To Mother and Daddy,
You are not forgotten.
I love you both dearly and think of you every day.
All my love,
Gloria.
In that instant, Rachel had decided not to pack away all the things that reminded her of Gloria, surmising that if Gloria had carried on her life thinking of her and Jeremy, then she could carry on thinking of Gloria and Jeremy.
It was difficult not to dwell on those thoughts for long, but as she walked down the winding lanes towards the cottage that had once belonged to Gloria, for some reason Rachel’s thoughts fixed squarely upon her long departed daughter.
She did not know why, but she instinctively believed that Gloria was trying to reach out to her from beyond the grave, perhaps to reassure her – or to warn her? Rachel had seen and experienced enough in the past decade and a half to know that such a thing was not ridiculous and was indeed quite plausible.
Peter Neville had once helped to protect Gloria from Sawyl Gwilym; he might be able to shed some light on the peculiar feelings.
The mere thought of the warlock made Rachel shudder. He was the epitome of evil, and though she had never met him, Rachel was terrified at the prospect of his attempted return.
Perhaps that’s what Gloria wants, she thought solemnly. Maybe the time has finally come for his resurrection. Perhaps Gloria is trying to warn me of this.
Peter Neville would know, and if he did not then there was someone else who surely would, but would Louise be willing to let the Seer back into her life?
Time would tell.
*
Margaret had not walked very far down the corridor of the hospital as she headed for the exit, when she saw Chloe and Ainsley heading towards her, deep in conversation as they followed behind a white-coated doctor. She turned her back to them, and they passed without noticing her.
She wondered what they were doing at the hospital. An uncharacteristically uncharitable part of her brain hoped their daughter had tried to kill herself at the police station where she was being held.
Following her arrival from Portsmouth after hearing the news that her husband had been attacked, and having first visited the hospital to reassure herself that though badly wounded, Roger was in no immediate danger, Margaret had then travelled the relatively short distance to Crowborough to speak to the would-be assassin herself.
The constable on duty would not let her down to the cells to see Lucinda, stating that not even the girl’s parents – seated opposite his reception desk – were permitted to visit at that time.
Margaret had turned, intent on shouting at the couple, but she was appalled at the distress on the woman’s tearstained face, and so she reigned in her own emotions. They had not noticed her at the police station as she walked out without speaking to them, and they had not noticed her now at the hospital, though there was no real reason why they should know who she was.
Margaret could not decide whether she actually wished to speak to the couple or not, but curiosity gained the upper hand; she wanted to know who they were visiting, and she followed them at a discreet distance, somewhat surprised to find herself back in intensive care, just a couple of rooms further on from Roger’s.
She peered cautiously through the window in the door to see the couple still talking animatedly to the doctor, although through the glass she could not hear their words.
On the bed, his head bandaged, face, arms and torso covered in lacerations, lay a young man whom Margaret guessed to be about twenty years of age, and who was clearly their son. By the looks of things, he too had been attacked; perhaps his clearly insane sister had tried to kill him as well?
Margaret was mortified to find herself disappointed that it was not Lucinda in the room.
Matthew’s voice suddenly at her shoulder made her jump. ‘Mum, what are you doing?’
‘Matthew, you startled me. Why aren’t you in with your father?’
‘I decided I need some fresh air. His condition is stable, and hasn’t changed since he was brought in, so I figured stretching my legs outside for five minutes or so wouldn’t hurt. What are you doing, peering in at that window?
He leaned past her to peer through the glass himself, emitting an appalled gasp of shock when he recognised the room’s occupant. ‘My God – Liam!’
Margaret frowned. ‘You know this young man?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Yes, he’s Liam Samwell, Lucinda’s brother. My God, what’s happened to him?’
Margaret shrugged. ‘Looks to me like his sister had a go at him too.’
‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Why on earth would she attack your father? The girl is clearly unhinged, and being locked up in a cell is obviously the best place for her to be.’
Matthew pressed his nose up against the window, fogging the glass with his breath. ‘Poor Liam. He certainly doesn’t deserve this.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘We met at the pub run by his parents in Elendale, and we spent the night together at Four Oaks. He’d heard of its reputation and wanted to see if it was really haunted.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Between us, nothing, but something spooked him at the house that night. It was then that we decided to go up to Wicca Hill, to see if we could find the lair of Sawyl Gwilym.’
‘Sawyl Gwilym?’ queried Margaret, pursing her lips. ‘I’m not sure I’ve heard that name before.’
‘Apparently he’s infamous hereabouts. He was a nasty piece of work, by all accounts; led a coven of witches up at Wicca Hill, or something like that.’
‘Why were you going to see if you could find his lair?
Matthew shrugged. ‘Because we were, that’s all. Liam really wanted to see a ghost, and since we didn’t actually see one at the house, we decided the warlock’s lair would be the best place to start.’
Margaret shivered. Not knowing whether or not her son actually recalled any of the events that occurred during his last visit to Silverthorne Lodge, she did not want to bring up the subject of ghostly goings-on and spiritual possessions.
Not wanting to worry his mother about the rumours of Sawyl Gwilym’s return, Matthew made no mention of events that had been going on in the area of which he had been made aware.
Unconsciously, they were both thinking similar thoughts.
What if Liam went up to the lair of the Warlock of Wicca Hill, and frightened by the ghosts for whom he had been searching, fell down the hill? Margaret believed that would explain his condition.
What if he made his way up to the cave, and found the ghost he so desperately wished to see, and what if the spirit that had found him was Sawyl Gwilym? Matthew feared this was the case, and hoped desperately that he was wrong.
Only time would tell.
1560
The baying crowd of onlookers gathered for the execution of Obadiah Ridley shouted and jeered as he was brought onto the gallows. The priest who accompanied him said prayers for his soul, though the crowd uttered no prayers. They wanted his blood; they wanted retribution for the brutality he had committed against the poor young woman, Matilda Wystan.
Obadiah had long since given up protesting his innocence. His words fell on relentlessly deaf ears, and he was found guilty almost before Matilda’s body grew cold. He knew he would be dead before she was buried.
Matilda’s parents, James and Sarah, could not believe Obadiah capable of such a reprehensible act, but his own words had condemned him when he had confronted Matilda when she came to beg forgiveness and understanding at her decision to marry Luke instead of him.
Luke himself made a half-hearted plea for leniency on Obadiah’s behalf, in order to better perpetuate the public belief of his innocence and grief, knowing full well that any decision to execute Obadiah, once made, would not be overturned.
He stood slightly apart from the crowd as the executioner placed the noose around Obadiah’s neck, his attention drawn to a figure standing lonesome at the rear of t
he crowd. He recognised the figure and grinned, safe in the knowledge that none of the other people gathered could see the man, and he chuckled to himself. He knew the man could do nothing to interfere – and he was relieved.
In a few moments, it would all be over.
Luke’s smile turned into an angry frown as he suddenly caught sight of another figure standing slightly behind the man. He recognised her even before she stepped out of the shadows.
‘Matilda!’
*
The man felt the gentle hand upon his elbow, and cried out in alarm. It was the first time he had felt the physical contact of someone else since awakening in this time. He turned, to find the young flaxen-haired woman whose murder he had witnessed, standing beside him.
‘Matilda?’ he gasped, equally surprised to hear the words as they escaped his lips. He glanced around at the crowd to see if anyone else had suddenly noticed his presence – not to mention that of a dead woman.
‘They cannot see us, Father, nor can they hear our words, not even if we wished them to.’
It took a few moments for the man to register her words. ‘You called me Father. You know who I am?’
Matilda nodded, neither her blonde hair nor her dress moving in the breeze that blew around them. ‘Of course I know you, Father. How could I not know you?’
The man frowned. ‘But I don’t belong in this time. I know that without a shred of doubt, yet I don’t know who I am.’
‘You will remember, in time.’
The man pointed at the gallows, where the priest was saying the final prayer for the condemned man. ‘Obadiah’s innocent. They’re about to execute the wrong man.’
The executioner pulled the lever, the trap door opened, and Obadiah’s body dropped down sharply. Even from such a distance, and over the sound of the cheering crowd, as Obadiah’s body thrashed around madly for a few seconds, Matilda and her companion heard the sickening crack of his neck breaking, before he hung limp and still.
Matilda sighed sadly. ‘I know. Yet again, an innocent life had been wrongly taken. That is why you have been brought here, so you might witness the truth and somehow use that knowledge to prevent this from happening yet again.’
‘It’s happened before?’
‘Yes, Father, it has happened before, and it will happen again, unless someone can use the truth to halt it.’
‘It has not happened to me, but it has happened to you, Hrothgar, and also to Matilda. It always happens to Matilda, and will continue to do so until the truth can be told.’
The sudden voice from behind startled the man, but Matilda had been expecting the newcomer. The man turned to find Obadiah standing there, smiling, his neck intact. ‘You called me Hrothgar. Is that really my name?’
Obadiah came forward from the shadows. ‘It was your name, countless centuries ago, at the time all this started.’
‘All what?’ snapped the man. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Why am I here in the past, where people cannot see or hear me? Am I dead, like you?’
Matilda shook her head. ‘No, you are not dead, Father. You have been brought here so you might right the terrible wrong from centuries ago. Each time that certain people are reborn in the same period, events repeat themselves, but so far not all the participants have been reborn together… until your time.’
‘My time?’
Matilda nodded. ‘You are Hrothgar, my father; you are Roger Silverthorne, again my father.’ She pointed to the gallows, where Obadiah’s body still swung obscenely, and to the figure of Luke, who still glowered at the three of them with ill-disguised contempt. ‘Luke is there too, in your time. You must prevent the past from repeating itself, or we are doomed to further centuries of purgatory, Father.’
‘Something bad happened, didn’t it?’ said Obadiah. ‘Something that has caused a great anger to be felt down through the centuries; an anger that cannot let go of this life. I am the innocent bystander in this lifetime; Matilda is the victim.’
‘Each time the past repeats itself, innocent blood is spilt, Father. It must be stopped. He must be stopped!’ Matilda jabbed her finger at Luke.
‘Who’s the innocent blood on my time?’
‘I do not know, Father.’
‘What’s different about my time? Why am I the one to stop it happening again?’
‘It falls to you, purely because you have been reborn in that time, Father. It is the legacy of the curse.’
‘What curse? Matilda, how can I stop it from happening all over again when I don’t know what started it all in the first place.’
Matilda smiled. ‘You must seek out Elen. She will show you everything, and then you will understand.’ She kissed his cheek sadly. ‘Goodbye, Father. It was lovely to meet you again, even briefly. I look forward to meeting you again in your time.’
She started to disappear.
‘Wait,’ called Roger desperately. ‘Who’s Elen? How do I find her?’
But Matilda was gone, and so was Obadiah, along with the rest of the crowd – including Luke.
The world was engulfed in blackness.
And then Roger woke up.
2002
Phil passed Rachel as she walked up the lane towards Snowfield House, and after manoeuvring the car onto the grass verge opposite the small stone bridge that led into the garden, he waited for her to catch up.
He smiled with pleasure as he noted her brisk pace. She could walk a marathon, he marvelled, and still come in ahead of many people half her age. Whatever was her secret, he wished it could be bottled and sold: they would make a fortune. It was almost, he mused mostly to himself – though he sensed Peter take note of his random thought – as if she had taken the elixir of life.
He knew that was highly improbable, though considering past events, not entirely impossible, and so he put it down to good genes, healthy diet, fresh air, and a lifetime of not-over-exerted exercise.
Rachel approached him with a smile, just as the first spots of yet more rain began to fall from the sky, though the few clouds indicated it would remain a mere light shower and not transform into a horrendous downpour.
‘Good morning, Phil,’ Rachel said, once she felt she was within earshot without the necessity to raise her voice.
One thing she found particularly loathsome was people who raised their voices in the tranquillity of the countryside. Such people, she had found, were usually city dwellers who owned weekend homes in the country and who found it necessary to behave as though they were still in the city. Country living required a certain peaceful decorum that most weekend visitors seemed to lack. While most people longed for the weekend to drag on endlessly, Rachel always longed for the Monday morning, when normality descended upon the quiet countryside once more as the city dwellers with their loud voices and louder music, and equally noisy, inappropriately flashy sports cars, returned to where they belonged: as far away from the countryside as possible.
‘Morning, Rachel. How’s things?’ Phil called cheerily.
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble.’
‘So, what brings you this way so early?’
Rachel glanced at her watch. ‘I’d hardly call it early, dear. It’s nearly ten o’clock.’
Phil chuckled. ‘Okay, I’ll rephrase that. To what do we owe this mid-morning visit?’
Rachel’s soft smile faltered slightly; her apprehension at what she wanted to ask of Phil prevented her from coming right out with it. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind recently, what with one thing and another. All this talk of Sawyl Gwilym has made me think too much of Gloria.’
Phil nodded. ‘She has been on all our minds recently, Rachel. Living in her old house, there are always constant reminders of her, but as you say, with all this talk of Sawyl Gwilym, it’s dragged the past right into focus again.’
‘I have come to have a few words with Peter Neville, if you’ll allow it?’ Rachel sighed, deciding honesty about her visit was the best policy.
Phil nodded. Her request was not entirely un
expected. He had thought it likely that Rachel might seek out Peter to ask if it was possible that Gloria might also be returning to them. Peter had revealed that there was little chance of such a thing happening. Gloria and James Trevayne had passed into the light; they had reached their ultimate destination following their long torturous journey, and both were happy and content in their afterlife.
They would not be returning to this life.
‘Peter will grant you an audience, but we must have a care, for Glory is home from school this morning.’
‘Oh, is the poor child unwell?’
‘No, Louise wants to get to the bottom of her constantly changing behaviour.’
Rachel chuckled. ‘Glory is a teenager, Phil. It’s in their very nature to torture and confuse us adults, especially us parents, with their mood swings and never ending changes in personality.’
‘That’s exactly what I said to Louise, but she’s got it into her head that Glory is possessed… by Sawyl Gwilym, she feared.’
‘That’s an unlikely eventuality, but an understandable concern. So, has Louise uncovered anything?’
Phil shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. She was going to try to get to the bottom of the mystery while I took the twins to school.’
‘Well, I have a more probable candidate for possession. That’s what I wanted to speak with Peter Neville about.’
Phil was unerringly accurate with his guess of to whom Rachel referred, and when she asked how he had known he had no ready answer. ‘It was a lucky guess.’
‘Phil, we need to get to see her, to see if Peter can tell whether she is hiding Sawyl’s spirit.’
The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2) Page 24
