But Sir Richard had wandered to the alcove where the Sedgeley tombs were placed. He was looking at the stone profile of William, in effigy on the central tomb, wearing his knight’s armor. His stone hands were folded together in prayer, though he had been a warrior and not a praying man and there was little doubt, if the family records could be trusted, that it was true he had been the lover of a queen.
“I feel responsible for the castle,” Sir Richard said slowly, gazing at the stone face, an arrogant face, even in death. “I am responsible,” he went on resolutely, “for the castle and for the land that belongs to it and for the people upon the land. They look to me as their ancestors looked to mine. Yet I fear I can no longer hold my realm.”
The vicar had followed and now stood with his hands folded under his robe. “I’ve heard a bit about that, Sir Richard. I’d hoped it was gossip.”
“I wish it were. Unfortunately it is not. I shall have to sell the castle in order to save the land. There’s no way out of it. An American is thinking of buying it, but …”
He paused and the vicar shook his head. “Oh dear, an American? Can’t government—”
“Government’s offered me a prison or an atomic plant — equally impossible! The castle is a treasure, committed to me. I can’t save it. If I had an heir — but I don’t. I’m a failure, I fear, as a ruler over my hereditary kingdom, if I may express it so. My people put their faith in me but I’ve not been able to — It’s a strange story in its way, as strange as any of the tales of the castle in the old days.”
“Tell it to me, Sir Richard. It will do you good.”
“There was a king who took refuge in my castle — Charles the First. He’d lost London, he’d lost Sussex and he faced the loss of the throne,” Sir Richard began. It was a story known to them both but always worth telling. “His people turned against him because he had failed them. People don’t forgive a king. I lost London, too, you know — my own fault! My wife’s often told me, ‘You should have taken your rightful place in London’—that’s what she’s said how many times — and now it seems I’ve lost my Sussex, as well — and my own people. …” He kept staring down at the stone face as he talked. “I don’t think it’s ever been proved how Sir William died — some say he took poison. It doesn’t matter. Let us say he took poison when it was discovered that he—’ He put out his hand and touched the folded stone hands. “Damp,” he muttered, “always damp. I remember when I was a boy. They were cold and wet.”
“The church gets no sun,” the vicar said.
Sir Richard seemed not to hear. He was muttering, half to himself. “He was betrayed by his own followers — betrayed to the King by someone who knew the story — his prime minister, I believe, a man whom he trusted. The prime minister knew about the child — a son, secret, of course.”
The vicar looked at Sir Richard and put a hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re quite all right?”
Sir Richard shook the hand away impatiently. “Of course I am — why, shouldn’t I be? … It’s all true. His wife never had a child. She blamed him. She insisted it was not her fault that they were childless. But he knew he could have a child—”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Sir Richard,” the Vicar said, bewildered. “How did he know he could have a child — whoever he is?”
Sir Richard turned to the vicar. His eyes were narrowed, his voice a whisper. “Because he’d had a child — by the queen! That’s proof, isn’t it?”
He gave a sudden shout of laughter, and then was as suddenly grave again. He moved abruptly away from the tomb and to the altar. He stood before it, staring up at the rose window, his back to the vicar.
“Tell me one thing — is there such a place as a home for souls?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” the vicar said gently. “Will you explain what you mean?”
“Well, you know — what if they really live there in the castle?”
“They?”
“My wife swears she hears them. And if they do, you know, what will they do if we take the castle down? Won’t there be retribution — or some such thing — a disaster perhaps — for which again I’d be responsible, wouldn’t I?”
The vicar stared at him. “Really, Sir Richard, you’d better have a cup of tea, and a bit of rest. Come to the vicarage and—”
Sir Richard did not hear him. “What would you do, for example, if this church were destroyed — through some failure of your own, say, which you did not intend, of course?”
“I would pray to be forgiven,” the vicar said quietly, “and then I would continue my work under the open sky.”
Sir Richard said no more. He left the vicar staring after him, and strode from the church, mounted his impatient horse and galloped away. Suddenly he felt the stab of fluttering pains inside his skull, now at his crown, then settling to throb dully behind his eye-balls. He would stop at the village inn and have a glass of ale.
… The long shadows of late afternoon fell across the stones when he approached the inn. The door was open and as he dismounted he heard loud voices, interrupted by derisive laughter. Some sort of argument was going on. He heard his name. He stopped by the hitching post and listened. The innkeeper — ah, yes, that was George Bowen’s hoarse voice.
“I don’t care what Sir Richard says! Get the hell out of here is what I say. Take it or leave it! Go home, you American chaps — we’ve had enough of you here — you and your kind! Fed up, that’s wot we are! It’s a sin and a shame to have to hear such talk — takin’ the castle away from us! The Queen will never allow it, trust her!”
A friendly American voice made careless retort. “Don’t get all steamed up, man! It’s not up to us. We’re hired to do the work, that’s all. Anyway, the whole deal is off. Your precious Sir Richard threw us out.”
“Thank God for Sir Richard, says I!” George bawled back at them. “He won’t let us down, he won’t! We’ll have no tourists comin’—English kiddies wouldn’t have no place to learn their own history if it wasn’t for him and the castle. They come by the ’undreds — those London brats—”
The American voice broke in. “That’s right — and you couldn’t keep your inn open if they didn’t.”
Sir Richard could bear no more. He pulled the ring from his pocket, put it on his forefinger, and strode into the inn.
The innkeeper gave a shout of welcome. “Here he is, hisself, in the nick of time! Wot’ll you ’ave, Sir Richard?”
“A glass of ale, thanks,” he said coldly. He let his eyes move slowly from face to face. A few of his farmers were here, too, and they looked properly down when his eyes fell on them. Not so the Americans! They met his gaze with such smiling familiarity that he turned his back on them as he stood at the bar.
“Brazen and brass,” George mattered. “I’d throw them out if they wasn’t such good drinkers. I would that, Sir Richard, with all their talk of buyin’ the castle and takin’ it off to their own country! Invaders, I calls ’em—”
He was immensely fat and each year the space behind the counter grew more narrow for his spreading frame. He reached now to take a bottle from a special cupboard and gave a great gasp. “It’s me or the counter — I can see that I’ll have to move it out or shrink myself down somehow.”
“Hey, George,” one of the young Americans shouted brashly, “what’s that you’re bringing out of hiding?”
George turned with difficulty but maintained his dignity. He opened the bottle and poured a glass of pale golden ale into a tall glass and set it before Sir Richard before replying.