Rachel turned to the entrance again, to find that it looked strikingly different. The visitors were all gone, and the entrance signs were also missing. Turning back, she saw the castle had rapidly grown a huge outer wall, and – instead of standing outside the castle altogether – she was, in fact, standing within some kind of courtyard. Under her feet, rather than the flagstones she remembered walking over, was dirt. What the hell was this? Was she having some kind of psychotic episode?
“Oh shit,” she heard herself saying. She closed her eyes again, then opened them. No, everything was the same.
Turning to the men, she saw there were hundreds – probably at least 300 – men of war; scarred, large fighting men, saddling and attending to even larger horses. The smell began to reach her – sweat, mud and another smell she couldn’t place – as did the sounds: horses whiffling and neighing, and men talking in loud voices in a language she didn’t really understand. An instant wave of silence rippled over the gathering, as two men on horseback approached them from the far end of the courtyard.
She looked more closely. Did these men see her? They didn’t appear to, but, nonetheless, she decided to stand back, just in case; she didn’t think it was a good idea for a woman to appear unexpectedly in front of all these men. That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.
The two men rode slowly to the front of the group; they were clearly of a very different class to these other men. Both wore what she recognised as chainmail, from head to foot, and a kind of square helmet on their heads, with the visor up. Over the chainmail was something like a smock or a large vest, which came down to their knees and was yellow, with a kind of bird in red on the front. Both, she could see, carried large swords at their sides. Their horses too had been prepared. Both were adorned with the yellow-and-red livery under their saddles and bridles. The two impressively dressed men took up their position at the front.
“Oh, God help me.” Rachel rushed away from the scene. She was now starting to realise this wasn’t any kind of modern day re-enactment; it was probably another hallucination. She had to stop it. She sat with her back against the outer wall, pressed against a pillar, and rubbed her eyes. If this was a hallucination, it felt very real. The hard, spiky surface of the stone wall poked uncomfortably into her back; the stones were interspaced with lumps of green moss, growing in the shaded parts, which she could feel, soft and damp, against her.
“Stop… For God’s sake, stop,” she declared, but every time she took her hands from her eyes, the scene was still there.
The men began to advance, led by the two in front. She watched them come closer; all of them were in chain mail, with some bearing a coat of arms. They rode past her in a winding line, and she could see the men at the front clearly. The first, she guessed, was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, a smart beard and heavy brows. The second was clearly younger – late twenties, she guessed; he had what she thought to be finer features, and was more delicately boned and smaller, but still with a beard. They had a similar face shape, so were maybe related.
She watched as a huge drawbridge in the outer wall began to lower, its old chains groaning. The drawbridge extended. The men rode out in a long line of grey, yellow and black, not speaking, but following the two men at the front.
Should she stay there? She looked around the courtyard. Slowly, Rachel rose from her position and began to follow, just behind the men and horses walking unhurriedly along the huge path.
In front of her, she saw some small houses, which were off to the side in what looked like woodland. It only sort of looked like woodland because it was very hard to see. It was as if she could see it in her peripheral vision, but when she looked straight at it, the houses and trees seemed to fade. It was like looking at a dim star at night; if you looked straight at it, it couldn’t be seen, but if you looked at it just off centre, you could see it clearly.
Then she saw them. Others, maybe 400 or so men, standing facing them, perhaps 500 yards away. It seemed the same kind of arrangement, with fighting men at the back, and this time there were three men at the front in a livery of some kind, in blue and white.
What was this about? Was it some kind of treaty? An argument? She stood rooted to the spot, watching this all play out, aware that everything she saw in front of her wasn’t actually there. She didn’t know why she knew it, but she did, and this didn’t stop her seeing it, hearing it, smelling it and feeling the emotions of what was happening.
She carried on watching as the two groups of combatants grew closer and closer together. She felt the tension building in the air, and her temples began to tighten.
The men in the distance had almost met. They then stopped. The wind brought her sounds of speech: high, loud-pitched shouting. The two men with the yellow-and-red livery were speaking to the three in blue-and-white livery at the front of the opposing men.
She kept rubbing her eyes, and closing and opening them, willing the visitor information signs to come back. But nothing happened; the drawbridge was now closed, and there appeared to be a moat around the outer wall. There were no outhouses, cafés or anything.
All hell broke loose, so unexpectedly that she froze where she stood. The men on both sides had launched themselves at each other; all she saw was a mass of bodies and horses, and all she heard was screaming and horses crying out. Whatever discussions had been taking place had clearly failed. Rachel stood rooted to the spot, but then began to feel her legs crumbling as she saw throats cut, horses disembowelled, and men having their heads swept off with one strike of the sword.
From the side of the battlefield, she found herself walking towards the fighting. When the outer ring of the hostilities was about fifty feet away, she stopped. No one appeared to be aware of her presence. Her eyes were drawn to the two men in yellow: the two who had ridden from the castle, leading the rest of the men. They were on the edge of the fighting, and had both somehow been dismounted in battle. Protecting each other, they were turned back to back, fending off various others in the blue-and-white livery. She felt she was going to have to leave this place, to go anywhere but here till she…
Till I what? she wondered. Wake up? Stop hallucinating?
Then she saw it, quick and deliberate. If she had turned a second before, it would have been missed. Right in the middle of the madness, the smaller man – the one with the finer features – spun round and plunged his sword straight into the chest of his companion in yellow and red. From where she stood, she could see the expression on the face of the dying man: shock, horror and disbelief, as he fell lifeless to the ground. She doubted anyone had seen what had happened in the melee of battle. There were combatants from the blue-and-white group crowding around them, and then her view of the two men was swallowed up by the bloody chaos of it all.
What had happened there? Were they not on the same side? Abruptly, the fighting began to die away as the yellow-and-red-liveried men seemed to begin to gain the upper hand. The leaders of the blue-and-white group immediately rode away, and seeing that they had clearly been abandoned, this signalled to all the others on that side to scatter. All who were left were those in the yellow-and-red livery, picking up their dead and running a sword through any injured enemies on the ground.
She heard a wailing fill the air. The smaller man was screaming and cradling the older man with the beard; men came running. What the hell was that about? Whatever it was, she wanted no part of it. Rachel had spent what seemed like hours watching this play out, and realised unexpectedly that she was cold and shaking. She felt nauseous as she caught site of entrails, dead men, decapitated heads and slain horses strewn across the battlefield. She smelt blood and death. Turning instinctively towards the castle, she walked away, trying to stop herself from heaving.
Then she saw the shimmer again, and the castle in front of her shaking and changing. Gradually, it turned back to how she had remembered it.
An elderly lady stood outside the tic
ket hall, holding a bundle of leaflets; as Rachel walked by, the lady looked at her. “You don’t look well, dear,” the lady stated.
Rachel didn’t listen and walked back into the main foyer area, looking for Sally. She opened her bag and searched for her phone; when she found it, her hands were shaking so hard that she could barely dial the number. Frustrated, she closed her eyes and looked up.
There, in the main foyer, were both the men she had just seen. They were in a large painting on the wall, wearing outfits of black with what looked like gold woven into them. The older one, who stood at the front of the painting, wore some kind of green, velvet cape, fastened to his shoulder by a large, red gemstone; the younger one stood to his side with a cape of deepest purple. To their sides were swords, and that yellow-and-red livery was on a painted shield to their right.
Both of them were there. Standing together.
The plump lady who had started the tour came to her side. “It’s an impressive picture isn’t it? It shows both Sir Robert and Sir Phillip,” she explained.
“Wha… what?” Rachel turned to look at the woman. “You… spoke about them earlier…”
“Yes, before you left the tour,” the woman declared with a sniff.
Rachel turned back to the picture, her eyes glued to the image. “What…” She felt a growing sense of panic enveloping her. “What happened to them?”
“As explained on the tour, Sir Robert died in battle in 1237… He fought against the Duke of Sudbury, due to issues regarding the king’s—”
“Who killed him?”
The woman looked at Rachel, slightly bemused by her sudden enthusiasm for local history. “Most accounts claim it was his main rival, the Duke of Sudbury; however, one monastic chronicle of the time suggests that it was the duke’s son, Alexander, who was fighting alongside him.”
“He was stabbed in the chest.” Rachel shut her eyes.
“Possibly.” The woman looked slightly annoyed. “However, the general consensus is that it was a blow to the stomach, and the neck.”
Rachel looked up. “They didn’t cut his neck. He was stabbed in the chest.”
“As you wish.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“Sir Phillip and the duke signed a treaty; they joined forces. Sir Robert would have been most against this, but, with him dead, the treaty went ahead, and Sir Phillip took over the castle and married the Lady Amersham, who had been handfasted with Sir Robert.”
“Hang on… this is Sir Phillip? His brother?” Rachel pointed up to the younger man in the painting.
“Yes, that is so.”
“So, Sir Robert being dead means Phillip gets the lot: the woman and the castle. And this duke guy, who was fighting them, he benefitted as well.”
“It is a crude way of putting it.”
“Phillip stabbed his own brother and killed him, probably for the position. You have got it wrong…”
The tour guide looked at her. “Some people have their own idea of history, madam, but—”
Rachel felt the anger rising. “Phillip killed his brother, probably to get his hands on the castle, and the duke had something to do with it; everyone benefitted with him gone, doesn’t anyone see this?” Rachel clasped her hand to her mouth.
“I am afraid there is no evidence to support this; if you look on our history boards, you will see what happened.” The guide walked away.
Rachel slumped to the floor and felt tears pouring from her eyes. She had just witnessed a murder; a murder that had taken place over 750 years ago. “He was bloody killed by his brother, you stupid people; they tricked him, made him go out there, then bloody killed him.” Her eyes began to sting, and she was aware of a crowd building up around her. She could see Sally in the distance, hurrying towards her and pushing through the crowd of gawkers.
The tour guide returned, but this time with a security guard.
“It is clear, madam, that you do not know history,” the woman declared.
Rachel stood up slowly and wiped her eyes with her hand. She began to sob and splutter, forcing the words from her parched lips, “No… no, you have got it all wrong… Yeah, OK, you supposedly know history, but you know what? I see history.” Rachel accompanied this statement by vigorously jabbing a finger at the tour guide.
Everyone stood silently looking at her, including the two long-dead, painted brothers, who were frozen in time, with their faces fixed and emotionless.
Chapter 9
The walk to Rachel’s flat seemed to take longer than she remembered it having ever taken before. The day’s events had taken their toll, and, yet again, she began questioning her own sanity. Every single fibre of her body believed she had seen a true event in history and something that had actually happened, albeit a long time ago. There was no way it was a hallucination; she hadn’t made it up. If she had made it up, she would have done it in a different way, she was sure. Her stomach began to lurch again, and she felt the gentle ebb of a panic attack begin at her extremities and work their way to her core.
She shivered, although she wasn’t cold. What next? What would happen now? Rachel almost felt she was now constantly living in fear of the next… She didn’t even know what to call it. Attack? Episode? Incident? She just wanted to get home, see John, and try to forget what had happened.
John. Oh Christ. What was she going to say to John? He didn’t seem interested in what was happening. He had made his views very clear: she was still ill, she spoke about her problems too much, and they were mostly of her own making. He said she should ignore them, and they would go away.
A man hurried by her in the dusk. He was wearing a very sharp, grey suit, tie and hat; in his mouth bobbed a cigarette. He looked up at her as he passed. She noticed his feet were missing; she could only see him from the knees up, like he was in water and wading through the ground. Because of this, he appeared much shorter than he probably was. She stared ahead for a moment. What was all that about? She turned her head rapidly, looking at the road behind her. He was gone.
He was another ghost. Ghost; what a stupid word! It still conjured up pictures of a white-sheeted, chain clanking figure – but what else would she call them?
Rachel eventually arrived at her flat. Sally had offered to walk her home, clearly worried about her sanity, but this had been refused. Rachel wanted time for herself, to walk and reflect on where to go next. As she put the key in the door, she saw the lights were off, which was odd, as John should have been home by then. She was so glad to get home. She remembered the look on Sally’s face back in the castle, and her horror when the security guard had asked them both to leave.
In front of the castle, Sally had seen shops, cars, roads and people going about their business, but Rachel kept thinking back to the world of over 750 years ago, with blood and guts spilt onto the dirt, and a betrayal. The murder of a man, committed by his own brother for gain, undiscovered for all these years, till she saw it. Why her? She was nothing special, and she never had been; why would she be able to see this?
The key was turned in the lock, the lock clicked, she pushed the door open, and the cold air inside hit her. John obviously wasn’t home, but she called out anyway, “John?”
Rachel closed the door, and went into the bedroom. The first thing she saw was that his coat had gone from the back of the bedroom door. For some reason, she knew something was wrong and rushed to the large, old wardrobe in the spare room he had used to keep his clothes in. On tearing open the spare-room door, she saw that the wardrobe stood agape. It was empty.
John had gone.
His things were all missing: his wallet, his shoes – everything. Her mind began to spin as she sat heavily on the bed. Her mind rushed. Where is he? Has he taken any of my stuff?
She scrambled for her phone to call him, but there it was: a text message. She hadn’t heard it come through, as she had been so highl
y charged whilst returning from the castle. It was simple. It was from John and said, ‘Sorry, I can’t take any more of this. I have gone to stay with a friend. Don’t blame yourself.’ That was it. Maybe he would come back? She rang him, but it went to voicemail; so she left a message, frantically asking him to call her back.
Rachel then lay back on the bed, her mind swimming. It would be so easy to just jump off a cliff and end it all. She closed her eyes again and was asleep before she knew it, dreaming of shadows and that damn rope bridge again, with the people in shadow calling to her. She woke at 3am to the beginnings of another migraine, and mused on how she got so many now; that familiar twinge of pain at her left temple seemed to take over her body as the hours ticked by. She took her medication and then said a small prayer – sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t work, it meant she would be wracked with agonising head pains for two days. That’s plenty of time to evaluate life, she thought, through the mist of increasing pain.
*
The kettle had boiled, and Mrs Braithwaite poured hot water carefully into the cup for her guest, Miss Simpkin, who had turned up at her door, asking to speak to Andy urgently about a so-called haunting.
Mrs Braithwaite was used to random people turning up asking for Andy; however, she had noticed recently that fewer people had been calling. Many seemed to think Andy was psychic – which he wasn’t, of course – and kept asking him to go to their homes, which they said had to be haunted, to either find out more about their unwanted spectral guest or to get rid of said guest. Such stories Andy had told her about his work! Often, the houses he visited either had an owner with mental health problems, bad plumbing (causing knocking pipes), or other very non-paranormal explanations. Very rarely indeed had he ever found a real haunting, as such.
Mrs Braithwaite took the cup and placed it with hers on a tray, then went into the living area. Although she was in her eighties, Mrs Braithwaite was still quite sprightly, and sharp as a tack. “I am sorry I took my time, dear; Andy won’t be long.”
Seeing Things Page 5