by Liz Berry
The green eyes swivelled back to her, gleaming with humour.“The Tower of Freedom and Justice. Erected by the Twelfth Earl to commemorate the American and French Revolutions—and to irritate his neighbours, no doubt. He was an interesting character. He had to marry hastily at seventeen, but his wife died in childbirth soon after. He ran away to America in 1785, leaving his son behind. Then he eloped to France with a wealthy Dutch heiress, Hannah Van Buren, was active in the French Revolution, became a member of the National Assembly of 1791, which issued the Declaration of the Rights of Man and finally joined Napoleon in Italy. He refused the Trust, of course. Didn’t believe in hereditary titles. Came back for his father’s funeral, stayed for six weeks and was drowned in the Channel in a freak storm on his way back to France. An eventful life, you might say.”
Clare smiled.“Mrs Potts-Dyrham didn’t tell us about him yesterday.”
“His son Edmund Edward was responsible for the Library. He built it to house his father’s collection of revolutionary writings, but he was a great collector of paintings and books himself”
The green eyes watched her speculatively.
“So. What subject are you reading at university?”
“Economics and Computer Science.”
He shook his head.“Not for you.”
“I worked hard for my A-levels. I think I’ve passed.”
“You’ve passed, but you won’t take up that place.”
His voice was even, certain.
Clare stared at him and could not look away from the brilliant eyes which seemed to widen and deepen.
“What were you doing at the China Garden last night?”
“I ... How did you know I was there?”
He said, cryptically,“I haven’t lost all my faculties yet.”
“But you can’t see the China Garden from here.”
He smiled.“There are more than five senses, Clare.”
She shivered.“I wasn’t doing any harm, just wandering around. I wanted to go in, but it was locked and all the Moon Gates are blocked.” She took a deep breath and plunged in,“It’s awful to see it so overgrown. I was talking to Mai Lee, your Head Gardener, and... well, we’d like to open it up and restore it. Make it look beautiful again, like the rest of the gardens. I said I would... ask you for the key.”
There was a long silence. He seemed to have shrunk in on himself, his eyes hooded, like a very old roosting bird. Clare waited uneasily.
Eventually he said,“When they took my Caroline I swore I would have my revenge. I would let it all go.”
Clare said, groping,“Your first wife?”
“My life ended when she died. Whatever I did, nothing but emptiness.”
“But you were in the War. You had a son.”
“The son of my second wife. She was a Kenward on her grandmother’s side, so I thought it would serve. But she was no use. And Brandon refused the Trust and died. All waste and devastation. A wasted life.”
Clare wondered if he meant his own life or his son’s life.
“I closed the China Garden, bricked up the Fourth Moon Gate, and I let it fall into ruin deliberately.”
Clare said, slowly, absolutely sure now,“You know about Roger Fletcher, don’t you? About what he’s doing? Letting things run down. Sacking the staff. Trying to sell off your books. Bringing in the archaeologists. Do you know what he intends to do with Ravensmere and the village when he inherits?”
“I believe he intends to sell it to Nuclear Energy.”
“You do know! It will destroy everything here. The farms. The countryside. Everything. They’ll use it for a nuclear dumping ground. Don’t you care?”
His eyes were fixed on her.“He says we must move with the times. Capitalize on resources. The days of the estates are over.”
Clare felt the terrible despair wash over her. It was what she would have said herself before she came here.“Please, please, don’t do it. It’s all wrong. Evil. Please think again.”
“What’s it to you? You don’t live here. You’re going away.”
Clare stared at him. She didn’t know why she cared so much. She said at last,“I... just know it’s dreadfully wrong. I’m only a visitor, but I can’t bear to think of all this beauty... broken... ruined.” She gestured at the great bowl of hills, with the tree-fringed lake lying at its heart.“How can you want to destroy so much? Just because your wife died. Thousands of people lose the people they love, but they don’t try to destroy the Earth for revenge.”
“No, they destroy for less creditable reasons—money, power, nationalism, greed. You think that’s better?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I’ve not begun to think about all that yet. But once it’s destroyed, it’s destroyed, isn’t it, whatever the reason? I only know that Ravensmere is a special place. You can feel it. You’ll laugh, but I think it is a sacred place. You can’t let it happen.”
“A place of beauty, and power. And terror. You do not know yet the great burden.”
His eyes seemed to have filmed over. He sat hunched and unmoving, deep in his mind, in a time and place long ago.
Suddenly he was struggling with the rugs, trying to push them away. He thrust his hand into an inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a key.
“Here!” He tossed it across the table. It slid over the wrought iron top on to the paving stones of the terrace and skittered to her feet. Clare picked it up and stood holding it, turning it hesitantly. It was a beautiful key, brass, intricately patterned with a double spiral at the top.
There was a difference in the air, a silence, a holding back. Clare looked up and saw that he was watching her.
“You’re sure?” She was frightened, knowing that whatever he said she wouldn’t be able to give the key back to him. It clung to her fingers, heavy and warm, a powerful force holding her. Whatever happened she must keep the key and open the China Garden.
“The cycle is starting again. I have no choice. They are too strong for me.”
He closed his eyes and lay back in his wheelchair. His skin was an unhealthy grey and violet. He suddenly looked tired and very old.
Clare said, alarmed,“Are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything?”
“You can fetch your mother. I’m ready to go in.”
Feeling guilty, Clare quickly collected the tray and made for the door. Then she hesitated.
“My mother—you said she’d come to expiate, to atone. What for? What did she do wrong?”
For a moment she thought he was not going to answer, then he said, slowly,“She killed my son.”
Clare wanted to laugh. She said disbelieving,“You’re not trying to tell me my mother is a murderess? She can’t even kill a moth, let alone a person. Mrs Anscomb said your son died in an accident.”
Clare thought, he’s old. He’s wandering in his mind.
He opened his eyes, and there was no sign of madness or weakness, only the inimical green glitter.“I may have phrased that badly. My son Brandon died by his own hand. He committed suicide. Your mother was responsible for his death.”
Chapter 12
Her mother was in the big kitchen, her eyes red, sitting at the table drinking coffee, with Mrs Anscomb fussing around her.
Clare said coldly,“He’s not well. He wants to come in.”
Frances got up quickly, avoiding Clare’s eyes.“He’s exhausted himself. I told him he wasn’t well enough to be up.”
“He said you killed his son,” Clare said evenly.
There was silence in the kitchen. After an exclamation even Mrs Anscomb didn’t speak. Clare could hear a blackbird singing outside the open window.
Frances pulled herself up, her face stony.“Bran killed himself. He was the next Guardian. He knew what he had to do. But he couldn’t accept it. He tried to leave Ravensmere for good. And he died. It was his own fault. Not my fault. Not.”
She sounded desperate, as though she was repeating stubbornly something she had told herself many times for her own sanity but didn�
��t quite believe any more.
There was a long silence, then she spoke again, the words forced out of her at last.“But he left because of me. It was my fault he left. I suppose ... in that way ... I killed him. I failed the Trust too.”
She walked out of the kitchen, very pale, but somehow more impressive than Clare had ever seen her before.
“She were more sinned against than sinning,” said Mrs Anscomb, angrily banging the coffee cups in the sink.“T’weren’t her fault. Not any of it!”
Clare stared after her.“This Trust they keep talking about, what is it?”
“She was to have been the Guardian. Her and Brandon Aylward together. The two new Guardians, after Mr Aylward, of course.”
“But what were they supposed to be guarding?”
“Why the Benison, of course. For hundreds of years there’ve always been the two Guardians looking after it. The two families, Aylwards and Kenwards. And before that they do say t’was they old nuns in the Abbey.”
“But I thought Henry VIII had the Benison taken to London, where it disappeared.”
Mrs Anscomb looked sly.“Depends what the Benison is, don’t it? We say, ‘God’s in the ground at Ravensmere’. They’d never have let it leave the Abbey.”
“Do you mean it’s still here? That people have seen it and know where it is? Mrs Potts-Dyrham said it was a golden bowl.”
Mrs Anscomb laughed.“Bless you, how would we know if it’s a bowl? Only the Guardians know what the Benison is. They say they tell the Aylward heir when he’s twenty-one, you know, like the secret of Glamis Castle, and he tells his bride, the other Guardian.”
“So only the Aylwards and Kenwards know? No one in the village?”
“That’s their job. That’s what the names mean—awe-inspiring guardian and royal guardian. They guard the Benison. In the village... well, we look after Ravensmere and guard the Guardians. That’s our job. And the Benison looks after all of us.”
Clare said, incredulously,“But it’s just an old bowl you’ve never seen and which may not even exist.”
The smile disappeared from Mrs Anscomb’s face. She looked at Clare, her bright blue eyes very intense.“Oh, it exists, m’dear, the Benison. Never doubt it. A most sacred and holy Trust, passed on from generation to generation and we have to look after it. There’s not a soul in the village who’d disagree.”
“You don’t really think it’s the Holy Grail?” Clare tried to keep the disbelief out of her voice. Mrs Anscomb turned, putting the china away on the huge dresser.
“A most sacred and holy Trust,” she repeated stubbornly.“That’s what my old granny told me. And that’s what we all believe.”
“And that’s why my mother feels so bad? She said she failed the Trust.”
“T’were none of her doing,” Mrs Anscomb sat down.“He tried to go away. The Guardians have to stay. Oh, they can go away for a while, but they have to come back. They have to accept. If they try to go for good... if they refuse to accept the Trust, well, they don’t seem to last long if you see what I mean. They all know that, but some of them don’t believe it until it’s too late.”
The goosebumps rose on Clare’s arms. She remembered the Sixth Earl, running away and dying in a ditch; the Ninth Earl refusing to marry his Kenward bride and dying in a duel; the Revolutionary Earl drowning in the Channel and Darren’s mum asking if there was a family curse.
“B-but that’s superstition. Just co-incidence,” she stammered.“My mother left. She didn’t die.”
Mrs Anscomb shrugged.“She weren’t married. Didn’t know the secret of the Benison. Brandon never told her before he died. It all happened too quick. I tell you m’dear, I wouldn’t like to chance it myself“
As Clare crossed the service yard Mai pounced on her, laughing and jubilant.“You got the key to the China Garden then. That was really fast work.”
Clare stared at her.“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Because it was unlocked, of course, dumbo.”
Clare opened her hand slowly and showed Mai the key.“Mr Aylward only just gave it me.”
“But it was already open when I went along earlier,” Mai said, mystified.“The boards were off as you said and one of the iron gates was half open. I thought you...”
Glare shook her head.“I did everything I could to open it, but it was all rusted up.”
“Weirdsville,” said Mai.“Maybe you loosened it, or one of the boys had a go. I’ll ask around. Anyway it doesn’t matter if Mr A. himself has given you the key. We can start cutting down the hayfield.”
Clare’s excitement surged back.“You’ve been in?”.
“Only a quick look. I’ll get John and Billy started in there this afternoon with the strimmers, and we’ll see what we’ve got under all that lot. James will be pleased. Do you want to have lunch with us? Only cheese sandwiches, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome.”
“No, no thanks. I think I’ll take a look at the China Garden first. I’ll see you later.”
Clare could not have explained, but suddenly the need to see the Garden, the need actually to go in, was so great that she could think of nothing else.
She made her way along the gravelled forecourt and through the rose garden, a blaze of colour today, alive with bees, under the noon-day heat. Even the fearsome guardian dogs looked almost benign. One of the two iron gates that had been rusted together last night was partially open. She took the shallow step up into the circle and went through the First Moon Gate.
Inside the huge space, the grass grew waist high, full of poppies, buttercups and dandelions. There had been no rain for several weeks and the grass was tawny and parched.
The ground was irregular, full of humps like miniature hills and valleys. Around the tall walls there was a raised bank, and in the centre on a higher mound was the octagonal Chinese Pavilion. She could see now that it was badly in need of repair. Spars had fallen from the roof, the trellised sides were hanging loose, and the steps up to it were splintered. Once it had been painted red and gold, turquoise and blue, but most of the paint had peeled away. Cautiously Clare picked her way to it, along what appeared to be a raised path over a sunken area, and sat down on the lower of its two steps.
She looked around, angry again with Mr Aylward. There seemed to be nothing left of the original Garden.
The tall walls were almost obscured by rambling roses and clematis, and small trees and bushes woven with ivy and bindweed. Above them the top of the wall, curiously tiled, curled up and down like a serpent. Her eyes followed the wall around, and stopped, delighted. Not a snake—a dragon. Two dragons. There they were, curled around the top of the wall, with their splendid heads meeting either side of the First Moon Gate.
She could see the other Moon Gates more clearly now. Each of them was framed with smooth dark marble, set into the creamy pink stone of the wall. But as she had found last night they were all blocked or overgrown.
The midday sun burned down, bouncing off the walls and the golden grass. It was like being inside a great bubble of light, cut off from the rest of the world, she thought, and felt suddenly drowsy. It was so hot there seemed to be a thrumming in the air.
She leaned back and looked again at the Moon Gates. There were three on one side of the octagon, and three on the other with one blank wall opposite the First Moon Gate. Each had its scroll of Chinese letters over it, and its carved and gilded number.
The Second Moon Gate was to the right, half-hidden behind a pile of logs and small tree trunks. A rambling rose with thorns at least an inch long rioted over the Third Moon Gate. The deep red roses were huge, and she could smell their glorious perfume even from where she was sitting.
The Fourth Moon Gate had been completely bricked up. Mr Aylward’s orders, she remembered. But why only that Gate? Why not all of them?
Then there was the blank section of the wall. An ancient fig tree as thick as a python, twisted through the Fifth Moon Gate.
The Sixth Moon Gate was blocked by a pile of r
ubble, chunks of marble and huge stones like crumbling holed cheese. Something had been knocked down. Could there have been a fountain or a stone basin there?
The next Gate, in the wall to the left of the First Moon Gate was the strangest of all. It was only an imitation Gate. It had its dark marble surround, and its inscription, but there had never been a real opening. The centre of the circle was the pinkish surface of the original wall itself. ‘Seven’, Clare read. The Seventh Moon Gate. She had been right. There were seven Gates. Six real Moon Gates and one pretend one.
She got up and moved slowly around the Pavilion over the uneven ground, pushing her way through the long grass. It was so quiet, suddenly, even the birds and bees seemed to be taking a siesta. She walked around again, trying to see clearly, dazzled in the white blaze of sunlight, an expanding arc, of light.
The Third Moon Gate was not blocked after all.
She could have sworn that this one had the red roses with the big thorns. How could she have made such a mistake?
The Gate was open. Framed in its circle she could see Stoke Raven village, with its ancient buildings and the Market Cross set in the centre. It seemed very close. She could see the dew damping the cobbles and the early morning heat mist just lifting. Lounging on motor bikes on the steps of the Cross was a group of leather-clad bikers. They were laughing, ribbing each other, waiting. As Clare watched, another motorcyclist appeared, swooped around them, shouting, and accelerated away. In a moment the others, whooping, were streaming after him.
Her head was banging, her brain swimming in the intense heat. She rubbed her forehead and stared at the Third Moon Gate.
There was no opening. The rambler rose was there, blocking it completely.
She drew in a slow breath. Even if the Gate was clear, she could not have seen Stoke Raven. The village was deep in the valley. Between the China Garden and the village lay the whole of Ravensmere’s park, and the boundary wall.
She felt sick with fear. It was happening again, the hallucinating. All very well for Dr McKinnon to say it was a natural ability and nothing to worry about, but she couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe it was just the heat. Maybe she had dropped off to sleep for a moment and dreamed. Maybe.