With a start, she realized that it had been at least two days since she’d thought of her father. How he would enjoy swaggering through a castle, even if it was not owned by a noble. She wondered if Paulina had remembered to send the first of the letters Lillian had left for him. She’d hate for him to worry as he would if no word came from her.
The small party started up the slight hill which was crowned by the broken towers and roofless walls of the castle. Smaller than she’d expected, the ruins were of two, possibly three, towers connected by a low wall. However, those that still remained had a strong, frowning aspect. The bright green grass contrasted strongly with the mellowed brick, and it was difficult to imagine, under this smiling sky of blue and floating white, anyone wishing to do more than admire. Yet here the Parliamentarians had bloodied the ground and defeated the fortress, once upon a time.
Reaching Thorpe, who seemed almost to be waiting for her, Lillian spoke her thought aloud. “The history hardly seems real, Mr. Everard.”
“Oh, it’s real enough. Do you see that hummocky ground this side of the field?” He stopped and pointed down to the east. “Under there is what’s left of the barbican that guarded the entrance. They blew holes in it with cannon. Sometimes we still find the bricks, as well as an occasional set of bones.” He grinned at the expression on her face. “I told you it was real. Come on, they’re getting ahead of us, and after that speech, I daren’t let them.”
Everyone was waiting at the main gateway, looking eagerly through a modem iron gate. “Oh, Papa,
hurry!”
Addy demanded. Lady Genevieve bestowed on Lillian a censorious glance as she came up with Thorpe. Removing a key from his pocket, Thorpe turned it in the large lock and pushed the gate. It opened inward with a mournful creak.
As soon as the opening was big enough to admit him, Frank squeezed through. Grimly, Thorpe strode after him, his boots sounding on the brick-paved floor. “What did I say?” he asked the empty air.
Coming along more slowly, Lillian glanced up as she passed under the dark arch. A slit showed black in the stone overhead. With a gulp, she realized its purpose was to pour hot substances down on attackers, perhaps boiling water or melted lead. She felt obscurely glad of her broad-brimmed straw hat.
In the sunlight of the open bailey, Thorpe held Frank by the slack of his garment. He’d obviously just plucked him off a narrow set of stone steps running up the inside of the curtain wall. “How do you know those stairs are safe?”
“ ‘Course they’re safe, sir. Ain’t I been up ‘em a hundred times?” Too late. Frank seemed to realize his choice of defense left him open to a greater charge.
“So you’ve been in here before, have you? Don’t you know I’ve left a standing order that no one’s to come in without me? What if something happened to you? Your father would blame me, and rightly so.”
“Sorry, sir,” Frank mumbled.
“As well you ought to be. I want your word you won’t do it again.” Hearing this assurance, Thorpe let go. “How do you get in? Not by the gate, I know.”
The boy mumbled something else, too low for Lillian to hear. Thorpe laughed. “In that case. Master Price, you can help me with details I may have forgotten. It must be seven years since I was here last, not since we added the gates and shored up some of the weaker areas. I should have realized what a temptation a castle would be to any growing boy. It certainly was one to me.” He glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘Temptations change when we age, don’t they. Miss Cole?”
“I—I suppose they do,” she answered. Lillian found she could not look away until he turned his attention to Frank. Angry at herself for once more displaying unseemliness at his glance, Lillian stalked away to stand beside Lady Genevieve. She was pointing out the eroded remains of three busts above the entrance to the gatehouse through which they’d just passed.
“Some say,” the older woman was saying to her rapt audience of two, “that these heads represent the builders of the castle, Edwin and Ann, his wife. When first I came here, more than fifty years ago, the decorations were more distinct and the third head definitely seemed to have leaves sprouting from its mouth. I imagine if one could come close enough, one would still be able to distinguish the vine.”
“What do the leaves represent, Lady Genevieve?” Lillian asked.
“Fertility, Miss Cole. Have you never heard of the Green Man? Family legend has it that Edwin’s wife was a follower of the Old Ways who died young, having given up her powers for love. It was she who laid the curse on the Everards, for her husband’s love proved not as strong as her own.”
Uncomfortable, Lillian looked upon Addy, who observed her great-grandmother with attention. She was alarmed to find that there was laughter on the small lips. “Addy,” she said, “I think your father wants to show you something he’s found.”
“Yes, Miss Cole.” Addy seized Gina’s hand, and ran off to her father, towing her friend behind her.
Risking a set-down, but feeling impelled to speak, Lillian asked, “Do you think it wise, Lady Genevieve, to say that kind of thing in front of Addy? She’ll believe in ghosts, if you don’t take care.”
“The child likes stories. She’s heard that one before. And others.” The older woman looked again at the blurred faces above the gateway, her expression strangely affectionate, and then away toward Thorpe. “I believe my grandson wishes to explore the interior. Are you coming. Miss Cole?” Her long skirt whispered over the grass-grown courtyard.
“Frank,” Thorpe said, “what did you do with the lantern?”
The boy looked blank and then abashed. “I must have left it outside, sir. I’ll hurry.” He dashed back between the gatehouse towers only to reappear in a moment carefully carrying a lantern. He handed it to Thorpe. “It’s still alight, sir.”
“Good.” Thorpe reached into his pocket again and brought out two candles. “If you ladies will carry these,” he said, lighting them at the lantern and handing one to Lillian and one to his grandmother. “I’ll go ahead to light your way.”
In the middle of one wall the bricks had been torn away to reveal an inner passage, supported at that point by a pillar which terminated overhead in a groined ceiling. Touching it as she passed, Lillian felt a shock run up her arm as though all the centuries were concentrated into a single jolt of time. Following the bobbing light, the others seemed to feel it as well, for even the children’s voices faded into whispers. And then Thorpe began to speak.
He seemed to understand, as though he’d lived it, why his ancestors had built as they did. ‘This passage led to the only entrance from the walls into what was once the keep, utterly destroyed by the Roundheads. A single soldier could hold off the enemy for hours, as they could only come down it single file.”
The passage was extremely narrow. Lillian had only to hold out her hand to brush the wall. The bricks were dry. She’d half thought they’d be covered in moss and damp, like the dungeons of which she’d read. Footsteps echoed strangely all about her. Bringing up the rear, Lillian had to fight with herself to keep from looking behind her. Surely, six people, even though half of them were children, could not make so much noise, not alone.
“Only two stories of this tower survive. No, we can’t go upstairs. We might fall through. The floor is in a sorry state. I shall do something about it one of these days.”
Following the others into a wider room, Lillian went at once to the tall narrow windows and inhaled fresh air. Her fancies left her, and she could smile at the memory of her nervousness.
Keeping an eye on the children, yet drifting closer to Lillian, Thorpe said, “They put in the windows during the reign of Henry the Eighth. It makes it lighter in here, but ruined the defenses, which is one reason the castle fell to Fairfax during the Civil War.”
“I like it lighter,” Lillian answered. “It seems more like a home with windows, less like a prison.” Still with her eyes on the green courtyard, she felt that he was pleased with her, but when she lifted her lashes, he’d turned away to listen to Addy.
“But, Papa, I don’t weigh
that
much. I wouldn’t fall through. I know I wouldn’t. I’d walk like this.” She gave an exaggerated demonstration of tiptoeing.
“It isn’t safe, Addy. I’m sorry.”
Gazing out through the pointed window, Lillian felt the strange spell of the old castle come over her again. How many ladies had looked through here, perhaps hoping to see some tall, dark fellow stride cross the bailey? Had they too veiled their eyes for fear he’d see into their hearts? If the Everard blood ran true, undoubtedly they had and sighed, after he’d passed by.
“Very well,” Thorpe said at last, “I’ll go up first and see if the stairs are in good repair. If they are, I’ll take you up one at a time, but we won’t do more than look. Agreed?”
There was a chorus of happy yeses. Of course, they couldn’t let him climb the stairs at the other side of the keep without their worshipful attention. Lillian thought Lady Genevieve had gone too, until she spoke.
“You are interested in the legends I have told you, are you not, Miss Cole? Even though you believe not a word of them? For you are a sensible creature.”
“Yes, I have been most interested.” Now that the children had stopped shouting to hear the echoes, Lillian was aware of the steady tap of dripping water from somewhere near at hand. Perhaps the spring that once fed the now-dry moat had broken through somewhere. She resolved to tell Thorpe about it. Standing where the air from the courtyard could reach her, she thought it would be a shame for the castle to fall any farther into ruin.
‘Then I shall tell you about the legend of the haunted room.” Lady Genevieve sighed. “So many unhappy love stories abound here. It’s only to be expected with women eating their hearts out over men like my grandson. In the tower opposite, you can just see it if you look out to your left. There is a room haunted by the spirit of a serving woman who died here when the castle was besieged. She threw herself across the body of Charles Everard, taking a bullet meant for him. In honor of her selfless deed, every woman who would be bride to an Everard must spend the night in that room. They must demonstrate their bravery and their worthiness, as she did.”
Hiding her smile, Lillian said, “I suppose you yourself spent the night there.”
“Indeed. Over fifty years have passed, but I shall never forget the visions I saw during those endless hours.” Lady Genevieve was an eerie sight, as the candle she held flickered in the breeze through the empty windows. A cloud must have covered the sun, for the room was suddenly darker. Candlelight and shadow writhed across Lady Genevieve’s wrinkled face.
Uneasy, Lillian asked, “Lady Genevieve, why are you trying so hard to frighten me? I am not in love with Thorpe—Mr. Everard.” Damn! If she’d hoped to be believed, that mistake ruined her chances.
“So, it has happened already! I pity you, Miss Cole. He will never return your feelings. His love for the late Emily is too strong and will always be too strong for any living woman to overcome.” Shaking her head, Lady Genevieve walked away through the archway to the room beyond.
For a moment, Lillian lingered behind until the blush that mantled her cheeks had faded. At least the sunlight had come back. She was loath to leave it. But, sheltering her candle from the breeze that blew ever stronger through the windows, she followed Lady Genevieve. Going through the archway, however, she found herself alone and faced with a choice between two passages, each equally dark and mysterious.
“Lady Genevieve?” she called, only to have echoes as her sole reply. The sound of dripping grew louder. Her lips tight, Lillian chose the right-hand passage. She would follow it until she’d counted to a hundred. If she’d not found the others by then, she’d go back. After all, Thorpe had said that there was only one way into the keep. They’d have to pass the room with the windows again to get out.
Get out. Lillian wished she’d not thought of leaving in those terms. A cold breeze whispering down the corridor made her candle flame flicker so she must cup her hand about it to keep it from blowing out. This passage seemed much darker than the one they’d used to enter the tower. Certainly the temperature had dropped appreciably. She began to feel as though she’d had the last glimpse of daylight and the last warmth she’d ever know. Sternly, she told herself not to be ridiculous.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”
Lillian stopped and listened. She heard only the continuous
tap-tap-tap
of dripping water. It seemed louder still. Quite ill suited to the moment, Lillian remembered a German story she’d read about a headless ghost who stalked a castle on the Rhine, dripping inexhaustible gore with every step. Perhaps somewhere in this castle ...
Resolutely, Lillian turned about. She’d said she would count to one hundred, and she had. It was time to go back and wait. She walked with an even pace, quite consciously not running. After all, there was nothing to run from. Humming a tune beneath her breath, she blotted out the sound of a tiny voice saying, You couldn’t outrun it anyway.
She’d not gone very far when she came upon a new split in the passageway, one she’d not noticed coming in. Two passages joined into one almost imperceptibly, with only a very narrow wall between them. Peering down each one in turn, she could see that they curved gently off in different directions, but try as she might, Lillian could not remember walking in less than a perfectly straight line.
“Oh, the devil with it,” she said, as she only said when she was confident no one could hear her. Setting off down the left-hand passage, Lillian suddenly did not feel thus confident. There seemed to be someone else breathing quite close to her. Just an echo, she told herself, and to prove it, held her breath. The other sound stopped, but surely just a moment too late?
Walking a trifle faster, Lillian stepped into a large chamber. Holding her candle high, she forgot her fear in looking about her with delight, though the air was chill against her cheek. The vast vaulted ceiling pleased her with its elegant symmetry. Each corbel against the wall spread upward into a fan-shaped tracery of lacelike stone.