Gerald nodded in agreement and sat on the wooden chair, eager to be off his leg. He looked around the room and saw ledgers, no doubt used to keep the accounts. Baron Fitzwilliam had insisted on doing his accounts himself, a rare practice amongst nobles, but it was far more common to have someone like Hanson do the work.
“Now,” the old man’s voice startled him out of his reverie, “this is a Royal Estate and to work here you have to have proof that you’re reliable. You have your letter of introduction?”
Gerald reached into his tunic to carefully pull out his letter and passed it to Hanson.
Hanson slowly unfolded it, as if he might accidentally damage it. He could see the old man’s eyes move as he looked over it.
“A most handsome recommendation!” He seemed impressed with the words written upon the paper. “It seems the baron holds you in the highest esteem.”
“I served Baron Fitzwilliam for many years,” Gerald proudly replied. “I owe him my life, several times over.”
“He makes the same statement regarding you, though I daresay we have little use for a soldier.”
Gerald felt the crushing weight of disappointment building. “I was told I was to be the new groundskeeper,” he interjected hopefully.
“Oh, yes, I see it here. We shall put you to use, have no worries, though I suspect with that leg of yours, keeping the grounds well-groomed will prove… burdensome.”
Gerald sat back in relief, “I’ll do my best sir. I want to be useful.”
“I’m certain you will if this letter is any indication.”
Hanson rose from his desk, “Well, I should let you get settled in. You’ll be staying at the groundskeeper’s cottage, Turner can show you where it is. You’re free to eat at the Hall, Mrs Brown can tell you when the meal times are. Of course, you can take care of your own meals if you wish. The cottage has a small fireplace, but I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.”
“When do I start work?” asked Gerald, rising from his seat.
“Work? Oh, there’s no hurry. Give yourself a couple of days to settle in. You can start when you feel you’re ready, after all, there hasn’t been a groundskeeper around here for years.”
He had walked around the desk as he talked and now he held out his hand, “Welcome to Uxley Hall. I think you’ll do fine here.”
“Thank you,” Gerald said returning the handshake.
He showed himself out and made his way back to the kitchen. Turner was teasing the two young girls, turning as he entered.
“There he is, just the man I was speaking about. You'll be lodged in the cottage, I understand?”
“Yes, so Hanson told me.”
"The groundskeeper’s cottage is out behind the stable. It's a bit run down, but roomy enough. And of course, you'll need firewood. We have plenty of that to spare. Come on, I'll show you the way." He glanced over at a young man who had just entered the kitchen. "Ned, lend a hand and carry Mr Matheson's bag." Ned strolled over to him. He had a cocky look about him, with his tousled hair, which continually fell over his face, obscuring his eyes. Gerald glanced at his carry bag sitting on the floor. He just had to see the lad’s reaction when the weight of the bag dawned on him.
Sure enough, the young man grabbed the drawstring, expecting to heft the bag over his shoulder easily. Gerald was highly amused. The look on Ned’s face was priceless. Not only did he underestimate the weight, but his lackadaisical approach led him to overbalance slightly, and he stumbled. There was a titter of laughter from the two girls at the side table. His face flushed red, and then he made a more determined effort to lift the heavy bag, unaware of the chainmail that lay within. He drew it up awkwardly and slowly eased it onto his shoulder. The weight was obviously uncomfortable to him, but he refused to admit it. Gerald turned, hiding his smile from the young man, and following Jim Turner out of the house.
They walked partway back to the stables, then turned to the right, cutting through a small wooded area, only a few yards in depth. Here, in a clearing, was the cottage. It looked like a single room dwelling, with a door in the middle, and a window to either side, though both were currently shuttered. The thatched roof was in disrepair, but Gerald had fixed those before. He could see a small shed at one end which, no doubt, held the groundskeeper’s tools. The stable master opened the door, having to shove it harder than expected when it stuck slightly. The inside was dark, but the light from the doorway was enough to see the interior; there was a fireplace opposite the door, to the left was the living area, and to the right was the bed. There was not much room for anything else, but Gerald didn't mind. As a sergeant, he was used to sleeping in a small room in Bodden Keep. He hadn't had this much room since his farming days.
"This will do very nicely!" he muttered, more to himself than to either of the others. He turned to Ned, effortlessly lifting the bag from the young man's shoulder and moved into the room, dropping the bag on the bed.
"I'll get Elsbeth to bring you some linen for your bed, and I expect you'll want some towels and such," offered the stable master.
"Thank you, Jim. I'll drop by the Hall for dinner after I've unpacked and settled in," he replied.
The stable master, with Ned in tow, left him to his thoughts, heading back toward the Hall. He opened the shutters on the windows, and a fresh breeze blew into the room, disturbing some dust. He wandered over to the bed and sat down, fishing in his belt pouch for the numbleaf. It had been a busy day, and his leg was aching. He placed a leaf in his mouth, chewing it quickly and the pain subsided. He lay his head down, intending to rest for only a few moments, and fell instead, into a deep sleep.
Chapter 10
Strange Events
Summer 953 MC
THE sun was high in the sky, and he could see Meredith and Sally running through the long grass. Gerald called to them, and they turned, but as he moved toward them the sky grew cloudy, and he saw blood pouring from his wife's neck. Sally called out. He watched in horror as her stomach split open and her guts spilt onto the ground. He tried to stop the horror, tried to pick them up, put them back into her, but they ran through his hands like water.
Gerald awoke in a sweat, gasping for breath. It had all been so real. His eyes looked around, wet with tears, saw the sun streaming through gaps in the shutters, and he realized it was morning. Would the dreams ever end, he wondered? Would he ever be free of the guilt?
Stumbling out of bed, he hobbled over to the table where he poured some water into a bowl. He fully intended to splash the water on his face, but the previous day's activities had left him drained of energy. He took a breath and plunged his head into the water instead. The coldness of it cleared his mind, and he withdrew his face, letting the water run down his shirt. He resolved to get to work quickly, for he was not a man to sit by and do nothing. He wandered out to the shed to see what he had to work with and found a large assortment of tools in various conditions. Some were obviously well kept, but others appeared to have been neglected. He decided a trip to the local blacksmith would be required before he could begin any work.
It was easy enough to have the stables prepare a horse and wagon, and he spent the morning watching the local smith sharpen and oil some of the rustiest of the tools.
By the afternoon, he had returned, and he set about his self-appointed tasks. First, was the long grass which grew on either side of the roadway. He grabbed the two-handed scythe from the shed and immediately found a new problem, for he could not walk with his crutch while he held the large, awkward tool. He ended up dragging it in his left hand while he stumped along to the grass. The next challenge was to stand while using it, for he could barely stand without his crutch. It wasn’t until he fell, painfully, that he decided against cutting the long grass. Perhaps, he thought, he could pull weeds, for he could sit on the ground to do that simple task.
It was not to be. Gerald lowered himself to the ground but needed to kneel, and his right leg would not bend properly. He sat on his backside, but then didn’t h
ave the reach he needed to do the job properly. A curse escaped under his breath; surely there was some work he was able to do, for he refused to believe that he was a helpless cripple. He looked around, searching for something that he might be able to accomplish.
His eyes passed by a hedge in front of the Hall and then fell upon an old bucket near the overgrown flower bed. He grabbed some shears and hobbled over to the hedge, picking up the bucket on the way. He placed the bucket on the ground, upside down, and used it as a stool, stretching his leg out in front of him. It put him at a decent enough height, and with some slight adjustment, he found he could sit relatively comfortably while still being able to use the shears. The work would be slow, but at least now he could do something.
Sometime later, his back sore from the effort, he returned to the cottage. He opened the door to the shed and noticed that something looked amiss. He looked carefully at the contents, then realized that some of his tools were missing. “Someone from the house must be using them,” he mumbled to himself, “and why shouldn’t they? It’s not like I own them.” He closed the shed and headed toward the Hall, for mealtime was fast approaching, and he had slept through the first meal of the day.
He made it a point of asking the staff who might have borrowed his tools, but looks of bafflement met his gaze. No one claimed to have used them, and when he returned to the cottage sometime later, the mystery remained unsolved. He was just about to enter his new home when he thought to check the shed. Low and behold, the tools had been returned! He shook his head, “You’re imagining things Gerald,” he mumbled, “next thing you know you’ll be talking to yourself.”
He collapsed into a chair, his leg aching once again and placed a small, thin leaf in his mouth, chewing it absently. The relief washed over him almost instantly, and he relaxed. There was a lot of work for him to do, but little rush to do it. Tomorrow, he resolved, he would get back to work on the hedges and see how they turned out. Once that was out of the way, he would see what else he was capable of doing.
He had wanted to get up early, for a lifetime of military service he had risen before sunrise, but now, in this lonely, forgotten place, his body refused to work. He awoke, cursing and swearing as a thin stream of sunlight penetrated his shutters, cutting across his face, mocking him with its glare.
He deduced it was the numbleaf causing him to sleep so long, and swore again not to take any more. It was an expensive remedy, and he realized his limited supply would not last much longer.
His body was lethargic, and he had to will himself just to get out of bed. He doused his face with water for the second time in as many days and forced himself out of the little cottage. It was a sunny day, and he could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, drying the water as he looked around. He gathered up his tools making his way back to the Hall where he knew he had left the bucket. He decided he would work for a while, and then grab something to eat in the kitchen.
He was soon lost in his work, sculpting the hedge to a more uniform shape. It wasn’t until a shadow fell over him that he realized someone was watching. He looked up to see Hanson, the old steward, looking at him carefully.
“It looks good,” he observed. “You’ve a talent for it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gerald responded proudly, adding the last word almost as an afterthought. He was used to taking orders from a noble, but to be talking to a superior who was a commoner was new to him.
“Have you done this type of thing before?” the old man enquired.
“No, but I’ve spent many a day cleaning out the crops. Mind you, that was more than a few years ago.”
“I can imagine,” the old man continued, “that it takes a lot of patience.”
“Yes, something I learned as a sergeant. Training recruits was a very…,” he struggled for the right word, “intriguing experience.”
Hanson chuckled, “I imagine it was. I sometimes wish we could take a firmer hand with the servants, but I doubt it would make a difference.”
“You have trouble with the servants?”
“This is a Royal Estate and, as such, only the most trustworthy individuals are taken on as servants.”
“I would think that gives you the pick of the litter, doesn’t it?”
“You would think so, but occasionally it goes to their heads, and they begin to feel superior.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me, I tend to keep to myself.”
“I’m not worried about you Gerald; your reference letter speaks volumes. You know, you surprise me.”
“How so?” asked Gerald, interested in learning his reasoning.
“You could have retired here, lived in the cottage, eaten at the house. No one expects you to actually work.”
“It’s not my style to accept charity, sir. I wish only to make an honest living.”
Hanson nodded wisely, “As do many of us, at least the older ones. When you’re done here, what do you intend to do next?”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” Gerald responded honestly. “I suppose I’ll come up with something.”
The old man smiled as he suggested, “I thought that you might tackle the hedge maze. It’s been abandoned for years, and you can barely enter it now.”
Gerald nodded, “That’s a good idea. I can trim it up using the same technique.”
“You’ll need a ladder for the upper levels, but you ought to be able to lean on it, I should think,” Hanson suggested.
“The maze it is then,” smiled Gerald. “I always like a challenge.”
“Excellent. When you finish that, you can direct some of the younger servants to trim up the grass. There’s no lack of capable backs, and I’m sure you can give orders.”
Gerald nodded, feeling much better about himself. “Indeed I can. I look forward to it.”
The old man extended his hand, “I think you’re going to work out well here Mister Matheson, very well indeed.”
Gerald shook Hanson’s hand earnestly. It was nice to feel useful.
The maze presented its challenges, and to prepare, Gerald strolled around it as best he could. It was a good seven feet or more in height and filled much of the backyard. It would take him several days, he was sure, perhaps even closer to a week or more to tame it. The lower reaches appeared to be easy enough. For the mid-height section, he needed to get a taller stool from the Hall. For the upper levels, he would need the ladder that Hanson had suggested.
He approached the trimming of the maze as he would a battle plan. Determine the desired result, then create a strategy that made for a positive outcome. He decided to work on the outside of the maze first, starting on the northern side. The first step entailed beginning with a small section, no more than ten feet in length. He must start with trimming the ground level, proceed to the middle region, then use the ladder to cut the top. Once the section was complete, his next step was to move on with military precision. This three-layered format allowed him to stretch his leg rather than spend hours in one position.
He started working on the hedge the next day and was soon making progress. It took some time to get into the rhythm, but he found that by making some slight alterations to his position, he could avoid the incessant ache that had become his constant companion.
It was near noon when he decided to take a break. Descending the ladder, he sat on the ground, stretching his leg out in front of him. He unwrapped the kerchief to reveal the cheese and meat that Cook had prepared for him. He bit into the spicy sausage, letting the flavour roll around his mouth.
He was just about to swallow when he heard a sound and his soldier’s instincts told him to freeze. Off to his right, he picked up something moving. He looked in that direction but could see nothing out of the ordinary. He was on the northern face of the maze and was looking to the west. He knew that if he turned the corner, he would be at the entrance. He held his breath, straining to identify the strange noise. He heard it again, a rustle, and decided somebody must be in the maze.
Anno
yed by this intrusion, he got to his feet, hastily swallowing his mouthful of food. Crutch tucked firmly under his arm, he made his way, as quietly as he could, toward the entrance to the maze.
He neared the corner and paused, listening once again. He heard no sounds, so he cautiously peered around the edge to get the shock of his life.
Sitting at the entrance to the maze was a massive dog. Gerald had seen dogs before; they were a common enough sight. He had even seen the big wolfhounds that nobles favoured in the Capital, but this beast put even those large animals to shame. The creature was the size of a pony! It was laying on all four legs, its front protruding from the maze.
It turned its head to look directly at Gerald, and the man stood perfectly still, while he tried to decide what to do. The dog looked like a mastiff; its face filled with loose, wrinkly skin. Gerald let his breath out slowly and calmed himself. He looked over at the creature who was no more than four paces away from him. The dog’s face was scarred, and he was immediately reminded of Bodden. He remembered an event, years ago, when soldiers had been found betting on fighting dogs. Baron Fitzwilliam had been furious. He remembered the dogs they had found had born similar scars to the one that now sat before him. What had he discovered? Was someone fighting this creature? Or was he here scrounging for food?
He was suddenly conscious of the sausage still held in his other hand, and he almost laughed out loud. He tossed the meat towards the beast, and it landed just in front of it. The creature sniffed the meat carefully, then grabbed it quickly in its massive jaws. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared down the dog’s throat. It ignored Gerald and looked about, scanning the yard as if searching for something, licking its lips.
Gerald, free of its gaze, withdrew back around the corner of the maze. He returned to where he had been working and wondered where the dog had come from. Gathering up the rest of his meal, he hobbled back to the entrance but was disappointed to find the creature had disappeared. Did he imagine it? He started to doubt himself.
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