Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

She clucked over my boots, insisting I remove them on the grounds they would be instantly ruined in the mud. Flat boots or pattens, she advised me, although rubber boots were by far the best. She fitted me with a pair that pinched a little—in spite of her height, Miss Allenby had tiny feet—and declared us ready. She looped a basket over her arm and we left the house by the kitchen door, and as we walked it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why Brisbane had referred to Ailith Allenby by her Christian name.

My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not ,

My rams speed not, all is amiss .

—William Shakespeare

“The Passionate Pilgrim XVII”

We passed into a garden, or rather, what had once been a garden. Sheltered by high stone walls, it was a peaceful place that had clearly once been a productive one as well. Gnarled old fruit trees sprawled against the walls, but it was easy to see the bones of where they had once been espaliered. Beds, edged in crumbling brick, were thick with weeds and overgrown bushes, and just at the edge, sheltered in the recess of a wall, a set of beehives stood quiet and empty. A small plot was still in cultivation, but it had been planted with an eye to industry rather than beauty. It bore none of the traces of elegance that lingered yet in the rest of the garden.

Miss Allenby saw my interest and the faintest of blushes tinged her cheeks. “The gardens of Grimsgrave were once renowned for their beauty. Even the kitchen garden was lovely. It has been many years since we have had gardeners to tend them. Godwin does what little he can with this plot, and Mama still has a tiny garden for her flowers.” She gestured toward a sunny spot where a listless bunch of daffodils struggled limply out of the dark, peaty soil. “Most of our vegetables are delivered by folk who used to be our tenant farmers,” she added, her tone edged with emotion—nostalgia perhaps?

She motioned toward the far end of the garden where a rotting wooden door sagged in the stone wall. I turned back, eager to see Grimsgrave Hall in the clear light of day. It was almost as forbidding as it had been by moonlight. The native gritstone, once handsome no doubt, had weathered to blackness, giving the entire façade a gloomy cast. The ruined wing put me in mind of a skeleton, its flesh rotted away from the bones. But the structure itself, Jacobean in design, was elegant if old-fashioned. Properly rebuilt and with thoughtful landscaping, it might still be redeemed.

“It would take a miracle from God and more money than I will ever see in my lifetime to rebuild it,” Miss Allenby commented, intuiting my thoughts.

“It is a handsome place,” I offered, following slowly as she led the way to the wooden door.

“Handsome, but rotten through and through. I have a model of the house, as it used to be. It is a doll’s house really, but it was built by an architect who came to make a study of the house. He presented it to my grandmama when she was still in the nursery, and eventually it was given to me to play with. It is a lovely thing, but it makes me quite sad sometimes to see how it used to be. Mind your step here, my lady. A bit of stone has come loose,” she warned.

I followed her into a pleasure garden, this one derelict as well. It had been well-planned and probably well-executed, but little that was recognisable remained. Woody old vines choked a statue of an ancient king, and here and there a few scattered bits of stone spoke of ornaments long since destroyed.

“That is King Alfred,” Miss Allenby informed me, gesturing toward the decrepit old king. “He is an ancestor of the Allenbys. We are of ancient Anglo-Saxon stock,” she said proudly. Her chin was tipped high, and I could well see the resemblance to old royalty in her profile. I had read long before that the athelings, the children of Saxon royalty, had been reckoned by the conquering Normans to be the handsomest people they had ever seen. It was not so difficult to believe Miss Allenby was of this tribe. I said as much to her and she laughed, clearly pleased.

“There is an old tale that Pope Gregory once saw a group of Angle children for sale in the Roman slave market at Deira. He was so struck with their beauty, he asked who they were. He was told they were Angles, and he replied, ‘Non Angli, sed angeli.’ ”

“‘Not Angles, but angels,’” I translated.

“Precisely.”

We passed through the pleasure garden and beyond another crumbling door. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I gasped, for stretching before me was the moor, vast and rolling, empty and endless as the sea. It was beautiful, and yet inhospitable as well.

Miss Allenby stood next to me. “When I was a little girl, I was frightened of the moor. The way the wind always rises, keening like a human voice. The local folk call it a speaking wind. One is never entirely alone on the moor. That wind always blows, and that voice is always there.”

“I can well imagine it,” I murmured.

“But it can be a great comfort as well,” she said, turning aside. Her expression had not changed, but I noted the black of her gown and remembered the brother whose death had necessitated the loss of her home. Did she mourn him still?

A narrow path wound its way through the moor grasses, here quite straight, there bending a little to skirt a bit of rock or a boggy patch. There was just enough room to walk abreast and we did so. I had thought the moor empty, but as we moved farther from the Hall, I noticed the occasional bird, beating its wings to rise above the grasses, or heard the bleating of sheep carried on the wind.

She pointed out the dark, peaty waters that swirled and sucked in boggy places, ready to close over the unsuspecting. She warned me sternly against straying from the path, and lifted her arm to point out a shimmering expanse of black water in the distance.

“Grimswater. It is an ancient place, that lake—full of magic. They say the god who lives there gave this moor its name.”

“Really? I should have thought the name Grimsgrave quite appropriate in any event.”

Miss Allenby gave a quick, light laugh. “The moor is not so sinister as that. Grim was a Saxon god, and grave merely means pit or shaft. This moor was mined in ancient times, even through the Roman occupation. Silver and lead run deep under these lands.”

She nodded toward the surging waters of Grimswater. “They say there was once a town there, where the waters now stand. It was a rich place, with fine houses and proud people. One day a poor man searched the town for shelter and food, but none would offer him succour. Only the poorest farmer would give him a crust and a bed. When he had taken the farmer’s hospitality, the poor man, who was a god in disguise, raised his hand and cursed the town.”

Miss Allenby paused a moment, her eyes closed. Then she opened them, spread her arms and intoned,

“Grimswater rise, Grimswater sink ,

And swallow all the town save this little house

Where they gave me food and drink.”

Her voice was commanding as a priestess’ and I shuddered a little. It was too easy to imagine her, clad in the robes of a pagan witch, conjuring spirits to do her bidding.

She smiled then, and the effect was lost. “It is atmospheric, isn’t it? They say the waters rose at once and covered the town, drowning everyone. The Saxons used to throw sacrifices into the lake to keep the gods happy. Even now, when the wind is coming off the waters, you can hear a bell tolling under the lake. It is said to presage a death in my family,” she finished softly.

“The moor is full of old legends, isn’t it?” I asked faintly. There was something quite otherworldly and a little unsettling about Ailith Allenby. Talking to her was rather like conversing with a faery or a unicorn.