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I understood the nature of the emotions that stirred me to travel, but not the extent of them, especially my need to embroider stories into the fabric of those derelict buildings. I superimposed events over the missing walls, and then breathed life into them until I felt I was there. Yvette preferred to let pictures tell their own tales, as she was trained to do, and not cast fantasies. If I couldn’t go back in time in person, my mind seemed capable of it instead. Pure escapism and probably symptomatic of deeper needs.
‘Oh, you know, history played out,’ I said feebly, and stared at the tarmac ahead. My cheeks flamed, hinting at my embarrassment.
‘Don’t be ashamed. I know you, Robyn. You’re a born romantic. I’m more pragmatic. History is what has been and gone. It’s fascinating to study and interpret, but I’m not hankering to go back in time.’ Yvette reached over and patted my thigh, then swiftly recoiled to her side of the car.
I smiled softly. Yvette described her family as cold fish who had never embraced displays of affection. I veered the direction of the conversation toward my comfort zone.
‘Sir Walter Scott wrote a novel set in Kenilworth. Tourists have visited for centuries. The first guidebook was published in 1777.’
‘I bet you’ve read it.’
‘Not that one. I have this little guidebook by this guy called Braithwaite. It’s rather quaint.’ I retrieved the tattered book from my bag, opened it at the page on Kenilworth, and began to read. ‘The Duke of Lancaster’s original stronghold was turned into a palace with its ornate gardens, hunting lodges, pavilions, and marble fireplaces. When Elizabeth the First stayed with her entourage for nineteen days, she almost bankrupted the Earl of Leicester, Robert Dudley, her favourite.’ I closed the book. ‘He hoped she would marry him, but she didn’t.’
‘Ah, that failed romance. What do you see in it?’
She was persistent. What did I see? ‘Castles are complicated pictures of history, don’t you think?’ I said. ‘Built over centuries, altered according to the wishes of their owners. We’re left with a ruin, and yet for hundreds of years it would have been a vibrant place, buzzing with people.’
?
We walked toward the gatehouse, buffeted by a gentle, cool breeze, then wandered through an open court, passed Gaunt’s Tower and under the outer Water Gate. Climbing a steep incline, we entered the Great Hall via a porch.
The unpleasant dizziness arrived suddenly. I dropped back, allowing Yvette to move on, then when the brief attack of vertigo waned, I joined her. My legs weakened at the knees and my heartbeats thundered in my ears. All familiar symptoms.
The dimensions of the Great Hall were suitably imposing. Two walls remained, as did the perpendicular window tracings and the foundation stones of vast pillars. The intervening wooden floors and roof had rotted away, and below, the stone vaulted ceilings of the undercroft had been demolished. What we stood upon was the cellar floor while above people’s heads, the grand fireplaces were interspersed along the walls. Heating the space had required several hearths. Only two remained, bizarrely perched half-way up the walls.
Yvette dashed off to the toilet, promising to be quick. I lingered in the Great Hall.
Rivulets of dampness had encouraged moss and lichen to impregnate the stonework and I perched on one pillar root, absent-mindedly poking at the fuzzy growth. The tingling started afresh. My scalp prickled, electrified by something that wasn’t visible. If there was energy loose in the air, I alone had access to its magical powers. Heavy lids shuttered my eyes. I ignored the other visitors and released my imagination, succumbing to this gift that had no purpose or explanation. I breathed, and waited for the inevitable transference. It always happened here in the Great Hall.
A flash of colour. Greens, some blue and the hint of red. I assimilated the weave of threads, and saw, hanging on a stone wall, an extravagant tapestry of a deer hunt.
The air tasted sooty. Fierce crackling erupted.
A roar of shooting flames licked the vast hollow of the blackened chimney opening.
I panned out, pushing myself away from the pillar where my body remained transfixed and immovable, to a wall, and from that vantagepoint, I explored the panorama.
The numerous occupants of the hall were cosy, perhaps too hot. Corralled at the lower end of the hall, wiping sweat from their brows, belching loudly…
The youths are squashed on the cramped benches. They gesture at each other over the hullabaloo as they tear apart hunks of bread. Away at the other of the hall, on the dais, is the lord of the castle, regal and colourful, deep in conversation. Between him and the lower tables is a chasm of status. Up on the minstrel’s gallery, the musicians pluck strings and toot on whistles. The smoke fails to mask the stew of flavours rising from the tables. Dish upon dish is carried out of the kitchens by an army of liveried servants, creating a display of culinary opulence. A collective gasp of hungry mouths greets the youths. The guests eat with gusto and no manners. The hounds bask in the rushes by the fire until baited by scraps tossed from the tables. They growl and snatch with claws and fangs.
Beer spills down the wiry beards of the knights and juices splatter onto the wooden boards. Knives slice effortlessly through cheese and meat, their blades clattering on the pewter plates. Raucous laughter drowns out the music. The lowlier men accost the fairer sex and sink their smeared lips on sweeter mouths. Rank odours settle on tongues. Flies swarm. Somebody wretches. The stench of an endless feast…
I gagged and pressed my clammy hand over my mouth.
‘I’m back.’ Yvette jumped off a low wall.
I swallowed the bile, and conjured up a smile of welcome. ‘Come on then.’ I hurried ahead of Yvette, inhaling gulps of air. The nausea swiftly abated. Had she noticed? Probably, but she was kind enough not to ask me. Many might not be so sensitive.
We climbed to the top of the Strong Tower. While Yvette snapped the distant views with her compact camera, I turned my back on the scenery and focused on the castle ruins with a reliable lens.
‘You mentioned a book,’ she said to my back.
I hooked the camera strap over my shoulder. ‘In Sir Walter Scott’s book about Kenilworth, he implied Robert Dudley’s first wife stayed in this tower. She didn’t, it was fiction.’
‘I wonder why he altered the facts.’ She carefully peered over to look at the sheer drop.
Heights rarely bothered me. ‘Made for a better story, I suppose.’
