Shadows at Stonewylde (6 page)

She sat down on Celandine’s bed, with its pretty patchwork quilt and embroidered pillow-cases. She hadn’t even made these herself, still finding fine sewing a challenge after all these years. She preferred working at the loom, although they didn’t have one up here in their private rooms. Yul had said no to that, trying as ever to shield her from the simple duties every other woman at Stonewylde performed. She should’ve insisted as she enjoyed weaving, and remembered the hours she’d spent with Rosie in the early days learning the ancient skill.

Sylvie gazed at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror and realised just how pale and shadow-eyed she looked. No wonder Yul thought her fragile and in need of protection … but it simply wasn’t true. She had been ill – really very ill – when Bluebell was born four years ago. She’d suffered from severe post-natal depression, which was common enough, but this had turned into something more serious. Sylvie had developed puerperal psychosis, and she knew it was why Yul had become so ridiculously over-protective.

But the spell in the private nursing home, well away from Stonewylde and her babies, Yul and all the triggers, had sorted her out. Now she couldn’t bear to think about that period of her life, and the horrible treatment she’d undergone, without a shudder. It had been a very dark phase, but one that she’d firmly put behind her. It was just a shame that Yul seemed unable to do the same, treating her as if she were made of glass. Like every woman at Stonewylde of child-bearing age who’d either had her children or didn’t yet want any, Sylvie was fitted with a contraceptive implant. Hazel said it had the added bonus of keeping her hormones steady. She was in good health physically and there was no reason at all why she shouldn’t be working as hard as everyone else at Stonewylde.

Pulling on her cloak and determined to enjoy a brisk walk to clear these dusty old cobwebs away, Sylvie resolved to confront Yul and start the process of improving things between them. Miranda had been right last night – Yul was neglecting her whilst he worked too hard, refusing to allow her to share the burden in any way. They needed to return to a relationship based on equality. For they were the darkness and the brightness of Stonewylde, the balance that held everything together in harmony. Together, they were the very heart of Stonewylde.

T
he thin, white-haired man gazed out unseeing across the landscape from the Solar at the top of the mediaeval tower. His pale grey eyes were vacant as his thoughts rambled unchecked, like a dragonfly dancing on water. He’d been standing at the pointed window, lost in reverie, for over an hour. His hollow-cheeked face was deeply lined and Clip looked far older than his fifty-three years. His stomach growled with emptiness, which he ignored as he was fasting in preparation for a journey at Samhain. This year he’d decided not to join the community at all for the celebrations. Yul could manage it all, he was sure. Clip would be in the Dolmen alone, in body at least, whilst his spirit journeyed to other realms. He sensed a major change ahead, a shift of events that would affect everyone at Stonewylde. At present he had no idea what was to happen but he hoped to find out at Samhain. He was, after all, the shaman of Stonewylde.

The thirteen years since his brother’s death at Quarrycleave had been tortuous for Clip. He’d only ever wanted to be a shaman, never the leader of such a complex community, and despite being the legal owner of Stonewylde he’d always taken a back seat in the running of the estate. But the death of Magus had been a huge and shocking blow to the community, even to those who’d wanted him gone. In the aftermath, Clip had had to step into the void and assume the role he’d always been happy to leave to his brother. Tough as they were, Yul and Sylvie had been far too young to take charge. But perhaps now, thirteen years on …

There was a knock on the door two floors below which Clip, deep in his dreaming, failed to hear. Cherry bustled in from the corridor connecting this tower to the oldest part of the Hall, the Galleried Hall, and stood at the bottom of the stone spiral staircase looking up.

‘Master Clip!’ she called. ‘May I come up?’

Although the whole tower was private and used exclusively by Clip, he rarely used the circular room on the ground floor where it joined the Hall. The middle floor was his bedroom with a small bathroom enclosed within it, and the top floor – the Solar – was where he spent most of his time surrounded by his books, gongs and collection of sacred objects.

Cherry huffed her way up the staircase carrying a tray and Clip started with surprise as her grey head appeared.

‘You’ve had no food for days now,’ she gasped, her large bosom heaving. She set the tray down with a crash on an old chest, covering the papers and drawings that lay scattered across it. ‘Oh my stars, that don’t get any easier!’

‘Here, sit down and catch your breath, Cherry,’ said Clip quickly, clearing a space for her on the battered sofa. ‘You shouldn’t be carrying heavy trays upstairs, though it’s very kind of you I must say.’

‘Well, a body must eat,’ she wheezed, looking around the circular room with a frown. ‘Oh Master Clip, do let me send someone in to give this place a dusting.’

‘No, Cherry. We’ve discussed this before and you know I don’t like the thought of some youth poking about amongst all my precious things,’ he replied.

‘Then I’ll do it for you!’ she said, shaking her grey head in disapproval. ‘’Tis a mess and all that dust can’t do you no good. I’ve heard your cough many a time, and—’

‘That’s nothing to do with dust,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s too many nights spent out in the cold taking their toll, I’m afraid. No, really, Cherry, please don’t fuss about my tower – you know this is how I like it.’

‘Mmn,’ she muttered. ‘’Tis not fitting for the Master o’ Stonewylde to be living in such a muddle, but there’s naught I can do if you won’t let me clean it. But please do eat some o’ this food. Marigold prepared it specially for you – look, there’s a lovely piece o’ beef pie and some jam sponge pudding too. We don’t like seeing your bones poking out the way they do.’

‘Thank you, Cherry, and please convey my thanks to your sister too. It’s very kind of you both and I’ll eat a little later on. Now, if you’ve got your breath back …’

‘Aye,’ she grunted, heaving herself to her feet, ‘I best be getting along.’

She eyed the collection of African masks suspiciously and tutted at the layer of dust on the desiccated frogs that lined one of the many window-sills.

‘Oh – some books arrived for you,’ she said. ‘They were in the entrance hall but I couldn’t manage them. One o’ the lads’ll bring ’em up later.’

‘Please, Cherry, don’t send people up here,’ said Clip. ‘You know I really don’t like being disturbed.’

‘Aye, well – ‘tis done now. It were Swift in fact and I didn’t ask him – he offered. Now, make sure you eat that and don’t forget to bring the tray back down, will you? Else I’ll have to send someone up for it. I’m not having dirty plates mouldering away in here.’

Clip smiled good-naturedly at her, wishing her gone so he could return to his solitude. She clumped down the stairs and eventually he heard the door on the ground floor shut. He sighed, eyeing the tray of unwanted food with distaste. It was vital to fast before a major journey – the odd apple and handful of hazelnuts were all he’d permit himself – and now he’d have to somehow dispose of this without Cherry noticing. He appreciated her and Marigold’s concern, but it was wearing to be fussed over.

He turned back to the window and then gasped in agony as, without warning, excruciating pain sliced through his abdomen. His eyes darkened with shock and he tried to ride above it, but it gripped him with vicious coils. Clip’s thin body bent double and a long groan escaped. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomach, whimpering as the pain bit deeper and deeper into his guts.

Then it was gone as suddenly as it had come. Clip straightened and took a deep, ragged breath. Was it some sort of omen of things to come? Shakily he stood up, grasping hold of the window ledge to steady himself. He went to a cupboard recessed in the ancient stone walls and selected a bottle of murky liquid. He’d prepared this remedy to ward off the emptiness that gnawed at him before a journey – maybe a draught would ease the cramp. He could cope with hunger but not pain like that. He’d no idea where it had come from and fervently hoped never to encounter it again.

He groaned again as there was another knock at the door downstairs, which this time he heard clearly. The trouble was anyone standing in the corridor on the other side of the heavy oak door couldn’t hear his reply. He’d have to start bolting the door, he decided, as he really hated all these disturbances. The door opened below and a lad’s voice carried up the stairs.

‘Just leave the books down there please!’ called Clip, leaning over the head of the spiral stairs and trying to see where the boy was. Swift – Martin’s son, he thought, always a little hazy on the names and identities of that huge generation. Clip recalled the small pale-haired boy, much younger than Martin’s other children.

‘Oh for goddess’ sake!’ he muttered as he saw a blond head circling up the staircase. ‘Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?’

Swift surprised Clip by being a young man, and he realised with a jolt just how out of touch he was becoming. The youth was slightly built, not tall like Martin, and handsome with straight silvery blond hair that fell into his eyes. He smiled disarmingly at Clip, not in the slightest bit out of breath. He carried a large brown package that looked heavy.

‘Your books!’ he said cheerfully, looking around with interest.

‘Very kind of you,’ said Clip. ‘Just put them down on that chair. Thanks for bringing them up for me, Swift.’

‘My pleasure,’ said the lad charmingly. ‘And you remember who I am!’

‘Well, I—’

‘It’s a beautiful place, your tower. I love all your collections.’

To Clip’s dismay, the lad put the books down and sank onto the sofa with another grin.

‘I’d love to hear about your travels one day,’ he said. ‘Father says you’ve travelled all over the world and I know your Story Webs are full of tales from different cultures, but you never talk about where you’ve been.’

‘No, I suppose not. Though my travels in recent years have been negligible.’

‘You must miss it,’ said Swift sympathetically.

‘Yes, I do. It’s all I ever really wanted to do, but somehow …’ Clip spread his hands and shrugged in a gesture of acceptance at his fate.

‘Father says that life doesn’t always work out as we expect,’ nodded Swift. ‘But surely you can take time out now and go travelling again?’

‘Yes, I’m hoping that next year, when—’ Clip stopped abruptly, realising he shouldn’t confide his plans to this boy before telling anyone else.

‘Next year you’ll go travelling again? That’s great! Where were you thinking of going?’

Swift smiled encouragingly but Clip shook his head, frowning down at his thick felt slippers.

‘Nowhere. I didn’t mean that. Now, Swift, if you don’t mind …’

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ said the boy quickly, flicking the long straight hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s a bit of a strange request, but I wondered if I might call you “uncle”?’

‘
Uncle?
’ Clip stared at him.

‘Yes, because according to my grandmother that’s what you are – my uncle.’

Clip was completely dumbfounded at this and continued to stare at the lad. Swift looked up candidly at the tall, careworn man with his lined face and faraway pale-grey wolf’s eyes.

‘I was visiting Granny Violet yesterday,’ he said. ‘Father sends me round there with things for her, and she was talking about you – her and my Great-Aunt Vetchling and Aunt Starling. Granny said you used to like her cakes.’

Clip nodded ruefully at this.

‘Granny’s annoyed that Marigold makes the ceremony cakes nowadays – she said in Magus’ time it was her job?’

‘That’s right – it’s one of the things Yul changed when he became magus.’

‘She’s still upset about losing the job even though it was so long ago – she felt honoured to do it in the past. Anyway, she was talking about the old days which she does a lot, and she wanted to know how you were doing.’

‘Really?’

Clip shuddered involuntarily at the thought of the crone. He hadn’t had many dealings with her over the years, still remembering clearly how she’d spoken to him that terrible Winter Solstice Eve up at Hare Stone. Clip recalled how she’d frozen him to the spot and frightened him with her dabbling in Dark Magic. He recognised the malignant power Old Violet held and wanted nothing to do with her or the other women in her household.

‘She was talking,’ continued Swift blithely, ‘about how you and Father were half-brothers.’

‘Oh.’

Clip had no idea how to respond to this. There’d always been talk and speculation, and knowing that perhaps Martin was his half-brother had certainly coloured Clip’s judgement about keeping him on at Stonewylde to run the Hall; he felt he owed the man some familial loyalty. But Violet had never made it public knowledge before that he and Martin shared the same father. He wondered vaguely why she would do so now?

‘Yes, so I reckon that makes me your nephew and you my uncle, and I wanted to be allowed to call you Uncle Clip. Is that okay then? You don’t mind?’

Clip shook his head helplessly, unable to think of a good reason to object, but still sensing something not quite right about the situation. What was Old Violet up to?