Toad in the Hole (20 page)

“At least these helmets keep the rain off,” I said, hoping to perk up Travis.

As we passed a mortar on a cart stuck in mud, our comrades heckled those trying to push it free. Travis stopped and I noticed his metal cone head hat covered all his hair.

“Rachael, this is mad.”

The rain drenched me, but the beers I’d drunk dulled the nasty weather.

“Isn’t it!?”

“I didn’t mean mad in a good way. Doesn’t reenacting a battle seem a little out there? A solid standard deviation from the norm?”

“Guns are illegal in England. It’s not like real bullets will be flying.”

“Are you seeing the cannon? These people have matches and gunpowder. They’re looking to blow something up and that something is not going to be me.”

“I have a plan,” I said.

“Oh goody.”

“We need to get closer to the castle stables.”

“Because?” he asked.

“Because of the painting. It’s a horse.”

Travis began to laugh uncontrollably. “And that’s it. Your grand scheme? Find the stable and search it?”

“Do you have a better one?”

“Yeah. It’s called leave this mud pit, get in dry clothes, and stay indoors.”

“You know what, be that way. I’ll see you back at GG’s,” I said, and pushed through the crowd in an effort to lose Travis and his attitude.

“Rachael,” he called.

My step quickened. Irritation with always having to explain myself boiled up and I did my best to leave him behind with the helmet heads. His voice trailed and I pushed to the back of the crowd. Rain streamed down in sheets. In between my shivering, I ran a film clip of the trip through my head.
Quality time spent with GG? Next to none.
Time spent admiring around art museums, castle’s and historic sites? Barely any. Getting to know Travis better? I now knew his nuances way too well.

Standing in the muddy English countryside in a torrential downpour, I realized this summer blew. Travis was right, my plan sucked, but I didn’t need him to tell me so. I still wanted to find the stables and take a look around, but I had little hope of finding anything. And if I did find the amethyst, what was I going to do with it? This day, this trip couldn’t get any worse. Then someone with a mega phone shouted, “About face,” and I realized with those two words that I’d gone from the back to the front of our battle formation.

Like prey before a predator I froze, but my shoulders were relentlessly bumped as hoards of sloppy battle hands rambled around me. There was still sunlight, somewhere behind the storm clouds, but unlike me, it was smart and hid. I had to move forward to keep from being trampled. Puffs of smoke exploded in the air. Amazingly, people lit things on fire in the rain. I searched for Travis, wishing I hadn’t been so hasty to shake off his sorry ass. He’d disappeared. Probably took my advice and bailed on me, and all these enthusiasts. I hustled across the battlefield diagonally and set my sights on the castle in the distance. The horse barn, I figured was somewhere on the edge of the groomed grounds and if I could get a peek, regardless if I found anything, I told myself I’d be satisfied.

Thunder rumbled in the sky and I watched the two sides clash in WWD wrestling-type maneuvers that invariably ended up with a scrum pile on the ground. Distancing myself from the troop, I stopped to take in my surroundings. A not-so-zealous helmet head musketeer to my left stopped and pulled out a small leather pouch. I gawked.

“Smoke?” he asked.

“That would be great,” I said.

A piece of glowing taper dangled off his musket and he pulled it to his face to light a clay pipe that we shared. It seemed bizarre to be smoking since there was a battle of drunk, crazy asses racing around just yards away.

He started to make small talk. “American, eh?”

I nodded, not really interested in flirting.

Slightly light-headed, I looked for an exit, some way to get out from the massed formations of soldiers when a pile up went down in front of us. My instinct was to back away from the scuffle. My musketeer buddy had the opposite idea and reloaded so he could fire a shot off at the heaving pile. He reached for his cartridge pouch with the glowing taper still in hand and there was a kaboom. I jumped at the flash, felt the heat with the bang and snapped the delicate pipe between my fingers. His blackened face was missing an eyebrow and his hair was singed. He stumbled a little. Before regaining his composure he looked me in the eye and said, “That wasn’t exactly brilliant of me.” After a mutual nod, he headed off in the direction of the first aid tent.

Making my way up the hill, toward the main house, I rested against a lone tree. On the next hillside I spotted some fancy tents that had peaked roofs and red and white striped canvas, like you’d see at a carnival. The campers over there dressed in velvets and silks, and I realized I’d almost crossed over to the royalist side. Seeing a splash of purple velvet, the next thing I knew I’d been spun around and stuffed up against the tree. The force of the collision knocked my helmet sideways and my cheek was pressed into the bark.

“Enough with the games,” the voice in my ear demanded.

My assailant smelled oddly familiar. Sandalwood. Shit! Ahmed!

“Tell me the secret inside the brooch and we’ll all be on friendlier terms,” he growled.

“I’m not the one playing around. I don’t have it, you stole it from me.”

He shoved me from the tree and I lost my footing and fell. From the ground, I took in his tights, waistcoat, and feather hat, all in purple hues. His foot pressed on top of my ankle.

Water soaked his costume and his suede boots were caked in mud. “Due to the unfortunate intervention of Scotland Yard, I don’t. Now I need for you to tell me what’s inside.”

“How did you find me here?”

“You’re a popular girl. I followed the police.”

“Why is everyone after me? And why do you keep showing up, in North Carolina at my scholarship interview and now here? I can’t think of a reason why I’d tell you anything.”

He began to unbutton the front of his velvet shirt and a panic pulsed through me.
My God does he have a weapon, what is going to do to me?
Pulling out a black billfold from an inner pocket, he unzipped it. Fanning a wad of bills he said, “I have ten thousand reasons and can guarantee your scholarship if you tell me what’s inside the brooch.”

“You went to all the trouble of following me for over a year so you could buy the stinking brooch?”

Dropping his hand, the heel of his boot dug in to my calf. “Dear Ms. O’Brien, have you not been paying attention? It’s not the brooch I desire, but what it leads to. It’s a priceless treasure that was stolen from my homeland.”

Wet earth pressed into my back and as I processed the likelihood of him telling the truth, someone from on top of a hill with a vindictive voice hollered, “Traitor.” Figuring the overenthusiastic town crier had had one too many ales, I ignored him until I watched a group of my troop charge my direction. Muddied and wearing helmets, everyone looked the same. These battle types were feisty and showed no mercy. Capturing Ahmed, they shouted lewd insults, mixed with cries of, “Off with his head,” then carried him away. As the crowd scurried back to the battle, one I recognized stopped to ask, “You okay?”

Pushing to my feet, I nodded. “Fine.”

Waiting a beat before he turned around, he said, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on the volunteers,” and winked.

Thanks, Duncan.

Alone in the rain, my panic pendulum swung rapidly. Had Ahmed really found me by following the police? Or had he been on the train, maybe paid off the cute guys to lure me here? And I was stupid enough…. Travis was right, this was nuts. Blinking tears back, I started to seriously worry about us both coming out of this reenactment without injury. But there’d be no finding Travis in this mayhem and the last thing I wanted to do was have another run in with Ahmed. I could see the castle in the not too far distance. I decided to put some space between myself and the muskets, pikes, and things exploding before Ahmed could get free and track me down.

NOTE TO SELF

Ahmed. Must be desperate to don English Civil War costume in an effort to find me.

A
ll
S
ixes
a
nd
S
evens—
Haywire

M
y clothes down to my panties were soaked and the same bleak chill that I’d felt when I swam in the river numbed my limbs. Using my pike as a walking stick, I hiked my way to a far path where water-logged field met forest. The tennis shoes I wore were soggy and caked with mud. With every step I took, my socks sloshed. My face felt grimy, and I would’ve have killed for my jar of Noxzema and a warm washcloth.

The beer, the wafting clouds of gunpowder, arguing with Travis, the foul weather, and Ahmed dressed in a less-than-flattering costume had thrown me off balance and I’d forgotten why I was here in the first place.
Focus, Rachael
, I told myself.

A herd of Cheviot sheep were curled up on the hillside. They had positioned their backs to take the rain while their faces hid beneath their fur. Quickening my pace, my mind hovered on the painting Sonny had given Travis, and I wanted to scour the grounds to see if I could find the spot where the horse stood. If my instincts were wrong and the jewel was hidden inside the fortress, my chances of finding it were slim.

Climbing over a wall on the outskirts of the property, I watched the sky turn a darker shade of miserable and my spirits weakened in harmony. I half wondered if there’d be an iron rod fence or eight-foot wall securing the property. There wasn’t, and with all the sheep that freely milled about, I figured there wasn’t any elaborate security system surrounding the castle either.

The sound of cannon and muskets faded. I wasn’t sure if was because of the distance or competition from the pouring rain. The weather gave the landscape the appearance of bedtime, but it wasn’t yet five. I gawked at a side view of the castle. The stone façade, ornate on the roofline, threw menacing shadows on the grandiose windows that were stamped around the towering building. Other than a dim light in a third floor window, the structure appeared vacant, and I hoped there was little chance of my being spotted.

I surveyed the property boundary from a vantage point that was far enough not to be intruding but close enough to see the gutters and flagpole on top of a tower. Tapping into my memory, I envisioned the part of the painting where the castle was portrayed in the background. I remembered three levels of windows. The panes on the top two levels were thin and narrow. The bottom floor had stouter, less ornate casements. I walked the perimeter, trying to pinpoint the exact angle that captured the horse and castle.

Distant thunder rumbled as the downpour continued pounding the soil. Blinking rainwater from my face, I noticed a compact building that I guessed to be a chapel since it had a cross perched on top. It was tucked to the side of the property where park-like trees dipped down a hill before the terrain eventually thickened into woods. Walking backward, I framed my fingers in a square and envisioned the painting. The summer leaves provided a modest haven from the weather. As I approached the chapel, I realized that unlike the castle, it was constructed of the same stone as the pasture walls. There were holes for windows, but no glass and the thatch roof had partially collapsed.

Above my head, the sky rumbled and I was sure the thunder was the real deal, Mother Nature and not the din of reenactment from down the hill. I dragged my hand on the rough stone and over patches of soft brown and green moss. I had every intention of going inside and drying off but a noise, a steady thump, stopped me in my tracks. Peeking behind the building, I wondered if what I’d smoked on the battlefield had been something I shouldn’t have. Someone was bent over and I watched his backside as he jabbed a long stick into the earth, before bending down to rub wet dirt and grass from the forest floor. A helmet and chest plate filled with dirt lay on the ground. Something about this someone, his baggy pants on his backside seemed familiar.

“Travis?”

The wind was louder than my voice and there was no answer. The rain splatting off the leaves and branches and the soft soil gave me ghost-like feet as I moved closer. Was I hallucinating? There weren’t rainbow colors or anything bizarre about the way he used his pike to scrape away the grass and debris. “What are you doing?”

Breath strained as he stood and wrapped me in a hug. His wet chest pressed against mine. “You’re okay?”

“I’m sorry I stormed off,” I muttered.

He held me at an arm’s length. “We’re drenched.”

“England, you know.”

Kissing me on the side of the head, he gave me a half hug and slid a hand into mine. “I’m sorry for being a downer. It’s just that this trip…”

“I know. At times it’s gotten the best of me, too. Let’s go in the shelter and dry off for a minute.”

“Rach, that’s no ordinary building.”

“Outbuilding structure,” I corrected.

“Try again,” he said, leading me through the frameless door.

A bird flapped out a window and I flinched. Inside was bare bones and empty, except an arched cubby where a cement urn rested. My tennis shoes sloshed across the uneven stone floor and I left behind a trail of mud. “You’ve lost me,” I said, wondering why he still held my hand, not that I minded.

Travis was on a high, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Don’t freak.”

“Why would I?”

“It’s a medieval mausoleum.”

“Quit trying to spook me. I’ve already had a run in with Ahmed.”

“What? He’s here?”

“Not here, on the battlefield.”

Travis began to pace. “This is not good.”

“Don’t worry, the helmet heads took him prisoner. I ditched him.”

Travis relaxed a little. Arms outstretched, he spun around. “This is a cemetery. I just cleaned off a headstone. I think it’s eighteenth-century.”