Keeping the Castle

8



THE DAY OF OUR trip to the Screaming Stones dawned early, as it does in June in northern England: at about half past the hour of four in the morning, in fact. No matter how near dawn came to the time that we had laid our heads down on our pillows the night before, Fido and Alexander felt that we ought to be up and active if the sun was over the horizon. There was no lying abed until noon, as I am told fine London ladies are in the habit of doing—at least, not for Mama and me, who must see to the details of our excursion.

It gave every promise of a lovely day, with not a cloud to be seen. In the midst of preparations I paused a moment by the stables to study the sky (the outlook was excellent, the groom who was readying the horses assured me). My gaze dropped to the castle with its mad, eccentric towers and buttresses, and beyond to the land where I lived. The groom, who was an intelligent, good sort of man, whose family had worked for mine for many generations, noticed my thoughtful look and said, smiling, “T’castle be a rare fine place, mistress.”

“Jock, it is,” I agreed. I knew that he and I felt much the same loyalty to Crooked Castle. “And it must be kept in the family. It must be preserved for Master Alexander.”

“Aye, mistress, that it must,” he said, and then began talking about provisions for the day.

I had begun to think of our journey as something more than a mere pleasure jaunt; rather, it resembled a military sortie in our campaign to keep the castle. I believed that Jock shared my view. If ever we were forced to abandon our home it would go hard not only on us, but on our tenants and servants as well. They knew it, and I knew that they were looking to me to protect their homes and livelihood with a good marriage. Beyond my immediate family, thirty-seven people (give or take a few babies) were anxiously waiting to see how I would dispose of my hand in matrimony.

I thought of the Baron’s handsome face and figure and felt that I could resign myself to doing my duty quite cheerfully if only I were given the chance to do so.

Mrs. Westing and Mrs. Fredericks had sent their regrets at not attending our little party, feeling that the expedition would require them to travel both for a longer time and over rougher roads than either was accustomed to on horseback. I was sorry for this, as I wished to be better acquainted with Lord Boring’s mother, and as my mother so enjoyed the conversation of Mrs. Fredericks. And besides, if Mrs. Fredericks had come to keep Mama company I should have had no compunction about leaving her alone from time to time in order to walk with his Lordship.

Our nuncheon was not to be anything grand. I had looked in the larder and found a great many shriveled parsnips and other, less identifiable roots left over from last fall. After I had boiled these for an hour or two and added some currants and sugar, I encased the result in pastry, baked it, and called it a pie. The vegetable garden yielded herbs enough for a green salad, with the addition of some wild sorrel and dandelion leaves. That would have to suffice. It was packed up in Jock’s saddlebags—Lord Boring had not forgotten to send over a pony for him so that he could wait upon us and see to the horses while we strolled about the countryside. I lingered to supervise the careful packing of two of those few bottles of wine that remained to us of what had once been a fine wine cellar, as well as a cool jug of barley water.

“I want to go! I want to go, too, ’Leetha!” Alexander burst out of the door, trotting on his little-boy legs as fast as he could, with Mama in pursuit. Fido, who was, as always, at my heels, began to bark and prance about the child, twisting in ridiculous, hysterical circles and adding to Alexander’s uproar.

I sighed. I had known that these two would be distraught if excluded from our party, but could not see how to include them. I said, “Mama, if you could see to it that Prudence and Charity are up, and that they are ready on time, I will take Alexander out to the garden where we can throw the ball for Fido.” If I could exhaust their busy little bodies prior to our departure, it might make it easier to consign them both to Annie’s care.

For at least an hour I played with them, running and throwing the ball until I felt that I, at least, would prefer to go back to my chamber and fall into an exhausted slumber rather than set out on an eight-mile ride over rough country. At the end of that time Mama appeared and signaled to me that we were nearly ready to depart. My companions shifted their shining eyes from my face to hers.

“I—I am coming,” I gasped. I hurried indoors and donned my “new” riding habit. Fido and Alexander, showing no sign of fatigue, followed me out to the stable yard where the others had assembled.

Lord Boring, the Marquis of Bumbershook and the inevitable Mr. Fredericks were present, already mounted, as were my mother and stepsisters. The latter two stared suspiciously at my habit, knowing my wardrobe every bit as well as I did.

“Where did that come from?” Charity demanded.

“What, this old thing?” I said, “Goodness, it’s been around forever.”

“It’s red,” said Prudence. “And that hat! It reminds me of a—”

“Are we all ready? Althea, do come along now,” interrupted my mother. A tiny smile told me that she had guessed the origin of my new garb. Jock stood holding his pony and my Pegeen in readiness for me to mount. Annie was there to see us off and take charge of boy and dog. When Alexander spotted his friend Mr. Fredericks, however, his face lit up. “Freddicks!” he cried, and trotted towards him, his arms held up to be lifted. “I want to come!” he demanded.

We gasped in dismay and Annie and I, the only adults present on foot who were not encumbered by horses, hurried towards him. Mr. Fredericks was mounted on a fine bay that danced with impatience to be gone, disliking the proximity of this small, unsteady human.

Mr. Fredericks laid a hand on the horse’s neck. “Be still,” he said, and the animal quieted and stood immobile. Then he leaned over and casually snatched my brother up with one hand by the scruff of his jacket. “So you want to come too, do you?” Alexander nodded, giggling at being manhandled. “Then you shall,” said Mr. Fredericks.

“Fredericks!” Lord Boring said.

“Yes?”

“The boy’s mother has some say in the matter.”

“Has she?” Mr. Fredericks considered this. “Well, perhaps she has. Is she—yes, there she is. Do you object, madam?”

If he had said this in a superior or dismissive tone of voice, I believe I should have rushed at him without heed for his powerful horse and snatched Alexander from him. But he did not. He spoke in a tone of apparently genuine enquiry.

“I—I hadn’t thought—but I suppose it would be all right—”

“Fredericks,” growled the Marquis. “The lady is distressed.”

“No . . . no,” my mother went on in a stronger voice, “Truly, Your Lordship, I would not object, if Mr. Fredericks keeps a tight hold of him, and does not . . . forget that the child is riding with him.”

Mr. Fredericks’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He seemed offended. “Forget? Forget that my good friend Alexander has claimed my care and protection? Certainly not.”

Oddly enough, for my mama was the most loving and careful mother in existence, this appeared to satisfy her. “Very well,” she said, “you shall come, Alexander. Mind you do not cause Mr. Fredericks a moment of annoyance. Althea? Are you ready?”

Bemused, I turned without a word. Jock was at hand with Pegeen, bent over to boost me into the saddle. I was mounted and ready to leave when another disturbance occurred. I became aware of something clinging to my ankle. Poor old Pegeen shied at the discovery that a small dog was attempting to claw itself up her flank onto my lap.

I heard a shout of laughter; Mr. Fredericks was amused at my plight. “You may as well bring him, you know. The boy and the dog will keep an eye on one another, and the dog will only follow you if you leave him behind.”

“I suppose you are right,” I admitted. I leant down and pulled Fido the rest of the way up, much relieving Pegeen. “Lie down and be still,” I ordered the dog.

Conscious of having got their way against great odds, and wise enough to appreciate it, neither interloper did anything more than look about with wide, delighted eyes all the long eight miles from Crooked Castle to the Screaming Stones. I kept a sharp eye on Mr. Fredericks, but he was as good as his word and held fast to my brother, lowering his head to speak with him from time to time.

The day grew warmer. My hat, made of leather and felt and padded with rags, began to seem oppressively hot, and as the track grew rougher it tipped precariously from one side of my head to the other with increasing frequency. An unexpected sensation on the back of my neck made me realize that half the stuffing had slipped out and was fluttering in the wind behind me. I hastily pushed it back inside and crammed the chapeau down over my forehead. Fashionable or no, it was beginning to seem a great inconvenience. I wondered how soldiers could bear wearing the great, heavy things, in addition to all the other hardships of military life.

As we neared our goal, several intensely green patches surrounding what appeared to be small ponds became visible. I pointed them out to Lord Boring, who had shown an amiable tendency to ride alongside me the whole way, slowing his horse’s pace to match Pegeen’s.

“It looks like a good spot to water the horses,” he observed.

“That is what I feared you might think, my lord,” I replied. “And it is a dangerous idea, I am sorry to say. They are not shallow ponds but rather flooded mine shafts which drop off immediately to a depth of sixty or so feet. A thin mat of vegetation fringes the rim, giving the false impression of solid ground over what is really a subaquatic void. It is a shocking dereliction of responsibility on the part of the mine owners not to cover them. A stranger to the area such as yourself might allow his horse to wade in for a drink and quite likely neither horse nor man would ever be seen again. But few strangers venture here, and so I suppose they think their laxity justified.”

“I see,” he said, smiling. “How fortunate I am to have your advice and guidance before exploring on my own. May I add,” he went on in a lower tone, leaning towards me to speak words meant for me alone, “that I could wish that I might always enjoy that benefit.”

I was silent for a moment, waiting—we seemed close to a declaration and a formal proposal of marriage—but he said nothing further. I therefore responded demurely, “I am always pleased to be of service to a neighbor,” and continued, “Another such flooded pit lies quite close to the Screaming Stones. It is not safe to approach on foot or on horseback. Perhaps you could ride ahead and warn the others, before someone tumbles in.”

“Yes indeed,” he said, and urged his horse on to catch up with the others. It obeyed with alacrity, no doubt glad to break out into a trot, instead of the slow amble that Pegeen’s age and infirmities forced upon us.

The stones were now visible, standing up on the brow of a hill in relief against the sky, like the teeth of some monstrous carnivore. Tho’ we have become so enlightened and sophisticated in this modern age, the primitive monument still had the power to halt the whole party in its tracks, allowing me to catch them up.

At this moment a gust of wind blew across the moor and played amongst the monoliths, which were long boulders stood on end pointing skywards, an expression of pre-Christian religious beliefs. A high, piping sound began to be heard, which within moments deepened into a lugubrious wolf’s howl. The horses, independently of their riders’ direction, bunched together in a defensive position, their nostrils flaring, testing the wind for danger. Even my stepsisters fell silent.

“Egad,” said the Marquis, impressed. “D’you suppose the fellows that set these stones in place knew what a racket they would make?”

“I often think that they wanted to give the wind a voice,” said Mama softly.

“Well, dear lady, it appears that the wind has some beastly unpleasant things to say,” said the Marquis, laughing uneasily.

“It fair makes my skin crawl,” agreed Lord Boring. “What a singularly desolate place this is.”

As if in agreement, the pitch of the stones’ complaint rose into a scream. I was beginning to regret my suggestion that we make this destination our object. Certainly it was hardly the right atmosphere for romantic dalliance.

Prudence, evidently thinking it incumbent upon her to depress the spirits of the party still further, remarked, “I am always reminded by these awe-inspiring stones of the dreadful hand of Death”—Prudence could be reminded of the dreadful hand of Death by such varied events as a tradesman’s call, a broken fingernail, or a skylark singing out on the moor—“and of Horace’s lines: ‘Years, following years, steal something every day; / At last they steal us from ourselves away.’”

“Thank you, Prudence,” I said.

Mr. Fredericks, alone of the gentlemen, had said nothing, and I looked at him to observe his reaction. His eyes, I noted with foreboding, were alight with speculation and interest.

“I don’t know—it’s jolly interesting. I wonder how they raised those monstrous big stones up without a block and tackle,” he said. “And what keeps them up? If only one had brought a shovel . . .” and he urged his horse into a canter towards the circle of stones.

I gave Pegeen a good hard nudge and went after him with as much speed as she could muster.

“Mr. Fredericks!” I cried, when I was again in earshot, “Those stones have stood on this hill for several millennia, and the people hereabouts have strong feelings about them. I do not want to have to explain my carelessness in exposing them to your curiosity without exacting the strictest promise that you shall not be allowed to molest them or touch them in any way.”

“I? I promise not to molest them? I assure you, madam—”

“The only assurance I require, Mr. Fredericks, is that you will not lay a hand anywhere on even one of these stones,” I said in a steely tone. “Mr. Fredericks!” He was dismounting, gripping Alexander with one hand and the pommel of his saddle with the other. I gasped in alarm, but they were safely down. Jock trotted hastily up on his pony and took charge of the bay.

“Oh, very well, I shan’t,” Mr. Fredericks said sulkily. “I would just like to have tried . . .”

“Remember! You have given your word,” I said. Clutching Fido, I managed to dismount.

Mr. Fredericks heaved a loud sigh, held up his hands for my inspection, and then thrust them into his pockets.

“Ha! Fredericks, you have met your mistress!” said the Marquis as he climbed down and joined us.

“You’re right,” Lord Boring agreed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known a lady who could make Fredericks mind his manners before. Or a gentleman either, save you and I, Bumbershook, on occasion. I am astounded.”

Mr. Fredericks paid no attention to this chaffing. He was still fascinated by the engineering feat presented by the stones, which were nearly seven feet in height. Keeping his hands in his pockets he circled one stone. He stopped, poked at the base with the toe of his boot, then slid his gaze over to judge the expression on my face.

“Mr. Fredericks,” I said. “I believe you agreed not to touch them in any way?”

He heaved another sigh. Alexander, who was growing bored with the stone circle, tugged at his arm. “Come on, Freddicks,” he said, and Mr. Fredericks allowed himself to be escorted away from the megaliths. I thankfully discarded the hateful hat and followed them.