Secret Of The Manor (13 page)

“Sorry to disturb you like this, Nicholas, but I need a sample of your headstone to test. Some friends have done a lot of research and need it to verify a few things. If it all turns out right, we hope to help you.”

Warren removed a small hammer and chisel from his pocket. With three swift strikes on the back of the headstone, which had years of plant life on it, he retrieved and bagged the samples. After pocketing the items, Warren looked up to see a smiling face peering back at him. Shocked, he fell back onto his rear and gaped at the hazy figure before him. The palm of his hand stung from the rotting holly spines piercing his skin. But he paid it no mind, as he could see through the figure to the tree behind it.

“Nicholas?” he whispered.

The figure waved a hand before him and performed a small bow.

“You understand me?”

Again Nicholas bowed his head. His posture was no longer that of the submissive servant. It was that of a young man raised to be gentry.

At the joust, Nicholas had mostly been hidden by the ornate back of Milady’s throne. There was no such barrier at the graveside. Warren could see the familiar grey eyes, plump lips, straight nose, and bobbed blond hair. He wore brown stockings like those Warren had seen in movies, a loose long-sleeved linen shirt, and a leather tunic that tied at the front.

After his experience in the Saxon burial ground, Warren was amazed to hear twittering, though he couldn’t see any birds through the blanket of holly. He expected a temperature drop, too, not that it wasn’t cold enough. Instead, Nicholas’ presence seemed to warm the air around him.

Did ghosts have a base temperature regardless of the weather?

Considering everything he’d seen and heard over the preceding weeks, Warren readily regarded the sight before him as real and was more calm and collected than he expected. He patted his pocket. “Not so sure I’ll need this now.”

At that, Nicholas smiled.

Warren had never consciously spoken to a ghost before and was stumped for words. So silence reigned for a few minutes before he had the mind to ask, “Are your fate and Alex’s intertwined?”

Nicholas’ brow furrowed in puzzlement.

He tried again. “The swan?”

This time there was more recognition on Nicholas’ face. But he shrugged in a gesture of “I don’t know”.

Warren cursed under his breath at Nicholas’ reaction. He didn’t expect Nicholas to be the fount of all knowledge. Even so, he’d been hoping for more than a shrug. “Did a curse put you here?”

Nicholas lowered his head and nodded.

Warren inhaled a sharp breath. “To break it, am I to be your champion?”

Nicholas’ head shot up, and he held his hands in a position of prayer towards Warren, who swallowed deep.

“I’m going to help you if I can.”

Nicholas closed his eyes in relief.

“Who did this to you?”

At that, Nicholas’ form shot back to the tree behind him, and he looked around in panic before he disappeared.

Warren duplicated Nicholas’ motions and checked his surroundings. He saw nothing. “Nicholas,” he whispered, “Nicholas.” Nothing.

Warren rose unsteadily to his feet and wiped his hands together, not wanting to dirty his long coat any more than it already was. He flinched as the holly released its grip on his palm. Into nothing, Warren avowed nervously, “I’d better get going. Places to be, people to see. I’ll... I’ll come back soon.”

WARREN ARRIVED at A-Genet shaken, and downed several cups of coffee before he sank into his work. During his down time, he wondered what it was that made Nicholas suddenly show himself. Was it because it was his first visit since the joust? Was it because Warren disturbed the grave? Or was it something else? Preparations for a few days’ leave ensured he was too busy to contemplate the issue further. He abandoned his plans to contact the lab.

Early Tuesday morning, Warren set off in his camper van for three days of mediaeval school. It was more involved than he’d imagined. For safety, he had to wear chainmail, which he found lighter than expected but took some getting used to. He spent several hours on various horses aiming ball-tipped lances at shields on sticks. After more than a dozen misses, he got the hang of it and scored some hits. Spearing small hoops with his lance, though, was an altogether more complicated matter. It required skills and a level of lance control he found nigh-on impossible to master. Warren emerged from the exercise discouraged.

Warren’s annoyance at his lack of skill in jousting was compounded when he let his frustrations affect his performance with a sword. Despite expert tutelage, he made fundamental mistakes that allowed his opponent to beat him. He lost his sword and was dumped on his rear several times.

All the same, Warren learned what was needed to become a mediaeval knight, and the more he concentrated the better he performed. Three days was nowhere near enough time to become proficient, but at least he returned home with knowledge, if not the skills. If necessary, he could always book himself on another course to solidify a few points.

Upon his return, he communicated the results of his short break and his interaction with Nicholas to all involved. After the use of several colourful phrases, everyone mobilised to start what they hoped would be the last year the manor would hold its secrets.

With the help of the Internet, they easily found training supplies and had them delivered to Carl’s, including chainmail and a suit of armour. Carl stored it all in his barn, under wraps.

Through November, Warren spent many late weeknight evenings in Carl’s indoor schooling area spearing hoops, improving his accuracy. Carl sometimes left the rings up for children’s pony-club games, too. Preparing for the other aspects of a joust wasn’t as simple. They didn’t want to tempt fate by setting up on the hill where Warren’s first encounter happened. The aim was to keep away from prying eyes and awkward questions.

Eventually they found a place off the beaten track, in the woods on manor land, to set up the jousting area. During the spring it was a sheltered, picturesque meadow of bluebells. It was a shame to spoil such an area, but needs must. They had to clear a few rambling bushes and low branches, which wasn’t much of a problem. In the winter months, the ground bore a thick bed of leaves that would protect the legs of a galloping horse, especially if topped with shavings or rubber-based material. It was a good place to set up a fence to ride down with shields to aim at.

They conducted fighting practise in Warren’s backyard, behind the barn, away from the eyes of ramblers and other nosey parties. Every weekend James brought Alexander over to help. They couldn’t employ an expert without exposure, so, during the evening hours, Alex and Warren surfed the Internet. Together, they watched and read what they could. They spent hours replicating anything they could find with a sword, including scenes from films with famous fight sequences. They gave each move a number, and during practise they’d shout out a move number before executing it. They started off using foam sticks, barking, “Three, five, two, seven, one, nine,” a combination of blocks, parries, and attacks.

At varying times, both Warren and Alex found themselves on the floor. Sometimes they ended up in heaps of laughter; other times a hand was offered to one clearly pissed off with his performance. They tried many gladiatorial strategies, as they didn’t want to discount any form of movement that could assist Warren. Often they’d return to the cottage with arms over one another’s shoulders, talking good-naturedly, covered in dust and dirt from the bed of shavings used as their makeshift arena.

Given the sizeable task ahead, it wasn’t long before Warren suggested Alex stay over. Nights were getting longer, and training time was getting shorter. Soon, Alex arrived on Friday evening and stayed till late on Sunday.

Warren wouldn’t say Alex was the perfect guest. Then again, Warren wasn’t the perfect host, either. He wasn’t used to living with anyone, even for a short time. Warren liked to keep things in their place, and Alex frequently left mugs by the side of the chair instead of in the dishwasher. Nor did he swill the suds off the shower wall, or clean toothpaste drips from the taps and around the basin. On the other hand, Warren liked Alex’s healthy appetite. The man loved Warren’s cooking. Warren was also impressed that Alex always put his wet towels into the hamper and kept his clothes put away neatly in the wardrobe instead of dumping them on the nearest chair.

As the weekends passed they used several weapons, graduating from foam to wood, with the final aim being metal. Each learned from the other, and not only did their mediaeval fights become more skilled, they were more relaxed with each other around the cottage. Breakfast ceased to replicate that of an elegant hotel and became far less opulent. On the whole, they settled for cereals, tea, and toast, and whoever woke first did the honours. And what started off as two strangers sitting at opposing ends of the settee talking ended up as two friends slumped over each other as they fell asleep before the end of a film.

Warren hadn’t forgotten Nicholas, nor Argo. With the work Warren was doing with his steed in the evenings, he often rested him on weekends. It wasn’t only Warren in training; Argo had to develop a new skill set, too. Despite knowing what he was doing at the joust on the hill, no one knew if the same would happen again.

Warren often visited Nicholas early on Monday mornings, en route to work. Warren didn’t get to spend as much time as he wanted, but Nicholas seemed to understand. Nicholas only appeared to Warren during about half of his visits, and even then talk was stunted. Warren didn’t think it right that he pump Nicholas for information every time he opened his mouth. Although he did kick himself once for asking, “How do you feel?” Nicholas’ response was that of scrunched lips and his hands pointing out his ghostly form as if to say, “Dead.”

When he had the time, Warren availed Nicholas of his thoughts like he always had. In recent visits, those centred more on his fears and hopes for the joust. He slipped in some questions about Nicholas’ incarceration, too. “Can the spell be broken?” Nicholas crossed his fingers. “Where’s your knight?” meaning Nicholas’ love. He didn’t get the answer he expected when Nicholas held out his hands towards Warren. “What happens if I don’t win the joust?” The ghost’s demeanour turned sad, and he gestured towards the grave. “How many champions have tried to save you?” Nicholas held up seven fingers. That was a surprise Warren made a note of, for James to research further. Then, remembering Carl’s warning, he asked, “Is there someone keeping the spell going?” Every time Warren broached that subject, Nicholas panicked and disappeared.

Warren also tried to tackle questions that affected Alex, but none of those were answered.

As Christmas approached, Warren and Alex had gotten into a routine of strategy, practise, banter, and meals. Their time together mostly centred on sword fights, but between all that work, the men became firm friends. It was a different kind of friendship from the one he had with Carl. It was more intense, more physical, and in many ways much more personal. He’d allowed Alex to stay in his home. He’d allowed him to get to know the real Warren Blake, the one no one inside work and few outside work saw. Warren had never had a friend like Alex before. They’d progressed a long way in a short time. Maybe it was because their lives were on the line. All the same, the trust between them was new to Warren, and he liked it.

One night, while watching
Star Trek
, Warren plucked up the courage to deal with an issue that had been bothering him. “Alex.”

“Uh-huh.” Alex was dozing with his head on the armrest of the settee.

“What are you doing over the Christmas period?”

Alex cracked open an eye and mumbled, “Same as always, I expect. Staying in James’ cottage, watching TV.”

Warren adjusted his seat to look more squarely at Alex. “On your own?” He didn’t know if he was surprised or not. On one hand, he expected Alex to be doing family things with James. Then again, there was a reason Alex was at James’ cottage and not at the manor.

“Yes. I can’t go to church, as everyone goes there at Christmas. It’s too public. James is expected to keep up appearances at the manor. Then he’s off to his lady-friend’s.”

It was the first time James’ private life had come up in conversation. “He’s not married, then, or has any children?”

Alex sighed. “No, no, no. It’s sad. As the heir to the manor, he’s determined the curse won’t carry on. He’s decided not to marry or have children. He’s lost several prospective wives over his refusal to commit.”

“Won’t it manifest through Philippa’s children? Does she have any children?”

“Yes, she does, but it’s unlikely the curse will pass to them. At least that’s not how it’s happened in the past. Lords of the manor can only be male, and the curse seems to follow the children of the lord, which, after Father passes on, will be James.”

“Shit!” Warren physically felt the pressure on him increase, and he sagged into his seat.

The next thing Warren knew, Alex was on his knees with his hands on Warren’s face. “Warren, are you okay? Warren. Warren.”

“Uh, what? Yeah. Sorry, just spaced out there for a little bit.”

“Spaced out? You went white as a sheet.”

“Yes. Well. Before today, I only had Nicholas, who’s already dead, needing me, and you, who’s running out of time. Not much pressure there,” he intoned sardonically. “But now I’ve got a whole bloodline hanging on my actions, too. Which, I might add, if I win, we don’t know what’s going to work, but are pretty sure I’m going to die if I don’t. Does that make sense, or did I just speak a whole load of gobbledygook? I only moved here for a quiet retired life.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Alex moved in and gave Warren a hug.

Warren found comfort in the embrace and burrowed his head into Alex’s neck. He let strong arms and a broad chest ease the strain from the walls closing in on him.

“I have faith in you,” Alex breathed, squeezing Warren tighter to him.

“Thank you.” Warren moved away to the gift of a light kiss to his forehead.

Alex cleared his throat and returned to his seat. “You said something about Christmas?”