* * *
When Lucien's father married my widowed mother, my mother and I went to live at The Abbey. I'd met the Seventh Earl of Rolingbroke, my new stepfather, on only two previous occasions— brief interviews that had put me quite in awe of that forceful man. I entered his home knowing I was without a champion— my mother, for all her beauty and good-heartedness, was a timid soul, more likely to suffer a fit of the vapors than to defend me.
The Abbey itself was daunting— a rambling structure larger by far than the small estate where I had been reared, and very much older. I sincerely believed that a boy of my size might be lost within it, and even if his newly remarried mother should take the trouble to look for him, she might never discover which winding staircase or long gallery held his remains.
Not the least of my anxieties concerned my new stepbrother. I expected resentment from Lucien, then twelve and two years my senior. My first impression of him led me to believe that he was a cool and distant fellow. As we entered The Abbey, he stood back from the others, regarding me lazily from his greater height. I was afraid and trying not to show it— but I must have failed, for his father muttered something about "Master Quake-boots."
Lucien's expression changed then, and he welcomed me by bowing and murmuring for my ears only, "Lord Shivershanks, at your service." I choked back a laugh, received his rare but charming smile in return, and, like any recipient of that smile, knew all would be right with the world.
Lucien soon became both friend and brother, offering wise-beyond-his-years guidance and his seldom bestowed affection. He taught me how to get on well with my stepfather, protected me against a bully or two, and allowed me to accompany him in every lark imaginable. He taught me the ways and traditions of The Abbey. He also taught me how to find several secret passages within it and told me stories of its past, thrilling me with tales of ghostly, headless monks haunting the north (and only remaining) tower, of hidden treasures and ancient curses.
"And we must not forget the Christmas Curse," he whispered to me one chilly evening in late November— when as usual he had made use of a priest's hole to come into my room and visit long after the servants believed him abed.
"Can there be such a thing?" I asked.
"Oh yes," he said with one of his mischievous smiles. "You, my dear Edward, have not had the felicity of meeting my Aunt and Uncle Bane and their pack of hellborn brats— Henry, William, and Fanny. Utter thatchgallows."
"Thatchgallows!" I laughed.
"Shhh! Yes. Born to be hanged, every man Jack of them— and Fanny, too. We shall have to prepare for their arrival. They'll try to harass you, of course, but don't worry. Every time one of them behaves odiously, you are to remind yourself that soon we will be handing them a reckoning."
He was not mistaken. Lord and Lady Bane brought their three interesting offspring to The Abbey not two weeks later. The servants had prepared for their visit by carefully removing the most treasured and fragile objects of the household from sight. From the moment the Banes passed through the imposing entrance of The Abbey, our home was turned upside down. Henry and William, true to Lucien's prediction, made it their business to make me suffer. Henry was my own age, William a year younger, but they were both taller and stronger than I. All three children favored their father, Lord Alfred Bane, who was both brother-in-law and cousin to the earl— though I could perceive no family resemblance. Lord Bane was a redhaired man whose countenance could easily be brought to match it in color. His softest whisper was nothing less than a shout— and he seldom whispered.
His sons were equally loud and seemed never to stand still for a moment. They contrived to poke, pinch, trip, and jostle me at every opportunity. By the end of their second day among us, I was quite bruised but did not doubt for a moment that Lucien would come to my aid. In his quiet way he often did so, surprisingly able to control them as no one else could— giving a quelling look to Henry or William that always made them desist until they chanced to find me apart from him.
When those opportunities arose, any feeble attempt on my part to defend myself caused them to set up a caterwauling that served as a siren call to Lady Sophia Bane. This fond mother relished coming to their aid and invariably boxed my ears as she rang a peal over my head. On these occasions my own mother, who knew better than any general how to retreat in good order, always announced that she felt a spasm coming on, and— clutching her vinaigrette to her bosom— excused herself from the battlefield.
Lady Bane complained constantly, perceiving faults everywhere. The food was not to her liking. The servants were never to be found when needed. The room in which she sat was too chilly. When the fires were made larger, she was too warm and protested that the chimneys smoked. The rooms where they had been installed were uncomfortable for this reason or that. "Not what we are accustomed to at Bane House!" was a refrain we soon wearied of hearing.
When she declared that their rooms were inconveniently located, my stepfather raised his brows.
"But my dear Sophia!" he said. "They are the very rooms you insisted upon after refusing the ones you had last year, claiming I was trying to banish you to a far wing of The Abbey."
It made no difference.
Lucien later told me that his father and aunt had been reared separately— the earl had spent most of his childhood at The Abbey with Lucien's grandfather. Lucien's grandmother, who disliked life in the country nearly as much as she disliked her husband, lived in Town with her daughter, Sophia.
I was grateful for these insights. We had little opportunity for private speech such as this, however, for Fanny constantly spied on Lucien and me. Since I had been almost constantly in his company during the previous months, suddenly being unable to share confidences with Lucien gave me a sense of loneliness the depth of which surprised me, as I had often been alone before we came to live at The Abbey.
Then one evening, just as I was feeling quite sure this would be my most miserable Christmas ever, Lucien winked and smiled at me. I immediately understood this to mean that he had devised a remedy for our troubles. I was not mistaken.
We had been engaged in playing jackstraws, but Fanny's governess, who had been overseeing our activities that evening, called the proceedings to a halt— perceiving, I suppose, that this was not the sort of game the Banes could play without violence. As she moved across the room to put the game away, Lucien turned to me and said, "Edward, do you suppose the ghost will walk tonight?"
"What ghost?" the Banes said loudly and in unison.
"The Headless Abbot, of course," he replied.
Fanny's eyes grew round.
"What nonsense is this?" asked the governess, but with an air of interest.
"Long, long ago," Lucien said, casting his spell over us, "a castle was built here— its ruins form part of the north tower. But the castle itself was built over ruins— ruins of an even older abbey, which is how our home came to be named.
"In the days when The Abbey was truly an abbey, a war broke out between two powerful lords. One winter's night, not long before Christmas, the abbey came under attack, which was a shocking thing because this was then considered a holy place, with relics and the like. Knights in armor rode their horses into the chapel, where the abbot was leading the evening prayer. The captain of these rogues took out his broadsword and—
swoosh!
" He made a slicing motion with his hand.
All three Banes and the governess gasped— and I believe I did, too, for though I had heard this tale before, never had Lucien related it in such a dramatic manner.
"Yes," Lucien said darkly, "he beheaded the holy man where he stood, and his knights murdered all the other monks— defenseless men at their prayers."
This earned another gasp.
"But why did they do such a thing?" the horrified governess asked.
Lucien seemed to hesitate, his manner that of one who was deciding whether he should impart a great secret. "The attackers," he finally said, "had heard a legend, a tale of a treasure kept in the abbey. It probably wasn't true, for although they examined every cupboard and cabinet and pulled at loose stones and tiles and looked in every room and hall for its hiding place, they could not find the treasure." He paused. "The powerful lord to whom the knight had sworn his loyalty sent a messenger to the captain, saying that he needed his warriors and so they must make all haste to the battlefield. The greedy captain did not want to abandon his treasure hunt, so he pretended to have an illness. He sent all but a small number of the knights to join their lord in battle while he remained with a small band— the most black-hearted of the lot— to continue his search."
He lowered his voice. "But during the night on the very first evening this small company stayed in the abbey, the men who stood guard were startled to see a strange sight— a man wearing a monk's robes, his face hidden by its cowl, seemed to appear out of nowhere. Unlike the brown-robed monks they had slaughtered so mercilessly, this one was dressed all in white save for a splash of red on his chest. 'Who goes there?' cried one of the knights. The figure in white halted and lowered his cowl. With horror the knights saw that the apparition
had no head
."
"The abbot!" William said breathlessly.
"Yes," Lucien said. "The guards screamed in terror, awakening the others. The knights were frightened, but their captain tried to brazen it out. 'Show us your treasure!' he shouted. And the abbot began to lead the way. The captain called to his five bravest men, and they followed the monk into a secret passage. The others were too frightened to go near him and waited."
Again Lucien paused.
"Yes, yes! Then what happened?" Henry insisted.
Lucien smiled. "They were never seen again!"
There was a suitably awed silence.
"But the treasure!" William said. "What happened to the treasure?"
"It was never found. Accidents befell any who tried to discover it— especially those who ventured near the old sanctuary. Eventually this land was given to one of our ancestors. He had the portion of the abbey that had been the sanctuary sealed off and built his castle over it. But the local people will tell you that the Headless Abbot still walks on winter nights. Some say they've heard the sound of hoofbeats coming from the part of the abbey that lies nearest the sanctuary— the ghostly horses of the accursed knights."
"Which part of this old pile is that?" Henry asked, trying for nonchalance.
Lucien appeared to reflect. "Why, I believe it is very near your rooms."
All Henry's bravado disappeared. "Mother!" he screamed, running from the room. Fanny burst into tears and soon followed him. William hurriedly escaped on her heels.
"My word!" the governess said, rather pale, although perhaps she feared her employer's displeasure more than headless monks, for she hastened after her charges.
"My compliments," said Lucien calmly. "You appeared suitably frightened. If you continue to play your part so well, my dear Edward, I believe we can have them on their way by first light."
I decided not to admit that I was genuinely frightened, but I think he knew in any case, for the delightful prospect of the Banes' departure made me smile, and when he saw it, he said, "That's the barber! They've been beastly nuisances to me, but worse to you, poor boy." He looked closely at my face, which had served as a target for Henry's fists a little earlier in the day. "Daresay you'll have a mouse under your right eye. Was it Henry who tried to darken your daylights?"
I nodded, fairly certain that Henry had indeed given me a black eye.
"Nasty fellow, Henry. I'll have to think of some special treat for him. But never mind that— you've got more bottom than the lot of them. Game as a pebble, you are!"
Such praise, delivered for the most part in cant expressions he had learned from one of the stable lads, delighted me so much he had to remind me to appear to be frightened.
"We must be prepared, for my father will be demanding an explanation of us soon, I'm sure."
The thought of being called before the earl was enough to restore my pallor.
"Excellent," Lucien said, his smile broadening when Fibbens appeared at the door.
"If your lordship and Master Edward would be so good as to come with me?" the young footman said, his face revealing nothing. "Your lordship's father asks that you join the other members of the family in the drawing room."
"To receive a rare trimming from my Aunt Sophia?" Lucien asked.
There was the slightest twitch at the corner of Fibbens' mouth before he answered, "I'm sure I could not say, your lordship."
* * *
As we approached the drawing room, Lucien whispered to me, "It is absolutely essential, dear Edward, that you stand as close to my father as possible."
A daunting instruction indeed. Summoning all my courage, I did as he asked, making my way to the earl's side as Lady Bane began to deliver herself of what promised to be a lengthy speech on the lack of manners of certain members of the younger generation. Henry, William, and Fanny eyed us with smug satisfaction.
