Echoes in the Darkness

The box contained a number of paintings, each wrapped in several protective layers of newspaper. Lucy drew them out of the box and I removed the paper, lining the pictures up on the table so that they could be clearly seen. The first picture, by far the largest, depicted a man, standing on a wide staircase with a stained-glass window behind him. He was tall and powerful with hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes that glittered gold even on canvas. There was a masculine grace about his beauty that lent it a sharp, pure edge so that it was hard to look away from him. His clothes were from another century and the artist had skilfully captured the careless arrogance that oozed from his every pore.

“Arwen Jago,” Lucy said quietly, gazing at the picture. I had overheard that name after the church service but knew nothing else of him. Yet, for some reason I could not explain, a chill—almost of recognition—ran through me. The face staring back at me from within the gilt-edged frame could have been Cad’s.

“Who was he?”

“At the time of the Restoration, he was a member of the clergy. He was the younger brother of the earl, until he tired of that situation and murdered his brother. His reputation for evil was legendary. The most famous account of his infamy is the story of a young girl called Lucia.” She smiled at the surprise on my face. “I was named after her,” she explained. “My mother was a distant cousin of the Jagos, so she knew the tale well. While out hunting one day, Arwen is said to have encountered Lucia in a nearby glade. He was stunned by her unearthly beauty and offered her money to become his mistress. When she refused, he abducted her and locked her in a tower at Castle Tenebris. He became obsessed with her, to the point where he eschewed all other women. Which was remarkable, since he had previously had a veritable harem of lovers. He must have thought he had tamed her because he began to allow her a little freedom, and Lucia escaped. He hunted her down like one of the deer he loved to kill. He found her in the glade where he had first seen her, and when she told him she didn’t love him, he killed her by firing an arrow into her eye.”

I shuddered. “How horrid.”

“But then he was seized with remorse. Not remorse that he had committed murder, you understand. That was nothing new to Arwen Jago. No, his regret was that he had lost Lucia, whom he believed he loved, and he felt his life was meaningless without her. His sadness was for himself. Legend tells us that he leapt from his horse and ran to her, only to find that her body had vanished. Arwen shrieked wild curses to the skies and swore that he would find her again. He is said to have made a pact with Satan involving the sacrifice of children. In return for their innocent blood, the devil promised him eternal life so that he could be reunited with Lucia throughout the ages to come.”

“I can see why you would not want his portrait on display in your home,” I said, studying the painting with renewed interest. “But the likeness is remarkable.”

“I know. He exulted in it.” Trancelike, she reached out a finger to trace the contours of the high cheekbones. With an odd little laugh, she shook herself, adding, “You mean his resemblance to Cad is remarkable, don’t you? I was thinking of someone else.” Resolutely, she lifted the painting and, turning it away from her, propped it against the wall. The action restored her composure.

The next items were a pair of cameo portraits in matching silver frames. Lucy placed them side-by-side on the table. Curious, I glanced at the one nearest to me. My breath caught in my throat.

“That’s odd,” I commented, keeping my voice carefully under control. “This picture of Arwen Jago appears to be of a much later date than the other one.”

“That isn’t Arwen Jago. It’s Tynan’s uncle, Uther Jago.” Her voice was curiously flat. My eyes were irresistibly drawn to the man in the portrait. Uther’s image unnerved me for two reasons. Firstly, the artist had captured an impression of a stunningly handsome man. Secondly, a faint, familiar scar marred his left cheek. Lucy nodded, misinterpreting the surprise in my eyes. “Cad is the living spit of Uther. Who, in turn, was said by many to be Arwen restored to life. So very alike they were. Uther enjoyed the comparison, but Cad does not,” she said quietly. Her eyes were troubled, and I wondered why her son’s resemblance to his great-uncle and another ancestor should cause her such apparent pain. But my mind was preoccupied with the shadowy figure I had seen at my bedside. At the time I had dismissed it as a hallucination induced by my illness. Suddenly, I was less sure.