‘So you don’t know which battles were fought here?’
‘Yeah, the biggest one of all time, between Pops and Ma, before their divorce.’ He grinned and took out a key to open the huge solid oak inner door. ‘We’re not history boffins. My great-granddad bought this gaff cos it was the biggest place he could find. Size was everything, to him,’ he said and puffed out his chest. ‘Right. Champers. Burgers. You up for good times, babe?’
I gawped. We’d passed through the doorway and stood in the entrance, which looked onto an open square courtyard. I bent down and brushed my fingers over the golf-green perfect grass. Oh my God, it was—
Harry smirked. ‘Astroturf. It’s much more practical when we have one of our famous barbecues out here.’
In the middle of this fake lawn was some sort of well. People in trendy clothes milled to and fro. The grey stone castle, surrounding the courtyard, went up two storeys high. In each corner was a turreted tower. To the right of where I stood was an open oak door, leading to the Castle’s ground floor rooms. To my left was another door and the humungous stuffed grizzly bear.
Doors also opened onto the courtyard from all four sides of the Castle. For a moment, I stood in awe. Harry gave a self-satisfied smile.
‘Nothing compares to this at that poxy Hall in Applebridge, does it, babe? Am I right or am I right?’
I gazed up at one of the towers and a flag waving in the night sky. It made me think of Henry VIII’s poor wives locked up. Or Rapunzel. After all the dyeing and washing, my hair wouldn’t support an adventurous ant, let alone an ambitious admirer.
Dreamily, I stared across the lawn, where a couple smooched. For some reason an image of Edward, dressed as Robin Hood, popped into my mind, on horseback charging across the drawbridge to steal a million dollars, bow and arrow on his back…
It was different thinking about him, out of my Abbey disguise. For a start, the word ‘cousin’ didn’t pop into my head. Imagining him rescuing me from a tower, his strong arms hauling me onto the back of a horse, didn’t feel so…wrong.
‘Hiya, Harry, darling,’ said a blonde staggering past. That was the PA from the Murder Mystery episode. Girl after girl in short skirts came into view. Some sprawled on the courtyard, holding brightly coloured cocktails, their even gaudier thongs on view.
‘Fancy a drink, babe?’ Harry asked me, after patting the PA on the bum.
‘The name’s Gemma,’ I said and cringed, especially after a week with the Croxleys, who were the opposite of touchy-feely.
‘Yeah. Okay, Sienna.’
‘No, Gemma.’
‘Whatever. Here, follow me to the bar.’ He waved to a brunette, who wiped her mouth after vomiting down the well. ‘This is the life,’ he said. ‘Admit it, you ain’t seen nothing like this at Croxleys’ mansion.’
Hmm… Impressive as the building was, the scene before me was like a Friday night out on the town. All that was missing was the shouts of bouncers and wails of ambulance sirens. So I was tempted to reply ‘no, thank fuck I haven’t’ but I felt uncomfortable just thinking the F-word. Blimey, this pretending to be a Lady malarkey was affecting me more than I’d thought.
‘Any chance of a tour, Harry?’ I said. ‘The outside of the Castle’s pretty cool, but perhaps your rooms don’t match the Earl’s amazin’ interior.’
‘You’ve seen inside Lord Croxley’s gaff?’
My cheeks flamed. ‘Um, yes. A friend works there and showed me around.’
‘Ooh. Any goss? I hear that Lady Abigail is a real eccentric bird. And that Edward’s head is stuck right up his—’
‘No. Nothing. Soz,’ I said through gritted teeth, which was weird—I was hopping-mad that he’d insulted Edward. It must have been cos Abbey’s cousin really felt like family, now. Yeah, that was it. There was no other explanation for my passionate loyalty.
He shrugged. ‘What do you want to see? Take my word for it, by the end of the evening you’ll have changed your mind and decided to vote for us.’
‘Allow me, son,’ boomed a voice. By the grizzly bear stood the tall Baron, with slicked back dyed black hair, in smart trousers and a shirt open almost to his generous waist. He wore a chunky gold necklace and matching bracelet. With bloodshot eyes, he came over and clapped Harry on the back.
‘Okay, Pops.’ Harry grinned at me. ‘Hope you can keep up with the old boy, Sienna – he’s a party animal.’
‘Grrrrrrr!’ roared the Baron, all lion-like, thinking he was oh-so-funny.
‘Um…hi,’ I said.
The Baron bowed. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He lifted my hand to his lips. Ick. What a slimy kiss.
At least I had my mobile on me and could ring for a taxi if I wanted to leave. I couldn’t decide which phone to bring, so just brought my cheap Abbey Croxley one which fitted more snugly into my denim jacket’s pocket. I half-smiled at the Baron. What a red nose. What ruddy cheeks. His eyes bulged as he stared at my boobs—aka chicken fillets. I looked down. Urgh! Talk about paying the price for getting dressed in a rush. I’d just squished them in and, instead of them lying flat, they’d bunched up and made my breasts look as if I’d borrowed one of Madonna’s conical bras.
‘How about the dungeons first, then, little lady?’ he said, eyes still on stalks. ‘That’ll give you a chance to see the bit of the Castle most featured on the telly.’
‘That would be epic,’ I said and pulled down my teensy dress as I followed him through the door on the right. In my Abbey disguise, there’s no way he would have ogled me up and down like that. Euw. He was old enough to be my granddad.
We walked down a dark stone staircase at the front of the Castle and entered the banqueting room that I’d seen on the telly. Scraps of bread, meat and grapes littered the table. In the corner was a spit. I picked up a chunky brown stoneware goblet. There were matching bowls and plates.
‘That crockery’s the business, isn’t it?’ said the Baron, words slurring a little. He passed me one of two opened beer bottles that he’d fetched from a nearby fridge, hidden by a hessian cloth. ‘We got them from an online company that hires out gear for medieval parties.’
I guessed they couldn’t be originals from almost a millennium ago, but still felt disappointed that they’d just been ordered off the Internet. I twisted the top off my beer bottle and then walked over to a full suit of armour. Awesome. How on earth did soldiers breathe in that lot, let alone fight? On tiptoe, I stroked the head of a stuffed stag, mounted on the stone wall. The room was dark and dingy and, by the feel of it, only heated for paying guests. I shivered. The Baron took down a shiny sword from the wall.
‘Here,’ he said, still talking to my chest, and passed me the weapon. ‘It’s the real McCoy, all right – feel how heavy that is.’
I ran my finger along the smooth blade and admired the gold handle, with silver twisted around. The Baron took it back and I dodged the blade as he clumsily swiped it from side to side.
‘In the old days, I’d have protected a lass like you easy-peasy with this,’ he said in a loud voice. Panting, he put it back on the wall and then took down a catapult. ‘The more unusual weapons, like this, we ordered from some American guy who can make anything out of plastic. You see that axe, the hammer and those shields? Cheap replicas. The dogs’ bollocks, aren’t they? You’d never know, unless you looked close. That twenty-five grand from the last round of Million Dollar Mansion sure goes a long way when buying tat.’
‘What else did you get?’
‘Medieval junk to pimp up the other rooms. After talking to the TV folk, I realized the public love that sort of stuff.’
‘Weren’t the rooms styled like that before?’
The Baron swigged his beer and sat down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs. ‘Nah. My family’s made up of practical, modern people. That’s where those stuffy Croxleys are going wrong. I could do up a whole room with what they’ll spend on restoring one sofa. I’m proud of that. It’s why I think we deserve to win. Pimp up the whole Castle and more peo
ple than ever can stay here for the weekend. It doesn’t have to be one hundred per cent authentic. I mean, who wants to sleep in a room lit and heated by a frigging candle?’
‘I’m sure the Croxleys aren’t that bad!’
The Baron snorted. ‘Yeah, well, they can’t compete with me offering loads of fun, in comfort. It’s not like the original Castle ain’t still standing.’
But only the shell of it. Where’s its soul gone?
Where’s its soul gone…? Jeez – that sounded like something Lady C might say. This time a week or two ago I’d have thought a fun place like Marwick Castle should win the money, no argument.
He put down his beer. ‘I’m making history accessible to the general public—unlike that jumped-up twerp, the Earl. I’m not wasting money on genuine articles that cost a bomb and will only be appreciated by intellectual toffs, and I don’t care who knows it.’
‘But you should see the family portraits at Applebridge – somehow they make the place more…alive.’
‘How? Those people are all dead? Sure, I’ve got photos up here of my grandparents and an aunt who’s snuffed it, but then I actually met them in the flesh. I’ve no interest in boring visitors with portraits of relatives I never even knew.’ The Baron shook his head. ‘Nah. What I offer people is a bit of the spectacular.’
‘What would you spend the million on, then?’ I asked and sat down at the other side of the table.
He winked. ‘I like that—a girl with half a brain who asks a lot of questions and has got knockers to die for.’
My mouth fell open. Really? Did he really just say that?
‘I’d spend that million on a bloody good time.’ The Baron grinned. ‘For a start, the second floor needs doing up. Since Grandpops bought this place in the Twenties, we’ve never quite been able to make it habitable – too many square metres of dry rot and crumbling stonework. Heating alone would cost a packet, then there’s the plumbing, as well as various Health and Safety issues…’
It sounded like the place had similar problems to Applebridge Hall.
He belched and patted his chest. ‘Me and Harry, we’ve got big plans for this place – bedrooms with en suites, an indoor spa and a long games room for indoor archery when the weather’s crap. I want Marwick Castle to become one of the best hen and stag night destinations in the world.’ With his sleeve, the Baron wiped beads of sweat from his brow. ‘A kind of cross between a theme park and Olympic village, that’s how I see it. Whereas a cookery school…?’ He sneered. ‘That’s hardly innovative; hardly ambitious.’
From what I’d already seen, Marwick Castle was going to end up more like the Playboy Mansion. I could just picture the Baron in a silk dressing gown, like Hugh Hefner, with surgically enhanced castle-mates stroking his turrets.
‘But what about its history?’ I said. ‘Its tradition? Is there any art or books from over the years? What about special architectural features?’
Now he looked at me as if my questions had gone too far. And I could see his point. Suddenly I was sounding kind of stodgy. I mean, his plan was fun – and clever and he was clearly passionate about it. The Castle would easily pay for itself. He and Harry would have a ball. The Baron guffawed.
‘Curious little thing, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Tradition?’ He ran a hand over his slicked back hair. ‘Why bother? No Tom, Dick or Harry who visits is going to be any the wiser if a shield is plastic or not. Even if I spouted out dreary old facts, your average visitor would have forgotten them before they’d crossed the moat on their way back to their little lives. Marwick Castle ain’t about boring your visitors to death with statistics and dates – it’s about forgetting your real life. Who wants to know about medieval war strategies or how people in those days made their clothes and grub? Going on the slash, down in the dungeons, after a day pretending you’re a soldier or member of the SAS, that’s what it should all be about.’
He leaned across the table. ‘Hanging out in this castle can be fun. Booze, bread and bedrooms…It’s about going back to basics. It’s about fulfilling people’s most primeval fantasies.’ He grinned. ‘And, as I’m sure even the Earl will agree, it’s mainly about earning dosh. Winning this competition will take my family’s aims and achievements to a whole new level.’
‘Do you know anything about the people who lived here before your family?’
‘The TV company did a bit of research – mentioned something about an industrialist and a distant relative of Henry VIII.’
‘That’s exciting!’
‘Is it?’ The Baron stood up and wavered on his feet. ‘There’s a picture of William the Conqueror in the Throne Room – I guess you might like to see that.’
‘Throne room? That sounds posh,’ I said.
He beamed. ‘Yeah. One thing I’ll give my ex-wife – she thought up some glamorous names for the rooms once my dad died and she wanted to put her own stamp on the place. The Throne Room is where we hold dinners – it’s the main reception area and home to our collection of stuffed animals. Then there’s the Gold Room—our family lounge—and the Nightery where we play music on a jukebox. It’s got a dance floor and bar. Talking of which, come on, little lady, let’s get you a proper drink – the Marwick Cocktail. Thursday night, the cameras aren’t around, so it’s our turn to let our hair down before weekend guests turn up tomorrow.’
We went back upstairs and through the door leading to the right, his arm tightly around my shoulders, as if I was helping him keep upright. Apparently, family bedrooms were at the far end, opposite the entrance, and the left side of the castle housed the kitchens, Throne Room and the ‘Chophouse’.
‘That’s where the family eat. Brill name, right?’ boomed the Baron as we entered the Nightery. Bodies sprawled over sofas and a disco ball lit up the room. Harry danced with the blonde PA. They both held bright blue cocktails, cherries and pineapple threatening to fall out with every sway of their hips. Timber beams crossed the ceiling and lances and helmets were attached to the whitewashed walls.
‘Here, get a few of these down that pretty little neck,’ said the Baron and passed me one of the fancy drinks. He knocked back a short and put down the glass.
‘Yo, boss,’ said a man in his twenties, behind the bar. ‘The cellar is running low. We’ve plenty of beer and wine for tomorrow night but if your celebrity guests want cocktails at the weekend, we’re almost out of vodka, Tequila and gin.’
The Baron tugged a crisp white hanky out of his shirt pocket and dabbed his face.
‘Do you want me to get Harry to sort it?’ asked the man.
We all looked across the room at the Baron’s son, who sat on a leather (probably faux) armchair, being given a lap dance by several girls wearing nothing much more than bodices and heels.
‘Nah, Mike, I’ll sort it. Just…give me a tick. We’ll…do a proper stock-take,’ he said, words slurring even more now. He lifted my hand to his mouth again and gave it another slobbery kiss. ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Make yourself comfortable. My bedroom’s the one with the mirror on the ceiling. And if you hunt around, you’ll be sure to find a whip and pair of handcuffs.’
With a belch, the Baron smiled and staggered away. Seconds later, my phone vibrated. I took it out from the pocket of my short denim coat. It was a text message from Edward. Oh my God. He wanted to join me in the cellar with his laptop, so that we could brainstorm further ideas for the evacuee lunch! I wasn’t even in the cellar, let alone in Applebridge. How on earth was I going to stop him discovering that ‘Abbey’ had disappeared?
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Thursday 6th September
‘Comments’
11.30p.m. What a response to tonight’s show—thank you all, for your comments. I’ll briefly reply whilst waiting for a text from my cousin. Knityourownmansion, no, I hadn’t heard of Second World War ‘Bundles for Britain’. How kind of American women to knit clothes and post them to British soldiers. Goodness, Historybuff, were nearl
y two million children really evacuated? Blogger 569, I agree, your great-aunt had an intolerable experience. Father told of a similar story, where one of the evacuee’s friends was sent to live with shopkeepers who fed him nothing but their out-of-date stock.
As for Lady Constance’s poser question: no doubt I could improve myself by mastering the art of conversation. I’ve never been one for polite chit-chat. Mother used to tut and say it was of vital importance – that meaningless talk about the weather put people at ease and represented the first steps to getting to know someone. Whereas Father has always thought ‘mindless prattle’ is ‘pure poppycock’.
Drunkwriter, just a suggestion, drinking less alcohol might enhance your deportment. EtonMess, agreed, not, erm, gawping at a woman’s “m*l*ns” (I’ve edited your fruity word) would undoubtedly constitute improving your manners.
Ah, a text reply. Excuse me, for a while, kind blog-readers – but do keep the comments coming.
Chapter 19
Writing lies in a text seemed even worse than speaking false stuff. I replied to Edward not to go to the cellar, cos I was tired and had already gone to bed – but would get up ridiculously early to keep going through Mrs Raynor’s list.
Phone away, I then left my drink at the bar and headed out into the courtyard and straight over to a door opposite. I entered the Throne Room. A man was slumped under a window in there, smoking something that smelt a bit dodgy. He tried to focus but gave up and sang some reggae music, before shutting his eyes again.
I gazed around the room and couldn’t resist a chuckle. Despite the name, I hadn’t believed there would actually be a throne. It stood at the far end, on a podium, at the top of red-carpeted stairs. A gold and orange curtain hung behind it, from the ceiling. The throne was high-backed and upholstered, unlike the rest of the chairs along the dining table that stretched the length of the room.
A massive wooden shield bearing a coat of arms was at the other end, near a door presumably leading to the Chophouse. Tapestries of flowers and fruit and vegetables decorated the walls. I went up to one. It looked brand new and I lifted up the bottom to see a very modern white label. It said ‘Made in China’.
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