Secret Of The Manor (5 page)

With man and beast fed, watered, and well rested, Carl unexpectedly gave Warren a hug, told him not to worry about a thing, and returned to the yard. Warren ventured out with Argo again for an amble around the hills. He ruminated on the possibility that the whole village was speculating about his sexuality. A sexuality he’d never advertised, because he had his outlets.

The prospect of him being out and proud for
all
to see hadn’t featured in his thoughts before, as he knew he’d move on at some time. But in Walmsley Hackett, a place he’d chosen to make a home, wasn’t it time to be free? From what Carl said, it was clear some women wouldn’t mind. But what if word reached his workplace? Could he keep people wondering for a while longer? Until he retired? That thought made him feel old, even if he knew he wasn’t. After all, forty was supposed to be the new twenty.

Argo suddenly tossed his head, jolting Warren from his thoughts. Riding wasn’t something he did to sort out his head. The time for that was later in the evening, with a cognac in his hands and no possibility of falling in a heap. No, riding was a time to clear the mind of clutter and concentrate on horse and scenery. If one didn’t, one was liable to be dumped in the mud. Riding a live animal could be unpredictable, no matter how trusted the steed.

After a game of jump-at-every-bird, Argo settled, allowing Warren to enjoy the sun on his face and the breeze at his neck. It was soothing, distracting him again and almost lulling him to sleep. Thoughts of work, his revelations to Carl, and Little Walmsley vacated his head in favour of serenity. Argo never let him lose concentration altogether, though, and tested his awareness with a snort on several occasions.

The extra time in the saddle was just what Warren needed to clear his head of the cobwebs formed by his earlier conversation with Carl. He could always think straighter after a ride. All was calm and peaceful as he turned towards the stables. He was partway down the dale before he remembered the swan gauntlet he’d committed himself and Argo to by taking the valley path. It wasn’t the only way to the stables, and often he and Carl avoided the confrontation by using a different route, especially as it was late spring, when Salem was reportedly at his most grumpy.

Warren patted his pockets, hoping to find some leftover stones from the last time he used the route. All he had was a tube of mints, which were better than nothing. He unravelled the packet and let the freed items fall into his pocket.

As they approached, Warren saw Salem gliding over his pond like he was lord of all. The animal was beautiful. It was evident when the swan noticed intruders to his territory. Salem changed his direction towards Warren and Argo, then hissed and flapped his wings with more ferocity. The challenging actions initially spooked Argo, but before Salem could make further moves, Argo turned towards the bird and snorted like a bull about to face its matador. The challenge was met: Argo wasn’t backing off. He pranced and made low, thunderous noises while pawing the ground with his hoof. Warren had to forget about throwing mints at Salem in favour of keeping control of Argo. Argo was acting as though he was going to attack Salem, not the other way around.

Warren didn’t tighten his hold on Argo’s head, but he ensured the animal felt the unerring contact between his hand and Argo’s mouth. With Argo secure between hand and leg, Warren kept an eye on Salem while urging Argo down the path. Argo continued to grumble all the while, and where possible he stamped the ground between extra pushes from his master’s legs. At least Salem didn’t execute his aerial attack. Instead, the bird landed gracefully on the water and continued his hiss-and-flap routine from a distance. When horse and rider made it to the exit path, the swan settled back into his puffed-up display of lordship. Warren praised Argo, and the duo made their way home, at which point Argo divested his master of the mints in his pocket.

AS THE summer drew on, the alterations to Warren’s barn and the addition of a paddock were quickly completed. Sunday afternoons remained the time for Warren and Carl to chill out over the countryside, but, since the revelations earlier in the year, Warren had grown closer to Carl and his wife, Eileen, to the point where Carl somewhat fathered him. It was a weird sensation for Warren, as he hadn’t been parented since leaving university. Yet, for the most part, he welcomed it. He wasn’t even given a choice as to whom he was spending Christmas with that year.

Warren was used to being a loner. So not being the life and soul of the village didn’t bother him. Still, he, like anyone else, was uncomfortable with being gossip fodder as Carl had intimated. Given that he’d taken up permanent residency in the area, he’d deliberated for days over his possible courses of action.

Whenever Warren entered the small post office, conversation between the gossips at the counter came to a halt. However, the minute Warren offered greetings with a smile, the people smiled back and dealt with his needs in a friendly and courteous manner. Given his situation and the nature of the rumours, he thought anything he said would serve to confirm their suspicions. Even if he were seen in an amorous clinch with a woman, a few would suggest he was covering up his real self. When people wanted to believe something badly enough, nothing could dissuade them. Therefore, until he was ready, Warren opted to leave the people of Walmsley Hackett in the dark.

Very much a private man, Warren needed an outlet for his thoughts and fears that was completely his. He took advantage of his familiarity with the area and drove as close to the church as he could before completing the distance on foot. He’d found what the vicar called the gnat’s-knacker path. He visited early on Saturday mornings while people were generally tucked up in bed, and had taken to spending a little time talking to the person in the unmarked grave. Warren found it calming to speak out loud, even if it was to a box of bones or dust six feet under—it beat talking to a brick wall or fireplace. Whoever was down there didn’t answer, and that allowed him to talk sense or crap, or voice wild theories about future events. The activity gave him comfort. And, in a small way, he felt as though he gave companionship to someone whom he thought had been lonely for what was quite possibly centuries.

Warren didn’t restrict conversation to
his
life. He asked questions about the person beneath the earth, too—not that he expected to receive verbal answers.

“What’s your name?

“Where did you live?

“What was life like for you?

“Why are you buried in a grave that acknowledges you lived, but nothing of who you were?”

Warren never asked if the person was man or woman, because he felt in his bones that the body was male. He didn’t know for sure if the eyes in his dreams and those he saw behind the door were connected to the grave, but his gut said they were. And at no time did he ever get the feeling that either set belonged to a woman. Warren continued to dream of the church, though not as frequently since he regularly visited the place, and he hadn’t had any more weird throwbacks to historical times.

The daydream he’d had of the fifteenth-century feast was most certainly out of the ordinary. Then again, Warren had an active imagination when it came to times of old. Once, during a holiday in Greece, while he stood in the middle of a ruin, his mind’s eye could see people milling around, buying and selling their wares. The scene felt real. He could smell spices and hear the merchants’ chatter. As a child he’d been chastised many times for his overactive thoughts. Occasionally, as an adult, he indulged his imagination because, if he was going mad, there were worse places his mind could go.

He spoke as though the grave were the person, alive and seated next to him, instead of a pile of bones long forgotten. He felt that if he spoke too much in the past tense he would be acknowledging that he was talking to thin air with no one listening. As the situation stood, Warren didn’t feel lonely or spooked at being in a graveyard. The veil of holly surrounding him and his unknown companion kept them in a world of their own, sheltered from prying eyes.

Never did Warren see the figure watch him retreat to civilization. Never did Warren see the entity look upon the headstone with sadness, and then spy the church before sinking into the background.

LATE ONE Saturday night, when Argo was staying for the weekend, Warren was enjoying his ride so much he ended up riding the last half-hour home in the dark with only the moon to light the way. He found the experience exhilarating, especially as such a night ride was on his bucket list. Argo wasn’t nearly as spooked as Warren thought he’d be. The size of a horse’s eyes made it possible for them to see much better than humans in the dark—albeit they didn’t have true night vision.

Since then, he’d been out several times for short nighttime hacks. There was little light pollution from Cheltenham, which made the stars brighter, and Argo avoided obstacles without tripping. It was as if they were on another planet. The wildlife Warren heard, too, was more profuse. Although he couldn’t see much, Warren could hear scurrying, the
twit-to-woo
of the odd owl, and the higher-pitched squeaks of bats.

One night the forecast predicted clear skies, so Warren and Argo headed out. The moonlit path inclined upward, and his black companion seemed a little more cautious than usual when laying one hoof before the other. Warren couldn’t blame him; there had been a lot of foxes barking. “It’s okay, boy,” Warren soothed, stroking the silken neck.

He had a venue in mind. It was up through the trees to a point where he could see the stars and the surrounding vista—it was an ideal night for it. The wind fluttered through leaves and branches creaked. Warren’s concentration was jarred when he swore he heard a cheer in the distance. Then again, nighttime did weird things to the imagination, and he put it out of his mind.

Further on, a splintering of wood, a thud, and another roar reached Warren’s ears. His heart thumped as his mind worked overtime, but he couldn’t help feeling curious about what was making the noises. Were badgers fighting? If so, surely Argo would be hesitating... but he was not. Curiosity at its height, Warren squeezed Argo on.

Suddenly, a patch of mist marred his path, and Warren shivered. It was as if the droplets of water were crawling over his skin, tasting it, testing it. A sweet fragrance filled his nostrils, and he was sure he could hear the vapour hiss as it delved beneath his collar. A small branch came out of nowhere and thrashed Warren’s face, but he kept going. The fog enveloped the scratch, which stung like tiny needles plucking at his flesh before the pain disappeared, soothed into non-existence.

Argo stopped, rigid, and puffed loud and deep, his ears twitching in all directions. Warren could feel the rise and fall of his steed’s chest under his legs and was afraid to urge the beast anywhere until he settled. Warren breathed deep, too. Something was ahead and he had no idea what it was. His arms shook from adrenaline, and a bead of sweat ran from his brow.

Thump, thump, thump. His heart stuttered, torn between turning tail and forging on.

Argo’s ears abruptly focussed forward. Then he snorted and surged ahead. Warren ceased to be the master and became a passenger. Argo seemed to know where he was going. It was as if Warren were on a train with a single-track line, and someone had removed the brakes.

Argo puffed in excitement and upped his pace. It was all Warren could do to hang on.

To save his skin, Warren leaned against Argo’s neck and put his trust in his charger. All he could hear was the one-two-three, one-two-three thunderous beat of his horse in canter. One-two-three, one-two-three. Argo’s thick black neck surged forward in time with the beat. One-two-three, one-two-three. Long strands of mane licked at Warren’s face, and he grabbed a handful to steady himself. He almost lost his seat when Argo took off over a fallen tree and burst out of the woods into a clearing.

With a whinny and a rear, Argo announced his presence. His front legs pawed the air. Warren clung to the saddle and prayed.

When Argo was on all fours again, the scene before Warren was nothing like he’d expected. The scent of burning wood and oil surrounded him, and all thoughts of a personal planetarium had long since vacated his mind. He recognised the scene from history books and period films. He was at a joust. But why was it being held in the dark? Then he noticed everyone in the clearing was looking at him.

Warren felt heavy and was shocked when he spied silver armour over himself and down Argo’s neck. A purple cape edged in white and gold cloaked Argo, and a tunic of the same colours covered Warren’s chest. Beneath the cloth, his body was rigid, kept in place by a silver shell.
What the f....
Had he walked through a keyhole and been given a makeover without his knowledge?

He could imagine the TV scenario: “Ladies and gentlemen... tonight Warren Blake becomes...
a Knight of the Round Table.
”

Warren’s thoughts ran rampant, and none of them were logical. Was he having a nightmare? The last thing he remembered was going out for the night ride with Argo. Had a branch hit his head and sent him into the world of make-believe? Maybe his love of history had thrown him into the realm of King Arthur and Merlin. Would he wake soon on the ground, wrapped in a shawl of leaves, caked in mud? Or was something more sinister afoot?

A cheer went up, and trumpets sounded and a chorus of voices cried, “All hail Ebony Air.”

What the...
.

Argo moved forward, his neck held regally, his nose pointing down as if bowing to the crowd. Warren was too stunned to do anything except survey his surroundings. The joust arena was just like he’d seen in literature. A long fence stretched down the centre of the clearing, dividing the competing riders and giving the horses an edge to follow. At each end, tall lances stood like soldiers at attention, waiting to be used by the riders.

Tracks of hoof-worn ground crisscrossed the area, and smoke stung Warren’s eyes from a close-by fire. He turned his face from the heat and taste of ash, and Argo gave the flames ample space as he paraded down the field.