The Mistletoe Bride and Other Haunting Tales (26 page)

Now the woman, bent low and in the plain clothes of a servant, was standing on the threshold, a candle held in a trembling hand.

Instantly, the room was still. The air fell silent.

She’s here, quick.

The woman cried out at the sight of the coloured threads tangled and twisted on the floor, at the broken furniture, and the flame shook. Sophia called out again, even though she could not be heard, willing the old woman to turn and find the door and release the catch. But she didn’t move. She merely stood in the middle of the room, her old eyes clouded with confusion.

My lady, Perdita.

Sophia knew her part in the story was nearly at an end. The outline of the room was fainter than before, less distinct. Minster Lovell Hall was returning to its current state, leaving the past behind. Condemning the bride to her living tomb.

She’s here, here.

Then Sophia watched the expression on the old woman’s face change. Willing her to turn, to keep looking, to not give up. The woman shuffled across the room and bent down to pick something up.

Her yellow scarf, lying precisely where Sophia knew the hidden door to be. She didn’t understand how the woman could see it. It was caught on something, a nail or a splinter. She pulled again and, this time, the yellow square of material came free. At the same time, Sophia heard a click.

The door sprang open. A cry from within, then tears of delight and relief and gratitude. The old woman’s arms around the younger girl, helping her out into the room. Weeping, comforting, reassuring Perdita that no one was hurt, no one had been killed. The old nurse explaining that her husband had gone with the soldiers in exchange for his household being spared.

For the past hour, the servants had been searching the house and grounds. No one knew if she might also have been taken by the soldiers, or that she might have fled and fallen into the river in the dark, slipping through the ice. Then older servants remembered rumours of a hidden room within the house, known only to Lord Lovell.

Perdita inclined her head. Her husband had told her of the room, fearing the anger of the king, and sent her there. Had wanted to keep his new bride safe.

Sophia saw a shadow cross Perdita’s face and knew she was thinking of her husband, sacrificing himself to save his family. To save her. As she watched the old woman and her charge, their heads bent low, she realised their voices were becoming more faint. Little by little, their features were fading, their outlines almost transparent now.

She knew her time was done. The story had been rewritten and she had no further part to play. Sophia felt something shift inside her, a sense of the past drifting out of reach and her own time calling her back.

Then, at the very last moment before the connection was broken, Perdita lifted her head and looked straight to where Sophia was standing. And she smiled.

Sophia looked down at the yellow scarf in her hand, then slowly walked back down the stairs of the tower and out into the gardens that lay stretched out once more beneath the blue October sky. Minster Lovell Hall was in its ruined state again, no walls or doors or windows to be seen. The trees along the banks of the River Windrush were touched by the copper and burgundy hues of autumn. Soon, though not quite yet, they would start to lose their leaves.

Sophia heard the chimes of the church bell striking midday. On the cobbled path ahead, she saw her companions walking back up towards the coach. She waved and called out that she’d join them in a couple of minutes. Not to go without her.

There was one task remaining.

She walked quickly back along the avenue of trees to the chapel and went inside. It felt different this time, as if she belonged there. She walked up the nave to the altar and looked at the face of the girl – her ancestor – carved in bas-relief. Was she imagining it, but was her expression different now? Sophia lingered there for a few moments more, then turned. Her guidebook was still lying on the pew at the back of the chapel where she had left it earlier.

Sophia opened the book and saw there was more about the Lovell family than she had realised.

Lady Perdita Lovell had been married at Minster Lovell Hall on Christmas Eve 1485. Her husband’s life spared by Henry VII, though his lands were forfeit, they had a long and happy marriage and been blessed with many children and grandchildren. Descendants of the Lovell family were still to be found in Oxfordshire, Suffolk and Sussex today.

Sophia closed the book.

As she left the chapel for the last time, she looked up. Now beneath the inscription were the names of Lovell and his bride and their dates. Both had lived long into old age. The scratched letters –
LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
– were no longer there.

Sophia smiled. Then, tying her yellow scarf around her neck, she stepped out into the autumn sunshine.

Author’s Note

This is the second story inspired by the folktale. Following in the footsteps of Samuel Rogers, other authors took up the challenge of writing versions of ‘The Mistletoe Bride’. Charles Somerset produced a play of the same name in 1835, Henry James wrote ‘The Romance of Certain Old Clothes’ in 1868, transposed to eighteenth-century Massachusetts but clearly inspired by the story, and Susan E. Wallace published a short story – ‘Ginevra or The Old Oak Chest: A Christmas Story’ – in 1887. The tragic tale, a favourite of the protagonist, Brandon Shaw, is recounted in Hitchcock’s 1948 film,
Rope
. Jeanette Winterson wrote a haunting Christmas version of the story in 2002.

The song, too, has become part of our literary heritage, appearing, amongst other places, in Thomas Hardy’s 1881 novel,
A Laodicean
. In 1859, it was described as ‘a national occurrence at Christmas’ and, a few years later in 1862, hailed as ‘one of the most popular . . . ever written.’ In the 1970s, I had a copy in an old music hall songbook. With its tripping six-eight beat in A major, and its simple and rousing refrain, it was easy to learn and easy to play. Only now can I see how hopelessly at odds were its catchy lyrics and rhythm and its tragic subject.

There is now an excellent guidebook to Minster Lovell Hall published by English Heritage, but this version was inspired by the moment in the 1970s when I first came upon the legend. Those who’ve visited the real Minster Lovell Hall will know there was a private family chapel within the north building not in the park. I have made several other changes to the topography for the sake of the story.

SYRINX

A southern market town in Hampshire
The Present Day

Author’s Note

Syrinx
was commissioned by Sandi Toksvig as part of a series to show theatre – live – on television. It was an ambitious and ground-breaking project, enthusiastically embraced by Sky Arts – two production crews, one theatre team and one television team – with a very specific brief: the plays could have no more than four characters, they had to be set in the present day and had to last twenty-seven minutes!

I had not written a play before, though had long wanted to, and I loved the process of rehearsals, watching the actors inhabit their characters and bring them to life, then going home every night to do rewrites. I was lucky to have a generous and supportive cast and the expert support of both Sandi herself and the director, Patrick Sandford. Robin Don’s beautiful design – a ring of school chairs suspended from the rig and a brilliant way of having water on stage – brought the rather drab setting of a headteacher’s office in a school to life.

Watching the first performance was both one of the most exhilarating experiences of my professional life and the most terrifying. When the music started – a fragment from Debussy’s haunting piece of flute music, ‘Syrinx’, from which the piece gets its title – my legs started to shake and carried on shaking for the entire twenty-seven minutes. As a novelist, although you see people reading your book – on a train, on a plane, in a café – you can’t really tell what they are thinking. Their emotions, reactions, are hidden from you and, besides, it’s often a long time after you finished writing, so you’re no longer quite so raw. With a play, especially at its first performance, the writer is aware of everyone in the audience and how they are reacting, for good or bad. Since its premiere, the play has had many amateur performances, the first being from the Lapworth Players in May 2011.

The first performance was given on 15th July 2009 as part of Sky Arts Theatre Live! at the Sky Television Studios, London.

Syrinx

27-minute one-act play by Kate Mosse
commissioned by Sky Arts

TIME

The present. Summer. Late afternoon/early evening.

LOCATION

The headteacher’s office of a large comprehensive school in a small southern market town. Downstage right is a desk, tidy, neat piles of paper and a photograph in a frame. On the corner of the desk, drinks are laid out – two bottles of red wine, four bottles of white wine, a couple of cartons of value orange juice, two bottles of own brand water and eight glasses. The ‘door’ into the office from the corridor is downstage left.