Wynthall Manor- The Wynthall Manor Trilogy

by Brianne E Pryor

  ~ 2 ~

  Though the moon was aloft with a hazy glow, the night was dim, filled with an eerie stillness as all of Wynthall retired, each to their chamber. Lord de Grey lay in the midst of his pillows and bed linens; his limbs askew over the feather mattress and massive spread of his fluffed white comforter. Despite the breeze from a slightly opened window but a few feet across the floor, beads of sweat began to form on his brow, creased with unease, though he slept. As the moments passed one after another, the baron’s muscles began to tighten, perspiration running the length of his face and neck to soak his pillows. His formally relaxed body twitched and then jerked and he uttered an incoherent mumbled. His body attempted to fight the air, his fists clenching the sheets. His arms and legs thrashed as his body convulsed and a cry escaped him. “Dahlia!”

  Grey’s eyes were thrown open now staring at the dark room before him, feeling the breeze from the moor travel lightly through his window. For a moment, he sat in silence, only his chest rising and falling as his heart labored. In a fit of anguish, the baron covered his face with his hand, realization overcoming him. It had been nothing, but his haunting dreams terrorizing him, forcing him to relive those moments that were inescapable. Why must I be tortured so? His inward voice cried out. Would that my life had been taken as well and spared me this unending torment. Wiping the flow of sweat with the back of his trembling hand, Grey raised his eyes to the window, looking down on the few lights that showed from Calgar; some of them reflecting on the inky black waters of the river, which ran passed the village and twisted like a serpent down the hillside. Swallowing the knot in his raw throat, Grey untangled himself from the bed linens and stood, clad in his trousers and wrinkled shirtsleeves, not having bothered to dress for bed. The baron shuffled across the floor toward the window, his muscles sore and his head pounding, pressing against tired eyes.

  Drawing back the curtains fully, he looked out into the black night remembering one much similar many years before. The moon was full and shown a gray light on the moor though occasionally covered by a scatter of clouds and the cool breeze that gently traveled through his window smelled of late spring. In a deep breath, he inhaled the fresh air and felt it encase his tense body and calm him. This night was a beautiful scene, one that called to him, beckoning the young lord with a strange summons which seemed to entangle in his heart. In a moment he was swept up by it, every part of him demanding that he join the night’s peaceful song. He knew he could disregard this call no longer and turned in a rush to join its restful brilliance, hoping that by some act of fate he may find the rest that he so desired in the calm that had fallen. Donning nothing more than his cloak and riding boots, Grey left his bedchamber and strode without a noise down the dark twists and turns, corners, and hallways of his father’s house to the grand staircase, which he descended with haste to the front hall. In darkness, he made his way to the servant’s entrance and unlatched the door. Pulling it open to step out onto the lawn he paused, looking up at the moon which had just revealed its face from behind the scatter of clouds that seemed to grow less and less dispersed as they blew in from the north. The threat of rain did little to deter the baron as he strode across the back courtyard and round to the side of the manor where his stables were kept.

  As he pulled open the door to his stallion’s bedding place the horse whinnied a greeting to his master, seeming to grow as anxious as Grey was to gallop down the mountainside. Grey threw his blanket and saddle atop the handsome Andalusian, giving the stallion a pat on his slick black neck before cinching the saddle and climbing into it. Hooking his boots into the stirrup, he urged the horse out of its shelter and onto the path toward Calgar. Grey knew not why the night had been so insistent in its calling, why he had seemed so drawn to it. Perhaps it had been the ever-present need to escape the confinement of the castle in which he had made a habit to dwell within nearly all his life. It was uncommon for him to harbor a taste for the out of doors where he could see and be seen. But this night was nothing if not uncommon and perhaps it was that which beckoned him to join it and enjoy the strange solidarity. But no matter what it had been that urged him to take an early morning ride, Grey was strangely glad he had decided upon it as the peaceful noises and night air seemed to calm his tense muscles, and he forgot his haunting dream.

  The steady walk of the horse slowly grew to a trot and then a gallop, Grey feeling a sense of freedom overtake him. Soon the stallion was running, throwing dirt behind them as the rush of the passing air blew the baron’s cloak and disheveled his thick raven hair. His hands gripped the reins, and he leaned into the horse’s neck, wanting to feel the wind in his face, cleansing him of every bond that restrained him. For miles they ran down the road, meeting neither person nor animal, lest they get trampled by the horse’s hooves as he strained to run as fast as they would carry him, his legs and head pumping forward and back with every stride in which Grey felt as though his steed might take flight. In what seemed to be only a moment’s time he was looking upon the river and then at the lights of Calgar just up from it.

  The stallion ran without hesitance along the bank toward the village, his reflection dashing along the water’s edge, racing that of the moon until Grey reluctantly pulled back on the reins, earning him a snort from the horse as he reared back to stop abruptly. “Whoa, fellow,” his master’s voice appeased the stallion, whose coat was covered in foamy sweat, nostrils flaring.

  For a moment Grey held his steed at a stand looking down the remainder of the road which led into the village. He knew he could not make an appearance there at this time of night, nor did he wish to be seen by human eye. Grey turned his head to behold the mountain behind him on which he could see the towers and upper walls of Wynthall Manor, its lower levels concealed by the forest that he had journeyed through. All about him his stared at what was his, an estate of greet wealth and grandeur, but his heart felt neither pride nor happiness at the sight of it, for it represented only years of grief.

  Turning back again, Grey walked his horse but a few yards closer to the village to cool him from the long run and then dismounted, leading the steed to a nearby sapling to be tethered. He then left the horse and approached the running river at the base of the mountain, kneeling at the water’s edge to behold the moon’s wavering reflection. Looking up from the water at the opposite side, Grey’s eyes fell on a rocky knoll at the base of the small cliff; a few loose rocks had fallen to create a small hidden cove just at the foot of the incline. Standing in silence, unmoving, he gazed upon the dark scene. Though he could see only its outline, Grey knew every smooth and jagged surface of the little knoll and could see it's ever detail in his mind from years ago when it was first his escape and then the picture of his torment. Even now, a part of him yearned to flee from it, but he knew the glories and horrors it had once held could touch him no more than they already did.

  After a long few minutes of silent stares, he turned away from the rocks and looked once more upon the few lights of Calgar before he rejoined his horse and turned the steed back the way they had come, moving at an easy trot down the riverbank. The rush of the water mixed with the rustle of forest leaves gave the night its own song whose tune eased the baron’s nerves all the more. The cool midnight breeze refreshed him and caused his mind not to dwell on his recurring dream, if only for a short time. In a peaceful silence, he allowed his steed to carry him back up the wooded road thinking not of what had been or would be but of what once was, of his previously perfect life. As he journeyed, the woods grew black again as the moon fell behind another cloud. Grey felt a drop of rain upon his face and then a moment later came another and then another. Within minutes, the rain was falling, wetting the baron’s hair and shoulders as he urged his horse on through the forest. The rain on the leaves caused a boisterous rush, rolling off their smooth surface to wet the dry road. Though he urged his stallion on, Grey was in no rush to escape the weather, which struck his face in a cold sharpness. He had no desire to return so soon to his bedroo
m, where he would surely toss and turn the remainder of the night.

  Making little haste back up the road, Grey’s mount trotted along with a steady pace, his rider enjoying the cooling feel of raindrops sliding down his face to wet his hair. His heart was calmed from the horse’s exhilarating run down the mountain and now beat slowly with a steady rhythm only too soon to be disrupted by a noise within the trees. With a sudden yank of the reins, Grey pulled his mount to a stop and squinted in the darkness. He was certain a strange sound had met his hearing, a cry from the tangle of forest’s growth, not from a forest animal but of a more human nature as though someone’s presence lurked nearby. With a frown, he tried to make out something other than the wet darkness; something—or someone—that could be the source of the unintelligible noise, which had seemed so out of place among the harmony of the late night. Seeing nothing in the inky blackness, Grey moved to urge his horse on with the resolution that he had been mistaken when yet another cry met his ears, this one more prominent now that the sound of his horse’s hooves no longer suppressed it. A cry or perhaps a whimper so muffled by the trees Grey knew not of its true nature.

  The noise appeared to originate just off the road, beyond where Grey was able to see in the dark. The stallion whinnied and tossed its head as his master moved toward the edge of the road and dismounted, leading the horse into the woodland with careful strides. Leaves and bramble crunched beneath his feet while he made conscientious steps toward where he thought the cry had come.

  Knowing he would never find its source in the dark lest he stumble upon it, Grey called out boldly, fearing nothing, “Who is there?” He was answered by only the patter of raindrops and the crunch of his own feet beneath him. “I say, who is there?” he called again, and this time received a small whimper in return, an ever so quiet draw of breath, causing his head to snap to the right of him. Though he could still see nothing, he was now most certain that it was not his imagination that played tricks on him but the pitiful sounds of a person within the trees who could only be a few feet away. With care, he advanced into the woods, trampling over the underbrush and snapping small twigs beneath his feet. He had journeyed quite a ways he thought before stopping, surely he should have come upon that which he searched sooner, for the small sounds had not been far away. It was only when he turned to look behind him that Grey saw the source of the small cries.

  Huddled against a large oak only a yard from where he stood was a trembling figure. Whether it be male or female, adult or child, was impossible to tell lest he move closer. All that could be observed in the darkness was that this huddled form sat curled against the tree, their shaking body wet with rain which had fallen earlier in the night. Silently he approached the trembling frame, still leading his stallion behind him. When he was but a few inches away, Grey could make out the rather small shape of woman, her head buried in her knees which were drawn to her chest, one arm around them while the other covered her head, wet with rain and streaked with dirt. Grey could clearly distinguish the clothes she wore, filthy and torn so that they hung on by threads. Taking one last step toward her he was stopped by the swivel of her head as she turned to look up at him, a bold, dark figure towering over her. For a moment their eyes locked on each other, hers seeming for a moment to pierce his very soul, though he could hardly see them, and then they were drawn back into her skirts as yet another whimper escaped her. “Who-whoever you are, sir, I—I beg you would leave me to die.”

  ~ 3 ~

  The damp air, wet by the falling rain, soon grew thick. Grey found himself taken by surprise as he listened to the woman’s scratched, barely audible words spoken clearly and with prominent upper-class speech! In a moment, however, he had forgotten this shock and moved toward her carefully, as though he were unsure of himself. It seemed that Providence had placed this woman’s life in his hands, and he knew not how to proceed. A familiar bit of fear began to creep upon him which he quickly subdued with a clench of his jaw. It was not in his nature to be frightened, least of all by a woman huddled in the rain. Boldly he spoke up, addressing her shaking figure, “Madam, I cannot leave you here. Tell me how I may help you.”

  “Y-you can do n-nothing, sir,” she insisted, her voice so low and quiet he could barely make out her words. “P-please leave me.” With this plea, a cry of anguish escaped her and she began to sob bitterly into her knees.

  Grey drew back, unsure of how he might attempt to help this girl, who seemed so determined to be left to die. But he could not leave her as she desired, for the need of not only her own but his as well, he could not walk away and forget her. Despite her personal desires, she was in need of shelter and warmth, both of which he could provide, but Grey found himself at a loss to know how he might transport her to Wynthall when he was certain she would refuse his assistance.

  Grey pursed his lips in vexation, looking back toward the road, unable to decide what his next action should be. He knew not of her condition or why she seemed to have been abandoned on the road and left to withstand the elements. Looking back to her crying form, Grey decided upon the only course that might be taken—aid the young woman whether she desired his attentions or not. With ease, he brought himself to kneel before her, looking over her huddled form with uncertainty. “M-madam, I beg you would allow me to assist you.” Grey inwardly chided himself for the tremor in his voice.

  “No.” She struggled to speak between her cries, seemingly desperate to have him take his leave. A violent shiver rippled through her, and she whimpered yet again. Grey reached to undo his cloak and withdrew it from around his broad shoulders to lay it over her. She did not seem to respond other than to sink further into herself, as though she wished for nothing else than to be swallowed by the tree on which she leaned. “I beg your forgiveness, ma’am, but you must allow me to help you.” With this being his final word, he laid his gloved hand on her back, preparing to help her stand. In response to his touch, she attempted to pull herself away, but he refused to allow her resistance. Slipping his left arm beneath her knees, he lifted her with little effort from her huddled position against the oak. With an agonizing cry, she attempted to push him away but her limbs were weak and she was forced to collapse against his dampened shirt. “Please, sir,” she begged, her hand now clenching its fabrics. “Let me die or kill me.”

  “Madam, you are feverish. You know not what you speak.” Turning back again toward the road, he began to walk, watching to see that his stallion followed behind, his reins dragging along the muddied ground. As he stepped foot on the road once more, Grey looked again to the face of that which weighted his arms, his attention drawn by the flow of heat that seemed to radiate from her skin though she shivered. He could not see her features but knew by her voice that she was very young, perhaps not yet out of her youth. Many a question began to burn in his mind, but before any one of them could be solved, he must first get her to Wynthall.

  Again the young woman rallied her strength in an attempt to struggle from Grey’s hold, pushing against him with her weakened arms, but the baron was undaunted. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice stronger than before, desperate to escape him. “Please! Please let me go.” Her voice cracked on the final word and a cry rippled through her.

  “Make yourself at ease, madam, I will not harm you.” He attempted a reassurance as he fought to withstand her struggles. However, his words he doubted she could hear. Her trembling body soon began to protest its use and a moment later fell limp in Grey’s arms, her eyes fluttered closed. The hand that clenched his shirt fell loose and fear immediately began to rise within him. Though she still breathed and he could feel the faint yet heavy beating of her heart against his, he knew the young woman’s life was greatly at risk. A sudden urge came over him as he hurried his pace up the hill—he could not fail, not this time. The clouds above began to withhold their rain and to once more scatter across their dark backdrop, revealing the foggy glow of the moon from behind their thinning layer. Grey knew it was not long until sunrise, maybe only a
n hour’s time. Soon he would be able to distinguish the glow of morning light from behind the distant mountain. Turning his head from the sky to the face leaned against his shoulder, Grey found that he yearned to see this woman’s features; to be able to distinguish her age, if in the light he would find that he knew her from some place, that they were somehow acquainted or had crossed each other’s paths during the course of their lives. But he realized this to surely be impossible, Grey knew hardly anyone outside of the court and his own tenants. It had been over twelve years since he had attended any formal gathering—or any gathering at all—to which he might make acquaintances of the female sort. He had associated with very few in the past years and was sure this woman could not be old enough to have been among the acquaintances of his youth. This caused his yearning to know her grow all the more; to know why she was left in the woods alone, shivering with fever; to know who her people were and from whence she came. And then the thing that most intrigued him—though she wore rags, her speech revealed to him she was not a commoner cast out of some farm, nor was she a native of Calgar as he knew all the nobility who resided in his region.