Chapter 8

8

A black stretch limousine was waiting for them when they pulled into the Nottingham train station and Wormsley took a few moments with the porter to arrange the transfer of their bags, most of which belonged to Veronica. She had brought four large pieces of luggage with her, suggesting she planned well ahead for every and any occasion.

Ethan stepped off the train, settled his bowler on his head and smiled at Ellen.

"I thought you might like to walk around the Market Square and stretch a bit. There are some quaint shops, as well as a library and one of the oldest pubs in England: The Bell Inn. From the central square you can see where the old castle used to be situated atop the promontory. Alas, there is nothing left of the medieval structure that once dominated the town. Visitors are often disappointed to see a mere manor house on castle rock, made into a museum with painted cardboard depictions of forests and outlaws. There is a massive effort underway by the historical society to reconstruct part of the castle, but one shudders to think of the cost of such an undertaking or the years it might take to complete it.

"If you look in the opposite direction, across the Trent River, you can just make out the ruins of a smaller castle. Adding to the list of unusual names, it might amuse you to know the town that grew up around it bore the forgettable name of Snottingham. It was built by an Anglian family called Snot, which, contrary to present day connotations, meant ‘wise'." He paused and chuckled. "With ‘ham' meaning home and adding the possessive ‘ing', one could take the piss and translate it into ‘the home of our wise snot'."

Ellen could not help herself. She laughed loud enough for several passersby to smile, then to laugh along with her despite not knowing the cause. For someone still suffering from jet lag and information overload, it was a welcome release. Ethan seemed to sense it was so and chuckled again, quite proud of himself for the jest.

"From Nottingham," Wormsley continued, "we shall conduct the remainder of our journey by car. We could stay on board as far as Lincoln Central, but because there are no direct trains from there to our final destination, it has always been far more practical to simply carry on from here with the motor. Roughly two hours in all, wherein you will have the opportunity to enjoy the view of the countryside as we travel through it. Trains tend to make everything fly past in a blur, what?"

"To be honest, Mr. Wormsley, pretty much everything since I arrived in London has passed in a blur. I feel the need to keep pinching myself to make sure all of his is real and not just some very long, involved dream."

"Quite understandable, my dear. Quite understandable. And do call me Ethan. Oh, and I took the liberty of clearing the credit card charges you made this morning while you were shopping. Can't have you spending your own good money. Not yet anyway," he added with a wink.

"How did you know…?"

"He has ‘is spies everywhere, dearie," Veronica said. "I vow he knows what color knickers I put on every mornin'."

Wormsley grimaced. "Now that is, indeed, a frightful accusation, Ronnie, for I ceased to have any interest in your knickers after you married my business partner."

"Rest his soul," they said in unison.

"Not that it stopped ‘im from lookin' up me skirts any chance he got," she added with a toothy grin.

"We shall leave you with the car while Miss Bowe and I wander about the square," Wormsley declared. "Do try not to seduce the driver, Ronnie dear. He's my nephew and quite unaccustomed to fending off the advances of older women."

"He should be ‘arf so lucky," Veronica muttered under her breath. She reapplied a layer of red lipstick and was left to direct the porter to the right car.

"She is a trial at times," Wormsley said on a sigh, "but quite irreplaceable. This I know, because I've tried."

They strolled along the granite paving stones for over an hour, with Wormsley acting as tour guide explaining how the square had been renovated with new fountains, terraces and flower gardens. There was a long wading pool for children and open-air bars where pedestrians could sit and enjoy the sunshine. They stopped at a small café to make use of the restrooms and buy a box of cakes and, feeling very touristy, Ellen bought a castle-shaped tin full of biscuits.

When he caught her staring up at Castle Rock, Wormsley suggested they might take a drive up so could explore the museum.

"I would really much rather just continue on, if that is okay with you."

"My dear, whatever you wish is perfectly fine with me. Ah, and here we are back where we started. I see my nephew, but where the devil is Veronica?"

The young man overheard the question and pointed across the busy street. "Mrs. Ogilvy asked me to tell you she is in the book store across the way."

"How long has she been in there?"

"Since the bags were put in the boot, Uncle."

Wormsley sighed. "We shall have to go and drag her out. She cannot pass a book store without filling a half dozen bags."

"I wouldn't mind peeking inside," Ellen said. "They might have a reference section."

"Ah yes, our little mystery regarding the Archbishop. Because it vexes me, I have endeavored not to think about it too much until we have a chance to gather more information."

"I did do a search last night on the internet, via my phone, but I didn't look farther than a quick biography and a basic history."

They walked across the street and entered the book store. For having a rather narrow frontage, the area was deceptively large inside with every spare foot crammed full of shelves and towering cases, some stacked two and three piles thick with books. Each aisle was hardly more than a narrow walkway and there were even books arranged on the risers of a circular stairway leading up to another level. It smelled of dust and centuries-old wood floors that were literally worn in shallow indentations from the passage of thousands of shuffling feet.

While Wormsley went in search of Veronica, Ellen approached the elderly gentleman behind the counter. He looked to be nearing eighty but wore a brown leather vest over a balloon-sleeved shirt, and skin-tight green pants with tall cuffed boots. A peaked felt hat with a feather jutting up from the brim sat on his head.

He watched her approach with a ready smile and peered at her over a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles as he doffed his cap. "Will'um Scarlet at your service, milady. Is there something I might help you with?"

She returned his smile. "Would you happen to have any books on Stephen Langton? He was—"

"The Archbishop of Canterbury between 1207 and 1228. A great man who stood on the field at Runnymede in 1215 when the barons forced King John to sign the Magna Carta, limiting the powers of a king from that day forth. And how refreshing to have someone not ask for a Robin Hood tome."

"Robin Hood is intriguing; I do love all of the stories that go into making the legend, but Langton was real and interests me more at the moment."

He feigned a gasp of shock. "You don't believe our Robin was real? How would you feel if I told you I thought Billy the Kid was a legend? See now," he grinned and winked, "there are legends and there are legends . Follow me, if you will. I'm certain we have something that will suit."

Without further ado, the costumed outlaw guided her through the narrow aisles until he came to a dusty section at the rear of the store. The sign over the shelves said Religious Studies, and he ran a finger across the spines of two rows worth of books until he found the one he wanted. "This is a Uni textbook, but it contains the Archbishop's biography, his papers, his troubles with the king and the pope, and should cover just about everything you might want to know about him without reading an in-depth thesis."

Thinking of his words about there being legends she took a shot in the dark. "Would you happen to know if there are any books that mention an Enndolynn Ware? Or a Cecily Ware? They were reputed to be witches back in the thirteenth century."

"Half of England was reputed to be filled with witches, dearie, so said the religious zealots of the day. As you can imagine, not much survives from the thirteenth century that has not been fictionalized beyond recognition." He removed his glasses, wiped them on a hanky, and replaced them. As he did so, Ellen could almost hear the rolodex of catalogue cards flipping through his mind. One of them clicked into place and he waggled a forefinger, leading her through another maze of bookshelves. Once again, he seemed to know exactly where to look and where to stop his hand as it danced across the spines of books listed in a rather large section under the signage denoting Lore, Legends. Two books were selected and passed into her hands.

"I confess I am not familiar with the names you mentioned. But if there is any reference to them, you might find it in one of these books of chansons de geste —songs of exploits—passed down through the ages from one generation of bards and storytellers to the next. Witches were a particularly popular subject."

Behind them, Ellen could hear Wormsley and Veronica bickering their way to the front desk.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Thank you, no. This should be sufficient for the time being."

Will'um Scarlet bowed gallantly and excused himself. Ellen followed a few moments later, pausing briefly when a third sign caught her eye: Pagan Rites, Spells, Witchcraft. One book in particular, with a bright red leather spine, stood out from the array of mood-inspiring browns, grays, midnight blues:

The Serious Book of Spells

Not to be Treated as a Party Favor, Peril will Ensue!

How could the descendant of an accused witch possibly have resisted?

Wormsley insisted on paying for everything, despite Ellen's protests. She was learning not to argue with the solicitor or his assistant, especially where money was concerned. There appeared to be quite a generous allowance provided for ‘sundry' expenses, although whether it extended to covering Veronica's twenty romance novels, she preferred not to speculate.

Will'um Scarlet parceled her books first and, because the shop was crowded and a line was forming at the cash, she took her bag and walked outside. She stepped to one side as a portly gentleman smiled and made his way past her, and a flash of sunlight in the bookstore window caught her eye. The flash was reflecting off the face of an ornate lamppost on the other side of the street. Ellen was about to turn away when she noticed a girl standing beside the post. She was tall and slender, with long blonde hair burnished almost silver by the sunlight. Her hair shielded most of her face, which was in profile, but she was dressed in what appeared to be a costume… leather pants and a brown tunic belted around the waist. Having just met one of Robin Ho od's merry men selling books, Ellen assumed there were all manner of costumed characters walking around Nottingham.

She smiled and reached for her phone to snap a picture… but when she turned around, the girl was gone. There was no one standing by the lamppost. Nor could she see anyone dressed in costume moving down either side of the boardwalk.

Behind her, Wormsley and Veronica came bickering their way out the shop door.

"We have a two-hour drive before us," Ethan declared. "And Veronica has insisted she cannot endure it without lunch. "If you have no objection…?"

Ellen cast a final glance down the street. "No, no objection."

"Excellent! There happens to be a charming old pub close by that has been here for the past three hundred years!"

"'Opefully the food han't been sittin' around that long," Veronica said. "I could do with a nice bit o' kidney pie an' chips."

The Bell Inn was as atmospheric as Wormsley promised, with heavily scarred wooden booths and a low ceiling criss-crossed with old beams. The seating was snug but the food was excellent and plentiful and once again Ellen found herself eating far too much and enjoying every savory mouthful. Thinking of her new clothing purchases, some of which fit her slender figure within a breath of being considered tight, she resisted ordering desert. Neither Wormsley or Veronica showed the same restraint and, three hours after disembarking at Nottingham Station, they were rolled into the limousine and heading north, with two of the three passengers groaning and protesting over too-full bellies.

Both were lulled into sleep within the half hour, leaving Ellen attempting with little success to catch glimpses of the countryside through the thick, eight-foot-high hedgerows that grew on either side of the road.