P.C. patted his arm. “I’ll lead so you won’t make an idiot of yourself and my judgment about marrying you would be questioned.”
“I’ll waltz with you too, P.C.,” Pip announced. “I’ve practiced with Mary Beth.”
P.C., sweet girl, gave his small hand a squeeze as she said, “Yes, Pip, you and I will whip Brady into shape. Sir, I asked Mama why the earl’s ancestors named their castle Storne Hope, but she didn’t know. The Great always says he knows everything, but I don’t think he does. He tried to make something up, but Grandmama laughed at him. Do you know, sir?”
Grayson shook his head. “We’ll ask Max—his new lordship.” Grayson eyed those excited faces, dropped his voice. “Do you know what I thought when I first saw Storne Hope last spring after Pip and I moved here to Cowpen Dale?”
The children recognized Grayson’s storytelling voice and gathered close, ready for him to scare them to their toes. And this story was true, for the most part.
His voice was smooth and deep, only a hint of menace. “It was twilight, the day cold, and so I stopped at the Black Goose. I met one of the Storne Hope tenant farmers, a grizzled old grandfather who told me over a pint,‘The ancient monstrosity on Piper’s Hill, Storne Hope, looks grand, sure enuf, but ’tis filled with shadows and gloom, but only in certain hallways and rooms because of where the ghost Lady Hilda roams. ’Tis said her hand hovers over a teacup, but she canna pick it up since she be a ghost, after all. Many claim she chased them down certain corridors, all flowy and white, sounds like a whistling winter wind comin’ down the chimney. She runs down these particular hallways to flee from her husband, who eventually chased her down and murdered her.’
Pip ran his tongue over his lips. “If I were the new earl, I’d sleep in the stables.”
P.C. leaned in close. “Why did her husband want to kill her, sir?”
“We will have to ask the new earl.”
Brady said, “I wonder if she curses you, do you get boils all over that ooze pus and turn green?”
Grayson loved this audience. “A very dark green, oozing everywhere, yes.”
“Tell us more, Papa.”
Grayson thought for a moment, studied those eager faces—time to make up some gore. “Well, I remember one day last year something strange came over me, telling me to ride to Storne Hope. When I neared, I saw the sky was darkening over Piper’s Hill and black clouds now hung low over the huge medieval castle as if they would shroud it, slither through the windows. Astor suddenly stopped, threw back his head and whinnied, tossed his head, and he wouldn’t move another foot. I didn’t want to move either, but I had no choice—you see, something was pushing me,whatI don’t know, and so I dismounted and left Astor there to eat the new early spring grass, but he didn’t. It was like he turned to stone, as if someone or something had made him into a statue and was holding him in place. I left him and walked up the rise and over the former moat.” Grayson paused. Three sets of eyes were fastened on his face.
P.C. whispered, “It couldn’t be good, sir. Astor always loves to eat. What happened?”
“I walked to the set of massive medieval wooden doors all banded with steel, higher than two men standing on shoulders. It was then I realized I didn’t see anyone, not a single gardener, not a stable hand, not a single living creature. I heard an owl hoot to its mate in the home wood, but nothing else, only dead silence.”
“Not a single living creature, sir?” Brady’s voice was a whisper of a sound.
CHAPTER FIVE
“That’s right, Brady. I saw no one, nothing. I started to slam the huge lion’s-head knocker and announce myself, when suddenly—” Grayson sent a furtive look to the door of his study. The children’s eyes followed his, saw nothing, but they pressed closer.
“Papa, what happened?”
“A noise, I heard a noise from above me. I stepped back and looked up three stories to the ancient ramparts and to the exact place where it’s said the old earl fell to his death four months ago.
“I looked at the ancient row of stone crenellations, set like giant stone teeth with space between them where archers stood to rain down their arrows on the enemy’s heads. I saw a man stand up and stretch. He was wearing a rough leather vest, a dirty white shirt beneath, leather pants with a sword strapped to his waist, tall black boots, and he held a long bow. Sweat plastered his hair to his head, and his beard was black and thick. He looked exhausted. Beside him stood a beautiful young woman, her hair long and flowing, nearly white it was so blonde, wearing a pure white gown tossed by the wind.” Grayson leaned close. “They were shouting at each other, and he was pointing down. At the enemy? But I saw no enemy, just as I saw no archers or castle soldiers. I would swear the man and woman were alone.”
The man grabbed her, lifted her off her feet, and threw her from the parapet, her scream loud, lasting forever, and then silence, stark and empty, dead.
Grayson felt a jolt of shock, drawing him into its center, a black whirling vortex—and then it faded away. The three children drew even closer, Pip’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Papa, what happened?”
Grayson got himself together, smiled at them. “I saw the man jerk about and shoot an arrow down, and I heard a yell. Suddenly, there were men everywhere. I heard them shouting down on the ground, horses neighing, and pounding hooves, then there was silence; the enemy I never saw was gone. The man and woman stood on the ramparts alone, no archers, no soldiers I could see. I saw the woman slowly smile—”
She raised a knife and plunged it into his heart. The man staggered, snarled something at her, and she pushed him over the edge. She stood on the ramparts, her hair and gown suddenly alight in the setting sun, and she was looking down at his broken body below and she was laughing, laughing wildly.
The vision was as real as the horror he felt freeze his blood. Then it was simply gone. Did the man kill her or did the woman kill him? Did either happen? Did either happen hundreds of years before? Could it be about Lady Hilda? If so, none of the accepted tales told about her were true.
He got hold of himself, looked at the children’s faces, saw excited fear, and knew they believed he was scaring them apurpose. It was all a story, at least what he’d told the children. But the other? Maybe it was an ancient tale spun out of his active imagination, but he didn’t think so. He drew a deep breath.
Brady’s voice was a hopeful quiver, and he held P.C.’s hand tightly. “She was smiling because the enemy rode away? And she and the man were safe?”
“But how, Papa? They were alone. You said there wasn’t anyone about. Where did this enemy come from?”
“A white gown,” P.C. whispered. “A beautiful maiden with long flowing hair, whipped about in the wind. He was her hero—he saved her.”
