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Nothing audible teased me like it usually did, nor did I smell anything other than salt and seaweed. Instead, a curtain of pink rays descended, like a filter on my camera lens, and it tinted the air as if the sun was setting. There was no hint of a blood red sun on the horizon; the sand below this shimmer was a glorious saffron, the sea a continuous hue of aquamarine. And yet, something floated past me; a veil, or so it seemed, and staring from behind it, eyes shadowed and lips pale, was a young woman’s face. I inhaled sharply and a terrible sense of sadness engulfed me. There was no joy in this vision; it wasn’t what I expected. I shivered, ice cold and feverish, and as I attempted to dismiss the unwanted illusion with a rough shake of my head, I heard a sob of despair.
I looked around but none of the children were crying. Turning back, the pink haze had vanished.
The forlorn feeling of loss abruptly lifted and the warm breeze cocooned me once again. The moment, the slippage of time, was over. I had not enjoyed it. Until recently only a few of the visions had left me bereft or uncomfortable; most were uplifting, even exciting. But after Kenilworth, when I had come close to vomiting, I wondered if they were symptomatic of a disease, a malfunction of the brain. I wasn’t prepared to contemplate the idea, so I decided that this one, like Kenilworth’s vision, was best forgotten.
My stomach rumbled on cue. Back at the B&B, I anticipated many questions from a curious couple.
?
I picked up a knife and fork and braced myself for more questions from Beverly. She quickly obliged and I answered.
‘I’m more interested in the mystique that surround castles than the significant dates. So much history, and yet we only record the facts. The beach is lovely too.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of things to see around here. And as for the castle, you should be careful what you wish for,’ Beverly said.
‘Here we go,’ Bert said.
‘What?’ I asked.
Beverley lay down her fork and ignored her husband. ‘It’s said that there’s a princess who fell in love, but her da wouldn’t let her marry the boy. They were separated, the lad sent away. The poor thing was naturally sad. The king feeling sorry for her, had men go look for him. When they came back, they said he’d married somebody else. So the king had a pink dress made for her—’
‘Pink?’
‘Aye, to cheer her up, her being a girl, of course.’ Beverly clucked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘She put it on and flung herself off the castle tower onto the rocks below. Turns out, the lad hadn’t married anyone, and he came back for her.’
I swallowed a hardened lump of unchewed food. It wasn’t possible. I didn’t see ghosts; I imagined things and made them feel real. If this tale was new to me, how had I managed to conjure up a vision of a pink woman, and heard her crying? Staring at my half-eaten dinner, my appetite was obliterated.
‘You’re awful pale, lass. Was that not a good tale?’
‘Very interesting,’ I stuttered. ‘Too good, almost.’ I imagined my photographs of the beach. Would there be a hint of pink, a veiled face hovering above the sand? A real blurring of fiction into fact? I’d been in that worrying place many times, knowing it was meaningless to go there: nothing ever showed up in the photographs. An overactive imagination wasn’t the same as seeing ghosts, and the evidence was clear in the images I snapped. Nothing was ever there.
‘Every seven years she appears, wandering the battlements,’ Beverly continued, excitedly stabbing at her food. ‘Glides, they say, down to the beach, gazing across the sand and sea, looking for her lover. Yes, you’re right, a good story.’ She paused, fork half-way to her mouth. ‘Somebody should make a film of it.’
I recalled little else of what Beverley said during the remainder of the meal. Forcing down the last mouthful, I said my thanks, and asked to use the computer again.
David hadn’t replied to my email, but Medici, unprompted by me, had sent one. The message was just two lines of text.
Congratulations on your safe arrival in Bamburgh. Looking forward to seeing your photographs. I’m sure they will be perfect. Did you see the windmill? Fascinating addition, most unusual, worth a picture for yourself.
Hope you enjoyed your time on the beach.
Medici
How had he known about the beach? I couldn’t bring myself to reply to him to ask. Not yet, not until I was sure how best to ask him. In any case, the castle was next to the sand dunes, and it would be logical to take pictures from the northern aspect; it was a famous landmark.
I logged out of the account and dashed upstairs to the privacy of my room. I would tell him, though, that I liked the windmill.
Nine
Alnwick
The Norman invasion of England, which crushed the native Anglo-Saxons and remaining Viking settlers of the Dark Ages, heralded the arrival of those early wooden buildings with their ditches and ramparts. Across the English landscape, the advent of the motte and bailey style signalled the growing power of the barons who built and occupied them.
Alnwick was one such location.
Malcolm the Third of Scotland became the first failed besieger of Alnwick in 1093, and from there on, the castle expanded, from wood to stone, until it passed into the hands of the Percy family, who built the famed octagonal towers, and the subsequent Dukes of Northumberland have remained its inhabitants into modern times. A continuous occupation for centuries. Quite an achievement.
~ Alistair Braithwaite’s Touring Guide of Northern Castles
