Chapter Five

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."

Brady shot her a disgusted look. "He just shot an arrow, P.C., he didn't jump on a dragon and stick his sword down its gullet."

Grayson grinned at them, the vision at last disappearing. "All I know is Storne Hope was now safe. And do you know why?" Pause, he deepened his voice. "It's because the castle is magic, just as the man and woman were a wizard and a witch. But they knew evil would come again, it always did. Was the castle's magic strong enough to keep them safe? Were they strong enough? They didn't believe so. They had to do something. What would you do?"

P.C. whispered, "I would tell them to call Thomas Straithmore, of course. He can vanquish all sorts of evil."

P.C. knew Thomas Straithmore was Grayson's fictional hero, a fighter of evil demons and their otherworldly beings, but still—

"That's right," Grayson said, patted her cheek, and rose. What had really happened at Storne Hope long ago? Had the woman killed the man or had he killed her? Was she Lady Hilda? Or was his own mind simply dishing him up a scary story with two vastly different endings? He'd have to ask Max if he'd heard stories like this. Maybe there were Strickland genealogical records from that long-ago time. Was Storne Hope magic? But he did see—what exactly? He tried to recall what he'd seen, but it was shrouded in white, indistinct, retreating.

Pip said, "Papa, what were the man and the lady arguing about?"

Trust Pip and his formidable memory. "I really don't know, Pip, I couldn't hear their words. Now, come along to luncheon and I'll tell you what I know about the new earl. You will like him." He paused, grinned. "When I knew him at Oxford, he was wild as the wind." That certainly hit the right note. Grayson hadn't seen Max in several years. Had he changed and become a staid peer?

When Grayson picked up his spoon to taste Mrs. Elvan's fresh cucumber soup, he paused, smiling at the three children, all busily piling butter and gooseberry jam on Mrs. Elvan's warm honey-filled buns. He said, "The earl's family name is Strickland, his name is Thomas Oliver Maxwell, but he's always been called Max. Before his father's death, he was Viscount Ives. We were both in Christ Church at Oxford. I am three years older than Max and met him when he first arrived at eighteen." He started to tell them about Max's adventures at Oxford, then wisely stopped himself. He cleared his throat.