Secret Of The Manor (3 page)

Warren’s jaw dropped. He could hardly contain his excitement. The horse was a big, stocky Andalusian. The shavings had disappeared, leaving a shiny black coat and a mane that reached his shoulders. Carl had described him as a gelding, but the thickness of his neck and the way he puffed as the mare passed him proved his change in status from stallion was recent.

Warren took hold of his reins and checked the girth. It was a touch loose, so he tightened it a couple of holes, at which time the horse squeaked in protest and raised a hind leg. He received a sharp, low, “A-cha-tat-a,” from Warren and a tap to the belly in warning, and responded with a snort.

Given the horse’s feisty temperament and constant ear movements, Carl kept a steadying hand on his nose and another on the near rein as Warren mounted.

The moment Warren settled in the saddle, he knew this was the one. The gelding, for which Warren was already half-consciously searching for names, lurched forward at the squeeze of his leg. The power he felt beneath him was intoxicating. In his time, Warren had sat on many horses. Some were like riding a scooter: perfectly fine but with no real oomph. The Andalusian was the complete opposite.

They walked around for a few laps to settle and loosen up. Trot was akin to adding coal to a furnace, and the animal steamed forward. Dressage manoeuvres needed some work, but eventually he made a good shape and settled into his task. Canter approximated what Warren imagined it would be like riding Pegasus: smooth, powerful, and flying on a cloud. And when he jumped his first small fence, the animal took off six feet before it and landed six feet the other side, then tried to round the approaching corner at speed. He would have done it, too, had it not been for Warren’s experienced reflexes slowing him. Though, as the height of the fences increased, the black bombshell checked his paces and concentrated more.

As Warren slowed to walk and eventually halt, Carl didn’t even bother to ask the regular questions; the puff of Warren’s chest and the pure joy on his face said it all. Carl smiled. “What you gonna call him?”

Warren dismounted and stroked the gelding’s nose. “Argo.”

ONCE WARREN had Argo, the pull of the church became even stronger. Strong enough that, even in sleep, Warren dreamed about what lay beyond his view from the train carriage. He dreamed of the flowers’ scent; the touch of the stone and the trees. He never dreamed about people per se, but he did see eyes—memorable and haunting. He believed there were two different sets of eyes. In some dreams they were a vibrant blue, angular and edged with dark lashes. In others, the shape was similar, but the colour was more of a grey, but not a cold grey, they still held a hint of blue . One thing they had in common was their pleading quality. They’d disappear from his nights amid strange whispers, or by Warren waking with an urge to breathe deeper.

However, Warren led his life like his books: ninety-nine percent orderly. Though he was tempted to go for some long walks, on foot was not even close to being his favoured mode of travel. It wasn’t wise to go out alone on a horse you weren’t entirely familiar with, either. So during the autumn and winter months, Warren and Argo got to know each other using the facilities at Carl’s. On days when the weather wasn’t so typically British, Carl and Warren introduced Argo to the Cotswold countryside. Blasts across the open fields were exhilarating, and Argo was respectfully quiet while walking through the Saxon burial ground.

Through it all, the little church was never far from Warren’s thoughts. Given his friendship with Carl, the logical thing to do would have been to talk to him about the place, as the man seemed to know everything about the area... but, when it came to the church, Warren felt like a little boy with a secret he didn’t want to reveal. He wanted to find out what he could by himself. So he lost himself in research. Ordnance Survey maps detailing public paths and bridleways littered his dining table. Google Earth was another source of information. He followed the train line until he saw a cross. Unfortunately, using the “What’s this” feature only brought up the answer “Church”. At least it didn’t say cottage, so it was still a public building. When he homed in on the small place, there was a graveyard surrounding it.
Definitely a place of worship, or one sick puppy of a person.

By Christmas, Warren had memorised maps of the fields, walkways, and bridle paths in his immediate area.

In the local library he found more on the object of his obsession. When researching Walmsley Hackett, he discovered the church, along with older parts of the close-by manor house, dated back to the fifteenth century.

Warren had always struggled to comprehend why the century number related to the hundred years preceding it. He’d messed up many history assignments referring to Elizabeth I as becoming queen in the fifteenth century instead of the sixteenth. He remembered his tutor writing on his homework, “1558 is in the sixteenth century.” He still had to remind himself that the fifteenth century referred to the years 1401 to 1499.

Information on the era as a whole wasn’t without its errors, and personal accounts of the time were tainted by points of view. Historically, it was a period of transition. The age saw the end of the royal households of Lancaster and York and the rise of the Tudors. Recalling more of those history classes, he remembered Robin Hood was thought to have lived two centuries earlier, and the Gunpowder Plot wasn’t even a spark on the horizon.

It was a time when the lord of the manor had absolute power in his area. The only persons who overruled him were royalty. When honoured by a visitor of ultimate blue blood, nothing was too much trouble for the host. Wildlife was theirs to hunt, and
anyone
on the land was available to satisfy in the royal bedchamber.

Though the manor had many masters through the ages, it was an easy line of ancestry to follow. After all, Walmsley wasn’t an ordinary name. The first lord of the manor on record was circa 1405, and, at one time, the estate was vast. Over the years, lands had been sold off, of which Warren’s field was the latest.

WITH SPRING in full swing, Warren headed out early one morning in search of the church. Eventually he found the route that took him towards the rail track. The path didn’t edge the lines for long, but it gave Warren the focal point he needed. He and Argo made their way through the trees that separated them from the trains. Argo wasn’t bombproof, but he trusted his master enough not to flee at the clickety-clack of the joints in the rails as the carriages departed the local station—though he still became jumpy and snorted his objection to being subjected to such trauma.

Finally, the pair tracked away from the rail line and up an overgrown path. The surrounding trees were old. Gnarled, time-ridden branches reached overhead as if ready to grab anyone who threatened the eternally sleeping populace in the graveyard beyond. The shelter they provided blocked out most of the sun, and the breeze forced its way through the branches in a hiss of distress. Warren felt as though he was being watched as he approached the arched gateway, but curiosity spurred him on.

Beyond the dark-stained timbers stood the church that dominated his dreams. It was as mysterious close-up as it was from afar. Warren wasn’t sure if he was enchanted or creeped out. The quiet ambiance wasn’t as serene as that of the Saxon field. It was as if the thorned roses covering the building were protecting something more than aged stone. There were a few cracked roof slates, and the walls were beginning to crumble. Despite his pumping heart, the draw to breach the perimeter was as strong as ever.

Warren dismounted, led Argo into the area, and secured him to the low branch of an old beech. The gelding shuffled about until he had his master in his sights before settling to nibble on a particularly luscious patch of grass.

While Argo occupied himself, Warren soaked up his surroundings like he was on another planet, one slow step at a time, entranced by the scene. The church windows had bars over them, but he could still see the stained glass. The colour of some windows, faded like yellowing pages of an old book, suggested they were much older than their brighter, more flamboyant companions. The older ones depicted scenes from life in ancient England, while other windows showed Jesus on the cross or knights of the realm. Tentatively, Warren reached out and ran his fingers over the stonework. He smiled at the cold, hard feel of rock as the reality of his find sank in.

Overhead, there was housing for what were probably two twelve-inch bells. Warren looked at the tower and wished it could verbalise the stories of how, in its time, it had called people to worship, celebrated the joining of a happy couple, or notified God that one from his flock had departed his earthly confines. Unfortunately, only one small bell still hung, and that was greening from exposure to the elements.

Warren worked his way around the four walls of the building, which was at least half the size of his cottage. Peering through some of the windows, he was unsuccessful in avoiding thorns from the newly sprouting roses, and growled when he snagged his thumb on a barb. With the bleeding digit in his mouth, he turned to the church doors looming before him. Locked, preserved, solid old English oak barred his entrance to the inner sanctum.

Unable to venture inside, Warren turned his attention to the cemetery. Many of the gravestones bore worn inscriptions, which he could hardly read—half a name here and there. One read,
GWYN, MOTHER AND BELOVED WIFE.
Another,
FRANKLYN
, 1823. The only unworn part on one headstone was 17-something. Before that, dates and many names were visible but hardly decipherable. As for the headstones themselves, many were simple and traditional tablet markers while others were in the shapes of angels or stone coffins. Nothing was overly ornate.

Warren felt as though he’d stepped back in time. The years of history that lay on and in the ground made him light-headed. It was as if he could feel scenes from way back unfolding around him. He stood in the middle of the graveyard, aware of but not quite seeing images of old. Given his experiences with Carl, he wondered if breaks in the fabric of time were possible. Maybe some places were like ancient forms of cinematography, able to record life and have it on constant playback.

As he wandered about the area, he noticed a curtain of holly in a far corner. Curiosity flipped Warren’s insides as he made his way over. For all he knew, the plant sheltered nothing more than dead leaves and spiders, but an inner voice told him to go look. The prickly leaves scratched his hand as he drew the shroud away. In the shady depths, there was a headstone overgrown with brambles against the cemetery wall. Warren used a stick to move the vines away, only to find the stone plain. Its smooth face indicated there’d never been any writing on it, but the colour and bitten edges suggested it was timeworn. Warren couldn’t stop looking at it. He stood lost in thoughts of who the unacknowledged person in the ground could be.

A frustrated squeak from Argo brought Warren out of his daydreams. When he looked at his watch, he realised he’d been wandering for well over an hour. He mounted Argo and sent a promise to the stone in the corner: he would return soon. The duo turned their back on the cemetery and left its inhabitants behind.

The following week Warren visited the church again. He secured Argo in the same way he had previously and headed towards the unmarked grave, taking note of how the future blooms of the roses were budding. In the sunny area they were ahead of their growing cycle, and tips of red could be seen. Warren closed his eyes and imagined how sweet they’d smell in full flower.

In the corner, Warren tucked the bottom of his thick, waterproof jacket under him and settled next to the headstone. A variety of questions ran through his mind.

What happened to this person?

Why was he buried in such a way?

Who buried him?

Did he receive peace in death?

How did he die? Was it of old age, or something more sinister?

Warren leaned against the wall, placed a hand on the headstone, and voiced his queries. He knew he’d never get answers, but he felt better for asking. He found himself relatively comfortable on the ground. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the serenity of birdsong.

Images of times past flashed by. There were ladies whose hair was covered, wearing plain, full-length, single-coloured dresses with long sleeves. Gentlemen wore breeches and tunics, some intricately ornate. Footsteps echoed off wood and stone as people hurried along, carrying platters of food: peacock with splayed tail feathers arranged on the cooked bird in death as in life, a pig’s head decorated with herbs, and several sugar sculptures of castles surrounded by fruit. It was a feast fit for royalty.

Despite knowing the scenes were in his head, Warren felt as if he were in a dream where he was a ghostly presence and people walked through him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Warren’s dream body whipped around and looked up to catch two grey eyes staring straight at him from the crack of a doorway. Their angle, colour, and shape were familiar. Warren stared right back.

The eyes grew wide, and the door quickly closed.

Suddenly, pressure on Warren’s shoulder brought him back to the land of the living with a shriek.

“Sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. But I wondered if you were okay.”

Catching his breath, Warren followed the body from feet to head to find a middle-aged lady of comfortable build, wearing black trousers and a white blouse with large red poppies all over it. The lilt of her accent suggested she was born in the area.

Quickly rising to his feet, Warren mumbled his apologies while he made his way over to a fidgeting Argo.

The lady followed him. “It’s alright, my luv. You don’t have to go on my account. Oh, how silly of me, you must think I’m a batty old bird come to hassle you. My name’s Carol, and I’m the vicar here.”

Warren was still catching his bearings after his surprise awakening. But upon the mention of the word “vicar”, he focussed on her collar. Sure enough, there was the white band of the clergy. He realised his lack of manners and held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Vicar. I was lost in thought. I’m Warren, sorry for intruding.”