by Liz Berry
“When my father died I came back here. He left what there was in trust for Mark when he’s twenty-one. Frances was at the funeral. I went to speak to her, but she just walked past me and got into her car and drove away.”
There were tears in her eyes again.“What I did was unforgivable. She’s never going to forgive me, is she?”
Clare got up. She felt ill. Never mind the nuclear waste, Ravensmere was already buried in layers of guilt and blame, unforgiveness and pain, all swept away under a carpet of silence and left to rot and smell. Who could you blame? They were all victims of victims, as Mr Aylward had said. Somehow it had to be cleansed and healed. The cycle stopped.
She said aloud,“She loves you. She misses you. She thinks she let you down when you needed her most. She felt so guilty she couldn’t talk to you at the funeral. Why don’t you come over sometime and tell her how you feel?”
Vivienne stared at her.“You’re telling the truth? Not conning me?” Her voice broke and Clare saw that the tears were running down her cheeks. All the toughness and sophistication had crumbled away. Clare hesitated, then went over and hugged her, as she would hug her mother.
“I’m sorry,” Vivienne said, blowing her nose.“I never cry. It’s just digging up the past ... and I’m worried about Mark. I’m so afraid it’s bloody history repeating itself. Just like his father. He’s got to stay here and look after Ravensmere, I know that.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll come back,” said Clare.“It’ll be all right. We’re a new generation. We won’t make the same mistakes.”
But they were making the same mistakes. They had quarrelled. They had refused to accept the responsibility of the Benison. They were hiding from their destiny, refusing to admit the truth.
Clare felt the cold seeping into her bones. It wasn’t only the burden of looking after Ravensmere either. There was some terror attached to the Benison that only the Guardians knew. She had known it all along in some part of her mind. Brandon Aylward had run scared. Even Mr Aylward had been frightened. And Mark knew it too. That was why he too was running.
Clare felt icy. Her whole body had begun to shiver. History was repeating itself.
Chapter 24
“What’s gone wrong at Ravensmere?” Clare asked, abruptly.
She was sitting on a stool in Dr McKinnon’s conservatory, watching her repot geraniums, while the rain battered against the windows.“It did go wrong, didn’t it? It’s so beautiful and peaceful, a special place, and yet the people are all miserable and wrong—every generation since Mr Aylward’s grandfather as far as I can see.”
Dr McKinnon was silent. She pressed the plant into the pot with her long fingers, and Clare knew that the plant would grow strongly.“You know, don’t you?” she said.
Dr McKinnon said, at last,“Theories. I think it may have been the women.”
Clare said, cynically,“That’s what Adrian was always banging on about. All the fault of the women. But I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“Think about it. For centuries it was the women here who protected the Benison. Not the men. The female Guardians have to be strong mentally and spiritually. Stronger than the men. It was only when the Abbey was closed and sold that the men came in. I think Rosamond, the last Abbess-Elect, realized that in future Ravensmere would need additional protection. The status of women was going down. She needed someone out in the world. Rich. Important. Someone with clout at Court. A politician if you like.”
“She married the Second Earl,” Clare said, remembering the wide eyes under the black veil.
“A clever woman. She saved the Benison from Henry VIII. Produced a bogus gold chalice to throw them off the scent.”
“Bogus? You mean it wasn’t the Benison?”
“Of course not. A Guardian would never hand it over.”
“If they threatened to kill her?”
Dr McKinnon’s pale eyes pinned her.“The Guardians die for the Benison. Make no mistake, Clare. It’s their reason for living—and dying.”
Clare shivered.“The Benison—what is it, do you think?”
Her gaze shifted.“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Not my business.”
“But you must have wondered.”
She turned away and began to repot another plant.“The female Guardians have always been strong. Clarissa, a famous medical herbalist. Wrote an excellent treatise. Rosamond who built the tower. Strong nerves you see. Determined.
“Now compare the recent females. Nonentities, the lot of them. Eldon’s wife, a meek Victorian miss, physically weak, died in childbirth.”
“She couldn’t help that,” Clare protested.
“It was the tight lacing,” said Dr McKinnon.“And Edward Aylward’s mother. Cowering and frightened. Think of the disgrace. The Guardian allowing herself to be beaten! Shameful. Too frightened to come back even when Edmund died at Ypres.
“They allowed the men to dominate. Isn’t good for men. Goes to their heads. They get greedy and power-mad.”
“Caroline?” asked Clare, thinking of the sad young woman of the photograph.
Dr McKinnon nodded.“My cousin Caroline, Edward’s wife. A twit. A nerd, I think you’d call her. A ninny. No strength of mind or character.”
Clare grinned.“You didn’t care for her?”
Dr McKinnon snorted.“She always knew she would have to marry Edward. A nice comfortable life she had too. He was nutty on her. Persuaded herself she was in love with a solicitor in Taunton. Couldn’t face up to things. One year after they were married she committed suicide. Found floating in the Upper Lake.”
“Suicide!” Clare exclaimed, horrified.“He never told me that.”
“Never admitted it. Said it was an accident. And we all know now what that led to. All the trouble with Cecily and Brandon. Caused a lot of our troubles, no doubt about it. She should have done her duty and faced things. We wouldn’t have come so close to losing everything. And then there was your mother.”
Clare stiffened.“It wasn’t her fault.”
“Too soft,” said Dr McKinnon relentlessly.“Gave in to that spoiled sister of hers once too often. Then she ran away. Failed the Trust.”
Clare was silenced. There was nothing to argue about. Her mother had admitted it all.
“You see? The women haven’t been strong enough. They put their feelings above their duty to the Benison. Allowed the men to run wild. Men function best in double harness. Like horses.”
Clare laughed.
“Equal balance—that’s what we need. Woman who accept their strength and dignity, and aren’t afraid of using it fully. We need a strong female Guardian again. And now there’s you.”
“Me?”
“You know you are the next Guardian of the Benison in the female line. What are you going to do?” There was a long silence.
A sudden squall whipped the rain against the glass panes. Clare said, painfully, embarrassed,“I can’t ... I mean, I don’t believe . . .”
“No more dodging, girl. What are you going to do with your great psychic gift?”
“Some gift!”
“There’s nothing to be worried about. Be proud. Hundreds of remarkable women through the ages have had the second sight, sixth sense, psychic healing abilities, call it what you like. Cassandra. Pythia, the Oracle at Delphi. Sibyl of Cumae. All kinds of prophetic women in ancient history. Egypt. Babylonia. Persia. Greece. Very highly regarded until we allowed the men with their religions to make us frightened and ashamed of it. Are you going to stay here?”
“I don’t know,” said Clare. She felt her throat tighten.“I don’t know if Mark ...”
“Never mind about Mark. What are you going to do?”
There was another long silence. Clare watched the rain running down the glass. For the first time she admitted to herself just how much she wanted to stay. Ravensmere had invaded her mind and heart, taken her over.
She was the Guardian. She knew it. Had always known it deep down. No more dodging. A strange, turbule
nt mixture of emotions welled up. Embarrassment. Fear. Acceptance. Then a feeling of strength and pride, a sureness that she could look after Ravensmere.
“I didn’t want to give up university.”
“No need to. You could commute to Bristol from here, or come home at the weekends. Get your training, then come back. You wouldn’t be going away for good. Have you thought of medicine? Suit you better than business.”
Clare looked at her, her mouth open.“How did you know?”
Dr McKinnon laughed.“Been waiting for someone to take over from me eventually. Let’s get down to a serious discussion. You’ll want information.”
The wind was hammering a loose door somewhere. It woke Clare from her wild dream. The rain had stopped and the moon was bowling swiftly, brilliantly, in and out of the torn and ragged clouds. Over the top of the stable roof she could see the great trees in the park lifting their branches, swirling and bending like dancers.
She felt lost and alone. How was she going to manage on her own all her life? All very well for Dr McKinnon to say, be strong. There’s a legend, she had said, that when Ravensmere is in particular danger, Rosamond the last Abbess-Elect comes back.
She brushed away the wetness on her cheek and leaned her head against the window, feeling her body still burning from her dream of loving Mark in the deep grass of Barrow Beacon Hill. She wanted to hold him again. She wanted him for ever.
The cat was there in the stable yard, calling loudly and impatiently up at her, its voice clear above the sound of the wind.
Surely she didn’t have to go to the China Garden tonight? It would be spooky with moving shadows, the sudden darkness, cold in the wind.
The cat called again, insistent. Clare turned away and pulled on her sweater and jeans reluctantly.
Clare saw, without surprise, that the pile of logs that had blocked the Second Moon Gate had been cleared away, and that the Gate was open.
The Maze Dance was difficult tonight, with the wind tugging and butting her away from the narrow path. On the return, Clare put her arms out to keep her balance and was spun along dizzily like an autumn leaf.
Even before she reached the Fourth Moon Gate she could hear the sound of the motor bike above the crying wind. It was coming very fast, accelerating down Barrow Beacon Hill towards the village.
Mark was coming back!
Joyfully Clare began to run to meet him through the Fourth Moon Gate, through the trees of the park, down to the crossroads. Almost at once she realized that something was wrong.
Instead of the bike slowing for the sharp turn at the crossroads, it seemed to increase its speed, and as this thought crystallized she began to run faster, impelled forward, a dread filling her, but before she could even reach the road, there was an explosive bang, a stomach-churning crash of splintering glass and rending metal.
“Mark!” she screamed, bursting forward through the trees.“Mark!”
The sharp moonlight lay in silver bars across the white road, and in the shadows she saw the bike, upended, smashed into the Leper Stone, its wheels still spinning, pieces of metal skidding across the road. Its rider had been thrown like a soft leather glove against the Leper Stone, and blood was already running in a dark stream across the road and she knew, without doubt, that he was dead.
“Mark!” she whispered, and her legs were like spaghetti, the world tilting and darkening. Forced to a stop she held on to the stones of the boundary wall, shaking her head violently. She couldn’t faint now. She had to do something. Go to Mark. Fetch help.
Then, incredibly, she saw the slumped figure rising, standing tall under the shadow of the stone and a pale face turned to stare at her.
“Mar... ” But the word died in her throat, and she saw that it wasn’t Mark.
He had the same build as Mark, tall and broad, and in his black leathers he looked very like him, but he lacked Mark’s midnight darkness. The moonlight gleamed on his thick fall of fair hair.
Clare swallowed and licked her dry lips.“A-are you all right?” Her voice came out creakily. How could he be all right? How could he even stand up when the dark pool of his blood was still pulsing across the road, glistening in the silver light?
Her heart seemed to stop beating. She lifted her head slowly, reluctantly, and looked into his shining eyes. The sound of the wind died away. There was absolute silence. Moonlight lapped across the road between them. Time seemed to have stopped.
He smiled, Mark’s smile, rueful, charming, devil-may-care, inviting her to share the joke. He raised his hand casually in greeting.
Clare felt her lips lift irresistibly in an answering smile before the darkness came down and she fainted for the first time in her life into the turf of the China Garden.
“I tell you he was there, and he looked just like Mark and he smiled like him too. Mum, it must have been a ghost. There’s nothing there. No wrecked bike, no body, no blood stains even. Nothing! I went down to the crossroads specially to look. There was nothing there!”
“All right, Clare. Don’t get so excited.” Her mother was pale, sitting on the side of her bed.“I accept you think you saw something strange.”
“It was him, I swear it,” Clare said, stubbornly. Her body ached all over, but her head felt extra clear.
After fainting she had opened her eyes and found herself lying by the bricked-up Fourth Moon Gate, with Tabitha stretched full length on top of her, keeping her warm and licking her face, the rain beating on them both.
All the lights were blazing at the stables cottage when she eventually stumbled through the door. Her mother, angry and frightened, had refused to listen to her excited raving and bundled her into the bathroom for a warm bath to ease out the chills, but now she had to listen.
“I saw the whole thing. I saw Mark’s father, Brandon. I saw him die. He was riding his motor bike. He smashed into the Leper Stone and severed an artery, didn’t he? It was all over the road, the blood ...”
Her mother shuddered and hid her face in her hands.“It was my fault. If only I’d told him. He was going away.”
“But that’s it, don’t you see? Brandon wasn’t going away. He was coming back. He came down Barrow Beacon Hill. His bike hit the Leper Stone and slewed round in the road, what there was left of it. Perhaps they thought he’d been travelling in the opposite direction. But he wasn’t going away.”
Frances stared at her uncertainly.“Not going away? You’re telling me the truth, Clare?”
“Of course I am. Why should I lie? I heard him come down the hill. Down—towards the village, or maybe he was going to turn up the lane to the farm or Ravensmere. He was definitely coming back. Don’t you see? He didn’t die because he was a Guardian who was leaving. He didn’t commit suicide. You’re all wrong. It was an accident. Just an accident. He came too fast down the hill, like we did when we came, and his bike went out of control into the Leper Stone. It was a frosty night, wasn’t it? Ice on the road?”
“The first frost of the year,” Frances said dully.“Winter came early that year.”
The tears were sliding down her cheeks in an unstoppable stream. Perhaps it was the first time she had really let herself cry for Brandon.
“Oh Clare, I’ve always been so bitter. I thought he didn’t care about me anymore, didn’t want to talk to me even. I thought he loved Vivienne after all. I hated her for so many years. But he was coming back.”
Clare put her arm around her and sat silent while her mother cried out the years of loss and hurt. It was odd, comforting her mother. She felt that they had somehow changed places and her mother was the child now. She said aloud,“Maybe you ought to talk to Vivienne. She feels very bad. She thinks you’ll never forgive her. I told her to come over sometime.”
Frances muttered something and tried to mop up her tears, but they kept coming.
“He smiled, you know,” Clare said.“He was grinning like a kid. Like Mark does. And he waved.”
Then she went out and closed the door, knowing her mother ne
eded to be alone for a while. She was at the top of the stairs deciding she would go down and make chocolate for them both, when the telephone began to ring urgently, loud in the quiet night.
Chapter 25
Clare gazed at the face on the pillow, somehow shrunken and fallen in, with its unhealthy flush and film of sweat across the cheeks and forehead, heard the harsh, shuddering breathing, and knew without a shadow of doubt that Mr Aylward was dying.
“... must see the boy. Send for boy. Where is he? Where ... must tell ... Fool. Left it too late. Fool. Must come soon . . .
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” The voice, hoarse and breathless, subsided into incoherent mumbling, as the old man moved his head restlessly on the pillow.
Clare, wide eyed, bit the inside of her cheek and clenched her hands trying to keep control. There would be time for crying later, but now she must try to keep as calm and competent as her mother, standing next to her, who was holding the thin wrist, taking the pulse rate once again.
It was like a scene from the past—the firelight leaping from the huge marble fireplace to the oak four-poster bed, and the richly patterned carpets and curtains. And outside, the wind blowing in the dark night, the rain beating at the windows.
The hoarse voice had started again.“Bran, my boy... Bran? The Mother must drink... The Mother... No good. Gone. No time... Mark! Mark! Hurry!”
The anguish in the old voice was too much. Clare clenched her hands. She couldn’t take much more. Surely something could be done to ease him?
Her mother glanced at her.“Clare, go and see if Mr Bristow has managed to contact Dr McKinnon yet. She may have got back from her call-out. You’re doing no good here.”
Clare looked at the figure under the heaped blankets, now unnaturally still. Frances pulled the covers a little higher.“It’s all right. He’s fallen into a light doze. It won’t be yet. Go on. I can manage.”
