I changed for bed, throwing my smart shirt and jacket onto a chair, not bothering to hang them up carefully, barely introduced my teeth to my toothbrush, before relieving myself and finally falling into bed, the drunken stupor that had taken me giving way to a deep sleep.
I woke in the middle of the night – the clock by my bedside reading 03:33 – needing a piss, my mind a melange of half-remembered dreams of dragon-slaying knights and witches’ curses, which writhed and twisted, fleeing my memory as I tried to recall them, like hagfish tying themselves in slimy knots to escape a predator in the abyssal depths of their oceanic domain.
When I returned to the downy duvet comfort of my still-warm bed, it took me a while to get back to sleep; when I closed my eyes, the half-formed recollections emerged from the darkness again in their writhing knots.
And when I did wake again, to the bingly-bong of my phone’s alarm, it was with bleary eyes and a mind clouded by headache, that I stumbled into the shower in the hope of washing away the night’s alcohol-disturbed dreams.
IX
Breakfast was a selection of cereals, fruit salad and a greasy full English, which I ate alone. But while I was finishing my second cup of coffee, my host joined me. He appeared to be wearing a combination of his previous day’s attire and something like the tweed jacket he’d worn in his promotional photo on the castle’s website.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” I replied, being ever so slightly economical with the truth.
“No nasty dreams, then?”
“No,” I said, lying now, my interest piqued.
“Good to hear. You know how it is when you’re away from more familiar surroundings.”
“Of course,” I said, “but I’ve been made to feel very at home here.”
“Good, good.” Lambton poured himself a coffee from the large cafetiere on the sideboard. “So what did you have in mind for today?”
“I thought I’d go for a walk, actually. Take in the local area. The estate. Reconnect with the landscape. Maybe dig up some old roots, as it were.”
“Oh, all right.” Lambton looked almost crestfallen as he sipped his coffee. “Don’t forget the library,” he said.
I hadn’t.
“I could show you round this morning, before you head off out, if you like.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. Had nothing else planned for this morning. Finish your coffee and we’ll head up that way now. You’ve not really read the Legend of the Lambton Worm until you’ve read it in the seventeenth century edition we have in the library. The manuscript dates back to before the Civil War, you know?”
“Thank you,” I conceded. “That would be very kind of you.”
With Lord Lambton hovering impatiently at the door to the dining room, I downed the dregs of my cooling coffee, laid my napkin beside my plate, and rose from the table. I followed my host through the house until we arrived at an oak-panelled door, which he opened, and we entered the library.
I simply stood in the doorway, savouring the musty books and beeswax smell of the place, drinking in the rows upon rows of volumes arranged in the dozen or more floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered every wall of the room.
It was like every library in every stately home I have ever been in rolled into one, and like every library I have ever dreamed of turning my office space into.
Light streamed in through high windows above the bookshelves, turning the spinning motes of dust disturbed by our arrival into a shower of gold.
A huge rug, of doubtless Middle Eastern origin, covered the polished floorboards. In its warp and weft could be seen a pattern of interwoven white-bodied serpents. On top of this, in the centre of the room, sat a heavy desk complete with a gold-trimmed green leather writing surface and legs as solid as the tree trunks they must have been carved from. In other words, a desk such as which I had dreamed of owning all my life, rather than the plastic veneered chipboard imposter I sat down at every day back in London.
My host proceeded to show off some of the more collectible and esoteric pieces in the library before directing my attention towards books on local history and volumes pertaining to local legends, in particular the tale of Sir John, Knight of Rhodes.
“Here it is,” he said, drawing a slim volume from a bookshelf and passing it to me. I opened the black, leather-bound book with caution and care, savouring the cracking of its spine but mindful that I must not damage this precious artefact.
There, on the first age-yellowed page, was a woodcut of a writhing serpent battling a knight clad in curious spiked armour and wielding a mighty sword. Beneath it, in an appealing seventeenth century typeface, was the title of the book:
The True Historie of Sir John, Knight of Rhodes, and the Lambton Worm.
X
In his younger days, when he was but heir to his father’s great estate, Sir John of Lambton, later Knight of Rhodes, was a callow youth with little respect for the teachings of the Church and little will to keep the Sabbath day holy. One Easter morning, when he should have been attending Mass, he went a-fishing in the Wear.
And while he sat beside the river, his line trailing in the water – cursing his bad luck and affronting those who passed by on their way to morning prayers – he felt his line go taut, for he had snagged a mighty catch, and battled to land what he thought was a great fish. But when he did at last pull his catch from the raging torrent, he was appalled to see that, rather than a trout or pike, he had hooked something more akin to a worm than a fish. It was an ugly creature, something like a lamprey or an eel.
Disgusted by the unsightly appearance of the worm, believing he had caught the Devil himself, the heir of Lambton cast the creature into a nearby well and, with a contrite heart, straightway sought to make amends for the wrong he had done Almighty God by profaning the Sabbath with his actions.
Having sought absolution for his sins from his father’s confessor, and following a night during which he was plagued by the most terrible visions of the very pit of Hell itself, the next morning, the young Sir John embarked upon a perilous pilgrimage to the Holy Land, there to aid with the liberation of the Holy City from the heathen Saracen and the Turk.
Having taken the Cross, for seven long years he battled the infidel, forgetting his former life and earning many battle honours. But he also became disillusioned by the unending war, the unrelenting heat and the unnatural agues that bedevilled God’s soldiers, and a deep sadness grew like a canker within his heart.
But during those seven long years, the devilish worm that he had caught and cast into the well had grown also, grown to a prodigious size having feasted on the estate’s livestock thereabouts until it was so large that it coiled itself about a certain crag, earning that benighted place the name of Worm Hill.
The monster held the lands of Lord Lambton in thrall to its terrible appetites. It devoured lambs and oxen both, and drained the milk of nine cows day in, and day out, which the people were wont to provide, lest it fall upon man to satisfy its unholy hunger.
Many had tried to slay the worm and many had failed, for if the monster’s flesh was rent asunder by any blade, the wound, no matter how severe, would heal in an instant;, flesh and bone would simply knit together, uniting the severed parts.
Having completed his seven years of penance, Sir John Lambton – now Knight of Rhodes – returned at last to that blighted place he had once called home, and hope returned with him.
Realising that he was to blame for the dire predicament in which his father’s faithful vassals now found themselves, Sir John set forth to do battle with the fell worm.
He met the monster in battle at its hilltop lair but was thwarted by its unholy powers of rapid healing. Accepting that it was his duty now to put an end to the unnatural creature, he sought counsel from another creature vested of unnatural powers, and came at last to the dwelling of the Witch of Lambton.
And so, when n
ext the Wear was in spate, Sir John scaled a rock that rose from the middle of the churning waters, clad from head to toe in armour bristling with blades, each as a sharp as a razor’s edge. Having baited his trap, there he waited.
He did not have to wait long before the worm came that way, seeking to cross the river that lay between its hilltop lair and the drinking trough wherein was put the milk it supped upon daily. Seeing him, standing proud atop the rock, challenging its dominance, the worm fell upon the knight and the battle that ensued was as terrible as any had ever been.
In its rage, the worm fell upon Sir John, encircling him with its crushing coils. But as the blades that studded his armour sliced deep into its unnatural flesh, and the Wear ran red with the monster’s blood, the severed pieces of its sinuous body dropped into the river and were carried away by the current before they could be reunited. Soon all that was left of the foul fiend was the monster’s hideous head, then that too went into the river.
But the worm’s defeat came at a price, a price that could only be paid in blood. The witch had demanded that on slaying the monster, the noble knight must then kill the first thing he met thereafter, be it man or beast. And so he arranged that, should he prove victorious, he would sound his hunting horn, that his faithful hound might come to him, and that the witch’s bargain be paid for with the dog’s blood.
Climbing from the river, Sir John blew loud and hard upon his horn, but where Sir John had heeded well the witch’s words of warning, his father did not, and the old Lord of Lambton ran to congratulate his son before his hound could reach him. Unable to kill his own father, so Sir John cursed the Lambton line for nine generations to come, his heirs meeting violent and untimely ends for his folly.
XI
I don’t know when precisely it was that my host left me, so enraptured was I by the library and its contents. It was only when a plate of sandwiches and cold meats was delivered to the room by a nondescript footman that I realised three hours, rather than just one, had passed with me doing nothing more than poring over books and ancient maps of the area. The library had well and truly cast its spell over me.
Lord Lambton stopped by again that afternoon – some time around three, I believe – inviting me to use the library as my own personal work space while I stayed at the castle, an offer I accepted with unalloyed enthusiasm. I hurried to my room, collecting my laptop and my notebooks as the structure for a story began to suggest itself to me. A historical thriller, in the vein of Michael Jecks or Ellis Peters, but with the gritty, macabre action of a Joe Abercrombie or a Joe Hill blockbuster.
I didn’t leave the library until after sunset, blinking in an attempt to enliven my eyes again. I dined alone in my room, watching something mindless – I don’t remember what – on the TV to help me unwind.
It was only when I awoke to darkness that I realised I’d dozed off after dinner. My empty plate was still on the bed beside me, the TV was still on quietly in the background – showing the umpteenth re-run of some comedy panel show or other – and the curtains were still open. The only light in the room came from the ghostly glow of the TV screen and the moon, perfectly framed by the window.
Getting off the bed, I crossed the room to the window. With the lights still off, I gazed out across the grounds to the glassy slope that led down to the River Wear, where it went on its wending way towards the sea, and took a moment to imagine the Lambton Worm caught by the current, fighting futilely to escape its cleansing clutches.
It was then that I saw something – a figure, little more than a shadow against the monochrome grass of the slope – cross the lawns below the house, heading for the woods. I caught my breath, so startled was I, and took a step back from the window, my heart pounding.
In that moment, I was certain that the figure striding across the lawn was my host, Tristam Lambton. But where could he be going at – I checked the clock by the bed – 10:46, without a light to guide him and with such purpose?
My heart drumming a tattoo against my ribcage, I leant towards the window again, trying to keep out of sight behind the drawn curtain whilst spying on my host and his night-time activities.
But the figure was gone; vanished into the woods, no doubt. Had he seen me, exposed within the window? Was he watching me even now from the darkness under the trees? I pulled back again, my pulse thundering in my ears, and, a moment later, pulled the curtains shut.
Had it really been my host the lord? I wondered, doubting myself now. But if it hadn’t been him, who had I seen taking a stroll after dark about the grounds of Lambton Castle, and what were they up to? Come to think of it, even if it had been Lord Lambton, what was he up to?
I made sure my door was locked before I retired to the bathroom to perform my nightly ablutions. Call me paranoid, but as a favourite saying of mine goes, just because you are paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. I used to smile when I said that, but if only I’d known then what I know now.
Having already dozed for a couple of hours in front of the TV, and having been shaken by what I had seen – or, at least, what I thought I had seen on that second night at the castle – sleep was some time coming. And when it did, my dreams were full of writhing serpents and well-haunting worms.
XII
When I woke the following morning – from dreams involving spectral midnight stalkers and weird Ken Russell-esque sexed-up snake cults, led by be-fanged high priestesses who looked a lot like a young Amanda Donohoe – my mind was awhirl with ideas for my new novel.
Ignoring the need for breakfast, or even to get changed out of my pyjamas, I sat down at the small desk in my room and, opening my laptop, set about typing up as much as I could remember, in the hope of getting the bare bones of a plot down on paper, as it were, before my night-time imaginings escaped me for good.
I was buzzing. I hadn’t felt this enthused about writing in a long time, and that feeling of euphoria energized me, meaning that in only a couple of hours I had over three thousand words of story outlines and ideas saved to my hard drive and, more importantly than that, I felt optimistic: about the future, about my new book... I was enjoying the creative process again, and I hadn’t felt like that for a long time.
But what I had managed to get down in that newly opened Word document was only the beginning. It wasn’t even a polished synopsis or complete chapter breakdown. There were bound to be contradictory sections and logic flaws within it, and there were characters and situations that needed fleshing out. Linking sections would need adding and themes would need to be drawn out from the first draft and made more subtly explicit throughout the second draft. In other words, there was still a lot to do. But it was a beginning, and that got me excited again.
What I needed now was time to think, to work through plot holes and consider character development, without any extraneous distractions.
With another balmy Indian summer day taking shape beyond the walls of the castle, I decided it was high time I went for that walk I’d been promising myself. Healthy mind, healthy body, and all that. Besides, I was in a beautiful part of the world and what was the point of connecting with the area to inspire me if I didn’t go out there and enjoy it?
Penshaw Hill lay a few miles roughly north-east of the Lambton estate and it was said to afford the keen walker with wonderful views of the surrounding countryside. More importantly, it was another place associated with the legend of the Lambton Worm. It was where the worm was supposed to have taken up residence during its reign of terror. As it wrapped itself tight around the mound, its huge coils formed the spiral pattern of ridges still visible upon the hill to this day, although archaeologists had proven that these ridges were in reality the last remnants of an Iron Age hill fort.
But knowing the earthworks were actually part of a prehistoric fortification didn’t lessen their importance with regard to the legend. Besides, it was a nice day and the walk there and back would provide me with a decent afternoon’s exercise.
So, taking nothing more
than my jacket, wallet and keys with me, I set off for Penshaw Hill across the Lambton estate.
XIII
Setting off from the parking area,– not seeing anyone on the way – I walked across the sloping lawns towards the River Wear. What better way to begin my walk than by following the course of the river through the woods?
Lost in thought, the sudden crack of a twig underfoot and the harsh bark of, “Can’t you read?” took me by complete surprise and had my heart pounding.
The gamekeeper appeared at the treeline as if by magic, his dun coloured trousers and mulch green jacket helping him blend into the woodlands he had been tasked to protect.
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly terribly well-spoken and blushing in my embarrassment.
“It says ‘Keep Out!’” He pointed at a sign nailed to a tree that actually read “Private – No Trespassing”.
“I’m very sorry,” I said, my words tumbling over themselves in a nervous panic as I eyed the shotgun broken over the man’s arm and the mangy-looking mongrel staring at me from its master’s heels, “but I’m actually a guest at the castle.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” the man said, tugging at the brim of his cap, and giving a curt, but respectful nod. But he didn’t move.
“I was just out for a pleasant afternoon’s stroll,” I went on, feeling that a greater level explanation was expected.
“I see.”
“I was hoping to check out the monument on Penshaw Hill.”
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