The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall

by Coulter, Catherine

  Barnaby said, “Sir, Mr. Ramsey will be down in a moment.” He paused, frowned. “I ain’t niver seen no happily married horses, have you, P.C.?”

  P.C. scowled at him. She was seated too far away from him to punch him for his bad grammar. She also realized, Grayson saw, she couldn’t very well hit him because she might hurt him.

  Barnaby cleared his throat, said slowly, with great precision, “Forgive me. I have never seen a happily married stallion. In my barn, they sometimes bite each other.” He shot P.C. a look. She beamed at him.

  Miss Elphinstone cocked her head at him. “Your barn, Barnaby?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was a barn cat, but P.C. does not like that since she will leg-shackle me.” He raised his chin, and Grayson saw the bruise on his forehead. “It’s still my barn.”

  They turned when Mr. Ramsey came into the room, bowed to the earl and countess, and said, “Children, we will go to the stables and give the horses carrots until Mr. Sherbrooke is ready.” Before they all trooped out, he looked toward Miss Elphinstone, who now stood facing the fireplace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Later that night

  Grayson was on the edge of sleep when the Virgin Bride appeared at the foot of his bed. He was aware of her even before he awoke. He heard her voice, quite loud in his head.

  Grayson, I told you Mr. Ramsey isn’t what he seems. He is lovely to me, but he will not tell me the truth, and I know there is a truth he is not telling. What have you found out?

  That was to the point, after a fashion. “I haven’t found out anything, Mathilde. To me, he seems exactly what he is, a young man finely educated, born into a good family.”

  He wants Arthur, but not Arthur my little dog. Now I know it is the other Arthur, the king who lived so long ago. I visited Tintagel when he spoke of the Round Table to the children. It was in ruins then as it is now, and there were no piskies there to talk to me, not even ancient Aeron, the leader of the piskies, said to have been at the famous Round Table. He loves to talk, but he was visiting Paris, I was told. Grayson, have you dealt with piskies? With Aeron?

  Grayson said, “I know they’re a Celtic fairy race, settled in Cornwall and Devon, a very long time ago. I believe I saw one once when I visited a friend in St. Ives. He was a shriveled old man wearing a coat that look like green lichen. Oh yes, he had a huge crop of bright-red hair on his head. He didn’t speak to me, only stared at me from a hedgerow. Then he nodded and disappeared. I called to him, but he didn’t come back. Is it true, Mathilde, piskies hate Englishmen and bedevil them whenever they can?”

  Was that a laugh he heard? She thought to him, Oh yes, indeed. Piskies like to steal their horses and give them terrifying dreams. But you’re an Englishman, Grayson, and yet they did nothing to you.

  Suddenly, the white veils seemed to fade, then brighten again, and there was movement.

  “Mathilde, what is wrong? You are distressed. Talk to me.”

  She fluttered, agitated, he could tell, and then she settled again. I believe Olafar took the children somewhere. Not their bodies, but he took their spirits. He must need them somehow, but I do not know why. If he is doing this, is it dangerous? I do not know.

  Grayson’s heart sped up, and a flash of fear hit deep. “What do you mean, he took their spirits? You believe Olafar is some kind of otherworldly being, Mathilde? But how could he use the children’s spirits? How could he take their spirits anywhere, Mathilde?”

  I do not know, but I know he is. I do not think he would hurt them, but still— You must do something.

  I visited Pearlin’ Jane today. Aye, your aunt Sinjun and uncle Colin are healthy as stoats. Do not worry about them. I told her about Olafar, told her I was worried about the children at night. Jane said if I never again told her she had gained flesh, she would speak to Barrie, her kelpie friend at Loch Ness, see if Barrie could help me. I feel something, Grayson. It is the children.

  She was gone. Grayson threw back the covers, pulled on his dressing gown, lit a candle, and ran to the schoolroom. He quietly opened the door and listened. All was quiet. He went to Pip’s small chamber, looked in. Pip was on his stomach, one arm dangling over the side of the bed. Grayson walked to him, set the candle on the floor, and gently turned him over. “Pip,” he whispered against his cheek as he lightly rubbed his arms.

  Pip didn’t respond. His breathing was smooth and even, but he didn’t awaken. Grayson was so scared he couldn’t get spit in his mouth. “Pip, wake up. Now, Pip.” Grayson lightly shook him.

  Pip’s eyes flew open. “Papa? What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Is Barnaby all right?”

  He pulled Pip into his arms, rocked him, and whispered against his ear, “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s all right. Barnaby is all right. I’m sorry I woke you, Pip. I was worried about you.”

  Pip yawned and nestled against his father’s chest. “I’m all right, but I had a strange dream, Papa.”

  Grayson felt his heart begin to pound. He knew he had to keep calm, but it was difficult. “What did you dream, Pip?”

  “I was riding, Papa, on a big beautiful black horse, but I wasn’t scared. We were galloping so fast, and his black mane was flying, and I could hear him breathing. Then, Papa, he stopped and turned his big head to me. Papa, I could tell he was excited.”

  Grayson’s heart was pounding harder, but he knew he had to keep calm, not let Pip see his fear. “Did he speak to you, Pip?”

  Pip yawned and snuggled close. “He said we were nearly where he wanted to go, and then—I was here with you.” Grayson kissed him, aware Pip’s head lolled against his arm. He drew in a deep breath and kissed his son’s soft cheek again. “Go back to sleep, Pip.”

  Grayson looked in on Barnaby and P.C., heard their easy breathing. Then he went to Olafar Ramsey’s chamber. It was much larger than the children’s small rooms, nicely furnished with a sofa and a comfortable chair, a desk, and bookshelves. The bed was behind a curtain. Grayson slowly walked to that curtain, his hand cupping the candle. He pulled it back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Olafar shook off his silver reins and bridle, and once again he was a human man. He was here, finally, he was here at Camelot. Camelot, how the very name sang on his tongue. Would he be able to remain here this time and not be whisked back in but moments from now? No, he would stay. He knew Pip’s spirit was extraordinary. Pip’s spirit would tether him here until he was ready to return. He quickly stuffed his reins and bridle into his jacket pocket and walked to the huge double wooden gates. Wait—where were the soldiers ready to fire arrows down on him? Where were the people and animals and children? Where was the porter demanding his name? If, that is, the porter could see him. After all, he was a man over a thousand years in the past. The gates weren’t even closed. What was going on? Maybe it wasn’t Camelot. Maybe he’d failed, yet again.

  No, he wouldn’t, couldn’t believe that. Pip’s spirit was so strong, so pure. Olafar pushed the heavy gate open and walked slowly inside to a huge inner courtyard. It was empty, quiet as a tomb, not even a hint of a breeze to ruffle the leaves of the apple trees in the small orchard across the courtyard. He walked across the vast empty expanse toward a center wooden tower, rising at least forty feet above him, the sound of his boots loud in the unnatural quiet. He climbed the wooden steps leading to a single massive door, leaned his palm against it—the door was warm, and that was curious—and slowly it swung inward.

  He stepped into a large central hall, as empty of people as the courtyard. There were scores of long wooden tables with benches, all empty, all shoved against the wooden walls. He breathed in the silence, praying for the sound of voices, but felt only the air still and warm on his face. Where was everyone? He’d always imagined Camelot to be bursting with people, loud talk, proud valiant knights striding in to join their friends at Arthur’s Round Table. And children, he’d pictured scores of children racing about the courtyard. But there were no children. What he saw were vivid tapestries covering the wooden walls, a dozen unlit wa
ll rushes. It should be dark in this vast chamber, but it wasn’t. He could see perfectly, and that made no sense. Oddly, it didn’t bother him. He was too excited to finally be here. But was he really here? At Camelot? He walked toward the windows and looked out. He saw only darkness. When had night fallen? True, he’d come at night, but in the past, he’d always arrived during daylight, but only remained for short periods of time. But now, with Pip’s spirit—he prayed.

  Olafar stood in the middle of the great empty hall and looked about. It looked as if everyone had simply stood up and left. And gone where? He walked slowly down a central path toward a magnificent throne set high on a dais. There was a smaller chair set beside it. For the queen? For Guinevere?

  Suddenly, he smelled roasting meat and followed his nose. Beside the dais was a smaller door. He opened it and stepped into a blazing, vibrant, noisy kitchen, filled with people working—stirring huge pots with long-handled spoons, kneading bread, shoveling loaves into a great open oven. No one paid him any attention. It was as if no one saw him. Olafar felt as though he were in the middle of an ancient painting suddenly come to life around him. He walked to a big man swathed in a huge white apron, cutting long strips of beef. “Excuse me,” he said and lightly touched the man’s arm.

  The man turned and looked at him, through him, really. He said in very odd English, “Be ye a ghost wot stands beside me? Be ye an important ghost to tell me future, or are ye a wandering ghost of little account?”

  “No, I am not a ghost. I am a visitor come to pledge my fealty to King Arthur. But there are no knights or soldiers—that is, no one at all. No one except all of you in the kitchen.”

  “So ye be a visiting ghost. Heed me now, ghost. We must make the banquet. Not much time now or we’ll lose our heads. Aye, Lord Thayne, the noxious swine, will wield the axe himself. But ye canna lose yer head, bein’ yer a visiting ghost.”

  Olafar felt fear curdle his belly. “But King Arthur can’t be dead. It isn’t his time. There was no Saxon warrior called Thayne. Tell me the truth. Where is everyone?”

  “Be ye daft, ghost? All the knights and soldiers, all the people and their families gathered their belongings and fled when Arthur breathed his last, for all knew Thayne and his soldiers would come to Camelot and lay waste and rejoice, the Saxon dogs.”

  “What about Guinevere?”

  “Oh aye, the queen left too with her ladies, all her jewels stuffed in a sack.”

  For a moment, Olafar could only stare at the fat man, who was humming again, paying him no more attention. Olafar said, “Why didn’t you and your people leave? Are you not afraid this Thayne will kill you?”

  The man turned, curled his lip. “No one kills the cook, ghost. We are making enough food for a hundred soldiers, but only one is important, and that is Thayne.” He lowered his voice. “Since ye be a ghost, I’ll tell ye. I am going to poison the sauce on his boar steak. The witch Morgan gave me the poison to feed to him. She said he would suffer more than Arthur suffered when Thayne drove his sword through Arthur’s chest. She said I would not be blamed, that Thayne’s death would look like a mighty seizure.”

  Olafar watched him pour liquid from a small bottle into a beautiful carved wooden mug and stir it with his finger. Olafar couldn’t accept that Arthur was dead, that Guinevere and all the people had fled. Camelot couldn’t be taken over by the Saxons. That hadn’t happened. It was then Olafar realized he’d traveled to another Camelot in another time, another place. Voyaging backward, his father had told him many times, willing time to unfold into the past you wanted to visit, was never a certain thing, especially if the spirits you chose to aid you weren’t strong enough. Time currents were fickle, his father had told him, tossed you hither and yon. Nothing was ever certain when you traveled back to where you didn’t belong, to a time that wasn’t yours. His father was right—this couldn’t be his Camelot, where honor and bravery and splendor reigned. And this warrior, Thayne, had killed Arthur? No, impossible. But here, at this Camelot, Arthur was indeed dead, and Guinevere was gone, as were all his people and soldiers.

  He watched the cook continue to stir the liquid in the carved mug with his finger. He was humming.

  Suddenly, Olafar smelled lavender, old, sweet, and close, and then he felt her close, the Virgin Bride, Mathilde. Odd how he sensed her even before she appeared to him. He basked in her scent, for how long he didn’t know. Then someone was shaking him. Olafar’s eyes flew open, and he stared up at Grayson Sherbrooke, standing over him, holding a candle. For a moment the ancient past and the present blurred together, and Olafar didn’t know where he was. Where was his bridle? He had to escape this place. He had to gallop away. Then everything righted itself. He was Olafar Ramsey. He was a tutor in the Earl of Northcliffe’s great house. He whispered, “Mr. Sherbrooke, what is wrong? Is Barnaby all right?”

  Grayson saw confusion when he looked into his eyes and felt—strangeness, otherness. He said quietly, “Where were you, Olafar?”

  It didn’t occur to him to lie. He said, “I was at Camelot, but no one was there. It was deserted except for the cook and his minions. So it wasn’t the right Camelot. The time currents flung me to another place, another Camelot.”

  “Why was the cook there?”

  “He planned to poison the Saxon warrior Thayne, who’d murdered Arthur and come to take his place to rule over Britain. But it cannot be. There was no Saxon warrior Thayne. It was the vile Mordred who murdered Arthur and destroyed Camelot.

  “The other Camelot, the one I visited, it wasn’t real. But I was at one Camelot, in one time, in one place, so it was not a complete failure.” Olafar realized what had come out of his mouth. He stared up into the young man’s shadowed face, his eyes glittering in the flickering candlelight. Olafar had known from that first night there was something different about this Sherbrooke male, and he’d felt a brief yearning to understand his differentness. What to do?

  Olafar said very quietly, “How did you know to ask me where I’d been?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Grayson said, “The Virgin Bride—Mathilde—came to me. She said you were using the children to help you, but she didn’t understand what you needed them to do for you. I came to the schoolroom. I was frightened when I couldn’t immediately wake up Pip. But when he opened his eyes, he told me about his strange dream. He was riding a huge black stallion. The stallion spoke to him, told him they were close to where he, the stallion, wanted to go. Pip wasn’t at all afraid. Why did you want to go to Camelot, Olafar?”

  Olafar slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of his narrow bed. He pulled a blanket around himself and rose. He poured a mug of water and drank deeply. He said to himself, not to Grayson, “But it wasn’t the right Camelot. Still, I did manage to get there and stay there for a little while.”

  Olafar gave a small laugh. “Olafar was also my uncle’s name. My father said my uncle Olafar should not have died, but he blundered, and his life was forfeit. I was in his image, so my father said his name was now mine, and I was to take heed to make no blunders.”

  “Olafar, are you the black stallion I saw at the ornamental pond?”

  “Yes, I am he. I saw you, knew you were somehow different from other men, and I wondered what sort of man you were. You were never afraid of me. You wanted to understand me.”

  Grayson nodded. “What are you?”

  “I am a kelpie. Well, I am a half kelpie. My father’s family hails from Shetland. They belonged to an old noggle tribe who protected the few human families living there. But my father wanted to see the Loch Ness monster, and so he moved near Urquhart Castle on the western side of the loch. He told me he did meet the monster, and she scared him half to death. He shape- shifted into a giant sea snake and surprised her enough to escape being dinner for her children.

  “When he shifted into human form, he liked to drink at a pub near Inverness. He met my mother there. One night when he became a stallion and was galloping on the moors, he saw her standing by a yew bush.
She told him she was waiting for him. She rode him, laughing, shouting to the heavens. When it rained, he carried her to an abandoned shack and became a human man. They married. He didn’t know she was a witch until their wedding night, when she flew them into the heavens, singing at the top of her lungs. I was conceived that night, so my father told me.” Olafar paused a moment, then shook his head. “I am human, but I am also other, just as my father is other, just as his father was other before him. I am different because I also carry my mother’s witch blood.”

  Grayson said slowly, “I know of only one kelpie. His name is Barrie, and he lives near Loch Ness. Perhaps your father knows him.”

  “I will ask, although asking me if I know this Barrie is like my asking you if you know a man named Phillip in London. But it is possible since we live a very long time, unless we blunder, like my uncle. How do you know of this Barrie?”

  “A ghost named Pearlin’ Jane told me. She resides in Scotland. They are friends, she said.” Grayson looked straight into Olafar’s dark eyes. “I also read kelpies are a vicious race. You revel in destruction, in tormenting men.”

  Olafar laughed. “I venture to say most kelpies are too lazy to do much tormenting, but they enjoy having this fine reputation. No, kelpies are usually content to lie about in a loch and tell stories to each other of long-past adventures. They live in peace, for the most part. They have an affinity, I suppose you would call it, for the lochs and the Scottish air. My father, Corinth, owns a racing stud near Newmarket. To all those who know him, he is a human, nothing more, nothing different, yet still, he runs with his horses at night. He is very content to be who and what he is. Just as no one knows who or what my mother is. They are popular with other humans, comfortable with them. My witch mother’s name is Arkadie, but they tell humans her name is Mary.”