Secret Of The Manor (23 page)

Within the hour, Warren was parked at the end of the carriage path and almost at the church. On approach, he heard Carl say to James, “Come on, you pansy-arsed ponce. I can lift more than that.”

“You try it then, you old codger.”

“Bloody fine-skinned nancy. No backbone.”

Warren was worried the men were arguing, but when he came in sight, beneath the black mud stains he could see grins on their faces.

“Good timing, Warren, me lad. We’re just about ready to load up.”

“Everything go okay?”

Carl scrunched his face. “Well, there’s some good news and some not-so-good news.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The good news is that all the coffins from the crypt are intact. Thank heavens for good old English oak and dry conditions.”

“And the bad news?”

“Nicholas’ coffin fell to pieces.” Warren looked around to see if he could spot the young man. There was nothing. There was only a hole where he once was. Even the cloak of holly was gone. “On the bright side, with some careful manoeuvring, we managed to get him out whole by slipping a board under him.”

“What did you use?”

James cut in. “Half the altar table.”

“Where is he now?”

“On the tractor.”

Warren looked at the caskets behind him and spotted the lone covered boy to the side. “Would you mind if I carried him to the horse trailer, and you very slowly bring the others?”

James placed a hand on Warren’s shoulder. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Together, James and Warren slid Nicholas’ sheltered form off the tractor and carefully walked him the distance to the other vehicle. Once safely inside, Warren lifted the tarpaulin and gazed upon the
actual
Nicholas. He was only a skeleton, but the view gave him a tangible quality. Warren couldn’t help feeling the bones had an aura about them. “I’m sorry this has had to happen, Nicholas. I hope you forgive me.” Then he recited the traditional Lord’s Prayer, first for Nicholas, then for each coffin as it rested on the horse trailer.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name.

Thy Kingdom come....”

Warren turned to James. “Are we going somewhere special, or to mine?”

“Yours, if you don’t mind. I’m not happy leaving my ancestors just anywhere on summer solstice.”

Warren nodded. “Okay. Throw a few clothes together, and I’ll see you there.”

AT THE cottage, Warren moved his beloved camper out of the barn and parked it out of sight behind it. He then reversed the horse trailer into the vacated space, closed everything up, and set the alarms.

Still in his work suit, which was mudded up, he moved Argo and his companion into their stables. There, he fed the animals and groomed Argo. “Be on the lookout, my boy, and get some sleep. I believe an unusual night lies ahead.”

Before the kettle finished boiling, James arrived, at which time Warren took the opportunity to shower and change into something more comfortable. When he entered his bedroom, he almost screamed, believing he had an intruder. No, not an intruder, an unexpected visitor: Nicholas.

The young man looked at the items around him with a mixture of confusion and awe. A smile graced his face when he spotted Warren regarding him, naked, bug-eyed and mouth agape. A raised eyebrow of appreciation appeared the farther down Warren’s body his eyes ventured. They hovered over Warren’s coat-of-arms tattoo.

Warren covered his manhood, which brought Nicholas’ attention back to his face. There was an abundance of questions Warren could have asked. He voiced only one. “Is it tonight?”

At that, Nicholas bowed his usual one-handed bow, then left the room through Warren. The sensation knocked Warren off his feet and into his dresser.

The clatter, coupled with a ghost exiting the cottage via the closed front door, had James running into Warren’s bedroom. The unexpected sight of Warren on the floor made James stutter in his stride before he helped Warren up. Warren tried to hide his discomfort, only to have James cuss at him. “You think I haven’t seen an unclothed man before? I’ve seen my brother plenty of times, and you haven’t got anything different to either of us.” James continued to help Warren onto the bed.

“He went straight through me,” Warren whispered, perplexed. “He’s never done that before.”

“I don’t have the answers, my friend. We disturbed the bones of the dead. Despite our good intentions, anything could happen.”

“I’m convinced we did the right thing. Maybe he doesn’t see it yet.” Warren’s thoughts were elsewhere, despite the words exiting his mouth. “He’s in my garage. He came into my house. He confirmed it’s tonight.”

James took a long breath. “Take that as a positive, Warren. It’s in his interest for the joust to happen.” As for Nicholas’ behaviour in the bedroom, James used Warren’s logic. “Think about it from his point of view. It’s the first time he’s been anywhere but the graveyard and joust in a few hundred years. He’s going to be unsure of his surroundings, and perhaps frightened. Maybe that’s why it’s not good to move the bones of the dead—it scares them?”

“Yeah.” Warren looked directly at James. “He went right through me. I felt him inside me.” Warren shivered. For the first time in Nicholas’ presence, Warren had felt cold. When Nicholas flew through him, Warren had experienced a sensation similar to someone in a hot room opening a door to a winter’s night.

“People do unexpected things when scared,” James said. “Crawl into bed and I’ll bring you something to eat in a while. Get some rest.”

Tightly wrapped in his duvet, Warren laid his head down and closed his eyes.

An hour or so later, he hadn’t done any sleeping, but at least he’d rested. In the meantime, his cottage had become camp central. He’d listened to James in the shower; heard Carl arrive, and the clank of cupboards, pots, and pans. The aromas that flowed into Warren’s room made his stomach rumble. He dressed and made his way to the kitchen.

On the hob was what Warren called quick stew. It was a meal of fresh chicken with tins of carrots, new potatoes, pasta, frozen peas, and sweet corn thrown in—delicious.

“It’s something Alex does for himself regularly,” James offered.

The three ate heartily, then sat in silence watching the overinflated lives of the people in the soap operas, lost in thoughts of the night ahead.

The clock chimed nine p.m. Sunset wasn’t far away.

Without a word, Warren disappeared to his room and returned ten minutes later in his riding gear. The three exchanged a look that conveyed their hopes, fears, and anticipation before they moved towards the door.

Outside, Warren was surprised to see Carl’s Land Rover with a horse box behind it. Carl’s horse was in the paddock and two sets of tack sat on the fence. “Well, ye didn’t think we’d sit here and let you go alone, did ye?” Carl huffed.

Warren grabbed Carl and James into a big hug. He wiped a tear from his face and headed to get Argo, closely followed by James, who retrieved Argo’s companion.

NO ONE spoke as they wound their way through manor lands.

Solstice revelry was in full swing. In one direction, Warren could see people dancing around a campfire, laughing and tripping. Their actions looked to have little to do with the summer solstice and more with an excuse to drink. In the other direction, there was a small group of women in long dresses swaying and chanting. The three men continued in relative silence.

A little farther on, a woman was capitulating to her man. Her vest top was around her neck while her companion actively examined her bosom. The snap of her partner’s hips and a bare bottom grinning to the tree tops suggested he was giving her a thorough internal, too. The couple was so intense in their activities that their moans and groans drowned out the passing riders’ snickers.

Deeper into manor land, all that could be heard was the breaking of a stick under a hoof and the rustle of dry leaves. The outline of bats on the wing could be seen against the moonlit sky, and the scratch of tiny feet on wood gave away the locations of small mammals.

Close by, an owl cooed and an answer returned from elsewhere in the woods.

Out of his pocket, Warren withdrew the silk favour Milady had given him and wrapped it around his wrist several times before securing it with a tight knot. They were getting close to the place where, last time, the mist hit him.

The three crossed a brook. The other side of a line of fir trees, the temperature of the air around them increased. There was no mist. Instead, it was like riding through a tropical forest. Warren’s breathing quickened at what he knew was ahead.

Warren heard behind him, “What’s happening?” and a clipped reply, “It’s started.”

The droplets of mist that previously clawed at his skin caressed it. Sweat ran down Warren’s neck. Some of the moisture was snatched up by the heat; the rest continued to his chest, where his heart was a steady, firm thump-thump. Warren thought of the cold sensation of Nicholas passing through him, and a tremor shook his insides.

Warren leaned into Argo. “Let’s take the battle to them.” He squeezed his legs and Argo responded by leaping into a canter.

Behind him he heard Carl cursing, and James sounding panicked. But at the end of the day, Warren didn’t want to endanger either of his friends. He hoped to disappear into the time warp of the joust, leaving them unable to gain entrance. He hoped the barrier of heat only affected him and that it wasn’t the magical portal to the past—the entrance ticket he suspected it to be. He deeply appreciated their intentions to accompany him, but he felt the battle had to be fought by him alone.

Around a tree and over a log they rode. Warren could hear the whispers of changes in the trees. He could feel his clothes morphing from coat to armour, and as they broke through the final barrier of leaves he heard the crowd roar and trumpets sound.

“All hail Argo the Great and new champion Sir Warren of Blake.”

As Argo reared and pawed the air, Warren noticed the design chiselled into his glove. It was the same as the tattoo on his hip. Something had changed. The question was, whose actions had changed it.

Moving towards the crowd, Warren took stock of his surroundings. Much was the same as he remembered, though there were differences. The long barrier down the centre of the clearing and the lances at each end hadn’t changed. However, Warren’s lances bore the same mark as his hip, rainbow and all.

The trodden tracks around the area were dry instead of muddy. Nevertheless, the smoke from the fires stung Warren’s eyes as it did before, and the smell of pine and wood invaded his nostrils. Having trained at night, Argo was not fearful of the flames and passed by them as though they weren’t there.

Onlookers still crammed behind fences, though their numbers seemed greater than before. The people varied. Subtle differences in their attire made Warren focus more. In some of the crowd, the simple lines of mediaeval dress were accompanied by puffed sleeves or shoulders. Laces criss-crossed a few bodices and some men had replaced leggings with trousers. Was it possible that more than one era was represented?

Argo wasn’t keen on people reaching out to him, and quickened his pace. Men and women with baskets of bread followed in his wake, throwing food to the unkempt crowd.

When Warren passed over the end of the arena, he saw a sight that made him falter. Silent, astride his sturdy destrier was the Black Knight, Sir Camrin of Dane. The man looked huge, a goliath by anyone’s measure. His helmet was cylindrical, yet square on top, which made him look like a chess piece. The metal was as black as his name, and chainmail continued from the lower edge of the plating down his body, masked by a blood-red breastplate. The slits in the visor for his eyes revealed a small amount of white and nothing more. No reflection, merely empty chasms of soulless dark.

Neither the knight nor his dark bay horse moved a limb. The only sign of life was the odd twitch of the horse’s tail. A horse whose muscular stature one could barely see under the black of the drapes covering him. The red crinet over his mane emphasised the arch of his neck, and a horn protruded from the centre of the rose that adorned the chamfron on his face. The horse’s eyes reflected the ruby rose that decorated his garments.

What had Warren’s heart faltering was the team flanking the Black Knight. To his right, dressed in a long, simple gown, was Carol, holding hands with her partner, dressed like a wealthy man of the time: the current lord of the manor, Oliver Walmsley.

Carl’s words, “The arse,” came to mind, followed by the stark comprehension that, unless Carol had used witchcraft to gain them entry, it was likely that Carl and James would arrive soon, too. They would both see Oliver’s betrayal. Warren’s heart went out to James, but he was glad Carl would be there for him.

A few more pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. Carol’s confidence. The way she’d been able to set up shop in the church. Oliver’s treatment of Alex, and overall lack of help. He played as concealed and deceptive a role as his witch partner. The way the man kissed Carol’s hand showed that he was one of her aces and proved he was there by choice.

What conspired to get mortal enemies to combine their efforts, Warren didn’t want to guess. All he needed to know was in front of him. At a minimum, the man’s role was to keep the curse going for another generation. Warren wondered if Oliver knew of James’ intention that the Walmsley line end with him.

Poor James and Alex. Warren knew the devastation they would feel at the knowledge of their father turning traitor.

Sir Warren of Blake, Champion, sat tall in his saddle and sent Oliver a deathly scowl that dimmed the smirk on Carol’s face. Oliver remained stoic. With a final derisive glance, Warren moved on.

He continued to the flamed wrought-iron dishes of the joust hosts. The canopied area was decorated with flags bearing the Walmsleys’ arms. He sought out Nicholas, who was in his place behind his mother.

Though Nicholas remained silent, he acknowledged Warren’s approach. Warren wanted to ask him questions about their encounter in his bedroom, but it was neither the time nor place.

As before, the lord and his court sat patiently, waiting for their champion. No others from different eras accompanied them, at least none like those that stood out amongst the commoners.