Ill Wind and Dead Reckoning: Caribbean Pirate Adventure (Valkyrie) (54 page)

Thores-Cross – A Yorkshire Ghost Story

by Karen Perkins

A haunting novel set in the North Yorkshire Moors about isolation, superstition and persecution.
Thores-Cross
follows the stories of Emma, a present day writer, and Jennet, an eighteenth-century witch.

Emma Moorcroft is still grieving after a late miscarriage and moves to her dream house at Thruscross Reservoir with her husband, Dave. Both Emma and Dave hope that moving into their new home signifies a fresh start, but life is not that simple. Emma has nightmares about the reservoir and the drowned village that lies beneath the water, and is further disturbed by the sound of church bells – from a church that no longer exists.

Jennet is fifteen and lives in the isolated community of Thores-Cross, where life revolves about the sheep on which they depend. Following the sudden loss of both her parents, she is seduced by the local wool merchant, Richard Ramsgill. She becomes pregnant and is shunned not only by Ramsgill, but by the entire village. Lonely and embittered, Jennet’s problems escalate, leading to tragic consequences which continue to have an effect through the centuries.

Emma becomes fixated on Jennet, neglecting herself, her beloved dogs and her husband to the point where her marriage may not survive. As Jennet and Emma’s lives become further entwined, Emma’s obsession deepens and she realizes that the curse Jennet inflicted on the Ramsgill family over two hundred years ago is still claiming lives. Emma is the only one who can stop Jennet killing again, but will her efforts be enough?

A Yorkshire Ghost Short Story

She’s back. This time no one is safe.

A skeleton is dug up at the crossing of the ways on Hanging Moor, striking dread into the heart of Old Ma Ramsgill – the elderly matriarch of the village of Thruscross. And with good reason. The eighteenth-century witch, Jennet, has been woken.

A spate of killings by a vicious black dog gives credence to her warnings and the community – in particular her family – realise they are in terrible danger.

Drastic measures are needed to contain her, but with the imminent flooding of the valley to create a new reservoir, do they have the ability to stop her and break her curse?

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I stared at the coffin, the only one not shrouded in dust and cobwebs.
So that’s it – I’m alone. Well, apart from Uncle Richard
. I fingered the letter in my pocket.
But he’s an ocean away, on the same continent as Elizabeth and our child
. She had never returned; I didn’t even know if she’d had a girl or boy. Hellfire, for all I knew she’d perished on the passage out.

‘I heard from Uncle Richard today, Father,’ I said to the coffin and drew out the letter. ‘He sends his greetings from Jamaica, although as always he is a little late.’ I managed a half smile at the weak joke. It was one of Father’s frustrations that both my mother and her brother were perpetually tardy, but it was a joke of affection. My mother was ever late now, of course, having passed in childbirth twenty years before. Father had missed her terribly. I still did.

I pulled the candle closer and held the letter to the meagre light.

It bereaves me to hear of your father’s illness, Charlotte thought so highly of him, as I do myself. I beg of you to be good enough to pass on my regards and prayers for swift progress in his recovery.

Life in the Indies suits me well, as I am sure it would yourself should you ever desire to escape England’s green shores. Jamaica is a lively island, filled with diverse characters, although regrettably there is a vast shortage of ladies. Some of the four-legged and marine life are just as diverse as the fellows, simply amazing to behold. The colour and noise of the place is too wondrous to describe and my door is always open to you, my boy.

Windhaven is successful beyond my most desirous dreams. My sugar cane stretches for leagues in every direction and needs a small army to tend it. The Great House is magnificent, even in comparison to Rowleston Hall, and I am certain you would soon feel at home here.

The only disadvantages are the malodorous airs and the greed of the merchants. They charge abominable rates to ship my sugar, rum and molasses. The situation is so dire, I am considering a venture into shipping myself. Surely funding my own vessel will save me quite a pretty penny.

I must now take my leave, a ship is departing for England’s bonny coast within the hour and I must hurry to press this missive into the captain’s hand.

Your Loving Uncle —

‘I’m going to go, Father,’ I said, relieved to tell him of my decision, even though he could no longer hear or advise me. ‘The death duties, added to the other debts, have crippled the estate. I’ve had to sell off fifty acres to pay everything. Barker can manage the rents and tenancies, keep everything ticking over until I come back. Three years, that’s all, Father. Long enough to make my fortune in sugar. White gold they call it. I’ll come home in time, buy the land back, and restore Rowleston Hall to its former glory, you see if I don’t. Anyway.’ I pulled myself together, realising I was asking for approval from a coffin. ‘I’ll make you proud, Father,’ I added into the silence.

I blew out the candle, then walked towards the square of light and out into fresh air. I pushed the door of the mausoleum closed, locked it, then took out my hip flask and drank a deep draught of brandy.

Unhitching my horse, Maximillian, I swung up on to his back and turned his head away from Rowleston Hall. I turned in the saddle to take one last look at the only home I’d ever known, then pointed Max’s nose towards Bristol, the docks, and the New World.

I sat down at the table and raised my tankard in greeting to the three men I was joining.

I’d been in Bristol a fortnight; my ship,
Pride of the Orient
, was more than a week overdue and nobody had any news of her. I could well be waiting on a ship that rested on the sea bottom, but I had nothing better to do but stay and hope.

I threw the dice. Three. I groaned. I’d lost most of my money. I had nothing left with which to buy my own stake in sugar, and was a little short for my passage out. I had to win tonight. I could ill afford any more aces and deuces.

Like father, like son
, I thought. Neither of us could ever resist the dice, cards or anything that resembled competition; or drew bets for that matter. My father’s losing streak had killed him. Mine was about to kill my dreams. I threw again. Four. I kept my face impassive. I had to turn this around. I had to.

I raised my tankard again as another man sat down to the dice, threw and nicked.

I’d had enough and stood to leave. The latest addition to the table joined me outside.

‘Jonesy.’ The man stuck his hand out as he introduced himself. I shook.

‘Lord Henry Rowleston.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’ I withdrew my hand, not liking his comment.

‘Why they were fleecing you in there.’

‘Fleecing me?’

‘Aye, did you not realize them dice were weighted? You had no chance. You don’t go into a tavern like that one with your fancy clothes and wig, calling yourself Lord Summat Or Other, not if you want to keep your coin and that fine cloth on your back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, this is sailortown, mate. The people here live tough lives. They’re worked like dogs and paid little, they see a gentleman like yourself in their lair, they’re gonna take whatever advantage is in their power.’

‘They were
cheating
?’

‘Blimey, that’s took you long enough, you’re not exactly sharp are you? Aye, ‘course they were bleedin’ cheating – this ain’t one of your poncey gentlemen’s clubs here you know.’

I stopped walking. ‘Why are you telling me this? You took a fair bit of my coin yourself tonight if I remember rightly.’

‘Aye, well. You needed a lesson. I were once a little like you and I’d have ended up in t’ gutter with the rats if some kind soul hadn’t taken me to one side and explained the way o’ things. I’m just passing the good deed on.’

‘Well, I’m grateful to you, Jonesy. Although passing it on a bit earlier would have been more helpful.’

‘Aye, well. Men don’t like to be told, not when they have a purse full of coin and a plan to win more.’

I shrugged, but realized he was right. Dressed in dirty breeches and shirt, grime under every fingernail, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day a week ago.

‘Come on, let’s have an ale, you look like you could do with a bit of fortification.’

‘No. No, no, no, no, no,’ Jonesy said when I opened the door of my boarding house to him the next evening.

‘What’s amiss? You said to dress in breeches and shirt.’

‘Old breeches and shirt.’

‘These are old.’

‘Not old enough. Not tatty enough. Not dirty enough. Where’s yer room?’

Silently, I led the way.

‘Right, breeches first.’

I looked at him in confusion.

‘Breeches. Off.’

‘What?’ I stared at him. Was he really trying to help me, or was my humiliation at the dice not enough, was he trying to compound it?

He sighed. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’

I shrugged, embarrassed.

‘No, tell me what you see, I won’t be offended.’

‘All right. I see a ruffian, a scoundrel, a scallywag.’

He drew himself up to his full height, plucked my wig from its stand and put it on his head, then spoke with a very different accent. ‘So you would be surprised to know my real name is Fotheringay, and I’m as much lord as you are?’

I gaped at him.

‘Hard times, Rowleston, hard times. My family lost everything to bloody Cromwell in the wars. I’ve had to turn my hand to many a distasteful task since and have learned how to prevent myself from becoming prey. You remind me of myself a few years ago.’ He removed the wig. I couldn’t move for shock. ‘Now get them bleedin’ breeches off,’ he added in his low-born accent. I hurried to obey.

*

After we had stomped the muck of the floor and our boots into my clothes and rubbed ash into my hair, Jonesy appraised me once more.

‘Aye, that’s better, but you can’t go round introducing yourself as Henry Rowleston, with or without the Lord.’ He stood, his hand raised to his chin in thought.

‘Sharpe,’ I said, thinking back to a comment he’d made the night before. ‘Henry Sharpe.’

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Aye, Sharpe’s the name all right. Let’s hope it’ll soon be thy nature too.’

*

‘Different tavern, different luck,’ Jonesy said as we entered. I paused and surveyed the room, but nobody had stopped what they were doing to look in the normal manner occasioned by my entrance into one of these places.

‘Seems like it,’ I said, nonplussed at my new anonymity, although I did draw a glance or two as I strode to the bar.

‘Sharpe,’ Jonesy said with a warning look, and I hunched my shoulders a little, kept my voice low when I asked for ale, and dropped a few aitches. Jonesy nodded his approval and we dragged our feet over to one of the noisier tables where the dice were rolling.

*

Three hours later, pockets full, we stepped back outside and congratulated each other.

‘The game’s a bit different when it’s all fair and square,’ said Jonesy.

‘Ain’t that the truth!’ I clapped him on the back. ‘I owe you, Jonesy, I can’t thank you enough.’

‘I told you, passing the kindness on. I’ve done nothing for you that wasn’t once done for me.’

‘Still.’ I held out my hand and he shook it. ‘I won’t forget.’

He nodded, then his eyes widened. I spun on my heel and drew my knife. One of the men we’d rolled with stopped in his tracks.

‘What can we do for you, sir?’ I was Lord Rowleston, Earl of Shirehampton again, just for a moment.

He started in surprise at my accent, glanced at my blade, shook his head and melted back into the shadows.

‘Aye, you’re a sharp one all right,’ Jonesy said. I laughed and we staggered back to the boarding house.

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