Sophia walked along a long corridor, towards the solar. Watching herself, as if from the outside, a woman in a cream coat and brown shoes, a yellow scarf knotted at her neck, heading towards a closed door.
Still the voices from the past called out to her. And again, the words of the old fireside song Sophia hardly remembered knowing.
The mistletoe hung in the castle hall.
Suddenly, without warning, the clanging of a bell cut through the domestic sounds of the house. Sophia stopped dead, the coarse alarum reverberating through her bones. Unseen hands pulling the bell rope in St Kenelm’s Church, warning of danger. Warning that the village was under attack.
Sophia began to run towards the closed door.
From below, shouts broke out. She heard furniture being dragged across the stone entrance hall and bolts being fastened, orders to secure all entrances. The ghostly inhabitants of the house were defending Minster Lovell Hall as once they had five hundred years ago.
Now, a violent hammering at the front entrance, clenched fists, and a harsh voice demanding admittance.
In the name of the king.
The sound of wooden sticks beating on the door as the soldiers tried to force their way in.
Open up, by order of the king. In the name of the king.
Then, without touching anything or feeling anything, Sophia found herself on the far side of the door and standing in a small and modest space, a private rather than a public place. Here, was silence. And here, at last, she could see the outline of a person. A young woman, sitting on a plain wooden chair in the centre of the tiny room.
Sophia watched as the woman became clearer, her features growing definite and distinct, like a photograph developing in a darkroom. A fold of embroidery lay on a table close by, weft and warp, cotton threads of yellow and silver in the light of a single candle. Her hands were still. Her blond hair was braided and shot through with white ribbon and she wore a white kirtle, decorated with mother-of-pearl beads, the long skirts pooled around her feet.
Despite her thudding heart, Sophia realised she was smiling. For although the carving in the chapel had been crude, this woman was clearly the model for the image carved on the bas-relief. A winter wedding, all white and gold, the hall decked in hawthorn and mistletoe.
Sophia wanted to ask why she was sitting here alone and she tried to speak. Immediately she saw the young bride could no more hear her than she could see her and, in any case, she thought she understood. She was seeking a moment of solitude, just as Sophia had craved a morning free from the chitterings of her aunt’s friends.
Wanting to forge some connection between her and the girl from the past, Sophia reached out. She encountered no resistance, just empty space, though as her hand fell back to her side, she felt the slightest of movements of cold air.
A sudden roar from down below. The sounds of assault and devastation finally reached their sanctuary. The stolen calm of the room was shattered. Once again, Sophia tried to speak, more urgent this time, but though the words formed in her throat, no sound came out.
Helpless, she looked at the girl, desperate for her to act. Her eyes were dark, with fear certainly, though not surprise. Sophia realised she had expected such an attack. Maybe not this day in particular, not her wedding night, but some time. She had known the soldiers would come.
Was that why she sat here alone? Had she been sent to the safety of the solar in case of such an attack?
Open up in the name of the king.
The tramp of men’s boots thundering up the stairs. Within moments, they would find the room. Find the woman here alone.
Hide yourself, hide.
She willed the girl to hear her and, this time, though Sophia’s words remained unspoken, she was on her feet. Quickly, she put her things away, wanting to leave no evidence the room had been so recently occupied. As she gathered her threads and sampler and stowed it inside a chest, a brass thimble fell from her fingers and rolled away into the furthest corner of the room. Sophia tried to retrieve it, wanting to help, but her fingers found only air.
Hurry, quick. Hide.
Leaving the thimble to the room, the girl blew out the candle and rushed to the heavy tapestry covering the largest of the walls. With a final glance at the bolted door, the bride lifted the corner and stepped behind. Sophia heard the spring of a catch and saw, in the moments before the girl disappeared into the dark, the secret compartment built within the space between the thick walls of the house.
The girl caught her breath, steeling herself for what she had to do, then she vanished from Sophia’s sight. The snap of the door shutting, and it was as if she had never been.
Sophia felt a wave of relief. There was yet a chance the soldiers would not find her. Then, hard on its heels, a wash of cold dread as she remembered the legend in her guidebook. The story of a body entombed in the walls. A skeleton in bridal robes.