Mr. Fox tossed his head and brayed, and Diccon laughed. “Insulted you, did I? Very well, I’ll stick to my task and then I mean to go and poke around the old wing. You never can tell, there might really be a Sigh of Saladin lurking about. If we were to find that, my friend … ah, then things would be different!”
He finished his grooming, turned the little donkey out to graze, and walked back to the manor. It would take a small army and a large investment to restore Lanterns, but with typical Scots industry MacDougall had attacked the littered kitchen in the ‘new’ wing so that the enormous room fairly shone with cleanliness. Diccon filled the coffee pot at the pump and set it on the stove to heat while he ‘poked around.’ One of the first improvements, he thought, must be to have running water laid on.
The broad passage was gloomy and deathly still, and the chill from the flags struck through the soles of his boots. The rooms he passed were shuttered and dark. At the end of the corridor a massive sweep of stairs led to the railed balcony of the first floor and beyond spread the immensity of the single-storey hall that connected the old and new wings. He walked softly across it, his ears straining against the solid wall of silence. At the far end an iron-bound door opened onto three wide stone steps worn by age and leading down to the most ancient part of Lanterns. It was even more gloomy here for there were no windows on this level, the only light filtering down from the stair-well to the upper storey, and from one room where a block had tumbled from the west wall. The stone floor was uneven, and the smell of damp and decay hung thickly on the air.
The farther he progressed the more noticeable was the deterioration, and he halted in the vast chamber that had been the original great hall, saddened because the poor old house had come to such a state. Yet it still retained traces of former glory. A rusting suit of armour sagged on a small dais and the walls were hung with several broadswords, a crossbow, a mace, and a mighty war axe, their grim dignity marred by cobwebs. Three chests, a very long table, and benches set on either side of the outer door had survived, thick with dust. At the southernmost end of the room a narrow flight of stairs led to the upper floor and en route provided access to the minstrel gallery, which was supported by sturdy beams.
Here, in the twelfth century, the mighty Simon, Lord Cloud, had held court, surrounding himself with knights and squires and men at arms, and lovely ladies who wore flowing robes and wimples and busied themselves at their tapestries. It was this same nobleman who was said to have come home from the Third Crusade with the Sigh of Saladin as a wedding gift for his bride. If legend spoke truth the jewelled picture had been hidden when Lanterns was besieged by invading French during the war that ended in 1217. Part of the house was burned during the desperate fighting and Lord Simon and the squire who had hidden the picture were slain. If such a treasure had actually existed, it was never seen again, but the tale had been handed down through the centuries and in the event that it was based on fact, surely the picture would logically have been hidden here, rather than—
The sound was no more than a whisper, but he heard it, and sensed also that he was no longer alone. With not a second’s hesitation he raced soundlessly back to the main entrance and peered outside. A ginger-and-white cat was slinking in through the hole in the wall. The knight who attempted to follow was making a good deal of noise due to chain mail and a dropped helmet. The latter having been replaced, he tried again and succeeded in getting one leg through the space.
Amused, Diccon growled, “Advance and be recognized!”
There came a startled yelp. The cat shot out through the wall and fled. The knight backed away then crouched behind a stone urn, his plumes waving above it betrayingly.
Diccon choked back a laugh and called, “Only Sir Lancelot may pass this way! If you are he, show your sword.”
A tremulous voice said, “I’m he,” and a small wooden sword waved beside the plumes.
Diccon stepped from the entrance arch. “Welcome, Sir Knight. Are you on a quest?”
“Y-yes.” His eyes very wide, Arthur came into view but pressed back against the urn. “I’m a shiverous knight,” he explained. “So I’ve came to ’pologize for jousting with you without telling you we was jousting.”
Diccon managed to keep his countenance while offering a profound bow.
“An’ to see your donkey,” said Arthur, venturing a step closer.
Watching the hopeful little face, Diccon knew it was unlikely that Sir Lancelot had obtained permission to come here. Still, it would do no harm to let the boy meet Mr. Fox, at least. “This way,” he said with an inviting gesture.
Arthur came to join him, peered in through the door, then stepped back a pace. “It’s awf’ly dark.”
“We can follow the moat around to the kitchen door on the other end, if you wish.”
“Ooh,” breathed Arthur. “Is this a moat? It’s all dried up.”
“To a pirate, perhaps. But to a knight of the round table it’s full to the brim. Every good castle should have a moat, don’t you think?”
Impressed, Arthur nodded and walked a little closer to the tall man. “We got one, y’know. It’s behind the barn.” Brightening, he enlarged upon that stretch of the imagination. “A dragon lives in it. Has you got a dragon, Mr. Diccon?”
“You should call me Sir—er, Gawaine. My dragon has gone flying off somewhere, I’m afraid. Probably in search of lunch. Speaking of which, I do have a kitchen. And I believe there is a seed cake lurking about. Perchance you would share my board, Sir Lancelot?”
“A’right,” said Arthur, happily. “But I’d rather have some cake, if you please.”
* * *
“Shameful, I calls it!” Mrs. Gillespie set the iron on its heel and handed the folded tablecloth to Marietta. “This’n needs a darn, Miss. The squire should call in the army and chase the varmints out.” She folded her arms across her bosom, tucked in her chin, and arranged her sagging features into the expression that said she knew Important Things. “If they be humings, that is to say!”
“Not—human?” Seated at the kitchen table working her way through a pile of mending, Marietta smiled. “Come now, you never believe the ghost stories about Lanterns?”
“Aye. There’s them as laughs.” Mrs. Gillespie nodded grimly and took up her iron again. “But my mister’s seen lights in them there ruins o’ dark nights.”
Marietta had occasionally observed Mr. Gillespie making his way home from the Seven Seas tavern after his “lunch” and could well believe that there was no limit to what he might see later in the evening.
Some of her scepticism must have shown in her face because Mrs. Gillespie lowered her voice and added bodingly, “And there’s bin moans and howlings heard, and shadows what creeps and slithers about! And there’s a stranger there now! A mighty strange stranger! Very tall, he is, and bony and with eyes like chips of ice what glow in the dark, so my mister says. And Cobbler Higgett, likewise! Moves about like a shade—not a sound he makes!” She shivered. “Makes you think poor Mrs. South’s in the right of it after all!”
Marietta snipped her thread and folded the repaired pillow slip. It was typical of country folk and their superstitious natures, she thought. They had so much of kindness and generosity, yet their outlook on life was very often rather shockingly narrow.
“You ask that foreign fortune-teller lady what leaves her caravan here,” said Mrs. Gillespie, annoyed because Miss Warrington hadn’t risen to the bait. “She knows, surely. Second sight, that one’s got!”
Marietta smiled inwardly. “What could Madame Olympias know?”
“Why about poor young Sam South. Hasn’t I said it? They thought as he’d run away to sea, but Mrs. South says she saw him in a dream, and he was being kept in a cage down in the cellars at Lanterns, and the room was full of demons and witches, all tormenting the poor lad. After his immortal soul, they was! No doubting!”
Incredulous, Marietta said, “But—it was just a dream!”
“Mayhap it were, Miss, and mayhap
it were a warning! Not a week later they found Samuel’s scarf there, what his ma had just knitted for him! And how did it get there? That’s what I’d like to know!”
Marietta frowned, and, uneasy despite herself, said, “Then Constable Davis should take some men and search the horrid old place!”
“Aye, and so he did, Miss. Two months ago while you was in London. That’s when they found the scarf. They kept on looking for the boy, and when they went back … the scarf was gone!” Her voice lowered dramatically. “Vanished clean away in just them few minutes!”
“Oh. Well, even so, I don’t see what that has to do with the man who is living there now.”
Mrs. Gillespie put her iron on the hob and glanced cautiously to the door. “He’s come back!” she hissed. “Old Nick, is who he is! Come back to get some more souls!”
The thought of Mr. Diccon being taken for Old Nick drew a laugh from Marietta. She said merrily, “What rubbish! I have met the gentleman, and I promise you he is no more of a demon than is my papa!”
Bristling, Mrs. Gillespie changed irons. “P’raps you’re right, Miss. But if it was my little boy, I’d not let him go wandering off down there all by hisself! No, indeed!”
Marietta stood and with a chill edge to her tone said, “If you refer to Mr. Arthur, he is in the back garden, using his crayons.”
‘Hoity-toity!’ thought Mrs. Gillespie, but said nothing.
Marietta went out into the fresh radiance of the morning. Arthur’s sketch-book lay on the blanket she’d put out in the sun. The breeze riffled the pages and stirred the swing under the mulberry tree, but of the boy there was no sign. It was silly to pay heed to Mrs. Gillespie’s gloom-mongering, but she went inside and climbed to his room. Five minutes later, troubled, and wishing Aunty Dova and Fanny had not gone into the village, she set out.
He wouldn’t have gone there again—he wouldn’t! Not after what had happened yesterday. But she remembered the light in his eyes when they’d rested on the sword that morning, and remembering also his awed voice murmuring, “He’s got a donkey!” she walked a little faster through the lodge gates.
When she came near to Lanterns she paused, her eyes searching the weedy grounds and the great sprawl of the house. There was no sign of her brother, or indeed of any life. Mrs. Gillespie’s superstitions were nonsense, of course, but the silence was rather unnerving, and she found herself unwilling to go down there. Instead, she called, her clear voice echoing briefly, then dissipating, as if blown away by the breeze so that the quiet seemed more intense than before. Surely, if Arthur was here, he would have heard her? But the house was so old; the walls were likely very thick and might blot out sound. She started down the slope with slow reluctance.
Last evening she had been so fearful for her brother that she’d paid little attention to the house. Now, she scanned it curiously. It was a long structure. The wing closest to the edge of the cliffs had been constructed with stone blocks, and pre-dated the newer addition by, she would guess, several centuries. The first Lanterns had been a rectangular, westward facing, two-storey hall with a high-pitched roof, probably a later improvement, dramatised at the far southern end by a great gable. The only windows, which were tall and narrow, were high up, at the first-floor level. The newer addition was very large and far less stark, its brick and timber quite charming, in fact. It rose to the same two storeys as the original pile and culminated in another great gable. A single-storey central wing connecting the buildings was evidently the principal entrance. It was dignified by a great round-headed front door, recessed under a stone archway and approached by a low bridge, that might at one time have been a drawbridge. There were more and wider windows, several of which were broken and had been boarded up.
She was intrigued to see that the manor had originally been protected by a moat, of which traces still remained in the form of overgrown sunken gardens threaded with stepping-stones. About a hundred yards east of the manor were the sagging remains of a gigantic barn and several outbuildings.
Indignation gripped Marietta. The original wing, of course, was past hope, and looked ready to tumble down the cliff at any moment, as the southern end of the moat appeared to have done. But the newer part of the house, although also very old, had once been beautiful, and could be again were it not so shamefully neglected.
The gable of the north wing towered over her. Hesitating, she had the sudden conviction that she was watched. She looked about uneasily. A clump of tall hollyhocks by the ruined barn swayed suspiciously. Chilled, she could almost hear Mrs. Gillespie’s ominous words: “He’s Old Nick.… Come back to get more souls!” Impatient with her skittery nerves, she thought, ‘Do stop being so silly, Marietta Warrington! The hollyhocks moved because the breeze blew them, of course!’
She left the drive-path which led to the low bridge across the moat and the central front door and walked back instead to the stepping-stones. Negotiating them with care, she made her way around the end of the house to what she judged to be the tradesmen’s entrance. There was no response to her knock, and lifting the latch she pushed the door open. Surprisingly, it did not creak, and she stepped into what must have been the scullery. It was unoccupied, as were the buttery and pantry, and the gigantic kitchen, which was astonishingly neat. She gazed uneasily at the fire which burned in the stove. Again, she called, and again there was no response. She should leave at once, but she was curious now, and she went on, peeping about at a succession of dark and empty rooms, constantly surprised by the excellence of craftsmanship that had gone into the construction. She had wandered across a very large entrance hall when at last she had an indication that she was not alone. She checked, listening intently. The closed door before her must lead to the older wing, and from beyond that door faint sounds became identifiable as running footsteps drawing ever nearer. There was an unmistakable stumble, accompanied by a frenzied panting and then a blood-curdling shriek.
Marietta’s heart jumped into her throat. She turned to escape, but paused. Suppose the runner was her brother? She bit her lip, looked around desperately for something with which to defend herself, and snatched up the only article within reach, a wooden and comfortingly solid music stand. She had only time then to shrink against the wall to one side of the door before it burst open. Another piercing shriek rang out. Arthur raced past, head thrown back, legs pumping frantically. Heavier footsteps were following.
A male voice roared, “You can’t escape, you varmint! Stop, or—”
Somewhere beyond that voice a door must be open because light was casting a shadow on the dusty floor—the shadow of a terrifying figure with one upraised arm brandishing a great two-edged sword.
To shock and terror was added rage. Marietta flailed the music stand with all her strength at the murderous creature who plunged through the door after her brother. Her fingers tingled at the impact. Caught squarely across the chest, the pursuer reeled backward, tripped on the steps, fell heavily and sprawled face-down, unmoving.
Another shriek rang out. “Etta! What has you gone and done?”
Her breath fluttering, Marietta cried, “It’s—it’s all right, dearest. You’re safe now, but … No! Stay back! Keep away from him!”
The boy eluded her outstretched hand and raced past to drop to his knees beside the fallen man and pull at one unresponsive arm. “Sir G’waine! Get up! Do please get up now! Oh, do!”
A dreadful suspicion began to dawn. Shaking, Marietta wavered down the steps. “Arthur—what are you doing here? Did that man—”
“He’s not a ‘that man’!” The boy’s eyes were tearfully accusing. “I found him for a new friend. We was playing. He was Sir G’waine, but now he’s being the Black Knight and he makes it much better than Fanny does. He didn’t do nothing bad, Etta! And now, you’ve gone and killed him dead!”
The room swung around Marietta. She was suddenly icy cold, but she forced the faintness away, and bent over her victim. He had discarded his coat and waistcoat, and the white shirt had rippe
d in his fall. She saw a crimson stain on the fine linen and was sickened by the fear that he had fallen on that great sword. She said in a far-away voice, “Arthur, you must—you must help me, dear.”
“Yes, but why did you do it?”
“I thought— But never mind that now. Can you find your way to the kitchen? I think I saw a water jug. Bring it to me as quickly as you can.”
Sobbing, the boy ran off.
Marietta knelt beside the injured man and took up one thin hand, searching for a pulse. She could have wept with relief when she detected the beat, rapid but firm. She put down his hand gently and tried to turn him, but although there seemed to be not an ounce of fat on his lean body, he was far from frail and she lacked the strength to discover where else he was hurt. She widened the tear in his shirt and, investigating, gave a gasp. He had evidently suffered a recent injury and the fall had broken open the wound a little, but it was not the torn flesh that so appalled her, but the long scar that angled from his left shoulder; the mark on his right side that looked like the imprint of a horseshoe; the evidence of a healed bullet wound above it.
“What ’ave it ’appen to my Diccon? Tiens! Is ’e shot again?”
The voice at her ear almost made her jump out of her shoes. With a muffled yelp of fright she jerked around and found a small dark man standing beside her. “Oh! How you startled me!” she gasped.
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