The Velvet Cloak of Moonlight Read online

  Titles in the Shadows from the Past series:

  The Silent Touch of Shadows

  The Secret Kiss of Darkness

  The Soft Whisper of Dreams

  The Velvet Cloak of Moonlight

  Copyright © 2016 Christina Courtenay

  Published 2016 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Christina Courtenay to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN

  ISBN 978-1-78189-312-8 (ePub)

  ISBN 978-1-78189-313-5 (Mobi)

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  Mai Cecilia Augusta,

  my lovely Swedish grandmother who taught me so much!

  (1909–2006)

  Contents

  Shadows from the Past series

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Preview of The Silent Touch of Shadows by Christina Courtenay

  Acknowledgements

  I love old castle ruins and when I moved to Herefordshire and found Raglan Castle only a short drive from my house, I just had to go there. From my very first visit, I was inspired by the place and the tragic events that led to its destruction. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and this novel was the result.

  As well as numerous visits, I had to research what actually happened during that summer of 1646. At first, I had trouble finding any proper accounts, but an email to Cheryl Morgan of Raglan Local History Society soon changed that. I am extremely grateful to her for pointing me in the direction of lots of interesting reading material and only hope that I have done the place justice.

  Thanks also to Gill Stewart for super-fast emergency read-through of my manuscript; Katrina Power for advice about Kiwi heroes and Maori customs; Zana Bell for helping me out with the hero’s New Zealand accent at very short notice; Mark Thomson and Chris Hugo at Knocker & Foskett, solicitors, for answering questions about the inheritance of an entailed property and subsequent debts; and Frances Younson at Gwent Archives for pointing me in the right direction with regard to more research books.

  As always, huge thanks to the lovely Choc Lit team and to my family for their support. Special thanks to the Tasting Panel readers who passed the manuscript and made this possible: Jenny M., Isabelle, Jo O., Lizzy D., Kate P., Rosie F., Elaine R., Betty, Lizzie R. and Joy S.

  And last, but not least, thank you to Melvin and Will Jenkins for letting me have a go at shearing a sheep – I apologise to the no doubt traumatised ewe!

  Author’s Note

  The siege at Raglan in the final months of the first part of the Civil War happened as I have described it. I have tried to stick to the real historical timeline and facts as much as possible, although for the sake of my story I have altered things a little bit occasionally.

  My hero and heroine are entirely fictitious, as are their families and the villain, but some of the other inhabitants of the castle were real people, notably the Marquis of Worcester, Lady Glamorgan (whom I have mostly called Lady Margaret in the story), Dr Bayly, Mrs Watson and Lord Charles. The Parliamentarian commanders and their engineer Hooper were also real. I read many accounts of the siege and have tried to portray these characters as accurately as possible, sticking to their known traits, but most of what they say in this book is made up as obviously they never met my hero/heroine for real and had no such conversations.

  I admire the marquis immensely for sticking to his principles, even though he must have known from the start that he was fighting a losing battle. Such honour and loyalty are rare these days and although King Charles may not have appreciated it as he ought, at least it seems his son rewarded the family later on.

  The ruins of Raglan Castle are well worth a visit, a testament to the futility of war, poignant and still echoing with the memory of all that happened one long ago summer. I highly recommend it if you are ever in the vicinity – it’s a magical place!

  For anyone who would like to know more about the siege, I can recommend the following books:

  Raglan – History of 1797 – Chas. Heath

  Anglia Rediviva (or England’s Recovery) – Joshua Sprigge, chaplain to Sir Thomas Fairfax, commander-in-chief of Parliamentarian forces, 1647

  Raglan Castle – Horatia Durant

  Raglan Castle & The Civil War – Anna Tribe

  The Civil War Earthworks around Raglan Castle, an aerial view – J R Kenyon

  And if you’d like to read an old-fashioned novel also based on the siege, try St George and St Michael by George MacDonald – it’s a lovely story.

  Prologue

  The velvet cloak of moonlight settled over the ruined towers of Raglan Castle, and the shadows beneath them stirred. The souls of those who had once lived here were restless, their tales as yet unfinished.

  Battles had been fought and the echoes of victory and despair lingered, imprinted into the very stones of the castle’s foundations. When the Parliamentarians lay siege to their Royalist enemies within its walls, the conquerors thought themselves victorious, but their triumph was hollow, as fleeting as the shadows.

  And yet, there were those for whom the events of that long ago summer siege had a different impact. With their legacy now under threat, the time had come to reveal all. But evil, not fully purged by the passage of centuries, had other ideas, and the old stone walls could feel another battle brewing …

  Chapter One

  Raglan Castle, 21st May 2016

  Tess hated driving along the A40 towards Raglan. It was an ordinary road, nothing special,
except for one small fact – it was where her late husband’s fatal accident had occurred. But if you wanted to go to Raglan Castle it was the quickest route and she was tired of hiding from the horror of what had happened.

  It was time to start living again.

  Had it really been six months since that awful day? The reality of what had happened had hit her hard. And it was real. Giles wasn’t coming back, but he was everywhere at Merrick Court, the big country house he’d been so proud of. The echo of his footsteps, the whisper of his voice; they haunted her even if he didn’t. And she was more alone than she’d ever been in her life.

  Tess tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She was moving on, sorting her life out. She’d be fine, but right now she just needed to get away from the house, do something – anything – other than feeling sorry for herself.

  The road was straight with double lanes and mercifully free of traffic. Her sight was a bit blurry and she blinked, trying to focus. As she did so, she became aware of something on the opposite carriageway. A few bits of old yellow tape flapping in the breeze, left over from a cordoned-off area of investigation. The crash site. Tess tried not to look as it flashed past, but it was all indelibly etched into her memory as she’d seen it that day: police cars, a flattened grass verge, skid marks and a mangled car. A beautiful white Porsche. Or rather, what was left of it.

  ‘No!’ She mustn’t think about that any more.

  But her brain supplied a lot of extra images she definitely didn’t want – a car swerving dangerously in the rain-soaked darkness, perhaps hitting the barrier in the centre of the road before bouncing to the left and off into the trees. Screeching tyres, the crunching noise of metal hitting metal, then metal hitting wood, screaming … And all because Giles had been driving too fast again. Drunk.

  She knew why, but she didn’t want to think about that either.

  Tess’s heart was racing, her breath coming in painful gasps. She felt her hands slipping on the steering wheel as she broke into a panicked sweat. The rational part of her brain told her she shouldn’t be driving at all in this state, but there was nowhere to stop other than the hard shoulder and she’d be vulnerable there. She had to carry on.

  A roundabout hove into view and she slowed down, passing the first turnoff, taking the next one. A slip road could be glimpsed only a short way down the road and, breathing a shaky sigh of relief, she drove onto a tiny lane leading up a hill. A sign told her she was on her way to Raglan Castle and, after a hundred yards or so, she entered the car park and the castle’s outline appeared above her, silhouetted against the cloudy sky. As she parked under a tree, next to some other cars, the ancient towers seemed to offer temporary sanctuary, as they must have done to countless others in its time. She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel and tried to calm down.

  She was safe.

  When her heart rate had slowed and her limbs stopped shaking, she got out of the car and looked up at the castle. What was left of the buildings dwarfed their surroundings, a majestic, but sad sight. She must have passed these ruins hundreds of times while driving to and from London, but she’d never stopped to go inside. Yet something about it had called out to her today, tempting her to come and have a look at last.

  ‘Why not?’ she muttered. Anything was better than moping around Merrick Court.

  A shop on the right doubled as a ticket office. She quickly paid the entry fee and followed the path to the castle, staring up at the two towers flanking the gatehouse. Making her way across the moat, Tess passed through the gateway and into what used to be a large courtyard. The cobbles were uneven, but must once have been a labour of love, covering a large area that sloped downwards at one end. Clumps of grass grew between the rounded stones where horses’ hooves no longer kept any vegetation at bay. Tess thought this added charm and softened the look of the surface.

  There was something calming about old ruins. Stones that had withstood the ravages of time to show a fraction of the grandeur that once was. There were echoes of past lives here too, but they weren’t personal, like the shadows at Merrick Court. Tess relaxed and allowed the peace of the ancient walls to seep into her very core.

  Wandering aimlessly, she explored for a while, finding empty, roofless shells of rooms and staircases that either led nowhere or to dizzying vantage points. Eventually she made her way to the hexagonal Great Tower. Seventy-eight steps of a circular staircase took her – out of breath and with burning thigh muscles – to the viewing platform at the top. Three hundred and sixty degrees of amazing landscape surrounded her; undulating fields and hills, trees, hedges and tiny rivers, with the Black Mountains on the distant horizon. It was beautiful, but Tess couldn’t stay there. It seemed dangerous and a quick glance down into the courtyard five or six storeys below made her head spin. She stumbled towards the stairs and safety.

  Down at the base of the tower she found herself next to what was left of the moat. There was a stone wall which had crumbled away in parts and Tess sank down onto the cool stones, careful not to lean over too much. She gazed at the tranquil waters and the gently bobbing water lily pads. Timeless beauty. Serenity. Stillness. She felt the tension leave her body again.

  The sun came out from behind the clouds and cast a shimmer of light onto the dark surface. She leaned forward a bit, wondering what was hidden in the murky depths. Tiny wavelets stirred the water and she watched, mesmerised, until she felt almost as though the moat was rising up towards her in a surge of liquid. Her head spun again and she felt herself swaying. She put out a hand to steady herself; she was going to fall if she wasn’t careful.

  She stood up and was just about to take a step away from the moat, when a pair of strong arms grabbed her round the waist from behind and pulled her back.

  ‘Whoa, mistress, don’t do that. Nothing is that bad, trust me. There’s always something left to live for.’

  What the hell …?

  Tess twisted to look at her would-be rescuer, whose strange speech in a thick Welsh accent took a moment to register. Had he thought she was about to commit suicide? That almost made her smile as it had never even crossed her mind, despite the calamity of Giles’s accident. But the smile died on her lips as she squinted into the rays of the sun and took in his appearance.

  The man standing before her was dressed in an old-fashioned outfit with a long leather waistcoat, white linen shirt with a drawstring fastening and loose trousers tucked into big leather riding boots with the tops folded over. A hat with a somewhat bedraggled plume sat on top of an awful lot of hair, sort of in the eighties’ rock band style – very long, dark and wavy. It suited him, she had to admit, but then he had the kind of face that would have looked great with any hairstyle. Handsome, in a rugged way, and with a ‘bad boy’ twinkle in his eyes. Tess wondered if he was wearing a wig as she guessed he must be a re-enactor working at the castle, but the long tresses looked real enough. Good grief. A hard core history buff, obviously.

  ‘Please, come inside,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not safe out here.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ What on earth was he on about? Tess looked around, trying to spot any obvious dangers, but saw none. Instead she found that the moat had disappeared and she was standing next to some sort of lake. A shoal of large, brown fish were circling near the surface, some opening their mouths as if waiting for treats. How did she get here? Did the castle have a lake? Thoroughly confused, Tess turned back towards the man and pushed out of his grip, intent on getting back to the moat. She’d only taken two steps when she began to feel light-headed again. Her vision swam. What the hell was going on?

  ‘Mistress? Are you all right?’

  She heard the man’s voice coming as if from a great distance, then everything went black.

  Raglan Castle, 21st May 1646

  Arabella Dauncey kneeled by the lake at its northern end where the water garden spread out to her right. She loved watching the greedy carp who came to the surface to see if she’d brought them anything. Pieces of bread were al
ways welcome, sucked into their open mouths with a smacking noise. She tried to feed them slowly, aware that this might be the last time she’d be able to visit this beautiful spot. The war was coming closer to Raglan and she’d been told a siege was imminent. The poor fish would have to fend for themselves, just like everyone who would soon be locked inside the castle. Would they even survive?

  She didn’t want to acknowledge that the question might equally apply to the human inhabitants.

  She shivered at these dark thoughts and stood up, staring into the water and bending forward for one last look. Just as she was about to take a step away from the lakeside, a pair of strong arms grabbed her round the waist from behind and pulled her back.

  ‘Whoa, mistress, don’t do that. Nothing is that bad, trust me. There’s always something left to live for.’

  Arabella twisted to look at her would-be rescuer and pushed at his chest to make him let go. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Had he thought she was about to commit suicide? She must have looked more wistful than she realised. Still, it was none of his business and she was about to tell him so when she noticed his appearance. The words died in her throat.

  He was dressed like a cavalry officer with a long leather jerkin, riding boots and jaunty hat. It wasn’t his clothing that caught her attention, however, but the man himself. Long, wavy dark hair framed a face she found amazingly attractive. Tall and well made in every way, his broad shoulders filled out his shirt very nicely. She’d felt the strength and muscles in his arms during their brief contact and she found herself wishing she was still being held by them. And his voice, deep and smooth, with a Welsh lilt that caressed the ears, was the kind you could listen to for hours … She gave herself a mental shake. No, what was she thinking?

  ‘Please, come inside,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not safe out here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Arabella frowned at him. There hadn’t been any reports of soldiers approaching yet or orders to stay inside the castle walls. Although if she listened carefully she could hear what might be musket shots in the distance. Someone practising? And there was a strange smell of burning in the air. Perhaps he was right, but for some reason that irritated her even further and she stepped away from him.