Minster Lovell Hall, Oxfordshire, Winter, Sometime in the 13th Century
Snow spattered the windows of the Old Hall, carried on the sharp north wind that spun it into fierce spirals before battering it against the diamond mullions. The wind howled down the chimney and the snow fell on the hot embers of the fire with a hiss and burned away in an instant. No one noticed. There had been a wedding at Minster Lovell that day and the hall was hot, the guests drowsy with wine and good food, the atmosphere merry. Mistletoe boughs hung from the rafters and meat congealed on the plates. The minstrel sang a soft song of love whilst the bridegroom toyed with his empty goblet and contemplated his marriage bed. Then a shout went up for games and charades, for hoodsman’s blind or shove ha’penny or hide and seek.
The suggestion prompted a burst of clapping mingled with the groans of the drunkards. The room was split between those who wanted to play and those whose senses were too fuddled. The groom’s uncle and the dogs were all snoring, unashamedly asleep. There were no guests on the bride’s side; she was a beautiful, orphaned heiress, and no one knew where John Lovell had found her. Some whispered that she was really a harlot who had ensnared him, others that she was a witch who had used sorcery to capture his heart. John Lovell laughed at the folly of the whisperers and seemed well pleased with his good fortune. He was a baron, noble but poor; the only item of worth in the entire house was said to be the Lovell lodestar, a sacred stone that the family had held in trust since the earliest of times. All the food, the wine, the jewelled goblets they drank from and the golden platters crammed with meat had been provided by the bride as part of her dowry. Gossip about her was surely mere jealousy.
‘Let’s play hide and seek.’ Ginevra, the bride, cast her new husband a coquettish look from beneath her dark lashes. ‘I shall hide and you may come and seek me out.’
A roar went up at her words. There were whistles and catcalls. The wedding guests knew how that would end. No doubt Lord Lovell would find his bride hiding in their bed and then the game would instantly be forgotten in favour of another, more pleasurable one. A mood of faintly debauched anticipation began to seep into the room with the wine tossed back and the singing growing louder.
Ginevra stood, smiling, enjoying the attention of the crowd. For a moment she waited, poised, like a deer on the edge of flight, and then she ran, followed by the cheers and hunting calls of the wedding guests.
John Lovell stood too, flushed and a little unsteady, barely able to restrain his pursuit until his bride had had time to hide. He listened to the patter of her slippers die away and then with a shot he was off, eager for the conquest. He tripped over furniture, searched behind curtains and clattered up the stairs. Excitement and the thrill of the chase sustained him for the first ten minutes and determination not to be bested for the next ten but after a half-hour he rolled back into the great hall, out of breath, a little sullen, his lust frustrated. All the other guests were quaffing more ale and eating more pie. They seemed surprised to see him. Quiet fell over the hall like a shroud. The drunks sobered abruptly.
‘Ginevra!’ John Lovell bellowed, torn between indulgence and injured pride. ‘You win the game! Come out!’
There was a moment when the wind seemed to die away and the sudden hush in the house grew to become a complete and terrifying silence. It was a silence that seemed alive, reaching out from another time to steal them away.
‘Ginevra!’ John Lovell called again, but this time his voice shook as doubt and fear tightened its grip on him. He marched to the front door, men crowding at his shoulder, and flung it wide. Nothing but blank snow met their gaze, no footprints, no sign of life, nothing but December’s cold moon shining on the empty land.
‘The lodestar!’ Suddenly John Lovell turned and ran back down the cross passage to the library. Here his father, a most learned man, had kept those manuscripts and documents so cherished by the monks of the early Minster church that had stood on the site centuries before. Here was the heart of Minster Lovell, the lodestar, a holy relic locked away in its gold and enamelled box. No one in living memory had seen the stone; no one had dared to look, for it was said to possess miraculous power beyond man’s wildest imaginings.
The room was as still and cold as the rest of the house; colder, for it felt as though the very soul of winter had set within those walls. The ancient oaken chest, bound within iron bands, that had held the golden box safely locked within, lay open and empty. The lodestar had gone.
John Lovell slammed the lid of the chest down in fury. His shout of anguish echoed through the house and seemed to seep into the very stones.
The Lovell lodestar was lost, the bridegroom deceived, the thief bride had vanished.