The Mistletoe Bride and Other Haunting Tales (25 page)

Everywhere, white hawthorn and boughs of mistletoe.

Was this where the wedding feast had been held those hundreds of years before? Where a young bride had danced and been admired but then vanished? Sophia found herself looking into the empty space, imagining the ghostly outlines of men and of women, of servants and musicians, the lord of the manor and his retainers.

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall.

Shadow dancers, their features taking shape. Almost visible, almost returned. Sophia slowly moved on, feeling the unseen presence of others all around her, a prickling at the nape of her neck.

At last, she found herself at the foot of the tower that stood at the far south-west corner of the property. And she realised that her view of the gardens was obscured now by brick and stone.

The whispering was growing stronger, clearer.

A toast to the goodly company.

Sophia spun round and looked behind her. Still she could see no one, though she felt their presence strongly. Another flutter of nerves in her stomach: anticipation or premonition?

Now the echo of ancient words was clearer still, layered over the bristling disquiet of the day. Sounds of laughter and celebration, whispering and billowing and creaking of the old house. Footsteps on the flagstone floor, servants carrying and fetching, kitchen to table with dish after dish, doors opening and closing. A celebration, a feast.

Sophia felt the muscles in her stomach tighten. It wasn’t merely that the house was shifting and changing its shape around her, but also that there was a growing tension in the air. Beneath the echo of sounds of celebration and good cheer was a sense of threat. The harmless process of imagining the house as it once was had become something else. A crack in time, a slipping between this world and another.

She looked at the stairs. She didn’t want to go up, yet at the same time she felt she had no choice. Sophia took a deep breath, then put her hand against the rough stonework to anchor herself, and began to climb. Higher and higher she went, up into an octagonal turret nestled between the tower and the west wing. A mournful wind was crying in the gables and there was a bite in the air warning of snow. And when she looked out through the stone mullions of the window, there was a dusting of frost on the ground.

Sophia walked along a long corridor, towards the solar. Watching herself, as if from the outside, a woman in a cream coat and brown shoes, a yellow scarf knotted at her neck, heading towards a closed door.

Still the voices from the past called out to her. And again, the words of the old fireside song Sophia hardly remembered knowing.

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall.

Suddenly, without warning, the clanging of a bell cut through the domestic sounds of the house. Sophia stopped dead, the coarse alarum reverberating through her bones. Unseen hands pulling the bell rope in St Kenelm’s Church, warning of danger. Warning that the village was under attack.

Sophia began to run towards the closed door.

From below, shouts broke out. She heard furniture being dragged across the stone entrance hall and bolts being fastened, orders to secure all entrances. The ghostly inhabitants of the house were defending Minster Lovell Hall as once they had five hundred years ago.

Now, a violent hammering at the front entrance, clenched fists, and a harsh voice demanding admittance.

In the name of the king.

The sound of wooden sticks beating on the door as the soldiers tried to force their way in.

Open up, by order of the king. In the name of the king.

Then, without touching anything or feeling anything, Sophia found herself on the far side of the door and standing in a small and modest space, a private rather than a public place. Here, was silence. And here, at last, she could see the outline of a person. A young woman, sitting on a plain wooden chair in the centre of the tiny room.

Sophia watched as the woman became clearer, her features growing definite and distinct, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. A fold of embroidery lay on a table close by, weft and warp, cotton threads of yellow and silver in the light of a single candle. Her hands were still. Her blond hair was braided and shot through with white ribbon and she wore a white kirtle, decorated with mother-of-pearl beads, the long skirts pooled around her feet.

Despite her thudding heart, Sophia realised she was smiling. For although the carving in the chapel had been crude, this woman was clearly the model for the image carved on the bas-relief. A winter wedding, all white and gold, the hall decked in hawthorn and mistletoe.

Sophia wanted to ask why she was sitting here alone and she tried to speak. Immediately she saw the young bride could no more hear her than she could see her and, in any case, she thought she understood. She was seeking a moment of solitude, just as Sophia had craved a morning free from the chitterings of her aunt’s friends.

Wanting to forge some connection between her and the girl from the past, Sophia reached out. She encountered no resistance, just empty space, though as her hand fell back to her side, she felt the slightest of movements of cold air.

A sudden roar from down below. The sounds of assault and devastation finally reached their sanctuary. The stolen calm of the room was shattered. Once again, Sophia tried to speak, more urgent this time, but though the words formed in her throat, no sound came out.

Helpless, she looked at the girl, desperate for her to act. Her eyes were dark, with fear certainly, though not surprise. Sophia realised she had expected such an attack. Maybe not this day in particular, not her wedding night, but some time. She had known the soldiers would come.

Was that why she sat here alone? Had she been sent to the safety of the solar in case of such an attack?

Open up in the name of the king.

The tramp of men’s boots thundering up the stairs. Within moments, they would find the room. Find the woman here alone.

Hide yourself, hide.

She willed the girl to hear her and, this time, though Sophia’s words remained unspoken, she was on her feet. Quickly, she put her things away, wanting to leave no evidence the room had been so recently occupied. As she gathered her threads and sampler and stowed it inside a chest, a brass thimble fell from her fingers and rolled away into the furthest corner of the room. Sophia tried to retrieve it, wanting to help, but her fingers found only air.

Hurry, quick. Hide.

Leaving the thimble to the room, the girl blew out the candle and rushed to the heavy tapestry covering the largest of the walls. With a final glance at the bolted door, the bride lifted the corner and stepped behind. Sophia heard the spring of a catch and saw, in the moments before the girl disappeared into the dark, the secret compartment built within the space between the thick walls of the house.

The girl caught her breath, steeling herself for what she had to do, then she vanished from Sophia’s sight. The snap of the door shutting, and it was as if she had never been.

Sophia felt a wave of relief. There was yet a chance the soldiers would not find her. Then, hard on its heels, a wash of cold dread as she remembered the legend in her guidebook. The story of a body entombed in the walls. A skeleton in bridal robes.

Sophia started towards the tapestry, but then heard the sound of the soldiers right outside the door. There was no choice but for the girl to remain hidden.

For now, only for now.

Sophia noticed the tapestry was crooked. Instinctively, she put out her hand to straighten it. Again, her fingers found only air.

Open up.

The latch rattled, the door straining against the bolt as the soldiers set their shoulders to the jamb. And although Sophia knew they couldn’t see her, her palms were slippery with fear. She tried again and, this time, it seemed as if the tapestry moved a little. Moved enough.

In the name of the king.

The wooden frame around the door was starting to give. This domestic room within a private house was not built to withstand such treatment. Even though she knew it would make no difference, Sophia threw the full weight of her body against the door. She could not stand by and do nothing.

One final blow and the frame buckled, the door splintered from its hinge and the men burst through. Three soldiers with swords drawn and a fourth holding a flaming torch in his hand.

They snapped and snarled, like hunting dogs after prey, cheated to find the room empty.

Though she could barely breathe from fear, Sophia stood her ground. Whatever had happened five hundred years ago – if she was seeing an echo of things that had been – she was determined it would be different this time. Whatever tragedy had taken place in this room, she would not let the story have the same ending.

But she could only watch with mounting fear, mounting rage, as the soldiers ransacked the room, to teach the traitor Lovell a lesson. Upturning the table, breaking the lock on the chest and tramping the delicate red and blue and white threads under heel. Dashing the candlestick and earthenware goblet from the table until everything was broken and spoiled.

They stopped.

Sophia felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps, now, they would leave? Move on to the next room? Three of the soldiers did turn to withdraw, calling for their companion to follow them. He started after them, still holding the flame to light the way, then he stopped. His expression changed as he turned slowly back to the room.

For a moment, Sophia thought he somehow could see her. His eyes seemed to be cutting right through her. But then, to her horror, he began to walk towards the tapestry itself.

She tried to block his path. But her imprint was too faint and he kept on coming. Now he was reaching up and with rough hands, nails black with dirt, he ripped the tapestry from the wall with a single, jagged movement.

Sophia caught her breath. There was nothing visible. If she hadn’t seen the girl disappearing into the hidden space with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have known it was there. Washed with lime and uneven in the way of old houses, the wall looked unbroken. A pattern of thin lines and crosses covered the entire surface, like a spider’s web, disguising the outline of the door perfectly.

The soldier held the flame closer, puzzled by the strange markings concealed beneath the tapestry. Sophia stepped between him and the wall, a barrier between him and the hidden girl. And though she still didn’t think he could see her, she knew he sensed her presence. The peculiar sensation of the half touch of his fingers paddling across the surface of her skin.

He felt something too.

The soldier withdrew his hand, as if he’d been stung, and turned it over, examining his palm. Sophia had no idea what kind of superstitions or fears stalked his dreams at night, but the belligerence that had driven him into the room deserted him.

She breathed out, unable to stay completely still for an instant longer. The soldier reacted. He put his hand to his face, as if brushing a cobweb away.

Had he felt her breath on his skin?

She took a deep breath and, this time, blew directly into his face. He took a step back. Quickly, Sophia pulled the scarf from her neck and, as she blew out again, she also stirred the air with the yellow handkerchief.

This time, he cried out, flapping his hand at the empty air to ward off the evil spirits. Sophia waved the scarf from side to side, forcing him to jab the flame into the black. The soldier crossed himself, turned on his heel and fled.

The room was plunged back into darkness.

For an instant, Sophia didn’t move. Her blood pounding in her ears, listening to the drum of his running feet until she could hear him no longer. Silence rushed back into the room.

Only then did her legs turn to water. Dizzy with relief, Sophia slumped back against the wall, heart hammering in her chest. She had done it. She had driven him away.

But her task was not yet finished.

Quickly, she turned and examined the wall, trying not to think about what the absence of sound from below might mean. The darkness surged around her, like a living, breathing thing. Though her fingers skimmed the surface, she couldn’t seem to touch, and she couldn’t find any kind of switch or catch to release the door. With the increasing sense of urgency, she crouched down and tried to force her fingers into the gap between the bottom of the wall and the floorboards. Again, though she could feel her nerve endings and her muscles and her skin, her hands seemed to go straight through into thin air.

There had to be something she could do. She had driven the soldier away, even though the physical realities of blood and bone and muscle had no meaning here. Could not translate from one time to this other. But spirit?

Here was a place of spirit, the communion of souls. It was that the soldier had sensed, had felt.

Sophia slowly and deliberately took a deep breath, then exhaled. Nothing. She closed her eyes and, taking as much oxygen into her lungs as possible, she breathed out once more.

Again, nothing. She tried once more and, gradually, as she breathed in and out again, the room started to tilt and to shift and to pulse, until, suddenly, like a rush of wind in the trees, it was filled with movement.

Sophia opened her eyes.

The sensation of sound and shade and limitless space and as the roaring in the room grew louder, the candlestick was sent rolling across the floor, the goblet clattered into the wainscot. And now every piece of broken wood and trampled thread seemed part of the symphony. A drumming, notes between music, percussion and melody, calling whoever might be left to hear to this one corner of the west wing of the house.

Sophia kept breathing life into the room, out and in and out, like the song of the tide upon the shore, until at last she heard voices. From the corridor, a pool of light, getting stronger, and an old woman’s voice calling out a name.

Perdita. My lady, Perdita.

Sophia turned cold, remembering the inscription written above the door in the chapel: lost but not forgotten.