With Kit following at a safe distance, Henrietta reached the junction of the lane with the road to the church, and she reined in as a woman with a donkey heavily laden with brushwood went down toward the town. The woman was singing Greensleeves, and the melody carried Henrietta back to the masked ball at Devonshire House. She and Marcus had come anonymously together during a cotillion being danced to the very same melody. Cotillions demanded forfeits, on this occasion a kiss. Their lips had brushed like the touch of gossamer on an autumn morning, but warm and trembling. Lip to lip, flesh to flesh, like the rediscovery of a long lost portion of both their souls. Was that too fanciful a way to describe her feelings in that heart-stopping moment? Maybe, but it was how it had been. That, and so very much more. She had known even then that he was her fate and her folly, but not that he was also her foe. That bitter realization had come later.
The woman’s singing still echoed in the lane as Henrietta rode up the steep gradient toward the southern headland, where St. Tydfa’s soared against the immaculate blue sky. By now she was finding the effort of riding rather exhausting. The vitality she’d enjoyed on waking had dwindled considerably, and she wished she hadn’t been quite so impulsive. But, having come this far, she intended to look at Jane Courtenay’s ‘grave’. And Kit Fitzpaine’s too, since it appeared he was also falsely supposed to have been interred at Mulborough. Henrietta shivered, both because of the cold and the horrid thought that the tragic runaways had really died on the dreaded Goodwins.
The headland was exposed and a bitter breeze came in off the sea. The snow was bright and ivy leaves rustled against the high churchyard wall as she dismounted and tethered her horse to one of the iron loops sunk into the stonework. Beyond the lych-gate, the yew trees overhanging the steps shivered and swayed as the draft of frozen air passed through them. At the very edge of the cliff precipice she saw where the donkey woman had gathered her brushwood. Some thick bushes had been cleared and left there, and Henrietta was surprised to find they’d been concealing a path that zigzagged dangerously down between boulders and wiry sea-blown shrubs to a narrow inlet where a flat rock formed a natural landing place. It was an old smuggler’s way, long since discarded in favor of somewhere less hazardous several miles to the south. Kit had followed her all the way from the abbey and concealed himself farther along the cliff edge among the dense fringe of bushes yet to be cleared. He peered out through the crowding twigs, hoping to glimpse Amabel, but instead saw a boy of about eleven hiding among the branches of the first yew tree in the churchyard. What was the little tyke up to? He was dressed snugly in a heavy brown coat that was several sizes too big for him, and there was a bright green-and-yellow knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. His spiky brown hair jutted beneath an adult’s hat that was now rather battered, and his bright eyes had followed Henrietta’s every move since she arrived.
Forgetting the smuggler’s path, Henrietta gazed at the panorama of Mulborough, the bay, and the surrounding moors. The snow-covered land was dazzling and the sea sparkled in the winter sun. On the other headland about two miles to the north rose the magnificent medieval splendor of the abbey, and in between was Mulborough, with smoke rising from its clustered chimneys. At the town quay where various vessels were moored, lay the weekly packet, awaiting the arrival of its naval frigate escort. But the finest craft by far was Marcus’ Avalon. The richly ornamented sloop, with her white masts and decks, and gilt-medallioned stripes of red and blue along the waterline, was a brave sight. Tiny figures were visible descending the steps set against her hull, to go aboard a gig that was about to come ashore.
As Henrietta watched, the sloop suddenly seemed to become blurred, and turned to silver. Somehow the two masts became three, and the lean hull assumed the larger, more rounded proportions of an old merchantman. Henrietta squeezed her eyes tightly before looking again. To her relief, the Avalon was herself once more, but the occurrence was unsettling. What did it mean? That it was supernatural—and not imagination—she did not doubt.
Truth to tell, the glow of silver had been the first sign of Old Nick’s new plan. After a great deal of thought, the Master of Hades had lighted on a new weapon with which to defeat the struggling ghosts. It was something of which St. Peter guessed nothing, for after being uncharacteristically vigilant with the bolt of lightning, the good saint had been rather resting on his laurels.
All this was unknown to Henrietta as she went through the gate, and then passed right beneath the boy in the tree as she began to climb the steps toward the church. At last she reached Jane’s elaborate gravestone. The inscription was exactly as she remembered. Anno 1714. Here resteth Jane Courtenay. Buried this sad Valentine’s Day. May she rest in peace. Henrietta stared at the weatherworn stone. Jane didn’t rest here at all; she’d gone to a tragic grave off the coast of Kent. Turning, she thought how very blue and innocent the sea was today, as if it would never contain anything as treacherous and terrible as the Goodwin Sands. Pushing such things from her mind, she turned to go in search of Kit’s memorial inside the church.
Just then the boy dropped suddenly from the tree, and she whirled about with a startled gasp. He pointed out to sea. “It is ‘er, isn’t it, miss?”
“Who?”
“The Légère, miss.”
Still hiding behind the bushes, Kit shaded his eyes against the sun. He saw nothing, not so much as the tip of a sail. Henrietta looked where the boy pointed, but the sea seemed empty.
“I can’t see anything. Are you sure you didn’t see the frigate coming for the packet?”
“The Frenchie’s the only one with that much rig, and she’s there now, I’m almost sure of it.”
“Then, shouldn’t you warn the town?” Henrietta suggested hesitantly, knowing how justifiably afraid the local people were of the privateer’s return.
“Well, I would, ‘cept I’m not certain sure, and I’ll get a beating if I raise the alarm and it ain’t ‘er after all. I was ‘oping you’d see her as well. I’ll shout loud as anything if someone backs me up.”
Henrietta studied the horizon again. The sea and sky seemed to shimmer together, but still she saw nothing.
“Maybe if you was to climb the tower and look from the belfry?” The boy nodded toward the church behind her.
Henrietta turned and her mouth went dry at the way the tower seemed to move against the sky. The belfry was open to the elements and she could see the bells inside. Climb all the way up there? “Oh, I don’t know about that ...” she began.
Kit looked suspiciously at the boy. Something was very wrong here.
The boy pleaded. “Please, miss, it’s important.”
“Why don’t you go?” Henrietta suggested.
He shook his head. “Mam says I’m not to go in the church lessen it’s in my Sunday best,” he said. “Anyway, I already reckon I’ve seen the Frenchie. It’s you as needs to see ‘er too. Just so I’m not the only one that says she’s there.”
The point was valid, so Henrietta reluctantly decided to do as he asked. Besides, it was her duty to ascertain whether or not the Légère was in the vicinity. She gathered her cloak and cumbersome riding skirt, and continued up the steep steps toward the church porch at the top.
The moment Henrietta disappeared into the church, the boy grinned and tossed a gleaming coin before running off down toward the town. Kit rose to his feet. No doubt that was the easiest money the little tyke had ever made! Who crossed his grubby palm? Amabel? Yes, of course, for who else would want foolish Henrietta to climb to an exposed and exceedingly dangerous belfry? Alarmed, the wraith sped up the graveyard toward the porch.
Chapter Thirteen
St. Tydfa’s was shadowy inside, with little daylight penetrating the stained glass window above the altar. The cold air smelled of candles and ancient stone, and Henrietta’s footsteps echoed on the uneven stone flags as she walked slowly toward the archway through which she could see the bell ropes hanging from the belfry far above. Her heartbeats had quickened unpleasantly
, and she trembled as she brushed past them to the narrow door that opened onto the winding steps leading up through the tower. There was nothing to hold on to, and over the centuries the steps had been worn away in the middle, so that they sloped unevenly. Going up wouldn’t be so bad, but coming down would be very difficult and unpleasant indeed. Slowly she began the climb.
Behind her, Kit swiftly examined the nave, vestry, and side chapel for any sign of Amabel, but he found nothing. The church seemed absolutely empty. Were he and Jane wrong after all to think she had come here? Then he remembered not seeing her horse anywhere either, and he relaxed a little. Maybe the boy was just a prankster, and the coin he’d tossed had nothing to do with Mrs. Brimstone.
Deciding that this must indeed be the case, Kit began to follow Henrietta up to the belfry. If he’d remained in the nave just a little longer, he would have seen the wooden lid of a medieval cope store being raised. Amabel climbed out, and knowing nothing of a ghostly presence, hastened to the foot of the tower, from where she gazed up past the ropes. She was waiting until Henrietta stepped onto the wooden gallery surrounding the bells.
Henrietta had never cared for heights, and her recent misadventures on the Yorkshire cliffs made the fear even worse. Her whole body shook as at last she reached the gallery and stood beside the hells. There was a sheer fall on either side—to the left a headlong plunge to the churchyard, to the right straight down to the stone floor at the bottom of the tower. The stonework wasn’t in good repair and the air moaned softly between the bells, making them seem to hum. Her legs trembled and her palms were damp and cold inside her gloves as she leaned nervously forward, sufficiently to look across the bay toward the horizon.
Kit hovered anxiously at the last curve of the steps, ready to pull back out of sight if she happened to turn. Now that he was up here, his suspicions of Amabel returned. Jane had warned him to be on his guard for a whiff of sulfur, and by Gad, his nostrils were suddenly filled with the stuff. His every instinct screamed out that this was a trap! A trap!
Amabel tugged upon the rope, and the bell began to move. Henrietta’s back was turned, and she sensed nothing, but Kit saw what was happening. Horrified, he pitted his will against the bell, and it became still again, albeit at an angle that defied gravity. He grimaced with effort as Amabel pulled again and again with all her might.
Marcus had followed Rowley’s whines and barks to the lych-gate, where he tethered his horse next to Henrietta’s. He’d passed the boy running down the lane, but neither gave the other a second glance. With Jane close upon his heels, he began to hurry up the steep steps, calling Henrietta as he went.
She saw him from the belfry and drew back in dismay just as Kit’s power failed and Amabel succeeded in swinging the bell. With a resounding clang, it swept across the very spot where Henrietta had been standing a heartbeat before. The tower vibrated, and Henrietta screamed, falling back against the wall. She slumped at the very top of the steps, and saw Kit in a blur just before she fainted momentarily
Amabel had heard Marcus shout and now dashed back into the nave. Knowing she couldn’t leave the church without being seen, she returned to her hiding place in the cope store. As the lid closed, Kit ran furiously from the tower, and once again found nothing at all.
Marcus dashed into the church, his fearful gaze drawn instantly to the foot of the tower, where one of the ropes was still moving. He’d heard Henrietta scream and expected to see her lifeless body, but to his relief there was no sign of her. “Henrietta? Are you all right?” he shouted. A tearful voice answered from the belfry, and he tossed his top hat and gloves to the floor and ran toward the steps.
Jane, pale faced and apprehensive, hurried in with Rowley. “Kit! What’s happened? Is Henrietta all right?”
“Yes, but it was a close thing.”
“Have you seen Amabel?”
“No.”
“You’re quite sure she didn’t come out?”
“Well, I didn’t have my eyes on the porch every second, so I suppose she could have slipped out and gone around to the back of the church—
“We’ll look, or rather, Rowley will.”
They went outside again and Jane put the spaniel down. “Find Amabel, Rowley,” she instructed.
The spaniel’s nose twitched. Amabel? Whatever for? There was a much more interesting odor to investigate! Nose to the ground, Rowley set off toward the rear of the church. Jane and Kit followed, thinking he’d picked up Amabel’s scent. But the foolish spaniel had detected something else entirely, something he was very soon to wish he hadn’t found at all.
Amabel peeped from the cope store and saw Marcus’ hat and gloves lying on the floor. Hearing him ascending the steps, she clambered out to make good her escape. She paused at the porch, but on seeing no one in the churchyard, she hurried down the steps to the lane and then around the upper corner of the churchyard wall, where she’d hidden her horse. It’s hooves clattered noisily upon the hard snow and ice in the lane as she urged it away.
Hearing the horse, Jane and Kit whirled about, but at the same moment Rowley discovered the source of the smell he’d been following. It was beneath a heap of old leaves and other rotting vegetation, and with a volley of excited barks, the spaniel pounced. Supernatural pandemonium immediately broke out as the Mulborough bogle took to its heels. It was a horrid little red-faced manikin, about twelve inches high, dressed in scruffy sacking. It’s rat-like face had eyes as black as coal, set above a long pointed nose, and it had whiskers and sharp teeth. Rowley would have done better to remember that bogles were not defenseless, and that if there was one thing they resented above all else, it was being flushed from their smelly hiding places, but the reckless spaniel gave chase, ignoring Jane’s cries of warning. “No, Rowley! No!”
Suddenly the bogle turned and Rowley was caught unawares as in a flash the vile manikin jumped on his back and sank its needlelike teeth into his neck. The spaniel yelped with pain and fled, with the bogle kicking its bony heels into his flanks.
Jane and Kit were rooted with shock, but then recovered enough to cause stones to strike the bogle. But they only succeeded in hitting poor Rowley too, so the dismayed ghosts stopped. The terrified spaniel leaped over the churchyard wall into the lane and set off toward the town, with the bogle still kicking and biting for all it was worth.
As silence returned, Jane pressed trembling hands to her mouth. “Oh, Rowley,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. Then she gathered her skirts. “We must follow!”
Kit accompanied her as she hastened toward the lych-gate, but he knew that few bogle-ridden spirits were ever seen again, let alone rescued.
Chapter Fourteen
Knowing nothing of the ghostly mayhem in the churchyard, Marcus had reached Henrietta. He glanced down as he heard Amabel’s departing horse, but the yew trees obscured his view and he didn’t see the rider. His attention returned to Henrietta, who was clinging to the stonework. “Are you all right?” he asked gently, taking one of her hands and pulling her safely into his strong arms.
Hot tears blurred her eyes. “Don’t let me go, please,” she whispered.
“I have you safely now.” He tightened his grip reassuringly.
“S-someone rang the bell. If you hadn’t arrived when you did ...” She looked at him in puzzlement. “Why are you here?”
“I could ask the same of you. I’m here because I saw you leaving the abbey and I followed, intending to give you the scolding you deserve.” He prudently omitted the invisible dog; it was too fantastic. “Do you think you can manage the steps?”
“No!”
He put his hand to her chin and forced her to look at him. “You have me now, and I’ll help you.”
She swallowed. “I’m too afraid....”
“I know, but I won’t let anything happen. Come.” He untwined her arms, then took one of her hands firmly and stood. “I’ll go first, and we’ll take it very carefully.”
She stared at him. “Please don’t make
me, Marcus.”
“Do as you’re told,” he instructed quietly, drawing her to her feet and turning to go down the first step. Slowly and tortuously they descended, but at the foot of the tower, her legs, already trembling, collapsed beneath her. She had to be helped to the nearest pew, where Marcus sat with her, still holding her hand. “There, that was not so bad, was it?”
“It was terrifying. I—I’m shaking all over...” she whispered. The brief glimpse she’d had of Kit flashed before her, but she knew the ghost had been there to protect, not harm her.
Marcus looked at her. “Can you tell me what happened? What were you doing in the belfry?”
“The boy thought he’d seen the Légère, and I climbed the tower to see if I could confirm it. Didn’t you see him by the lych-gate?”
“If I’m not mistaken, we passed in the lane.”
A thought occurred to her. “Maybe the boy rang the bell. Perhaps he thought it was a joke!”
“Knocking someone from the top of a church tower is a joke? A rather strange sense of humor, don’t you think? Besides, he must have been virtually in the town by the time the bell was rung; in fact, I believe the real culprit rode away when I was with you in the tower.”
“Whoever it was can’t have known I was there.”
“You surely don’t imagine that it was an accident? For heaven’s sake, what will it take to convince you you’re in danger? Think about everything that’s happened to you since you came here.”
A sliver of deep unease slid through her. “I—I know I was deliberately struck with the candlestick, but are you suggesting that the other things weren’t accidents? Someone is trying to harm me?” The ghosts came to mind again, but every instinct told her they were benevolent.
“After today, I’d say something more final than mere harm was intended.”
Sandra Heath Page 10