Sleeper’s Castle: An epic historical romance from the Sunday Times bestseller. Barbara Erskine
out, leaving her in darkness. She had woken, aware that somewhere a conversation had been left unfinished, the words still echoing in the quiet of the room.
Sitting up, she groped for her slippers with her feet and pulled on her dressing gown. Pushing her hair back off her face she made her way downstairs to the living room. The bang of the door slamming shut in her dream had seemed so loud and so real it was as if it had been in here.
The room looked huge and shadowy at this time of the morning, living up to its title of great hall. She smiled, remembering that was the way Sue referred to it, her only concession to the house’s medieval antecedents.
The sun hadn’t come round yet to any of the windows. The papers on Sue’s desk by the front-facing window with its ancient mullions had been blown onto the floor. Had that happened last night when she came in? She couldn’t remember. She gathered up the papers and as she did so she noticed two tightly stoppered bottles of dark brown liquid standing there. Tucked under them was a torn sheet of paper which said simply: For Sian.
Neither she nor Sian had thought to look on Sue’s cluttered desk the night before. Andy surveyed the chaos with a smile. If she had been going away for a year she felt sure she would have tidied her desk at the very least. She groped in her pocket for her phone and turned back to the kitchen to look for the note on which Sian had written her number.
‘You don’t look as though you slept much.’
They had arranged to meet in The Granary in Hay. Sian’s dogs lay quietly under the table as Andy brought the two cups of coffee from the counter and set them down.
Andy gave a rueful grin. ‘I suppose I didn’t. I was exhausted, but my head was whirling all night. The silence is so different from London.’
She must have slept though. After all, she had dreamed.
‘Silence? Didn’t you hear the brook?’
‘It is a bit noisy, I admit, but it’s not cars and planes. My house – where I used to live,’ Andy amended hastily, ‘was under the flight path to Heathrow.’
‘Ah.’ Sian took a sip from her cappuccino and licked the froth from her top lip. ‘Not in the same league, noise wise.’
‘There are people who use the sound of water to send them to sleep,’ Andy smiled again, ‘but this is a constant roar. Not all that soothing. I’m sure I’ll get used to it though.’
‘I think you will soon find it wonderful in comparison to the early morning jet to New York.’ Sian laughed. She watched as Andy rummaged in her shopping bag for the bottles she had found in the house.
Sian reached for one; unscrewing it, she sniffed the liquid and grimaced. ‘As far as I can tell, that’s the right one. Rosehips and nettles with burdock, plus one or two other secret ingredients no doubt. To build them up before the winter.’
Andy looked down at the dogs under the table. ‘They look pretty fit to me.’
‘They are. Thanks to Sue.’ Sian sipped her coffee again. ‘Was Bryn there this morning?’ She reached down and scratched a dog’s ear.
‘Bryn?’
‘The gardener.’
‘I didn’t see anyone.’
‘I expect he will come when he’s good and ready.’ Sian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Remember, a lot of Sue’s herbs are what you probably call weeds. Don’t go rooting about without checking with him first.’
‘I’m not going to touch the garden.’ Andy picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. ‘That was part of the agreement. I’m in charge of the cat and keeping an eye on the house, that’s all.’
‘So, what are you going to do up there all day on your own?’ There was a long pause. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’
‘No. It’s not that.’ Andy sighed. ‘The truth is, I haven’t really thought. I’m a professional illustrator. I specialise in painting flowers, so I suppose I will go back to doing that.’
Go back.
It made it sound as though she had stopped.
But she had. She had worked with Graham for years. They had been a partnership in so many ways, kindred spirits, lovers, flower geeks. She smiled quietly as she recalled the term given to them by one of her half-brothers.
And now all that had gone.
Sian reached over and touched her hand. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m treading on painful ground.’
Andy took a gulp of coffee. ‘I have to get used to it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I illustrated the books my partner wrote. He died two months ago. That part of my life is over and I have to rethink myself. I thought …’ She paused. ‘Sue thought coming here would be a good way of doing that, and I agreed with her.’
‘It will. A complete change of scene is the best possible medicine.’
Andy laughed. ‘Painting nettles and burdock would be a tonic on its own. I was painting rare orchids for Graham’s last book.’
A woman at the next table stood up and began to manoeuvre her child’s buggy out of the narrow corner. Andy and Sian grabbed for their table as their coffee cups rocked and slopped into the saucers. They waited in silence for the woman to extricate herself and then settled back down. ‘You’d think she would have apologised,’ Sian said quietly. She poured her coffee back into the cup from the brimming saucer.
Andy was chewing her lip. Babies were another thing to tug the heartstrings. Graham had not wanted any. She did not even have a child to comfort her in her loss.
Sian accompanied her back to the car park then waved goodbye. She had walked down to Hay from her house and firmly refused the offer of a lift back. ‘Good for me and the dogs to walk.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll ring you. You must come to supper soon.’
For a few minutes Andy stood staring wistfully after the retreating figure as Sian set off across the car park, through a gate in the far corner and into the field behind it, her dogs racing round her in delight as soon as she let them off their leads. Andy watched until she had vanished through a hedge on the far side of the field then she turned back to unlock her car.
There was an old mud-splashed Peugeot van parked in her spot outside the house. She edged her own car in beside it and ran up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in she glanced round. Presumably the mysterious gardener had at last put in an appearance and she wasn’t sure if he had a key. There was no sign of him indoors however. Nor could she see him from the kitchen window.
He was digging in a bed at the far end of the garden. She watched him for several minutes before approaching him, aware that Pepper was sitting on the path near him, apparently intent on studying his digging technique. About six feet away from him she stopped. He went on digging, seemingly unaware of her presence. Losing patience she cleared her throat. ‘Bryn, I presume?’
He paused in his work then, thrusting the fork into the ground, turned to face her. He was tall, his hair an unruly tangle, his eyes clear light grey, almost silver, his face weathered. Over a dark plaid shirt he wore a leather waistcoat. He didn’t smile nor did he say anything. He surveyed her in silence, presumably waiting for her to speak again. Determined not to be wrong-footed, Andy narrowed her eyes. ‘You are Bryn?’ she repeated firmly.
He pushed his sleeves up to the elbow, revealing muscular arms, one of which bore a small tattoo. She couldn’t see what it was from where she was standing. He nodded in answer to her question. ‘I’m Andy Dysart,’ she went on. ‘I presume Sue told you I was coming to stay here for a few months.’
‘A year, she said.’ His voice was strong with a slight lilt.
‘A year,’ she confirmed.
‘She left me instructions on how to run the garden,’