HartsLove

by K. M. Grant

  ‘Good,’ said Arthur, ‘because if you don’t have one, I’ll make one.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t any of you been listening?’ asked Arthur. He was quite calm. ‘This contract says quite specifically that the horse should be first past the post, and he wasn’t.’

  ‘Don’t be such a jobsworth,’ growled Skelton, snatching the contract back. ‘Everybody knows what this contract means. The other horse was disqualified. He didn’t count.’

  ‘Contracts mean what they say. That’s the nature of contracts,’ said Arthur.

  ‘That wasn’t the judge’s opinion.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you told him how The One won?’

  ‘I told him what he needed to know.’ Skelton’s voice was rising. ‘This place and the horse are mine. They’re mine. I paid the Derby entry fee. I paid for the transport. I paid for the oats.’ He wagged a finger at Charles. ‘I paid for the drink.’

  Daisy struggled to her feet. ‘You paid for Pa’s drink? You wicked, wicked man!’

  Skelton realised he had made a mistake. ‘You think he could live without drink? He couldn’t even tie a bootlace without a bottle of brandy. You’re beholden to me, you silly little girl, BEHOLDEN, do you understand?’

  Mrs Snipper interrupted. She had been counting out money. ‘There,’ she said. ‘It’s not quite as much as my first offer, but it’ll Cover Your Outlays.’

  ‘I’m not leaving! This place is mine! The One’s mine,’ shouted Skelton, lurching to his feet.

  ‘Not according to this contract,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m happy to fetch the judge, if you’d like. Perhaps two or three would be better. We could tell them about the drink, too.’

  Daisy was staring at the contract in horrified wonder. ‘That’s why you helped with the haunting when the Entwhistles were here. I was grateful. Grateful! How could I have been such a dupe?’

  ‘It wasn’t me who helped you. I didn’t help you at all!’

  ‘Liar! You were helping yourself!’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’

  Nobody believed him, and Arthur Rose had something more important on his mind. He looked at the date on the contract and took a guess. ‘The One’s knee,’ he said. ‘What do you know about that?’ He clenched his fists. ‘My God, man!’

  Skelton could take no more. That oaf, Sir Charles! That drunken oaf! Couldn’t even write a proper contract! He launched himself at Arthur, head lowered. ‘I’ll have you, you interfering bastard. You’ll regret making a fool of me.’ He caught Arthur above the eye. Arthur barely flinched. His fists were ready and they were keen. They fought with deadly intent, Arthur silently and Skelton with much swearing and cursing until Garth pitched in and Skelton was finally driven like a mad dog through the hall and into the courtyard. Daisy found her crutches tucked under the arms of the Furious Boy. She ran outside too, and it was she, who, having chosen her moment, delivered the final, terminating blow directly across Skelton’s right knee.

  28

  A very special light emanates from a place in which hope has triumphed over despair. At Hartslove, this light was not the glow from the windows of Lady de Granville’s reoccupied rooms in the north-west wing. Nor was it the light from the lantern that Daisy hung in the chestnut tree at the Resting Place. Nor was it the result of some grand cleaning and renovation of the castle. There was no cleaning or renovation. The Furious Boy’s arm was mended; a few leaks in the roof were fixed; the kitchen lift handle was oiled; the sold portraits and furniture that could be found were bought back, including Sir Thomas and the dining-room table. Otherwise, Hartslove remained just as it was, its gates rusty and its dust undisturbed. The new light that emanated was not a physical light: it was the light of a place whose pulse is strong again.

  Charles did not stop drinking at once. He had bad days, better days and good days. But the return of his wife and the success of The One had lit a touchpaper. When he drank, it was no longer the drinking of the desperate. Often, of an evening, having drunk nothing at all, he would go to the stables and gaze at the Red Horse of Hartslove, as the crowd of admirers that flowed up the drive had christened him, though Daisy never called him anything but The One. Often he found Garth at his shoulder.

  Garth never attempted to ride again. Riding was for Daisy, not for him. His fear was inexplicable. He never conquered it. The most difficult part was trying not to waste time convincing himself even now that if only he could find the right remedy, he would be able to leap fearlessly into the saddle. Accepting that this was never going to happen was hard. Occasionally, as he and Charles were leaving the stable yard, Garth would still spit, bang his heel three times and whisper, ‘Hartslove luck!’ This, though, was not some lingering fantasy about riding; this was to show his father that Garth never again wanted to be distant from him. And Charles always responded with a smile, though for many months, perhaps even a year, the smile was rather wan.

  Lady de Granville was soon busy with the bittersweet task of repairing her wedding dress for Rose to wear. Rose had not waited for Arthur to propose: she had taken her courage in both hands, walked him down to the Resting Place and proposed herself. He heard her out without interruption, then slowly and carefully outlined his concerns about the differences between them in birth and expectation. ‘You could have everything,’ he said in the end.

  ‘I already have everything,’ Rose said.

  ‘You belong here.’

  Rose stroked the chestnut tree. ‘This place is at the root of me,’ she said, ‘and the root’s so deep it can never be uprooted. But I don’t choose to live here, not like Daisy does, or Lily. I choose to carry Hartslove away with me and return to it from elsewhere. I don’t want to be free of it – not at all. It doesn’t weigh me down, though I once thought it did, with the Dead Girl and Father Nameless and all. But I want to be me as well as Rose de Granville. Do you see?’

  Arthur was not reassured. ‘What happens if you find you want to be Rose de Granville more than Rose Rose?’

  ‘Rose Rose,’ she said dreamily. ‘It’s a lovely name.’

  ‘It doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Oh, Arthur,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  ‘We’re done with doubt here. It’s all out of fashion.’ He tried to stay serious. With Rose skipping round the chestnut tree, it was impossible.

  The return of their mother and the saving of Hartslove helped Lily bear the imminent loss of Rose. She was also helped by Snipe’s renewed, though still secret, attentions. Her dove-cage was soon replaced by an aviary. A pair of swans appeared on the river. Two white kittens were left in a basket by her bedroom fire. This strange, one-sided courtship endured for decades, tacitly encouraged by Mrs Snipper and puzzled over but unquestioned by both Charles and Clara de Granville. Lily believed her suitor to be a ghost, and that pleased her. When she became a ghost herself they would meet, and that was enough.

  The twins were bridesmaids at Rose and Arthur’s wedding. Aunt Barbara came and stayed for weeks afterwards, helping Clara to take up domestic reins she had never fully grasped. Clover and Columbine disliked this arrangement, particularly when Aunt Barbara, disapproving of their passion for newspaper obituaries, suggested a governess. Yet all was well. The first governess lasted only a month, the next one a week, the third only a day. The One grew used to being woken at midnight, whitewashed and ridden around the courtyard by Daisy as Father Nameless tolled a bell. If the governess was particularly stubborn, Garth would perform backflips along the ruins or fold himself up until he had no head.

  The Dead Girl and Clara de Granville watched these antics from an upstairs window. Neither interfered. Both agreed that though Barbara understood many things, she never understood that Hartslove would teach the twins all they needed to know.

  All this time, over the wedding preparations and long after, Clara and Charles hovered about each other like two uncertain birds. At mealtimes, Clara sat in her old place under
her portrait and Charles hardly sat at all, picking up his fork, putting it down, walking swiftly to the fireplace, fiddling with the logs, then walking back and sitting, before doing the same all over again. The children watched him, and watched their mother, and watched their mother watching him. Both before her wedding, and when she visited afterwards, Rose took to nervously chattering, trying to make everything seem quite normal, and the others joined in to help her. When the dining-room candles were snuffled out, they all leaped up to relight them.

  One evening the candles did not go out, and much later that night, Clara found Charles between her and the Dead Girl as they observed The One on his ghostly, governess-frightening parade. After a while, the Dead Girl faded and Clara discovered she was leaning against Charles. He expected her to draw away when she realised what she was doing. She did not, and when he rested his chin in her hair she sighed. They heard the governess scream as The One galloped off in a white flourish. They heard her drag her suitcases across the floor. They smiled at each other when, night-time or not, Clover could be heard offering the services of the new carriage. They remained quietly together after the carriage drew up and drew away again. It was very late indeed by the time Charles walked his wife back to her room, and it was almost dawn when, instead of murmuring, ‘Goodnight,’ she drew him in and closed the door.

  At sunset on the anniversary of the Derby triumph, Daisy went to the stables. Her crutches were leaning against The One’s door. ‘Come,’ she said softly. The horse followed as she swung out of the yard, along the drive and over the grass to the Resting Place. Although everything else was still, shadows danced on the tombstones. The One scratched his neck against the chestnut tree and nibbled the buttercups that covered Gryffed’s grave. Daisy watched him for a bit, then dropped her crutches and lay face down on the flat stone. It was still warm from the day’s heat. Beneath it she imagined the wheel of Hartslove’s history turning. She rolled on to her back. In his own time, the horse ambled over and lowered his head, his forelock tickling Daisy’s face and his long blaze shining like painted moonlight. If Daisy had put up a hand, she could have felt the tiny scar on his snip. But she did not put up her hand. She put out both arms. It was a broad embrace, the broadest she could manage. It took in The One and all the previous The Ones. It took in everything that belonged to Hartslove, both what Daisy could see and what she could not. ‘Who’ll be here in a hundred years?’ she asked as the horse licked the stone beside her ear, curling his lip at the fuzziness of the lichen. The question was needless; Daisy already knew the answer. She rolled on to her stomach. In a hundred years, the castle would still be here, the ghosts of Hartslove still racing across the valley in a smoky tumult. The One hovered over her. ‘And our ghosts will be here too,’ she said, ‘yours and mine. Don’t you think, The One? We’ll be the ghosts of Hartslove.’ The One raised his head. He knew nothing about ghosts, but he did know about Daisy, and whatever she said, he agreed.

  If you liked Hartslove,

  turn the page for more thrilling titles

  by K.M. Grant

  Belle’s Song

  When Belle meets Luke, son of an alchemist and Scribe to the famous poet Chaucer, she is determined to travel with him to Canterbury on a pilgrimage. She hopes for a miracle: that her father will walk again.

  It is a time of unrest across the country, and the young King Richard II is just hanging on to his throne. A malign character on the pilgrimage suspects Chaucer of treason and slowly winds Belle into a political intrigue. At the same time, the impulsive Belle is drawn towards both Luke and Walter, the wealthy son of a knight. But Walter himself is guarding his own romantic secret.

  As the uprising against the king starts to gain pace and the web of intrigue around Belle and Chaucer tightens, Belle and her friends must risk everything to save their country and themselves . . .

  Blue Flame

  PART I OF THE PERFECT FIRE TRILOGY

  Chalus Chabrol, 1199. The Occitanian knights battle for their lives against Richard the Lionheart. They are guarding the Blue Flame under which all Occitanians must unite to resist invasion. But the knights cannot survive and so it falls to Parsifal, young son of the knight Bernard, to travel on alone and find the true keeper of the flame. Yet when Parsifal returns home, the Occitan is ablaze. Catholic Inquisitors and Cathar heretics, far from uniting, are fighting each other for the soul of the land and its people. To which sect does the Blue Flame belong?

  Parsifal’s path intertwines with that of Raimon, son of a Cathar weaver, and Yolanda, daughter of a Catholic count. They are falling in love. But in a time of hate, love is never left in peace. With family against family, north against south and Catholic against Cathar, Raimon must help Parsifal find the Blue Flame’s true meaning before the Occitan is destroyed.

  ‘She has woven such a gripping plot that I shall certainly be lining up to read book two. I hope she doesn’t keep us waiting too long’ Guardian

  White Heat

  PART II OF THE PERFECT FIRE TRILOGY

  Will Raimon’s and Yolanda’s love survive the ravages of a siege, her enforced betrothal to Raimon’s enemy and the growing divisions within their beloved Occitan?

  Raimon has escaped the pyre and carried the Blue Flame, the true spirit of the Occitan, to the mountains above Castelneuf. But there he is besieged by the Catholic Aimery and the Cathar White Wolf. In Paris, Yolanda, believing Raimon is dead, resists marriage to Sir Hugh, who is building a war train to topple Raimon and bring the flame and the Occitan under the rule of the French king . . .

  In a blazing finale, as Castelneuf burns, all sides are forced to reconsider what they are willing to sacrifice for the Occitan, for power and ultimately for love.

  ‘For all the book’s political and emotional complexity, the pace is breakneck . . . Volume three in this tricolore trilogy, Paradise Red, cannot appear too soon’ Financial Times

  Paradise Red

  PART III OF THE PERFECT FIRE TRILOGY

  As Yolanda’s lover Raimon and her brother Aimery set off to regain the flame and the heart of the Occitan, Hugh prepares to lay siege to the Cathar stronghold where the flame burns. Unbeknown to him, his wife Yolanda flees his castle into the freezing snow.

  What is Yolanda running from? What underhand game is Aimery about to bring into play? And will Raimon’s passion for the flame cause him to lose Yolanda and even himself?

  K. M. Grant’s spectacular novel weaves together the friendship, love and bitter rivalry of her wonderfully evoked characters in a finale to a superb trilogy of romance and adventure.

  ‘K.M. Grant provides a top-notch tale of star-crossed lovers, court intrigue, twisted religious hatreds and the mystical power of landscape’ Financial Times