The Digger's Rest (27 page)

When she held all the cards she felt
satisfied and complete. Even when she was in bed with them, she
always felt more comfortable, more equal, and even more…powerful
when she was on top. Then when she got the feeling that they were
“letting” her have her way, rather than her taking it as her
original right, she dumped them, flat, and moved on. It’s what
drove her. It’s what made her feel like a woman; not some mealy
mouthed, simpering, prissy sort of woman, but a woman who was their
match, and then some.

More often than not, in the end, she felt
that she intimidated them, scared them even. But that wasn’t her
problem. They could either give her what she needed or be on their
bikes. But now at thirty-two years old, she had to admit to herself
that, because she was who she was and lived in the world that she
did, she’d never be happy like other women, and that made her
beyond angry; it made her…unlivable, bitter, and increasingly more
bitter since she’d come back to Devon from London.

London had been her last hope. London was a
cosmopolitan city of modern people, or so she thought.
Cosmopolitan, yes, but also full of men bent on their own
satisfaction, and much to her disgust, filled with rich American
men, drunk with a sense of their own global power trying to make
her their plaything. But they had the wrong girl, and after seven
years of having to fend them off, she had come back home, defeated
and resigned to her fate as one of those old village spinster women
who kept everything in their homes ‘just so.’

Mitchell Bramson was everything she despised
in men— rich and successful, confident and influential in his
circles and worst of all, he had to be so bloody…gorgeous. With his
long, dark brown hair, big gold earrings and those odd catlike
eyes, just the hint of artful tattoos peeking out from under his
rolled up shirt sleeves, it reached out and grabbed her—and she had
hated him on the spot. He was fearless in his approach to life,
commanding everything in his wake because he was so fearless, bold
and…in control.

She couldn’t stand the way he sauntered into
a room like he owned it; the way everyone around him seemed drawn
to him and fawned over him like he was some sort of Greek god
recently sent down from Mount Olympus. She knew his type the minute
she saw him from behind the kitchen door when he checked in, and it
made her blood…boil.

She told Malcolm that night that she
didn’t want anything to do with him, but they needed the money, his
stinking American money, for the inn. That made her even angrier,
and since there was nothing she could do about it, it made her feel
the thing she’d most dreaded all her life: powerless. Then when she
realized that he’d made her lose her cool, it made her feel even
more powerless, and she cried all the harder, kicking her feet
against the mattress like a spoiled child.
Bastard, bastard, BASTARD!

***

He heard horses’ hooves and a minstrel
playing a lute in the background, singing a lilting, mournful tune
about love denied.
Sean?
He
smelled the horses and the dust that rose from under their feet as
he slowly approached the castle. It’d been a long journey and he
was weary. The only thing that seemed to make it worthwhile was
seeing the castle when he opened his eyes, knowing that his
soon-to-be bride would be waiting for him there; wondering what she
would be like.

He knew he had no choice. If he didn’t agree
to the marriage, he would lose everything, his home, his title, his
lands and his father’s respect. Is it not a son’s duty to honor his
father’s wishes?

William had promised his father that she
would be beautiful and of good birth, a high-born princess of
Brittany, a second daughter named Alais, so he agreed and was
brought back to consummate the marriage.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he
looked up to see his family’s banners flying from the towers; the
gate opening up to him and his men. When he looked down again, he
could see he was wearing half armors. He looked up again and saw
his page, Peter, running toward him, distraught; calling out, “My
Lord! My Lord!”

“
What has happened, Peter? Is my father
ill? Mother?” he asked the breathless boy. The boy took a moment to
catch his breath, hanging on his horse for support from what must
have been a long run.

“
There has been a disaster, my Lord,”
the boy cried, then remembered himself and stepped back to bow to
his master. He got down off his horse and took the boy firmly by
the arms.

“
What kind of disaster,
boy?”

“
A ship wreck, my Lord,” Peter said,
having sufficiently regained his breath, still keeping his eyes
cast downward. “The ship that was to bring thy Lady from France was
wrecked off the coast of Cornwall.”

“
And what of my bride?” he said to the
boy, using his hand to bring his loyal Peter’s face up to his, not
sure what he was wanting the answer to be.

“
She lies near death in thy mother’s
bedchamber, washed up on the shore and brought here one day prior,”
Peter said, trembling of his own accord. He loved his master, was
devoted to him, and dreaded anything that would displease
him.

He leapt back up on his horse and looked down
at the boy and saw the brace on his leg, and when the boy raised
his head, he saw it was Simon. He reached out his arm, “Up, my
faithful Simon,” he said. Simon took his hand, allowing himself to
be pulled up forcefully onto the back of the horse. Instantly they
were off at a gallop and through the fortified gates.

When they reached the gate of the castle
dwelling itself, he dismounted, helping Simon down carefully before
running through the doors held open by his father’s servants. Up
the stairs he flew to where he knew he would find his mother’s
bedchamber. One of her maids, Esme, was waiting to greet him, a low
curtsy as he rushed toward the door.

“
She lies quiet in thy mother’s bed, my
Lord,” Esme said, a worried look on her face. He rushed past her to
his mother’s bed, the curtains drawn; another of his mother’s
maids, Verity, was sitting vigilantly beside it. He stopped,
pausing for a moment to catch his breath before pulling back the
bed curtain to look upon the face of she who was to be his
wife.

He saw his own hand reach out and take the
curtain hem, hesitating, again not sure he wanted to know, then
pulled it back. His breath caught deep in his chest as he looked
upon her face.

It was Ivy Farthing.

Suddenly, he became afraid, deathly afraid.
There was a blackness about her that he could feel but not see. He
turned to look back at the door. It was closed. He ran to it and
pulled the handle. It was locked. He started banging on it,
panicked by being locked alone in the room with her. “Let me out,
Father, please. Mother, let me out,” he cried as he beat his fists
against the heavy iron and oak door. A woman’s voice with a Breton
accent came from behind him.

“
I am pleased that thou hast come to
me, and I have come for thee, Mitchell. To be thy wife, and become
hot by thee, and bear thee many demons and spirits.”

Fear far greater than any he had known in
battle or any other time in his life erupted in his soul, his heart
about to explode like the foxes he had hunted as a boy before he
pierced them with his lance. He looked back to the bed and saw a
long scaly serpent’s tail come lolling over the side of the bed
from beneath Ivy Farthings skirts as she laid there, her arms
outstretched to him, a glaring hungry look in her eyes, a mocking
smile of protruding blackened teeth. “My husband.”

“
Mother, Father, please let me out!
Simon! Jack! Help me!” he cried frantically, banging his fists on
the door, watching the blood spurt from his fingers with the force
of each blow, “Hhhheeeelllppp meeeeee!”

Simon’s voice came from the other side of the
door, kicking, banging and calling out.

“
I am here, my Lord. I am
here.”

***

When he woke up, the banging wasn’t the sound
of his fists against the door, but the intense throbbing in his
head; a blacksmith’s hammer slamming against an anvil. “Bloody
fucking hell,” he groaned as he sat up on the edge of the bed,
putting his head in his hands and wondering where the hell his
Advil bottle was.

***

The next day was like a day after a nuclear
attack. They were all reduced to rubble and secretly grateful that
it was pissing down with rain when they got up. But they still had
to be somewhat productive and push the project forward in some
fashion that didn’t conflict with the rain and that wouldn’t hurt
them too badly. Lady Cotswold, not having partaken in the evenings
revelries was the first to arrive at breakfast, alone. Mitch met
her there. By this point in his life, he’d learned to rally himself
more quickly than your average partier, and with no memory of the
previous night’s dream to derail him, felt more focused than ever
to make this dig his next resounding success.

When he saw Ivy Farthing wiping down
the bar and setting up the cups for the breakfast sitting, he made
a point to stay as far away from her as was humanly
possible.
Danger, Will Robinson,
Danger!
He heaved a deep sigh of relief when he saw Fi
coming toward them, smiling.

They spent the time figuring out what they
could do that day. Lady Cotswold said that she wouldn’t mind just
exploring the village, looking for places that might have some
archives or old records containing some information about the
property. She told him that before she’d arrived, she taken the
liberty of contacting the solicitor for the Crane Estate and had
found out that all of the family records had been donated to the
local historical society after the last Crane died.

It was her understanding from the solicitor
that the family records went back more than six hundred years and
thought it the best place to start. Then if she still had time
before the shops closed, she thought she might like do some
antiquing.

For Mitch’s part, he decided that the rain
gave him the time to take Malcolm and Deck shopping for the digging
supplies they would need and whatever material they would need to
make what they couldn’t buy, probably sifting boxes. That would be
the item they’d be least likely to find ready-made.

When Simon hadn’t shown by the last seating,
Mitch ordered a breakfast sandwich and coffee to be taken to his
room. Thinking it wise, Lady Madeline had the same done for
Sandrine.

Before they left on their errands, Lady
Madeline with her notebooks and Mitch with the lads in tow, each
left notes for their respective assistants that they would call
back at the inn for them between one and 2:00 P.M., and headed out
to do some digging of their own.

***

Simon woke about eleven to the same
blacksmith’s hammer banging on the same anvil as Mitch’s. He wanted
to sleep some more, but it was cold and damp, a draft was coming
from the window, and even with the rain coming down outside, that
little bit of light seemed to hurt his eyes.

He got up and went to shut the curtains,
finding the source of the draft. The windows were ajar and the open
spaces stuffed with sprigs of holly. That’s silly, some kind of
practical joke; immature play on words, he thought and reached out
to remove them. He drew his hand back sharply. “Damn!” and looked
at his fingers; little red droplets were forming. He’d stuck
himself on the needle-pointed ends of the leaves. Then something
shifted outside the window, catching his eye, and he looked
out.

The old man was standing across the
yard under a big black umbrella twenty feet away; his tiny,
piercing black eyes fixed on Simon. The old man’s lips were moving
and he waved his hand like a wand in front of Simon as he had in
the pub the night before.
“Come thee to me,
ye boy called Holly.”
Simon heard a voice that made no
sound. Suddenly his head stopped hurting.

He turned back to his bed, moving easily
without thinking, or feeling, and sat down to put on his shoes and
brace. When he returned to the window, it was no longer only ajar
but wide open, and he climbed out…brace and all.

***

Lady Madeline arrived back at the inn
somewhat later than she’d planned, around 2:00 P.M, having gotten
lost in the Crane family papers at the Historical Society of
Exeter; overwhelmed, not only with the sheer volume of the
documents, but also the astonishing variety.

Given the nature of her inquiry, she sought
out the earliest documents first. The Crane estate had first been
established in 1323 through the Royal beneficence of a grant from
Edward II to Alistair Crane in gratitude for his faithful services
in the battle for Scotland.

According to the oldest of the documents, the
land grant was to include the castle known as Revelstoke. However,
through certain private letters from Alistair Crane and his nearest
relative, one Gregory Crane of Sussex, Lady Madeline learned that
Alistair Crane was less than enthusiastic about the grant and, in
fact, felt betrayed, because upon his arrival he discovered that
the castle known as Revelstoke was already a ruin and had been for
some time.

To Alistair’s complaint, his cousin Gregory
responded that either King Edward had never seen the estate at the
time of the grant and was therefore innocent of any deceit, or had
granted the estate to Crane purposefully so that should Crane use
his fortune to rebuild Revelstoke or build a new castle to replace
it, in either instance giving the King the greater glory of another
stronghold in the wild country in the West. Apparently, Gregory was
of the opinion that the King’s true motive was more of the latter
than the former and suggested that in order to remain in the King’s
favor, Alistair should build a manor house rather than a castle
since there had been no real need for a defensive fortress-style
castle in that area since the days of William. He then urged his
cousin to burn the letter after reading it, lest he be accused of
treason against the King if the letter were to fall into the wrong
hands.