covert eye on her progress.
When some way up the road she glanced back at the churchyard and stopped to stare, he turned to look as well.
The gravediggers stood off to the side, hats in hand. Alone on the soaked, matted grass beside the open grave, Hobbs sat with his head bowed over bent knees, his broad shoulders quaking with sobs.
ELEVEN
"'Tis cold and quiet as death," Gwynneth observed with a shiver. "Why was it built?"
"Defense, my lady." Thorne stood at the base of the stone steps that spiraled up the interior wall of the tower keep, his oil lantern casting grotesque shadows of himself, Gwynneth, Townsend and Caroline. They had come through a hidden door in a carved oak-paneled wall of the archive room, which doubled as Arthur's office. Just beyond the panel door, double doors of studded oak nearly a half-yard thick and hinged by one piece from top to bottom in forged iron had required all of Thorne's and Townsend's might before opening with an unearthly groan.
"It may seem folly now," Thorne admitted, "but Queen Bess conferred the barony on Thomas Neville for his help in destroying the Armada, and Thomas could not forget how Spain's army was rumored to have been marching overland to meet the fleet on shore of the Channel."
"First the army. Then the Inquisition would have returned for an encore," Townsend quipped. "And none of us would be here now, what with our ancestors having been killed in the march or burned as heretics."
"None but Gwynneth," Thorne countered, grinning as Townsend winced at the reminder of Gwynneth's original avocation. "At any rate," Thorne teased, "a manor lord never knows when the villeins might rise against him, forcing his family into the tower for survival."
"Heaven forbid." Gwynneth shivered again, rubbing her arms.
Thorne indicated the massive square timber leaning against the wall. "Lifted into those iron brackets by a half-dozen men, that barricade turns this place into a fortress." He held up the lantern, illuminating a wooden disk in the stone floor, with a thick iron ring in its center. "And this would be our water."
"None too fresh, from the smell of it," Townsend observed.
They climbed the narrow steps with caution, using handholds cut into the stone. On the second floor, meager light stabbed through small iron-barred windows in three of four separate chambers. There was no sign of use, not even a dried rush on the stone floor. There was only the smell--something besides the stagnant water in the old well below--and the chilly, tomb-like silence.
The third floor proved the source of the unpleasant odor, as arrow loops cut through the thickness of the wall admitted thin crosses of light, revealing animal droppings in partially slimy but mostly hardened heaps. As the women gasped, Thorne put a finger to his lips and pointed upward.
Four pairs of eyes rose to peer into the shadows of the heavy ceiling beams. Townsend spoke first. "'Twould seem we're not alone."
"Bats," Caroline breathed.
"God help us," Gwynneth whispered, looking ready to fly down the steps.
Thorne reached out to steady her. "We've only to be quiet and move slowly. They're sleeping. And harmless, I promise. They're of tremendous value to the livelihood of this estate, and I dare not begrudge them shelter in an otherwise useless structure." He smiled. "That said, watch your step."
Leaving the ammonia-laden fumes of the bats' lair behind with a collective sigh of relief, the party emerged onto the battlements.
While Thorne and Townsend walked around to the southern view, Gwynneth followed Caroline to the parapet's nearest crenel, a waist-high gap for an average man. "It looks like patchwork," Caroline said of the four hundred eighty hectares of pasture, crop fields, orchards, meadows, forest and beck spread out around them.
Gwynneth shuddered, staring at the flagged terrace far below. "Agnes," she said faintly, "must surely have crushed her skull on those stones. How long, I wonder, could the
When some way up the road she glanced back at the churchyard and stopped to stare, he turned to look as well.
The gravediggers stood off to the side, hats in hand. Alone on the soaked, matted grass beside the open grave, Hobbs sat with his head bowed over bent knees, his broad shoulders quaking with sobs.
ELEVEN
"'Tis cold and quiet as death," Gwynneth observed with a shiver. "Why was it built?"
"Defense, my lady." Thorne stood at the base of the stone steps that spiraled up the interior wall of the tower keep, his oil lantern casting grotesque shadows of himself, Gwynneth, Townsend and Caroline. They had come through a hidden door in a carved oak-paneled wall of the archive room, which doubled as Arthur's office. Just beyond the panel door, double doors of studded oak nearly a half-yard thick and hinged by one piece from top to bottom in forged iron had required all of Thorne's and Townsend's might before opening with an unearthly groan.
"It may seem folly now," Thorne admitted, "but Queen Bess conferred the barony on Thomas Neville for his help in destroying the Armada, and Thomas could not forget how Spain's army was rumored to have been marching overland to meet the fleet on shore of the Channel."
"First the army. Then the Inquisition would have returned for an encore," Townsend quipped. "And none of us would be here now, what with our ancestors having been killed in the march or burned as heretics."
"None but Gwynneth," Thorne countered, grinning as Townsend winced at the reminder of Gwynneth's original avocation. "At any rate," Thorne teased, "a manor lord never knows when the villeins might rise against him, forcing his family into the tower for survival."
"Heaven forbid." Gwynneth shivered again, rubbing her arms.
Thorne indicated the massive square timber leaning against the wall. "Lifted into those iron brackets by a half-dozen men, that barricade turns this place into a fortress." He held up the lantern, illuminating a wooden disk in the stone floor, with a thick iron ring in its center. "And this would be our water."
"None too fresh, from the smell of it," Townsend observed.
They climbed the narrow steps with caution, using handholds cut into the stone. On the second floor, meager light stabbed through small iron-barred windows in three of four separate chambers. There was no sign of use, not even a dried rush on the stone floor. There was only the smell--something besides the stagnant water in the old well below--and the chilly, tomb-like silence.
The third floor proved the source of the unpleasant odor, as arrow loops cut through the thickness of the wall admitted thin crosses of light, revealing animal droppings in partially slimy but mostly hardened heaps. As the women gasped, Thorne put a finger to his lips and pointed upward.
Four pairs of eyes rose to peer into the shadows of the heavy ceiling beams. Townsend spoke first. "'Twould seem we're not alone."
"Bats," Caroline breathed.
"God help us," Gwynneth whispered, looking ready to fly down the steps.
Thorne reached out to steady her. "We've only to be quiet and move slowly. They're sleeping. And harmless, I promise. They're of tremendous value to the livelihood of this estate, and I dare not begrudge them shelter in an otherwise useless structure." He smiled. "That said, watch your step."
Leaving the ammonia-laden fumes of the bats' lair behind with a collective sigh of relief, the party emerged onto the battlements.
While Thorne and Townsend walked around to the southern view, Gwynneth followed Caroline to the parapet's nearest crenel, a waist-high gap for an average man. "It looks like patchwork," Caroline said of the four hundred eighty hectares of pasture, crop fields, orchards, meadows, forest and beck spread out around them.
Gwynneth shuddered, staring at the flagged terrace far below. "Agnes," she said faintly, "must surely have crushed her skull on those stones. How long, I wonder, could the
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