“They’re not elves—they’re piskies in Cornwall,” Grayson said.
A lovely eyebrow shot up. “Just so, Mr. Sherbrooke. Now, I am here to ensure all of you are coming this evening to Blandish Manor.”
Grayson nodded, no choice in the matter. His aunt Alex, on the other hand, was looking forward to the evening. She said, “It has been too long a time since we have visited with all our neighbors in one place.”
After more pleasantries, and too many looks from Miss Elphinstone, she whistled and her beautiful mare, tail high, came prancing to her side. “Until tonight,” she sang out, leaned down and said something to her mare, and off they went. Grayson and Alex stood watching her ride down the long drive. “It is odd,” Alex said, “but two days ago I did not believe her beautiful. Indeed, I believed her barely passable. But today, watching her speak to the visitors, I found her quite charmingly lovely.” She cocked a dark-red eyebrow at him. “Best take care, Grayson. She was looking at you with a bit too much interest, like you’re a desired dessert, mayhap even a nutty bun. What do you think?”
“I think if she wants P.C. to continue being friendly, she will stop eyeing me like a blancmange.”
* * * * *
And so it was that Grayson, Uncle Douglas, and Aunt Alex arrived at Blandish Manor at eight o’clock on a surprisingly clear and warm Friday evening, dressed to show their good taste and each with a large swig of brandy from Uncle Douglas’s flask to shine at social conversation.
There were fourteen guests to dinner in the charming Queen Anne dining room, all close neighbors, all ready to enjoy themselves. Grayson saw the gleam in Mrs. Smythe-Ambrosio’s dark eyes when he realized he was seated between her niece and a rheumy old gentleman whose claim to fame was an inherited fortune and surviving Waterloo. On Miss Elphinstone’s other side was a young man who appeared mightily interested in her. Grayson wished him luck.
Before he raised a spoon to his turtle soup, Miss Elphinstone leaned close. “Please call me R.M., Mr. Sherbrooke. May I call you Grayson?”
“You may, but I will not call you R.M. You must tell me your actual name, or you will have to remain Miss Elphinstone.”
She took a bite of a soft dinner roll, swallowed, and said, “I lied to the children. I wanted to keep in the spirit of their fun. No, I am not R.M., I am Delyth. It is a common enough Welsh name. My father, however, called me his nemesis.”
“Why?”
“Ah, Mr. Sherbrooke, I fear I must know you better before I tell you. Will you ride with me tomorrow? Are you free?”
Luckily, he wasn’t, or he wouldn’t be, once he’d spoken to his uncle Douglas.
By the end of the elaborate meal flowing with excellent champagne from Smythe-Ambrosio’s cellar, the gentlemen remained in the dining room to drink port and talk politics, which interested Grayson not one whit. He and his uncle Douglas were among the first to join the ladies in the drawing room. Grayson wasn’t surprised when Miss Elphinstone played Welsh ballads on the piano and sang in a lovely soprano.
Upon their departure, Delyth took his hand, eased close. “If I cannot see you tomorrow, then I shall see you on Sunday. At church. And then, who knows what will happen?”
Alex said as their carriage rolled onto the country road back to Northcliffe Hall, “A splendid evening. All our neighbors seem to become more intelligent with champagne, don’t you find that true?”
“Only if you have also become more intelligent with champagne, Alex.”
She grinned at him. “Just so. However, Douglas, I am concerned Miss Elphinstone wants Grayson. She is not subtle.”
Grayson sighed. “What should I do, Aunt Alex? Should I simply be honest and tell her about Miranda? Of course, if she isn’t interested in me, I would be offending her and embarrassing myself.”
She leaned forward to pat his knee. “Trust me, Grayson, she is interested. Go ahead, tell her you are involved with another lady, but I do not believe it will discourage Miss Elphinstone.”
“Her name is Welsh. Delyth. It is a beautiful name.” Was Aunt Alex right? But if so, why him in particular? This trip had dished up so many unexpected things, including Miss Elphinstone. He itched to see Olafar. Perhaps tonight they could travel to Camelot. What an odd thought that was, but no odder, he decided, than the two vicious demons he’d dealt with in Scotland.
Douglas frowned. “I’m not so certain Miss Elphinstone is enamored with Grayson, Alex. I agree she wants to stay close, but to entice him? I’m thinking it’s something else entirely.” He shook his head.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Later that night
It was well past midnight, the children soundly sleeping, when Grayson met Olafar in the schoolroom. To his surprise, the Virgin Bride was hovering behind Olafar’s left shoulder. She looked as she always looked—flowing, soft white veils, her magnificent hair hanging loose to her waist, like spun gold. No, there was a difference. It seemed to him she was somehow brighter, more present, she glowed with such excitement. Grayson smiled at her, and she seemed to glow even brighter.
He said to Olafar, “Do we awaken Pip?”
“No,” Olafar said. “I will connect to his spirit using a simple kelpie chant. As for you, Grayson, and you, Mathilde, I am not sure. This is new to me. What will happen? Will you come with me, or will you remain here, only your spirits, like Pip’s, sustaining me, and not actually with me? I do not know. However, I do know that you, Grayson, should lie next to Pip, very close.”
He turned to Mathilde. She shimmered, flowed closer, and thought to both of them, Olafar, I can simply flow into you, become one with you, at least temporarily. Do you believe that will work?
Olafar beamed at her, and in his mind, he heard her laughing, a girl’s high, sweet laugh of excitement.
Grayson lay wide awake, lying on his side, Pip hugged close to him. Why didn’t something happen? Where was Olafar? Where was Mathilde?
Suddenly, from one instant to the next, he was astride the beautiful black stallion, Bonaduce. Pip wasn’t with him. He panicked. “Where is Pip? I was holding him next to me in his bed.”
But Olafar was now Bonaduce and couldn’t answer him. Pip’s spirit, he thought, only his spirit was here. Was Grayson really here or, like Pip, only his spirit? Was this all a dream spun by a kelpie? But Grayson felt wide awake, wildly alive, his heart pumping with excitement.
Where was Mathilde?
He felt her warm against his cheek, as if fingers touched him lightly. I am here, Grayson. Yes, Pip is asleep in his bed at Northcliffe, and dreaming a glorious dream. Ah, Grayson, I have enjoyed many adventures but none so fine as this. This is magnificent. You and I, we are actually here! Riding a horse. I had forgotten—
Bonaduce soared upward, and Grayson heard himself shout with pleasure, heard Mathilde whoosh out a breath. How could she have a breath? He wasn’t going to worry about it. Nothing happening was logical; nothing was real. Or was it? Where were they? Why was he flying higher into the heavens? Grayson didn’t know.
Bonaduce trumpeted a whinny, and suddenly they were on the ground again in the middle of a forest, oak trees crowding in on them, lush in their summer green, with moonlight filtering through, fingers of light parting the leaves. Grayson saw they were on a rutted path. Bonaduce slewed his big head around, and in the next instant, he was human again.
It was amazing to watch. More amazing to him, Grayson didn’t simply fall to the ground once Bonaduce became a man. No, one instant he was on Bonaduce’s broad back, and the next he was standing in the middle of an oak forest. Olafar said, “You wondered why you were with me and Pip wasn’t. In his dream, he is, Grayson. Trust me, he is enjoying himself. Does he see you? I do not know.”
Grayson wondered aloud, “But am I really here, or like Pip, is it only my spirit? And my spirit can talk to you? Or am I as solid a human here as I was back at Northcliffe? It is all very strange, Olafar, even to me, and believe me when I tell you I have experienced many inexplicable things in my life.”
> Olafar smiled. “Yes, I imagine so if your Thomas Straithmore novels are based on your own otherworldly adventures. You know this is new to me as well, Grayson. I see you, yes, and we both appear to be here. I know your spirit is strong, Grayson, and your mind is open, always wondering and wandering, seeking out creatures who shouldn’t exist, but do. You have abilities ordinary mortals do not have. Are you really here with me?” He shrugged. “As I told you, I have no experience with another adult human. I have always traveled alone before, sometimes with a child’s spirit to tether me at my destination, mostly not.” He looked thoughtful a moment, then said, “An experiment—” He hit Grayson on the arm with his fist.
Grayson felt a punch of pain. “Given my arm hurts, I will rule I am here—somehow.” But was he, really? He didn’t know. “Where is Mathilde?”
Olafar called out, “Mathilde, are you here as well?”
I will be here soon, Olafar. I must reassemble myself. Ah, what excitement. I swear I could feel the wind whipping through my hair as if—as if I were young and alive again.
Both he and Olafar turned, looking, waiting. Olafar said, “Mathilde, I can see you sort of fluttering. How do you feel?”
She thought to them, How do I feel? What an odd question to hear. I am dead, Olafar. Am I supposed to feel something now? She paused, then, Oh my, I feel happy. I feel excited. I want to dance. By all the saints my evil mother denounced, I feel alive, or nearly. What is happening?
They watched as the white veils, instead of growing brighter, seemed to grow fainter, fading into nothing. Then they felt a shift in the air, a sort of shivering, as if the air itself was parting and a shape was forming, a young girl’s shape. Grayson’s mouth went dry. “Olafar, what do you see?”
Olafar had Bonaduce’s reins and bridle in his hands, weaving them through his fingers. He said simply, “I see a beautiful young girl, a budding rose, nearly a woman grown. Mathilde, you are smiling at me. You are breathing like I am breathing. And your hair—” Olafar’s breath hitched. He shook his head as if to clear his vision.
Mathilde was no longer wearing shimmering veils and fluttering about. She was wearing an old-fashioned gown of green wool with a high neck and long sleeves, a narrow gold belt around her waist. Not clothing from her time, the sixteenth century. No. Was it a gown from long ago, the time of King Arthur? Her glorious blond hair was held back from her face with a strip of matching green wool.
Grayson said, “Hello, Mathilde. I am glad you are here, but how can it be?”
Olafar said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, “If we are indeed back at ancient Camelot, you were not born yet, not for hundreds of years. You had not died yet.”
Grayson said, unable to take his eyes off her, “So does that mean coming to another time, a time before you died, you could become human again and, well, alive?”
Instead of thinking to him, Mathilde said in the king’s pure English, “I have no notion, but I do know I am here with you and Olafar. I breathe. I feel. I never want to leave this place or this time. How very odd—I am speaking. I can hear the words coming from my mouth.” She began twirling about, skirts flying, her magnificent hair streaming around her head. Grayson couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be real. But she was here, and he was here, both because of a half kelpie who wanted to prove Sir Thomas Malory’s vision about Guinevere’s betrayal had been wrong. And Pip was sleeping back in the present.
In the past, with other spirits, other creatures, Grayson had simply let his brain accept where he was. And so he gave it up. He was here, hopefully at long-ago Camelot.
Olafar held up his hand. “Mathilde, I will dance with you later. Come now, we can talk more about all these questions again, but I do not know how long we will be able to remain here, in the distant past. I’m hoping with the two of you, and with Pip’s strong spirit, we can be here for as long as we like, but who knows? Now, it’s time to see if the time flux has brought us to the real Camelot.”
“I am at Camelot,” Mathilde sang out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mathilde skipped, she turned in circles, and she danced, holding her skirts high. Then she started singing, a sweet clear melody, a song neither of them recognized.
Olafar laughed. “Come, we must go to Camelot.”
Mathilde continued to sing softly as she skipped beside them, so excited she was.
They walked out of the oak forest to see an immense wooden fortress at the end of a long expanse of barren ground. It was a knights’ practice field. In the distance was a small town, and behind the town, the sea lay beyond, calm and deep blue in the bright sunlight. The Irish Sea? Were they in Tintagel? Grayson said, “Olafar, does this look familiar to you?”
“Oh yes, it surely does.” He took Mathilde’s very human white hand and pulled her along, faster now. “I don’t know why, but I feel we must hurry. What if we are too late? No, no, but something is going to happen, and we must be there to stop it.”
The three of them ran to the huge wooden fortress, stopped, and looked about. Olafar said, “It is like before. There are no soldiers about. I fear the time flux has again sent me to the right place but the wrong Camelot. Come, let’s see if the gate is open.”
The gate swung open with only a light push, and they walked into an immense courtyard. It wasn’t empty. There were scores of men, women, children, animals, and soldiers all mixed together. But they weren’t moving. They seemed to be frozen, as in a tableau or a painting.
“I do not understand,” Olafar said, staring about. “So many people, but there is no life. Or life has simply stopped. Why? What is going on here?”
Mathilde said quietly, “You wonder why all the people aren’t going about their lives. I think they are a representation of what Camelot was or could have been. Listen, Olafar, accept you are not here to see the people of Camelot. Your focus is on seeing King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, so mayhap this time flux you spoke of brought you here only to see them. Let us go inside.”
Olafar looked around and slowly nodded. “Perhaps. Perhaps you are right.”
Mathilde grabbed both their hands and ran lightly through the people who were really only the images of people, no substance to them, across the courtyard and up the dozen wide steps, through the wide wooden doors and into the vast central hall. It was again filled with people, many dressed finely, many soldiers with axes and swords, again, a tableau, just like their counterparts outside.
On the dais at the end of the hall were two thrones. On the large one sat a young man, sun-darkened hands on the carved throne arms. His dark hair was pulled back from a strong granite-carved face and bound in a club at the back of his neck. He looked like he would not hesitate to destroy anyone who threatened him, or perhaps disagreed with him. He wore a beautiful golden-threaded long tunic over black leggings with fine black leather boots cross-gartered up to his knees. A beautiful silver sword was fastened to a wide leather belt at his lean waist. Excalibur? A gold crown set with what looked to be rubies sat on his head. He wore a thick golden chain around his neck. At the end of the chain was a blackened disk covered with deeply etched figures and characters. He wasn’t paying any attention to the frozen people in front of him, nor did he appear to see them. He was turned slightly on his throne, speaking toward the vivid red curtains at the edge of the dais. He said clearly in English they understood, and wasn’t that strange, “Guinevere, come here. Lord Thayne will be here soon.”
The red velvet curtains parted, and a woman slipped through. And not just any woman—it was the Guinevere of legend, so beautiful a man would stutter just looking at her soft white skin, her thick golden hair pulled back by golden combs, showing a face surely fashioned by the gods. Behind her came a young man, golden as the sun, his face fashioned by the same gods as Guinevere’s, tall and fit, and he was smiling at Arthur. He looked noble, a warrior, a man fashioned for great deeds, yet there was something in that smile, something sly, something that perhaps bespoke duplicity.
“Where
were you?” Arthur asked his queen, his voice clipped and sharp.
Guinevere said, “One of my stockings went astray, and my lady had to fetch me another. Lancelot joined me outside our chamber, and we hurried here to await Lord Thayne.”
“Come sit in your place. Thayne will be here soon.” He spared a look at Lancelot, nodded and smiled, but his eyes were watchful, distrusting. Lancelot bowed and stepped off the dais. Suddenly, he stopped and became as frozen as were all the other people in the great hall.
Arthur said to Guinevere, “I have been told by one of my spies that Thayne is here to kill me. I have told all my knights to be ready. There are many men like Thayne who pretend to friendship and honor but have none.”
Guinevere nodded, walked to her throne, and sat gracefully down on an elaborate green embroidered cushion. Arthur said between seamed lips, not looking at her, “I am sending Lancelot to Londinium. I want him to meet with soldiers I have heard are searching for a master. If he finds them able, he will bring them here.”
She seemed to stiffen, yet her graceful white hands lay quiescent in her lap. “Will it be dangerous?”
Arthur turned to look at his queen and said sharply, “There is always danger, no matter who or where you are. We ourselves are awaiting danger right here in Camelot. Why would you be concerned? He is my man. He will do as I tell him to do.”
“But surely you must need Lancelot here—”
Suddenly, there was a loud shout. The doors of the great hall flew open, and armed men flooded in, yelling, their swords drawn. King Arthur leapt from his throne, drew Excalibur, and jumped from the dais and into the battle. They saw a warrior leap at him while he was fighting another, his sword held high, and he was bringing it down into Arthur’s back. And then—
Olafar, Grayson, and Mathilde once again stood outside the giant wooden gates of the fortress.
The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall Page 6