‘Shut up,’ Roy retorted good-naturedly. ‘Anyone would think I like to display my knowledge.’
‘Well, you do, dear,’ Ella put in.
‘I would like to hear it,’ Andy chipped in quickly. ‘If she did say anything, I’ve forgotten. It’s a fascinating old house. Sue isn’t all that interested in history, as far as I can make out. I don’t remember her saying anything much about it beyond how very old it was. She is passionate about her herbs, but when I asked her about the ruins in the garden she just rolled her eyes and said they made a perfect place to grow valerian.’
They all laughed. ‘That sounds like Sue.’ Sian was passing round bowls of creamy mash and roast vegetables.
‘Well,’ Roy went on patiently, ‘since you asked, and as the others are so anxious to hear what I have to say, I will expound upon the history of the place!’ He paused as his wife punched him on the arm, then went on, ‘It was once a fortified manor house and quite an imposing building, judging by the bits that are left. Fortified because, like us here, it’s on the Welsh– English border. You’re in Wales, up your valley, Andy; we’re in England down here in the Dingle. The Dulas Brook marks the border. The border March is dangerous country, never at peace, always a bit edgy.’ He laughed. ‘Sleeper’s Castle is medieval of course, and what is left of the building is remarkably unchanged, I should imagine. Outside it’s stone-built – which is always hard to date – slate-roofed and beautiful. Inside, there was a central great hall. As in all bigger medieval houses the hall was the main living space, but, probably early on in its history, it was divided – quite crudely, in my opinion – with oak studs and lathe and plaster, to partition off two smaller rooms: the dining room and the parlour behind it. That made the great hall less great, but it’s still impressively large as a living room.
‘The kitchen is interesting too. The free-standing early medieval kitchen and bakehouse were in later medieval times incorporated into the main house. The pantry and the buttery are original, and upstairs the two smaller end bedrooms with the lovely mullioned windows would have been the original solar, or private quarters of the house owner. There was a catastrophic fire at some point in its history and I suspect it was abandoned for a while after the outer walls fell. But, and this is what is so intriguing’ – he leaned forward, his eyes sparkling enthusiastically – ‘all that, ancient as it is, is relatively modern stuff according to tradition. The story of Sleeper’s Castle goes back hundreds and hundreds, even thousands of years to the ancient Druids, who used the place for sacred dreaming. Hence Sleeper’s Castle.’ He took off his glasses and polished them, waiting for Andy to comment. She was staring at him.
‘Sacred dreaming?’
He nodded. ‘It’s mentioned in ancient Celtic chronicles and poems. A seer would wrap himself in a bull’s hide and sleep to dream, to foretell the future. Sometimes he would place a heavy rock on his chest.’
‘Enough, Roy,’ Ella interrupted. ‘Pass Andy the vegetables.’
‘A rock?’ Andy echoed him in astonishment. ‘What on earth for?’
Roy picked up the dish and held it for her. ‘To help concentrate the mind, I would think. Isn’t it fascinating? I don’t know when the rest of the house was demolished or who lived there more recently – most likely a yeoman, or a tenant farmer – but in the end it became part of the Hereford Estates, and it was then sold off by Viscount Hereford in the 1960s. That’s about it, isn’t it, Sian?’
Sian began to pour the wine. ‘Goodness knows, Roy. You’re the expert. You’ve covered it pretty well, I’d say. Best not to overwhelm Andy with too much history to start with.’ She set down the bottle and reached for the vegetables. ‘You’ll find, Andy, that Roy is passionate about history. He can bore for England on the subject! So, tell him to shut up if he overwhelms you with detail.’
‘I’m not bored, I promise you,’ Andy put in hastily.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask Meryn over to meet Andy,’ Roy said a few minutes later. He glanced at Sian. ‘If Andy is interested, he would know more about the Sleeper’s side of the story. And he’s a neighbour too, in a manner of speaking.’
‘I did try to ring him a couple of times,’ Sian said. ‘No reply and no answer machine. You know what he’s like. He’s probably away somewhere on one of his mad escapades.’
Andy looked from one dinner guest to another. ‘That sounds intriguing.’
‘He is,’ Ella put in. ‘He’s a real Druid. Or soothsayer. Or something. Quite a character round here, but he does tend to keep himself to himself, and he goes over to the States quite a bit, I think. He lives up on the mountain, a mile or so beyond you. He’ll turn up one of these days, then you’ll meet him. I think the pair of you would get on.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a really interesting man, and if you’re not into Druids, he does herbs as well, which might be more up your street.’
The conversation flowed on, away from the house, and slowly Andy began to find out about her new neighbours. Roy and Ella were self-evidently passionate about history and books. It had been their shared interest in history that had brought them together. Roy’s other passion was hill walking. ‘You may well see me from time to time strolling along on the footpath behind Sleeper’s Castle,’ he said. ‘It’s one of my favourite walks.’ Ella had shaken her head eloquently. ‘You won’t see me there. Roy walks. I read.’
And then there was Sian herself, who, Andy discovered, had originally been married to a London businessman. He adored the City life and she had hated it. This house had been their second home, destined to be a place to wind down. But, it appeared, her husband had never actually wanted to wind down and Sian had come to Herefordshire more and more often on her own. ‘It was inevitable,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and quite amicable. I had far more in common with people here than I did with his friends’ wives in the City. I bought the dogs, who also preferred it here to London, and one day when I was due to drive home to Clapham I just rang him and told him I wasn’t coming. I didn’t intend to never go back, but I had inadvertently created a vacancy. There’s always someone waiting to jump into the empty place at a successful man’s side.’ She gave a small self-deprecating shake of the head.
‘He didn’t deserve you, darling,’ Ella said. ‘You’re better off without him.’
There was a moment of silence and then Andy realised they were waiting for her to speak. Story for story. It was only fair.
She cleared her throat. ‘I suppose in some ways I was in the opposite corner,’ she said. ‘My partner was married, but his wife had left him quite a bit of time before we met; she had moved on to another man and showed no signs of ever wanting to come back. I’d been introduced to him with a view to illustrating his books and we began as a business partnership, but in the end we fell in love and I moved in. We were together for ten years, then he died.’ She managed to keep her voice steady.
‘That’s tough.’ Ella leaned across and touched her hand.
Andy sighed. ‘And at that point his wife decided to turn up and reclaim the house, which was why I was suddenly homeless. Sue saved my sanity by offering me Sleeper’s Castle.’
‘That’s awful, Andy,’ Ella said softly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But you do like it here?’ Roy’s voice was full of doubt. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been parachuted into the area.’
Andy laughed. ‘I love it here. Graham and I had been to stay with Sue in the past, so I knew what it was like.’
Did she though? Seeing it now through their eyes, she thought of the empty house, the endless sound of the water thundering over the rocks, the void where Graham ought to be. The silence lengthened and she realised that the others were all looking at her again.
Sian broke the silence. ‘Help me collect the plates, Andy,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve made an apple-and-blackberry crumble for pudding. Roy, can you find another bottle of wine? You know where they are.’ As they stacked the plates in the sink, she glanced at Andy. ‘I’m sorry. We didn’t mea
n to touch on a nerve. Are you all right?’
Andy sighed. ‘A moment of tristesse. They come and go. But I am enjoying myself, Sian. Thank you so much for asking me tonight.’
‘Good.’ Sian glanced over her shoulder at the table. ‘They’re a nice couple.’
‘Right, a change of subject is in order, I think,’ Roy said as they sat down again. ‘So, Andy, is everything peaceful at Sleeper’s Castle? Have you seen any ghosts up there? It’s a spooky old place.’
‘Roy, that’s hardly tactful,’ Ella put in. ‘The poor woman is living there all on her own.’
Andy laughed. ‘I don’t mind. I loved the idea of ghosts when I was a child – the whole concept of who and what they were, or might be. My father was interested and I suppose I followed his lead. But it was all theory. I never saw one, as far as I know. I went on studying them and reading about them even when I grew up, but Graham was very anti. He didn’t like the idea at all, so I dropped the subject.’
‘That’s men for you!’ Ella put in. ‘Why is it we always have to subsume our interests and passions in the face of their sensibilities? Does it ever work the other way round? Never. Women get dragged off to watch sport and play trains and God knows what and never query it.’
There was a short silence. ‘Was that tirade directed at me, sweetie?’ Roy said meekly.
Ella laughed. ‘No. Luckily you are the perfect husband.’ There wasn’t a hint of irony in her voice. ‘But it is true as a general rule, I think.’
‘It certainly was for me,’ Andy confirmed. ‘And I’m only slowly beginning to realise how much of myself did get subsumed by our relationship. But that doesn’t mean I’m hoping to go back to Sleeper’s Castle and find it populated with ghosts. As Ella says, I’m there alone and I don’t want to scare myself!’
‘Well, if you do,’ Roy put in, ‘Meryn is your man. He’s the local ghostbuster as well as a Druid. Fascinating chap. As Ella said, you’d like him.’
The memory of that conversation came back as Andy let herself into the house later. It was well after midnight and a bright moon was high in the sky, throwing shadows across the garden. She paused on the threshold and waited, trying to sense the atmosphere inside the house. As before it seemed benign.
She had left the light on in the kitchen and she went in, looking round. There was no sign of Culpepper, but every self-respecting cat in the world would be outside on a beautiful moonlit night like this.
She found herself surveying the kitchen with new eyes. Now it had been pointed out she could see that half the room was much older than the other half; the stone walls, the shape of the window, the beamed ceiling. The modern fitments had distracted her. Even the flags, though skilfully matched, were obviously from different eras.
Upstairs, she opened the window in her bedroom and leaned with her elbows on the sill, looking out into the garden. It was an ancient window, she now recognised, obviously medieval, with stone mullions. The small leaded panes of glass were Victorian, she guessed. The window can’t have opened originally, but now it had a slightly bent metal frame with latch and handle, and swung open behind the mullions as a casement. Outside she could hear the brook. The water seemed quieter, gentler than on the previous night. Moonlight threw the garden into silver relief with deep shadows beneath the trees and bushes and for a while she stood, staring out contentedly, aware of an owl hooting in the distance and another answering it with quick short calls that echoed against the house walls.
It was a long time before she pulled the window shut and crept into bed, shivering. She lay there, all desire for sleep gone. The company and happiness of the evening had left her with a feeling of anticlimax and loneliness. In spite of herself she found her mind travelling back to Kew, and this time she didn’t fight it.
Throwing the last of the letters and cards into a cardboard box Rhona looked round the room one last time. She didn’t want there to be one single sign of Miranda Dysart left. She had to accept that the whole house reflected Miranda’s choices, her taste; she could see her hand in every room but, much as she would like to, she could hardly burn every stick of furniture. The sale people would come soon enough and take it away. In the meantime there was all this … she hesitated as she tried to think of a word … all this stuff imposing Miranda’s personality on everything. She added a couple of notebooks full of delicate watercolour sketches, which she had found on top of a bookshelf, to the box and lifted it with a groan, heaving it over towards the French doors and out onto the terrace. In the far corner of the garden a wisp of pale smoke drifted up from the earlier pile of stuff she had thrown into the incinerator. The sketchbooks went on the fire first and she gave a grim smile. She hadn’t expected to feel such malicious joy at destroying things that Miranda and Graham would have treasured. The books were followed by a pile of postcards from friends who appeared to have travelled all over the world. She glanced at one: Andy and G – truly truly wish you were here. Andy, you could paint this place for a thousand years and not grow tired of its beauty, love Sal and Sam. It came from Hawaii. Rhona sneered as she tossed it after the sketchbooks. ‘Goodbye, Sal and Sam,’ she whispered. It wasn’t just Miranda she was trying to hurt, she realised as she stared down into the flaming bin, it was Graham as well. Graham had deserted her; Graham had dared to be happy with this woman; Graham had enjoyed his life while she, she had been miserable and abandoned. She stood back, watching the conflagration. She had long ago forgotten or buried the truth, that she had left Graham for another man, a relationship that had foundered as had all the others that had followed it. Everything was Graham’s fault. And Miranda’s.
She tensed and turned to look behind her, half expecting to see the woman in the garden, watching. There was no one there, but she could feel her skin prickling. It was as if Miranda knew what she was doing. She stepped forward into the intense heat, dropped the rest of the contents of the box into the incinerator and turned away, dusting off her hands.
Miranda was standing on the step outside the kitchen, staring down at her.
Rhona stood transfixed, unable to move; the next moment the woman had vanished and she was alone in the garden with the bitter pall of smoke engulfing her.
In bed, Andy groaned and turned over, unable to endure the cruel drift of the dream. In her sleep she had pushed away the duvet and her hand brushed the wall, coming to rest against the cold stone.
With the touch of the stone came older, more powerful memories.
Rhona was gone; in her place came darkness, then Andy could hear the clash of swords, smell burning, feel the ground shake beneath the hooves of heavy horses ridden by men in full plate armour and now she could see a company of archers drawn up on a hill. Someone must have shouted a command. The men were reaching down into their arrow bags. They set their arrows to the string. As one they drew the great longbows and paused for the order to rain death on the ranks below. The whistling sound of the arrows flying through the air was deafening and the screams of those below, as every barbed head met its mark, were hideous. Men and horses alike writhed and fell, and Andy in her dream could do nothing. In her sleep she groaned and wrestled with her pillows. She lashed out with her arm again and struck the wall. The pain woke her.
She stared round in the darkness, nursing her bruised knuckles, aware that she had been shouting. She was, she realised, drenched with sweat. She was shaking with real terror. She lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, trying to recall the nightmare. It was about death. That much she remembered. She was watching men die. And she was not alone. There was another woman with her, a woman wearing a dark cloak with the hood pulled up over her hair. They were standing next to each other in the shelter of the trees and they were both frozen to the spot by their horror and their helplessness.
Dragging herself out of bed, Andy switched on the light and looked at her watch. It was just after 3 a.m. She had been asleep barely two hours. Reaching for her dressing gown she pulled it on and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Exhausted tho
ugh she was, she didn’t think she could go back to sleep. Her head was too full of the horror of what she had seen. It was a battle, that much she could remember now. A battle between two armies. She had seen men die, writhing in agony on the bloodstained mud of a battlefield. Sitting down at the kitchen table she put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.
Something she had eaten at the supper party must have disagreed with her; her mother always used to say food made you dream. But this was a house of dreams. Her eyes flew open and she caught her breath as she recalled Roy’s explanation of the house’s name. Surely not! No, this was something she had read about or seen on TV, regurgitated by her tired brain as a protest against the rich food and wine. She had lost the habit of eating and drinking late over the last few months, that was all. She would have a hot drink and go back to bed. Wearily she dragged herself to her feet and put the kettle on, then she searched through the cupboard. In the house of a herbalist surely she would find some camomile tea. She did. A perfectly ordinary commercial brand. So, even Sue needed a quick fix at times. With a weary smile she pulled a teabag out of the box and put it in a mug, then she turned to take the kettle off the hob. As she retraced her steps to the table she glanced towards the door. A figure was standing there. A woman, huddled in a dark cloak. They stared at each other in astonishment for barely a second, then the woman was gone.
5
Catrin woke and looked round in the dim light of a flickering fire. Her heart was pounding from the horror of the dream. The dream she had shared, did she but know it, with another woman, a dream she had dreamt recently, at home in Sleeper’s Castle. But she wasn’t at home. She pulled her cloak around her, shivering, confused as to where she was. Then she remembered. It was the first night of their summer tour. They had arrived at Painscastle after dark, the limping horse between them, afraid there might be some kind of curfew which would consign them to a barn or an outhouse until the next day. But the constable was at home and they found they had been half expected, looked for. ‘You always come around this time of year, my friends,’ he had said with a smile. He had taken their hands and brought them to the great fire in the central hearth; his wife had hugged Catrin like a lost daughter. Visitors were not so frequent in this lonely place that they would not be welcomed royally. Their wet clothes were taken for drying, they and their horses were given warm shelter. Edmund ate with the small garrison and the servants at the lower table in the hall, Dafydd and Catrin with the constable and his wife at the high table, differentiated in this small castle only by its proximity to the fire. After supper they would sing or tell a story. That would earn their night’s keep and perhaps a silver coin or two before they rode on in the morning.