Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  I had a definite purpose, and I knew it was an admirable one. The sense of direction that had been missing all this time since Donald’s death was present now. I had come to Castlemoor full of apprehension, only to be mystified by a series of curious, puzzling events that made the apprehension even greater. The pieces of the puzzle were all neatly in place now, no mystery at all, and everything was sharp and clear. I saw exactly what I had to do, and it was going to be a satisfying task. It would be a tribute to Donald, and, too, it would be an affirmation of the intellectual abilities of women in general. Women had published novels, of course—the Brontë sisters, the scandalous George Sand in France—but had a woman ever written a book such as the one I contemplated? It would be a step forward for my sex, and a contribution, however minor, to a cause I firmly believed in—sexual equality.

  I climbed up a long slope. The ground was harder, chalkier, than it had been, with crusty layers of broken shell and rock. Far off, I could see what looked like a small black lake. It was an expanse of peat, one of the largest on the moors. Alan had described it when he had told me how to reach the ruins. The slope rose, growing steeper, and when I got to the top, I saw the ruins. I stopped, stunned. I don’t know how long I stood there, transfixed. I had expected to be impressed, even overwhelmed, but nothing had prepared me for this.

  The ruins stood on an immense stretch of flat land that was completely surrounded by great slopes that rose up, protecting it, making it invisible from any other vantage point. They were like a great fallen city, some of the ruins still standing, others collapsed into great heaps of stone. I was reminded of the ancient Aztec cities hidden in the South American mountains, or those primitive cities just recently discovered in Africa. These ruins must be even older. Some were small, mere clusters of stone, while others towered up to touch the hard blue sky. There were other ruins scattered over the moors, like the one I had seen when Alan first drove us to the house, but these were the major ones, a metropolis incredibly hidden away in a secret valley in the middle of the moors.

  I walked down the slope, and the present vanished. When I reached the surface of the valley and started toward the ruins, even the moors seemed to disappear. There was nothing but this primitive civilization, amazingly alive in my imagination. The slopes rose all around like the rim of a cup, and the flat blue sky stretched directly overhead. The ground was a hard crust, gray and white, and the ruins were dark brown streaked with a dull-gold grain. Some were stained with green, moss that had become a part of the stones themselves. There were three or four acres of flat ground before I reached the ruins, and as I came closer they began to take on a shape and character I had been unable to discern from the distance.

  I didn’t blush. Not quite.

  I had read dozens of books about these ruins, or similar ones, and I had seen hundreds of plates and engravings which depicted them with explicit detail. I considered myself a scholar, immune to the jolts and shocks of the fastidious do-gooders, those who put skirts around the bottom of pianos in fear that the sight of naked piano legs would incite evil thoughts in the minds of young people who used the parlor. Such hypocrisy was part of our society, and I despised it, and yet my reactions now were those of the traditional Victorian maiden. Book print and illustrations were one thing. Stark reality was altogether different. I scolded myself, yet it took a few minutes for the initial reaction to wear off. I was glad I was alone. I couldn’t have faced these ruins with anyone else, not even Donald.

  I rationalized. Evil was in the eye of the beholder. If certain Victorian matrons saw evil in wooden piano legs, that was only an indication of their own warped minds. They were, in actuality, far less healthy than those ancient druids who saw life and the creation of life as a joyous miracle and celebrated it in their architecture. I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the last vestiges of prudery. I examined the ruins with an objective eye, and soon I was able to see only their wonder and ignore their pagan symbolism.

  I stepped toward the nearest ruin, a small brown stone temple, four stone columns with a huge flat rock balanced on top to form the roof. Something rolled under the sole of my shoe, and I almost fell, my whole body pitching forward as though shoved from behind. I threw my arms around one of the columns and broke the fall. I caught my breath, pushed a lock of hair away from my cheek. If I were superstitious, I could almost have believed that I had actually been shoved by some vengeful spirit who warned me not to desecrate this sacred ground. Nonsense, of course. Such things happened only in fantastic tales.… I had stepped on a loose rock. I bent down and picked it up.

  It wasn’t a rock.

  I felt as though my palm were burning. I wanted to fling the loathsome object away, but I couldn’t. I stared at it in horrified fascination. It was an amulet, almost identical in shape and size to the one I had found in Donald’s desk drawer. It, too, was suspended from a leather thong. What was it doing here? Such objects must once have been fairly common around here, like the Indian arrowheads that farmers were always turning up with their plows in America, but these ruins had been explored by experts, examined by hundreds of scholars as well as the merely curious, and any such valuable curios as this must have been carried away years ago. There was no logical reason for the amulet to have been here. It must be worth hundreds of pounds.… Then I noticed that the leather was new. It should be withered with age, stiff, dried. It was still soft and pliable. I frowned. I dropped the amulet into my skirt pocket and rubbed my hand briskly to remove the sensation of contamination.

  Someone had been here, wearing the amulet. The strand of leather broke, and the amulet dropped off.… But who would wear such a thing? I creased my brow. A student, perhaps, come to study the ruins just as I had come today. It was curious that Donald should have had one in his drawer, that I should have stumbled over one as I visited the ruins for the first time. Such objects were rare, very rare. I decided to put it out of my mind, at least for the present.

  Staring at the ruins that rose ahead of me, all shapes and sizes, I hesitated to step into that maze of ancient stone structures. I sensed an evil, a lurking presence that seemed to inhabit the place, and it seemed to be crouching, invisible, waiting for me to come within reach. I shuddered, the sensation was so real, and then forced myself to laugh silently. That spell again, even stronger here, but I was determined not to let it overcome me. Uneducated villagers might believe in ghosts, might vehemently insist that phantom figures inhabited this ruined city, but I was above that sort of nonsense.

  I walked into the midst of the ruins, stopping to examine each one. I jotted down notes on size and structure and made quick sketches of certain features they all had in common. I marveled. The world of today was lost to me. Thousands of years evaporated, and the air around me was the air the druids had breathed, the sun was the sun that warmed them, the hard blue sky was the sky that stretched over them centuries ago. In my mind I could see the priestesses who climbed those broken brown steps, standing near the thick columns, chanting as the chosen one was led into the circle of stone. I stepped into the circle myself, bent down to study the flat altar stone that was stained brown with something that must have once run red. I could hear the voices, louder and louder, the monotonous chant rising until it threatened to shake the very earth. I felt the excitement, the fear. My pulses leaped. My throat went dry. I dropped my sketchbook and pressed my hand to my forehead.

  The chanting died away, slipped back through the centuries. The stone columns became ruins, streaked green with moss. Reality returned, but the fear remained. I stood very still in the center of the stone circle. I had let my imagination run away with me. I realized that, but why was my heart still pounding? Why did the air seem to be laden with some threat? I could feel the threat surrounding me, and I held my breath, every sense alert. Something was here, something besides an overpowering illusion of the past. It was real. It wasn’t just my imagination. Not now.

  I heard a noise. It was like loose stones scattering. The sound
echoed faintly. It was repeated. I heard heavy footsteps, several of them. The sound came closer. The stone circle seemed to expand, drawing away from me, and the sky seemed to waver overhead. I stood by the ancient altar, dizzy with fear. The footsteps grew louder, came nearer. I backed against the altar stone, wanting to scream, but no sound would come. Fear held me powerless. Powerless, I waited.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The horse stepped into the stone circle, small rocks clattering under its hooves. It was a beautifully proportioned creature with a coat as black as wet sable. A gray leather saddle with silver horn was fastened on its back, and the reins hung loose, dragging on the ground. The animal did not seem to notice me. It walked about the columns, its head close to the ground. No doubt it was looking for grass where no grass grew. My heart stopped pounding and I heaved a sigh of relief. My whole body felt limp, and I had to brace myself against the altar stone to keep from falling. The animal continued to ignore me. Its hooves made a loud noise on the hard ground, and the sound echoed, magnified.

  I set my sack lunch and notebooks on the altar stone and tried to summon enough strength to walk. I felt as though all energy, all courage, had been drained out of me by that sudden rush of fear. My knees were weak, and my hands felt numb. I chafed my wrists and took several deep breaths, turning my face up to let the warm rays of sun stroke it. After a few minutes I felt normal enough to scold myself for that absurd moment of fear. How Bella would laugh if I told her a horse had frightened me to the point of desperation. How she would smile if I told her I had visualized a swarm of ghostly figures closing in on me.

  The horse walked across the open space toward me. It stopped two feet away and stretched its sleek neck, tapping one hoof gently on the ground, as though expecting a lump of sugar. I stroked its smooth jaw and ran my fingers through the silky black mane.

  “You gave me quite a start, you know,” I said quietly. “What are you doing here? That’s a lovely saddle. Whose horse are you? I don’t have any sugar, but if I did I’d give it to you.” I smiled at the absurdity of my own words, but the horse stretched its neck and looked at me with enormous brown eyes and seemed to be delighted with the sound of my voice.

  “You didn’t come here all by yourself,” I said sensibly. “I’d better see if I can find your master.”

  I stepped away from the horse and walked toward the stone columns. Leaving the circle of stones, I looked around at the ruins outside it. I saw no one. I moved around a fallen temple and walked beneath a series of gigantic arches. The man was standing among a cluster of tall, thick obelisks that were graphic in their symbolism. His hands were thrust in his pockets, and his head was held down. He seemed to be searching for something on the ground. He bent down, picked up a handful of rocks, let them slip between his fingers. He frowned, shook his head, moved on, still examining the ground.

  I knew immediately who he was, and I knew what he was looking for. He looked up and saw me. He showed no surprise but stared at me with mildly curious brown eyes, shoulders still hunched, hands still thrust in his pockets. Neither of us said anything. We were perhaps ten yards apart, and neither of us made a move to come closer.

  Burton Rodd was tall, and his slender, angular body made him seem even taller. The rawboned, lanky build gave an impression of strength, hard, wiry, formidable, and the face was seamed and craggy, a face ravaged by excesses. The lips were wide and thin, curling down at the corners, and the nose was large, twisted slightly as though it had at one time been broken. The cheekbones were sharp, and the eyes dark brown, with heavy, hooded lids that gave him a lazy, sleepy look. His dark brows arched sharply and flared out at the corners like black wingtips. It was a hard face, cold, and I felt those hooded eyes could witness great tenderness or great cruelty with an equal indifference. Thick locks of grizzled black hair tumbled untidily over his head, and his sideburns were frosted with silver.

  He wore a rumpled black suit with tight pipestem trousers and a loose jacket that fell open to reveal a ruffled white shirtfront and a black cord tie awkwardly knotted. The clothes were elegant, the product of exquisite taste and expert tailoring, yet shockingly wrinkled and smudged with dust. I had the impression he had pulled them on because they were the first he laid his hands on in the closet. He wore them as he might wear a pair of pajamas, with total nonchalance.

  I stared at him openly, not even trying to hide my interest. The man was undeniably fascinating, and I could easily believe all the tales I had heard about him. That hard, angular body like whipcord could lash with fury and take with force, and those thin lips could curl with exquisite cruelty while the hooded eyes glittered with disdain. I could see that his prowess with women had not been exaggerated. Weak women would be unable to resist his dark fascination, would want to reform him, while the more sophisticated women would long to meet the challenge of his strong will, destroy it, and dominate.

  Fortunately, I was neither weak nor overly sophisticated. I stared at him coldly, unmoved. He stood in front of the obelisks. I suddenly remembered them, and I blushed in spite of myself. Burton Rodd turned around and looked up at the obelisks behind him, then looked back at my flushed cheeks and grinned. He strolled toward me, hands still in pockets. Although I tried to control the blush, it burned rosily. I was infuriated with myself.

  “So you’re the little lady I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said. His voice was surprisingly soft, low-pitched, with a husky rasp that made it unique. It was as though it hurt him to speak.

  “I’m Katherine Hunt,” I replied.

  “Not at all what I expected,” he rasped.

  “What did you expect, Mr. Rodd?”

  “You want to know? I expected a thin, pinched spinster with a soured expression and a drab dress buttoned all the way up to the chin.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  He jerked his head sharply, a nod, and grinned. The hooded eyes were examining me carefully, and I wished I were wearing a high-buttoned dress. The lips curled, the eyes glittered, and his expression clearly indicated what he thought of me. I wanted to slap his face.

  “I’m disappointed,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He executed the jerky nod again. “If you were the prune I’d pictured, I could dismiss you from my thoughts. As it is”—he shook his head slowly from side to side—“it isn’t going to be easy.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I snapped. His eyes were still examining me.

  “We’re going to fight, you see,” he said.

  “Are we?”

  “You’re going to leave Castlemoor. I’m going to make you. Knowing your background, I expected resistance. I still do, of course, but I had no idea it would come from such a—splendid source.”

  “You’re talking in riddles, Mr. Rodd. I’m going to leave Castlemoor?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re going to make me?”

  He nodded again.

  “That’s absurd,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’ll leave. I always get my way.”

  “Not this time, Mr. Rodd.”

  “Always,” he repeated.

  “You’ve got a fight on your hands,” I retorted.

  “Delighted,” he replied.

  “I—this is fantastic,” I said. “Why should you want me to leave, and how do you think you’ll make me?”

  “I want you to leave because”—he paused, frowning—“because I don’t like strangers on the moors. I tried to prevent your brother from buying the house. I lost that round. The agent who sold it to him no longer lives in Darkmead—he’s bankrupt, as a matter of fact. Petty revenge, but all I could do under the circumstances. Your brother was a nuisance, and it seems you shall be, too.”

  “You’ve only answered one of my questions,” I told him.

  “How will I make you leave? Let’s say I have means.”

  “Are you really insane, Mr. Rodd?”

  “No, but it’s insane to oppose m
e.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this,” I said. “This is—why, it’s Alice in Wonderland. I expect to see a turtle waddle up and tell me the story of his life. You can’t be for real, Mr. Rodd. Surely you’re—you’re pulling my leg.”

  He arched a brow. My blush started burning again. I cursed silently at my unfortunate choice of words.

  “I assure you I’m quite real,” he said.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said stubbornly.

  “What would you have me do to convince you?” he asked in a tone that again made me want to slap his face.

  I stared up at that seamed, ravaged face, so ugly and yet so fascinating. There were weary lines about his eyes and mouth and deep creases in his cheeks. The grin mocked me, his whole manner was mocking, but there was a hard, cold look in his eyes that told me he was quite serious. I felt a sudden chill, and I stepped back, appalled.

  “I—I refuse to continue with this insane conversation,” I retorted. “It’s—preposterous.”

  I turned away from him and started walking toward the arches. I heard him behind me, and then he was beside me, striding along casually, as though we were taking a Sunday stroll. I stopped dead still. He stopped too. I gave him an icy, disdainful look. He nodded his head and smiled. I continued on under the arches. Burton Rodd whistled softly, kicking rocks with the toe of his shoe as he moved beside me.

  I stopped in front of the circle of stones.

  “This has gone far enough,” I said. “I—I have things to do. I have no intention of matching wills with you at the moment. You are without question the most loathsome man I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Without question,” he agreed.

  “And—and furthermore, your idiotic pose of villainy belongs to the Spanish Inquisition. This—this is the age of Enlightenment. Victoria is on the throne, and we’re—quite modern. Just because you live in a castle and have a stranglehold on one little village doesn’t mean—”