave smelt damp, and the acrid stench of mould clung to the back of her throat, María loved this secret place.

Her grotto thrummed with life.

The constant drip of water. Insects scuttling from one hiding place to another. Underground passages that breathed out odours of damp earth with crevices to explore. In her living
cueva
, with its strange setting, she considered herself a passing visitor.

From her perch high in the hollowed out cave, she could see the sea mist clawing its way into the
valle.
Around her the day sparkled with life. Yet in a few hours the mist would wrap itself around everything in its path making it impossible to see the pond below.

She loved being alone in the wild countryside. Ever since Madre had drawn a map to show her how to find the grotto, she had spent many days lying by the pond and dreaming. Whenever she came to collect the
estraño
herb from the rocks, she took her time exploring the cueva.

She had been unable to tell Madre that cleaning the house and cooking bored her. Or that she preferred to live in another world inside her head.

On the clearest days, the distant mountains called to her. One day she would journey to the sea. Maybe even hide on a boat and write a story about a girl who sailed to new lands.

Like
La Reina Isabel
, the queen María admired so much, she wanted to journey to new places. Unlike the queen, she didn’t have the means to see new towns and learn about the people. And like the monarch, María had blue eyes and chestnut hair. But she kept her clothes simple. The looser the garment the easier it was to run through the fields and woods. When at home with only Madre around, she didn’t worry about her appearance. Her mother sewed gowns with trailing sleeves that hooked onto branches when María collected wood. Or dipped into the water buckets at the well and became drenched in the washing tub. But even Madre had not given in to the scandalous fashions of tighter-fitting garments with lower necklines and lace to create a form-fitting shape that girdled at the waist or hips.

María usually preferred to wear a smock and hose, and refused to wear a girdle and a bonnet or hair caul, but she had no choice when they went to church. Otherwise the town people would frown on Madre’s unruly daughter.

Delighted she could discard her woolen garments in place of a lighter linen for the coming warmer months, she had thrown her tunic beside the pond. One day she would write a story about a girl who fashioned easier garments for women to wear, much like those men wore. For a moment she imagined how Queen Isabella would look dressed as the king.

A shiver tickled María’s spine. Her uncle had taught her about a French martyr, Jeanne d’Arc, who had been burnt at the stake because they couldn’t understand why she dressed as a man, even though she helped the French defeat the English invaders.

María didn’t want to reject the gender roles; she simply wanted to dress in a manner that gave her more freedom for country life. Girl’s garments didn’t suit that.

Annoyed, María shook herself to stop her thoughts running away with nonsense. Dressing in men’s clothing carried a death sentence.She wasn’t about to be caught for such a foolhardy
perversio.
Besides, she had to start gathering the sticky herbs for Madre.

She leapt to her feet. The only way to cross the grotto was to swim. As she stepped to the edge, she focused on the blue iridescent gleam right in the middle where she dived in. A slimy surface covered the water’s edge, where it escaped through the cave and over the grass verge into the pool below.

A distant sound startled her.

Her head snapped from side to side as she glanced around and listened. A strangled bleating cut through her secret world and sliced into her.

Without hesitation, María dived off the rocky ledge and plunged into the green underground lake. Her head shot out of the crystal clear pool. Gasping from the cold current, she swam a few strokes across the shimmering water and climbed out over a natural stone wall. She ran through the rocky tunnel and clambered down the cliff into the shallow pond below.

After wading across the stream, and clawing over the mossy rocks, María grabbed her linen tunic off a dangling branch and pulled it over her head. Holding up a hand to shelter her eyes from the sun, she listened for the direction of the animal’s cry. As she leapt across the river cobbles and up the opposite riverbank, María spotted a baby mountain goat struggling to break free. He strained his rear hoof between two sunken boulders. Blood caked its front right leg.

María skidded to a halt and crept closer. The goat veered to the left, away from her.
‘¡Hola, guapo!
What a handsome little goat you are.’

It didn’t know what to fear more: her or the rock trap that snared its leg. María cooed reassurance. ‘Shh. Quiet now. María is here to take care of you.’ She winced at the sight of the goat’s mangled leg. Its head reared as it bellowed for its mother to help. María grabbed the goat’s tiny horns and held its head in a vice-like grip. She reached to hold its leg still. The little goat had incredible strength as it bucked around in her arms and bleated.

Dropping to one knee, María leaned forward and lowered herself over the goat, forcing it to the ground. Whispering to keep it calm, she lay on top of it with her back raised in an uncomfortable arch. With both arms now free, she tugged on the rocks, pulling them apart. Her natural lithe build had blessed her with the strength of any young man.

Still tucked under her, the goat started trembling. Its eyes rolled back in its sockets, a sign of death. With one final wrench, the skin lacerated along her fingertips as she lifted the mangled hoof from between the rocks.

Using her teeth, María tore a strip off the bottom of her tunic. As she wrapped it around the wound, the goat’s warm blood spurted over her hands and slithered down her arms like a nest of baby red snakes in flight.

Still whispering to keep the animal’s spirit alive, María stood. The poor creature probably wouldn’t survive. The wound was deep, and the leg dangled at an awkward angle. She had no-one to turn to. No-one except Madre.

Even though her mother went to church every week, the priest condemned her for healing the sick and helping peasants who couldn’t afford to see a doctor. So Madre practised in secret; her herbal remedies had saved thousands of their local people from suffering.

Since Madre had started picking rizado off the rocks beside the pond, her fame had grown and now people travelled many days to consult the
medicina.
If anyone could help the goat, Madre could.

By using the grotto’s secret.