Nachtstürm Castle (9 page)

Was this young girl some ghost? Or perhaps the very spirit of Catherine herself, born from some dark god’s brow to walk in human form? Was this girl indeed Catherine, or some dream, figment, scrap of fancy – some illusion, frighteningly real? Did our heroine watch because she could not help watching with eyes this girl had borrowed? Did she see the creations of her own mind as she once had done in the Abbey? Did she come because her other self came, felt because her other self did so, wept on her pillow nights until Henry held her in his arms and calmed her to sleep again? Or was
she
the ghost – this proper English girl? Was her marriage the dream – Henry but a fiction? No – this was too terrible to contemplate.

But a mystery lay unresolved, and as Henry – real, strong, warm, musk–scented Henry – searched diligently in musty chambers for Theseus’ clue, so Catherine – charmingly wrought by nature and by Providence, to counterpart her husband – sought answers in this way.

Several times she saw them in this garden, and although their meetings were not always as bitter as the one she had first encountered, yet there remained even in their tender speech the angry fire of youth and nationality, ready to be rekindled at the least spark or challenge. So during one rose to twilight evening, when the lovers sat shyly on the engraved bench exchanging kisses, Catherine was surprised when Will suddenly broke, glancing upwards in her direction. Too terrified to move, Catherine could only grip the concealing column more tightly, holding her breath as though to hide her shadow. But William’s eyes did not rest on our heroine, but moved upwards to the balcony above. Sculptured lips curved into a sneer that was reflected in his lover’s dark eyes as she too gazed upwards. And a single word spat from the young man’s mouth, cruel sounding and edged: “Edric.”

Catherine did not need to shift from where she stood. As clearly as though she could see through the girl’s eyes, she could envision the stooping form of the old man, shadowed brow rearing over his hawk nose, long fingers curled on the ancient bannister, hunched shoulders and careful dress giving him the demeanour of a bird about to swoop.

William did not stand, nor did the cruel lines about his mouth fade, but his whole body straightened and strained like a hawk held by jesses. He called to Edric in those harsh words, which despite any language could have only been a taunt, a challenge – and one that Edric did not respond to either by word or action. The girl whispered something in her fluted voice, murmuring against her beloved’s chest, but he did not heed her. Again he called in the language of cynicism, his tone the irreverent reed of battle, the lines edging about his eyes now. Still Edric would not answer. One last challenge, growled, echoed in the tendons of his throat and shoulders – one last plea from his beloved – and this time Edric answered with the click and shuffle of ageing shoes across the ancient stone.

The thunder rolled in the servant’s wake, and this time Will’s beloved prevailed upon him to find shelter beneath the porticoes – perilously close to where Catherine hid. They were not there long, and parted separately – Will to the castle, and the girl back to the garden and the far low gate to the town below – but as the girlish mirror passed, her simple skirts touching on the edge of Catherine’s shadow, she hesitated – dark eyes flitting about the corridor – and whispered something to herself, before fleeing from one she regarded as mysterious as she was herself regarded.

When Catherine returned to their room, thoroughly bewildered from what she had witnessed and beginning to wonder if perhaps they had stumbled into a novel after all, she instead happened upon a scene equally bewildering as the torrent of passions she had just encountered – namely the utter disarray of their apartment. Two chairs had been overturned and a third bereft of its leg which lay in several splintered pieces at the far end of the room, surrounded by little chips of stone and mortar. One of the windows stood open and bare, the velvet drapes lying drenched on the floor – while the rod lay battered and dented alongside the abused chair leg. The desk stood awry from its position, its drawers thoroughly disembowelled, the spilt ink running over the scattered paper resembling nothing so much as Lorentita’s crusted blood. Trunks and wardrobe hung open and empty and even the bed had not been left unviolated – as the stripped sheets and slashed mattress quickly attested.
 
In the midst of this inanimate mêlée stood Henry, pulling up his sleek boots.

“We have had visitors,” he said, looking up at his bride with a dangerous glance.

“Indeed!” Catherine answered, leaning against the lintel. Then, “My books!”

Henry caught her when she would have run across the room and likely tripped on some fallen object. She beat against his arms, but he only held her more tightly, repeating until she recovered herself enough to
listen
, that although the rooms gave every
appearance
of having been recently burgled, she would find upon closer inspection that, in fact, nothing had been stolen.

“Nothing stolen?” Catherine cried, now thoroughly bewildered.

“Nothing of
ours
stolen,” Henry amended.
 
“Although, the thief may have been looking for something that was not ours.”

“Like a will!
 
Or a document of marriage!
 
Was there one among the letters?”

For answer, Henry tapped his breast pocket where he had been keeping the packet safe these past several days as he worried out their contents.
 
One of the poems – in fact the one that Will had likely been copying over for his beloved – Henry had nearly translated into English for Catherine’s delight.
 
He only wanted to ask his man a few questions about the nuances of a phrase or two, since Colin had – true to Henry’s prediction – begun picking up foreign phrases like jewels.
 
Henry had more than once wondered whether Colin would be able to tear himself from such a lingually rich place as Nachtstürm, and it was as much for his man’s sake as for pleasing Catherine and puzzling out this mystery that Henry had been willing to stay.
 
But with
 
this latest outrage, perpetrated by he knew not whom nor for what end, he had determined to conclude their visit within the day.
 
Or possibly two days.
 
A week at the most.

“No will,” said he, “although that’s not surprising as there’s a rather public will in the library, stating that the old Baron claimed no progeny nor spouse, then naming Lord Branning as his heir.”

“But is it in the Baron’s hand?”
 
Catherine pressed.

“The signature.”

“Still,” Catherine objected, running her fingers over the spine of her
Udolpho
and lamenting that several of the pages had folded over when it had been tossed carelessly to the side.
 
“It might be a forgery.”

“I very much doubt that, love,” Henry said.
 
“However, the date is five years old; long before the old Baron believed his son survived.”

“Then there might be a second will!” said Catherine, very much warming to the subject.
 
“One that our burglar thought hidden in this room.
 
Henry, if we could find out where, we might prove William the true heir of Nachtstürm!”

“We might,” came his careful response.
 
“But we may as likely prove that Robert Wiltford is the Baron of Brandenburg after all.”

“No, I cannot believe that.
 
Why Henry, he doesn’t even
want
this place!”

“And can you blame him, Catherine?
 
When walls open and doppelgängers multiply and every unsafety is promised the fool who stays?
 
In truth, I hardly know why we have countenanced these horrors for so long.
 
I hope you do not hate me, Catherine, for bringing you to this place?
 
But if you like, we can be gone by morning.”
 
He gathered up his bride’s unresisting hands and held them close to his breast, saying, “I am so very, very sorry for having brought you here at all.
 
I hope you can forgive me; this is nothing like what I’d planned!”

Then Catherine did blanche, a hundred horrid suppositions running through her mind.
 
Still, she supposed with a very great gulp and a steadying embrace from her beloved, Henry’s happiness must also be considered.
 
He did love to play the hero.
 
And a hero, as she and Valancourt well knew, required obstacles.
 
This burglary was one of those.
 
Surely.

Except, a rather small and persistent part of her mind whispered, that even Henry would never stoop to endanger her
Udolpho
.

So much did the whirligig of Catherine’s fantastical brain twirl that she nearly missed when Henry – his own desire to protect his wife warring with his equal desire to put the mystery to rest – brushed his wife’s brow and eyelids with his mouth and muttered that he was going out and would not be back for dinner.

“Out!” Catherine exclaimed, looking around her. “Out – when – in this – Henry! You cannot be serious!”

“Never more so in my life,” said he, taking up his coat.
 
Then, “Except, of course, when I proposed to you.”

The compliment would not placate Catherine now, and she stomped her foot. “But
tonight
, Henry! When there is someone here of such a violent temper! When you yourself doubted whether we should stay!
 
When there is someone here who wishes us
very
ill! When it is
raining!
”

“Precisely. I may never have such an opportunity again.”

“Oh!” Catherine cried, throwing up her hands.

They were silent for a moment – as silent as one can be when he is checking his flintlock and she is kicking tables and wardrobes – until he said, “I could have Colin sit with you.”

Catherine sighed. “As you will, Henry. Where are you going?”

He hesitated, sure that his answer would cause another outcry – and not without reason. “To the graveyard, dearest.
 
Not very far.”

All praise must go to the distressed wife, now, who held her tongue and her tears and repeated to herself, silently, that undoubtedly since Henry had planned this whole affair, he had himself destroyed their room – after all nothing had been stolen and those things destroyed were of little consequence – and was now only teazing her, testing her to see how she would react. Well, Catherine would be an excellent wife and prove her sex the stronger.

Thus she herself held the door for him and raised her cheek for a kiss, saying that no, indeed, he needn’t bother Colin, and that she would seek out Betty for some dinner, and find Helga to straighten the room for his return. At this, Henry’s brows raised, but he said nothing.
 
Although he did wonder at his wife’s fortitude, feeling – not for the first time – that perhaps he had better collect his bride and man this very night rather than set out to find answers from the dead.
 
But she sped him on and her conviction strengthened his.
 
Neither spoke their thoughts, which was just as well, for had Catherine known what Henry had learnt that afternoon whilst she watched young Will and his paramour, not even the strongest imagination or protestation should have kept her from keeping Henry in Nachtstürm!

How quickly does the mind at peace adjust itself to even the most horrific of circumstances! What a piece of work is man who, in the midst of obvious peril, yet feels utter contentment due to his powers of imagination. What strength of character must we attribute to this silent organ – and what folly. For
that
which heartens the martyr to forgive his persecutors, and that which makes a common man believe there
is
no executioner, are not sprung from the same source.
 
For the first touches on the soul and its Creator, and the second on flawed conviction of the fancy – although the looker–on may not be able to discern the inward difference.