There weren’t many doors in the passage, and the ones I tried were locked. Well, the maid had said the castle beyond my room wasn’t used. I seemed to walk an awfully long way through the thick gloom, which my candle barely pierced. When I did espy a turning, I veered left in the hope of some variety. Eventually, I found myself in a large, empty hall with an enormous stone fireplace. The stonework was crumbling, but some of the carvings were still intact—ornate leaves and intertwining branches, angelic figures balanced on curls of stone.
If I were the duchess, I’d dine here… Even in my dream, my imagination populated the hall with colourful characters from the past, Renaissance scholars, artists, soldiers, and princes…or Teutonic warriors and their ladies, defending their castle from all comers. Oh but I could tell some stories of this room…
Wishing it were real, I moved across it with my candle, appreciate the strong, silver moonlight that spilled in the row of windows along one wall. A spiral staircase, well worn by centuries of feet, led upward from the far end of the hall. I climbed, holding my candle high to see where I was going. The first door I came to was locked, so I climbed on, wondering if I was in one of the towers I’d seen when we arrived. Since I was in control of the dream, I decided to make it so.
“What’s more,” I murmured to myself as I came up to another closed door, “this one will open.”
Although it was heavy and seemed to be made of iron, it did indeed open when I pushed hard, leading me into a small room with one rough wooden chair and a table with a book on it. Even in my dream, my heart beat a little faster, because there was no dust on the book or on the table. This part of the castle was used.
Well, it was my dream, and too many disused corridors and empty rooms were boring.
From the corner of this room, a narrower set of stairs led upward. I followed them, coming to yet another door, also of iron, but with a small square hole cut in it and covered by a grill. Since the grill was just above my eye level, I couldn’t see in.
I pushed at the door, but it remained determinedly shut.
“Whose dream is this anyway?” I said aloud. “Open.” I pushed again, harder, but the door was clearly locked. “Damn.”
Inside, something clanked, like metal against stone. I shivered with delight. Clanking chains! This was much better.
“Damn what or whom?” enquired a deep, male voice from within, in perfect English.
A thrill ran through my bones from my toes up. “This door,” I said. “It won’t open.”
The chains, or whatever they were, clanked again.
“Perhaps you could unlock it for me?” I said hopefully.
“Sadly not. I don’t have the key.”
I frowned. “You mean you’re locked inside? Or is there another way out?”
“There’s always a way out.”
“Oh.” I set down my candle, meaning to take off my shoes and stand on top of them to try to see through the grill. “Who are you?”
There was a pause. “Kasimir,” said the voice, as my candle shone on a low stool on the far side of the landing. “Who are you?”
“Guin,” I said, placing the stool by the door and standing on it to peer through the grill. Inside was pitch-dark, so I bent and retrieved my candle.
“Just Guin?” Metal clanked again as I raised my candle to the grill.
A young man in a torn shirt and faded trousers with holes at both knees sat on the edge of a truckle bed, hands raised against the pale light I shone on him. He seemed very large for the tiny room, but otherwise, I couldn’t see much more than a mop of shaggy blonde hair and two big, if slender hands with chains dangling from both wrists. He lowered them slowly to reveal a lean, fine-boned face with glittering blue eyes, lips parted, perhaps in surprise. He was handsome enough to make even my determinedly hard heart beat faster. Dreams could be very pleasant…
On the other hand, manacles bound his wrists, a thick chain running between them and up to a bolt in the wall above him.
“Goodness,” I said, impressed and appalled all at once. “I really did hear clanking chains. You’re a prisoner.”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Lord, no.”
He stood, tugging at the chains so that he could take a step nearer the door. My heart lurched, but the chains pulled him up short. Even in the dim light, his wrists looked red and raw.
“Oh dear,” I said. “I’ll bring you ointment for your wrists.”
He peered at the grill, leaning his head from side to side as if trying to see me better. “You will? Why?”
“They look sore.”
He stepped back and glanced at them. “I suppose they are.” He sounded vaguely surprised. “Are you my new keeper?”
“Your keeper?” The phrase sounded odd; perhaps it was the translation. “No. I’m the duchess’s sister. Why are you in here? What did you do?”
He seemed to think about that. “I don’t know that I did anything.”
“Perhaps you’re a political prisoner,” I said. After all, it would explain his educated speech, his knowledge of English. “Were you involved in the revolution in ’48?”
His eyes seemed to flash. It looked like pain or desperation. And then, making me jump in startlement, he leapt into the air, seizing the chains between his hands and tumbling upside down. He swung himself over the bed and, bracing his weight against the tense chain, began to walk up the wall in his bare feet. Beneath the thin shirt, muscles bunched in his arms and shoulders. He must have been very strong.
“What are you doing?” I asked curiously.
“Distracting myself to see if you’re an illusion.”
I blinked. “Actually, you’re the dream.”
“I am? Why would you bring ointment to a dream?”
“Good question,” I allowed. “Instinct, I suppose. Your wrists do look sore.”
He flopped back down on the bed, and the chains clanked against the wall. “Then again, why wouldn’t I dream of a beautiful girl who just wants to be kind to me?”
“You can’t see me very well from there, can you?” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not beautiful, but I will still bring you the ointment.”
He leaned back, drawing his knees up under his chin. “If you wanted to be very kind, you could bring me a file instead. One of those sharp, narrow ones I could use to kill my gaoler after I’d cut my chains with it.”
My blood chilled. “Would you really do such a thing?”
“Oh yes, I think so.” He frowned. “I’m sure I’ve done it before, though perhaps that was just wishful thinking, since I’m still here. Or it might have been someone else…” His rather stunning blue eyes, which had glazed over as if with the effort of memory, came back into focus on the square hole. “I’m talking myself out of the ointment too, aren’t I? Don’t worry.”
“I won’t when I wake up.”
“Hmm.” He leaned his head to one side. “The duchess’s sister. British-style democracy is very popular here. Leopold married into the liberal English earl’s family in order to curry favour with our own liberals. Is the duchess very liberal? Are you?”
I stared at him. “Augusta isn’t political at all.” Although I knew it didn’t really matter what I said, since I was only dreaming, I felt obliged to add, “She will, of course, share and support her husband’s views.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t have a husband.”
“But if you did, would you keep your own opinions?”
“I have it on good authority I’m too opinionated ever to be married.”
The prisoner smiled at me, an unexpectedly dazzling smile that actually caught at my breath. “You could always marry a man who had no opinions of his own and tell him what to think.”
“I have no desire to marry a vegetable,” I retorted.
“No, it would be dull,” the
prisoner agreed, and with one of his sudden movements, sat forward on the bed again. His muscles rippled in the candle’s pale glow, and my stomach lurched in a pleasurable kind of way I wasn’t used to. It came to me that he no longer seemed very dreamlike. The fuzziness seemed to have gone from the edges of my vision. Surreptitiously, I touched my face with my free hand. I was wearing my spectacles. In fact, I remembered putting them on before I left the room, before I fell asleep, in fact.
“What if I’m not dreaming at all?” I said aloud.
“Why should you imagine you’re dreaming? Why would you dream about me?”
“Because your…your prison is exactly the kind of thing I’d put in my story. I’m afraid I’m addicted to imagining and writing stories. And everything looked…off, fuzzy, like looking through the wrong lens or those strange mirrors they have in fairground stalls.”
His eyes didn’t blink as they regarded me. I thought I saw pity there. “You drank the tea. You shouldn’t drink the tea.”
My mouth fell open. “What?” After all the trouble the baroness had clearly gone to, not drinking the tea would have caused an international incident.
But the prisoner had apparently moved on. His head turned toward the tiny slit window, slightly cocked to one side.
“You should go now,” he said. “Hurry, or they’ll see you.”
“Who will?”
He sprang up, wild-eyed, lunging so furiously in my direction that I stumbled back off the stool and nearly dropped my candle.
“Run,” his voice commanded as the chains jolted him to a cruel halt. I heard the clank and his panting breath. “And don’t tell anyone you were here.”
I grasped my shawl in my free hand and planted my foot on the first step before his words really penetrated. “Why?” I demanded. “Why shouldn’t I tell anyone?”
A breath of laughter drifted out of the prisoner’s cell. “Because I’m dead.”
Chapter Two
When I flung back the shutter to let in the morning sunshine, the view took my breath away. Miles of rolling hills and valleys spread out below the castle, thick with trees, the Silberwald or Silverwood, that gave the duchy its name. I could even perceive silver glinting off the trees, some trick of the rising sun that seemed to change their colour. I was enchanted all over again.
Augusta had landed on her feet here. This was a beautiful country she could easily grow to love.
In the bright light of day, my nocturnal adventure and my odd conversation with the even odder prisoner seemed once more like a dream. Not least because I hadn’t got lost in the maze of stone passages, but had found my way directly back to my bedroom. That was so unlikely for me as to be impossible. Dream it was…although it had been fantastically detailed. The prisoner’s angelically handsome face and dazzling blue eyes stayed with me, as did his torn clothes, his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, and the nasty, raw sores on his wrists.
I’d dreamed my story—or at least the first part of it—and I couldn’t wait to write it.
A knock at the door sounded, and the same maid as I’d met last night entered with a fresh jug of washing water.
“Gruss Gott,” she greeted me cheerfully in the manner of her country, and set down the jug on the washing stand.
I thanked her in German and went to the washing bowl. It still had the old water in it. Rather than throw it out the window, I emptied it into the chamber pot beneath and poured fresh water. Although it was cold and made me shiver, I persevered, and then dressed as quickly as I could. Fortunately, Button appeared to fetch me, and was able to see to the fastenings of my gown while she delivered her summons to Augusta. I hoped my sister didn’t mean to keep me around her all day; I knew I was going to rebel at some point, and for both our sakes, I thought it should probably be later rather than sooner.
Button sniffed loudly in my ear. “Don’t see why they had to stick you in this…cellar,” she complained. She seemed to be outraged on my behalf.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked, surprised. “I suppose it’s a bit small, but there is a magnificent view.”
“Have a word with her la—I mean Her Highness, and she’ll see you’re given somewhere more suitable. The rooms on the other side of the castle are much better.”
“I like this one,” I said firmly.
“It’s an insult,” Button stated. “That’s what it is!”
“Nonsense. I expect the duke told his people about my penchant for the old and the gothic. It was most kind of him, because they couldn’t have put me anywhere I liked better. Shall we go? What are your quarters like?”
“Better than yours,” Button said stubbornly.
I laughed and opened the door.
We found Augusta in her bedroom, reclining in voluminous purple robes as she drank her morning coffee. Unlike mine, Augusta’s dark brown hair curled naturally, yet even on first waking, appeared both tidy and becoming. Her fine, perfectly shaped lips were relaxed and contented. She looked regal and rather smug as she waved me towards the coffeepot. Accepting that as an invitation to help myself, I did so, enquiring how she’d slept.
“Wonderfully,” she replied. “So comfortable!”
“Did you dream?” I asked impulsively.
“Not that I recall. Why?”
“I had really vivid dreams. Must be the atmosphere of the castle. It is rather magnificent, isn’t it?”
Button, setting out her mistress’s dress for the morning, snorted loudly enough to attract Augusta’s attention.
“What’s the matter with you?” the duchess demanded .
“She thinks my room isn’t splendid enough for my rank,” I explained. “But I love it just as it is.”
Augusta fixed her handmaiden with a glare. “Would you have my sister’s apartment smarter than mine? I am the duchess! It’s fitting I should have the best.”
Button, who’d known us since we were children, opened her mouth to do battle on my behalf. I interrupted.
“What are your plans for the day, Gussie?”
“Don’t call me that,” she said irritably. “It was never suitable after the age of six, and it certainly isn’t now. I’ll be riding with the duke later this morning, so I won’t need you.”
Actually, I suspected she was already regretting her insistence on my coming at all. Since her brother-in-law the prince, the baroness, and probably Hilde too all spoke excellent English, it seemed probable that many others in the duke’s court did too. Augusta was unlikely to be lonely. I’d be sent home before too much longer.
“Do you have that book on the history of Silberwald?” I asked her.
“In the trunk, my lady,” Button said.
“May I take it for a while?” I asked Augusta, who shrugged impatiently by way of permission.
Having drunk my coffee and partaken of some very nice bread and cherry preserve, I took the book back to my bedchamber, and sprawled with it on the bed. It came to me that the prisoner had told me his name, Kasimir. I wanted to see if his name was mentioned in the late revolution. If nothing else, it might tell me whether or not I dreamed last night’s meeting.
However, the history stopped with the ascension of the last duke, Edward, to the throne of Silberwald. He had been the present duke’s elder brother, the one who’d abdicated during the revolution to appease the mob. Not that it had done him any good. The mob had attacked this castle anyhow, and the old duke’s heart had given out. Leopold, apparently the liberal favourite of the mob, had become duke in his brother’s place, relieved the castle, and put down the revolution. But none of this was in the history which had been published back in 1838.
However, with triumph I remembered my stepsister Caroline giving me a journal to read on my journey because it contained an article on Silberwald. A friend of hers was the editor of the periodical, and in fact, I’d found most of the articles most interesting. But
surely there had been something there about the ducal family and how Leopold had come to succeed… Yes, there it was!
Duke Edward had married a Polish princess, whom he’d later had to confine as insane, although not before she’d given him an equally troubled son. The son had died at the age of sixteen. His name had been Kasimir.
I took a deep breath and sat up slowly.
“Because I’m dead.” The last words I could remember from my dream echoed around my mind.
“Not a dream,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around my stomach to repress a shiver of fear, a positive thrill of excitement. “A ghost…”
* * * * *
Before I did anything else, I dashed off a letter to Caroline, who always knew the most interesting people.
Do you remember telling me about a new friend of yours who talks to the dead? Perhaps you won’t believe me when I tell you I think I too have spoken to a dead person! At any rate, I would very much like to discuss this with your friend, so could you please furnish me with her direction so I might write to her?
Sealing the letter, I went in search of Augusta to find out how to go about sending it. She’d obviously already gone riding with the duke, so I left it with her letter to Alnwick on the sitting room mantelpiece. On my way out, I met the baroness, who was inspecting the maids’ work. We greeted each other politely if warily.
After a little small talk, I asked her bluntly if the castle was haunted.
She laughed. “Well, if anywhere is, I suppose it should be this castle! It is very old.”
“Then you’ve never seen a ghost here?”
“Or anywhere else,” the baroness said in clear amusement.
I nodded sagely and tried a different tack. “Do you ever remember anyone claiming to see a ghost in the castle?” With any luck, I could engineer a meeting with someone who had, and we could compare notes. My story was coming along splendidly.
However, the baroness laughed out loud and brought her head closer to mine. “Not since mad prince Kasimir died,” she said gravely and walked away, still smiling.
The Prisoner of Silverwood Castle Page 2
