Chapter 13

13

MERCY KEEP, PRESENT DAY

A long two and a half hours after leaving Nottingham behind, Ellen Bowe stood on the crest of a hill, her jaw gaping, her eyes wide with unabashed shock, staring across the moor at the enormous stronghold Ethan Wormsley had been referring to as The Keep for the past two days. A castle, to her mind, was a fairy-tale structure with pointed rooftops and colorful pennants streaming out in the wind. Or it was a weathered, roofless pile of crumbled walls like the pictures she had seen of the ruins scattered throughout England and Scotland.

But this…!

Even though they were a mile or more away, the castle was an imposing fortification. Sprawled along the upper edge of a headland, it dominated the northern skyline and presented an incongruously sinister backdrop for the elegant three-storey manor house that had been built at the base of a shallow slope. Several hundred yards of gardens and a strip of thick trees separated the two and presented a contrasting blanket of color against the bleak, gray silhouette .

Beside her, Wormsley started babbling on like a tour guide, pointing out this and that, but she barely heard anything he said.

Mine, she was thinking. This can't possibly be mine… can it?

"The castle was built just after the Conquest," Wormsley was saying, "with an eye to safeguarding this part of the northern coastline from any hostile invasions from the heathen tribes of Scots. At the time, there was only one approach and we are on it, for the castle sits at the very edge of a six-hundred-foot cliff. The inlet that lies below is shallow and full of rocks and shoals, and provides no anchorage for anything larger than a fishing boat. Further out the currents can be strong enough to fling a ship to its doom.

"As a point of interest, when the Spanish Armada endeavoured to invade in 1588, they were not chased out of the Channel by Sir Francis Drake and his dashing band of seahawks as many stories might have one believe. In fact, not one Spanish ship was sunk by actual cannonfire, although the English gunners surely did their share of damage bashing at the galleons. No, the one hundred and thirty ships of the armada were driven from one end of the Channel to the other by such fierce gales and storms the fleet could not retreat had it wanted to. Half were lost in an attempt to sail north and escape around Scottish headland, but storms and foul winds chose another fate. A least one of the galleons sank in our own inlet here and some of the salvaged Spanish cannon reside in one of the gardens."

He clapped a hand to his head to hold his bowler in place as a gust of wind swept across the roadway. "Shall we push on?"

They returned to the car, where Veronica was happily thumbing through one of her recent purchases. She looked up, smiled through freshly reapplied slashes of red lipstick, and went back to her reading.

"Because it was so remote," Wormsley continued, "and because the land we have driven across the past two hours or so would have been impenetrably thick forest rather than the farmlands you saw today… the Keep was rarely involved in any conflicts. Indeed, because of its very isolation, it was pretty much forgotten by kings and counsels, and unlike many castles that were traded like pawns to the nobles who happened to be in royal favor at the time, Mercy Keep was handed down from generation to generation with no interference from the crown. Ah… stop the car again, Rodney," he said, leaning in to tap the driver on the shoulder.

"Roderick," Veronica muttered.

"Say what?"

"Roderick," she said, louder this time. "He's yer own nephew an' you don't know ‘is own name is Roderick."

"Because, as you well know, I have another nephew named Rodney! Quite understandable to confuse the two, what?"

Ellen left them squabbling and got out of the car again. They had crossed the moor and were stopped before a stone bridge in the shadow of two square towers thirty or so feet high, with an ivy-covered archway linking them.

Wormsley hastened around the front of the car to join her, waving his umbrella at points of interest. "There would have been an outer defensive wall all along here, from one side of the moor to the edge of the cliff—you can see patches of rubble showing where it would have been. But it was torn down when the manor was built. These two barbican towers are all that remain. You can also see the depression where the moat followed the outer wall; one would have crossed it by way of a drawbridge, again long gone. I believe it was a Hollywood producer, back in the thirties, who gained permission from your great-grandfather to build this permanent stone bridge after he used the two towers in his film. Rumor has it Howard Hughes was a regular visitor back in the 30's and 40's before his paranoia sent him into seclusion. The tenant farmers claim he used to land his plane in the field just over there."

Ellen followed the tip of his umbrella but her gaze skimmed past the field to a patch of forest that grew along the far side of the moor. Standing at the edge of the trees was a tall, slender figure and if she hadn't known they'd been driving for two solid hours, Ellen would have sworn it was the same blonde-haired woman she had seen reflected in the bookstore window. She was dressed similarly in leather pants and a dull brown tunic, only this time she held an enormous bow in her hands and as Ellen watched, she raised the bow, drew an arrow from the quiver slung over her shoulder, and fit the arrow to the bowstring. She raised the bow as if to take aim at the castle walls, but a curl of hair blew across her face. When she turned to shake it free, she stopped and stared directly across the moor at Ellen.

Ellen stared back for several seconds. Intrigued, she started to walk toward her, but once she left the road, the ground was soft and her heels sunk into the earth.

"Miss Bowe? Ellen?"

Ellen turned, as he approached. "The girl over there… do you know who she is?"

"Girl?" He came up beside her. He was holding a large white handkerchief and polishing the lenses of his glasses. When he was done, he put them on and looked blankly around. "What girl, my dear?"

"That one—" Ellen turned toward the forest again, but all she could see were the trees— "over there," she finished lamely.

"You saw someone in the woods?"

"I thought I did, yes."

"Well, it wouldn't be unusual. People hike across these fields and along the coast all the time. You will have to get used to seeing strangers gawping up at the Keep."

"Do they come armed with bows and arrows?"

"If they are hunting small game, yes. Firing a shotgun or a rifle tends to bring out the game wardens, especially on private property. Because we are so isolated here, I'm afraid there are some who disregard the signs that clearly state ‘no hunting.' And without an owner in residence, I expect some of the local villagers have taken full advantage."

Ellen frowned slightly. "I suppose you're right. It just seems odd, in this day and age. The bow and arrow, I mean."

"Bows are quite common when hunting grouse and quail, even rabbit. Saves chipping a tooth on a ball of buckshot after it's cooked. Not so different from methods of hunting centuries ago. As well, long bows and crossbows would have been the weapon of choice for defending a castle like Mercy Keep against an attacking force. Come, we can walk across the bridge so you might get a sense of appreciation for the defenses that would have been in place."

He crunched away over the gravel, chattering to himself. Ellen took one long, last look over her shoulder at the forest. But there was nothing to see aside from the trees and the long, swaying grasses that rippled like ocean waves across the moor.

She caught up to Ethan on the bridge, where he had paused to peer over the wooden rail at the grassy indent of the moat below .

"It would have been much deeper than this, of course. And filled with spiked timbers whether it was flooded or not."

They continued on, side by side, stopping again beneath the stone arch to stared up at the iron teeth of the spiked portcullis that was suspended overhead.

"Quite harmless," Wormsley said. "The iron bars were cemented in place some time in the past. You might, however, take note of the family crest carved into the capstone. Unfortunately, the wind and weather have worn this example almost smooth over the centuries, but you can still make out the shapes of the wolf and the dragon. You will see replications of the crest in many places throughout the old sections of the castle. Quite an ancient coat of arms dating back to the Norman baron who built the castle. The castle itself was originally called Bloodmoor Keep so named because of the crimson flowers that bloom on the moor in the spring. Knights returning from the Crusades likened it to a sea of blood."

Ellen shivered. "What a gruesome thought."

Wormsley nodded. "Perhaps why the designation was changed to Mercy Keep when the manor was used as a hospital for recuperating soldiers."

He walked on and resumed his role as tour guide, swinging the tip of his umbrella to point out the round openings in the ceiling over their heads.

"Hellholes through which any manner of missiles could be dropped. The battlements would also have been fitted with overhanging projections through which pots of burning pitch or red-hot stones could be poured. Quite bloodthirsty, these medieval warlords. They protected what was theirs, make no mistake."

They walked out from under the darkened archway and into the warmer sunlight on the other side, where Wormsley pointed out the large metal gears of the winch that would have been used to raise and lower the drawbridge.

"Bit heavy for someone to make off with in the middle of the night, though I have no doubt they tried."

The white gravel road ran straight for a hundred yards then curved off to the left through a wide green field.

At the far side of the field, the driveway split into a wide Y. One branch led up the slope, through a wide strip of trees to where the castle sat silently crouched behind a wall of trees, only the upper storeys and crenellated rooftops showing from this angle.

The other arm of the driveway circled around a large reflecting pool with banks of willows on either side and a fountain in the centre spraying up fans of sparkling water. Behind the pool and above a landscaped tier of gardens, was the manor house, which might not have been the size or grandeur of the mansion featured on a currently popular television series, but to Ellen, it was intimidating nonetheless. Two very tall storeys presented long banks of six-paned mullioned windows that reflected the afternoon sunlight like scores of glittering mirrors.

"Forty-two rooms," Wormsley informed her, his footsteps crunching on the fine gravel. "Not counting the bathrooms or the servants' quarters belowstairs, of course."

"Of course," she half-whispered to herself.

"As you can no doubt appreciate, both the manor and the keep are popular locations for photographers who constantly and incessantly make applications for bridal parties. Your grandparents began the tradition of only granting permission to brides who could not afford anything grander than a ceremony at a civil court. For them, the grounds, the catering, even the refreshments were provided free of charge."

Filing away this further small insight into her family's character, Ellen glanced at Wormsley. She was still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that she might own all of this magnificence… if she could force herself to live here in such blatant squalor for a year and a day.

She snorted at her own sarcasm.

"Did you say something, my dear?"

"I sort of said to myself: everything is so lovely. So peaceful. So… grand."

"Try to imagine it without the house, the gardens, the pond. Where we are standing now, this would have been training grounds for the knights to practice jousting, swordplay, archery, battle tactics. At one time there would have been a proper village built inside these walls to house the builders and bakers and candlestick makers. There would have been stables and barracks for a thousand men as well as pens for livestock and gardens for growing food. Bloodmoor was quite self-sustaining; in the event of a siege the residents could hold out for months, years if need be.

"The castle stands as a grand example of medieval architecture. If or when you are curious enough to go exploring, you will find huge drafty chambers in their most basic state, where one wonders how the residents survived without perishing from pneumonia or chilblains.

"By contrast, the manor house was built in the time of Elizabeth I, and has been continually restored, refurbished, and updated through the generations as necessary. You will be happy to know there are flush toilets and two gourmet kitchens."

Ellen thought of her tiny kitchen in the apartment. The stove had two burners, the oven only worked when it wanted to, the fridge was so old Payton figured another few years they could sell it as an antique.

"Shall we return to the car?"

"Could we walk? It is such a lovely day and the grounds are so beautiful."

"Indeed, they are. Your grandmother was quite fastidious about the outward appearance of Mercy Keep, as evidenced by the landscaping; the addition of trees and flower gardens."

Ellen looked at him, horrified. "I know absolutely nothing about gardening."

"Neither did Henry. But you have nothing to worry about," Wormsley assured her. "Mercy has a full-time staff of gardeners as well as a head groundskeeper. I believe the household staff numbers twelve now, not counting the other somewhat permanent resident I mentioned before: Professor Chase. He was originally hired on a temporary basis to do some exploring around the nooks and crannies of the castle, as well as consult on any restoration work needed on the manor, but Henry enjoyed his company so much he was invited to stay on in a permanent position. He has been an exceptional asset when dealing with the periodic hysteria from the local historical society, so I saw no reason to change his situation. What is more, he loves this place as if it was his own and will argue vehemently against making any alterations he does not agree should be made. He also has a knack of appearing out of thin air by the very act of thinking about him. Case in point."

Ellen followed the direction of Wormsley's umbrella and saw a horse and rider cantering along the side of the driveway toward them. Her idea of a professor of archaeology was a scholarly type with smudged spectacles, always dressed in crumpled clothes, and perpetually covered with dust. The man coming down the slope toward them had longish dark hair, and was wearing a white shirt and faded denim jeans that were frayed at the knees. His shirt was open at the throat and the sleeves were rolled up over muscular forearms bronzed by the sun.

When he was close enough, he reined the big chestnut beast to a halt and slipped easily out of the saddle.

Wormsley raised a hand in greeting. "Benjamin, my boy! As you can see, we have arrived somewhat ahead of schedule."

"By a full day," the professor said, leading the horse toward them. "Abigail was not at all pleased to get the call from the postmistress as you drove through the village."

"Bah. The Dragon has her spies everywhere. Professor Benjamin Chase, may I present Miss Ellen Bowe, Henry's niece and hopefully, if we do not frighten her away, the new mistress of Mercy Keep."

Benjamin held out a hand, noticed the riding glove and quickly removed it before extending again. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Bowe. And please, just call me Ben. Someone says professor and I look behind me for some old fool in coveralls and a slouch hat."

Ellen's cheeks warmed, having had that exact image in her mind.

She smiled and shook his hand. "Only if you call me Ellen, please."

Ben's hand was big and warm, with a firm, comfortable grip that lingered. He was tall, in good proportion to the breadth of his shoulders. Up close, his hair was a deep chestnut brown, thick and wavy to his shoulders. Long lashes framed eyes that were the color of dark honey. He had a couple of days worth of stubble on his very square jaw with smooth sable chest hairs showing through the deep vee of his open shirt.

In his early thirties, she guessed, and definitely not hard to look at, although at the moment, he seemed to be the one staring.

He was still holding her hand, and a moment before it became awkward, something made a connection in his mind and he released his grip. "I do beg your pardon. Quite rude of me to stare, but—" He looked at Wormsley, who was grinning like a peacock.

"The resemblance is quite remarkable, is it not?" Ethan asked.

Ellen looked from one man to the other. "Am I missing something?"

"All will be explained soon enough, my dear. Come along, come along. We mustn't keep the Dragon Lady waiting any longer than necessary or she may punish us with her version of shepherd's pie. She hasn't poisoned anyone with it… yet… but a few have had quite violent morning-after expulsions, if you catch my meaning. As for us arriving ahead of schedule, do not let her intimidate you. You are the owner now. She works for you, not the other way around.

"Benjamin, if you wouldn't mind, Miss Bowe has elected to walk the rest of the way and we have left Veronica and Rodney in the car on the other side of the gate and lord knows what she might do to traumatize the boy. Perhaps you can tell my nephew to drive around to the garages and arrange for the bags to be brought inside?"

"Of course." He tapped a finger against his brow by way of a salute, gave Ellen another long, curious look, then swung himself up into the saddle again, clucking his tongue softly to prompt the horse into moving forward to the bridge.

Ellen followed his progress, thinking of all those young men who believed it was fashionable to wear their pants hanging half off their butts and loose enough to fit an entire basketball team. They should see the way a real man wore jeans.

"That is quite the magnificent stallion, what?" Wormsley said.

Ellen was fairly certain he meant the horse, but still… she felt a puerile blush start to creep up her throat. "He certainly is."

"Coming, my dear?"