Page 14 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

“What is it?”

“Is there somewhere on the manor that I may lay my head?”

“There’s loft space above the granary. But you’ll have to cope with the sounds of the farm cats chasing mice all night. And you must comb all the straw out of your hair in the morning—I won’t have any of my people looking disreputable. Do it for Letty’s sake, too—she needs a suitor of whom she can be proud. And you are not to take advantage of the fact that she is now temporarily living beneath my roof.”

“I understand, sir.” Perkin bowed, doffing his cap. Well, he had a place to stay and some work now—even if both were of a lowly sort. Bidding Smythe a good day, he hurried into the well house to see if Letty was still there.

And found her trying to smother her tears.

“What’s happened, my sweet?” Glancing around to be sure they were not observed, he took her in his arms and held her until the sniffles ceased. She felt as soft as a dove, nestled against him, and the scent of her hair suffused his senses, drugging him. As he held her, comforting her within the circle of his arms, something broke deep inside him. Suddenly, after all these years of living behind an impenetrable shield, he felt pain. Not just his own, but hers as well—it was an unwelcome sensation, but doubtless inevitable. He smiled ruefully as he kissed her hair.

“I’ve damaged something else,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “The blacksmith’s curse assails me yet.”

Now would not be a good time to tell her that he’d failed to get a lucrative position on the manor, then. He cleared his throat. “What’s broken now?”

She held out a length of thick metal—the sheared-off end of the crank handle for raising the bucket. He took it and examined the place where it had been severed.

“No blacksmith’s ghost caused this. ’Tis a fracture that could easily result from bad workmanship—and that’s exactly what you’re going to say to Mistress Smythe. There’s no such thing as spirits—except the Holy Ghost, of course—and this breakage could have happened to anyone. It’s not your fault.”

A shadow filled the doorway of the well house, and Perkin froze, all his senses alert. Curse it! Just when he’d promised his new master that he’d not dally with Letty, here he was, in a loving embrace with her. He spun around to interpose his body between Smythe and his distressed sweetheart.

But there was no one there. Only—the well house was filled with shadow, which had not been there before. Releasing Letty, he rushed outside, but no clouds covered the sun and nobody was visible within fifty yards of where he stood. How odd!

Frowning, he returned and gazed into Letty’s terrified eyes. His heart sank—he didn’t even need to ask.

“I saw him over your shoulder.” Her words came out like sobs. “A man’s shape. Like a dark, moving mist. Did you not feel his need?”

“It was just a cloud passing across the sun. Nothing to worry about. Now, let’s go and explain to the mistress about this badly-made handle.”

She clutched at his sleeve. “We have to do something, Perkin. Something that will lay the blacksmith’s ghost and stop his violent storms of temper that always rebound upon me. I think the lovers must be reunited.”

Perkin’s scalp prickled as the air in the well house grew chill. Outside, the bright July day continued, warm and full of life. But now he was surrounded by a stench, as if something had fallen down the well and rotted there. He wrinkled his nose.

“Though I refuse to believe in curses, witches, or ghosts, I will do whatever is in my power to please you, my love.” Although he’d had that vision of the Grey Lady, he wasn’t prepared to think of it as anything more than that—a vision.

“Perfect.” Letty dried her tears on her apron. “Meet me back here around eleven of the clock tonight. I have an idea how we may put an end to all this.”

“Very well.” Perchance by humoring her, he could help her. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d do anything for her.

Because he was falling head-over-heels in love with Lettice Carter.

Chapter Eleven

Bright moonlight pushed the shadows to the edges of the highway as Letty, hand-in-hand with Perkin, hurried toward Patience Bridge. Owls flew across their path on silent wings, and small creatures squeaked in the hedgerows. It being now late July, the heat of the day had not yet ebbed away, and it felt as if the whole night were enfolding her in a warm, velvet glove, keeping her calm and safe.

Which was just as well because it was a battle to remain calm with her disturbing suitor at her side. She couldn’t help the lift to her step or the flutter of her heart each time he looked at her or squeezed her hand. Were they not on a mission of such deadly import, it would be the perfect night for lovers. They should be chasing in and out of the trees, laughing, falling breathlessly against an old trunk, clasping each other in a passionate embrace, and kissing.

Her lips tingled each time he smiled at her. If he reciprocated her feelings, if he truly intended to wed her—when he could afford it—she must be the luckiest woman in Christendom! Only one thing marred her happiness, and it was a matter of such enormity that she scarcely dared let herself think about it.

They had dug up and stolen the blacksmith’s skull. They were taking all that remained of him to join his ladylove, the Grey Lady of Rooks Well manor. Letty resisted the urge to continually look over her shoulder, afraid to see a wall of flame where the blacksmith’s shade wrought his vengeance on Temple Roding manor in a fury at his skull’s removal. But Perkin’s self-assurance comforted her, and she knew that if she showed any fear, he’d mock her mercilessly. Besides which, this escapade was her idea, and she’d look foolish if she abandoned the plan now.

As they approached the bridge, the night seemed to settle around them, intently watchful, ominously quiet. Perkin opened his bag, retrieved the exhumed skull and brushed off some remaining specks of dirt with his sleeve. Oh—they would be in so much trouble when the mistress found out! Hopefully, she’d not discover the loss for some time and would value their work so much by then that she could be persuaded not to cast them out on the spot.

The pallid light reflected off the polished bone, and shadows filled the empty eye sockets. When the deep chill swamped her, it was no longer unexpected—she felt as if frozen in an icy pond, unable to move or speak. Behind her, she sensed the presence of the dead man, but nothing on heaven or earth could induce her to turn around and look at him.

Only Perkin’s strength bore her up—he seemed less affected by the ominous presence.

“Where shall I cast it?”