Haunted Ground (12 page)

“I know, I know,” Reverend Pole said with a chuckle.  “Not the kind of book you’d expect a reverend to have, much less to pass on, but some merchant surrendered it to me when he claimed to find faith again, thinking this would somehow buy him the Lord’s forgiveness.  I told him I’d throw it on the fire, but I could never destroy a book, any book.  Besides, Mr. Chaucer is rather witty, wouldn’t you say?  I must confess, I read a few pages.” 

The Canterbury Tales
were known for their bawdy wit and wry observations, but Brendan was still shocked that a man of the cloth would enjoy them.  He was grateful, however, for something to read, especially something that would lighten his mood.  It was nice to know that the reverend had a sense of humor as well as a mischievous side
—
it made him more human.

“Thank you, Reverend.  I will treasure it.”

“Maybe you could read some of the tales to Rowan.  That girl could use a little humor in her life.  Just leave out some of the more wicked parts for propriety’s sake.  They might be too shocking for an innocent maid like her.” 

The reverend rose to his feet as Rowan’s head appeared at the top of the ladder. 

“I’ll bid you good night then,” he said to Brendan before turning to Rowan.  “Will Caleb be coming to collect you?”

Rowan shook her head, indicating that she would walk home on her own.

“Better not stay too late then.  It’s not safe for a young woman to walk alone after dark.”

Brendan wished Rowan would stay for a while, but he wouldn’t dare detain her.  He wanted her to get home safe, so he thanked her for the meal and wished her a good night.  She seemed reluctant to go, but finally nodded and sank into a brief half-curtsy before disappearing down the stairs. 

Over the course of the next week, Rowan came by regularly under the pretense of helping Reverend Pole.  She checked on Brendan’s injuries to make sure they were healing cleanly, and made him food and drink.  She also helped him wash, which left Brendan torn between embarrassment and pleasure.  He liked the way she dipped the cloth in warm water and gently moved it over his body, her fingers brushing his bare flesh like the wings of a butterfly.  Sometimes she hummed while performing this task to diffuse some of the awkwardness caused by such intimacy.  Her voice was low and melodious, the song one of longing and lost love, or so it seemed to Brendan. 

Rowan handed him the cloth after she was finished and turned away while he washed areas that a young girl had no business seeing.  He was thankful for that, as she might have gotten more of an eyeful than she bargained for.  Her ministrations did not go unnoticed by his body, especially since it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. There were whores aplenty to be had if a man had coin or even food to pay with, especially since so many women were reduced to begging and whoring to support their children after losing their men in the wars.  Brendan tried not to succumb to his needs, but sometimes, especially after a battle, he could no longer ignore his throbbing cockstand and had to take care of it in the only way that was available to him.  The couplings were quick and frenzied, and provided some release, but there were no kisses or caresses, and definitely no love.  There’d been nothing even resembling affection since he left Mary, and now he knew what that’d been worth.  Mary’s affections had been transferred to Jasper, or to be more precise, to the sizeable estate Jasper had inherited.

Rowan was the first woman, besides Brendan’s mother and sister, to show him any kindness without expecting payment.  She didn’t just go through the motions of caring for a wounded man, she put her heart into it, her eyes lighting up with joy when she saw progress, and her brow furrowing with concern when Brendan felt warm to the touch or seemed in more pain than before.  She was a sweet and kind girl, and Brendan spent more time than not wondering what had happened to her to make her lose the ability or the desire to speak.  He longed to help her and care for her the way she cared for him.

They seemed to have developed a unique relationship of their own, one he could never have envisioned when he first met her.  Strange, how a person who didn’t utter a word, still spoke volumes.  Every glance, gesture, and silence held its own meaning.  A cocking of the head, a raised eyebrow, a small smile or a pursing of the lips could all convey that which she didn’t actually say.  Brendan learned to watch for every movement, every look, so as not to miss anything that she might want to share with him.  She seemed to like it when he talked, so little by little he told her everything that had been on his mind for the past few years.  He’d been constantly surrounded by men, but putting aside the camaraderie of soldiers, or the company of like-minded individuals who supported a cause, there was no one to really talk to about what was in his heart.

Brendan hadn’t spoken to anyone of his desertion from Cromwell’s army.  He wasn’t sure what she knew of politics, but anyone who’d lived in England for the past few decades knew of the carnage of the Civil War and Cromwell’s ever-evolving agenda.  Like so many others, Rowan had lost her father in the war.  She must have been very young when he died, but one never quite got over losing a parent, especially as a child.  Brendan had a clear recollection of Rowan’s mother from Maisie’s wedding.  She was a beautiful woman, still in her twenties, and many a goodwife at that wedding would have scratched her eyes out for attracting the attentions of her husband.  Delwyn had been surrounded by men asking her to dance; especially the widowers who could only hope to win the affections of such a lovely woman. 

Once Brendan remembered the mother, he remembered Rowan as well.  She’d been a coltish girl of twelve who’d had the misfortune to be bullied by Jasper in a barn.  The poor girl had been so distraught, especially by Jasper’s cruel words, that Brendan took it upon himself to put a smile back on her face.  He’d danced with her around the bonfire, and he remembered the blush on her lean cheeks and the glow of those amazing eyes, as he twirled Rowan around while pretty young maids watched and wondered what possessed him to dance with a child.  Brendan tried to recall the sound of her voice, but couldn’t.  They’d spoken so little, and after, she went off with a smile as he bowed to her and thanked her for the dance.  He’d made her night, or so he thought, being the cocky young buck he was then.  Brendan wondered if he should bring up that night to Rowan, but decided against it.  Whatever happened, happened shortly after, and he didn’t want to remind her of something that robbed her of her speech and trust.  Some things were best left unsaid, so he spoke to her of other things, things that had no power to hurt her.

Rowan liked to sit on the low stool, facing Brendan as he talked.  He wasn’t sure if she realized how the sunlight from the window illuminated her lovely face and set her hair ablaze, stealing his breath away whenever he looked at her.  Her eyes were full of understanding, and at times she laid her hand over his forearm to stop him and ask a question.  At first, he found it odd the way she found a way to ask something without saying a word, but by now he found it amusing, admiring the clever ways she came up with to mimic what she wanted to know.  Just now, she’d put her hand behind her head with four fingers showing behind the cap and then drew a finger across her throat before pointing at him.

“You want to know if I was there when the king was executed?” Brendan asked, hoping that he’d understood her correctly.  She nodded eagerly, so he continued.  “Yes, I was there.  I think that was truly when I felt the first seeds of doubt in my heart.  I was blinded by Cromwell’s vision, by his single-minded desire to change the government of this country, but I never really expected him to go as far as regicide.  The trial of the king was a farce, a witch-hunt for the benefit of the bloodthirsty crowd.  It had already been decided that the king would die, regardless of any promises he made.  I’ve been vehemently opposed to the way he abused his power to the detriment of the people, but to execute the man was sheer barbarism. 

Of course, Cromwell’s logic was that as long as the king remained alive, there’d always be Royalists who would try to put him back on the throne even had he been exiled.”

Rowan rocked an imaginary child in her arms, and Brendan continued.  “You’re right; nothing’s changed.  There are those who want to put his son on the throne and will stop at nothing to achieve their goal.  This country is used to having a king, and with all the powers Cromwell has been granting himself, he might as well be one.  There are those who believe that before long he will crown himself king and then all this bloodshed would’ve been for naught.”

Brendan stopped as a shadow passed over Rowan’s face.  She was watching him intently, staring at his chest.

“What is it?  I don’t understand,” he said, suddenly worried about what she was thinking.  Rowan just pointed to him and then pointed two fingers at his chest as if firing a gun.

“You think they might execute me for deserting?  Aye, I suppose that’s always a possibility, although I think Cromwell has his hands full with the Irish and Scots at the moment.  I don’t think finding one disillusioned follower is a priority for him, although I must admit that he has a long memory and is merciless to anyone he perceives to be opposed to him.”  Brendan smiled at her grim face.  “Cromwell has bigger fish to fry.  Have you heard of John Lilburne?” he asked, noting no sign of recognition in her eyes.

“You might have heard of him as “Freeborn John.”  Some people call him a Leveller, but he doesn’t like that title since what he’s advocating is not so much leveling the rights of land ownership, but the rights of all men.  He believes that all men have “freeborn rights,” which are not the same as the rights granted by a government or a monarch.  He preaches that all men are equal in the eyes of God, and should be before the law.  An odd notion for some, especially the nobility, but makes perfect sense if you think about it.  Of course, John Lilburne’s ideas are downright conservative compared to the Ranters.” 

Brendan smiled at her perplexed expression.  He was probably filling her head with a lot of nonsense, but he didn’t believe that a woman should live in ignorance, and Rowan seemed eager to know.  He’d tried to explain to her about the various groups that had formed over the past few decades: the Levellers, the Diggers, the Ranters, and some others which he hadn’t even bothered to mention. 

Rowan touched his arm, eager for him to continue.  He hadn’t even realized that he’d grown quiet, suddenly acutely aware of how absurd all this sounded, even to him who’d experienced these things firsthand.

“The Ranters are a group of people who believe that God is in everything: every tree, flower, and creature.  They reject the authority of the Church as a representative of God.  The Church has labeled them as heretics.  In truth, they’re a dangerous element as they don’t believe in the laws of men and claim that sin is a product of the imagination.  What do you think of that?” he asked, not wanting to delve deeper into the doctrine of the Ranters.  He’d met a prominent member named Laurence Clarkson last year in London and had a discourse with him over a pint of ale, walking away more confused and opposed to the group than he had been before the conversation.

“I can accept the idea of equal land ownership and God-given rights of men, but I can’t agree with the notion that sin is just an illusion.  If you do away with right and wrong, what’s left to keep people from killing, raping, and shirking their responsibilities?”

He almost laughed at the raised eyebrows and pursed lips that this comment met with.  Then Rowan just rolled her eyes in exasperation at his obtuseness as she tried to mimic what she wanted to say.

“You’re right, of course; people have been doing that since the beginning of time.  Cromwell is certainly not a Ranter, but the amount of killing and pillaging that took place in Ireland, and lately in Scotland, is enough to sicken even those who have no heart or compassion left in them.  Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a skilled opponent in a political debate?” he asked, making her giggle.  She was so pretty when she smiled, and her face was softened by happiness.  Brendan reached out and grabbed her wrist, but she deftly pulled it away, giving him a look of reproach.  She nodded toward the ladder to indicate it was time for her to go, but Brendan wasn’t ready to part with her yet.

“Will you sing to me?” he asked in a desperate attempt to keep her from leaving, but Rowan just shook her head and gave him one last smile before disappearing down the ladder.  She had to return home, especially since her chores at Reverend Pole’s were complete, and she was needed around the house to help Aunt Joan.  Brendan could smell the stew she’d made for their supper and his mouth watered at the thought.  He was always hungry these days.  Maybe it was because his body was slowly recovering, or because he had too much time to think.

The Present

After nearly two hours of being shooed out of the way by the workers, I decided that I might as well get out of their hair and make better use of my time.  I would take a walk into town and stop in at the bookstore that had been closed when I came in for supplies yesterday.  I’d find some literature to bone up on local history, and maybe find an interesting tidbit or two to include on my future website and brochure.  I would also see if I might find something at the library about the history of the ruin behind my house.

I walked at a brisk pace down the lane, feeling as if I were on an adventure.  The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted by puffy white clouds that looked as if they were painted on by a clever artist.  They floated lazily across the sky, their shadows scuttling across the lush landscape and the verdant hills in the distance.  I wished I’d brought my camera so that I could take a few pictures for the website, but there was plenty of time.  The summer had just begun and there would be many gorgeous, sunny days in the months to come.

It was nearly noon on a Tuesday, so all the shops were open; several vans making deliveries, and village women strolling down the street with their shopping baskets and small children.  A few teenage boys raced past me on bikes, nearly splattering me with dirty water from a nearby puddle.  Laughter and shrieks could be heard from a daycare across the street where the children were out, enjoying the playground and the glorious weather.  A few passersby cast curious glances my way, but I simply smiled in greeting and continued to my destination.  I was just passing the estate agent’s office when I was waylaid by Paula, who was immaculately dressed in a wraparound print dress with matching pumps.

“Lexi, pleasure to see you.  How’re you getting on?”  She was totally sober this morning, but still perky and gregarious.  I supposed this was all part of her salesperson persona, but today I wasn’t in the mood to be engaged. 

“I’m well, thank you,” I replied, but didn’t stop. 

“Lexi, wait.  It’s almost noon.  Would you like to join me for a quick bite?” she asked as she checked her watch.

I didn’t mean to lash out, but her breezy attitude suddenly made me angry.  “Why didn’t you tell me about Kelly?” I demanded as I turned to face Paula.  She took a step back, surprised by my outburst, but instantly regained her composure and smiled in a conciliatory way. 

“Come inside and we’ll have a chat, Lexi.”  Several women had already stopped on the opposite side of the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what the fuss was about, so I followed Paula into the office and allowed her to shut the door.  Paula took her seat behind the desk and gestured for me to sit across from her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I repeated, annoyed by her cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor.

“And why would I?” Paula asked.  I’d expected excuses, or a half-baked apology, but I didn’t expect that. 

“A woman was murdered in my house, and you didn’t see fit to warn me?  Isn’t there some kind of “full disclosure” clause in your line of work?”

Paula just shrugged and spoke in an even, no-nonsense tone.  “Lexi, you fell in love with that house long before you even dialed my number, so would it really have made any difference?”

She stared me down and I suddenly felt a little foolish.  She was right; it wouldn’t have made a difference.  I knew that house was meant for me from the moment I saw it through the trees, and unless there happened to be a bloody corpse lying on the doorstep when I came to look at it, nothing would have stood in the way of my desire to own it. 

“No,” I conceded, “but I still would have liked to know.”

“And now you know,” Paula answered triumphantly.  “Friends?”

I had to give it to her; she sure knew how to diffuse an argument.  I nodded, but refused to return her smile.  I wasn’t finished. 

“Paula, who did that house in the meadow belong to?”

“What, the old ruin?” She was still smiling, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she suddenly seemed to take on an air of extreme busyness.  She pulled out a few files and began leafing through them as she looked up and finally answered me.  “If you are so determined to find out, I can search the database and check that lot.”  She was probably hoping that I would just tell her to forget it and leave, but I really was curious and not about to pass up an opportunity to see what Paula’s records might reveal.

“Please do,” I replied, refusing to take a hint and leave her in peace.

She turned to her computer and punched a few keys before turning back to me with an expression of false cordiality.  “That parcel of land originally belonged to the Church until it was sold to Bartholomew Hughes in 1677.  It’s been in the Hughes family since.  Why are you so interested anyhow?”

“I’ve heard of the Church buying up land, but I haven’t heard of them selling it.  Why would the Church sell?”

Paula shrugged and turned away from her computer.  “God, Lexi, you’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?” she replied with a forced laugh.  “How would I know why they sold off the land back in the seventeenth century? They just did.  Now, are you coming to lunch or not?”

“Not,” I replied, but gave Paula a grudging smile.  “Maybe some other time, but thank you for the info.”

“Anytime,” Paula replied as I made to leave the office.  She was still smiling, but I was sure she hadn’t told me the whole truth.

I was still thinking about what Paula said as I made my way up the street toward the book shop, hoping it was open this time.  It was one of those little places where shelves and shelves of books were visible through the front window, the storefront reminiscent of something straight out of Dickens.  That was one of the things I found so charming about the village.  A store that was probably built sometime in the eighteenth century and still looked much as it had then, was displaying The Inferno by Dan Brown, and a certain erotic trilogy that had captured the hearts of housewives around the world.  The seamless blending of old and new was something the British really had a talent for, and I hoped to be able to pull it off once I’d opened my doors for business.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, disturbing the somnolent atmosphere of the place and bringing an elderly gentleman from the back room.  He smiled broadly as he approached, the smile freezing on his thin lips as he saw my face.  I glanced behind me to see what he was staring at, but there was nothing there except the door.

“Good afternoon,” I said, feeling exposed under the man’s curious gaze. 

“Ah, yes, good afternoon,” he mumbled, still staring at me as if he’d seen a ghost.  “How may I be of assistance?”

I told him what I wanted, but he didn’t move right away.  He just stood there studying me with that odd expression.  “So, you found your way back, have you?” he suddenly asked, looking instantly embarrassed.  He turned away before I could reply, shuffling to a shelf toward the back, his shoulders tense underneath his cardigan. 

“I stopped by yesterday, but you were closed,” I offered as he handed me a few books on the history of Lincolnshire.  The man looked momentarily confused by my answer, but then regained his composure and gave me an apologetic smile. 

“That’s not really what I meant, but I must have mistaken you for someone else.  It’s just that the resemblance is uncanny, you understand.  My mistake,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. 

“Resemblance to whom?”

“Kelly, Kelly Hughes.”  He averted his eyes as if he’d said too much and concentrated on giving me my change from an old-fashioned till and placing the books into a plastic bag.

“I bought the Hughes house,” I mumbled, suddenly upset.  Yesterday I’d never even heard of Kelly Hughes, and suddenly, she was on everyone’s lips.

“Yes, I’d heard.  Well, much luck to you then.”  The man bowed his head slightly and walked toward the back without so much as a backward glance.  I shrugged and took my purchase, stepping back out into the street.

My next stop was the library.  It was a small, low building, boasting a number of scarred bookshelves and a few round tables with chairs for readers.  I noticed several teenage girls poring over the latest fashion magazines, and a woman with two small children who were fighting over a picture book as their mother tried to shush them.  The librarian threw the woman a look of annoyance before turning her attention to me.  Strangely, she had a similar reaction to the owner of the shop, but she didn’t stare as openly.

“How can I help, dear?” she asked, her fingers twisting a ring on her finger, round and round. 

“I was wondering if you might have some information on the ruin behind the Hughes house.  I’ve just bought it and wanted to learn something about the history of the estate.”  The librarian gave me a sad smile, her eyes full of sympathy.

“Of course you do,” she said, patting my hand.  “Perfectly understandable.  Now, let me see what I can find for you.” 

She walked off, leaving me somewhat confused.  My initial reaction had been to think that people were wary of strangers, especially American ones, but why did they look at me with pity?  Was there something I should know about the house?  Did they think it was haunted? 

The librarian returned to her desk, carrying a yellowed scroll.  “I’m afraid I don’t have much, just an old map showing the village as it had been during the seventeenth century when the house was built.  The map dates back to the late 1600s.”  She unrolled the scroll, showing me the crude drawing.  “Here’s the house, the stream, and some outbuildings.  I’m not sure if this is what you were hoping to find.”  I gazed at the map, disappointed by the lack of information.  This didn’t tell me anything about who lived in the house or what happened to them. 

“Do you know anything about the ruin or who lived there?” I persisted.

The woman shrugged.  “It has no historical significance, if that’s what you mean.  Just an old house that fell into disrepair.  I suppose once the big house was built, no one wanted to live in that hovel.” 

I thanked her and left, leaving the scroll behind.  It wouldn’t do me any good to study the location of the outbuildings.  I had to admit that I was perplexed by her reaction.  I didn’t know much of the ways of these people, but I knew that families tended to stay on the same land for generations.  Even if the family had died, there would have been some relations in or around town, someone who might have ties to those long-ago people who inhabited the house.  If I could at least get a name.  I stepped back into the street, feeling discouraged and aimless.