by Sally Wragg
Hettie flared up. ‘Well, I jolly well do believe it!’ And, what’s more she was going to prove it no matter what anyone said, even her grandmother! Glowering round at the assembled company, Hettie thought it absolutely typical. No one believed her, no matter how much she tried to convince them. ‘I’ll walk home with you, Bill,’ she muttered huffily and not even waiting to see if he followed her, marched swiftly out.
Outside, at the bottom of the steps, she swung round, angrily. ‘Wouldn’t you just know it! You might have stuck up for me in there, Bill!’
‘I suppose your grandmother does have a point, Het,’ he muttered, uncomfortably.
‘But you can’t side with her, too?’ she wailed. ‘Bill, you were there when Leon told us about Aelric. You know how convincing he was!’ Another thought catapulted into her head, one that determined her on action. Her eyes flashed in triumph. ‘Leon doesn’t know about the riddle yet. We’ll tell him what we’ve discovered and see what he thinks. . . .’
‘What, now?’ Bill complained, too late. Even if she had heard him, she wouldn’t have taken any notice, he conceded, miserably. As far as Hettie was concerned, impulse always followed far too quickly on from thought, sometimes even on no thought at all. He ran after her, such being her impatience to get to the gypsy encampment to talk to Leon, even then he struggled to keep up. Shortly, they’d passed the boundaries of Loxley’s estate to reach Freddie Hamilton’s land and the meadow on which the Romani folk were camped. The aroma of burning cedar assailed their nostrils, a thin spiral of hazy, grey smoke, wisping up into the air, announcing the gypsies’ presence. It was a different world up here, wild and untrammelled and Hettie realized now that was why she loved it so. The afternoon was fading, the sun sinking like a ball of fire over the horizon. For once oblivious to it and to the small knot of gypsy women by the communal fire, in process of preparing the evening meal, she marched boldly up to Leon’s gaily decorated caravan and made to knock on the door. Before she’d chance, however, it opened and the gypsy leader himself appeared, looking as if he’d been expecting her, Hettie thought, which couldn’t possibly be true.
‘Your Grace. . . . Bill. . . . Please, come in and make yourself at home,’ he murmured, moving aside to let them step past him. Inside, they discovered Maisie May sitting at the table, swinging her legs on a chair much too big for her and munching on a slice of bread and jam obviously meant to tide her over until supper time. She smiled stickily. Hettie tousled her head fondly.
‘Hello, little one,’ she murmured, removing a battered rag dolly from the sofa under the window before sinking down next to Bill, where she sat, looking about her in some surprise. For once, Leon’s normally neat living quarters appeared in disarray, dirty pots and clothes scattered everywhere. A basket of pegs the old man had been in the process of sorting, lay spilled on the table and floor where they’d fallen.
‘This isn’t a social visit, I take it?’ Leon intuited, settling his long frame on the chair across from his visitors. He looked tired, Hettie thought, experiencing a pang of guilt for disturbing him. Too quickly it disappeared, submerged in everything she had to tell him about what had happened that day and to which he listened intently, particularly when she reached the part about the riddle in the secret passageway.
‘What did it say exactly?’ he interrupted eagerly.
Doing her best to recollect, Hettie screwed her eyes shut. ‘It was something about Aranrhod in her greatest power. . . ? When Aranrhod burnishes the angel bright, then shall mighty Aelric strike and great glory come to Loxley again. . . ?’ A shiver raced the length of her spine and her eyes flew open, shining with excitement. ‘Oh, Leon, what on earth could it mean, do you think? Whoever left it?’
‘Nell, undoubtedly,’ the gypsy answered, gravely.
This was so obviously true, Hettie couldn’t think now why it hadn’t occurred to her already.
‘Oh, but of course it must be Nell!’ she exclaimed. ‘There must be loads of secret passageways we know absolutely nothing about. I bet the old place is riddled with them!’
Leon ran his hand through his mane of white hair. ‘Aranrhod was a legendary heroine from antiquity. Some worshipped her as goddess of the moon.’
‘I see,’ said Bill, who obviously didn’t. Hettie, who didn’t either, threw him a look of affection. He might think this was a wild goose chase but he was still here, by her side and, after the way she’d been disbelieved by her nearest and dearest, it meant a lot.
‘It proves Aelric’s existence though, doesn’t it,’ she asserted, the one thing closest to her heart.
Leon’s eyes twinkled. ‘As far as we gypsies are concerned, there was never any doubt.’
‘But what had your people to do with it?’ Bill demanded.
Leon was clearly enjoying his tale. He leaned forwards, settling his hands, with their long fingers, on his bony knees. ‘The sword Aelric was passed down through the royal line until it came into the hands of Charles, the Stuart King who secreted it, with other of his treasures, in a monastery, in the heart of the Midlands. Times were tough; the royal court full of intrigue and double-dealing and there were those about the King he didn’t trust. It was deemed wise to spread his wealth around.’
‘And?’ prompted Bill, failing to see the relevance of this.
Leon frowned. ‘And when his forces looked to be defeated, Alexander, his trusted lieutenant, was despatched to take care of it before it should fall into enemy hands. The poor young man was wounded as he left the scene of battle. . . .’
‘But then what happened?’ Hettie chipped in, wondering how Leon could possibly know all this.
Leon, she thought, knew everything. His gaze glittered and grew distant, as if he could hear both sound and smell of battle and the cries of the wounded and dying, both horses and men. ‘Grievously injured as Alexander was, in flight from the parliamentary forces who hunted him down, it was a sacred trust he determined to carry out before he died. His strength was dwindling but still he managed to ride on to the monastery and relieve the monks there of their duty in the care of Aelric. The question then must have been what to do next. Cut off from his comrades, the country swarming with enemy soldiers, weak as he was, he headed for the one place he knew both he and Aelric would be safe. . . .’
‘Loxley. . . .’ Hettie breathed, entranced.
Leon nodded gravely. ‘Alas, the poor young man was too weak, his injuries too deep. Luckily for him, our people found him and took him in, hiding him when Cromwell’s forces left no stone unturned in hunting him down. . . .’
‘The gypsies took him to Nell?’ Bill asked, looking plainly disbelieving.
Leon nodded. ‘So our legend has it. Tales passed down to while away a winter’s evening. Having no liking for the stern faced Parliamentarians who hated the gypsy folk, our people were Royalist to a man.’
‘But then what happened?’ Hettie implored, desperate now to hear the rest. ‘I mean after Alexander died. Nell was left with Aelric?’
Leon shrugged. ‘I presume so. Our people only knew, having delivered both Royalist and sword into Nell’s safe hands, neither was ever heard of again.’
There was a silence whilst Hettie considered this. She was shocked, certainly, but above all, it seemed to her, a wonderful tale and already her head was spinning with its implications.
‘But what could have happened to it? I mean, we know what happened to Alexander. He died and Nell had him secretly interred. She might have buried Aelric with him.’ She frowned. That patently hadn’t happened or the sword would have been discovered when Alexander’s mortal remains were found, now reburied in Loxley’s churchyard, next to Nell and Alexander’s brother, Rufus. ‘Leon. . . . Do you think Aelric might be buried in some secret place in, or near to, Loxley?’ she asked, an enquiry too much for Bill, who snorted in amusement, receiving a furious look from both Hettie and Leon for his pains.
‘Who knows, Your Grace,’ the old man said, stiffly and clearly offended, rising quickly to his fee
t.
Their visit was too obviously over. ‘He might have told us more if only you hadn’t been so rude,’ Hettie spluttered indignantly, once they were safely outside. Bill’s expression was so dismissive, she could have shaken him.
‘You surely never believed him, Het? It’s all so much bunkum!’
He was as bad as everyone else, after all. ‘Those words in the secret passageway aren’t bunkum,’ she responded, indignantly.
‘No, but. . . .’
‘No buts, Bill! Oh, can’t you see? There is something in it and whatever it is, I’m not resting until I find out!’ she interjected. Frustrated, she swung away, heading swiftly towards Loxley and away from the curiously endearing little cluster of gaily decorated vans where, already, lamps were set to the windows, soft, warm globes of flickering orange-yellow light, pushing out against the encroaching darkness.
‘Sorry,’ Bill said contritely when, at last, he’d managed to catch her up. Out of breath, he reached for her hand. So surprised was Hettie by this, she let him take it, wondering then, too late, whether she really ought. Her apparent acquiescence must have emboldened him. Taking her further by surprise, he stopped and, in one action, pulled her towards him and kissed her firmly on the lips. A warm glow suffused her. It was so unlike him and, for a moment, her reaction was only one of pleasure and admiration for his bravado. And then reality set in. ‘Bill!’ she cried, outraged. Alarmed by his expression, she sprang back. ‘Don’t do it again,’ she warned.
‘Alright,’ he agreed but still looking so inordinately pleased with himself she guessed now he’d planned it all along. Her hand moved to her lips, touching the spot where he’d kissed her and wondering how she felt about it. She thought she’d enjoyed it but it had been over so quickly, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps she should let him kiss her again? What message would that convey? The fact she was confused didn’t necessarily bode well for Bill’s obvious and growing desire to move their relationship forwards. She did like him though; she liked him a lot . . . even if he was, well . . . more like a brother? She marched on, thoughtfully, darting quick glances his way and feeling a little cross now, as if her confusion was his fault.
‘You’d no right to do that,’ she admonished him, determining to keep space between them this time, at least until she’d sorted out her feelings.
Three days later
‘You look pleased!’ Freddie pushed a cup of tea across the table towards Ursula, who’d just returned from the village school to see how the Romani children were faring. None of her business of course but she’d felt compelled, if only to set her mind at rest she’d done right in enrolling them there in the first place. Fortunately, Cynthia Bardwell had been pleased to see her, allowing her access to the classroom so she could see for herself the cluster of heads bent so assiduously over their desks and happily absorbed in their work.
‘As you can see, we’re all doing very nicely, thank you. . . .’ the older woman had retorted, sounding rather surprised, as well she might. It had been hard to refrain from saying, ‘I told you so.’ Quickly, Ursula filled Freddie in on the visit. ‘I bumped into Bronwyn Loxley on the way back,’ she finished. ‘You’ll never believe it, Freddie. They’ve stumbled across yet another secret passageway in the hall! Just imagine. . . . Living in a place all these long years and it can still take you by surprise!’ She took her cup, sipping her tea appreciatively and chuckling quietly. ‘She’s had me in stitches about Hettie and some notion the girl has there’s a fabulous sword hidden at Loxley that’ll make all their fortunes if only she can find it! Poor Bronwyn, she’s got her hands full with that young lady. . . .’
Entertaining as had been the conversation, there had been something else, of even greater importance than Hettie Loxley’s over-excitable imagination. Ursula’s laughter quickly disappeared. She sat down, cupping her hands around her tea and regarding Freddie meditatively. Despite more pressing concerns, a warm glow was bubbling away inside her. There was no doubting, she and Freddie had turned some sort of a corner of late, particularly after their heart-to-heart about adoption, something for which they’d discovered, wonderfully, they both longed in equal measure.
‘I called in to see Leon, too,’ she said, abruptly.
‘Ah. . . . Did you, indeed?’ Freddie murmured, shooting her a wary glance.
‘Only to tell him how well the children were doing. . . .’
‘But?’ he prompted, seeing that there was something on her mind and that she was struggling to tell him what it was.
She took a deep breath. ‘It must be too much for Leon, looking after Maisie May and then having all his gypsy council work on top. He said as much, in fact. . . .’ she told him, remembering vividly the scene in Leon’s caravan. There’d nearly been another calamity when the little girl had reached up for the knife on the table with which her grandfather, only moments before, had been whittling pegs. Thankfully, Leon had seen her in time, hastily whisking the offending article out of harm’s way. Had it been Ursula’s imagination that the place had been particularly untidy and lacking in its normal state of cleanliness? There’d been no mistaking what Leon had said as he’d so thankfully clutched Maisie to him. ‘This little girl needs more than I can give her. If only she had loving parents around her, Ursula! Younger folk who can give her what she needs. I’m too old. I must do something. . . .’ he’d exclaimed, looking so sad, meanwhile, Ursula’s heart had gone out to him. He was doing his best in a difficult situation but even she saw how impossible it was. What other impression should Ursula draw than Leon recognized it too and was already making plans for Maisie’s future?
She took a swallow of tea to steady her nerves. ‘I think he realizes Maisie’s getting too much for him,’ she said, hesitantly, then quickly seizing her courage. ‘Oh Freddie! He more or less said he’s thinking of finding someone else to look after her. And, if that is the case, then. . . . Why not us? Why can’t we look after her? Surely we’re as good as anyone?’
Freddie frowned. ‘What are you trying to say?’ he demanded sharply.
‘I think we ought to offer to take her in,’ she blurted out quickly, hardly daring to look at him then, in case, in one stroke, he destroyed the worlds she’d been building, all the way home.
‘Adopt her, you mean?’
Ursula’s heart leapt up, brimming with frustrated love. ‘Yes! Why not!’
‘Ursy, but what a crazy idea. . . .’
‘But think of the life we could offer her, Freddie, the opportunities we’d put her way. The farm, a proper and loving home, a sense of belonging. . . .’
‘Leon loves her. He’d never agree.’
‘I know he loves her enough to put her welfare first! And we’d make sure he saw her, lots, whenever he wanted. We could even find him a cottage close by. He’d still be her grandfather. . . .’
Freddie reached for his wife’s hand, rocking it gently between his own and even then, hating to disappoint her. ‘Darling, I do understand but you must know this is only a pipe dream.’
He spoke so reasonably but what had reason to do with this? ‘We could at least ask him!’ she implored.
‘Love, I can’t bear you should be hurt!’
‘You mean you wouldn’t want to adopt her?’ Even Ursula couldn’t believe this. Freddie’s gaze, that could still turn her insides to water, met hers, reassuringly steadily. He shook his head.
‘Of course I’d love that to happen. She’s a grand little girl.’
He was weakening and they both knew it. Had she swept him along with her plans? She’d used to, once upon a time, before her hold on him had been loosened by his other mistress, the farm. But he must agree to this – he simply had to! She jumped up quickly. ‘I could go now and at least broach the subject? Before he has chance to make other arrangements!’
‘I don’t know, love. . . . You can’t just charge in!’
It was too late. Ursula was too fired up, too determined to carry all before her with the force of her argument. ‘I’d be ve
ry tactful. Just to see if he really was thinking that way. I needn’t necessarily say anything about us; just see how the conversation goes – test the water, if you like?’
Put like that, it was hard to disagree. Freddie stood up, what he said next bringing a wild joy springing into Ursula’s heart. ‘I’d better come with you, then,’ he murmured. ‘But you must promise me, Ursula. . . . You mustn’t get your hopes up. This is only a preliminary enquiry. We can’t exactly come right out with it, yet.’
There was a world of promise in that ‘yet’. But that he was right, she knew. She nodded eagerly. It was enough he’d agreed, that he wanted to go with her, if only to shield her from hurt. ‘I have to at least try, Freddie’ she admitted quietly. ‘And now. . . . Before it’s too late. But I do accept what you mean, I promise. It’s just. . . .’
‘It’s just you’re you and impulsive as ever?’
He sounded resigned and yet there was a hope, too, lurking in his eyes which told her so much more than he’d ever admit. He’d love it too, if they could adopt Maisie May. She took his hand and squeezed it, her heart beating rapidly as they went outside, through the yard and up towards the hill and the meadow where the gypsies were camped. Now the miracle had happened and she’d actually got Freddie to fall in with her plans, Ursula’s mind was full of misgivings. What would Leon say? Had she imagined his intentions? Pushing aside her doubts, she opened the gate to the meadow and led the way through it towards Leon, who was outside his caravan talking to another man. A youngish man, slim and wiry, with dark, curly hair, his gaze betraying a flicker of interest at their approach. Wound up as Ursula was, there was still something about him that was disturbingly familiar.
