She laughed.
Chapter Three
By the timethey reached the top of the steep climb through the forest, it was close to four o’clock when they arrived at the castle. Any grumbles about the trek had fallen away as they struggled to conserve their breath while keeping up a good pace.
“It didn’t seem so steep when I came up here years ago.” Harry bent over, breathing deeply, hands on his knees.
“Well, we’re here now.” Cecily hurried on, putting him to shame.
Emerging from woodland, the castle, clad in ivy, looked like something from a long-lost civilization. Harry thought it hardly surprising that ghost stories abounded about the place. Ahead stood the tall gatehouse archway, the gates open. There wasn’t a soul about. All he could hear were the jackdaws roosting atop the tower. It was still as if undisturbed for centuries. The air smelled of damp, moss-covered walls and rotting leaves.
“There was a drawbridge and gun ports in those towers.” Harry pointed upward. “The slots overhead were where they threw objects and hot liquids down,” he continued enthusiastically. “And that groove was for the portcullis which could be dropped to crush attackers.”
They passed through the gatehouse archway. Harry looked down the length of courtyard grass toward the old mansion within the castle walls. Beyond it, as dusk approached, were the stark towering stone walls of St. Margaret’s Tower silhouetted against the gray sky. “I wonder where the caretaker might be?”
“Perhaps he’s showing people over the dungeons.”
Harry grew aware that the sun was lowering to the west, and a chill breeze tugged at his hat. A fellow dressed in period costume appeared through the massive wooden door. A nice touch, Harry thought, but he seemed too young to be a caretaker. “He certainly isn’t the woman in white’s father,” Harry said uneasily.
“Put ye coins in the box in the entry,” he said to Harry. “Ye can wander at will until dark.” The caretaker’s clothes were reminiscent of the fifteenth century: a short doublet, open-necked shirt, and tight trunk hose.
Harry had no intention of being here after dark. A shudder rode down his spine at the thought.
“He looks remarkably authentic,” Cecily said with blithe unconcern as they crossed to the porch.
Harry would feel a good deal better if there were other people around. But inside was quiet and empty. He should have been better prepared. Come earlier and with some form of transport. It worried him. He was responsible for Cecily’s safety. “We’ll take a quick look around, then we must start back to be home before dusk.”
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. “Oh, yes, we must be home for dinner.”
“Your mother knows we were coming here?” Harry asked with a sense of foreboding.
“Not really,” she confessed, her cheeks growing pink. “I left a note. But Mother never comes down until dinnertime on Sundays.”
Harry’s unease grew, and he frowned. He was as culpable as Cecily, so he couldn’t be cross. But after a quick look around, they would leave.
When he glanced over his shoulder, the caretaker had gone. He took Cecily’s arm, and they entered the mansion. Through a towering archway, the shell-like remains of the enormous great hall still had the power to make him catch his breath with its soaring roof and a massive fireplace.
Harry put a coin in the box on a table in the passage, and they walked on.
After passing through the arched doorways of several more stone-built rooms, they emerged into daylight again. Ahead of them loomed the remains of St. Margaret’s Tower. A sign directed visitors to the rampart terrace, and another pointed to steps leading down to the dungeon.
“Where to?” Harry asked, but he knew the answer.
“The dungeons, of course,” Cecily said, tugging on his arm.
As they descended, light filtered down but barely illuminated the twisting stone staircase, which spiraled down into a dank, dark place below. With a dreadful sense of foreboding, Harry stared about at the mossy walls, a bitter chill in the air. Cecily shivered in her wool coat.
“Shall we go back?”
She shook her head. “Not after coming all this way!”
They reached the bottom. Harry called out. “Hello!” His voice bounced off the stone walls and the low ceiling, echoing oddly as if someone had answered. But not so much as a mouse stirred. “Strange. We seem to be the only people here.”
Cecily’s grip on his arm tightened.
In the deep shadows, a white shape flickered. Beside him, Cecily gasped. Harry swallowed and held his breath.
A few yards from them, the woman in white emerged. Harry’s blood turned to ice. Was he seeing things? Without question, she was a wraith. He’d swear the ghost hovered inches above the ground. Any skepticism he’d felt about ghosts vanished, filling his veins with ice.