“Did you shower?”
“Yes; I’m done.”
Shaking her head, she was vaguely grateful that she hadn’t been saddled with a normal teenager for whom the day didn’t start until double figures.
Breakfast was a blueberry muffin that Tamsyn had bought with the coffee, and they were on the road by seven forty.
Being a Sunday morning, the traffic was light on the M25 and up the M1. Once on the M1, they were only forty minutes until they drove through the ornate gates of Fullborough Manor just outside Bedford.
“Impressive gates,” observed Tamsyn. “A bit gothic and melodramatic for my taste.” The huge pillars held enormous wrought iron gates with a griffin at the top of each.
The drive was a quarter of a mile long, curving round onto a gravel frontage in front of the massive house.
“I bet this costs a fair few bob to keep up,” said Gwen, stopping the car and switching it off.
“Does he have a family?” Tamsyn asked, not seeing any children’s garden toys, such as swings or even a tennis court.
“I know very little about him. He said he was a retired stockbroker who dabbled in old weapons and other artefacts from the pre-Norman days.”
“Best you don’t call me Tamsyn,” Tamsyn said, unable to shrug off a feeling of cold foreboding.
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure. I just have a feeling, that’s all.”
Gwen glanced at her companion. Tamsyn was a very different young woman with a mysterious and amazingly complex past. Gwen was shrewd enough to realise that she was perhaps dealing with powers and dominions beyond her understanding.
She watched at the girl tied a scarf around her neck, successfully hiding the torque.
“Why don’t you take it off?”
Tamsyn simply gave her a look, so Gwen nodded.
“What shall I call you?”
“Something innocuous, with no links to you know what.”
“Jane?”
“Why Jane?”
“I actually have a niece called Jane.”
“Fine, Jane it is.”
They got out of the car and admired the house and immaculate gardens.
“He must have a gardener,” Gwen said as the front door opened.
A dapper little bald man in a suit appeared. He looked like a retired stockbroker, Tamsyn thought, not entirely sure what a retired stockbroker should look like.
“Ah, Gwen, I presume?” he said. He had a pleasant voice; non-threatening and educated. His clothing, manner and accent catapulted him into the upper and well-educated classes.
“Mister Brand; it is so good of you to have us descend on you like this.
“Matthew, please. And this is your niece?” he asked, shaking Gwen’s hand and looking at Tamsyn.
“Yes, Jane, this is Mr Brand; Matthew Brand, the amateur historian I told you about. Matthew, this is my niece, Jane.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane. I hope you won’t get too bored by our rather dull chatter.”
He turned and regarded Tamsyn, offering his hand to her to shake.
Tamsyn’s blood ran cold.
She now remembered that the dream that Allun had experienced on the plane. It had featured a man right at the end. He had been dressed as a holy man - a friar, in a dark cowl and robe. But when she saw his eyes, she knew that this man possessed the same eyes, if not the features. He was no man of God!
“I’m sure I won’t,” Tamsyn said, very aware of her Cornish accent as she shook his hand.
“Well, come on in. Mrs Stewartby has made some fresh coffee. I take it you broke your journey?”
Gwen then told him about the journey and the hotel. Tamsyn was staring at the interior of the amazing house. Portraits and arms and armour littered the hallway as they walked through the massive place.
It was all old; much of it was pre-Tudor and in amazing condition, considering.
Any one of the swords could have been the sword in which she was interested, but none were. Something inside her knew that the sword was here, but not on open display.
“You have a wonderful home. Do you open the place to the public?” Gwen asked.
“Once or twice a year, yes. I am trustee of a few charities, so they use the place for summer balls and special functions. Last year, they held a Shakespeare evening in the grounds, with Hamlet being played by a small theatrical group in the open air. They managed to make around fifteen thousand pounds that evening. They’re talking about another one in August. I have to confess, I don’t have anything to do with the arrangements.”
“Can I ask how many people live here?” Tamsyn asked.
The man smiled.
“Just me, with the housekeeper and her husband in a small apartment top the rear.”
“Wow!” said Tamsyn, genuinely surprised.
“One does get used to it,” he said.
“Don’t you ever get lonely?” she asked.
Matthew regarded her for a moment. Initially, he saw an insignificant, if very pretty young woman, in whom he had no interest at all. Now, however, as he took in her amazing eyes, he felt a strange sensation. There was something different about her, and he couldn’t work out what it was.
The question also brought back memories of his beloved Kenneth and his terrible death.
“Yes,” he said, rather more abruptly than he meant to. “I do, but one learns to live with that, in time.”
For all his rather jovial and soft exterior, Tamsyn glimpsed the very hard crusty interior. This was a man with no scruples, no qualms and no conscience. Probably capable of great social goodness, there was a cruel streak that dominated his entire existence. His eyes were so hard that she instantly felt raw fear. It was the same feeling she had when she saw the rider in the vision. Here was mercilessness personified.
She decided to say very little more, and stepped back to allow Gwen to ask what she wanted to ask.
Matthew was intelligent and charming. After their coffee, which they took in a small, but elegantly furnished sitting room, he took them upstairs to a long gallery in which he had a great many display cabinets set against the dark wood panelling.
There were also drawers and shelves, where he stored less spectacular items, but nevertheless they were all fascinating and probably very valuable.
Most of the items dated from between 900 and 1200 AD. With some of the older items going back to 800AD.
“I have some Iron Age and Roman artefacts, but Bedford was founded as a town by the Danes in around 800 to 900AD. The Romans had been here, but only as a staging post on the roads north. The local tribes made peace with the Romans, and started aping their architecture and other ways, so it’s hard to know what is genuinely Roman, or local Roman styles.
“There were some minor Roman settlements in the county, but nothing significant. Being a relatively peaceful region, the military bases all used wood as construction material, so were camps rather than forts, where the soldiers that were on the move could stay over before heading up to York or wherever the trouble happened to be. A few villas were unearthed in the last few years, but to be frank, nothing of interest happened until the Danes arrived. The Angles, Saxons and Jutes, were here just after the Romans left, and some evidence of their presence is still to be found. Indeed, the burial mound discovered on my land is testimony to that. However, the Danes built over what was here and expanded to such an extent that most of the prior inhabitants’ existence was successfully obliterated.”
“What languages were in use?” Gwen asked.
“The Germanic Saxons brought their own language, so as they assimilated with the existing Romano-British tribes, it took on an early English style. The Celts moved away, down to the West Country and Wales, often reluctant to mix with the newcomers. The Danes then brought a fresh batch of words and dialects, as did the other Scandinavians.
“Who exactly were the Saxons?” Tamsyn asked, in spite of her reluctance.