Catherine turned.
Had she caught a bit of moonlight in the room? For there before our heroine stood within the secret door one of herselves, bedecked in the stiff panniered satins of a previous age. The figure beckoned, light glinting off and
through
her rings and all-too-familiar necklace. The sweet mouth opened, perhaps for no stranger purpose than to draw breath, except that our heroine seemed to hear whispered all about her, “Veni.”
What could she have done? She was a heroine, and with that came certain obligations.
So, picking up her skirts, Catherine followed.
Within her bosom an otherworldly peace settled, which might have alarmed a more vigilant heroine, but only perpetuated the slight bemusement our poor Catherine had been subjected to for the past day. Therefore, no surprise overtook her as she was led by the figure – person or ghost; she neither knew nor cared – down the winding staircase, illuminated only by the otherworldly glow of her guide. Neither was she alarmed when they entered the windowless, doorless room with the singular portrait. The lovely figure wafted to this last, and ran her fingers along the gilt frame. Dark eyes flit towards Catherine, as the whisper rose again, “Fortuna.”
Catherine nodded. Then summoning her courage, she pointed to herself and repeated the word.
Like the tinkling consecration bells, the spectre laughed and pressed cold hands – or seemed to press them – on our heroine’s flushed cheeks. “Non!” The spectre said. Then touching the ghostly locket at her own throat as though to indicate herself, she said, “Ecce Fortuna.” She smiled, and said something so sympathetic and maternal–sounding that, despite Catherine’s belief that the figure before here was entirely unsubstantial, our heroine longed to lay her head on Fortuna’s bosom and weep.
But Fortuna had other plans. Beckoning once more, the figure pointed to a place on the portrait frame which Catherine helpfully pressed.
To her delight, the portrait swung open and ghost and girl walked through. Once more they descended, a straight stair, so narrow that our heroine was obliged to turn sideways. No obstacle induced her guide to do the same, and with some horror, Catherine saw Fortuna’s shoulders penetrate the wall as she walked. A low corridor followed – although not low enough that Catherine should have to stoop – covered in faintly glowing lichen and damp moss. Uneven stones lined the floor, occasionally revealing patches of dark earth, or darker pools of water. They travelled for some time; the only clock the progressively cooling air. Until at last with another groan, the ceiling moved, and with a flash, Fortuna disappeared.
Catherine discovered herself well without Nachtstürm’s bounds by now, long about the tragic hillside where Henry had adventured the night before. But all she knew was that the ghost had left her, and that her mind – so pleasantly befogged before – was now growing painfully acute.
She found herself alone in a deserted chapel, lit only by the red sanctuary lamp. One door swung open a little, banging in the wind and drizzling moonlight onto the worn stone floor. Behind her lay the open passageway through the floor back to Nachtstürm.
Further inspection revealed it to be a displaced tombstone for a Friar Giuseppe. Only one other door was visible, there to the left of the tabernacle, but this proved locked.
With some trepidation – for she
was
a
very
well read girl – Catherine approached the sanctuary, sure that some phantasm would rise up as soon as she turned her back on the pews and attempt to snatch her back before she could reach the altar rail.
A creak.
Catherine screamed and jumped about! “Oh, Lord, save me!” she thought, throwing herself over the rail and before the golden tabernacle. Then, out loud, “Oh,
do
go away!
Henry!
”
“Scusi? Entschuldigung?” came the reply.
Catherine bit off her next scream and opened her eyes. A brownish figure obstructed what little celestial light remained. Clawed streaks of puckered red shone over the sunburnt face that bent down towards her. Rubbing her eyes, Catherine looked again. No ghost was this, but a tonsured friar. She let out a small sigh – but a very small one, for she was a devout scholar.
“Fra Giuseppe?” she asked.
The friar shook his head and extended a solid hand to help her up. “Fra Andreas,” he answered.
Lined eyes squinted as he examined her. “Lucia?
Nein... Wer sind Sie?” He shook his head and guided Catherine over the altar rail, finally saying the one thing that made any sense since they had left wonderful, comfortable England: “Tea?”
If Love has wings and Mercury likewise – O, what a grand chase would be
there
!
Such was the chase of Henry after Will, although one would hardly dare to presume which was Eros and which Hermes.
Young Will led a fine pace, after having first been caught weeping in the garden by our irate hero. One overturned bench and three mangled bushes later, they set off, like contesters in Atalanta’s race. Down the porticoes where Catherine had watched William’s love affairs, past the portrait gallery and that ominous tapestry, round about the kitchen and down through the kennels – which nearly proved to be Henry’s undoing, since Nachtstürm kept some fine hounds – and finally out of Nachtstürm’s bounds and onto the land itself.
The way was more familiar now, for Henry had traversed it but one night ago. Both men gave wide berth to the graveyard and its hermitage, into which our heroine was shortly to be led. Avoiding this, Will plunged directly into the thick snarl of trees, hoping to lose his pursuer there. But Henry pushed through, keeping pace with the young man who, though native of this land, was yet himself unable to avoid the sticks and pinches of that weird forest. The hunt slacked, although the intensity did not: every awkward, hellish branch that obstructed their steps served double as punishment for their rash flight and as a goad in perseverance.
Catherine was even now being led by ghostly Fortuna to the priest’s cell when Will and Henry broke from those infernal woods and into a blue–lit clearing. The moon in conjunction with the trees shone merely gibbous and not at full swell.
Yet after so long a time within the woods, even this half–light blinded our gentlemen momentarily. Happily blinded, too, for both were nearly out of breath and could not have got much further.
So panting, waiting for Diane to lead the hunt, the chase began again in earnest when a heavy, grey cloud kindly rolled over the lunar torch and things might proceed in pleasant obscurity.
So they continued, neither faltering nor gaining more than the other, both evenly matched in winged heart and heels. Until at last, Providence intervened again and the men found themselves at the cliff where Henry had seen either girl or ghost in seeming suicide. They halted abruptly and facing each other they stood – neither daring to move, although each poised to fight or flee.
Neither breathed.
Neither blinked.
Will’s foot felt for the edge.
Henry leapt.
With a
crash
! – Tussling, rolling perilously near the precipice, at times so close the earth crumbled, they fought. Each, although neither knew it, fighting
for
the other’s life. A blow here, a punch there, a cut to the jaw, a knock in the ribs, a wild wrench and cruel bruising – all for the sake of mercy. Until, with one last swing, they both lay senseless on the damp ground.
William came to first, but Henry – typically – managed to secure the first words.
“For God’s sake,” he panted from where he lay, “Do not jump!”
“For God’s sake, I will not,” replied Will, pushing himself off the ground. Then baring his chest, he whispered, “But for God’s sake, do what you must do quickly.”
Henry rolled over, grunting as he put his weight on his bruised elbows. “Quickly what, man?”
“I have disgraced myself, my family, my father and mother, my title, my home, my country, my love…O! Lucia!”
“Quite a night’s work.”
“And you, Herr Tilney, and your wife. I have brought shame on all who come near me, but I shall not shame my God and take my life. Your sword, Herr Tilney – I deserve much less for what I have done – but I beg you:
quickly
.”
Henry jumped to his feet. “Do you intend that I should
kill
you?”
Tears were in Will’s dark eyes again, but he managed a weak smile. “It is the customary means of sawing off a husband’s ill–got horns.”
Henry was no slow wit and nearly
did
draw his flintlock, but good breeding and clerical office overcame his impulse. “Have you, then, cuckolded me?”
Will bowed his head.
“Explain yourself.”
Will began to jabber in at least two languages.
Henry cut him off in a deadly quiet voice. “Did you
lie
with my wife,
boy
?”
Will’s pale face flushed as he looked up. “I am a God fearing man!”
“Then fear me,” Henry answered, drawing from his bosom the confiscated locket. It dangled between them like Demosthenes sword. “Would you care to explain its curious properties, Herr Wiltford? Particularly its influence over the wearer? I believe you mentioned it contained a ring – perhaps you meant a poison.” He flipped it open, not looking at the contents, which would have fallen to the ground had not Will caught it. “Come, sir,” Henry said, drawing near to the young man, “show me this ring with which you meant to wed my bride.”
Reluctantly, Will opened his palm to reveal the golden lock of hair. Smiling up at Henry, Will said, “A strange ring, you will think, ja, Herr Tilney? Yet it served our family well – those of us who are proud of our heritage, at least. We true
Brandenburgs
.”
“How do you mean?”
Will’s expression closed. “I would not wish to sully my family further, Herr Tilney. As you will not kill me, I shall go up to the hermitage and take up the priestly robe. Your servant, sir.”
But Henry had not allowed his body to be used as a pell only to be left with no answers now! Thus, our hero stopped the retreat by the simple expedient of tripping young Will. Things might have come to fisticuffs again, except that Henry managed to pin Will’s arm behind his back – long enough to cordially inquire as to why Mr Wiltford should first turn his sights to the monastic life when – Lucia?
Was it? – was still waiting for her locket?
Will sobbed into the dirt and cried his beloved’s name more times than was seemly. (Indeed, Catherine was already on her second cup of tea and well into the fascinating history of the Barons of Brandenburg by the time William had recovered himself to speak.)
“Lucia promised me an answer to my suit last night. I have long loved her, and she I, for we are cousins, Herr Tilney, on our mother’s side. But Lucia has feared to wed me...”
“Let me guess,” Henry interrupted. “Your line is cursed?”
“Now it is, since my grandfather’s day! But more, she fears that devil, Edric, for reasons she will not reveal to me, no matter how I plead. I humour her, Herr Tilney, and so I held back my ardour and hoped to bide my time until her fears were assuaged – but I can wait no longer!”
“I quite understand,” said Henry in all seriousness.
“When my cousins, the Brannings, visited – and so hard upon the heels of my own dear, widowed father’s death! – and dispossessed me of my title by Edric’s questioning of my late mother’s
honesty
!
Calling her murder suicide!
Producing another will that Edric surely dictated himself in those years when my father, in his madness, in the grip of that foul devil, thought me dead.
And then Frau Tilney, looking so much like my mother and my cousin, and yourself arrived, I knew my childhood amour must cease, and the marriage bed replace it.
I found her chamber – my mother’s private room – and in it; ah!
But all is lost!”