The Silent Touch of Shadows

by Christina Courtenay

  ‘You don’t think me courageous enough? Once again you wound me, mistress.’ The broad grin on his face belied his words, even as he dramatically put a hand over his heart. ‘To be honest, I wouldn’t have ventured here if the Lady Maude hadn’t told me to come and keep you company,’ he admitted. ‘She’s been detained for longer than she thought and didn’t want you to become bored.’

  Sibell’s mouth fell open in astonishment. ‘Keep me company?’ she managed faintly. Had her former mother-in-law lost her mind? There was no one in sight to chaperone her, and although she was officially a widow, at eighteen she was still considered in need of protection. She surveyed the room surreptitiously, but they were indeed completely alone. As Sir Roger moved closer, she backed away slightly, ready to flee if the need should arise. Quite what she feared, she wasn’t sure, but she knew it would be wrong to let him stay.

  Roger seemed to sense that his presence was unnerving her and he walked over to study the view outside the window for a while. This gave her time to become used to his nearness, but when he returned his gaze to her, she still felt her heart increase its rhythm.

  ‘What brings you here this fine day?’ he enquired politely.

  ‘My father had business with Sir Gilbert. Something about a bridge between their properties which has been damaged by the recent weather.’

  ‘I see. Well, come and tell me how you have been faring,’ he urged, settling himself at her feet on a large cushion. She cast him a wary look – he was still far too close for comfort – but he patted the bench she stood by and she reluctantly sank down on it.

  ‘I … I am well, thank you.’ She swallowed hard and picked up the book she had been reading to hold as a shield in front of herself.

  He leaned forward and caught her gaze. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Well, yes, why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘No more beatings then?’

  She gasped and dropped the precious volume, then turned her head away. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  He retrieved the book and put it gently on a nearby table. ‘I just wanted to make certain. During our ride together, I couldn’t help but notice that you were in pain.’

  Sibell raised her chin a notch. ‘That was due to a misunderstanding between my father and myself. He has arranged a marriage for me, which I was reluctant to consider at first.’ Her lips tightened. ‘I know it’s my duty to obey him, but when he told me he expected me to marry Sir Fulke, I own I was a bit taken aback.’

  ‘Not Sir Fulke of Thornby?’ At her nod, his brows came together in a heavy scowl. ‘Why, that’s barbaric. The man must be, what? Three score?’

  ‘Perhaps not quite as old as that …’

  ‘Almost then. I don’t wonder at it you were unwilling.’

  ‘It’s a brilliant match according to my father.’ Sibell’s voice wasn’t entirely steady and had lost its defiance. She blinked away unshed tears.

  ‘No, it’s impossible. Can’t Sir Gilbert help you? I mean, he was your father-in-law until recently. And surely you’ve told the Lady Maude you are being coerced?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have and she’s doing her best, but we are no longer related, so there is little either of them can do, at least officially.’ Sibell paused and looked around, making sure they were truly alone. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she whispered. She didn’t know why she trusted him, but for some unknown reason she did.

  ‘Upon my honour, your secrets are safe with me.’

  ‘Lady Maude is trying to think of a way to rescue me. If all else fails, she will take me to stay for a while with her sister who lives in the north. Without informing father, of course,’ she murmured into his ear, then realised just how close he was. Her breathing quickened.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped and gazed at her instead. An arrested expression entered his eyes, then he sighed and shook his head as if capitulating. Sibell felt as though she was drowning in a sea of emotion and didn’t understand what was happening. Roger brought up a hand to caress her cheek, a slight frown still creasing his brow.

  ‘I think perhaps there may be another way,’ he told her softly.

  His hand was warm and a bit rough and his touch sent a shiver down her spine. There was a faint smell of horse and leather on his skin, but also some exotic spice and a clean scent that was all his own. Sibell breathed it in, storing it in her memory. She didn’t draw away from him and when he rose to his knees before her, she knew he was going to kiss her. Mesmerised, she watched Roger’s mouth descend towards her own. For some reason, his nearness had ceased to alarm her. Instead, she revelled in it and closed her eyes in expectation of his touch.

  His kiss was soft and feather-light, a mere brushing of lips against lips, but his mouth returned to caress hers again and again, until neither could stand it any longer and sought to increase the contact. He stayed on his knees in front of her, his head on a level with hers. With a groan he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly into his embrace. The kiss deepened and Sibell felt as if she was spinning in a maelstrom of sensations. Only his strong arms were holding her upright. She leaned into him and returned the kiss measure for measure. Never had she experienced anything like it.

  ‘Sibell, you are so beautiful,’ he murmured against her cheek, as they paused to draw breath.

  Sibell didn’t believe his words. She knew she wasn’t a beauty and never would be, but it didn’t matter just now. She was also fully aware that she should not allow this to continue, but his soft breath stirred her senses even more. When he returned his mouth to hers and sought entrance with a questing tongue, she opened for him willingly. He tasted wonderful.

  The spell was broken by the sound of a door closing on the floor below, and heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the solar. Reluctantly they drew apart, still staring at each other in wonder, until with a shuddering sigh Sibell began to straighten her head covering.

  ‘I’ll come and see you at Ashleigh,’ Roger whispered, just before Maude entered the room carrying refreshments. When Sibell raised anxious eyes to his, he added, ‘I’ll be careful, never fear.’

  The journey to Maidstone took the best part of an hour in the morning traffic, but once there Melissa quickly found her way to the Kent History and Library Centre. She knew the records for mid- and southern Kent were held there – including those for the area around Ashleigh Manor – following a recent move into this new purpose-built facility.

  As she entered the building and made her way to the records department, she reflected on her good fortune in having a job she enjoyed so much. And now that Jolie had settled happily into her new school and had Dorothy to come home to in the afternoon, she felt better about leaving her in order to do the necessary research.

  In the reception area Melissa signed in at the desk and confirmed her booking of a seat and microfilm reader. She deposited her jacket and bag in a locker and, armed with a pencil and notepad, she headed for the search room.

  As always, it was a hive of quiet activity even this early in the day, with scores of eager family historians beavering away over their microfiche or film readers. They were mostly elderly people who pursued their elusive ancestors as a hobby, but Melissa noticed there were a handful of professional researchers present as well. Some of them were known to her and she nodded to a few.

  Behind the information desk, Melissa saw the archivist, who was a good friend of hers. She and Jenny had been at university together and the two had become very close, sharing as they did a love of all things past. She waited while Jenny attempted to explain the index system of the 1851 Census to a lady in her early seventies. It proved to be a monumental task, as the woman had a faulty hearing aid and everything had to be repeated at least twice. Melissa saw Jenny heave a sigh of relief when the woman finally took herself off. When she turned to her next customer with a friendly smile firmly plastered to her face, she found Melissa grinning at her.

  ‘Melissa, I didn’t see you there. How are you?’ She hurried round the counter
to embrace her friend.

  ‘Fine thanks, and very happy not to have to deal with that kind of aggravation every day.’ She glanced towards the old lady and they both giggled.

  ‘Now, now, it’s part of my job and I enjoy it most of the time. It’s wonderful to be able to help people. But what brings you here? Another Kent family to research?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I’m here for myself today and I was hoping you could help me out.’ Melissa told Jenny about the move to Ashleigh and that she was curious to find out more about the history of the house and its occupants. ‘My great-aunt thinks it was built sometime in the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century. Could you have a look for any old documents which might mention Ashleigh, please?’

  ‘Of course. It sounds like fun. I’ll go and see what I can find right away. You make a start on the parish registers and wills. The indexes are out here on the shelves and you know where to find the relevant microfilms, right? I’ll take a look in the archives room.’

  ‘Thanks, Jenny, I appreciate it.’

  Melissa was soon seated by a microfilm reader. Most of the parish registers for the villages in the area surrounding Ashleigh began around 1590, but although she found Ashleigh mentioned, there was no one called either Sybil or Roger. She put together a list of people connected with the house before moving on to the wills index.

  This time she was in luck. One of the earliest wills listed was for a Sibell of Ashleigh and with mounting excitement she ordered the document from the stores. Could this be the Sybil that Dorothy had talked about? The name was similar enough. The minutes crawled by before one of the assistants finally brought it to the table where she was seated, together with a pair of white gloves.

  ‘This is incredibly old, so if you wouldn’t mind wearing these, please? Jenny tells me you know to handle this kind of document with care.’

  ‘Yes, of course, thank you.’ Melissa knew that for it to have survived this long was a minor miracle. She could hardly contain a whoop of delight as she carefully picked up the will and began to read.

  The sounds of the search room faded into the background and in her mind Melissa was transported back to another age. The modern table in front of her disappeared and she saw instead a sturdy oak trestle with a candle on either side of the parchment and a small, black-clad man scratching away at it with his quill. Next to her was an unfinished baby’s smock of embroidered linen and an inkstand, and she could hear the crackling of a log fire. The heat seared her on one side while a cold draft caressed her body from the opposite direction. Instinctively she tried to adjust a non-existent shawl.

  Strange memories came flooding into her brain then. Memories of dictating to the scribe while being heavily pregnant, of being filled with a mixture of hope, anger and despair as he quickly translated her words into Latin. A lassitude crept over her, a tiredness which was bone-deep, born out of almost unbearable sadness.

  When at last the images faded, she put the will on the table in front of her and repressed a sob. The urge to burst into tears was almost overwhelming and she didn’t know why. What is happening to me? With a great effort she pulled herself together and began to write down an English translation of the Latin wording with shaking fingers.

  IN THE NAME OF GOD AMEN, I Sibell of Ashleigh in the parish of Idenhurst in the County of Kent, being of sound and perfect mind and memory, God be praised, therefore do make and ordain this my Last Will and Testament in writing in manner and form following, That is to say, first I recommend my soul into the hands of Almighty God and my body I commit to the earth, and as for my worldly estate wherewith it hath pleased God to bestow upon me, I give and dispose thereof as follows, viz

  I give unto James Norice, Mary Pettit and Aline Goodhew, my faithful servants, the sum of one pound each, and to my dear friend Ingirith Waite the sum of five pounds. All the rest and residue of my personal estate, goods and chattels whatsoever I give and bequeath unto my unborn child with love, and it is my wish that said child be named Roger should it prove to be male or Meriel should it prove to be female.

  If said child is female, it is my wish that her guardians ensure the house and lands of Ashleigh remain her personal possessions even after marriage so that she may bequeath it to her first-born daughter, that the estate may pass down the distaff line for all eternity.

  I do make and ordain Sir Gilbert Presseille of Idenhurst full and sole Executor of this my Last Will and Testament, and in witness thereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal this fourteenth day of January in the thirty ninth year of the reign of our Sovereign Henry the sixth King of England. Anno Domini One Thousand Four Hundred and Sixty One.

  Signed Sibell atte Ashleigh

  Roger. Melissa stared at her own handwriting, mesmerised by that one word. So the Sybil of Dorothy’s story had, in fact, been Sibell of Ashleigh. And if she wanted her child named Roger then it had to be because that name had special significance for her. There was no mention of a husband, thus it followed that the child she was expecting was going to be illegitimate.

  ‘Progress at last,’ she whispered.

  As Roger left the solar, he turned for one last look at Sibell. He knew she hadn’t believed him, but she really was beautiful and he’d been right about her figure. Although tall and lithe, she certainly had curves. Her gently rounded bosom strained against the russet-coloured fabric of her plain woollen gown, which seemed a little too small for her. And the gloriously coloured tendrils of hair, still escaping from her headdress despite her best efforts, together with her wide silver eyes, tempted him beyond belief. He wanted to free the flaming tresses and run his hands through them, feel their silkiness against his fingers, bury his face in them …

  Roger took a deep breath and blew her a kiss behind Lady Maude’s back, a mixture of happiness and excitement bubbling up inside him. Sibell’s cheeks turned pink and she looked away. He found her shyness endearing. She was like a frightened fawn, but he’d make her come out of her shell. He’d protect her. She was his now, although why he’d allowed himself to succumb so readily he wasn’t sure.

  He’d been determined to think it over first, consider all his options. When he had gazed into her crystal clear eyes, however, Roger had known he was already lost. He was inexorably drawn to her and was helpless to prevent it. He would have laughed at the irony of it, if it hadn’t been such a serious matter. He, who had for years evaded the lures of women of all ages, had finally been caught by a woman who’d done nothing to snare him. A woman who had no idea of the feelings of chivalry she had awoken within him. Somehow, within the space of only a few meetings, she had penetrated his guard.

  There was only one course open to him now and to his utter amazement, he was looking forward to it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘We’re having guests for tea today, dear, so would you mind helping me make some sandwiches, please?’ Dorothy came into the kitchen looking fresh and relaxed. It was Sunday and Melissa, never at her best in the morning, looked up from her breakfast with what she knew must be a grumpy expression. She wondered where the old lady got all that energy from so early in the day.

  ‘We are? Who’s coming?’ she enquired absently, while trying to focus her tired eyes on the Sunday paper lying next to her plate. She felt as if she had been wrung out in a mangle, absolutely exhausted physically and mentally, and it was all Roger’s fault.

  Last night she had dreamt that he was fighting with two red-haired youths on her behalf. She had cheered him on, hating his opponents with a vehemence foreign to her nature, and feared for Roger when he was hurt. There had been blood, lots of it, but she didn’t think it was all his. She was sure he had beaten them in the end, despite a two-pronged attack that nearly made her heart stop. The entire dream had been so vivid, she woke up with the stench of sweat and blood in her nostrils. She had just succeeded in convincing herself she was being silly, when Jolie marched into the room and immediately wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Eeeuuw! It stinks in here, Mum.
What have you been doing? A work out?’

  Struck dumb, Melissa was unable to answer, and a sensation of panic washed over her. If Jolie could smell it as well, at least she wasn’t imagining things, but that was scant consolation. She gave herself a mental shake. This won’t do. I’m becoming completely fixated by that ghost! And Dorothy had warned her against that.

  ‘Just Amy and her father.’ Dorothy’s casual answer to her question brought her back to the present.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I have invited Amy and her father,’ Dorothy repeated patiently. ‘Amy said the poor man was always alone on weekends, probably pining for his dead wife. It’s the least we can do for a neighbour, don’t you think? And with Jolie spending so much time over there, I’m sure we owe them.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Melissa was only half-listening, lost in her own thoughts again. Her dreams were becoming a real problem and they were a nightly occurrence now. On the one hand she found herself looking forward to going to bed because she wanted to be with Roger, but the rational part of her knew this wasn’t normal. She wondered if the dreams meant anything. Perhaps he’s trying to tell me something more via my subconscious? If only she could recall what had been said.

  She shook her head. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she muttered and shook out the paper in frustration. ‘This has got to stop.’ With as much determination as she could muster, she concentrated on the day’s news.

  ‘Could someone get that please? I can’t leave the oven just now,’ Dorothy hollered from the kitchen when the doorbell rang later that day. The wonderful aroma of freshly baked scones wafted towards Melissa as she came down the stairs, vaguely annoyed about having to change into nicer clothes on a Sunday. Wearing skirts made her feel like she was working. She much preferred a pair of soft, comfortable jeans at the weekend and had planned on a relaxing afternoon, perhaps taking a long walk through the fields. As yet there hadn’t been an opportunity to explore the countryside around the manor and she also needed time alone to think.