Snowbound

Chapter Two

The three men conversed in low voices as the food was brought in and a massive bath wrestled up the stairs by the willing Jem and Saul. Bucket after bucket of steaming water was carried in and by the time the simple repast of buttered crab, jugged hare, simmered gently in wine and cream, roast duck and carrots had been consumed, accompanied by several bottles that would have made a Revenue officer’s eyebrows lift in speculation, the bath was full. Polly arranged towels before the huge fire, blazing well and filling the room with warmth and shifting, dancing shadows, aurtsurtsied demurely.

“Will that be all, sirs? I could come back –”

Her saucy smile left her meaning in no doubt and the three men exchanged glances. Captain Williams stood and made his way to her, cupping her rosy cheek in his hand and tilting her face this way and that, studying it thoughtfully. “Let me see. What say you, my friends? Will we have need of Mistress Polly?”

Her breath caught with excitement as he leaned down and brushed her lips with his own but he straightened and shook his head. “I think we will do very well, my dear. Go now and stay – we are not to be disturbed, do you understand?”

She gulped back her disappointment – they were all so handsome! – and frowned. “But – the bath – it will need emptying and –”

His face changed, the sparkling blue eyes hardening. “We prefer to be undisturbed, Polly. I dislike repeating myself.”

This time her curtsey was respectful. Head ducked, she muttered, “Yes, sir,” and hurried to the door.

Major Pryce halted her with a gentle touch, getting up from the table. “Thank you, Polly,” he said softly, slipping something that glinted silver into her bodice, a smile flashing out as she gasped at its coldness against her bare flesh.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, casting a look at the Duke who sat silently, twirling his glass between his long fingers. “I’ll see you’re not bothered.”

The door closed and the major turned the key, leaving it in the lock. “Finally,” he said, turning around and leaning back against the door, arms folded. His gaze went from one man to the next and a tiny smile appeared on his well-cut lips. “Alone at last, in a manner of speaking.”

With no onlookers, the mannerisms of all shifted slightly. The deference shown towards the Duke was tinged with more meaning, yet, strangely, there was a sense of deep intimacy between the men that could perhaps be explained by a common experience of fighting a bloody, desperate war...or perhaps by something deeper.

All three had known each other for many years, growing up not far apart, the difference in their stations made negligible in the face of the amusements young lads find to occupy their time...all three went to school together, though a few years separated them, and Oxford rang to the sound of their voices, lifted in laughter and song as their tutors sighed and their fellow students applauded their exploits or decried their foolishness, depending on their own bent for such deeds.

Of them all, young Wesley Pryce was the most drawn to study. He took part in the wagers, the visits to the taverns and proved himself a handy man in the inevitable brawls, but his candle burned far into the night as he pored over tomes and wrote reams in his elegant, flowing hand.

Hidden depths also lurked in the mischievous fellow, James Williams, whose nickname, ‘Spike’ had been earned when a poetical effusion of his had been read out to the tune of jeering laughter in the common room one night. Thrusting his two loyal friends aside, a cold smile on his face, he had gripped his tormentor and dragged him from the room, before hoisting him high and leaving him wriggling like a worm, his coat hooked on to a spiked railing of an elegant ironwork fence. None had dared take him down the the three of them stood silently watching his struggles, faces impassive and stern.

The Duke, who came into his inheritance at the untimely age of twenty, when his father was struck down by a sudden apoplexy, had ever been the silent one of their group. Thoughtful and given to odd humours when he would lock himself away from all companionship, he dominated the group, showing his feelings only to his two close friends, so that while the rest of the world called him the Devil Duke, for his coldness, they turned that name around and called him, ‘Angel’, his baptismal name forgotten.

The three of them had fought side by side and now, with peace time, had returned to their homeland to take up the reins of their former existence. This visit to Lord Harris was the fruit of a late night session Wesley had had with his tutor, Professor Giles, several years earlier. Lord Harris was his younger cousin and the professor had confided in Wesley as the candles guttered in their sockets and the ancient halls around them settled into dream-laden drowsy slumber.

Keen, grey eyes glowed with enthusiasm as the Professor related the history of his ancestor, a learned man, much travelled, who had gathered a superb collection of manuscripts and strange artifacts at his castle, close to the south coast. Ah; Summershaven! Where gardens lush and flowers bright bloomed and flourished...a fine host was the earlier Lord Harris; generous and warm hearted, insisting only that none be allowed into the tower room where he worked to discover the secrets, long lost, of many a forgotten civilisation. His adoring wife and young son kept his activities from occupying him to the exclusion of all else and he was universally loved.

His death, inexplicable and violent, came one night when the storm that had swept in from the turbulent ocean, whose waves sent salt spray high up the cliffs that guarded Summershaven, was at its height. Strange sounds heralded doom and the staff and family who rushed to discover the cause of the shrieks, inhuman and bestial, that rang out, watched in horror as the tower exploded, some said before the lightening struck it...as though the tower had, itself called the thunderbolt from the skies above...

The grief stricken widow ordered the castle demolished but wiser heads prevailed and instead the fatal tower was razed and over the years modernisation resulted in a manor house on the site where once the castle had stood.

Wesley listened to the tale, fascinated and intrigued. “What is your own interest in this, Professor,” he asked curiously. “What do you seek?”

Giles stared into the shadows, his face, lined with years yet still full of humour and good looking enough to make Wesley wonder sometimes if a man so vital was satisfied burying his broken heart in this university town. Giles had once been a member of the ton; courted and idolized, holding the record for the trip from London to Brighton astride his famous bay horse, the darling of matchmaking mamas...then the death of his fiancée, Jennifer, scant weeks before their wedding, had seen him renounce title and estate and retreat here...where his learning soon brought him encomiums longer lasting than those once bestowed upon his intricately tied cravats.

“I seek an answer to a riddle, young Wesley,” he said finally. “My ancestor’s diaries survived; I have them here, safe and secret. They tell of –” His voice tailed off and he looked at Wesley dubiously. “Do you believe that more is possible than perhaps we know? That beneath the surface of this world might lie hidden truths...or do you think I babble, an aged dotard, past his prime?”

Wesley could not help laughing at that, a genuine, heartfelt shout of amusement that had his tutor’s eyebrows lifting. “You? Old?” Wesley took in the tanned, muscular arms, revealed when Giles had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and the breadth of shoulder. “I would not care to face you in a mill, or see your eyes look down the barrel of a pistol at me, were we to duel,” he said quietly. “Nor do I know a man I trusted as much at first sight.”

Giles’ eyes met his, surprise and pleasure lighting them from within. “Thank you,” he said simply. “It’s true that the companionship of you and your two friends has done much to lift my spirits. I know you best but I respect you all. You are...unusual in many ways.” His gaze held. “Take care none but I discover that.”

The note of warning in his voice startled Wesley. “I don’t –”

Giles shook his head. “You do understand me – and you said you trusted me, not a moment since. Be aware that your trust is not misplaced but – beware. The world will not look kindly upon you and high estate, wealth and influence can only do so much.”

Wesley shifted restlessly in his chair, his gaze dropping. “I cannot – I – this is not solely my –” He took a deep breath. “Forgive me. ‘Tis I who babble. I will heed your words. But pray tell me more of your quest.”

Professor Giles reached out his hand and laid it on Wesley’s shoulder in a comforting, fleeting clasp. “Another night, perhaps. It grows late. Here; take these books with you. This and hmm, yes, this to be sure. Read them when you are not overlooked and keep them safe. Discuss them with none but your two friends.”

Wesley stood reluctantly and accepted the two volumes, turning them over in his hands. Bound in black, with faded silver runes engraved into the leather, they seemed to tingle against his palms. He gasped and Giles nodded, as though satisfied, and ushered him out.

That night had been followed by many others, sometimes with Angel and Spike joining them, listening entranced to tales of magic, woven in with alchemy and spells that made the world in which they lived seem a humdrum place indeed. Giles confided in them his dearest wish; to recreate the spell that he believed had cost his ancestor his life; a spell to confer immortality on any who mastered it. “My love was taken from me, as you know,” he said, his eyes full of a sorrow the years had not dimmed. “The illness that wracked her body might have been arrested, she might have been saved...’tis folly to repine and perhaps a longer life is not such a blessing and yet –”

In the first flush of youth, his ambition had seemed without glamour, his determination a little pitiful...but now, fresh from the horrors of the battlefield, all with memories that sickened and haunted their dreams, their thoughts returned to his search. Going to visit the Professor, they discovered that he had left Oxford some six months earlier, telling no one of his plans, leaving his rooms empty and bare of all that had made them his. Wesley stood with his friends, his face serious and concerned. He had kept up a correspondence with Giles, infrequent, to be sure, given the war, but Giles’ last letter had hinted as a breakthrough and Wesley was certain that there was no wishful thinking involved.

His gaze travelled around the familiar study and suddenly he exclaimed at his own stupidity and strode over to the paneling that framed the fireplace.

“What are you about?” Spike asked, as Wesley began to press upon the corners of a panel, muttering to himself. “Did the appalling luncheon addle your brains? ‘Twould not surprise me; that ham was decidedly –”

“Hold your tongue, Spike,” Angel said, cuffing his head lightly. “I would hazard a guess that Wesley is doing nothing more than look for a hidden panel, am I not correct?”

“Of course,” Wesley replied, his voice abstracted. “Giles showed it me one night; bade me recall the exact pressure required to – ah! I have it!”

The panel slid aside under his diligent fingertips and revealed a small hole. Wesley smiled in triumph and reached in, extracting a letter.

“It is addressed to ‘The Scholar, the Poet and the Soldier,’ he said, with a smile. “Giles was ever discreet.”

“A man with an appreciation of the arts,” Spike said, preening himself slightly.

Angel shook his head. “He describes you; he does not offer an opinion on the quality of that which your Muse bids you write.”

Spike’s full lip pouted and he looked crestfallen. Angel relented and pulled him close, his lips brushing softly against the golden hair. “Your talents are many,” he whispered. “I would not have you sad that they number not verse.”

Spike’s eyes, cerulean blue, sparkled with pretended outrage. “Wesley! I call upon you to be my second, sir! Finally, my patience is at an end and this lout must answer for his – Wesley?”

The letter hung limply from Wesley’s outstretched hand. Angel released Spike and moved to take it from him. “What’s amiss?” he asked quietly.

“Giles is gone. Lost to us, I fear.”

Angel and Spike bent over the letter, their heads close together as they scanned the hastily written lines. “He speaks here of a ceremony, a date when it had to be performed; this was June- whatever transpired is long past. Surely we would have heard had he met with a mishap?”

Wesley shook his head at Spike’s attempt to comfort him, his eyes desolate. They went to him, strong arms encircling his shoulder as they hugged him. “It may be that his body lies still undiscovered in the depths of what was once his estate of Summershaven; it may have fallen into the sea; he speaks of the cliffs, as you have read...I know not. But I leave for there this day and I will not be turned from my path.”

Angel sighed. “You know we will accompany you, so do not seek to be dramatic, boy.”

“And perhaps we might make one detour,” Spike said, his eyes dancing. “Old Rupert mentioned the inn, you recall? Where lies the bed the magician bequeathed to the man who saved his son? Since he told us of that, I have had a longing to visit and see for myself if the legend is true.”

Wesley smiled reluctantly but shook his head. “I will not spare even a night, Spike, unless driven to it, but perhaps if we are successful in our search –”

Spike shrugged, smiling good naturedly. “How did the rhyme go?” He cast a look up at Angel. “You will allow me to quote from another, if my own verse is forbidden me?”

Angel slid his hand from Spike’s waist and let it linger on his backside. “Not forbidden you to write,” he pointed out. His hand squeezed the flesh it lay against. “I simply forbade you to share it on pain of – this.” His hand rose and fell and he smiled at the yelp he got in return.

Wesley chuckled, kissing Spike briefly to console him. “You may tell me the rhyme, Spike. I fear it has slipped my mind.”

Spike shook himself free of them, stepped back and declaimed, “’Let he whose rest is lonely find/ Dreams full of pleasures of the mind./Let he who shares me with another/Find pleasures many under cover.’ “Tis said, one might spend from nightfall to sun up in dalliance sweet and yet still rise refreshed and eager.”

“’Yet, if one’s love is not true, no rest but hell will come for you.’” Wesley said thoughtfully. “I remember now...a man took a doxy to the bed and both emerged shaken and distraught, swearing that their dreams were terrible and that they were cursed. They both died within a twelvemonth.”

“How?” Angel asked, his mouth twisting in a cynical smile.

Wesley frowned. “I do not know...but mayhap it would be wiser not to go at all.”

Spike shook his head. “Our love is strong enough for me to risk any curse to spend a night such as that. Or do you dare tell me it is not?”

Wesley and Angel exchanged smiles. “No,” they said.

“But my manhood might not be up to the task of pleasing you for hours on end,” Wesley said teasingly.

Spike answered him scoffingly, glad that his jest had lightened Wesley’s brow.

Angel cut them both off as they began to wrestle playfully. “Come; we ride.”

“To Summershaven!” Spike said cheerfully, his mercurial spirits lifted.

“To find Giles...” Wesley added, his face worried once more.

TBC