by Linda Davies
Suddenly, just as she was emerging from one thicket and moving off into the open, she got a sense of something. Of someone. She reached down, unsheathed her knife.
She turned full circle, checking the darkness behind, the moonlit grass in front. She could see no one, hear nothing save the soughing of the wind through the leaves. But she could not shake this sense of another presence. She could feel it in the goosebumps on her arms and the hair rising on the back of her neck.
She turned again, saw nothing. She was probably spooking herself with all these thoughts of vagabonds and wolves.
She hurried on. To the stream, leapt it cleanly, hurried for the cover of trees. She’d always felt the Black Castle had eyes. Now more than ever the arrow slits seemed to be looking back at her.
Suddenly, two flaming torches bobbed around one side of the castle. Nightwatchmen! The earl would have had men patrolling, especially with King Henry staying. The torches moved down the hill. Towards her.
She dropped to the ground. One of the things her father had told her when they played hide-and-seek was that it’s the flash of a pale face or hands or movement that gives you away. So she stayed still, face pressed into the damp earth, breath so soft her back hardly rose or fell.
She could hear the faint chatter of the men coming closer, the cadences of Welsh. They came to within a hundred yards of her, then, very gradually, they moved away again. Merry stayed where she was, not yet daring to move. The dew had soaked her woollen shift and she began to shiver. She raised her head, scanned left to right. The torches were far away in the distance, a faint glow, growing fainter.
Merry got to her feet and hurried over the grassland towards the cover of the forest. Trees everywhere, so many more than in her time. Better cover, said the voice in her head. This new voice she hadn’t known existed.
High above, an owl hooted. The soft whoosh of its wings passed overhead. She glanced up, saw its outline silhouetted against the moon.
Inside the forest, the darkness was intense. Only narrow shards of moonlight cut through. She had her head torch but the nightwatchmen and their flaming brands had stood out like beacons. So would even the modest beam of a torch. They’d taught her a useful lesson. She’d go in darkness. Even though it made navigating much more difficult.
She knew where the tunnel was in her time, but the forest and the darkness changed everything. She could easily miss it or spend hours going around in circles, or twist her ankle down a fox hole, or tumble on roots and break her leg. Her bare feet were already bleeding, cut by briars and sharp stones.
She paused, gave her eye time to adjust, tried to feel the forest around her, to sense the hidden hazards.
Constantly she felt the ripples of fear. Fear is good, said the new voice. Fear keeps you alive.
She moved deeper into the forest. Branches snagged her woollen shawl. One raked her cheek, drawing blood. She winced. She had one good eye. A thorn could rip it in the darkness.
Arms raised, protecting her face, she searched for the mound and the gorse bush that hid the tunnel in her time. But she couldn’t find it. She began to feel a wave of panic. She feared she was going around in circles. Her arms were lacerated with cuts from the brambles.
She had to take a risk. She turned on her head torch. Its beam lit the thicket ahead. She hunted quickly, helped by the light. Then she saw it. The huge gorse bush. Even bigger than in her time. She turned off the torch, squatted down, listened to the night, waited for her eye to readjust to darkness.
She heard nothing human, just the wind and the creaking of trees.
She felt sure there was no watchman guarding the tunnels. Only the inner circle of family and retainers would have known that they existed. That was their whole purpose. Emergency and secret routes to and from the castle. Built in an age when war parties were a way of life. Waiting no more, she crawled in under the thorny branches.
The coconut smell of the yellow flowers filled the air as she pushed through into the mouth of the tunnel. She straightened, extended her arms, spread her fingers, found the tunnel wall. Using it as a guide, she made her way along the narrow passage. She didn’t turn on her head torch, just in case anyone did happen to be there. Darkness was her best protection.
There was a sound, like a footstep. She froze, listened, but there was nothing. It must have been the echo of her own bare feet slapping against the stone floor. She continued on, skin bristling with fear, ears straining for a sound that never came.
After a few minutes she slowed. She had a sense of something before her, blocking her way, moments before her fingers touched wood. They probed for the door handle, closed on cold metal. She muttered a silent prayer and turned the handle.
It moved! But with a horrible groan of ungreased metal. She paused, heart racing. But there was nothing; no approaching footsteps, no shouts of enquiry. Cautiously, she turned the handle further. It moved silently now, till with a click it opened into the bowels of the castle. Into the dungeons.
Wood burnt in a brazier, casting out scant warmth and a meagre light that hardly penetrated the gloom. There was no chimney so the smoke hung heavy, stinging Merry’s eyes. She wanted to cough, swallowed saliva instead. She looked around, scanning, listening. It didn’t seem like anyone was there. She pulled the door shut behind her.
On tiptoe, she slunk through the vaulted jail, searching for her ancestor. All eight cells were empty.
Maybe he lay shackled in a cart rumbling towards the Tower of London. Maybe he was dead already. Apart from the loss to his wife and children, Merry couldn’t begin to work out what that might mean for her own family. Only knew that it would be beyond bad.
She began to shake with rage and despair. Her teeth chattered in the cold. And then she heard a sound. Rusty metal groaning. She spun around. The door to the dungeons was opening again. Somebody was coming in.
Merry glanced around wildly. There was nowhere to hide and no other exit. She turned and ran up the stairs into the body of the castle.
Around and around the narrow staircase, hugging the dank walls. Candles fixed to wall sconces, between pockets of darkness. She slunk from one to the next, heart and mind racing.
Who had followed her into the tunnel? And were they following her now? She had to find somewhere to hide. She hurried on up. She thought she could hear footsteps behind her but couldn’t be sure.
She came out into the servants’ area, in her time the cheery domain of Mrs Baskerville, outfitted with gleaming fridges and freezers and all the mod cons of a contemporary kitchen. Now it was dingy and gloomy. She could hear the clatter of plates and pans in the big old kitchen, and voices arguing in Welsh. She tiptoed past, on up the servants’ narrow staircase, up to the bedroom floors. The priest’s hole, she thought. She could wait in there till everyone went to sleep, then sneak out. She padded down the hallway, paused at the corner, breathing hard.
Male voices. Coming up the main staircase. Heading her way. She froze. Where now?
Then a door opened behind her. Trapping her. Merry wheeled around and came face-to-face with an elaborately dressed woman with blonde ringlets and a fancy lace head covering.
‘Why are you loitering?’ demanded the lady. Merry opened her mouth to say something when the woman cut in. ‘Follow me!’ she commanded, wrinkling her face with distaste as she eyed Merry up and down. Her gaze lingered, but only briefly, on Merry’s ruined eye. This was an age where physical imperfections, marrings and scarrings, pox marks and shrivelled limbs were not uncommon. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for a maid to come and see to my chamber pot,’ complained the woman, stalking back into her room.
Merry nodded her head and hurried in after her. In her linen shirt, tunic and shawl and bare feet, she must have looked like a particularly ragged servant. Just right for emptying chamber pots.
An unpleasant stink hit Merry. No wonder Little Miss Ringlets was so impatient.
‘Go on, then! Take it!’ ordered the woman.
Merry located the smel
l. Under the bed, of course. She hurried across the wooden floor and crouched down just as she heard other footsteps approach. And pause at the open door.
‘Everything to your liking, Lady Bess?’ asked a cool, clipped voice.
‘Why, perfectly fine, thank you, Lord de Courcy,’ replied the woman coquettishly.
‘Excellent. We shall see you for the feast, then. We have His Majesty’s favourite – spiced swan.’
‘Ooh, how delicious! Mine too,’ gushed the lady.
Merry kept her head bowed. She was terrified that the earl would recognize she was not one of his servants. Her hands trembled as she gripped the stinking chamber pot. She felt eyes on her back, waited, heart hammering. But the earl and his companion moved on. Merry blew out her breath, waiting until their voices had faded. She got up, nodded to the lady, and scurried out of the room.
The door shut behind her. Listening hard, adrenalin pumping, Merry crept along the empty hallway. She’d find somewhere to dump the bedpan, then hide in the priest’s hole. She crept past the watching portraits and realized with a jolt that most of the faces she was used to seeing were yet to be born. Their places were occupied by lushly woven tapestries.
She paused in front of what she thought was the right tapestry, pushed it aside and searched for the tiny ridge in the panelling. With the right amount of pressure, a concealed door would pop open, revealing the tiny hiding place inside. But there was no ridge. She searched under other tapestries and portraits, getting desperate as the seconds ticked by, but there was no priest’s hole. Then she realized: it hadn’t been built! Wouldn’t be built until Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth, became queen. She’d have to find somewhere else to hide, or try to get out now.
She rounded a corner, headed towards the servants’ staircase, then pulled up abruptly, nearly sloshing the contents of the chamber pot over herself. Someone was coming up. She could hear their footsteps, their laboured breath.
She turned and rushed back in the direction she had come, looking for a room to hide in. But each one seemed to be occupied. She could hear murmured conversations, some in English, others in French, coming through the heavy oak doors. She hurried on. There was just one room left at the far end of the hallway.
The red room. James had shown it to her once, when his parents were out – said it had always been occupied by the earl and countess. Merry paused, ear to the door. She heard nothing: no aristocratic conversation between husband and wife; no instructions to a servant; no industrious clattering of maids cleaning.
She opened the door, ducked inside, closed it. She blew out a breath and looked around.
The room was richly furnished, with lavish scarlet curtains and a heavily carved four-poster bed. The floor was sprinkled with lavender and rosemary.
Merry hurried across the scattered herbs, which released their scent into the air. She pushed the chamber pot deep under the bed. As she was straightening up, there was a knock on the door.
‘My Lady?’ called a voice.
Oh God, not again. Where to hide now? Under the bed with the chamber pot? No, she’d be spotted if the maid went to retrieve it, which, given the smell, she was bound to. She spun around wildly, spotted the wardrobe, tiptoed rapidly across the lavender and rosemary, ducked inside, and pulled the door shut just as the bedroom door opened.
Crouched in the darkness, she heard a voice curse in Welsh. There was a tiny crack in the wood. Merry put her eye to it and peered out. A maid was hauling out the chamber pot. Picking it up, she hurried out the way she’d come. Merry moved her hand to wipe a bead of sweat off her lip. Her fingers hit metal, a lever perhaps, because there was a slight click and something popped open against Merry’s arm. It was a drawer, velvet lined. Her fingers explored the soft surface. She felt rings, a selection, some smooth, some jewelled. One hooked itself on to her forefinger. She held it to the crack in the wood. In the darkness, it gleamed gold.
She thought of the book, of its promise of treasures. Her family could do with whatever treasures she could find. Surely it would be all right taking just this one … ?
She pushed the ring on to her finger.
A great gong sounded.
It was time for the royal feast.
She’d failed to find and free her ancestor. She had to believe he would be OK, that she shouldn’t in any case interfere with history more than she already had.
It was time to escape.
Wearing her Tudor treasure, Merry crept out of the wardrobe and listened at the door. She heard footsteps and chatter and a swishing of silk as lords and ladies and maybe even the king passed by and headed downstairs to the Great Hall, to their dinner.
Merry still had no idea who had followed her or if they were still attempting to follow her, but she couldn’t hide any longer. Everyone, both noble and low-born, would be occupied with the feast. Now was her best chance of escape.
She gave it five minutes, hoping that everyone would now be at the dinner; then she hurried down the main staircase, past the watching portraits. If anyone saw her, all she could do was run. She could hear the sound of the banquet booming out of the Great Hall. Raucous laughter, the clanging of metal plates, some kind of twanging string instrument, probably a mandolin.
She crept towards the door by the staircase that led to the kitchen area – her route out, via the dungeons. She pulled it open a few inches. A procession of servants were rushing up, carrying huge platters of food and jugs of steaming wine. She closed the door. They’d spot her as an interloper.
She hurried back to the main part of the castle, turned a corner and almost collided with an elderly man dressed in velvets and frills. He was leaning against the wall with a lost look on his face. Merry recoiled, waiting for him to shout, grab her, or react in any way. But he just blinked in surprise. Merry could see his eyes were covered in filmy white cataracts. Whoever he was, he seemed trapped inside his own dementia.
‘The feast,’ he said in a reedy voice. ‘Why aren’t you there? Will you take me back in?’ He pointed vaguely with a trembling hand.
Merry realized he probably couldn’t see her threadbare clothes, her bare feet. She put on her best aristocratic voice.
‘Er, yes, of course. But I must first have some fresh air,’ she said, hurrying off towards the front door.
She was committed now. She strode purposefully towards the door, hauled it open.
A blast of cold air hit her. The full moon lit the courtyard, which had a stable block in one corner. It looked beautiful, eerie and best of all, deserted. Merry closed the huge door behind her and hurried across the cobbles. They were cold, slippery underfoot with the evening dew.
And there was the drawbridge. Thankfully it was down and the portcullis was raised. She rushed on. Then the castle door crashed open just as she reached the stables. Merry spun around. The old man teetered out. Two woman hurried after him, calling him. They were focussed on him but they’d see her any second, especially if she darted to the drawbridge. She ducked inside the stables.
Heart pounding, she breathed in the smell of horse and manure and wet straw. She could hear no signs of humans, but that didn’t mean there weren’t grooms sleeping in the hayloft. She blinked in the darkness, waited for her vision to adjust. Stiffened. She could feel eyes on her. There was a low snort.
She saw a dark face above the half-door to a stall. The dished head, the black eyes blazing with intelligence and curiosity and just a touch of indignation. It was the Arab horse. The one she’d seen the countess riding on the hunt. The horse snorted again. Merry moved closer, offered him her palm to sniff.
Don’t give me away, please, she thought. She heard footsteps outside on the cobbles, the plaintive voice of the old man, and the two women arguing with him.
‘She’s out here,’ the old man was saying. ‘Fresh air. She needed fresh air.’
‘Come on, Father,’ said a crisp but loving voice. ‘There’s no one here. Look around.’
‘Excuse me, my Lady,’ came a voice. ‘I
think he’s right. I saw someone slip into the stables.’
Merry felt a wave of panic. She’d be discovered. Again. And this time she would not be able to explain herself, pretend to be a groom. She had to get away. And quickly. She pulled back the bolt to the horse’s door, eased into the stall.
Trying to slow her breathing, summoning calm, Merry reached up to stroke him. She should go slow to win him over, but she didn’t have time. They’d be here in seconds. She had to escape now.
She took the bridle hanging outside his stall and slipped it on him. She was distracted by the task, trying not to let the metal bit jangle. She didn’t hear the soft whisper of skirts.
As she buckled the bridle, a hand grabbed her arm. Merry gasped in terror, turned.
The lady of the hunt stood there, lavish in velvet and rubies, her eyes narrowed in fury.
‘Who are you and what are you doing in my stable?’ she demanded.
Merry knew those eyes. She’d seen them in her portrait – five hundred years into the future.
It was Catherine, the twelfth Countess de Courcy. The elderly man, who had to be her father, stood behind her, frowning. A maid stood beside him, holding on to him as if he might fall.
Merry’s brain raced. She played for time. ‘Lady de Courcy. I beg your leave.’ That was how they spoke, wasn’t it? Merry had read Shakespeare.
‘You beg my leave. To do what? To steal my stallion? We hang horse thieves!’ spat the countess, voice dripping venom. She lifted her head, opened her mouth to call out.
Merry lunged forward, stuck her hand over the countess’s mouth, choking off her words. She struggled, tried to get the countess’s hand off her, but the vice-like grip remained. Merry was taller than the countess, heavier, more muscled. She could have taken her down, but the countess would scream. She had to keep her hand over her mouth. Thankfully the countess was hindered by her elaborate dress. Merry kicked out, hit the side of her knee. The countess bit her hand and yelped as she fell to the floor, but she took Merry with her. The maid started screaming as Merry and the countess wrestled in the straw.