Nachtstürm Castle (4 page)

“Or whom.”

“Or whom....”

Clearing his throat, Lord Branning exclaimed, “Except that it was inherited, I might sell the thing off. But I’ve had half a mind to let it to the occasional English chap – matter of fact, I was just telling the Vicomte d’Etoillieux, that if I happened upon an English chap tonight, I’d let the thing to
him
– if he seemed a decent sort – or else, if all of Europe couldn’t provide me with one true blooded British man, I’d sell the thing right off. But d—n me if you didn’t come along! Come, come, lend me a scrap of paper – the back of one of your sermons will do, Tilney – and we’ll settle accounts this instant!”

Catherine was reluctant to accept the offer, remembering her previous incident with the gypsy and her subsequent vow to seek out the safe, known, and predictable.
 
But then, she thought, Henry had made the same vow, and if
he
had made such a vow and still thought this course was no more dire than any stay in Northanger Abbey, then the adventure should be cheerily dull indeed!
 
In fact, she considered, it was not unthinkable that Henry had arranged this newest enterprise from the very first – and therefore, she reasoned, it would be the height of ingratitude to object to the journey, having already embarked upon it.
 
And, she concluded,
if
Henry had planned the whole thing, then it was very possible that her future might hold...
secret passageways.

With thus much inducement, a paper was quickly produced – ripped from a blank page in
Udolpho
– and within a half an hour the whole was settled, with much adieuing on every side, in time for the final triumphant scene of L’Amour over le Mort. Even the erroneously joyful conclusion to the tragic Grecian myth could not diminish Henry’s good humour, and his comments were less acerbic than they might have been.

“Nachtstürm Castle,” he repeated, grinning boyishly. “What a perfectly dreadful name. Well, it mayn’t be the Apennines, but I hope it shall suffice?”

“Of course, my love. What fortunate coincidence!” Catherine agreed with a smile and a gentle touch. For she was assured now, as she had only suspected before, that there was nothing coincidental at all when Henry Tilney was concerned.

There is little on this earth more beautiful than the Southern lands of Europe, when one is in want of Mountains. Who does not marvel at the dawn, when the dawn is viewed over the rolling hills in the provinces of Lyons? Who is not awed by the dusk that creeps over the lilac strewn terraces of Provençe? Who could not, upon first viewing the blue–green shimmer of the Riviera, cry with ineffable joy the existence of the True, the Good and the Beautiful? There is no such person.

In this land, so remote, so fantastic, even cynicism and unbelief must bow to impossible reality. In this land, where holy men have trod in meekness, recognising their humble nature to One greater than the mountains, the visitor must likewise meekly tread.

To the South, through lands of awesome majesty, the Tilneys travelled – savouring each vista, as one greets a strain of heartrending music. They visited the grounds of a Benedictine monastery, stopping simultaneously to listen as the Evening Prayer was raised in time with the bells. They wandered hand in hand through vineyards and copses – whose twisting paths were such that Henry was once obliged to carry his beloved in his arms. Their stay in Southern France was idyllic – providing Henry with beauty on every side, and Catherine with castles and abbeys enough for a lifetime.

So spent they a happy overture in France. But every lover must come at last to Italy, whose warm clime invites kisses, and whose people look tenderly on the sacramental love. So to Italy Henry and Catherine went, sorry to leave the paradise they had found, but joyful to set eyes upon that place which gave romance its name. Along the coast they travelled, then inward to those ancient cities: Bologna, Milano, Pisa, Roma, Verona, Firenze, Venezia, and upward once again.

Each place had its wonders: the University, the twisted Leaning Tower, Juliet’s balcony, the melancholy song of the gondoliers. Rome was swathed in light, shining on the Spanish Steps, flooding through St. Peter’s, touching on the Forum’s ruined temples, and slanting through the walkways of the Colosseum. Florence was no less breath–taking, from the Ponte Vecchio to the Duomo, from Santa Croce to the stone garden of the Medici’s. The mountains of France were mirrored in the monuments of Italy: the one of granite, the other of marble, both leading the glance heavenward.

But neither could compare with the gargantuan natural edifice that was the mountain upon which Nachtstürm Castle rose.
 
It was a mountain made of the darkness between two lightning bolts.
 
It was made less of earth than Stygian frost.
 
Whole towns fell away as they ascended, as though the ranks of black and frowning conifers waged war against the humans below.
 
Even the path – rather narrow and rarely straight – seemed less made by centuries of pilgrim feet and more by the trace of some careless demon’s claw.

It was, in fact, perfect.

They took two days for the journey, and may have taken three except that upon learning after supper that they were perhaps only another hour or two from the castle, they decided to press on.
 
Lanterns were lit, and they were off, as the harvest moon rose large and yellow on their right. Catherine soon fell asleep, lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage, and Henry too might have dozed lightly, except that it began to rain. ‘Twas no more than a patter, but the threat of thunder rumbled always just above them. Still they travelled, winding through the narrow pass, the driver’s heya and whip blending into the night. Then with a clatter and a thump, the carriage stopped – stuck in the mud. Henry glanced outside, his arms tightening instinctively around his beloved. But their guides, even with the help of Henry’s man, were unable to move the carriage forward, and the horses were frightened with the brewing storm. Henry must come out.

He kissed Catherine’s brow and laid her gently on the seat, before climbing out to aid the others. His greatcoat whipped about his face as he rounded to the back, relieving the driver who attended to the horses. The left wheel had stuck in a ditch and the whole carriage must be lifted and pushed if the wheel was not to break.

“Remove the luggage,” Henry instructed, doing so himself.

That accomplished they attempted again, with as little success. Boots slipping in the mud, fingers red and cracking, night blind, they shoved again and again to no avail.

“It’s nae coming out, sir,” his driver, Colin, said.

“Can we walk?”

“What! On a night like this! With tha missus? Begging tha pardon, but tha’d be dicked in th’nob to do so.”

Henry smiled grimly. “I see. And what do you suggest?”

“I’ve nowt to
suggest
, sir.”

“Thank God for Yorkshire,” Henry muttered. “Right then – on three...”

Four shoulders pressed against the carriage, ready to – in their ignorance – break the wheel in half, when a voice called out, “Prego! Entschuldigung!”

“Who’s there!” Henry cried, abandoning his post.

Four men held their breaths as a man stepped forth in a flash of lightning. He was fair complected, and dark of hair and brow and eye. No hat wore he, nor any coat – but the green vested costume of the Austrians. But though his garments were simple, he bore himself like a king.

“A friend,” said he, in perfect English.

“Coo,” Colin breathed. “I’ll be diggered.”

Henry’s own face had gone very white, and his eyes flickered several times to the carriage as though he could see through it and to his lady.

The gentleman approached, saw the dilemma, and at once instructed them all in the uses of the lever. Even with the aid of such a machine, their cheeks were flushed and their brows sweating by the time they freed the carriage and set it right. The stranger’s eyes were especially brightened by the exercise, and he turned with heightened good humour to his compatriots, shaking hands with each in turn. To Henry he gave a small bow, saying, “William Wiltford, Baron of….
 
At your service, sir!”

Henry repeated the honour, offering his own name. At this, the young man’s cheeks blushed and he bit his lip, dark eyes flitting agitatedly about. “You will pardon me, sir,” he said after a moment, “whither are you bound?” Henry provided the information – and curious about this stranger’s surname as the stranger was about Henry’s own. “Ah,” the stranger replied. “And your wife is with you?” Seeing Henry’s protective reaction, the stranger amended, saying, “I am indeed related to Lord Branning, Mr Tilney. He is my cousin. And I am his caretaker.”

Now it was Henry’s turn to say, “Ah,” and to bow once more. “Were you bound for Nachtstürm, sir?” he inquired of the stranger.

“Yes. I often...I realise it is strange to walk about at night but I had...” The youth flushed again and bowed. “You will want to hasten to shelter, sir. I shall follow you on foot. It is my custom.”

“Well,” Henry said, “if it is custom!”

The servants had retrieved the luggage, making such a clatter as they whispered to one another about “Young Will” as they had taken to call him that Catherine had roused. Seeing they were stopped and that Henry was gone, she at first was disposed to cry out – but presently she heard her husband’s voice outside and so hastened to join him. She had not yet completed her descent before Henry espied her and rushed to her side, helping her from the carriage. Since the acquaintance with the stranger could hardly be avoided, our hero took it upon himself to introduce his wife to William.

That man’s eyes grew large, and he almost pulled back rather than bow as he first regarded Catherine.
 
“Cos’è questa cosa?” he whispered, and then, “Fortuna!”
 
His fingers moved restlessly by his side as though he should touch her, but feared to find she was a ghost.
  
Turning suddenly to Henry, he said, “You will pardon me. I must go. I shall meet you presently. Old Edric will assist you at Nachtstürm. Forgive me.” And with that he hurried away with haunted eyes.

Catherine held her husband’s hand quite firmly, her own eyes as wide as William’s had been.

“Catherine,” Henry began, but she shook her head and laughed.

“It does not signify, Henry. I am not afraid. You cannot frighten me.”

“Frighten you!” Henry exclaimed, aiding her back into the carriage. “What
do
you mean!”

For answer, she kissed him, and settled against his chest for the final mile to Nachtstürm.

What a mile was that, which led our heroes to Nachtstürm! A more miserable mile has never been travelled! What rain, what thunder, what lightning, what puddles! What jolts and bumps and shocks and swearing brought that lumbering carriage to its destination! What terror possessed her – what concern possessed him! With what trepidation did they alight; with what anxiety did they enter!

Nachtstürm was all its name implied, and worse – rising like some terrible, wingèd god from the twisted mountains; grey, dismal, massive – its corners a vigilant face staring like a stone Behemoth upon its black domain. The lanterns seemed like torches; the servants seemed like goblins. No moat, alas, did Nachtstürm provide, but a chasm between mountaintops, spanned by a natural bridge more perilous than could be hoped. The drawbridge of necessity dispensed with, a portcullis rising five times the height of man must make amends. And if an apple grove were clearly visible to the left, yet an imposing tower loomed on the right.

The spinster that greeted them, unfortunately, left much to be desired. Her hair was caught in many thick braids, true, and her skin bore signs of softening age and shifting beauty, and she even had grace enough to be dour when they arrived, but she was not – by any stretch of the imagination – dour and
mute.

“Gruß Gött,” she intoned formally – in a voice more funereal than epithalamian, greeting them in the proper manner – which is to say, from the top of a winding staircase, and candle lit below. “Hereinkommen Sie.” When Catherine hesitated, she glanced sharply at them, looking twice at Catherine, saying, “Sind Sie Herr und Frau Heinrich Tilney, ja?”