“She has been observed atop all four corner towers as well as at the apex of the central tower above us, in the keep behind the crenellations.” He then looked upwards. There was a hole in what remained of the ceiling, and churning storm clouds were clearly visible through it. “Most of the supporting structure for this central tower obviously has crumbled away. In fact, about thirty years ago this entire section was lost, including the stairs. The upper rooms were deemed unsafe and sealed off. If Ellen is anywhere, I think she would be there.”
I stepped deeper into the crossing. The air was rank with mildew, small puddles of water stood stagnant. Weeds grew between many of the stones, forcing their way through the mortar. I ran a finger over the stone of the wall and it gave way under my touch. My arm tingled. A name came to mind. From where, I could not know, but I uttered it under my breath. “Marmion.”
Vambéry stopped and turned to me. “I am sorry, what did you say?”
“Marmion.”
“From where do you know that name?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t recall. It just dawned on me.”
Vambéry stared at me. “Is it from Ellen? Something you plucked from her mind?”
“Maybe. Again, I don’t know. What does it mean?”
“Walter Scott wrote of the tragic legend—a nun who fell in love with Marmion, a knight, who would betray her love in the end. She had broken all of her vows to be with him, you understand. When the lovers were eventually discovered, she was bricked up inside the walls right here at the abbey,” Vambéry said.
“Was she ever found?”
“No. If the story is to be believed, she is still here somewhere. Many have searched for her over the years, but no trace has ever been located.”
I said, “If Ellen had the thought, what is the connection?”
Vambéry had no answer to this.
I ran my hand over the wall, my eyes drifting to the breach in the ceiling. “Can we get in through there?”
He shook his head. “That leads to the ward, an outer courtyard on the upper level next to the tower, but any doors have since been sealed with mortar and stone to keep people at bay.”
The outer walls of the crossing were lined with niches, no doubt intended to hold statues or books while this place was still a functioning monastery. They were spaced about six feet apart. All now housed cobwebs and dislodged stones and sported copious quantities of dust. The remnants of a fireplace still stood proud against the far wall, the flames long extinguished. As my eyes fell upon it, I felt the tingle in my arm again.
I traversed the room.
The hearth was perhaps eight feet across, the firebox itself almost five feet wide and nearly as tall. I could hear nesting birds twittering far up the chimney. I am not sure if I saw the small pile of dirt in the left corner of the firebox first or if I smelled it, but the scent registered immediately, for it reeked of the same rotten soil we had found under Nanna Ellen’s bed all those years earlier.
THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER
(RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
17 August 1868, 4:58 p.m.—My sister moved through the graveyard with purpose and with dispatch, carefully stepping over the dead at our feet and scrutinizing each stone as we progressed. This sector of the graveyard held little interest for her; she was concerned only with the suicides’ graves at the cliff’s edge. As we approached, she continued to study the roiling clouds above. The air had taken on a chill in a matter of minutes, and I now felt the first drops of rain on my head.
We passed a large pond, the scent of which crept across the cemetery, mildewy, stale, and stagnant. The waters were still, save for the occasional ripple produced by the coming rain.
“Here,” she said, stopping in her tracks. “See that small stone wall? We found a similar wall in Clontarf. It serves to delineate the ground