Haunted Ground (2 page)

September 1650

England

Brendan Carr pulled his hat lower over his face in a futile attempt to keep the moisture out of his eyes.  The sheets of rain that came down almost horizontally soaked him to the bone hours ago and rivulets of rainwater ran down every surface, including the flanks of his horse and straight into his well-worn boots.  Brendan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to get his bearings, but the fog was so thick he could barely make out the outline of the hills in the distance, especially since they looked as if they’d been wrapped in gray wool by the thick clouds that hung so low you could almost reach out and touch them. 

Brendan looked around in desperation, his eyes searching for anything that could pass for shelter.  He was way past feeling wet and cold, but the gnawing hunger in his belly reminded him that it was time to stop.  He didn’t have much food, but he desperately needed rest, or he would just fall asleep astride and slide off his sodden horse, most likely without even noticing.  Falling off his horse was the least of his problems, he thought grimly as he listened to the windswept landscape around him.   There was no sign of pursuit, but that could change at any moment, leaving him helpless and clearly visible; well, maybe not clearly, but still visible, in this barren valley.   He’d been traveling for nearly a week now, but it had been slow going with him lying low whenever soldiers were in the area.  It couldn’t be far now, but the landscape didn’t look familiar and the weather was slowing his progress to a crawl. 

Brendan sighed and dug his heels into the horse’s skinny ribs but got no response from the poor animal.   Iver was just as tired and hungry as he was himself, ambling along at a glacial pace despite Brendan’s urging to move faster.  Just a little while longer, he told himself as he closed his eyes for just a few moments, feeling as if he might never open them again.   But as soon as he closed his eyes, he saw images of carnage; bodies bloodied and mangled, their limbs at odd angles as they lay dead or dying in the field.  Several horses wandered around, their eyes wild in their heads and their nostrils flaring at the smell of fresh blood and churned earth.

Countless Roundheads walked through the field, driving their steel into anyone they thought might still be alive, and robbing the corpses, grabbing anything of value that they might use or sell.  Brendan wasn’t sure how many were dead, but it was thousands, the field strewn with corpses of Scots and Englishmen alike.  The Battle of Dunbar had been a resounding victory for Oliver Cromwell, the rebellion squashed and Scottish forces decimated.  In the distance, Brendan could see the columns of prisoners who were heckled and beaten by the soldiers before they were led away to God knew where.  Some of them wouldn’t make it through the night, but many would be sold on to be shipped to the Colonies as indentured servants and worked to death before they died of disease and hardship.  That was their lot for being Papists and proclaiming their support for King Charles II.

Brendan had joined the New Model Army four years ago, going from a simple cavalry soldier to captain within two years.  The Self-Denying Ordinance of 1645 by which lords and members of the House of Commons could no longer hold military positions, had served him well, making moving up through the ranks easier, especially for someone who came from landed gentry.  Had Brendan been a peasant, he’d still be a nobody, making two shillings a day to risk his life and live like vermin, but he was an officer, respected and better paid, if not better fed. Which made his desertion that much more visible.  He hadn’t meant to desert, hadn’t planned to flee, but something inside him broke as he looked at that battlefield.  He simply couldn’t take another moment of this senseless slaughter; couldn’t take another life without believing that what he was doing was just and ordained by God.  He turned his horse southward and just kept going, hoping that his absence would not be noticed amid the chaos and smoke. 

The thought of homecoming wasn’t particularly pleasant either as Brendan would have to eat crow once his father heard of the desertion of his post.  Wilfred Carr had forbidden his son to go when he proclaimed his support for Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth.  Wilfred threatened and bullied him, but Brendan had been adamant and even recruited a few men from the estate to join him.  They were all gone now, killed in various battles over the last few years.  He wasn’t ashamed of his desire to fight, but of his failure to bring the men home and keep them safe. 

“Stay out of it, boy,” his father had said, wagging a calloused finger in Brendan’s face.  “Kings come and go, but ‘tis the common man who pays the price, aye?  Your place is here.  As my heir, you owe me your obedience and respect, and I forbid you to go.  England has been decimated by Civil War and Oliver Cromwell has no intention of stopping the slaughter.  He’s executed the king, for heaven’s sake.  Do you think he won’t massacre anyone who stands in the way of his Commonwealth?  Let Charles II raise his army and fight his battles, but you don’t need to be the one to fight against him.  And the Papists…  What bearing do poor Irish farmers or wealthy Scottish barons have on our lives?  Let them practice their papistry to their heart’s content.  I won’t lose a son to the likes of them. ”

“My conscience demands it, Father.”  Brendan had tried to explain, but his father bid him to be silent.

“Damn your conscience.  You’ll die for naught on some battlefield and crows will peck out your eyes.  We are isolated enough here that it doesn’t matter who’s in power, be it Cromwell or King Charlie.  We will survive as long as we keep our heads down.  Now go about your chores and mind your sire.”  He patted Brendan on the shoulder signaling forgiveness.  His father often said that he admired his fire, but thought little of his desire to fight.  Wilfred was pragmatic to the bone, his first priority keeping his family and holdings safe.

Brendan sighed, his shoulders dropping even lower with fatigue and defeat.  Maybe his father had been right all along.  Cromwell had crossed into Scotland with 16,000 troops and the backing of the fleet, ready to squash the rebellion and possibly annex Scotland to the Commonwealth in the process.  The killing Brendan witnessed was like nothing he’d ever seen before.  Principle was all well and good, but now thousands of families had lost their menfolk, left to fend for themselves and face the coming winter.  How would they survive, all those wives and fatherless children?  Who would care for them?  They were the true price of war.  These Scottish families would be left to starve, and worse, left at the mercy of the Roundheads who would roam the countryside.

Brendan turned the horse in the direction of an outcropping of rock that rose high into the ominous clouds; the surface slick with rain, and gnarled roots and branches protruding from the cracks, dripping and limp.  It took him a while to find it, but he finally spotted it among the brambles – a fissure in the rock, a crevice really, but enough for him to enter and bring the horse.  The cave smelled damp and earthy, the interior dark as a moonless night, but it was shelter and a place to lie down for a while and sleep.  Some roots were poking through the rock, hanging overhead and pulling at his clothes as he lowered his head to advance further into the cave.  The roots were dry, so at least he could make a little fire and warm himself for a bit before settling in for the night. 

The fire sent shifting shadows dancing on the walls of the cave, filling the small space with the smell of smoke and burning wood and making Brendan’s coat steam as it began to dry.  He pulled off his boots, emptying them of water, and set them by the fire before turning to his meager meal: a stale heel of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a half-empty bottle of ale was all he had left, but it would tide him over until he got home, hopefully tomorrow.  Brendan bit into the bread, cursing eloquently as he nearly broke a tooth on the hard crust.  He dipped the bread into the ale, letting it soak for a few seconds before trying again.  He chewed very slowly, making the food last for as long as he could in the hope that his stomach would be fooled into thinking that it was full, but it growled in protest, wanting more.  He’d been on starvation rations for the past few weeks and his body was crying out in protest, asking for enough food to sustain Brendan’s powerful frame and lean muscle.  Brendan curled up as close to the fire as he dared and allowed himself to sink into a deep sleep, praying that he wouldn’t dream of the battle or of violent death.

The Present

My hand shook with anticipation as I took the key out of my pocket and inserted it into the old-fashioned lock.  It was only a week since I’d made the offer, but the whole process took much less time than I expected.  Doctor Hughes was only too happy to unload the place, accepting my offer immediately right over the phone.  He didn’t seem interested in how much I was offering, only in the fact that he was finally going to be rid of the responsibility of fulfilling a promise to his aunt and discharging his duty.  Paula said that he planned to share the money with Myra, but it didn’t matter to me.  What he did with it was none of my business.  All I cared about was getting the deed of sale and racing over to the house to inspect my little kingdom. 

I pushed open the door, inhaling the musty smell of the dim foyer.  Several doors opened off the cavernous space which was bigger than some apartments I’d seen in New York, and a sweeping wooden staircase rose to the second floor.  The house seemed guarded and silent around me, almost holding its breath until it knew if the interloper was friend or foe.  I walked in and opened a window in the front room.  It needed to be aired out, among other things, but that would come later.  When I had toured the house with Paula, I hardly noticed the details, focusing on the number of rooms, baths, and general layout, but today, I could walk around at my leisure and take it all in.

The rooms were well-proportioned, with high ceilings and tall mullioned windows flanked by moth-eaten curtains of heavy velvet.  They were threadbare in places, as were the rugs on the scarred wooden floors.  I was surprised to see dusty doilies, yellowed with age covering the end tables next to the chintz sofa, and a ceramic vase full of plastic flowers in the hearth of the living room fireplace.  A television set that dated back to the ’80s was in pride of place against the opposite wall, its wooden paneling covered by a thick layer of dust.  Several lamps with faded shades dotted the room, and a few copies of The Sun and The Mirror were scattered on wooden coffee table. 

I crossed the hall and entered the other front room, this one probably a sitting room at some point.  There were several old photographs clustered on the piano, depicting men in uniform who stood behind seated women and gazed earnestly into the camera.  I wondered if they’d survived the war and came back to their sweethearts, but there was no one to ask.  I looked to see if any of the photos were recent, but there seemed to be nothing of the last owners.  A scratched mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantel, and the once flowery wallpaper was so faded I could barely make out the pattern, strips hanging here and there as if someone tore them on purpose in a fit of rage.  I didn’t even bother to inspect the kitchen, as I had a fairly good idea of what awaited me there. 

Instead, I made my way to the second floor, eager to inspect the bedrooms.  Maybe there was something I could salvage for future use, but nothing seemed of any value.  The beds were saggy and dusty; the headboards scratched and wobbly.  There was only one bathroom with a rusty chain for flushing and a deep, claw-footed tub that needed a very vigorous cleaning. 

I sat on the edge of the tub and sighed.  The charming façade the house presented to the world was just a mask of genteel respectability that hid years of neglect and decay.  A house like this required a lot of upkeep, and the Hughes family clearly didn’t have the funds or the desire to modernize and maintain.  The house would need a lot of work before it would be ready for habitation, but I didn’t care.  My plan was to open by next spring, so I had at least nine months to renovate and scour the countryside for antiques to fill the rooms.  My mom had always loved antiquing, so I knew how to spot a gem at an estate sale or shop and buy it for a song, returning it to its former glory with a bit of varnish.  I would have plenty of time to kill while the renovations were being done, and I looked forward to exploring the surrounding area and learning its history.  The proximity to Lincoln was a bonus since there was much to see, especially the famed Lincoln Cathedral. 

I left the bathroom and pushed open the door to the corner bedroom.  I felt like an intruder despite the fact that no one had slept there in years.  The house seemed to resent my presence, sighing with disapproval.  The room was large and pleasant, the furniture slightly newer and more comfortable.  This must have been a girl’s room at some point since there were several dolls seated on top of the flowery bedspread, and empty bottles of perfume on the dresser.  The perfume must have evaporated over time, but a barely distinguishable scent lingered in the air, suddenly making me feel weepy.  It smelled familiar somehow, but I knew I’d never smelled it before.  I held the bottle to my nose, trying to place where I might have been exposed to the fragrance, but nothing came to mind.  It wasn’t a brand I’d ever heard of.  I was just being fanciful, I told myself, affected by the melancholy atmosphere of the house. 

I pushed aside the curtain, releasing a cloud of dust in the process, opened the window and looked out.  I could see the unkempt garden behind the house and the stream that cut the land in two.  The current looked surprisingly strong, the brownish water rushing loudly past the house and under a stone bridge that looked much older than the house.  The ruin was directly across from the window, the stones glowing in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun.  It must have been a house once, but all that was left were the crumbling walls.  The roof had rotted away years ago, and except for a few shards of broken glass in the window frames, there was nothing there but emptiness, now brilliantly filled with the rosy shafts of the setting sun.  The place looked kind of romantic actually and would look great in my brochure.  I’d take the pictures myself, choosing the best time of the day to capture the forlorn beauty of the spot. 

I shielded my eyes against the light as I spotted something by what would have been the door, had it still been there.  A solitary figure emerged from the ruin, walking slowly to the tree that grew a few feet away.  It was an old tree, tall and stout, with thick limbs that hung relatively low to the ground.  The tree looked as if it were holding out its arms in welcome, offering shelter from the rain and shade from the sun.  The man, for that’s who he was, reached the tree, stopping briefly before sinking to his knees and holding his hands in front of him, as if in prayer.  There was something odd about him, but he was too far away for me to see clearly.  I could see that he had dark hair that fell to his shoulders and was strangely dressed, as if wearing a theater costume for a performance of a historical play.  I could just make out a coat that came to mid-thigh, and narrow pants tucked into high boots with the tops folded over to form a wide cuff.  I felt like a voyeur watching this man praying, but I just couldn’t look away, wondering what he had been doing in the ruin. 

The man finally rose to his feet, his shoulders slumped and his head bent, as if in shame, and walked back, disappearing inside.  Maybe he was just a tourist out for a walk.  Many people were drawn by historic ruins, so he’d look around and go back to his hotel, or wherever he was staying.  I turned from the window and sat down on the bed.  The mattress was surprisingly firm, and the frame was made of dark wood which was intricately carved with some whimsical pattern.  It was surprisingly out of sync with the rest of the house and more as I would picture the original furnishings to look.  There was a dresser to match, and an escritoire, which was dusty and full of old papers, but would be perfect to use as my base of operations once I cleared it out.  I would take this room for myself, I decided, and use it as a bedroom/office while the renovations were under way.  Now all I needed to do was find a contractor who shared my vision of this place and then the work could commence.  I couldn’t wait.