The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall

by Coulter, Catherine

  “Does he wear on old silver bridle when he becomes a horse as you did when I first saw you?”

  “Yes, all kelpies must wear their silver bridle, or they cannot become men again. My mother told me one night it fell off him when he was racing another stallion. Thankfully, she found it and slipped it over his head again. She still rides him at night. I believe one time it came to rain and they returned to the abandoned shack. She smiled.”

  Grayson sometimes reflected how very different his life occasionally was from other men’s. Here he was in the middle of the night, speaking to a half kelpie, half witch, who’d traveled back to Camelot, only it was the wrong Camelot. He said, “Does my uncle Douglas know your father? Corinth Ramsey?”

  “Yes, certainly. Your uncle’s stallion, Garth, comes from my father’s stud. Perhaps it is best not to tell your uncle that Garth’s former owner is a half kelpie.”

  Grayson said without pause, “Perhaps not. Olafar, does my cousin James and his wife, Corrie, know who and what you are?”

  Olafar shook his head. “I do not feel it would benefit them to know a half kelpie was their twins’ tutor. Their minds are not flexible like yours. Actually, I’ve never before met a human mind like yours. Oh aye, of course they accept the Virgin Bride’s visits and her presence, but otherwise? They are firmly tied to the rules that govern the human world.”

  Grayson supposed that was true enough. But James had lived with the Virgin Bride, very much a ghost, all his life. Didn’t that make him flexible as well? Didn’t it make him wonder what else was there in this world? He said, “Why didn’t you wish to follow in your father’s footsteps?”

  “Ah, you wonder why I’m a simple tutor, not rich like my father with all his horses.” Olafar realized he was desperately thirsty. He shrugged into a worn dressing gown and belted it. He walked to his desk and lit his own candle and poured himself another mug of water. “Please, Mr. Sherbrooke, sit down.” He drank more water, wiped his hand across his mouth. “I know I shall very likely pay for speaking so frankly to you, even though you are an extraordinary human, but the truth is I have been lonely. When I am Bonaduce—the black stallion you saw—I search out other horses, and we gallop together. I was alone that night I saw you. You were not afraid of me. I believe now that you guessed I was different?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Grayson said slowly, “It was the Virgin Bride who told me you were something else. She was concerned. Tell me, Olafar, do you like keeping the human form?”

  He nodded. “I know nothing else. When I was a boy, I spent my days as a human and many nights as Bonaduce. My father taught me the perils of our kind. My witch mother taught me the world’s calamitous history and potions. I have a small amount of her talent. I was sent to school at Eton, like other boys of my class, then Oxford, and I discovered I was a scholar. I sang ditties at the pub and downed ale, but I had few friends.”

  “Why?”

  Olafar shrugged and sat forward in his chair. “Even as a boy, I never learned what to say to others to make them like me, so I was always quiet, and no one ever paid me any attention. I watched, but I never got the human knack of friendship.”

  No wonder he was lonely. “But your father is different?”

  “Everyone my father meets likes him. All his horses are like his children. They worship him. My father tried diligently to teach me to be more at ease with the human form I presented to the world, but I did not succeed. I finally accepted I was different from my father.” He shrugged. “So I am alone, except at night when I am Bonaduce and I chance to meet other horses. They are wary at first, but it soon passes, and we hold competitions. Still, I fancy I will die alone, sooner rather than later if I chance to blunder like my uncle Olafar.” He was quiet a moment, pulling at a thread from his dressing gown sleeve. Then he raised glowing eyes to Grayson’s face. “But then a miracle happened. I heard one of my father’s friends speak about the Sherbrookes searching for a tutor for small twin boys. A tutor. My heart sang, my future spread out bright in front of me. Surely children would accept me, wish to be with me, and so I came to Northcliffe Hall.” He gave Grayson a radiant smile. “The twins have given me joy. They do not see me as different, as odd. They are smart and lively and keep the loneliness at bay.” He paused a moment. “They hug me good night. And I know they would hug the Virgin Bride if they could.”

  “Will you age?”

  “Slowly, very slowly, unless I blunder like my uncle Olafar. When the twins go off to school, I shall have to leave. But now I know my life has meaning and happiness as a tutor.”

  “You have not found a human woman or a witch to be your wife?”

  Olafar shook his head. “No. I am not at ease around women.”

  “You need to explain yourself to Mathilde—the Virgin Bride. She is concerned. Speak to her, Olafar, assure her you mean no harm to the twins or to any child. She will show you more mysteries in our world.”

  Olafar said, “I have told her I mean no harm. I tell her I love the twins and would protect them with my life. I respect the Sherbrooke family. Many times I know she is near but she does not show herself. And I speak to her in the quiet of the night, asking her over and over to trust me.”

  “I will tell her you are not to be feared. I will tell her your mother is a witch. It should fascinate her.”

  Olafar said, “Did she tell you to come to me tonight?”

  Grayson nodded, looked in the candle flame. Was it glowing more brightly? “She said you were using the children to get what you wanted, namely King Arthur.”

  A light shone again in Olafar’s eyes. Enthusiasm billowed out of him. “Oh yes. What a proud and glorious ruler was King Arthur, perhaps the greatest ruler in humans’ benighted history. He shines with bravery and goodness, but he was killed by evil. He was betrayed.”

  “Olafar, you are a scholar, a learned man. You know King Arthur’s very existence is still questioned, as is Camelot and the Round Table, and yet you were there, so I must now accept Camelot did exist. Arthur killed by Mordred, who destroyed the unity of Arthur’s Round Table, and led to his usurping the throne—it is all fiction, made up by Sir Thomas Malory in the fifteenth century. It is also from him we learn Guinevere broke her faith with Arthur and fled with Lancelot.”

  “Le Morte d’Arthur, yes, I have read it many times. But listen, Mr. Sherbrooke. It has been passed down through my family for hundreds of years that Malory had kelpie blood. Yes, that’s right. Not only that, he also was blessed with visions, and many of them were of King Arthur, his court, his Round Table, his wife, Guinevere. He simply wrote what he saw in one of these visions. However, I have come to believe absolutely that these visions of Guinevere and Lancelot were not real, that Malory’s vision was distorted. His vision was wrong.” He paused a moment. “Or, I suppose it is possible Malory was offered a great deal of money to spin a tale of romance and betrayal and tragedy. And so I have wanted to go back to Camelot and see for myself what truly happened.” He drew in a deep breath. “Tonight, I was able to fly there. Tonight, the time flux presented a Camelot, only it was not the real one.”

  Grayson said slowly, “So you are able to travel back in time?”

  Olafar nodded. “Yes. Physically? When I arrived at Camelot, it felt to me that I was a flesh-and-blood man, but the cook believed I was a ghost. But still, he saw me. But Camelot was a very long time ago. Perhaps it was my spirit that visited Camelot, Mr. Sherbrooke, but then again, when you woke me, I was here, in my bed. Was my physical self there? I do not know.”

  “You can send yourself back to anywhere, to any time?”

  “Yes, and as I said, this was the first time I actually arrived at Camelot, not the real Camelot, but to another Camelot in a different place, in a different time, or maybe simply a chimera whipped up by the time flux. But still, this time I was closer than I’ve ever been before.

  “Until now, wherever I’ve visited in the past, I am unable to stay. I am whisked back very quickly. But this time, Mr. S
herbrooke—”

  “Please, call me Grayson.”

  “Very well, Grayson. It is your son, Pip, who enabled me to stay. Pip has an amazing spirit. I recognized it immediately. It is because he is your son, of your blood, I suppose. I took his spirit with me. Even though it wasn’t the right Camelot, he got me there, and as I said, I stayed until you woke me. I can see you would like to behead me for taking your son, but please understand, I would never harm Pip or any other child. Never.” He stopped when he saw the father’s fear for his child on Grayson’s face. “Grayson, let me reassure you about the children. When my father told me I could stay where I traveled when I journeyed back in time, he told me I needed a child’s spirit to tether me, and not just any child. I would have to find a special child. He assured me there was no danger to the child. I was only using his purity of spirit and adding it to my own so I could travel back and remain as long as I wished. He said the child would have a wonderful dream of riding a huge black stallion, and the dream would be forgotten by morning. The child would perhaps be tired the following day, but nothing more.”

  Olafar waited a moment, then said, “I swear to you I would never harm Pip. His spirit, it’s as pure, shining bright as a star. Being with him enabled me to remain at this alternate Camelot. Otherwise, as I said, I am tossed back into the present. You wonder how it works. I cannot tell you. I know only that a special child’s spirit is necessary for me to stay.” Again, he studied Grayson’s face. “Pip is the key to my finding the real Camelot, I know it.”

  Grayson nodded slowly. “All right. Tell me about this different Camelot you visited before I awakened you.”

  “Once I touched Pip’s hand as he slept, within seconds, I stood in front of a vast wooden fortress. It was empty of soldiers and people both inside and out. I went into a great hall, and again, no people, no soldiers. Then I went through a door and into a kitchen, and here were many people preparing a feast. The cook believed me a ghost and spoke to me freely. He told me a mighty Saxon warrior called Thayne had killed King Arthur, and Guinevere had left with all the other people from Camelot. Thayne would come shortly to take Arthur’s place as king of the Britons. The cook said he was going to poison his boar steak. I watched him stir poison into a mug. Then you woke me up. Will Pip’s spirit with mine be able to set things aright and take me to the real Camelot? I do not know. But given what happened, given how close we were, I know with Pip I can go to the real Camelot.”

  Grayson wondered briefly what his hero Thomas Straithmore would do now. He said, “As I told you, when I awakened Pip, he told me he was riding a big black stallion. He wasn’t afraid. He was thrilled, and that is why I wasn’t afraid for him.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I want to try again.”

  “How would that work if you used all the children’s spirits together?”

  “They would all ride on my back, but not at the same time, slips of time apart.” He looked frustrated. “It is difficult to explain. If I took more than one child, all would be with me, yet each of them would be alone with me—with the black stallion, with Bonaduce. But I do not need P.C. or Barnaby. Pip is magic.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Grayson studied the candle flame, now burning low, then looked closely at Olafar’s shadowed face. “I’ve always believed Camelot existed, a real place, a magical place, idealized, of course, and ruled by Arthur Pendragon, King Arthur. Arthur and his knights defined honor in that long-ago dark and savage Britain. Malory’s addition of romantic betrayal, all human frailties shown in full bloom, in such a vastly quixotic, mystical place called Camelot, has moved me, as it has so many others.”

  Olafar sat forward. “Oh yes, Arthur was the epitome of strength and honor, always a shining presence, an ideal for a man to aspire to. And all the pure knights were presented as examples of chivalry and honor and idealized love.”

  Olafar paused, then said, “You do understand it is up to me to go back and discover the truth. Was Malory’s vision true? Did Guinevere and Lancelot betray Arthur? Did Mordred really kill him and destroy Camelot?” His eyes burned with an intense light. “Next time, with Pip, I will find my way to the real Camelot, not this chimera tossed at me by a strange time flux. I want to right the wrongs, discredit Malory’s story that is now viewed as history. I pray I discover Guinevere did not betray Arthur, that she and Lancelot remained loyal and true.”

  Grayson slowly nodded. “I believe it would be helpful if you explained to Pip what you and he were going to try to accomplish. He is only five years old, but he is smart. He sees people and things clearly for so young a—human.” Grayson rose. “Let me know what you decide. Until tomorrow, Olafar.”

  Grayson looked in on all three children before he returned to his bedchamber. All were sleeping soundly. Dreaming of galloping on the back of an incredible black stallion?

  When he was back in his bedchamber, on his back in the soft bed, the covers pulled to his neck, the Virgin Bride appeared at the foot of his bed. One moment, there was only still silence, and in the next, there was filmy light and a presence so vivid it seemed the air nearly parted for her. “Good evening, Mathilde. Did you hear my discussion with Olafar?”

  She shimmered. Grayson fancied he could feel her excitement. Oh yes, I listened in wonderment. The story about Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal—so real, so much a part of the legend, yet it was made up hundreds of years later. It is accepted as a whole, no matter if parts of it were added at a later time. You accept all of it or none. Ah, the passion Arthur’s name still evokes. I think it is like the legend of the virginity of Queen Elizabeth, which was not at all true, but now it is accepted. My mother believed the Arthur legend. She hated Guinevere for her betrayal, but not Lancelot for seducing her. Is that not strange?

  I have wandered through many human lives in my time, Grayson, seen a bit of happiness, seen immense cruelty, so many tragedies, witnessed births and deaths. I have made Sherbrooke lives easier when I could. Even though many of your ancestors, and yes, the current earl, Douglas, does not like to accept me as real even though he knows very well I am since I helped him save Alex all those years ago. Well, many years to you, but a moment in time to me. I have visited the Sherbrooke children who became men and women and moved from Northcliffe, but always, I must return here to where I first appeared so long ago.

  I did not think I could ever be surprised, people being what they are, never changing through the centuries, repeating the same mistakes over and over, but still pushing on, ever on. But, Grayson, the kelpie, Olafar, he is different. I know he is brave. I know he has a burning curiosity, and he wants to right wrongs that were only created by a human man in the first place. He truly believes this Malory was part kelpie and had visions of ancient Camelot. I do not know if this is true, only it is of vital importance to him. I believe I now like Olafar. I trust him with the children. I want to help him. Will you ask him if I am able to journey back to Camelot? With him? With all of you? I know you, Grayson—you want to journey back with him and Pip, do you not? You want to see for yourself.

  He grinned. “Yes, you do know me well, Mathilde. Why don’t you ask him if it is possible for you to journey back? It seems to me it would not be a problem, given you can leave Northcliffe and go where you please, so why not in the past as well?”

  Her hair whipped about her head in an unseen wind, and her white face seemed to glow. Her pale veils shimmered. It makes my heart pound, Grayson, so very fast and hard. Yes, I will ask Olafar. Do you think he will let me ride him when he shifts to a black stallion? When will we leave?

  He wasn’t going to mention she didn’t have a beating heart. “Soon, I imagine. Perhaps tomorrow night.”

  I want to prove my mother wrong, prove Guinevere did not betray Arthur. But will she know it? I do not know where she is. I only hope she is nowhere near me. It was her fault I died so young.

  “What happened?”

  An evil man, a covetous woman, namely my mother, and a disposable child, namely me.
I killed him, Grayson, on my wedding night when he would have raped me, and she killed me in a rage. So long ago, yet only a moment in time.

  The Virgin Bride whisked away and left Grayson’s heart pounding.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday

  Grayson didn’t want to go to the Smythe-Ambrosios’ party. He wanted to stay with Olafar and discuss how they would all go back to Camelot tonight. He accepted there was no logic to any of it, no result he could see that would make a whit of difference. Except to Olafar. Well, if it turned out the so-called vision Malory had of Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal wasn’t true, well, then Grayson knew Thomas Straithmore would somehow prove it. Would his readers consider it simply another otherworldly tale spun from his imagination? He had a frightening thought: What if Camelot hadn’t really existed? What if King Arthur was nothing more than the imaginings of another long-ago writer, like himself, spinning a story to entertain?

  Grayson thought about the twelfth-century French poet Chrétien de Troyes. He’d been the one to invent Lancelot in his work Lancelot, or The Knight of the Cart. Logic dictated Malory had only loaded on, making Lancelot and Guinevere lovers. He realized he was getting a headache trying to weave his way through fiction, visions, and what really transpired in a place called Camelot, a place not every scholar even agreed existed.

  He wondered if he could conveniently claim illness when Maximus informed him Miss Elphinstone was riding her white mare, S.W., up the long drive. But no, he was a gentleman. He walked out of the house to see her turn her mare into the west gardens. He followed her, without much hope of getting out of attending her aunt and uncle’s soiree. He saw her dismount and walk to where his aunt Alex was discussing her roses with a group of visitors who’d been making themselves at home in her gardens. She immediately joined in. When she saw him, she excused herself from a voluble older lady accompanied by her maid, and called out, “Mr. Sherbrooke, I was hinting to anyone who would listen that her ladyship employs Cornish elves to keep her gardens in fine fettle.”