My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  "Too late for that, I shouldn't wonder," argued the Scribe. "Pesky Yanks."

  "When is the Yank in question set to arrive?" asked the Rat, his nose quivering fiercely.

  "On the morrow." The Gray Lady shook her head sadly. "All these fine ruins, ruined."

  "Restored," said the Rat. "Redone."

  "A Do-It-Yourselfer," the Scribe offered. "As if being an American wasn't insult enough."

  "What about those rumors of the castle being haunted?" the Gray Lady asked with a look of cunning on her face. "Would that deter him?"

  "The American couple was certainly affected by what they saw," the Rat agreed.

  Iolanthe held up her hand to stop any of her men from moving. She could scarce believe what she'd heard, and she knew she should take a moment to digest it all before she took any action.

  A Yank?

  He'd bought her hall?

  And he intended to restore it?

  She hardly knew what to think. She stood there and struggled to find her wits. A man in her keep? A man with hammer and nails and the saints only knew what other kind of modern creations, fouling up her unlife and making himself at home in her home?

  It was a calamity.

  Iolanthe looked around the hall at her men.

  "Give these souls something to recount," she said clearly, then let her hand fall.

  Two dozen Highlanders made themselves quite visible, bellowing their war cries and charging the little group of three with merciless expressions and upraised weapons.

  The Rat fell over in a dead faint.

  The other two screeched and fled for the door. There was a great commotion there, and Iolanthe hopped up on the ruins of a table to get a better view. And she couldn't help but smile just a bit.

  Roderick was there, plain to the eye, doing his best to keep the two cowards just inside the doorway.

  "Better fetch your fellow," he reprimanded. "Shame on you for leaving him."

  The Fat Scribe pushed past Roderick and ran screaming down the way. The Gray Lady took a deep breath, then turned back inside the hall. She hoisted the Rat over her shoulder, staggered, yet managed to keep her feet. Roderick gallantly encouraged her as she hastened from the keep. Iolanthe could hear him keeping up a steady stream of chatter as the poor woman struggled down the way.

  "Should someone help the auld wench?" one of the clansmen milling about said.

  "Dinnae fash yerself, Douglas," another said with a hearty laugh, clapping his fellow on the back companionably. "She heaved him into the grass down the way, didna ye see it?"

  "Ach, weel, a brave one, that," Douglas conceded.

  Iolanthe let their conversations drift over her as she made her way to the back of the hall. She nodded to the men she passed, smiling to let them know she was pleased with their performance.

  But inside, she was trembling.

  From fury, not fear.

  By the time she reached what was left of the battlements, she was seething. How dare some strange man, who she'd never met and who she knew already that she wouldn't care for in the least, think to overrun her home? Not that she cared overmuch for the place, given the circumstances, but 'twas her home, and she'd paid a dear price for it.

  Well, no matter what the Yank thought, he would not be spending any nights in her hall. Her men would see to that and enjoy the doing of the deed.

  Aye, there would be no intruders in her home.

  She wouldn't allow it.

  Chapter 5

  Thomas struggled to find the demarcation between X dreaming and waking. His dreams had been full of Everest, of snow and wind and desperate weariness. He wondered at times if he would ever escape the shadow of that experience and the way it consumed him. Then again, with the number of ghosts he kept seeing serving as a distraction, maybe he just might.

  He forced himself to be fully aware of where he was. He wasn't camped on the side of a mountain; he was in a comfortable bed in his sister's inn. Once he'd convinced himself of that, memories of the day before returned with a rush, though he studiously avoided mentally reliving any scarcely avoided encounters with sheep, pedestrians, and other vehicles he'd had on his journey north.

  He looked at his watch, determined that he'd slept until almost ten, then rolled out of bed and stretched, feeling remarkably like his old self. He was mentally alert, physically restored, and ravenous. All very good signs. The past few weeks of packing up his gear, seeing it sent, closing up his house, and getting to England seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.

  He shaved, showered, and dressed in record time. With any luck, General Pruitt wouldn't have closed down the mess hall. If so, he'd have to fend for himself. Would foraging in the fridge result in a court-martial? He wondered if she preferred an old-fashioned hanging or the firing squad. He could easily see her executing either.

  There was no one at the registration desk as he trotted by, so he started opening doors. He found the library, a sitting room, an office of some kind, a gathering room of another kind, and then finally the dining room. It was occupied, which came as a relief. At least he hadn't come too late for some kind of meal. He smiled politely at the group there, then looked for an empty seat at the long table.

  And then he noticed the reception he was getting. He paused, halfway to sitting down.

  "I'm sorry," he said, wondering if he'd stumbled in on some private breakfast. "Am I interrupting?"

  The other three occupants of the room were giving him looks of complete disgust

  "I should say you are!" said one man, who threw down his napkin, shoved away from the table, and got to his feet, all the while glaring at Thomas.

  Thomas sat down, baffled.

  "I couldn't agree more, Nigel," a rather portly man said, standing up and throwing down his napkin as well.

  "Thank you, Gerard," Nigel said with a sniff in Thomas's direction.

  Nigel? Gerard? Who were these yahoos?

  "Just like a Yank," Gerard continued, "without a thought in his head for loyalty to the Crown!"

  Thomas wondered if his hearing had gone right along with his mental stability. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Romantic, historic ruins are riot to be tampered with!" Nigel stated.

  "Oh, I see," said Thomas. And so he did. Clearly. He was facing a preservation group taking exception to his remodeling plans. Somehow, it just figured.

  "Leave him to it," said Gerard with a knowing look at Nigel. "He'll have his just deserts up the way, I'd say." He looked at the older woman. "Coining, Constance?"

  "When I've finished," the woman said placidly.

  The two men left the dining room without further ado, leaving Thomas looking at the woman named Constance. She had gray hair that looked so solidly plastered in shape that Thomas doubted even the fiercest of storms could move a single strand. She looked neither indignant nor flustered. She merely finished her breakfast, then dabbed her napkin to her lips. Without comment, she pushed back from the table and stood.

  Thomas could hardly wait for her assessment of his character, nationality, and/or ripeness for receiving just deserts, all of which seemed rather ironic to him. He'd always prided himself on the ability to blend in with the natives. His dark hair and blue eyes allowed him to pass for several nationalities, and his gift for languages allowed him to pick up accents easily. In addition to that, he went out of his way to be unobtrusive and excessively polite. That usually took care of what his looks and tongue didn't. It looked like all his skill and charm would do nothing to win over this group.

  Constance cleared her throat. "We're from the National Trustees Concerned with Preserving Ruins," she announced.

  Thomas heard all the capital letters there, and he was impressed.

  "We understand that not only have you purchased Thorpewold, you intend to restore it."

  No sense in denying it. "Actually, yes. I have. And I do."

  "As it was in the Middle Ages?"

  He paused and considered his answer. He actually hadn't finalize
d his plans where the remodel was concerned. He needed a place to live, and he needed a challenge. But he'd purposefully left the specifics for when he'd reached England.

  "Honestly," he said slowly, "I'm not quite sure. I don't intend to tear it down and start over, if that's what you're worried about."

  "We worry about progress, young man."

  "I'll probably try to restore it to as original a state as possible," he conceded. "With a few modern conveniences, if that won't incite riots."

  She pursed her lips. "The castle is a national treasure, young man."

  "Is it?" he mused. "Any decisive battles fought here? Any famous occupants? Any legendary trysts? I don't think so."

  "It is the age of the structure that makes it important."

  "I'll give you that, but I imagine Thorpewold was built for function, not beauty."

  "Nevertheless—"

  "I don't see a good reason not to make it habitable."

  "There are many good reasons why not."

  "I think we're at an impasse," he offered with as much of a smile as he could muster. He had no intention of not trying to live in the place he'd bought, so making it habitable was definitely in the cards. But he had to admit that, not having examined the castle at close range, he wasn't all that sure what would need to be done. "I am," he said finally, "going to make a home of it."

  "We'll not give up so easily," she said, waving her napkin at him in challenge.

  "I'm sure you won't," he said with a sigh.

  "Then war it is!" she exclaimed, tossing her napkin down with a flourish. "Steel yourself for a long siege, young man. We're very good at this."

  "I'm quite sure you are."

  She walked to the door with a spine so stiff a two-by-four would have been impressed. She paused, then slowly looked back at him. She stared at him for several moments in silence, then spoke.

  "Why did you buy it?" she asked.

  Now if that wasn't a question for the annals. He didn't really want to answer with the truth, but if there was one thing he wasn't, it was a liar, so he took a deep breath. "Because I had to."

  She looked at him for a moment or two longer, then turned and left the room. Thomas didn't even have time to mull over the answer that had come from deeper inside him than he would have liked before Mrs. Pruitt was bustling in, carrying a hearty breakfast.

  "Heard them declaring war on ye," she said, setting down the plate in front of him. "Passing irritating, that lot."

  "I'm sure they do some good," he offered.

  "Hrmph," she said with a sniff. " 'Tis private property now, that keep. Ye do with it what ye like. 'Twould probably be better torn down, anyway."

  "Really?" he asked, surprised. "Why?"

  She chewed on her answer for a moment or two before she shook her head. "Just rumors, and likely better left unsaid. I daresay ye'll know more about the whole affair than I in the end."

  He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

  "And by the by," she said, clearing up a plate or two, "all yer woodworking things ye sent from the States are in the back shed. I cleaned ye out a right proper place out there. Campin' gear is there as well."

  "Thank you."

  "Ye aren't planning to sleep up there, are ye?" she asked sharply.

  "If the weather holds, I might."

  "I'll be plannin' on ye for supper each night. Just to make sure ye've survived the day."

  He only smiled and dug into his eggs. He looked up as she made for the kitchen door.

  "Mrs. Pruitt?"

  "Aye?"

  "Thanks for breakfast."

  "Late as it is," she agreed. " 'Tis nothing, me lad."

  "Are they staying long?"

  "Them's as have it in for ye?" She snorted. "Aye. Indefinitely."

  "I was afraid of that."

  "I thought ye might be. Mind yer back, me lad."

  He watched her go and wondered if he'd just gotten himself in for more than he'd bargained for.

  Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't used to people being irritated by what he did. He'd acted on unpopular ideas before and survived the fallout. He'd also survived climbs in incredibly inhospitable environments and come away the victor. A few grumpy Brits weren't going to faze him. If the number of people he annoyed remained at three, he was going to be damned lucky.

  Besides, he wasn't going to go home. He'd come to accomplish something, and accomplish it he would. He didn't have a thing to show for twelve years of work. He'd never left any permanent traces of his passing while climbing. His house in Maine was the first tangible thing he'd left behind in his life. He wasn't about to leave another indiscernible reminder of his passing if he could help it.

  A half hour and a very full belly later, he was walking out the front door. He looked neither to the right nor the left, on the off chance he might see something he didn't want to. No sense in tempting fate, despite his earlier determination that his mother and sister were loony. His dad had always said Megan was the one with the overactive imagination. Maybe his dad had been neglectful in not applying the same label to him.

  No, it was the past that was full of ghostly visions. Today he felt marvelous, and he was just certain his hallucinations were behind him.

  He walked through the garden and down to the road, enjoying the lack of clouds in the sky and the crisp smell of a late-summer morning. The road was well paved, but definitely a one-laner. It was deserted, though, so he supposed driving wouldn't have been that big a stress. But the walking suited him, so he enjoyed the route as it meandered along through fields and up and around a small hill.

  And then the path began.

  It was dirt and gravel and broke off from the road, heading to the right. Thomas stepped onto its surface and then felt a chill go through him.

  Why did you buy it?

  Because I had to.

  He looked up and shivered. He would have liked to have blamed it on the weather. Unfortunately, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Even if there had been, that wouldn't have been what unsettled him.

  It was that he'd been to this place before.

  It was as if some strange permutation of déjà vu had overcome him. He found himself powerless to keep from walking up the road. As he walked, the feeling increased until he wasn't sure any longer what century he was in or how many times he'd walked along the same path.

  And then he rounded the little copse of trees and found himself facing his castle. For a moment he could see it with perfect clarity—

  As it must have been centuries ago.

  The outer walls were intact, the drawbridge down, the road hard-packed and well used. The trees were gone, and the rest of the surrounding countryside stripped of all vegetation. That made sense. No enemy would sneak up unnoticed with only that pitiful bit of foliage to hide behind. He could hear faint noises of hammer on anvil, men shouting, horses neighing.

  Then he blinked, and the vision was gone. Trees surrounded the castle, ones that "had certainly sprung up in the past couple hundred years. The castle walls were crumbling, and no drawbridge protected the keep from invaders. A stone bridge spanned what had perhaps been a moat in times past but was now nothing but a filled-in ditch.

  Thomas made his way along the path until he was staring at the gatehouse. It was in good shape, along with the walls, if you could overlook the missing masonry. The gatehouse still stood firm, and the four corners of the outer walls still boasted guard towers. Thomas walked over the stone bridge that spanned the distance from a grassy expanse to the gatehouse itself. The enormity of his task began to sink in. He was no mason. Even with his unwavering belief in his ability to tackle anything, he had to concede that perhaps this was beyond him. Never mind his lack of knowledge of stone-working. The repairs would take months just by themselves. He'd have to hire help.

  He walked under the gatehouse and looked up at the portcullis hanging above him. He was almost certain he saw spikes in the shadows, but when he blinked, they were gone.

  It was reall
y starting to drive him crazy. He wished that if true madness was going to overtake him, that it would do it in a rush instead of in annoying bits and pieces.

  He shrugged aside his visions, then walked out of the gatehouse and back out into the open—

  And back again, seemingly, into medieval England.

  He froze at the sight that greeted him. Men milled about the inner bailey. One or two were dressed in rough peasant garb, but the majority were obviously Scots going about their business in their plaids either with mighty swords hanging at their sides or strapped to their backs. He looked quickly at the keep itself, expecting to see it functional as well.

  It was, oddly enough, a wreck.

  The hall had no roof, nor a front door for that matter. He realized absently that it would take him years, not months to put the hall to rights and that, too, would take a mason's skills. But that wasn't the worst of it. There were men milling about in his inner bailey—men who looked like they belonged quite firmly in the past.

  Yet here they were in the present.

  And that led him to believe quite firmly that they were anything but mortal.

  "Hell," he said with feeling.

  All right. So the castle needed a lot of work. So he was likely going to be harassed by a preservation society for the duration of his stay in England. Those he could handle. But ghosts? In his bailey?

  Somehow, he just knew he shouldn't have been surprised.

  The men seemed to be ignoring him, so he took the opportunity to stare at them. They argued, laughed, and talked loudly about things he couldn't divine. He supposed they spoke in Gaelic. Well, that was something he should look into learning. Best to know what his castle mates were saying about him if he could.

  He looked around the bailey, trying to see past the paranormal activity within his view. To his left were two guard towers on the outer wall. One was so perfectly preserved, it was startling—and unsettling. Just looking at it gave him the creeps. No, he would not be spending any length of time there until he knew its history. He suspected that once he knew what sorts of things had been done inside those circular walls, he'd be even less likely to visit it.