It felt like some magical dream, a castle upon silver clouds, a place of reflection and harmony, and again that sense of contentment welled.
All was at peace, at stillness, except…she pressed her nose to the leaded glass…except the immense double doors leading to the stable courtyard were open, a light shining from within.
It shimmered, swayed, beckoning to Hebe like a spectral monk set to lure…
Yet Hebe smiled. Despite her delight in Gothic novels, she no longer believed in hideous phantasma or ugly creatures of the dark, for she’d met malevolence.
And its face had been beautiful and real.
The silhouette of a lad ran across the doorway with a bucket. Silence. And then he returned anon, presumably with a full one.
Another stark whinny filled the night, its distress calling to her.
So, without further ado, Hebe grabbed an old pelisse from amongst the five opulent ballgowns Aunt had packed for her, shoved bare feet into her boots, seized the lantern and hastened her way to the door.
The Long Gallery outside her chamber lay in dreary gloom – shadowed and empty – and for a moment her nightmares became wakefulness, the anguish of the past became the present, so she turned, sought the calm of art, and drew her lantern to a canvas at eye level.
A cavalier in silk posed in the yellow glow, a magnificent grey horse bending to his command, and Hebe softly breathed out… Then gaped as she realised it was a famed Van Dyck.
Which rather put her in her place.
She crept past Aunt’s bedchamber and down the Long Gallery which stretched the full length of the castle rear, its vast windows overlooking the moat and pastureland. The oak staircase ahead was a newer addition according to Mrs Pettifer and it creaked as she laid foot to tread. On the landing, Hebe paused at a leaded window to the front – and still that light shone from the stables.
Down the second flight, she trailed. Not a sound but for the groan of wood.
She hurried past the second library and into the attached Great Hall – ancient and majestic.
Open to the roof, it demanded you tip your head to admire the arched beams but by night, Hebe’s feeble lantern solely lit that which surrounded her, the walls and vast tapestries of the Rothwell dukes defending their castle, and above them the weapons used, longbows and mace.
One tapestry displayed an armoured knight upon a fine horse and she lifted her lantern to illuminate a falcon upon his hand, a faithful hound trotting to his side. She peered yet closer, and a handsome fellow the spit of Lord Ernest ogled back with cotton-blue eyes and gold-threaded hair.
Scowling, she swished away, supposed this vast hall had once been filled by medieval banquets, knights and their ladies, servants dashing with pewter trays of roast boar and the floor strewn with straw.
Now its use was purely a memory.
So she scampered on for the small arched door in the corner, ignoring the vacant eyes of a suit of armour that she swore had followed her movement.
The enclosed walkway to the stables was not dusty or filled with webs as in her Gothic novels, but clean with freshly plastered walls and intact stone floor tiles, and she wouldn’t dare think on the upkeep of a place such as this.
At the end, an oak door halted her and she tentatively put ear to wood.
Naught.
So she gently twisted the drop handle to lift the latch and squint in.
The harness room was silent, yet a single lit lantern hung in the corner – evidence that someone was awake. Rows of shiny saddles sat in readied order on rounded trunks and bridles hung from hooks on the wall.
That whinny came again and she chased the sound along a cobbled corridor until at the far end, light shone in a wide arc from an open doorway, the murmur of voices and harsh pants of a horse drawing her on.
Placing her light to the ground, she crept forward, remaining to the shadows before concealing herself behind a substantial water barrel.
Six or seven lanterns illuminated a sizeable box stable – straw strewn about the floor, two lads sitting upon bales propped against the stone walls, that white goat snoozing beside them. Upon the straw bed, a beautiful bay mare lay on her side, panting and sweating, surrounded by three men.
One was the stable master Redmond O’Conner, but at this hour he wore solely a begrimed shirt and breeches, brow lined, stubble masking his stern mouth. A fellow in a low cloth cap sat at the hindquarters of the animal while another man in leather jerkin with sweat-streaked hair kneeled, his slender back to her, a tanned calloused hand caressing the horse’s shoulder, a tender croon sliding from his throat.
“What d’ya think, Mr Croft?” queried the stable master softly. “It’s been too long, so it has. Her waters broke a good half-hour ago. We left her be, to try and right it, but…”
“Aye, foal’s twisted,” the cloth-capped Mr Croft replied. “Head is bent between its front legs. Best move fast or we’ll lose them. Keep her steady and calm by the head. I’ll help her.”
