Page 2 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

Now surrounded by cloth, leather, wood, and ceramics—things she was never clumsy with—she swept and mopped the floor, dusted the surfaces, and removed the cobwebs.

In the far corner, a heavy, carved armoire confronted her. It ought to be moved so she could clean underneath, but it would be wise to empty it first. Kneeling, she decanted the contents—some moth-eaten tapestries, an enormous Bible, several old parchments, and a hinged square box.

A shiver ran through her when she placed the box on top of the armoire. It might be best to look within to make sure the contents were sound, and not something she could easily break.

The box wasn’t locked, so she had no expectation of finding anything precious inside. But the last thing she thought to see were the empty eye sockets of a human skull glaring at her.

With a scream, she dropped the lid, but the movement sent the box crashing to the floor. The upper part of the skull rolled and smashed against the foot of the armoire, breaking into three pieces.

A shadow writhed up from the fragments and enveloped her.

Her mind reeled, her heart stopped, and the world went black.

Chapter Two

“Letty. Letty—wake up!”

The pungent scent of cotton lavender beneath her nose brought Letty back to her senses with a start. She gazed up into the worried eyes of Mistress Smythe.

“Alas, Mistress, I’ve broken something else. How can you ever forgive me?” She felt the tears sting her eyes. This would be the final straw, she was certain.

“Sit up. Did you bang your head? No? Good. What came over you?”

Letty bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She’d seen skulls before, but they were those of executed felons, left to remind the populace of what happened to traitors, murderers, and thieves. But to stumble across one so suddenly, carefully preserved in a box—she’d had the shock of her life and was still shaking. Getting to her feet, she watched Mistress Smythe collect up the pieces and return them to the box, along with the detached lower jaw.

“I don’t know why we kept this,” she said. “As a community motivated by faith, the Knights Hospitaller should not have shown any deference to superstition. But there it is—as a country girl yourself, you know how many of us are brought up to believe in ghosts, sprites, witches, devils, goblins, and Lord knows what other frightful beings.”

Letty crossed herself. The attention of otherworldly creatures had never troubled her before she came to work at the old Hospitaller commandery. Now, she seemed plagued by invisible enemies.

“Don’t let the master see you crossing yourself, Letty.” Mistress Smythe glanced over her shoulder. “He considers it the brand of the old faith. If King Edward dies and the Howards have their way, we will soon be a fully Protestant kingdom. You and I must move with the times to avoid persecution—no matter how we might feel about it.”

Letty wondered what the Protestant Church would have to say about skulls in boxes.

“Is this a saint’s relic?” If so, little wonder it had been hidden away. It would also explain why she’d felt that rush of some powerful, angry spirit when she dropped the skull—she’d just defiled something holy.

“Nay, not at all. Did you never hear the tale of the blacksmith and his lady?”

Letty sat up straight, shaking her head. Though no longer a child, she still loved stories. Mistress Smythe settled herself into the cross-backed chair.

“Long before we were born, the steed of the lady in question, who lived in the manor at Rooks Well, I believe, chanced to throw a shoe. She led the animal to the nearest village—ours—where she found the blacksmith’s forge and begged him to shoe her horse so she could return home from her ride. The task took far longer than it ought to have done because the smith kept being distracted by the lady’s beauty.”

Letty nodded. She’d heard such tales before—love sprang up between two people fated by birth never to be together, and when they took action to remedy this, tragedy ensued.

“What happened?”

“They fell in love, and she made any excuse to visit Temple Roding and spend time with the strong, handsome blacksmith. His ability to work with iron was almost magical, and while some in the village avoided him altogether, most just treated him with respect. He had a terrible temper upon him—or so the legend goes. Of course, the lady’s parents would never let their only child marry a lowly blacksmith, so she and he decided to run away together.”

“I think I may have heard this story once.” It must have been when her dear mother was alive before the cruel sweating sickness stole her away and put the detestable Goodwife Prudence in her place. “The lady died before they could wed, didn’t she?”

“She drowned. I think she was knocked senseless by some accident before the water claimed her—a terrible tragedy.”

“So, the smith never saw his love again.” If this story were indeed true, then she had little enough to complain of. Imagine losing the love of your life under such circumstances! The lady must have held such hope and joy in her heart, only to be snuffed out like a candle flame.

Mistress Smythe shook her head. “He never saw her. He hanged himself upon hearing the dreadful news. That is, as I’m sure you realize by now, his skull in the box.”

Letty’s flesh tingled unpleasantly. “But how does it come to be here, at the commandery?”

“As a suicide, the blacksmith was not permitted a grave in consecrated ground. He was buried at the crossroads where the highway from Temple Roding meets the road running toward Bulforde and Rooks Well. But his spirit was furious at this treatment. It is said that objects flew around in the smithy after his death as if flung by unseen hands. No one could take over the forge, so no one could get their horses shod, or their plowshares mended. Thus, it was decided that the man’s head should be dug up and brought back to the forge in an attempt to calm the violent outbursts.”