son Peter, my second-best bed.” This is my half, nearest the wall. You’ll have to take the other.’
I had not realized until that moment that when Dame Joan spoke of the brothers sharing a room, she also meant that they shared a bed. It was a common enough practice and should not have dismayed me as it did, but for some reason I could not fathom I did not relish sleeping with Mark Gildersleeve, and I was relieved to see that a large feather bolster divided the mattress in two.
‘What will happen when Peter and Mistress Cicely are wed?’ I enquired, and was favoured with a wintry smile.
‘Rather, what would have happened, don’t you mean?’ Mark countered. ‘The answer is that I should have been banished to the chamber which my cousin is occupying at present, while she took my place in here. But do you truly believe that they will ever be married now?’
I clambered into bed, having stripped down to my undergarments, and lay back against the pillows, linking my hands behind my head. ‘You feel there’s no hope then of Peter still being alive?’
Mark closed the window, extinguished both lanterns and climbed in beside me. ‘Do you?’ he asked bluntly.
The darkness was absolute, thick and clinging like a fog, the heat suffocating, and I found it difficult to breathe. My heart beat wildly, and it needed all my will-power not to leap out and reopen the shutters. But I forced myself to remain outwardly calm, and gradually the sense of panic faded.
‘Well, do you?’ he demanded, irritated by my silence.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
* * *
Given the close, fetid atmosphere of the room, it was inevitable that, when I did at last fall asleep, I should dream.
As a child I suffered from frequent nightmares, but as I had grown older these were replaced by normal, if unusually vivid, dreams. My mother, to annoy me, had always insisted that they were due to overeating, but I could never bring myself to admit that this was true, and certainly some of them had an almost prophetic quality. Tonight, I dreamt I was standing on that same ridge of ground upon which I had stood that afternoon, where Abel Fairchild had been last Friday, looking down on the roof of the shepherd’s hut below me. Away to my right, on the very lowest slopes of that part of the Mendip Hills, I could make out the Pennards’ house. Someone was descending from the copse into the lower hollow, but his face was averted from me. I knew, however, without being told, that it was Peter Gildersleeve. Then, with the suddenness that one experiences only in dreams, I was standing outside the hut, staring in through the window. But I could see no one inside, although I felt certain that I was not alone. I started to walk round and round the building, searching frantically for this other person, the sweat pouring down my body. And at that moment, a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder …
‘Wake up, man! Wake up! You’re tossing and turning and groaning fit to wake the whole house!’ Mark was sitting up in bed trying furiously to rouse me, his fingers digging into the top of my arm.
I propped myself up on one elbow, knuckling my eyes with the opposite hand. I realized that I was indeed sweating profusely on account of the heat of the room, so, still somewhat dazed, I pushed back the bed-coverings, swung my feet to the floor and groped my way to the window to fling wide the shutters.
The night air poured in to bathe my hot face, gratefully upturned to the starlit sky and the pale, cold radiance of a three-quarter moon. I stayed thus for several seconds, before a flicker of movement caught my eye, making me turn my head sharply in the direction of Dorabella’s stall.
‘What is it? What have you seen?’ Mark hissed from behind me, and I realized that he, too, had left the bed and followed me over to the window.
‘I thought I saw someone move, over by the stable, but … no, I can’t see anything now. It must
I had not realized until that moment that when Dame Joan spoke of the brothers sharing a room, she also meant that they shared a bed. It was a common enough practice and should not have dismayed me as it did, but for some reason I could not fathom I did not relish sleeping with Mark Gildersleeve, and I was relieved to see that a large feather bolster divided the mattress in two.
‘What will happen when Peter and Mistress Cicely are wed?’ I enquired, and was favoured with a wintry smile.
‘Rather, what would have happened, don’t you mean?’ Mark countered. ‘The answer is that I should have been banished to the chamber which my cousin is occupying at present, while she took my place in here. But do you truly believe that they will ever be married now?’
I clambered into bed, having stripped down to my undergarments, and lay back against the pillows, linking my hands behind my head. ‘You feel there’s no hope then of Peter still being alive?’
Mark closed the window, extinguished both lanterns and climbed in beside me. ‘Do you?’ he asked bluntly.
The darkness was absolute, thick and clinging like a fog, the heat suffocating, and I found it difficult to breathe. My heart beat wildly, and it needed all my will-power not to leap out and reopen the shutters. But I forced myself to remain outwardly calm, and gradually the sense of panic faded.
‘Well, do you?’ he demanded, irritated by my silence.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’
* * *
Given the close, fetid atmosphere of the room, it was inevitable that, when I did at last fall asleep, I should dream.
As a child I suffered from frequent nightmares, but as I had grown older these were replaced by normal, if unusually vivid, dreams. My mother, to annoy me, had always insisted that they were due to overeating, but I could never bring myself to admit that this was true, and certainly some of them had an almost prophetic quality. Tonight, I dreamt I was standing on that same ridge of ground upon which I had stood that afternoon, where Abel Fairchild had been last Friday, looking down on the roof of the shepherd’s hut below me. Away to my right, on the very lowest slopes of that part of the Mendip Hills, I could make out the Pennards’ house. Someone was descending from the copse into the lower hollow, but his face was averted from me. I knew, however, without being told, that it was Peter Gildersleeve. Then, with the suddenness that one experiences only in dreams, I was standing outside the hut, staring in through the window. But I could see no one inside, although I felt certain that I was not alone. I started to walk round and round the building, searching frantically for this other person, the sweat pouring down my body. And at that moment, a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder …
‘Wake up, man! Wake up! You’re tossing and turning and groaning fit to wake the whole house!’ Mark was sitting up in bed trying furiously to rouse me, his fingers digging into the top of my arm.
I propped myself up on one elbow, knuckling my eyes with the opposite hand. I realized that I was indeed sweating profusely on account of the heat of the room, so, still somewhat dazed, I pushed back the bed-coverings, swung my feet to the floor and groped my way to the window to fling wide the shutters.
The night air poured in to bathe my hot face, gratefully upturned to the starlit sky and the pale, cold radiance of a three-quarter moon. I stayed thus for several seconds, before a flicker of movement caught my eye, making me turn my head sharply in the direction of Dorabella’s stall.
‘What is it? What have you seen?’ Mark hissed from behind me, and I realized that he, too, had left the bed and followed me over to the window.
‘I thought I saw someone move, over by the stable, but … no, I can’t see anything now. It must
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