An Unlikely Match

by Sarah M. Eden

  “Tell me what you know of this ghost, Mr. Evans.”

  Dafydd gave Nickolas a look he interpreted without any difficulty: he was wondering if Nickolas had already admitted defeat in their friendly wager.

  “Not a chance,” Nickolas whispered.

  His good friend, Griffith Davis, stood near enough to hear. He looked between Nickolas and Dafydd a moment. “It seems you’ve discussed this ghost with the vicar before.”

  Nickolas smiled. “Yes, and Dafydd wrongly assumes he can make me believe in all that stuff and nonsense.”

  Griffith had never been the overly talkative sort, but his thoughts showed plainly on his face. His mouth turned in amusement, even as one eyebrow arched with interest. He was obviously looking forward to the battle of wills Nickolas and Dafydd had thrown themselves into.

  Nickolas leaned against the mantel to listen to Dafydd’s tale. He’d heard very little of the story behind the “ghost” that had caused him so many headaches over the past fortnight.

  “There is an entire legend attached to the lady ghost at Tŷ Mynydd.” Dafydd spoke with his usual affability. He spared Nickolas a fleeting look of mischief then added, “Perhaps we would be well advised to reserve the telling until the ladies have joined us. After dinner, perhaps?”

  “Excellent notion,” Mr. Davis said. “A good Welsh tale would be just the thing.”

  Dafydd nodded. “And it is, I assure you, a very Welsh tale. Owain Glyndŵr himself even plays a part.”

  Mr. Davis’s eyes, as well as Griffith’s, spread wide at the name of the legendary Welshman. Other than Shakespeare’s rather eccentric portrayal of the man, Nickolas knew very little about Glyndŵr. But if he knew Dafydd, which, by now, he felt he did, it would be a diverting tale.

  Mr. Castleton looked on the verge of protesting the delay when the arrival of the ladies put paid to his objections. Mrs. Davis and her daughter, Alys, came in first. Mrs. Castleton entered next, her delightful daughter beside her. Nickolas smiled when he saw her, as he always did.

  He quickly did his duty as host, introducing Dafydd to the new arrivals. As Mr. Davis had been, Mrs. Davis seemed pleased by the vicar’s obvious Welsh-ness, his name and accent making his heritage indisputable. Mrs. Castleton was civil and very nearly friendly but seemed to have dismissed the young vicar almost the moment they’d been made known to one another, precisely the same manner of disregard to which Nickolas himself had been subjected before his inheritance. Despite not feeling offended for himself when he’d been on the receiving end, Nickolas found himself a bit affronted on his friend’s behalf.

  Miss Castleton, he knew, could be counted on to be charming and not high in the instep as her parents could be at times. He was surprised, therefore, when she allowed Dafydd to bow over her hand but spared him only a passing glance before moving away. She didn’t say a word.

  Dafydd, Nickolas noted, raised an eyebrow at this pointed dismissal but did not seem offended. If his friend could take this treatment in stride, Nickolas assured himself he could as well. It was, however, a complication he hadn’t foreseen. Dafydd would be joining them each evening, the vicarage being a very easy distance from the house. Nickolas sincerely hoped the Castletons would improve in civility.

  The group sat to dinner formally, that being Mrs. Davis’s preference, which placed Miss Castleton halfway down the table, much to Nickolas’s dissatisfaction. It was a small gathering, but she sat far enough away to make conversation between them difficult, if not entirely impossible. Dafydd sat directly to Miss Castleton’s right but didn’t seem to be faring any better conversationally. She responded to his queries and comments with as few words as seemingly possible. Nickolas felt bad for them both. Obviously each would be more comfortable in the company of someone else. Nickolas fancied himself the someone else Miss Castleton would prefer.

  Perhaps Alys would make a pleasant companion for Dafydd. Nickolas thought better of it almost immediately. Alys was painfully quiet. He didn’t think she’d spoken to him more than a few dozen times in all the years he’d known her. She was more likely to keep to herself.

  There was no opportunity for further pondering. Sooner than Nickolas would have expected, the group assembled in the drawing room. The gentlemen had declined to remain behind over port in light of the legend Dafydd had promised the group. Nickolas very nearly laughed out loud. How many anticipated believing the tale, and how many were simply looking forward to an enjoyable interlude?

  Griffith sat next to Nickolas and shot him a look of exaggerated solemnity. “The vicar said Owain Glyndŵr is part of this tale. Yours is a very well-connected ghost.”

  “There is no ghost.” He felt certain Griffith knew that perfectly well but still wasn’t going to let it drop without needling him as much as possible.

  “You also said there was no menagerie at the Tower of London.”

  Nickolas shook his head at the memory. “That was a very long time ago. And I had never been to London. Surely you can excuse that mistake on the grounds of ignorance.”

  Griffith shrugged. “Perhaps ignorance is the issue here as well.”

  “I have a feeling, Griffith, that you and Dafydd will be firmly allied against me in this by the end of the evening.”

  A sly smile slid over his friend’s face. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

  The small party had all settled in. Dafydd obligingly stood before the fireplace, looking not at all like a vicar. He more closely resembled a mischievous schoolboy preparing to deliver a round tale to his schoolmaster. He looked far too pleased with his position when he glanced briefly at Nickolas. Drat the man. Nickolas silently chuckled. Dafydd was gloating at the upper hand he had gained in their wager.

  “In the days of Henry IV,” Dafydd began almost theatrically, “Owain Glyndŵr, proclaimed Prince of Wales by his countrymen, rose up in rebellion against the English rule of his homeland. Battles were won and lost, castles and fortifications were sieged—sometimes conquered, sometimes forfeited. But one Glyndŵr stronghold was never ceded to the English. The Welsh uprising found invincibility within its walls. In the mighty battle waged for control of the fortress, only one life was lost: Gwenllian ferch Cadoc ap Richard of Y Castell.”

  “It was a castle, then?” Mr. Davis asked. “Y Castell is ‘the castle’ in Welsh,” he added for the benefit of his more ignorant fellow guests and his extremely ignorant host.

  Nickolas nodded. He had surmised as much from several conversations he’d had with Mrs. Baines.

  “A well-fortified and strategically placed castle,” Dafydd confirmed. “Owain Glyndŵr knew this and knew that Henry would realize it as well. Having a devoted ally in Cadoc ap Richard, master of Y Castell, Glyndŵr sent word that Y Castell was under no circumstances to fall to the English. Cadoc vowed he and his people would burn the castle to the ground before handing it over to the enemies of the cause to which he’d sworn his allegiance.”

  All eyes were glued to Dafydd as he wove his tale. Griffith wore an almost academic expression, as though sorting through the poetic telling, searching for reliable details.

  “Anything absurd in the tale thus far?” Nickolas whispered.

  Griffith shook his head. “All very plausible.”

  Plausible, certainly. There are no ghosts yet.

  “The castle was reinforced against the inevitable arrival of Henry’s forces,” Dafydd continued. “Those inside the castle’s walls numbered less than fifty. They were dedicated to the battle, determined to defend their home.

  “But the King’s soldiers arrived, and horror struck the hearts of the defenders of Y Castell, for their opponents stood three hundred strong, armed to a man, well trained, and threatening.”

  Nickolas held his breath and could see the others in the room do the same. Fifty commoners against three hundred well-trained soldiers. They didn’t stand a chance.

  “Henry’s forces did not attack, did not press the castle. They remained unmoved and waiting outside the castle walls, sure of their vi
ctory, awaiting surrender. Two days after their arrival, a black flag was hung from a tower of the castle. In confusion, the English army waited. A white flag would have meant surrender; black was undefined.”

  A black flag? Nickolas had no idea what that meant. He looked to Griffith for an explanation but received nothing but a shrug in response. Dafydd did not hold them in suspense for long.

  “A messenger emerged. The daughter of the house was dead. The occupants requested three days of reprieve before the battle began so that she might be mourned and buried. They were permitted their period of mourning. On the morning of the second day, the sounds of voices raised in song reached the waiting soldiers, who remained confident about their coming victory. But the strains were not those of reverence or mourning; instead, it was a song of battle and victory.

  “The siege began and ended in a single day and night of fierce battles. Henry’s three hundred were cut down and sent into retreat, numbering, as they fled, less than those remaining inside. Within the walls of Y Castell, the only life lost, the only person mourned, was Gwenllian.

  “She became something of a battle cry. An inspiration. Their guardian angel. The king’s men returned many times after that but were never able to take Y Castell. And after the Welsh uprising fell and many loyal to Glyndŵr were stripped of their lands by the triumphant king, Y Castell remained in the hands of those who had defended it.

  “Legend holds that so long as Gwen stands as guardian of this land, Y Castell—Tŷ Mynydd, as it is now known—stands impervious to invasion, threat of war, or enemy, and will not leave the hands of her family.”

  “Her family?” Griffith asked.

  “The name was anglicized,” Dafydd explained. “From ap Richard, the name she and her father carried, to Prichard.”

  All eyes turned then to Nickolas. “Pritchard?” he repeated. “Then Gwen is my however-many-greats grandmother?” Nickolas could accept that the legendary Gwen had lived, even that she had died during the standoff between royal forces and the Welsh rebels. But he would not concede that she was a ghost haunting the corridors of his home.

  Dafydd smiled with amusement. He, no doubt, knew Nickolas wasn’t convinced but remained firm in his own conviction. “More like your however-many-times removed cousin. Gwen was her parents’ only child and died young and childless.”

  “How very sad.” Miss Castleton’s voice broke a little. The tale had obviously moved her. Nickolas unfortunately sat far too distant to offer any comfort beyond a smile of appreciation for her sensibility. “Had she been ill?” Miss Castleton watched Dafydd with gentle intensity, eager for the rest of the tale. It was, Nickolas admitted, an improvement over her earlier coldness.

  “The circumstances of her passing are not known.” Dafydd addressed his response to Miss Castleton before turning to the rest of the room. “But the house and lands remain in the hands of the Pritchard family.”

  Nickolas felt the eyes of the entire room glance in his direction. Griffith looked equal parts amused and intrigued. How much of the story he took as fact and how much as legend, Nickolas couldn’t say. Indeed, he himself wasn’t sure which bits fell under which category.

  Dafydd continued. “Gwen resides at Tŷ Mynydd still. It is said that at night she can be seen walking, high above the ground, where the castle walls once stood, standing guard over her home.” Dafydd gave Nickolas a look that, if one did not notice the amusement twinkling in his eyes, might have been interpreted as warning. “And she does not take kindly to anyone or anything she perceives as a threat to the home that was defended so fiercely all those centuries ago. She defends Tŷ Mynydd quite singlemindedly and is undeniably loyal to her countrymen.”

  “Does she object to Englishmen in her home?” Mrs. Davis asked, smiling and obviously unconcerned over her safety.

  Dafydd hesitated. It was the first moment of even remote discomfort Nickolas had seen in him. In fact, his demeanor was a little too serious. Nickolas found himself fighting the urge to squirm.

  “She does, actually,” Dafydd said. “Considering the events surrounding her passing, she has little affection for the English. However”—apparently he noticed that Miss Castleton appeared particularly unhappy with this revelation—“there have been English visitors in the past. I understand one of the former owners of the estate had a son who married an Englishwoman, and the young bride was not mistreated by Gwen.”

  Miss Castleton gave a smile of relief. Nickolas felt a twinge of jealousy at that smile. She was smiling at Dafydd. She ought to have been smiling at him.

  “So how do we get this ghost to show herself?” Mr. Castleton asked a little impatiently.

  “Never fear, sir.” Dafydd’s good humor appeared restored in an instant. “There has not yet been a gathering at which Gwen did not make her presence known. She has attended every wedding, every christening, every funeral ever held at Tŷ Mynydd.”

  “Perhaps I should set an extra plate at dinner from now on,” Mrs. Davis said, quite tongue in cheek.

  The group laughed at the absurdity of the suggestion.

  “Ghosts don’t eat,” Nickolas thought he heard Mr. Castleton mutter.

  Conversation became general after that. Nickolas made his way around the group, as the attentive host he was.

  “Mr. Pritchard.” Miss Castleton addressed him as he paused in front of her. She even placed a hand on his forearm and lightly pulled him aside. He didn’t object.

  “Yes, Miss Castleton?”

  “Do you think . . . That is . . . Do you suppose I might have seen . . . Gwen?” She actually whispered the name and glanced quickly around the room as if expecting the specter to appear at the mere uttering of her name. “In my bedchamber earlier? I know you thought it was merely the curtains, but . . . Now I wonder . . . worry that . . .”

  Nickolas laid his hand on hers where it still lay on his arm. “Despite Mr. Evans’s very diverting tale, I still believe what you saw was a trick of the light. There is no need for alarm.”

  “But his story was so convincing,” she insisted.

  “I am certain he intended it to be,” Nickolas replied dryly. The more people Dafydd could convince, the more his enjoyment of their wager would increase, no doubt. Nickolas had to admit, however, it was precisely what he would have done were he in Dafydd’s shoes. Though Dafydd had done the job better than Nickolas could have hoped to.

  “Do you think he intended to frighten us?” Miss Castleton’s eyes swung around to Dafydd, where he stood being interrogated by her father.

  “No.” Nickolas smiled even more. Dafydd wasn’t the sort to wish others discomfort—he was simply an enthusiastic storyteller and an underhanded wagerer. “Nor do I think you need to be frightened.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” she said, returning her gaze to his face.

  Nickolas flashed one of his famous smiles.

  She smiled lightly in reply.

  “No more fretting over ghosts in your room. There really is no need.”

  But even as he said it, a strange feeling of foreboding crept over Nickolas. He had a terrible suspicion that his words were overconfident.

  Chapter Six

  “My apologies,” Gwen whispered to the young lady sleeping soundly. “It isn’t your fault your host is an unfeeling knave.”

  Gwen had come to her bedchamber that night as usual, though she had delayed her return for a time, hoping against hope that she would find it once again unoccupied. But there the interloper lay, in Gwen’s room, on her bed, even.

  It was a shame, really, that Mr. Nickolas Pritchard was making such a mess of things. The young lady, who must have been about twenty—a year in either direction, perhaps—seemed pleasant enough, considering she was English, which was hard enough to overlook, and had a tendency to screech most unbecomingly at a mere brief glance of a ghost hovering at her window. A little fortitude would do her a world of good, Gwen thought.

  Miss Castleton, for Gwen had managed to learn the intruder’s name, slept on,
and Gwen set about the business at hand. She kicked up a wind sufficiently strong to open the doors of the room’s clothespress, which ought to have stood empty as it had for four hundred years but instead held an extensive wardrobe. Gwen allowed an audible sigh, both of regret at the damage she was about to inflict and of jealousy—she was rather fond of current fashions but had no choice but to don the ethereal gown designated for her the past four centuries.

  In a flash, every piece of Miss Castleton’s fashionable exterior wardrobe burst free of its confines, swirling in the air before falling, one gown at a time, to the floor below. Gwen had decided quite firmly that humiliating the poor intruder was not necessary and, therefore, left her underthings undisturbed.

  Next, she blew out the low burning fire. Late September in this part of Wales could be a bit chilly at night. Each of the room’s candles, which were long-since snuffed, she blew behind the heavier pieces of furniture, where they were unlikely to be recovered without effort.

  The window curtains were the next target of Gwen’s mischief. As she ticked off each item on her mental list, her frustration with Mr. Nickolas Pritchard grew. She severely disliked having to desecrate her own sanctuary in order to reclaim it.

  The white sheer curtains, which Gwen was quite fond of and regretted displacing, slipped almost silently to the floor, an upward wind keeping the rod from falling too fast. With a weary shrug, she turned toward the bed. How utterly ridiculous to be forced to such lengths. If Nickolas Pritchard had simply listened to the good advice of his housekeeper, Gwen would not be forced to be such a troublesome apparition.

  Again she apologized to the sleeping Miss Castleton, though a smile crossed Gwen’s translucent features. She’d developed a talent in her second century of residency in her home and had found it useful many times since. That talent would be just the thing. A gust of wind picked up at the base of one corner of the four poster bed. Up the bed curtain rose, then, as the gust shifted direction, curled back against itself. Up and down, left and right, it twirled, tying in intricate knots.