Secret Of The Manor (22 page)

Feeling there was only one unexplored avenue left open to them, the men delved into the area of ancestral lineage. They managed to trace both male and female lines back another two hundred years before the naming conventions made the search too difficult to continue. Generations of siblings seemed to have the same names, and in those days surnames were not popular, further narrowing means of identification.

With James at his side and some skilful negotiations, the Cheltenham Library granted the men permission to spend time in the vaults, provided they observed appropriate precautions to avoid damaging the ancient documents. James was focused elsewhere while Warren wandered around the carefully preserved books looking for inspiration. Eventually, beneath a pile of scrolls, he found a wooden box with an unlocked latch. Opening the box, Warren found four volumes with only dates written on the outside. One by one, he took the tomes to the desk in the middle of the room. The earliest was dated 1450, the latest 1600.

Warren picked up the book dated 1500 and, with cotton-gloved hands, carefully opened the outer leather-bound cover. His heart pumped harder and harder. Some pages had more information on than others. Essentially, they were crib sheets of jousts in the area. It was obvious someone had done a lot of research to compile the data. Some of the entries read similar to Henry VIII’s line of wives. When it came to the fate of the contestants, instead of divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived, it read injured, died, survived; survived, injured, died.

Warren’s reading sped up. He scanned the contents of one page after another, and with each turn of delicate history, his hands shook. More than once he wiped his brow as he read.

Then, there it was: the Walmsley coat of arms. Only the date was far too late for what he was looking for. Another was closer. Still, nothing significant leaped off the page. One more turn and Warren had to sit, stunned by what glared at him from the page. It was possible he was wrong, but his gut told him he’d found the man he wasn’t consciously looking for. The family crest of a feather proved he rode for Lord Walmsley. The Purple Knight, Sir Edmund of Sax. The man Nicholas loved.

Excited, Warren made his notes, keeping a careful eye on the timeline and other names that appeared. A few pages later he found another entry for the Purple Knight. By the end of his reading, Warren had a list of dates when Sir Edmund jousted and against whom. Against the last entry for Sir Edmund of Sax, it read, died. His opponent was the Black Knight, Sir Camrin of Dane. The date, a few years after Nicholas’ death.

For the first time since Alex’s change, Warren and James felt they had something to celebrate. The discovery wasn’t so much a case of, “We’ve found something to break the curse,” but rather adding a missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle, no matter its significance. It was small progress in a line of non-movement. That night, the men toasted the brave rider of Ebony Air. Partway down the road to inebriation, James shouted out, “Oh my God. Lady Walmsley, Nicholas’ mother, made an entry about Sir Edmund. At the time, I thought it was a family friend she was writing about and took little notice. It’s in one of my books at the cottage.”

His declaration brought an abrupt halt to further alcohol, and James staggered back to the main house. The following day, Sunday, James called to tell Warren that, upon his death, Sir Edmund of Sax was returned to his family but the Walmsleys kept his horse. Despite many offers, Milady would not part with the steed.

Warren couldn’t help thinking the information was a letdown. Since neither man had found a town called Sax in mediaeval times, in all likelihood the Purple Knight hailed from abroad.

Warren visited Nicholas many times, as well as Alex. He spoke to both, venting his frustration over the dead ends and getting antsy over what could happen, and when. At the mention of Sir Edmund, Nicholas sank to his knees, disappeared, and wasn’t seen again for a while. Warren identified with Nicholas’ reaction. Many times, he felt like doing the same over Alex. Both shed tears for ones they loved but couldn’t be with.

Warren felt like he was playing a waiting game. And although he was a patient man, his tolerance was wearing thin. Was he going to have to wait until the same night as last year for the joust? He wasn’t sure he could continue that long. Was he going to have to go out every night on Argo in the hope something might happen? Was there any way he could influence it? When out, would he know when something was going to happen, or was it pot luck? Would he be the only one who knew, as and when things did happen? Like his life in the past, when it came to the crunch... would he be alone?

SURROUNDED BY history, and effectively living it, Warren wondered what his place in the greater scheme of things would be. Would he be a blip on the landscape like other champions before him? Succeed or fail, would his efforts be swept under the carpet by Lord Oliver Walmsley, along with the curse—forgotten for eternity, once the issue was dealt with?

Regardless of what the lord did, the family’s part in Warren’s existence was enormous. If nothing else, they brought Alex into his life, who in such a short time had given Warren the companionship and love he’d craved for eons. Alex, whose fate, one way or another, was also bound to the outcome of the joust.

In his time of reflection, something from Nicholas’ writings stuck in Warren’s mind.

“
My knight, my beautiful knight, the light in my life, rides for me tonight on the brave Ebony Air. The arena may roar for him, but he wears my mark on his hip.”

No matter where he went, Warren wanted something that would stay with him. The arena might not see him, Warren Blake, as the one fighting, but he was damned if he was going to fight for his life with everything on their terms. Warren knew he wouldn’t be able to wear Alex’s physical mark on his hip—even knowing who Salem really was, dropping his trousers so a swan could take a bite seemed odd. Besides, he wanted to wear the human Alex’s mark, like Sir Edmund of Sax wore Nicholas’. He could make sure he’d wear something that represented Alex.

With James’ blessing, he had tattooed on his hip the Walmsley coat of arms, surrounded by a garland of swan feathers. Only Warren asked for one small alteration. He requested the feathers be rainbow in colour. When he showed the tattoo to Alex, it wasn’t healed, but his swan’s reaction was visible. He flapped his wings so hard it would have looked to outsiders as though Warren was being attacked.

Spring came and went. Warren was in his final twelve months at A-Genet, and the search for his successor was under way. His contract was sorted, and his will was up to date. Everything went to Carl, to distribute as he saw fit, with two provisos. One, Carl and Eileen should use half to do whatever they’d dreamed of in life. And two, should any of Warren’s relatives come out of the woodwork, Carl had express instructions to tell them to go to hell, adding in as much colourful language as he wished.

With each passing day, Warren wondered what else he could do. He desperately wanted to be with Alex, and every time he saw his swan, he felt lucky that he was still recognised. The more time slipped by, the more Alex lost his human self to Salem and ran on instinct. Warren would often see him floating with his head tucked back into his feathers or hiding in a corner of his pond.

Warren thought about whiling away the hours watching movies, but they didn’t get him what he wanted. He tried training more, but he’d reached a plateau and was frustrated at being unable to achieve a higher level. The research was annoying, too. He was discovering wonderful facts about mediaeval history, yet all inroads to solving the mystery had dried up. Warren felt as though they were all treading water.

Around him, bluebells bloomed and returned to the earth. The leaves on the trees hid Warren, his team, and their activities from the outside world. And the only time Warren vaguely felt part of society was at work. There, the daily routine continued. Coffee, numbers, meetings, revisions, and more meetings before facts and figures filled his screen once more.

Alex frequented his dreams and, just like before, Warren often saw two sets of eyes in his sleep. All were weary.

The image that had once moved him from his train window was becoming more difficult to see as trees blocked his view. Then, one Wednesday in June, Warren could have sworn he saw Nicholas from his carriage. He wanted to pull the cord and get off, but by the time he gathered his wits he was well on his way to Cheltenham.

When he arrived at his desk, Warren immediately pulled up his calendar and checked his appointments. He couldn’t slope off early as he had a meeting with some people from Defence in the afternoon. That’s when he noticed the date: summer solstice. Every fibre in Warren told him the joust would happen soon. If it happened on the solstice itself, Warren knew every wannabe and supporter of witchcraft... including any kinky people who wanted to dance around some flames naked... would be out.

During his meeting’s afternoon break, Warren turned on his phone to find he had several missed calls from James and two from Carl. He excused himself and headed for his office. He’d just closed the door, flipped the lock, and unplugged his intercom when his mobile rang again. It was James.

Warren dispensed with niceties and answered with, “What’s happened?”

“Carol’s escaped.”

“What?” Warren sank into his chair, stunned.

James seemed all business, though Warren could hear the tremor in his voice. The man was at the end of his tether. “She was being held at a vicarage in south London, and the pastor dealing with her met with an accident. They found him dead this morning. Apparently there are no outward signs of a struggle or injury. The police are involved, but the church hasn’t released any information about Carol to anyone other than Father.”

Warren wrung his hair with his fingers. “She’s on her way here, isn’t she?” He didn’t wait for an answer. It was pretty obvious. “Nicholas must have known something. I saw him from my train carriage this morning.”

James was thinking the same as Warren. “Either that or the joust is happening tonight.”

“Agreed.” Warren didn’t know what made him say it, but the next words out of his mouth surprised even him. “Somehow, get into your crypt and remove the remains of the first generations of lords and ladies of the manor.”

James’ shocked voice raised several notches. “Why?”

“Because all of this stems from that era, and I think Carol could go back to the source to create something nasty. Dig up Nicholas, too. Get a truck. Better still, Carl will have a horse trailer. It’ll look less out of place on the roads by us. And get them somewhere safe. She’ll probably go to the manor first, to spy on the place. If necessary, get them to my place. It has the latest security. I’ll meet you and let you in. Whatever you do, make sure you are protected. And if Carol turns up, shoot the bitch if you have to. She’s just killed one man; another won’t make a difference to her now.”

“I’ve always been told not to disturb the bones of the dead,” James protested.

“Oh, Jesus, not this again! All I keep hearing is ‘We don’t disturb the bones of the dead’. Archaeologists do it all the time; why can’t we?” Warren had never been able to get an answer out of Carl. He’d asked several times since riding through the Saxon burial ground. All he ever got was a shake of the head.

“I don’t know,” James confessed. “I think it has to do with letting the dead lie in peace, and if they’re disturbed it’s like shaking a bear with a sore head awake. At least that’s what’s been passed to generations in these parts. It pisses their souls off, and the unexpected happens. The living don’t like the unexpected happening.”

“Well, it would be more of a rude awakening if Carol did it instead of us. What would you prefer, James: you to disturb the bones and keep them safe, or Carol use them in some powerful hocus-pocus?”

At that moment there was a knock on his office door. “Just do it. I gotta go; I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished here.”

WARREN STRAIGHTENED his hair and suit and headed back to the meeting. His usual assistant was there, but when he re-entered the room he brought with him another member from his team who was familiar with the contract, to ensure more than one person knew what was happening. He had to prepare for the just-in-case scenario. The one that included him not being able to complete negotiations.

His team was excellent. Warren let them field and take more of the questions than usual. The meeting wasn’t a final negotiation. It was more of a touch-base one. Nevertheless, Warren moved things along and didn’t allow anyone to get sidetracked. The moment it was over, Warren made nice with his visitors and then almost ran to his train.

En route he put his earpiece in and called James. If he’d done as instructed, the only man he could get to help him was Carl. If that was the case, Warren hoped James hadn’t let Carl do much of the work. After a few rings a breathless James answered. His first words relaxed Warren. “Jesus, the old man’s a slave driver.”

“Your old man or mine?”

“Yours. Mine’s not home. He’s dashed inventive.”

In the background, Warren heard Carl. “As you get older, a man needs brain, not brawn. And there’s not time for pretty.”

Apparently Carl had turned up at the church not with a horse trailer but with a tractor and trailer. In the trailer, there was a mini digger and the DIY man’s special winch, which was capable of carrying half a ton. Carl used the items around the stables to build cross-country fences and deal with ditches.

Warren had to watch what he was saying, as there were others in the carriage. “I take it he had no problem with disturbing things, then?”

James relayed the question to Carl, who hollered back, “Everything’s gone to shit and a maniac’s on her way. You can argue who’s right or wrong later.”

After smiling at the images in his head, Warren became all business. “How many packages do you have?”

“Seven, including Nicholas.”

“Okay, then. I’ll go collect the horse trailer and come straight to you.”