Sleeper’s Castle

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Weather magic too,’ Andy murmured.

  ‘Of which Glyndŵr was said to be a master,’ Meryn smiled gravely. ‘Or so the English said. They didn’t seem to be able to believe that Welsh weather could be that bad all on its own. They were convinced the weather was colluding with the rebels.’

  ‘Whereas I know, or suspect, that it was Catrin who taught Owain’s daughters, and they in turn taught him. Does that make her his weather consultant? You know more about all this than I do,’ Andy said. ‘I’m beginning to feel very ignorant, in spite of reading the books.’

  ‘You’ll get there.’ He leant forward and threw a log from the basket on to the fire. ‘Weather witching is a fascinating topic. It veers from local folklore to the invocation of ancient gods and elementals and nature spirits, a practice involving what we might call high magic. A serious subject, to be studied and learned in every period of history and in every nation of the world. Now we rely on the Met Office. Far less glamorous, but probably no more accurate.’ He smiled.

  He sat back in his chair again. ‘So, your father has been here. How did his visit go?’

  ‘It was lovely to see him again. He was intrigued by my dreams about Catrin, but he couldn’t tell me how to switch off.’ She glanced up and pulled a wry face. ‘He didn’t know how. He could feel the atmosphere at Sleeper’s, but I think he’s forgotten much of what we used to do together. It was when I was a child after all. He’s had other children since then.’

  ‘Do you get on with your half-brothers and half-sisters?’ Meryn leaned back in his chair. He looked at her over steepled fingers.

  ‘Half-brothers.’ She smiled. ‘Oh yes, we get on quite well. But they’re much younger than me, and we don’t see each other very often. And we don’t have much in common, to be honest, beyond sharing a father.’

  ‘That is quite an important link.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Was he worried by your activities at Sleeper’s Castle?’

  She nodded. ‘Although he was more worried by Rhona, if I’m honest. We talked a lot about the dreams and the ghosts, but,’ she hesitated. ‘He said it was something he enjoyed sharing with me when I was a child. He said he made a lot of it up.’ She looked up and he saw the bleakness of betrayal in her eyes. ‘I believed him. What I thought we used to do together, the dreaming, the travelling into the dreams, the ghost-hunting, it was all pretend. He’s obviously very sensitive to atmosphere and he knows a lot about old houses,’ she added almost hopefully, ‘but he said to ask you about the rest. Apparently Bryn told him you were trustworthy.’ She gave a sheepish grin. ‘What he really wanted was for me to go home with him. He thought I’d be safer there.’

  Meryn chuckled. ‘Remind me to thank Bryn for the reference.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Your father’s probably right on that last point.’

  She glanced at him ruefully. ‘Well, I told him I was staying. I want to know what happens. And besides, I didn’t want him to feel he had to cancel his meetings to entertain his loopy daughter.’

  Meryn smiled sympathetically. ‘As a matter of interest, do you think you are loopy?’

  ‘No!’ She was indignant. ‘Well,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘I wouldn’t necessarily tell anyone else about what is happening. Just you and Sian.’

  ‘If it helps, I don’t think you are loopy. But I do think you need to learn some basic rules fairly urgently. So, what I am going to say next is something you must take on board. You must not, Andy, in future, touch anything or anyone when you are dreaming. You are an observer. A voyeur, if you will, you are not a participant. I am concerned that if you physically touch something, you could ground yourself in the dream space. You haven’t, as yet, but as you become more involved with Catrin’s story, the temptation might arise. I’ve been thinking about your experiences and your response to the situation, and I want you to be able to continue as long as you want to, but safely. You must not risk this becoming an obsession, and you must not, ever, risk getting pulled into the past.’

  ‘You mean I could get stuck there?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean. I think it unlikely—’

  ‘But I could interfere with …’ she paused, grappling for the right word.

  ‘What they call the “space-time continuum” in science fiction movies? Exactly.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think you would get stuck. I think you would in the end revert to normal sleep patterns and “surface” slowly the next morning, but we don’t want you to lose control of the situation. So, that is my first lesson. Don’t touch.’ He stood up. ‘I take it a coffee wouldn’t come amiss? I think we’ve covered all we need to for now.’

  She looked at him, askance. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already on his way out of the room.

  She sat back, feeling obscurely cheated, surveying the room, noting the table, the books and papers, the laptop, closed but plugged into its charger. There was an umbrella stand by the door, with its quota of thumb sticks, walking sticks and even a huge umbrella. Was his Druid staff hidden amongst them? She smiled at the thought. Through the window she could see a small gnarled rowan tree, the branches heavy with scarlet berries. There was a vase of wild flowers on the table, and a couch with a pile of old tapestry-covered cushions in the corner. She focused on the cushions, a feminine touch in the very masculine room, and wondered idly if he had ever been married.

  He returned with a tray. The plate of home-made biscuits suggested that he was either a cook or he had been down to Hay that morning. ‘The answer is no, no one would have me,’ he said, amused, as he put down the tray.

  She blushed. ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’

  ‘Ah, haven’t you heard of my reputation as a wizard? And I’m a mind-reader as well!’ He handed her a mug of coffee. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. Women often look round my house and ask themselves that question. I can’t think why.’ He sat down again, pushing the plates towards her.

  ‘If you can’t think why, you can’t be completely all-seeing and all-knowing.’

  ‘Touché.’ He laughed.

  ‘Which is a tiny bit comforting.’

  ‘Sorry. Was I lecturing before? I am so used to doing it.’

  ‘And you’re good at it. It’s reassuring to talk to someone who knows their stuff and believes in a life beyond the mundane. I have for so long lived with a man who rubbished anything even slightly out of the ordinary.’ She hesitated. ‘I know the lesson is over, but can I ask one more thing? I’ve noticed: these dream experiences are becoming more and more intense; more real. Is that because I’m getting used to it? Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘They are not just dreams, are they? We’re calling them dreams, but somehow they’re more than that.’

  ‘We could call it time travel.’

  ‘Does that mean it’s all still happening?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘But it can’t be changed.’

  He looked quizzical for a moment. ‘For the purposes of this discussion, probably not.’

  Getting to his feet he bent to pick another log out of the basket and throw it on the fire. There was a loud crack and a roar of flame. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney.

  He picked up the poker and pushed the logs back. ‘Have you seen any more of the fearsome Rhona?’ he asked without turning round.

  ‘No, but Bryn has. She accosted him in a pub. She’s still in the area.’

  ‘I am sorry. You don’t need the extra worry of that woman on your heels all the time.’ He went back to his chair.

  Andy was staring into the fire. ‘You couldn’t turn her into a toad or something, could you? Or even better, make her disappear in a puff of smoke.’

  He laughed quietly. ‘I think you’re muddling me up with a witch.’

  ‘Didn’t you just say you were a wizard? I thought that was a male witch.’

  ‘My mistake.’ He sighe
d. ‘I’m afraid making people disappear is against the moral code expected of wizards these days. Doesn’t it explain that somewhere in Harry Potter?’

  ‘You didn’t go to Hogwarts?’

  He laughed. ‘I would hate to tell you where I went to school.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I prefer to give the impression that I leapt fully formed from my mother’s womb.’

  She laughed with him. ‘OK. I’ll have to guess.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Someone told me you were Scots.’

  ‘No. I’m Welsh born and bred.’

  She wouldn’t let it go. ‘So, there is a mystery here. Let me guess. I bet you went to Eton.’

  ‘No, but you’re not far off.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Winchester, if you must know. And yes, Oxford. I’m sorry. I put my hand up to being a posh boy. Once, a long time ago. It does my street cred no good at all. I would prefer it if a rumour went round that I attended Hogwarts.’

  ‘OK. Your secret is safe with me.’ She sighed. ‘Meryn, Sian said you wouldn’t mind driving me home.’

  ‘Are you worried it will be on the back of my broomstick?’ He stood up.

  ‘If it is, I’m sure you won’t let me fall off.’

  In the event he drove a battered Fourtrak which had been parked round the back of the cottage. Andy surveyed it critically as he opened the door for her. ‘This looks old enough to have been around in the days of Glyndŵr.’

  ‘Ouch!’ He laughed out loud. ‘Is that a gentle hint that I should upgrade?’

  She was laughing quietly to herself as she climbed in.

  Meryn followed her indoors and went with her as far as the kitchen, pushing her gently into a chair with an admonition to rest her foot, but declining her offer of food.

  ‘I need to work.’ He hesitated. ‘Take care, Andy, and please, please, please watch out for Rhona. I have a bad feeling about that woman. Alas, one cannot dismiss her as a dream. She is all too real, I fear.’

  Having bolted the door behind him, Andy turned to find Pepper watching her expectantly from his perch on the edge of the table. ‘I’m afraid he couldn’t stay,’ she said, hearing the disappointment in her own voice as she spoke. ‘You trust him too, don’t you.’

  Rhona had spotted the old Fourtrak up at the top of the hill near the cattle grid. Miranda was the passenger. Neither she nor the man driving had noticed her and she had set off after them with interest. She slowed to a standstill in the lane round the corner from Sleeper’s Castle, cut the engine and allowed her car to creep forward on the brake. He had pulled into the parking place beside the Passat and she watched as he walked round and opened the door for Miranda. He helped her out and she saw Miranda leaning heavily on his arm as he helped her up the steps to the front door. Rhona smiled in satisfaction. Miranda’s ankle was obviously still giving her trouble.

  The man reappeared a few minutes later and climbed back into the car. Not Miranda’s father, who had left the day before; someone else. A stranger. So, the bitch had betrayed Graham’s memory with another man beside the gardener.

  Ignoring the temptation to follow him she pulled into a farm gate a quarter of a mile up the road from Sleeper’s Castle, tucking the car in to the hedge well out of sight, then she retraced her steps down the lane. It was hard to approach the house without being seen. It stood up over the road and the front garden and it was impossible to guess whether someone was looking out of the windows, but she risked it, running up the steps and ducking round the side where she crouched close to the wall, her heart thudding with exertion and excitement.

  The garden was alive with movement. The bushes and trees were swaying and rustling in the wind and she could hear the roar of water from the brook that ran under the road outside the house. It was an elemental place, full of energy. Slowly she stood up and peered in at the window beside her. The room was empty, small, seemingly unused. She felt a prickling in her fingers and she glanced down at her hands, which were clutching the windowsill. It was almost as if the stone was giving off small electric shocks. She let go hastily and rubbed her hands on the front of her jacket, then she tiptoed on, turning the corner to look along the back of the house. There were lights on here. She felt another rush of excitement and crept on.

  The first window she came to looked into an enormous shadowy room, lit by several lamps. Although it was almost midday the garden was dull. It was beginning to spot with rain. The room had a heavily beamed ceiling. Judging by the positioning of the furniture the fireplace was on the wall near her and now she studied the layout of this back elevation of the house she saw the huge stone chimney beside her. There was no one in the room but the lamps gave the impression that it was in use and at any moment someone – Miranda – might walk in. She peered round the chimney stack and began to make her way onward towards the next set of windows. Above her the clouds were thickening and the rain was growing heavier. She smiled to herself. She could feel the tension rising. Miranda was very close.

  25

  Andy was sitting at the kitchen table staring at her emails. She couldn’t believe what she had just read. It was from her agent, Krista.

  Sit down, Andy. And take a deep breath. I’ve been trying to ring you – don’t you ever turn on your mobile? Listen to this. A friend of Graham’s called Donald O’Sullivan has contacted me, looking for you. He’s been in the States for the past year and didn’t know that Graham had died. He was devastated to hear the news and couldn’t understand why you hadn’t been in touch and weren’t in Kew any more. I explained the situation and – guess what? You are not going to believe this! – He was one of the people who witnessed Graham’s will! And he has a copy!!! Why are you not answering your phone? Call me!

  Andy stared at the screen. Don O’Sullivan. Why hadn’t she told Don that Graham had died? She hadn’t told all kinds of people because their addresses had been hidden away in Graham’s study and presumably destroyed on Rhona’s bonfire. Don had been a good friend, one of their best friends. But friends sometimes get put on hold if they go away; they always pick up where they left off later, when they come back; that’s what friends do. Don! She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

  Her new mobile was sitting there on the side. She had changed her number, for obvious reasons, and hadn’t told more than a handful of people yet. She should have told her agent, for goodness’ sake. What was she thinking? And how many other people had been trying to get in touch with her?

  ‘Krista? I’m sorry. I lost my mobile. Let me give you my new number and then you can tell me how I can contact Don.’

  When she had finished talking to Krista, and to Don and to her new solicitor as recommended by Krista, Andy sat for a long time staring into space, exhausted by the enormity of what had happened. It had been so unexpected; so potentially life changing. She hadn’t realised how lost she had been when she had first arrived at Sleeper’s Castle, or how much she had invested emotionally in this place since. Now suddenly she was in danger of being dragged back to Kew again. Her home had been there, on the other side of the country, all her memories, everything she loved. Rhona would be evicted and Andy would be the owner of a two-million-pound house. But was that what she wanted?

  Pepper had jumped on the table and was sitting, watching her intently. He disliked it when she was on the telephone. It meant her attention was elsewhere. It sometimes meant she had not even noticed him. She reached out and scratched his ears. ‘Now what do I do?’ she said quietly. There was nothing she could do. It was in the hands of the solicitors now. She sighed. Rhona had no idea of the tsunami that was about to hit her. She was away. That was all Andy could tell them: that she had good reason to suspect the woman was touring in the Welsh borders. She didn’t know Rhona’s mobile number, she had never thought to make a note of it.

  The house was very quiet. She got up and glanced out of the kitchen window. The garden seemed very empty. There had been no sign of Bryn today and she found herself wishing she could see him out there amongst the herbs.
He would be a good person to talk to, she realised, and she needed to talk to someone. Her father would be tied up in meetings until the evening, she could phone him then. Her mother always taught in the afternoons, so her phone would be switched off until after six. Meryn had made it clear he was busy. Sian had gone into Hereford for the day. There was no one she could confide in.

  She turned away from the window impatiently. ‘So, Pepper my friend. What do you think I should do?’ She frowned. He had gone. She hadn’t heard the cat flap so he must have gone upstairs to make himself comfortable on one of the beds. She wandered through into the hall and stopped abruptly. She could smell smoke.

  The hearth was empty. The room was very cold. ‘Catrin?’ she called softly. ‘Are you there?’

  Catrin was standing in the doorway, watching her, a perplexed expression on her face. She was holding on to a heavy curtain, which was half drawn across the doorway. Andy frowned. Where had that curtain come from?

  She stepped closer. Catrin smiled at her and put her finger to her lips as a voice rang out behind her. ‘Catrin? Where are you? I need you!’

  It was the voice of Dafydd and it was very close.

  Andy froze.

  ‘Catrin!’ he called again. ‘I need ink and parchment. I need a new wax tablet for notes. I need new candles. Where are you?’

  Catrin had tied an apron over her skirt; she had been working since daybreak, cleaning her father’s study, sweeping the ashes, scrubbing the flags, collecting any scraps of parchment which could be rescued from the fire and reused, and taking the others outside to burn later. She was exhausted but still he stood there giving orders, making no effort to help her. Joan was upstairs, cleaning the bedrooms. Betsi and Megan had returned with Peter, nervously creeping back from their hiding place in the hills as dawn broke the morning after the raid. The girls were helping Joan; Peter was working in the ruins of the garden.

  Catrin bent to drag a coffer away from the wall to sweep behind it. ‘Stop!’ Dafydd cried. ‘Don’t touch that.’