Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“You don’t need to come, Niall. You can rest, here. It’ll be fine,” she told me.

“I want to come. I want to see what it’s like.”

“If you come, leave your sword here,” she said.

“Why? If I don’t need it, you won’t even know it’s there. I left the baby with Alex a few moments ago. She seemed happy enough to look after him, and it’ll do her good. We won’t be that long, will we?”

She started at me. “If you bring the sword, you’ll draw it. We’re not trying to intimidate anyone, just find out what the situation is and make a decision. It’s as simple as that. There’ll be no fighting.”

“What if it’s not what it appears to be?”

“Nothing’s ever what it appears to be,” she said, “but we’ll deal with that when we come to it. It doesn’t mean we have to start a war.”

I met her gaze, and for once it was her that looked away. “OK, have it your own way, but you don’t start waving it around without my say-so.”

“Yes, Lady,” I agreed.

“And you can stop that as well,” she said.

“Yes, Lady.”

Lesley had been sent ahead with Big Dave in the car, and the plan was to join them in the village near the house and arrive together. Angela met us in the room where the Ways converged. Blackbird had already found a route which would lead us directly to the village, and she led us down the Ways. Angela went after her and I followed them to a clearing in a wood, just outside the village of Rotherfield Greys in Oxfordshire.

We arrived on a cold, clear morning with mist still drifting through the trees like pale shadows and walked to the edge of the woods where the fields were still edged with frost from the clear night. We crossed a field to the road and walked into the village, finding the car waiting in the car park of the Maltsters Arms , just on the corner. We climbed into the back, while Lesley stayed in the front with Dave.

“Have you had a look yet?” asked Blackbird.

“We cruised past the house,” said Dave. “It’s set back from the road, but there was no obvious activity. There are a few working farms around it, but it was quiet.”

“There’s something else,” said Lesley.

“Yes?” said Blackbird.

“Grey's Court is advertised as a National Trust property,” said Lesley.

“National Trust?” said Angela.

“It’s open for visitors for at least part of the year,” said Dave. “You don’t think this could all be some kind of weird prank?” he asked.

“I don’t understand,” said Angela.

“I think we have to go and look,” said Blackbird. “Dave, if you would be so kind?”

The car pulled away and travelled through the lanes at a stately pace. We turned down a side road and travelled down a lane with the winter sun striping across the road through the trees. As we approached a sign, Dave slowed so that we could read it.

Grey's Court — National Trust, said the sign. Visitors welcome from March until October. Limited opening at other times.

“It’s not open at the moment,” I pointed out.

“So we’re OK until March,” said Angela, “and then what?”

“I’m sure something can be arranged,” said Blackbird. “Let’s go on and see the house.”

The car followed the lane until Dave slowed at the entrance to the house and turned in, following the drive through more trees until it opened out into a broad meadow through which the drive turned in a long crescent. There was a signpost diverting the public off to a separate car park, but Dave ignored this and drove on to the house.

Leading off the crescent was a gravelled drive circling a raised lawn with flower beds in quadrants. The tightly pruned skeletons of roses were stark against the mulch and straw spread around them. In the summer, with the blooms full and heavy, it would be impressive but in the winter sunlight it looked stark and bare. The house behind them had a terraced garden stepping up to a bold frontage which overlooked the meadows and the woods beyond.

“Not bad for the price of a single white rose,” said Angela.

Dave pulled up at a large front door which was sheltered by a stone porch supported by grey stone columns wound around with tendrils of ivy that spread out like questing fingers across the stone and brick frontage of the house. Everyone got out and stood by the car, looking up at the house as if any moment we expected some crusty old gent to storm out of the house waving a shotgun and demand we left the premises immediately.

Stone mullioned windows looked out over the meadows below three matching gable ends, each with a small square window. Red bricks formed horizontal stripes in the walls, a style characteristic of Tudor buildings, while tall brick chimneys topped each end of the building. It was clear that at some stage someone had decided to add additional features in pale Cotswold stone, which neither matched nor enhanced the original building. In my experience, few structures survived as long as this one had without someone “improving” them. I just hoped it hadn’t been internally modernised by the Victorians.

Blackbird looked around our little group and then said, “Shall we go inside?”

I was first to reach the door, earning a disapproving look from Blackbird. Testing the brass door handle, I found it was locked. Blackbird held up a large bronze key and I stood aside while she inserted it into the keyhole slotted into the heavy oak door. The lock gave a heavy clunk as she turned the key, and the door swung ajar.

There was no sound from within. I stepped forward and said, “Shall we see if there’s anyone home?” She nodded her assent and I pushed the great door back.

Within was an entrance hallway with stairs rising from one side to a gallery above. The floor was stone flags, and the stairway was dark wood, heavily grained and black at the edges. The odour of old stone and wax polish permeated the atmosphere. In the light filtering down from above, I could see there was a door set immediately to the left and double doors to the right under a gallery walkway. Around the doors, the wood had been carved into an elaborate pattern of heart-shaped ivy leaves, echoing the columns at the front.

I pushed the double doors open and entered a great hall with a massive stone fireplace which would not have looked out of place in one of my dreams, the grate dressed with dried flowers in red and gold.

“Hello?” I called. “Anyone here?” My words were swallowed as I walked slowly around the edge of the room. Light flooded in from the front windows, setting the edge of the fireplace, carved with flowers and vines under a stone lintel, into shadowed relief. In the centre of the room was a huge dark wood table set with benches along either side. The inner walls were decorated with rectangular wood panels to shoulder height, and then white plaster to the ceiling cornices. I drew the curtains back from the wall beside the fireplace, allowing daylight from a bay to flood into the room. The stone of the annex was yellower than the grey stone of the windows and the light was warmer as a result. I found myself approving of the change, the warm light lifting the rest of the room.

There were further double doors at the back which led into a large semi-circular space with a glass dome skylight — a garden room. Facing south, it captured the best of the winter sun but the room itself was bare. Through the windows I could see a formal rear garden laid out in ordered rows of carefully cultivated order, like a maze but more symmetrical, with a stone fountain at the centre. I went back past Angela and Blackbird and across the hallway to the other side.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” I called. The words sounded flat and dull in the space. There was a furnished sitting room around another stone fireplace, but again there was no sign of occupation. The cushions were plumped and showed no indication that anyone ever sat in the chairs or on the sofa. The tables were empty, the bookcases complete, with no empty spaces where books had been borrowed to browse and read.