The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  “And what of my bride?” he said to the boy, using his hand to bring his loyal Peter’s face up to his, not sure what he was wanting the answer to be.

  “She lies near death in thy mother’s bedchamber, washed up on the shore and brought here one day prior,” Peter said, trembling of his own accord. He loved his master, was devoted to him, and dreaded anything that would displease him.

  He leapt back up on his horse and looked down at the boy and saw the brace on his leg, and when the boy raised his head, he saw it was Simon. He reached out his arm, “Up, my faithful Simon,” he said. Simon took his hand, allowing himself to be pulled up forcefully onto the back of the horse. Instantly they were off at a gallop and through the fortified gates.

  When they reached the gate of the castle dwelling itself, he dismounted, helping Simon down carefully before running through the doors held open by his father’s servants. Up the stairs he flew to where he knew he would find his mother’s bedchamber. One of her maids, Esme, was waiting to greet him, a low curtsy as he rushed toward the door.

  “She lies quiet in thy mother’s bed, my Lord,” Esme said, a worried look on her face. He rushed past her to his mother’s bed, the curtains drawn; another of his mother’s maids, Verity, was sitting vigilantly beside it. He stopped, pausing for a moment to catch his breath before pulling back the bed curtain to look upon the face of she who was to be his wife.

  He saw his own hand reach out and take the curtain hem, hesitating, again not sure he wanted to know, then pulled it back. His breath caught deep in his chest as he looked upon her face.

  It was Ivy Farthing.

  Suddenly, he became afraid, deathly afraid. There was a blackness about her that he could feel but not see. He turned to look back at the door. It was closed. He ran to it and pulled the handle. It was locked. He started banging on it, panicked by being locked alone in the room with her. “Let me out, Father, please. Mother, let me out,” he cried as he beat his fists against the heavy iron and oak door. A woman’s voice with a Breton accent came from behind him.

  “I am pleased that thou hast come to me, and I have come for thee, Mitchell. To be thy wife, and become hot by thee, and bear thee many demons and spirits.”

  Fear far greater than any he had known in battle or any other time in his life erupted in his soul, his heart about to explode like the foxes he had hunted as a boy before he pierced them with his lance. He looked back to the bed and saw a long scaly serpent’s tail come lolling over the side of the bed from beneath Ivy Farthings skirts as she laid there, her arms outstretched to him, a glaring hungry look in her eyes, a mocking smile of protruding blackened teeth. “My husband.”

  “Mother, Father, please let me out! Simon! Jack! Help me!” he cried frantically, banging his fists on the door, watching the blood spurt from his fingers with the force of each blow, “Hhhheeeelllppp meeeeee!”

  Simon’s voice came from the other side of the door, kicking, banging and calling out.

  “I am here, my Lord. I am here.”

  ***

  When he woke up, the banging wasn’t the sound of his fists against the door, but the intense throbbing in his head; a blacksmith’s hammer slamming against an anvil. “Bloody fucking hell,” he groaned as he sat up on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands and wondering where the hell his Advil bottle was.

  ***

  The next day was like a day after a nuclear attack. They were all reduced to rubble and secretly grateful that it was pissing down with rain when they got up. But they still had to be somewhat productive and push the project forward in some fashion that didn’t conflict with the rain and that wouldn’t hurt them too badly. Lady Cotswold, not having partaken in the evenings revelries was the first to arrive at breakfast, alone. Mitch met her there. By this point in his life, he’d learned to rally himself more quickly than your average partier, and with no memory of the previous night’s dream to derail him, felt more focused than ever to make this dig his next resounding success.

  When he saw Ivy Farthing wiping down the bar and setting up the cups for the breakfast sitting, he made a point to stay as far away from her as was humanly possible. Danger, Will Robinson, Danger! He heaved a deep sigh of relief when he saw Fi coming toward them, smiling.

  They spent the time figuring out what they could do that day. Lady Cotswold said that she wouldn’t mind just exploring the village, looking for places that might have some archives or old records containing some information about the property. She told him that before she’d arrived, she taken the liberty of contacting the solicitor for the Crane Estate and had found out that all of the family records had been donated to the local historical society after the last Crane died.

  It was her understanding from the solicitor that the family records went back more than six hundred years and thought it the best place to start. Then if she still had time before the shops closed, she thought she might like do some antiquing.

  For Mitch’s part, he decided that the rain gave him the time to take Malcolm and Deck shopping for the digging supplies they would need and whatever material they would need to make what they couldn’t buy, probably sifting boxes. That would be the item they’d be least likely to find ready-made.

  When Simon hadn’t shown by the last seating, Mitch ordered a breakfast sandwich and coffee to be taken to his room. Thinking it wise, Lady Madeline had the same done for Sandrine.

  Before they left on their errands, Lady Madeline with her notebooks and Mitch with the lads in tow, each left notes for their respective assistants that they would call back at the inn for them between one and 2:00 P.M., and headed out to do some digging of their own.

  ***

  Simon woke about eleven to the same blacksmith’s hammer banging on the same anvil as Mitch’s. He wanted to sleep some more, but it was cold and damp, a draft was coming from the window, and even with the rain coming down outside, that little bit of light seemed to hurt his eyes.

  He got up and went to shut the curtains, finding the source of the draft. The windows were ajar and the open spaces stuffed with sprigs of holly. That’s silly, some kind of practical joke; immature play on words, he thought and reached out to remove them. He drew his hand back sharply. “Damn!” and looked at his fingers; little red droplets were forming. He’d stuck himself on the needle-pointed ends of the leaves. Then something shifted outside the window, catching his eye, and he looked out.

  The old man was standing across the yard under a big black umbrella twenty feet away; his tiny, piercing black eyes fixed on Simon. The old man’s lips were moving and he waved his hand like a wand in front of Simon as he had in the pub the night before. “Come thee to me, ye boy called Holly.” Simon heard a voice that made no sound. Suddenly his head stopped hurting.

  He turned back to his bed, moving easily without thinking, or feeling, and sat down to put on his shoes and brace. When he returned to the window, it was no longer only ajar but wide open, and he climbed out…brace and all.

  ***

  Lady Madeline arrived back at the inn somewhat later than she’d planned, around 2:00 P.M, having gotten lost in the Crane family papers at the Historical Society of Exeter; overwhelmed, not only with the sheer volume of the documents, but also the astonishing variety.

  Given the nature of her inquiry, she sought out the earliest documents first. The Crane estate had first been established in 1323 through the Royal beneficence of a grant from Edward II to Alistair Crane in gratitude for his faithful services in the battle for Scotland.

  According to the oldest of the documents, the land grant was to include the castle known as Revelstoke. However, through certain private letters from Alistair Crane and his nearest relative, one Gregory Crane of Sussex, Lady Madeline learned that Alistair Crane was less than enthusiastic about the grant and, in fact, felt betrayed, because upon his arrival he discovered that the castle known as Revelstoke was already a ruin and had been for some time.

  To Alistair’s complaint, his cousin Gregory re
sponded that either King Edward had never seen the estate at the time of the grant and was therefore innocent of any deceit, or had granted the estate to Crane purposefully so that should Crane use his fortune to rebuild Revelstoke or build a new castle to replace it, in either instance giving the King the greater glory of another stronghold in the wild country in the West. Apparently, Gregory was of the opinion that the King’s true motive was more of the latter than the former and suggested that in order to remain in the King’s favor, Alistair should build a manor house rather than a castle since there had been no real need for a defensive fortress-style castle in that area since the days of William. He then urged his cousin to burn the letter after reading it, lest he be accused of treason against the King if the letter were to fall into the wrong hands.

  The next set of telling documents were sparse remnants of plans for the manor house which Lady Madeline assumed was, at least in part, what had remained and been built upon by successive generations; in the end bequeathed to The National Trust when the property was divided only a short time ago.

  None of this seemed to be particularly compelling until she reread the last letter from Gregory to Alistair. It was the reference to his reason for not building a new castle but building a manor house instead. Not since the days of William… caught her eye. Did that mean that the old castle had been in existence since the days of William, maybe before? she asked herself silently, then answered herself. Well, if the old castle known as Revelstoke was already a ruin when Crane got it in 1323 and built in a style that would draw into it its use as ‘defensive’ then it would certainly date or predate William because since William there had been no need for ‘defensive’ castles.

  She took that as her first major breakthrough whereby she could, with certainty, date the ruins from at the very least 1066, and if that was the case, then there most certainly be some reference to it made in William’s Domesday Book. “Jolly good show, Maddie!” she said out loud to herself and began hand copying the relevant portions of the letters to take back to Mitch. “We’re finally on our way,” she said as she collected her things, noticing the time, and started back for the inn hoping he would be there to share her excitement while at the same time thinking with a deep sense of regret, My darling, Neville, I do wish you were here to share this with us.

  Chapter XI

  ANTIQUES

  Lady Cotswold arrived back at inn by 2:00 P.M. When she arrived, Sandrine had already gotten her message and had readied herself for whatever Lady Madeline had planned for the rest of the day, hoping that word hadn’t gotten back to Lady Madeline about her behavior the night before.

  Since Mitch and the other men hadn’t arrived back from their supply hunt, Lady Madeline, feeling very much on her game at having made a rather significant step with the morning’s work, decided to treat herself to her original thought of exploring the village and hopefully finding one or two quaint little antique shops to spend the rest of the rainy afternoon. She loved antiques, particularly Victorian china, figurines and jewelry, so she suggested that she and Sandrine make a nice leisurely afternoon of lunch and touring.

  The two women left shortly after two, deciding that, since the village was so small, they might walk it instead of taking the car and having to trouble about parking which was always a chore, and a bore; and left the inn on an expedition of their own, umbrellas in tow.

  As things will happen in England, they had no sooner gotten a block away when the sky seemed to just open up with rain coming down in buckets. The few people on the street ran for cover in doorways, shops or their cars.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sandrine spotted a sign across the street, The Holly & The Ivy, and pointed to it, not troubling to raise her voice over the loudness of the rain. Lady Madeline gave a sigh of relief and took Sandrine by the arm. Across the street and into the shop they went.

  Once in they realized that it was a tea shop, Even better, they thought, looking at each other as if they had read each other’s minds. Lady Madeline hadn’t eaten since breakfast and Sandrine hadn’t eaten at all, the idea of the heavy breakfast sandwich Lady Madeline had sent up had made her stomach churn.

  As they began taking their coats off, a bright-voiced, middle-aged woman came from somewhere in the back, wiping her hands on her old fashioned, frilly apron to greet them.

  “Stinking filthy weather isn’t it?” she said, then introduced herself. “I’m Constance Farrow. Please make yourselves comfortable, ladies. I’ll get you some menus,” and she went over to the glass-covered counter where the baked goods were displayed.

  She was back in an instant with two paper menus covered by plastic folders. “Can I bring you some tea straight away?” she chirped gaily.

  “Indeed, that would be lovely. Earl Grey, if you wouldn’t mind,” Lady Madeline replied, dabbing the remains of the rain from her face with her handkerchief.

  Constance Farrow was off again into the back of the shop. She returned a few moments later with a tray filled with cups, saucers, napkins and a steaming pot of tea cutely covered in a green knitted tea cozy, and set up the tea in front of the ladies. “Visitors?” Constance asked smiling, already knowing the answer since she knew practically everyone in the village, as well as the nearest villages around.

  “Yes,” Lady Madeline responded, “…from Yorkshire.”

  “Staying over at the Digger’s, I suppose?” Constance asked, smiling but again, already knowing the answer.

  “Why, yes,” Lady Madeline replied, looking at Sandrine with a small knowing smile.

  “Then you must be Lady Cotswold,” Constance said, stepping back with her hands on her hips and taking a short bow. “I’m honored, Lady Cotswold. Welcome to my humble establishment.”

  “No secrets in a small village, eh, Mrs. Farrow?” Lady Madeline asked, having already seen the wedding ring on Constance’s hand to know to use the correct form in addressing their hostess properly. She winked at Sandrine. Sandrine smiled and winked back.

  “None at all, Lady Cotswold,” Constance replied with a smile. “And you’re here to dig up the ruins out back of the old Crane Estate.”

  “Indeed we are, my dear Mrs. Farrow,” Lady Madeline replied wryly.

  Then, remembering herself and her place in the presence of the wife of a peer, Constance resumed her hostess role. “Can I get you something to go with your tea, ladies?”

  Lady Madeline looked to Sandrine indicating that she should order first. Sandrine looked the menu up and down trying to decide. As a gap filler, she thought for a moment, then asked her hostess, “What a lovely name for your pretty little tea shop, Mrs. Farrow. It’s charming and so unusual. How did you come by it?”

  “Well, Miss, I didn’t exactly come by it. It came to me by way of my mother, and from her mother before her. It’s from local folklore, you might say, from before the land was…settled. The Holly was the Druid symbol for the male because it protected its young, the berries, with the sharp points of its leaves and the Ivy was their symbol for the female because its vines will cling to anything stronger than itself.” Constance told them as if she were teaching a school lesson.

  Seeing that the ladies seemed interested in her story, she went on, “You’ll probably notice around here that mostly the older buildings, the really old ones, I mean, they all have either groves of holly trees clumped together around their yards and gardens or great beds of ivy vines, or both, in some cases. They used to plant them whenever any of the women of the house were with child to bring them a child of the sex they desired, or so the folklore goes,” Constance said, shrugging her shoulders.

  “That’s fascinating,” Sandrine said with a sense of awe at being told an old pagan tale, forgetting she hadn’t ordered her food.

  “So would you like something to eat, Miss?” Constance reminded her, smiling again. She loved giving the tourists what they came for when they came to her shop, some tea, some scones and some…legend, and they always loved all of them.

  “I think I’
ll just have cheese and ham sandwich.”

  Constance Farrow then looked to Lady Madeline, holding her pad and pencil delicately in her hand.

  “And for you, your Ladyship? Constance asked, trying to contain the fact that she thrilled to the teeth to have the wife of a real peer in her shop.

  “I think I’ll have a Cornish pasty, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Farrow.”

  “Not at all, your Ladyship.” Constance replied, pleased with her choice because it gave her another chance to entertain her guests. “An excellent choice, if I may say so. My great-grandmother’s recipe. I make them myself. My great-grandfather was from Clovelly, so her recipe had to be just right. I make them the exact same way. I’m sure you’ll be pleased,” she said, backing away slowly before she turned. The way she was raised, one was never to turn ones back on nobility until they were at a respectable distance.

  When they were alone again, Sandrine couldn’t resist asking Lady Madeline what a Cornish pasty was.

  “It started as a workman’s meal for the coal miners down here, sort of a pie filled with diced lamb, potatoes and onions, and when made properly, can be delightful with brown sauce. I was hoping to get a chance to have a good one while I was down here, and I think this one will be good. I’ll let you try it.”

  As soon as Constance Farrow was safely behind her kitchen door, she tipped her head smiling and said to herself, “Well done, Connie,” and decided that if her Ladyship and the young Miss came back again she’d treat them to the legend of the Devon Forest Piskies.

  As they ate, Sandrine couldn’t help but notice Lady Madeline’s complexion. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Lady Madeline, your skin looks so… radiant. And your hair looks lovely.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear, I guess the fresh country air and warm moisture of Devon rain agrees with me,” she replied proudly, remembering that she had hardly put on any make-up before she went out that morning, and hadn’t had a touch up all day.