Secret Of The Manor (21 page)

At that moment, Warren’s trust in James soared. He knew the man was doing his best to juggle everyone’s interests. Uppermost was his desire to rid his family of the curse and to have them all lead normal lives.

As the discussion changed, James produced some fifteenth-century weapons to practise with. Time was slipping by, and they had to move forward. In the meantime, James endorsed Warren’s belief in a force for good doing what they could to help, and intended to check the family archives again to see if he could find any indicators of whom it could be. Nothing sprang to mind through what he’d read to date. He also wished Carl luck in dealing with Lord Walmsley.

Back at work, Warren was glad he’d put in a few hours over Christmas, as it greatly eased the backlog. On the top of his pile was a new retirement package from Miles. The timing was welcome, as at the end of spring Warren would be entering his fifth and final year at A-Genet. Under the new agreement, instead of a seat on the board, he would receive a lump sum equal to two years’ salary plus a generous bonus. The figure on the page made Warren cough down his coffee to avoid showering his desk with it. Warren was also to be issued a number of shares. Although the terms of the issue wouldn’t give him a voice on the current board, it would give him a say if the company ever went public. In the interim, he’d receive an annual dividend.

Reading the small print, the wording was phrased so that neither sexuality nor publicity resulting from a person’s sexuality could be used as grounds for breaking the contract. These items were mixed in with a host of legal terminology, but from what Warren could see, all bases had been covered, as promised.

Ever the practical man, Warren only requested one clause be altered. He asked that in the event of an accident resulting in the inability to continue in his post, or death prior to retirement, proportionate benefits go to a named recipient instead of his spouse or nearest relative. Warren named Carl.

Contract clause altered, Warren checked with Miles that he’d read everything correctly, signed each copy, and returned the documents to the CEO personally with a bottle of his favourite whiskey.

With one area of his future secured, Warren felt more able to deal with other aspects of his life. By day, he was a man of numbers. At other times, he was a fighter, trainee knight, and lover.

ONE WEEK led into another. Inconveniently, the snow that should have fallen at Christmas arrived in February. As usual the country came to a standstill. Having traded his beloved Jag for a four-by-four not long after moving to the cottage, as it was far more useful over the terrain than a sports car, he was able to get to the stables and continue his accuracy preparation, but all other training ceased. On the bright side, the lost hours allowed for discoveries of a more personal nature with Alex.

As the snow melted, Warren’s education centred on two areas: fighting with real weapons and actual jousting.

Joust exercises transferred from the stables to the bluebell meadow. Initially, practise was scheduled on weekend mornings. But as the event Warren was bound to was in all likelihood happening at night, Carl suggested they meet late in the evening, after work.

The site was closer to Warren’s place than the stable, so Argo was temporarily moved to the cottage, along with another horse to keep him company.

The first time Warren arrived at the site in the dark, a shudder ran through him and his heart thudded in his chest. James had installed small metal dishes in which fires were lit. It wasn’t so much the shadows they cast over the area that made Warren shiver, but the smell. The aroma of pine and a more rustic scent of wood permeated the air. It took him back to
that
night. An absolute reminder of why he was there.

Carl broke Warren out of the memories. “Come on, my cocker, time to get to work.”

Warren’s first few passes didn’t instil confidence. He was still affected by the burning embers. It was Carl’s verbal kicking that bucked him up. “What the bloody hell’s happened to you? Yum riding like a drunken turkey on a boat in rough seas. Take two minutes. Get your head together, straighten your seat, and stop holding that lance like it’s a diseased penis.”

Out to the side, Warren saw James duck behind a tree and burst out laughing.

Carl saw it, too, and tried to hide a smile. “Don’t you mind him. He ain’t gotta do it. Now, bloody focus, lad.”

A few breaths later, Warren was ready for another run. When Carl handed him the lance, Warren kept his eyes on the target and didn’t move them. He urged Argo forward and, at a slow canter, he scored a hit. The victory was small, but it was something to build on.

“Now, do it again,” Carl commanded.

And he did.

SEVERAL WEEKS went by and Warren made more progress on some days than on others. In the meadow, bluebells flourished in patches not constantly trampled by joust activities.

At weekends, sword fighting replaced jousting. The men’s practise had also moved to the meadow for fear passersby would hear the clunk of metal upon metal. Fighting with the weapons gave Warren a new appreciation of the strength needed to wield such instruments. He tired easily and spent many hours in his hot tub being massaged by the bubbles. Alex would have happily taken on the role of masseur, but he was in the same predicament.

The bluebell meadow contained everything needed to train a knight except for an opponent. Warren’s groundwork was taken care of, as he had Alex, but Carl was not of an age where he could take a fall and get straight up. James could ride but didn’t have the skill to control a horse, hold a lance, and hit something. And it didn’t seem fair to use him purely as a test dummy.

Usually, the gentry learned to ride from a young age. James did sit on a horse early in life, but he never took to it well, he said. It was more of a chore than something to be religious about. For him, it was an alternative means to get from A to B. However, he boasted that he was more than comfortable riding around the estate with a glass of wine or toddy in his hand. That being said, he was brave enough to volunteer to attend the mediaeval school Warren had used.

At the mention of the school, Warren and Carl looked at each other and nodded. It was time for Warren to book himself on another course. It was possible to get semi-private lessons focused on jousting alone.

Warren returned home in high spirits.

Friday night arrived, and Warren eagerly awaited Alex. He cleaned up with a spring in his step and readied a snack. When a loud knock echoed through the cottage, Warren jumped and quickly made his way to the door. He opened it with a smile, which soon fell from his face, as it wasn’t Alex who stood the other side of it.

James looked drained. His face was pale and drawn, and dark circles edged his eyes. His shoulders slumped, he drew a breath and said, “Alex has changed. I went to pick him up, and found Salem.”

Warren’s insides churned. “Oh, heavens!” He closed his eyes and swore to himself. James was displaying everything Warren felt and had arrived on his doorstep a broken man. He had to put on a brave face. So he ushered James inside and poured him a stiff drink. Warren reserved himself a drink for later.

Alex’s brother sat in the chair with his head lolled back and his eyes closed. “We caught the witch. We destroyed her power sources. Alex found someone to love who loves him back... then this. I truly hoped he wasn’t going to change this time. None of it seems to have made a difference. It’s not fair.”

Warren totally empathised with James. He, too, was gutted and felt sick. “There has to be another talisman out there,” he offered in explanation.

“We’ve checked everywhere, even her walls and floors for hidden compartments... nothing. I don’t know what else we can do.” James sounded defeated.

“We don’t give up. That’s what we do. You go through your archives again, page by page. Check family heirlooms. Were any of them gifts from locals? If there’s a clue to find, it will be in the diaries. We do what we can until the last second.”

James rubbed his hand over his face. “I know you’re right, but....”

“Yeah, I know.” Warren felt as though James needed a hug, yet he wasn’t the right one to give it. He needed a hug from his brother or his father; preferably both.

James sank the last drops of his drink and rose to leave. “I’ll see you at the meadow tomorrow.”

Warren wanted nothing more than to go the meadow, but James looked beat. Without Alex, fighting was going to be a problem and he needed to regroup. “Leave it tomorrow and try to catch up on some sleep. We’ll meet there Sunday afternoon.” Given the situation, the weather wasn’t even a consideration. Come rain or shine training happened; it was purely a question of degree.

James nodded his agreement and left.

Warren poured himself a drink and shed a tear. He, too, had hoped Alex wouldn’t transform this time, though deep down he’d known it was going to happen. Destroying the witch’s tools was too simple a solution. What ailed Warren most was having no Alex. He couldn’t even comfort himself with the prospect of a reunion after seven months apart, as one way or another, he was sure the conflict would come to a head before Alex could change back.

The following morning, after a brief update with Carl, Warren tacked up Argo and set out. Instead of riding his usual route, he headed for the valley path in the hope that Alex wasn’t already running on instinct.

As he approached the pool, the sight broke his heart. Alex in his swan form was slowly heading away from him, towards a weeping willow, his head bowed so low it almost touched the water. His usual feathered display lay flat against his back. Even at the sound of hooves, Alex didn’t react. All the fight was missing from him. Regardless of having months to get used to the idea that Alex was Salem, and several times seeing elements of a swan in Alex, it was difficult to see Alex in the swan—feathers, beak, and all.

Battling back tears, Warren dismounted and approached the waterside. With Argo nibbling at his pocket, Warren made sure no one was around before he called out, “Alex.” There was no response. He tried again a little louder. “Alex.”

The swan glided around and, upon seeing his caller, flapped his wings and flew at Warren, who had sat on the damp grass. He surfed the water and came to rest by Warren’s feet, pecking at his boots until Warren moved them out of the way. Then Alex ambled up the slope. He sat as close to Warren as he could and placed his beak in Warren’s hands.

The sadness emanating from every feather was palpable.

Warren cradled his swan in one hand while he stroked his head and neck with the other. “I know, Alex. I know.” No more words were said for a long time. Instead, Warren continued to stroke the bird beside him, trying to bring comfort to himself and Alex. The feathers were as sleek and soft as anything he’d ever touched. The barbed strands of white held together in such a way, Warren was sure the finest silk couldn’t compare.

“I will win, Alex. I’ll find a way to break the spells and bring us back together. If not, I’ll find a witch to turn me into a swan, too.” Warren knew the practicalities and probabilities of his statement were off base. But his determination wasn’t.

He held the swan’s head delicately between his hands and vowed, “I will win,” before he placed a soft kiss on Alex’s head. They stayed that way until Warren heard the bark of a dog in the distance. Early risers and their pets were out.

Despite the sadness surrounding them, Warren wanted to leave Alex on a more upbeat note. “Don’t forget, Salem has a rep to protect. I want to hear you’ve been badass.”

Warren mounted Argo and forged on up the valley. He intended to use the ride to clear his head. It wasn’t long before he heard a familiar buzz. Alex was following.

BY THE time Warren returned home there was a text and an answer-phone message waiting for him saying virtually the same thing: If you need us, shout. One was from James, which wasn’t unexpected after the previous night. The other was from Carl. During the weeks that followed, Warren completed his semi-private joust session and was proud to return home knowing he’d made real progress. James bravely stepped into Alex’s shoes as a fighting opponent. Their trysts had neither the same spark as they did with Alex nor the same level of expertise. However, the battles were more brutal, with both men working off the frustrations associated with the curse.

Much to the aggravation of all, Carol had provided no further information, and she was turned over to the care of the church for transportation to London, along with all the evidence of her craft.

The last time the church had been mentioned in relation to witchcraft, Warren was still reeling from his direct experience of the art, and he didn’t question a thing. Now, albeit upset over Alex, Warren was firing on all cylinders. He wanted to know why the Walmsleys got the church involved. Could one simply hand over a woman, declare she was a witch, and be believed?

When Warren confronted James with his questions, he was told that the church’s centuries-old conflict with witchcraft had gone underground since the times of public witch-burnings, but hadn’t disappeared entirely. With the right contacts, it was still possible to present evidence and for the church to take a person into custody before determining for themselves the truth of the matter.

Since then, James and Warren had combed through family and library archives in hopes of finding a clue to whoever or whatever might be trying to help them. The diaries left the men with a list of possible practitioners of the paranormal. There was one every couple of generations or so who delved into the occult in an attempt to rid the family of its curse. Sadly, none were truly credible. Some didn’t match the timeline the men had pieced together, and others were contradicted by accounts from other family members. By the time they were ready to fall asleep at their desks, James and Warren were much better versed in the hundreds of types of witchcraft that could be practised. Unfortunately, they could find none documented prior to 1500, which left them at a dead end.