Chills broke over Bronwyn’s skin as Baile Castle drew nearer. Perhaps it was the lingering sense of her encounter with Alexander making her jumpy. Her reaction to him had been weird and intense. The more time that ticked past between meeting him and now, the more ridiculous she felt about it. Probably some crazy knee jerk thing she had for men with English accents and ancestral titles. She needed to cut back on those historical romances.
Harvey kept them on the one and only road that wound out of Greater Littleton and up toward the castle. As far as she could see, that was the only place the road went. The castle soared against the summer sky, even larger than it appeared in her dreams.
On one side, the castle faced the village, behind it rose a mountain, and on the front end lay the sea. The cliff on which it perched had a staircase coming down from the castle to a large cave opening. There didn’t seem to be any other way to get there, which would really suck if you were scared of heights.
“Baile, a word meaning home, is a classic example of a motte and bailey castle.” Hermione had the bus microphone and an endless supply of facts. “If you look to your right you will see the raised portion of earth, or motte, on which the castle was constructed.” They all dutifully looked right. “Surrounding it, is the enclosed area called the bailey. In Baile’s case, the bailey is on three sides, with the cliff edge being guarded by a stone wall.”
Jersey’s husband pressed his face against the window glass. “Are those stairs going down?”
“Indeed.” Hermione’s smile sent him to the top of the class. “And another unique feature about Baile. Beneath the castle are a large series of caverns. In the central cavern, there is a stream, which is believed to supply the water needs of the castle.”
Knowing trickled through her, and she said, “No.”
All eyes snapped her way and Hermione’s eyebrow went up. “Is there something you would like to ask?”
“Er…no.” Heat climbed her cheeks. She had no explanation for how she knew that pool was not about water for the castle. A soft melodic chime sounded in her mind. The knowing strengthened until she was almost shivering.
“Then I’ll continue.” Hermione gave her a quelling look. “Now where was I?”
“The stream?” Jersey pressed against the glass right next to her husband. “Can you swim in it?”
Hermione chuckled. “I’m not sure, but the ladies who own the castle might take issue with that.”
“How does that work anyway?” Jersey’s husband turned his attention back to Hermione. “How can people own a castle? Aren’t all castles in England the queen’s?”
“Goodness me, no.” Hermione tittered. “The queen, of course, owns her own castles, but Baile is owned by the Cray family. They are a direct line all the way back to Sir Roderick.”
“He was married?” The German lady in the Man U sweatshirt got in before Jersey or husband could ask another question. “But you said he had a castle full of mistresses.”
“Indeed, I did.” Blushing the same brick red as her tour guide waistcoat, Hermione cleared her throat. “Sir Roderick never married. Instead he had an interesting arrangement with several women who lived in the castle.”
People sat up straighter in the bus.
“Like shacked up with them?” Jersey and husband exchanged glances.
“Er…quite.” Hermione pursed her lips. “What must be remembered about the medieval period is that people were more earthy than they were in later periods. They had a rather more pragmatic view of certain base needs.”
“Go Hot Rod!” Jersey’s husband guffawed.
A few people tittered politely with him.
“Right.” Hermione went on. “Like our village, the castle has several fascinating legends about it. There is another intriguing legend around Sir Roderick. He appears constantly in several texts dating from the twelfth century up until the mid-sixteen hundreds. If those texts are to be believed, then Sir Roderick lived to the ripe old age of five hundred, give or take a few birthdays.” She smiled, back on comfortable ground. “Of course, it’s impossible that all these mentions refer to the same Sir Roderick. More likely to have been descendants who carried the same name.”
“I read there are witches in that castle.” A small Asian woman spoke so quietly Bronwyn nearly didn’t hear her.
Hermione perked right up. “Indeed! I’m so glad you mentioned that. The witch legends surrounding our village do, in fact, originate from the castle. Back in the day, it is said it was the home of a large coven.”
“How large?” Jersey’s husband was a details man.
“We’re not entirely sure. Old texts being unreliable sources of information, and the castle has been in the same family all this time,” Hermione said. “They are a mostly private family and keep to themselves.”
Harvey drove them onto a stone walled bridge toward the castle entrance. On either side of the bridge, the land dropped away into a steep gorge.
“What happened to the witches?” Bronwyn needed to know. The knowing prickled that the answer to her question was one she desperately needed.
Hermione’s smile died. “That is a sad and grisly story, I’m afraid, and best we tell it now before we enter the castle. I always feel it insensitive to mention it when the Cray ladies are around.” She took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Like your Salem.” She looked pointedly at Jersey and husband. “We had our own witch hunts here in England. A rather unpleasant individual called Mathew Hopkins appointed himself the Witchfinder General. We know from several accounts of the witch hunts of 1645 that he developed quite the obsession with Baile and her alleged witches.”
Harvey drove slowly over the cobbled floor of the bailey and toward a massive arched wooden door. Bands of steel reinforced the door, and it looked like it would take an army to break them.
“What happened?” An unbearable sadness swept through Bronwyn and she wanted to weep. Her emotions were all over the place. It must have been that she was finally there, fulfilling a dying wish of Deidre’s.
I wish you could see this, Dee.
Dee’s head would have been on a swivel trying to take it all in. She would have peppered Hermione with question after question.
“Hopkins and his fanatical group broke into the castle and killed all the occupants.” Hermione stared up at the rising stone wall in front of the bus. “To our shame as a village, some of our ancestors took part in the murder of around ninety innocent women.”
“So they weren’t witches?” Jersey whispered her question.
“No. They were midwives and herbal healers at worst.” Hermione cleared her throat and hauled her happy face back on. “There is, of course, no such thing as witches.”
“You seem awful sure of that.” Jersey gave Hermione the side eye and nodded to her husband. “I always say nothing is impossible. Have you watched that show Supernatural Hunters?”
Hermione stood and jerked her waistcoat into place. “I’ve not had the pleasure.” She clapped her hands. “Now, a couple of rules before we enter the castle proper. As we have said, the castle is still privately owned, and the owners use it as their primary residence. They allow tours on Tuesdays and Thursdays only and only one tour a day. Everyone is to stick with the tour and remain in only those parts designated as public.” She looked at Jersey’s husband. “We would not want to have this wonderful opportunity to visit their home ruined.”
“Will we get to see the caves?” Jersey’s husband filed out of the bus behind his wife.
Hermione grimaced. “Unfortunately not. Our insurance does not cover a nasty fall from the cliff.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I wouldn’t fall.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Hermione said with the sort of endless patience that had covered this conversation thousands of times. “But the caverns are also off limits to the tour.”
“What the hell is the use of that?” He grumbled to his wife but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You pay good money for a tour, you should get to see everything.”
Bronwyn stepped off the bus. Her feet settled like they were on familiar ground, like they knew the feel of the cobbles against them. She couldn’t drag her stare away from the castle. It was beautiful, for sure, like something out of a fantasy film or a fairytale, but it was more than that. She knew this castle and—weirdly—this castle knew her.
What if not all the witches had died that night with Mathew Hopkins? It was not implausible that one witch had escaped that night. Maybe she’d been away from the castle and heard about the killing. From there, it wasn’t a far jump to conclude that her or one of her children might have made their way to the new world.
“Hello,” she whispered.
Sister.
Water witch.
Healer
Even softer whispers, no more than a sigh or a breath of wind surrounded her. It should have freaked her out, but it comforted her. The rest of the group was carrying on as normal. Not one of them had heard what she had.
Her ancestry test had brought her here, and there had to be a reason. “Are the family here?”
“I can’t be sure.” Hermione gave her a sympathetic smile. “But don’t concern yourself about them. They make themselves scarce on tour days.”
She pushed open the doors, and they all followed her into the castle. Easily the size of a football field, with vaulted ceilings rising high above them, a hall spread out before them.
“This is the great hall.” Hermione’s kitten heels clacked against the stone floor. “Please note the banners hanging on both sides of the hall.”
The rest of her group noted the banners, but Bronwyn couldn’t stop staring at the stained-glass window at the far end of the hall. Three women were depicted beside a pool and beneath the shade of a tree. The image was wrong in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. All the women stood equidistant from each other, except for a space to the right of the last woman. It was almost like there should have been someone there.
A nasty cold crept up her spine and made her shiver. Her stomach lurched, and she felt nauseous.
“As you may well know, Baile is considered an architectural masterpiece. Please note the ceiling. Until recently, when the Cray family allowed tours inside the castle, it was thought that Durham Cathedral was the first example of a building with a stone vaulted ceiling on a large scale.” Hermione pointed to the vaulting. “Although Baile and Durham were built around the same time, we here in Greater Littleton like to believe we have the first example of a stone vaulted ceiling of this scale. ” She tittered and wrinkled her nose at the group.
Jersey stopped in the center of the great hall at a table with benches. “The furniture doesn’t look that old.”
“Which is another unique feature of Baile.” Hermione grinned. “Possibly because of such limited access to her, but Baile looks no older than if she’d been built yesterday. You will note no decaying of woodwork or staining on the stones. None of the wear and tear one would expect of such an ancient building.” She leaned closer to them and whispered. “It’s a truly special place.”
They followed her deeper into the great hall. To their left, a wooden staircase rose to a central landing and then rose again to the left and right of the landing to the gallery above. A red rope cordoned off the stairs and Hermione swept them past. “We will continue to the library. Baile has one of the largest collections of rare books in England. The library is one of my favorite places.”
Bronwyn studied the hall banners as they went beneath them. Symbols decorated them, and she would love to have spent more time examining the symbols.
A woman ran down the left arm of the staircase. “It’s you!”
“Oh my.” Hermione giggled. “We are lucky today. Good afternoon, Miss Cray.”
Long red hair swept straight down the woman’s back. She was slim and tall, her skin a white so pure it glowed. She wore a maxi dress that skimmed her hips, and beneath the hem, her feet were bare. She hopped over the red rope and trotted straight for the group. “I knew it would be today.”
For a second, Bronwyn thought the woman was talking to her.
“I told Niamh I had a special feeling about today.” She stopped in front of Bronwyn and smiled down at her. “And I was right. Here you are.”
“What?” Bronwyn looked at the woman. She didn’t know her, but somehow, she did as well. The knowing started beneath her skin and spread rapidly.
The woman shoved out her hand. “I’m Mags.” She rolled her eyes. “Actually, my full name is Magdalene, but everyone calls me Mags.”
Bronwyn didn’t think she’d seen this woman in her dreams even, so she couldn’t know her. Still, she took her offered hand. “Bronwyn.”
Mags had a smile that transformed her face from interesting to beautiful. “Welcome, Bronwyn. We’ve been waiting an age for you.”
“What?” Bronwyn was sure she was gaping.
“Well then.” Hermione popped up beside them. “You did not say you knew Miss Cray.”
Mags grinned at her and giggled. “She doesn’t, but she will.”
“Okay.” Bronwyn didn’t know what else to say.
“Come to tea.” Mags took her hands and squeezed them. “Come to tea, and I can tell you everything you’re here to discover.”
Not knowing how to respond, all Bronwyn managed was a strangled. “Okay.”
“Right then. On with the tour.” Hermione gave Bronwyn a thin smile. “Unless there is someone else you would rather speak to before I continue?”
“Er…no.” Still looking at Mags, she followed Hermione back to the tour group.
Mags mimed drinking from a tea cup and saucer. “Tea,” she called. “And the answers to all your questions.”
It floated through the nothing, weightless and directionless. It had no beginning and no end. It had no purpose. It just was. Formless, incorporeal, weightless.
Then it became aware, aware of being.
A being. Awareness swirled around it once having been a being. Cognizance burgeoned of having once had substance and now existing merely as spirit, a soul still drifting, still insubstantial.
The substance had been female. A woman. Like a distant echo, her gender wafted past and around her. There but finding no purchase and no structure.
Something. Something she needed to remember hovered on the very edge of her awareness. Then vanished. Bubbles of knowledge floated up through the endless dark but disappeared again before they could converge into thought.
She floated. Nothing more.
Infinite nothing. Endless nothing.
A concept dripped into the void. A thing she should know, but the void devoured it before she could be sure.
Still her memory of the thing that had been persisted and would not leave her. Her memory of it built it back up again, strong enough to stand against the rapacious void. Now that it stood firm, it tormented her with her not knowing.
She grew to hate the thing, the thing she should know and did not, because the thing opened a door in her consciousness. Through the door crept knowledge, and that knowledge grew a name.
Time. The knowledge was called time, and its awareness bloomed like a blood stain through her expanding mind.
Time had passed. More time than she could imagine. More time than she could lose.