Secret Of The Manor (6 page)

The scene was almost too much for Warren to take in. He felt like an interloper in a Robin Hood movie. Everything was surreal, and Warren wasn’t convinced he wasn’t going mad. He tried to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming, but he couldn’t reach his arm for the armour that weighed heavy on his shoulders and rubbed under his pit.

Onlookers waved to him, some more enthusiastically than others. They were crammed behind wooden barriers, and people at the front tried to lean over to touch Argo. They wore plain clothes, many damaged and patched. The attire was similar in style, but not the same class as what Warren saw in his dream feast the day he saw the eyes behind the door. Young girls with unbound hair cheered, while older people sporting worn and discoloured teeth enjoyed the view. They clasped chunks of bread and snagged the odd mouthful as Warren and Argo passed by.

One thing was for sure, the crowd seemed to have more of an idea what was happening than he did. All Warren knew was that he’d ended up in the middle of a joust: the historical sport of the wealthy, where each side had a champion.

Jousting was a test of courage and athleticism, where two riders galloped towards each other from opposite ends of the field with the intention of dislodging their opponent by striking him with the long lance. Sometimes a ground fight followed, which usually ended up with one knight submitting but could easily end in death.

In the midst of everything around him, Warren remained unbending. It was as if there were a pole attached to the saddle, and he’d been skewered to it. The noises of the crowd and the other horses echoed off his helmet’s tinny insides.

As Argo turned to the other side of the field, Warren noticed a gathering of more horses held by servants, all with eyes on him. The term “fishbowl” ran through his head. He felt even more self-conscious, more uncomfortable, more confused, and even surer that he needed a trip to a shrink.

The fires here changed from piles of wood to wrought-iron dishes where flames politely flickered and donated their light to the surroundings. It was an altogether more regal sight.

Warren passed a stand that contained an assortment of weapons, all of which looked heavy. One was an axe, but before he could see the others they were out of sight, and Argo had stopped before a canopied seating area.

It was clear to Warren by the high-backed chairs that he was before the lord and his court.

The lord’s hair was dark and shoulder length, topped by a floppy beret-style hat with a feather in it. The flamboyant topping, which Warren thought would look better on a woman at the Cheltenham races, was partnered with a much-more-masculine coat. The royal-blue velvet garment was long enough to drape over the lord’s crossed legs, and his upper torso was adorned with golden clasps that stretched the width of his chest.

The lord looked at Warren expectantly. Winging protocol by the seat of his pants, Warren thought the safest thing to do was bow as best he could, like they did in the films, with a nod of his head and an arm out to the side.

The lord seemed to like this, and spoke. “Good eventide.”

Warren racked his brain for the last historic movie he’d watched, trying to remember all the terms for those in power. “Good eventide, my lord.”

The lord gave a regal nod. “I wish you good fortune in the joust.”

Warren returned the gesture and replied, “Gramercy, Sire.” He didn’t honestly know what was coming out of his mouth beyond an educated guess, but he’d heard it somewhere, and the lord didn’t frown or draw his sword.

The lord then looked to the lady at his side, who nodded at Warren. “Prithee, good knight, come hither. I would have thee carry my favour.”

With a nudge, Argo moved towards the lady. She was smaller than the lord in every respect and nowhere near as flamboyant. Her dress was long, sleek, and simple, in material a few shades lighter than the lord’s. The sleeves ended in what looked like large white muffs that hung low. A plain silk hood covered her hair, tied in place with a braided band. The outfit was finished with beads of semiprecious stones.

She was a beautiful woman with a clear, fair complexion, whose eyes were similar to those in his dreams. The shape was the same but they were not quite as heavily lashed, and their colour was closer to the grey than the blue set of eyes in his dreams.

As she leaned forward and tied a length of silk matching her outfit around Warren’s wrist, she tugged at his hand and glanced behind her with the words, “I wish thee well.”

That was when Warren saw him, standing, almost hidden by the ornate back of the throne, staring back at him. These were the grey eyes of his dreams. The face bore a straight nose and plump lips. He looked to have the position of a servant, but the way the lady regarded him made Warren unsure of his assessment.

He had the body of a boy in his late teens, possibly as old as twenty, and his posture was submissive. His hair was blond and shaped like the lord’s, and his complexion was fair. His clothes were of finer material than the commoners’ on the other side of the arena. Warren would have liked to study him more, but the shade of the canopy and the seating denied him.

The boy was about to move, but a small hand gesture from the lady stopped him. Regardless, Warren could see the same expression he saw in his dreams: pleading. Warren’s breath caught.

The lord ordered, “Begin, good knight. We shall see if thou wilt survive.” Warren bowed but never took his eyes off the young man.

Argo suddenly turned on his hind legs and headed back to the end of the area.

Warren was confused; surely he must have fallen from his horse and was in a concussed dream world. Even Argo wasn’t acting like himself. Warren looked around and trembled. Everywhere had the air of anticipation.

Warren’s mind went blank. From nowhere, his visor fell, protecting his face. People on the ground hung a shield over his left arm. A lance was thrust into his right hand, and instructions were almost shouted at him. Warren felt as though he were on an amusement-park ghost ride, with Argo as his carriage. He glanced over at the lord’s box, to see the lady reach back and take the boy’s outstretched hand. Warren succumbed to the realisation that, dream or not, he had no choice but to take part in an event that could see him die in battle or wake up extremely confused. It was a far cry from numbers and spreadsheets.

With a swallow and a deep breath, Warren mumbled, “Come on, Argo, let’s do this.”

Argo was led into position, where he pawed at the ground. Warren could see his opponent, draped in black, at the other end of the field. Warren held the lance high and spurred his mount on to the elated roar of the crowd.

He called on all the movies he’d watched to garner what to do, other than ride like hell and hope. Holding back was not an option. Argo sped up, and Warren lowered the lance.
Damn, this thing is heavy
. It took all of his strength not to drop it. He focused on his target just in time to thrust the pole forward.

Warren heard a crash, then felt his whole body come to a sudden halt before the sensation of flying overtook him. He heard a shriek and a gasp. All the air left his body when it hit the ground with a clattering thud.

Warren tried to breathe and gain some equilibrium. He could hear the crowd holler, “Sword,” but his ears continued to ring. He wasn’t moving anytime soon. He thought himself embedded in the ground, aided by a heavy metal shroud.

Around him, he could hear the clank of his opponent’s armour and the screams of the crowd. All the while his head spun as if in a drunken stupor.

He heard a hiss like water on hot coals, a guttural moan he recognised as Argo’s, the flap of wings, and everything went black.

COLD PERMEATED Warren’s body. His back ached. Warm puffs of chewed-grass-scented air made him wince, and he turned his head away. Horse-breath smelling salts, that was all he needed. “Mints are in my pocket, Argo,” he ground out in a pained pant, as if his horse could understand.

Gingerly, Warren stretched out to see if any part of him hurt more than it should. He’d taken several tumbles during his riding lifetime and knew the feel of basic aches and pains as opposed to more serious injuries. His legs were fine, and his arm was tingling, but his back felt like someone had tried to mesh it with his chest. He groaned as he took a deep inhalation to fill his depleted lungs. The stuttering action sent needles of pain across his back. Thankfully, though, the sensation stayed to the outer layers of muscle instead of sinking into the area of his kidneys.

He remembered the moments before his fall and the gasp from the crowd at the joust. He opened his eyes quickly and looked around. The action made him whimper, but at least he ascertained the gathering had disappeared. Part of him wondered if he’d fallen from Argo and imagined the scene while unconscious. Had he fallen after Argo took off with him through the woods? Maybe he hadn’t stayed in the saddle when Argo reared.

Argo butted his head against Warren. “Okay. Okay, boy. I’m moving. Thanks for not bolting.”

Limb by limb, Warren stood. While he was sure nothing was broken, his left arm didn’t move much when he flexed it, and for a few minutes he leaned against Argo for support. Eventually the cobwebs evaporated, and he scanned the area with clearer sight. There was no sign of ancient activities. No fires, no stands, no people; only the hush of the countryside and the stars he’d originally set out to see. They were beautiful and so much brighter without the interference of light pollution.

Warren retrieved his phone, which hadn’t escaped damage, and peered at the cracked screen: two a.m. He’d been out of it for a while, and there was no one he could call at this ungodly hour who would believe he wasn’t pissed as a newt. The only course open to him was to return home.

As Warren bent to retrieve Argo’s reins, he noticed the silk attached to his wrist. Memories assaulted him again. The arena, the lord and lady, the boy; thundering down a field, the fall, and the hiss and flapping before darkness. There was only one bird he knew of that hissed and flapped and liked to scare people off: Salem.
No, no, no, no. No way. Not possible. Nuh-uh. Swans roost at night.
Warren sank to his knees, dizzy, breathing heavily at the thought of what could not possibly have been real. But there was proof upon his wrist. “Jesus wept, this can’t be,” he mumbled.

The beautiful piece of cloth hung in taunting evidence of something Warren considered outrageous, even for his active imagination.

With shaking fingers, Warren untied the silk and stuffed it into his pocket; out of sight and out of mind. He took another deep breath and, limb by aching limb, rose from the grass. He flung the reins over Argo’s head, then used his right hand to place his ailing left arm over the saddle and through the waiting reins. “Argo, whatever you do, don’t fidget now,” he pleaded. Warren hooked his foot into the stirrup, grabbed hold of the saddle, and hoisted himself into place. With a final look at his surroundings, the duo headed home.

An hour later, Warren peeled himself off the saddle and slid to the ground. He made sure Argo was safe in his stable and left the tack on the floor outside the stall before hobbling into the house like a ninety-year-old arthritic man and headed for the shower. His clothes stayed where they dropped in the bathroom.

As the water cascaded over his body, some of his aches subsided while others increased. The pounding in his head was like a thousand drums, each beating to a different stroke. Arrows of pain shot through parts of his back and sides as he washed them. When the water ran clear of mud and bits of grass, Warren leaned against the wall and sank to the floor.

What the hell happened out there?
His mind was a mess of floating thoughts and questions, many of which had flown through his head on his way home.
The boy; the eyes belonged to a servant. Who was the woman? Whom did the lady see, Warren or the rider of Ebony Air? They called Argo “Ebony Air”. Argo knew what he was doing—was he possessed? Who was the young man? What was Salem doing there? Carl talked of a joust. He sodding well got the time of year and location wrong. Was the dream because of the fall, or was the fall because of the dream? What the hell happened out there?
The bruises he felt forming suggested something had happened. Yes, he’d assuredly fallen and hit his head if his crazy thoughts were anything to go by.

“Gahhhhhh,” Warren roared, putting his head in his hands. The throb in his shoulder brought to the fore his discomfort and need to exit the shower. He dried himself as best he could with one hand and slipped into his bathrobe. That was when he noticed the silk hanging out of his jodhpur pocket. Warren groaned as he bent over to pick it up. At that moment another realisation struck him—why didn’t the silk disappear along with the joust?—but he ached too much to think about it. He tucked the soft material into the towelling pocket of his warm robe and sluggishly headed to the kitchen for a biscuit, some ibuprofen, and coffee to wash them down.

Four a.m. Given the pounding in his head, he wasn’t sure if he had a concussion or was simply overloaded with the complicated events of the night. Either way he couldn’t sleep. In truth, Warren knew he should call a doctor or the hospital, but that would create questions that would breed more questions, the answers to which could land him in a white jacket. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced Carl would have some explanation. Except Carl would shoot him if he called so early. Instead, he retrieved a packet of peas from the freezer, wrapped them in a tea towel, and rested them on his shoulder. He sighed in contentment as the cold stemmed the burn. The chill of the peas and the myriad of thoughts flitting through his mind kept him occupied long enough to hear the first chirps of the blackbirds.

Warren dialled the familiar number and waited. The phone rang out for an age. Eventually, a sluggish voice answered. “What’s burning down?”

“Carl?”

A yawn echoed down the line. “No, it’s the bloody tooth fairy.”

The events of the preceding hours began to bear down on Warren. Shakily, he asked again, “Carl?”