Sleeper’s Castle

by Barbara Erskine

  Culpepper accompanied her on her tour and she found herself addressing him again. ‘Look, I don’t want you telling him I came out the moment he had gone, do you understand? We’ll work something out once I know which days he comes.’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh God, I hope he doesn’t come every day. That would be the pits!’

  Culpepper did not reply.

  Andy went indoors at last and, making herself some tea, sat at the kitchen table with a newspaper she had picked up in Hay that morning. Unexpectedly the aching loneliness that had overwhelmed her after Graham’s death began to envelop her again. It wasn’t being alone that she minded, it was being here without him. He would have loved the life here. He would have enjoyed every aspect of this house: the architecture, the history, the garden, even her discomfort with the presence of a gardener who, let’s face it, had intimidated her. He would have hooted with laughter and turned the whole episode into a huge joke.

  Putting the paper down, she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. Almost without realising it she found herself thinking again of Graham’s garden; their garden in Kew.

  Rhona Wilson woke with a start. She was still sitting in her chair by the window but it had grown dark outside and she was very cold. She sat there, her head back against the cushions, trying to work out why she was there. She had been tidying the room, going through the drawers of Graham’s desk. She was a tall woman, well built, attractive still. She had looked after herself: her carmine-dyed hair cut into elfin spikes, which, satisfactorily, made her look years younger than her actual age; her manicured nails always immaculate; her complexion carefully preserved from the sunlight; her muscles toned from an hour a day at the gym. Why then did she feel so utterly exhausted and old? Then she remembered. She had been methodically going through his desk, pulling out drawer after drawer, staring at the contents, slowly allowing her rage to build. She remembered this desk. It had been given to them by her aunt shortly after they had married. She had thought of it as a hideous old-fashioned blot on the landscape. She hated old furniture. She wanted to fill their house with modern designer items which she had envisaged choosing with Graham on weekend forays to Habitat or Heal’s or even New York. They did weekend forays all right. To places like Stow-on-the-Wold and Burford, and they returned to Kew with car boots full of yet more ghastly old stuff which he crooningly referred to as antiques.

  She had already had a man in from the auction house in Richmond. He had looked round at Graham’s stuff and almost visibly shuddered. ‘Brown furniture,’ he had said, as though it was contaminated with the plague. ‘Valuable once, but worth almost nothing these days, I’m afraid.’ She gave a grim smile, wishing Graham could have heard those words. How they would have annoyed and hurt him!

  Their first quarrel had been over furniture, and probably their last as well. He would stroke it with those long sensitive fingers of his as though it was alive, touching it in a way he never touched her. ‘Think where this has been,’ he would say. ‘Think, Rhona, how many generations of people have sat at this desk and written down their thoughts and their dreams.’ She shivered at the memory. Well, that desk was due for a whole lot of new memories. When the auctioneer sent in his valuations she would tell him to take it away with all the other furniture, whatever it was worth. They could burn it for all she cared, as long as she was left with a clean, empty house. She hadn’t had any choice with buying the house either. Graham had inherited this large Edwardian monstrosity from an old aunt. However she shouldn’t complain too much about that now. The estate agent had told her the house was worth well over two million pounds. She licked her lips.

  She had tipped the contents of the desk drawers out into a heap on the carpet and that was when she had grown so angry this afternoon. It was full of her stuff. Miranda’s. After all that, there was nothing of Graham’s in the desk to speak of. Her letters, her sketchbooks, her pencils. There were old lists, Christmas cards addressed to them both: Graham and Andy; Andy and Graham; Andy and G. Who the hell called him G? There was no trace of anything addressed to Graham and Rhona. Nothing of Rhona’s anywhere in the house. In her own mind she had blanked details of the day long ago when she had walked out on her husband. In her mind she had elided the years of absence into a monochrome period of loss and mourning for a marriage which had in reality gone sour soon after it had begun – and who was going to contradict her now, when she claimed to be the grieving widow, wronged and cheated by the bitch of a mistress?

  Since she had left, Graham had converted the top floor of the house into his office. It was a large room, with windows facing both directions, always full of light. In there, strangely, he did have modern furniture. A serviceable desk, bookshelves, a large table covered in neatly arranged piles of papers and proofs, large old books, too large for the shelves, full of hand-coloured plates of flowers and plants, which the auctioneer said might be worth a bit. He would need to bring in an expert to look at those, he had said. Books were not his speciality. She – Miranda – had a studio on the first floor. Again, a large room, with double aspect. She had taken most of her paints and stuff when she had left. Rhona and Michelle could see they were not worth anything on their own. The drawings and paintings for his book she had left behind and Rhona had told his publisher to come and take them away. A girl had come and collected them, tight-lipped and barely polite as she went methodically through the portfolios and shelves, separating each illustration with sheets of tissue as though they were something infinitely valuable and special. Rhona shuddered at the memory and glanced down at the heap of stuff on the floor. She planned to burn it all.

  With a groan she hauled herself up out of the chair and walked over to the window, raising her hands to draw the curtains against the dark. It was then that she froze. There was a bright half-moon in the sky and the garden was flooded with light. A figure was standing on the grass again, staring at the house. It was a woman; at first she couldn’t see her clearly. A tall, slim figure, a tangle of unkempt hair. How the hell had she got in? Rhona was sure she had bolted the side gate. Overwhelmed with anger, she turned and ran through to the dining room. Fumbling with the key she pulled open the French doors and ran out onto the veranda. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you? Get out!’ she screamed. Her whole body was suffused with rage. The doors swinging behind her, she leaned over the wrought-iron railings, her knuckles white as she gripped the icy metal and scanned the garden below her. There was no sign of anyone. The garden was empty, the grass, wet with dew, showed no footmarks in the moonlight.

  Andy pulled herself out of her reverie, startled. The telephone was ringing. She groped in her pocket for her mobile and then realised it was the landline.

  Sian had come up with a plan for a dinner party. ‘On Friday, if that suits you. I’m asking a few people who I think you would like.’

  Replacing the receiver, Andy smiled. The cat flap rattled and Pepper appeared. She was no longer alone.

  3

  That night Andy dreamed again.

  Catrin’s father once more seemed his usual self. The storm had cleared away, the day was bright and he walked across the hills, swathed in his heavy cloak, leaning on his staff, returning to write and eat with a new calm.

  When Catrin went into his study later there was no sign of his anguished struggles on the page. He had been as good as his word. She had found the ashes of the parchment in the hearth.

  Now he was full of plans and he distracted her from her worries with reminders that time was growing short. In May they would be departing on their annual progress through the border counties betwixt and between England and Wales to visit his various patrons, and they needed to plan their route.

  Usually they left on or around the Feast of St Glywys, relishing the lovely May weather, riding sometimes a few miles a day, other times staying a week or more in one place, but this year there was a problem from the start. Roger Miller would not go with them. The son of Dafydd’s former steward had for the last few years accompanied them
, leading their pack mule and acting as escort as they traversed the wild, often dangerous and inhospitable roads and trackways between the towns and villages and lonely manors and castles on their route. Since his father’s dismissal it seemed he was no longer available and for several weeks Dafydd pondered the situation. He could not abandon their trip, that was out of the question, and he was growing increasingly worried and irritated until Joan made a tentative suggestion. Her younger brother Edmund could accompany them.

  A few months before, it seemed, Edmund’s wife of only a year had died in childbirth, as had their little son. His father-in-law had made it clear that with three sons of his own there was no longer a place for Edmund under his roof; another pair of hands to help was the last thing he needed, and an extra mouth to feed was an unnecessary burden. With daughter and grandson gone and no ties to hold them together, sadly but firmly he had sent Edmund home to Hardwicke.

  It would do him good, Joan said with a combination of sisterly bossiness and devotion, to spend the summer far away; the money he earned would be invaluable as their father had told him there would not be a long-term future for him at Hardwicke either. The farm could not support two sons indefinitely. The elder son, Richard, and his wife were anxious for Edmund to go away and decide on a future career. The tour up the border March as Dafydd and Catrin’s escort would give him the perfect opportunity to escape family pressures for a few months.

  Dafydd and Catrin had known Edmund since he was a boy – he was the same age as Catrin, both of them two years younger than Joan. They hadn’t seen him since his short-lived marriage, and the idea seemed sound. He was fit and strong, always an advantage in a bodyguard, and he was well mannered. He would do. Catrin had never particularly liked him, but she shared her father’s opinion that he was trustworthy. And it was not as though they had any choice. There was no one else who would be able to abandon their work to travel around for the next five months.

  The day of their departure was not as pleasant as they had hoped. Thick cloud had descended over the mountains and a soft rain was falling as Catrin and her father mounted, she on her hill pony, he on his old Welsh cob, and rode away from the house to begin the long journey northwards. Edmund strode behind them, a staff in his hand, his hunting bow on his back, a sword and dagger at his waist, leading the pack mule. Joan and Betsi had promised yet again to tend Catrin’s herbs and Joan had unbent enough to hug her brother as she bade him farewell.

  Their first planned stop was Painscastle. They passed outside the town walls of Hay, carefully forded the broad River Wye, rode past Clyro Castle and on up the steep wooded track towards the high wild hills and moorland of The Begwyns.

  The wind was cold, whispering through the bracken and heather. Once or twice the mist lifted, showing distant hazy views towards the Black Mountains and the distant Beacons, then it drifted back, enclosing them once more.

  It was midday when Dafydd’s cob stumbled and nearly fell. The horse’s hoof had slipped on the stones of the downward track towards Painscastle and almost at once it was obvious that the animal couldn’t go on. Climbing stiffly from the saddle, Dafydd stared at it in helpless frustration. They were miles from anywhere. The wet mist clung to their hair and faces; they could see no more than a few yards ahead.

  As Edmund bent to run his hands down the cob’s leg Dafydd eyed the young man critically. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ he asked brusquely.

  Edmund glanced up at him from under his cap. It was still raining. ‘Aye, Master Dafydd. It’s only a sprain but she can’t carry you further for a day or so.’

  On her own pony Catrin shivered violently. She glanced around, trying to see through the mist. It was only the cloud, lying low over the higher ground, but it was cold and it was wet, penetrating her cloak, settling on her hood, dripping from the loose strands of hair which had escaped her coif. She transferred her gaze to Edmund, watching his hands run up and down the mare’s leg. The animal nuzzled him. She could hear him crooning gently in his throat to soothe it, his long strong fingers almost coaxing the heat from the swollen pastern joint. She shivered and looked away. For a moment, just a moment, she had imagined how those hands would feel on her own body. The thought infuriated her. ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ Her voice was sharper than she intended.

  He glanced up. He was a handsome enough young man, tall, broad-shouldered, his weathered face still marked with the ravages of grief. It was, after all, barely four months since his wife and child had died, leaving him bereft. He gave Catrin a rueful smile. His eyes were hazel, their expression gentle as he turned his attention back to the horse. ‘We can’t do anything. She needs a day’s rest. How far are we from our destination?’ He had been employed as an escort, not a guide.

  It was Dafydd who replied. ‘A mile or so, no more.’

  ‘Then I suggest we transfer your saddle to the mule, Master Dafydd, and you can ride him,’ Edmund said calmly. ‘I will put the panniers on the cob here. She can manage that easily and I will lead her.’

  Catrin was watching the horse rub her head up and down his shoulder. She seemed to have complete faith in him even if, judging by his face, her father didn’t. They had no option though. Dafydd stood beside his daughter’s pony and watched as Edmund deftly lifted the saddle from the injured animal and replaced it with the panniers containing their worldly goods. He put the saddle on the mule, who tossed his head in irritation but did not object further when Edmund offered his knee for Dafydd’s foot and boosted him onto the saddle.

  Catrin glanced round as the men fussed with stirrups and harness. There could be an army of footpads out there in the mist; Elfael was famous for its highwaymen, its outlaws. She shuddered.

  Edmund sensed her unease. As he settled the other two horses he glanced across at her. ‘We are safe here,’ he said. ‘I don’t sense danger and nor do the animals.’

  She felt herself frowning at him. ‘And can you talk to the animals then, to know that?’

  He gave a cheery grin. ‘In a way. I understand them and they understand me. Don’t be afraid. We are safe here and your father says we are not too far from our goal.’

  She scowled.

  She had no faith in her father’s estimate of where they were any more than in anything else he had said about this trip. How could he know which part of the path they were on when the mist enfolded them like a shroud? She was tempted to try to command the mist to lift. Efa had taught her well. The magic worked. Usually. But the woman had warned her never to do it in front of others and Catrin was nervous of ever letting her father see. She knew instinctively he would be angry. She picked up her reins reluctantly.

  Edmund moved back to the injured mare and quietly coaxed her into a walk. Dafydd urged the mule on behind him and Catrin had no choice but to move into line.

  She gave another glance round, still shivering. The mist was white and cold and opaque; there was no sign of life out there, at least for the moment. Even as the thought crossed her mind a wild scream echoed towards them out of the fog. Catrin gasped with fear. The horeses stopped, their ears back, staring round. Edmund soothed the injured cob and glanced back. He caught Catrin’s eye and smiled. ‘Only the cry of an eagle,’ he said.

  Andy woke with a start, her heart thundering under her ribs. She lay staring at the window. She had left the curtains open and she could see the moonlight shining on the leaves of the climbing rose on the wall outside. The room was silent. She couldn’t even hear the brook now, but that unearthly shriek had shaken her awake from a strange, otherworldly dream. She tried to grasp at it, bring it back, but as she woke she sensed it sliding away out of reach. Whatever it was, it had gone and part of her was relieved. It had left her feeling unsettled. Then she heard it again. The lonely eagle’s eldritch cry in her dream was nothing more than the husky scream of a barn owl.

  4

  ‘Had you never wondered why it was called Sleeper’s Castle?’

  Sian’s supper party was going well. Andy looked round
the table in contentment as her hostess put a steaming dish before them. The question had been asked by Roy Pascoe, who was sitting next to her at the scrubbed pine table in Sian’s kitchen. He and his wife Ella lived several miles away, apparently, and ran a history bookshop in Hay. He was a gentle, intense man of middle height, his hair thinning, his round spectacles reflecting the light from the candle in the centre of the table. His wife had a slight build; she gave the impression of being overwhelmed by her long linen skirt and blue sweater offset by a heavy agate necklace.

  ‘I am sure Sue must have told me,’ Andy replied as Sian passed round plates of spicy casseroled lamb. Ella laughed. ‘Wrong answer, Andy. What you should have said was, “No, Roy, I’ve no idea, do tell me!”’