The Virgin Bride of Northcliffe Hall Page 7

  Mathilde grabbed Olafar’s hand. “What happened?”

  “I do not know. It was as if we were simply plucked out—by what? What power could do that?”

  Grayson said slowly, “You spoke of the time flux taking you to the wrong Camelot. It appears it brought you back to the wrong Camelot again and jerked us out just before Lord Thayne murdered Arthur, and, one supposes, Guinevere ran away with Lancelot.”

  Olafar looked up at the empty ramparts and searched for soldiers, but didn’t see any, and listened for any noise that did not come. He said slowly, “It is odd, but I feel something, a differentness. Perhaps the time flux has shifted again, perhaps because I am with you and Mathilde and together, with Pip’s spirit, we are now strong enough to bring us to the right Camelot, the one of history.”

  Grayson said, “Only one way to find out. Let us go to the great hall.”

  Mathilde said, “Guinevere, she was more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen or dreamed of.”

  Olafar nodded. “She was so beautiful it made my teeth ache to look at her.”

  Grayson couldn’t disagree.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The great hall was as it had been but moments before—filled with people, courtiers, and soldiers, but again, they were only images, representations Mathilde had called them, frozen in time, nothing more substantial than people in an old painting.

  On the large gilded throne sat a strong-looking middle-aged man, his thick dark hair mixed with silver strands, and like the young Arthur, it was pulled back from his face and bound in a club. It was King Arthur. He was dressed more elaborately than his younger counterpart, his tunic fine gold-spun linen, the same thick golden chain around his neck with its black etched disk. He wore Excalibur fastened at his side on a fine black leather belt. Beautiful boots covered his feet, bound by supple leather cross garters to his knees. He was tapping his strong, blunt fingers against the throne arm. He turned and called out, again, in English they could understand, “Guinevere, hurry, love. I wish you to be here when Lord Thayne arrives. I want to keep you safe.”

  The red velvet curtain parted, and a woman slipped onto the dais. It wasn’t the Guinevere of legend, the Guinevere they’d just seen, a temptress so beautiful a man’s lust rose fast and hard. Although this Guinevere’s face was lovely, the fact was she was short and plump, middle-aged, like Arthur. Her hair wasn’t the spun gold of a man’s dreams, lustrous and thick. Like Arthur’s, her hair was threaded with white, and it was bound in netting pulled back from her face. She wore a gown of soft green linen, a thin golden chain around her waist. She looked like a settled matron, perhaps a mother of grown children, just as King Arthur looked older and more settled. She had a bit of a double chin. They watched her smile at her husband, a sweet smile that held no guile. “My lord, one of my stockings went astray, and my lady had to fetch me another.” She leaned down, not very far, and kissed the tip of his nose. She lightly stroked her palm over his cheek. “Do you feel better? I did not like that cough during the night.”

  Arthur grabbed her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Her feet dangled. She laughed, a lovely sound, light and carefree. He said, “I am well. Worry you not, sweeting. The cream you rubbed on my chest cured me. I have determined I married a witch, and I am glad of it.” And he kissed her again and set her on her feet. She settled beside him on the smaller throne. He said, “If my spy is right, Thayne has come to kill me instead of offering peace. Be alert. When he enters, what he plans will be clear soon enough.”

  Guinevere raised a white hand from the folds of her gown. In it, she held a knife. “We will protect each other.”

  They heard loud voices coming from outside the great hall. Suddenly, the frozen tableau came alive. People were shouting, running, men pulling their swords, women jumping onto the dais to protect Guinevere. King Arthur jumped up, pulled Excalibur from its scabbard, and leaped down from the dais and plunged into the battle.

  It was as if they were spectators, watching a battle in front of them, but they weren’t really there, weren’t really a part of it. But it was real—they saw blood spurt from heads and bodies, saw an arm cleaved to fall on the wooden floor, flinging blood everywhere, heard swords clashing together, heard death yells. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped, and once again, it was a tableau.

  Only Arthur moved. He stood panting over a man, blood covering his chest, moaning, staring up at him. Arthur spat on him. “You announced you wanted peace, yet I knew you only wanted my death, the destruction of my kingdom.” He raised Excalibur and with both hands struck downward, sending the mighty sword deep into the man’s chest.

  The man didn’t make a sound.

  Guinevere appeared at his side, panting, clutching at his arm, her knife tight in her hand. Arthur pulled out Excalibur, wiped off the blood on Lord Thayne’s tunic, and slid it back into its scabbard. He called out, “Lancelot? Where are you?”

  A heavy middle-aged man with faded golden hair, flecked with white, came striding up, nodded to Guinevere, and bowed to Arthur. “We were ready. His men are dispatched, my lord. All is well.” He kicked the dead body at Arthur’s feet. “It is as your spy told us. Thayne was a treacherous swine.”

  They watched Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot walk back to the dais, Lancelot smiling, nodding as Arthur sat himself again on his throne. “Ah, a lovely fight, but so quickly done. I fear my bones grow old, my lord. I fear I have strained my back.”

  “All of us grow old, my friend,” Arthur said. “But we were still strong and powerful when we needed to be. Thayne, he was a young man, and yet he was no match for us. Guinevere also told me she suspected Thayne. I believed her more than my spy. Thank you.” He leaned over and clasped Guinevere’s hand.

  Grayson, Olafar, and Mathilde stood silently, watching, barely breathing.

  Grayson said quietly, even though he knew the three people on the dais couldn’t hear him, probably didn’t even see them or know they were there, “I believe you have your answer, Olafar. At least, I hope the time flux brought us to the right Camelot. And thus, Sir Thomas Malory’s vision was a fiction.”

  Olafar nodded. “I believe I understand. Malory didn’t have a vision. He had enough kelpie blood to travel back. He was caught in a time flux the first time. Yes, both of us were taken to the wrong Camelot. But he believed it, no reason not to, and it became his truth. After all, he’d seen the betrayal with his own eyes. And his truth became, unfortunately, the world’s truth.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I know it to my bones this is the correct Camelot. It feels right. It feels real. The three of them together throughout their lives—yes, that’s as it really was. Let us go home now.”

  Mathilde suddenly looked like she was going to cry, but she nodded, slowly. Of course she didn’t want to go back. Understandable, since she would be dead and become a ghost again. If only there were some way to let her remain alive, but of course there wasn’t. She’d been born in her time and died in her time. The three of them walked through the great fortress, walked across the practice field and back into the oak forest. Olafar walked directly to the same spot they’d first appeared. He pulled the reins and bridle out of his shirt and held them high. In the next instant, Bonaduce was flying high above the ground, Grayson on his back. Mathilde, still human, clutched Bonaduce’s black mane, her glorious blond hair whipping out behind her.

  Would she simply fade away when they returned to the present? How could it be otherwise? Grayson sighed. Sometimes life—and death—wasn’t fair.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Northcliffe Hall

  Saturday morning

  Alex Sherbrooke waved a letter at the breakfast table and said to her husband and Grayson, “A letter from James. He, Corrie, and the twins are coming home early. They want to visit with you, Grayson—and Pip, of course. Evidently the twins have been talking nonstop, wanting to hear a ghost story from you.”

  Grayson nodded, smiled. “And I do have a wonderful story to tell them
.” He rose. “Please excuse me. I must see to fulfilling a promise.”

  “What promise?” his uncle Douglas asked, a white brow raised. “To whom?”

  “It’s not really a promise, but it’s something I’ve thought about a lot, and now I want to act.”

  He left his aunt and uncle staring after him and went to the third floor to the schoolroom. Olafar was reading while the children finished their breakfast. Pip, P.C., and Barnaby were laughing, arguing, who knew about what. At least they weren’t throwing food at each other. Pip looked up, smiled at his father, and then turned back to P.C. It didn’t appear Pip remembered his ride on Bonaduce’s back. Had he remembered the first time because Grayson had pulled him out of the dream and it hadn’t yet faded? Evidently so.

  “Grayson.” Olafar closed his book and rose. “How are you feeling this very fine morning?”

  “I feel as fine as the beautiful morning. It is not raining, a wondrous thing. May I speak to you, Olafar?”

  They walked to the far end of the schoolroom, out of the children’s hearing. Grayson said, “The Virgin Bride, Mathilde, she was as real as you and I were at Camelot.”

  “Yes, yes, she was.” He shook his head. “And how real was that, exactly? We seemed real enough to each other, but we were only observers to all the people at Camelot. I do not know how to explain any of it, Grayson.”

  Grayson said, “It seems like a dream, a distant but still very finely detailed dream. Mathilde didn’t want to leave, Olafar. She didn’t want to be a ghost again.”

  Olafar nodded. “I know. When we returned, she didn’t say anything. She simply disappeared. I haven’t yet seen her today. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Grayson, and I have an idea.”

  Grayson smiled. “Mayhap it is the same idea I have.”

  Both Olafar and Grayson called to her, but Mathilde did not appear. Grayson rode with the children, took them to the neighboring village of Porthe, and bought them ice cream.

  That afternoon he walked in the eastern gardens, thinking, hoping what he and Olafar wished would be possible. He heard her, knew who it was, and turned to see Delyth beautifully gowned in a dark-blue riding habit, a pert hat set atop her head. She held a riding crop against her skirts. “Is there something I may do for you, Delyth?”

  She eyed him, then sighed. “I have already seen Olafar. Now it is time for you to know the truth. You believe I am Belgian, but that is not true. I simply took the shape of Mrs. Smythe-Ambrosio’s niece, here to surprise my aunt and uncle. They welcomed me gladly, and I made up grand stories for them about the family in Antwerp.

  “You also believed I was flirting with you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I was, but it was for a reason.”

  Grayson arched an eyebrow.

  Slowly, she pulled a beautiful silver bridle from a pocket in her gown. “My name is Delyth Ramsey. I am Olafar’s sister. I am also half kelpie, half witch. I’ve been careful he hasn’t seen me up close, else he would know who I am. I did not want him to know I came because I knew I had to protect him, and believe me, he would be insulted. And so I’ve watched from afar.

  “You know our mother is a witch, but she is not just any witch. She is very powerful. She sees things, knows things. She told my father and me that you are a man who sees things other men don’t, a man who has experienced many strange and wondrous things, a man who’s dispatched demons and evil spirits from long ago. She said this differentness made her afraid for Olafar because she couldn’t see clearly into your mind to assess how you would deal with him. Would you see him as a demon? See him as being dangerous to your son and the other children? An abomination to be destroyed? So I volunteered to come.”

  Grayson could only stare at her in amazement. “Of course I would not kill Olafar.”

  She smiled at him. “Forgive her. She’s a mother, and she worries. No, I realized soon enough you would never harm Olafar, which is why I’m telling you the truth now. Olafar is happy. He loves the twins and travels with their spirits. He told me you accompanied him to ancient Camelot.”

  “Yes, last night. Olafar is now content. Did your mother also know about Mathilde, the Virgin Bride? She is the resident Sherbrooke ghost, a young lady who died in the sixteenth century. She is the protector of the Sherbrooke ladies. Olafar told you she traveled back with us?”

  At her nod, Grayson said, “It was miraculous. She was human, but back here in the present, she was once again a ghost.”

  “Olafar told me he needed to speak to her. About what, he did not tell me. But I know, I know.” She shook her head. “My mother, never shall I doubt her again. She not only is a powerful witch, but she is also blessed with the second sight. That is, she sees things no one else can see, feels things no one else can feel. And she was right. I was with my parents last night, and she told me she saw Olafar with a beautiful young woman with long, glorious blond hair, and the young woman was laughing and dancing and singing. She told me Olafar was going to marry her.”

  Grayson could only stare at her. “But that is not possible. She is a ghost.”

  Delyth leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Ah, but she wasn’t at Camelot, was she? I fancy Mathilde and Olafar will travel back and forth many times in the coming years, visit many places, perhaps even go back to Rome in the time of the great Caesar. Will she have children in another time? Will she grow older? I’ll ask my mother. Perhaps she can see their future.”

  She lightly touched her fingers to his arm. “You are a fine man, Mr. Sherbrooke, and very kind. I thank you. My mother also said to tell you Barnaby’s father is George Nathan Cox, eighth Baron Worsley. His main country residence is in Hartlepool, not far south of where you live. Barnaby is not illegitimate. He was stolen by a jealous woman and left on the church steps in your village. Barnaby’s mother died shortly after his disappearance—from grief, my mother said. Baron Worsley searched and searched for his son. You will bring him great joy when you return Barnaby to him, Grayson. Oh yes, there will be no doubts. Barnaby is the picture of Baron Worsley. Both have bright-red hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky.” She paused a moment, leaned forward, and kissed him. She stepped back and pulled the silver reins and bridle from her gown pocket and held them high. In the next instant, Grayson stared at a beautiful palomino mare. She butted her head against his shoulder, then kicked up her hind legs and galloped out of the eastern garden.

  EPILOGUE

  “Papa?”

  Grayson smiled at his son, now looking up from his eggs, a slice of toast in his small hand.

  “Yes, Pip?”

  “Last night Mathilde came to kiss me goodbye. She told me she and Mr. Ramsey were going to China. I asked her where China was, but she didn’t know. She doesn’t really talk, but you know what she’s saying anyway. I asked her how she could do that, and she laughed. I felt her kiss me, Papa, and I heard her still laughing, and she hummed. Then she was just gone.”

  “China,” Grayson repeated, and smiled. The Virgin Bride would remain, yet she wouldn’t, not really, not in her world, but in long-past worlds. “It’s a marvelous place, Pip, very far away and very different from England. She will like it there.”

  As Grayson watched his son finish his breakfast, he thought about Olafar. He knew Olafar would speak to Uncle Douglas this morning and tell him a family matter was forcing him to leave his employ. Grayson knew, of course, Olafar had no choice. He had plans, grand plans, and he had to be free to carry them out.

  Grayson smiled as he thought of Barnaby. When they returned home, he would ride to Hartlepool to meet Baron Worsley and tell him about his son. When Delyth had said his name, of course Grayson remembered where he’d known the baron. He’d been at Oxford, perhaps five years before Grayson. He’d been plain George Cox then, the bane of the dons, always in trouble, and Grayson had heard some of the fantastic stories of his exploits. What would P.C. have to say about Barnaby’s newfound father—a baron—and his future title? She’d preen, he knew it. And what would Baron Worsley think of P.C.? Grayson had no doubt
the baron would be enchanted.

  Grayson’s writer’s mind gave him the first sentence to his next book: “The witch saw her small son’s future in her scrying mirror and smiled. It was an incredible future.”

  About the Author

  Catherine Coulter is the author of 84 novels, including 80 New York Times bestsellers, occasionally, after exhaustive prayers, hitting #1. She earned her reputation writing historical romances to pass the time while aboard the ark. She added suspense thrillers to her repertoire – with great success. The Cove, the first book in her bestselling “FBI Suspense Thriller Series” spent nine weeks on the New York Times list and has to date sold well over 3 million copies. Since then she’s written 23 more bestselling thrillers in the series, including The Maze, The Target, The Edge, Riptide, Hemlock Bay, Eleventh Hour, Blindside, Blowout, Point Blank, Double Take, Tailspin, Knockout, Whiplash, Split Second, Backfire, Bombshell, Power Play, Nemesis, Insidious, Enigma, Paradox and Labyrinth. Her 24th FBI thriller – Deadlock -- will be out in July 2020. Coulter also has another suspense thriller series – A Brit in the FBI – co-writing with bestselling author JT Ellison. The 6th book in this action-packed series, The Last Second, is available now in all formats. Critics describe the Brit series as “unputdownable” and full of “heart-stopping action.”

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  OTHER BOOKS BY CATHERINE COULTER

  An FBI Thriller Book

  The Cove

  The Maze

  The Target

  The Edge