Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  I walked sadly back to the car, deep in thought. With difficulty, I forced my mind back to the present and carried the gate to the front entrance, propping it against the hedge. Storm called a greeting to me as he scampered across the village green, returning from some secret mission and, together, we walked up the path towards the cottage. From the depths of my bag, I heard my mobile alerting me to a missed message and, once inside, I checked who had texted.

  Hi sis,

  Great news – Kurt has cleaned headstone pic. Check email. What does it mean?

  Mo xx

  As the laptop powered up, I made a cup of tea and then settled down in front of the screen. I had about twenty new emails but, ignoring these, I double-clicked on Mo’s.

  Hi Maddie,

  Kurt says he loves a challenge but this particular one has been quite spectacular! He says this is the best he can do. Does it make any sense to you? Let me know where it fits in with the story.

  Love, Mo xx

  P.S. Jeff has a friend with a luxury holiday villa in Majorca. We’re planning two weeks there. Do you want to come? He can’t wait to meet you!

  Maybe a holiday would do me good. I would seriously consider it.

  I clicked on the attachment and watched as the jpg opened. It was huge so I resized it and as I did, I froze. Mo’s friend had managed to decipher the eroded lettering on the headstone in St Martin’s churchyard.

  Here Lyeth

  My Love, My Lyfe,

  Mary,

  born twelfth April 1619

  and beloved daughter,

  Elisabeth,

  born thyrd July 1636

  both cruelly tayken

  eyghth day April 1644

  Stupefied, I sat staring at the screen. I reread the epitaph half a dozen times. What had happened in 1644 on the 8th April to have taken both Mary and Elisabeth? The question was hypothetical. With sickening dread, I realised that buried deep within my subconscious lay the answer. I found Mrs McKendrick’s book and frantically thumbed through the pages. I’d previously read a section referring to skirmishes that had taken place in the area, but their significance hadn’t registered at the time. I read a couple of paragraphs but couldn’t find what I was looking for. I checked the index for any direct reference. Was this it?

  Abbotsbury – The Battle in the Pulpit: page 160.

  I flicked through to the page and devoured the following words.

  During the Civil War years, the superb Dorset village of Abbotsbury was owned by Sir John Strangways, an ardent Royalist. The village was the site of one of the bloodiest ‘misfortunes’ of the conflict. In what became known as ‘The Battle in the Pulpit’, Cavaliers sniped at the Roundheads from the church tower of St Nicholas in October 1644. The pulpit still bears the scars from shots fired by Cromwell’s men. After a stubborn resistance in the church and manor house the garrison surrendered, but when the victorious Roundheads entered the house the magazine blew up, completely destroying the house and killing the plunderers.

  No, that wasn’t it. This incident occurred in the October. However, instinctively, I knew it had something to do with what I was seeking. I fanned through the book and found a previous chapter, which looked more promising.

  The neighbourhoods running along the coast of Dorset between Weymouth and Lyme Regis were much affected during the Civil War. In 1644, Sir Edward Walgrave was quartered with his regiment of horse at Bridport when he was surprised by Parliamentarian troops. However, he engaged them near Shipton Gorge, slew some and took forty horses and a cornet. This fighting may have accounted for the two lead musket balls recently extracted from the west door of St Martin’s Church in the village.

  An interesting epitaph on the south wall of the church suggests that the Roundheads may have pillaged the home of Sir Richard Okeford of Hammiton Hall, close by.

  I stared at the last sentence in horror. Not realising the enormity of it, I’d skimmed over this section when first reading the book. There it was, as plain as plain could be. Sir Richard Okeford of Hammiton Hall. I continued reading, dreading what I would learn.

  In 1644, there was a fine manor house in the neighbourhood of Shipton Gorge owned by the staunchly Royalist Okeford family. During the first week of April that year, a large Parliamentary force under Sir Anthony Ashley Cooper marched from Dorchester with the intention to rid Abbotsbury of its Royalist garrison, which was then commanded by Colonel James Strangways. It would appear that on the way the Parliamentarian troops mounted regular raids and, on the 8th April, lay siege to the Okeford family home. Unfortunately for the Okefords, Sir Richard was overseeing the visit of King Charles I at Maiden Newton at the time and when his wife, Lady Catherine, refused to co-operate with the Parliamentarian troops, the house was ransacked.

  The siege of the house itself began with Sir Cooper’s men setting fire to the entrance porch whilst keeping up a constant fusillade of musket fire that forced the family and their servants to retreat upstairs. Inside, Lady Catherine bravely refused all offers of surrender and so the order was given that no prisoners were to be taken alive. With the lower half of the house now well alight, screams were soon heard as the flames climbed higher. A second Parliamentary force used grenades, fireballs and scaling ladders to reach the second-floor windows at the rear and, wrenching open windows, threw in bundles of faggots, which set the entire house ablaze.

  Lady Catherine’s eldest daughter and granddaughter were fatally wounded by musket fire while attempting a daring escape and several of the servants perished before Lady Catherine begged for mercy for herself, her youngest daughter and those remaining. They were spared. As was common practice then, the victorious Parliamentarian soldiers rushed into the burning house to ransack it before it was fully destroyed. Today, nothing remains of the Hall.

  Putting the book down, I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. Not only had Nat lost his son to smallpox in 1643 but also his wife and daughter during the course of one day the following year. No wonder his spirit was restless. He’d made a promise to Mary that should they ever find themselves parted he would look for her and, true to his word, this was what he was doing… to this very day.

  After a while, as the intense emotions abated, I looked up to find Storm watching me curiously from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘It’s OK, boy,’ I said softly. ‘It’s all over.’

  As he walked over and jumped onto my lap, I hugged him close.

  *

  That night I had nightmares. I was trapped and surrounded by fire. Elisabeth, brave girl though she was, whimpered quietly at my side; her eyes filled with terror. We were in the front room on the upper floor above the porch. Flames crackled around us and the sound of musket shot rang loudly in our ears. The noise was deafening. My mother, the fierce warrior, was determined the soldiers would not take our family home. Charlotte and the servants quaked in fear and kept well back in the room. It was only Duncan who stood loyally at my mother’s side.

  I held Elisabeth close and told her it would be all right. How could I have lied so? She held tightly on to my skirt and I tried not to show the fear in my heart. Suddenly, above the hiss and crackle of fire, we heard windows being wrenched open followed by thuds, which we didn’t fully comprehend until too late. The bundles of flaming faggots took hold and the evil fire licked its way up the curtains, setting light to anything flammable in its path. The roar of fire is a sound I will never forget.

  Some of the servants started screaming and if I could have found my voice I would have joined them. Two maidservants suddenly ran forward away from the fire, which had quickly spread to the rear of the room. Shots rang out and the women fell dead at our feet. Elisabeth screamed and I quickly turned her head away from the horror unfolding before our eyes.

  ‘Mary,’ my mother shouted. ‘You, Elisabeth and Charlotte go to the next room.’

  ‘It’s alight, mistress,’ shouted Duncan.

  ‘It will be safer than here above the porch,’ she said, hysteria creeping into her v
oice. ‘Oh Richard, where art thou?’

  Charlotte stared at me in horror.

  ‘Come now,’ I said, holding out my hand to my younger sister.

  Paralysed with fear, she didn’t move.

  ‘You must,’ I urged.

  Elisabeth, too, stood rooted to the spot, but I managed to coax her into the next room. Looking back at my sister before we slipped through the doorway, I held out my hand to her once again. She shook her head and her big saucer-like eyes followed our escape.

  The glass in the windows cracked and shattered under the fierce heat and there was an acrid stench in the air – the smell of death. I huddled in the corner with Elisabeth and heard my mother bravely shouting down to the commanding officer that she would never surrender her home and they would have to burn us all in it. I had to escape; for the sake of my last remaining child and husband. Speaking urgently to Elisabeth, I told her we would make our way down the stairs and slip out at the back of the house. Fear paralysed my daughter, but I grabbed her hand and she came with me as I hurried towards the door. Flames cruelly licked their way up the stairwell, the wood charred and aglow, but I noticed the far side of the stairs was relatively free of fire. Carefully, we made our way down the burning staircase.

  Suddenly an unearthly scream rent the air and I heard my mother cry out, ‘Duncan, oh Duncan!’

  Without faltering, I continued on down the stairs holding Elisabeth’s hand tightly.

  It was dark; the air thick with smoke. And it was hot… oh, so hot. We choked and I told Elisabeth to cover her nose and mouth with the hem of her skirt. Avoiding falling timbers, we made our way along the burning hallway and into the servants’ quarters, turning right through the kitchens and coming to a side door, burnt through. This was our escape. Sobbing with relief, we spilled out into the stable yard and breathed in great lungfuls of fresh air. The night sky was lit by the orange flame of fire all around but we had made it!

  As I felt the cobblestones beneath my feet, I heard two musket shots ring out and watched in disbelief as Elisabeth fell away from me with an astonished look on her face; her mouth open as if to say something. She hit the ground unseeing, her eyes open wide, and a dark globule of blood spilled out of the corner of her mouth. I staggered and clutched at my chest. Through my fingers I felt the warm ooze of blood and watched incredulously as my bodice turned red. As I fell to the ground, a searing pain spread through my body.

  Clasping my heart pendant, I whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Nat.’

  A while later I heard men’s voices. ‘This one’s still alive.’

  Painfully, I gazed up into the kindly face of the soldier who had spied us at The Olde Smithy. Recognition registered in his eyes.

  ‘Lie still,’ he said gruffly. ‘Don’t move.’

  Fighting for air and with my throat filling with blood, I held out the pendant towards him. Drawing deeply on my last breath, I whispered, ‘Please…’

  He knelt by my side and removed his helmet. ‘What’s that you say?’

  The pain was unbearable. I could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

  ‘Take this and my ring…’ I managed to say. He bent down, his ear close to my lips, and with one final attempt I croaked, ‘Farrier… Waldyke.’

  My vision blurred, but not before I saw the soldier nod in understanding. Then the black tunnel closed in around me.

  *

  I awoke, hyperventilating. The room was pitch black and for a moment I feared I was still in the house of fire. I clutched at my chest. The pain was so intense that I thought I must have died. Confused, bewildered and alone, I sat up and fought for breath. I didn’t know what I was doing. I cried for Nat, I cried for Mary and Elisabeth, and I cried for that poor dear boy, Francis, who had never had the chance to know life. I was distraught and the pain in my chest would not go away. Grabbing my mobile phone, I punched in the number. After seven rings a sleepy voice answered. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table – just after three in the morning. I tried to speak but could only manage a deep, racking, drawing of breath. And then his voice, suddenly fully alert.

  ‘Maddie, is that you?’

  Again I tried to speak, but still no sound.

  ‘Maddie, breathe slowly.’

  I did as he said. Once able to catch my breath, I started to sob uncontrollably.

  ‘Nick,’ I whimpered. ‘I need you.’

  A sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I’m coming over now,’ he said urgently.

  As the pain finally eased in my chest, I breathed out with relief.

  ‘No, not here. The churchyard at St Martin’s. There’s something I need to do.’

  27

  The night sky had given way to a sullen greyness and a dense sea mist hung low over the valley. The earth was shrouded in a thick blanket; the silence impenetrable. There was no one around at this ungodly hour, not even the birds, but as I drove into the church car park I saw Nick’s silver Nissan. So he had come.

  I parked and slowly got out of the car, still shaken by the night’s revelations. I walked through the lych gate, up the path towards the church and looked around for him. As I rounded the corner of the West Tower, through the fog I could make out a figure standing at the far side of the graveyard, carefully placing flowers at the foot of Mary and Elisabeth’s headstone. It was Nat, his head bowed in sorrow.

  I watched for a few moments and then called softly, ‘Nat, I have come.’

  He raised his head.

  ‘I am here,’ I said.

  Slowly he turned towards me.

  He was older, much older, and I wondered if he approached the end of his life; one that had been long and hard. His hair was grey and his face deeply lined and etched in sadness. He looked at me in confusion and then disbelief. I smiled and watched as despair began to lift from his eyes and tentative hope take its place.

  ‘Be at peace,’ I said tenderly, and my eyes pricked with tears as his face filled with joy.

  He took a step towards me.

  ‘Mary’s spirit lives on through me.’

  He hesitated, consternation settling on that dear familiar face, and I saw the bewilderment as he observed my modern-day clothes.

  ‘Do not fear, Nat,’ I called out softly again.

  His lovely blue-grey eyes urgently sought mine for confirmation and suddenly I was filled with the purest of emotions. He smiled slowly, our love reaching out across the distance and years between us, and I fought back tears as that dearly beloved man faded from sight for the very last time. In a blink of an eye he was gone.

  Nick stood by the gravestone looking at me through the same blue-grey eyes. The love I felt for him was immense and yet I faltered, unsure of where I stood. He watched me hesitate. Taking a step towards me, he opened his arms wide.

  ‘Come to me, Maddie. I won’t lose you again.’

  The tender look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. As if in a dream, I walked towards his loving embrace.

  ‘It was always you,’ he murmured, taking me in his arms.

  We kissed with a passion we both knew we’d experienced many times before and, once again, I became aware of a sense of well-being and a delicious peace settling upon my soul. Eventually – reluctantly – I drew back for breath.

  Away to the east, a pink glow warmed the horizon and burnished gold and silver rays from a rising sun streaked the sky. Filtering up from the valley below, we heard the exuberant chords of an early dawn chorus. All at once there was an easing to the dense sea mist shrouding the earth, and the fog rolled away from the high ground to slowly reveal the church. Suddenly, the subtlest of warm air currents encircled our bodies, as if investigating us. I knew Nick felt it too. Seductively it caressed us – a lingering, tender kiss of breeze – and I had the strongest feeling we were being protected and cushioned from the world; somehow blessed. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, it departed, though the sensation remained.

  As I allowed myself to dare believe in this unexpected, yet longed for,
turn of events, I gazed deeply into Nick’s eyes and recognised fragments of Nat’s older soul watching me in wonder.

  Holding me close and in a voice thick with emotion, he whispered, ‘My love, my life…’

  Epilogue

  The sound of gentle rain pitter-pattering on the roof teases me from sleep and I notice the barn is filled with the soft light of dawn. Glancing up through the glass apex, I watch grey clouds swirl across the sky. Turning my head, I see Nick sound asleep beside me. I smile. He looks so peaceful and I don’t have the heart to wake him. Snuggling further under the duvet, safe in my cocoon, I luxuriate in the comforting warmth and security I have become increasingly accustomed to. But what a turbulent fourteen months we have lived through to get here!

  Understandably, Sarah took it badly when Nick told her of his feelings for me. She was distraught and immediately moved back to her mother’s. Since then, we’ve coped with numerous visits at all times of the day and night, mopping her tears, and as my wonderful man dealt with her in a responsible and caring manner, my already high regard for him grew. I understood his concern was born from an acknowledgement of the not inconsiderable number of years they’d spent together, and his feelings for her were but a spark compared to the leaping flames we fanned. Becky defended her friend. At first, it was stalking and leaving threatening notes on my car windscreen, however, when her tactics escalated to attempts at driving me off the road we had no choice but to involve the police. We didn’t want to press charges. She was cautioned and it seems to have had the desired effect; no further incidents have occurred. And then, three months ago, Sarah suddenly announced that she, Becky and Mark were leaving their jobs and going to Australia. She asked Nick if his brother would put them up for a few weeks before they headed to Sydney and he immediately contacted Chris, who generously agreed they could stay. Already, they’ve been with him three weeks.