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As soon as the new arrivals were out of the way, I grabbed his hand and directed him down. The rescuer became the rescued, and we smoothly transitioned into the roles. I led him down, keeping one eye on the steps, the other on his stuttering feet. Only when we reached the second corner did I let go of his trembling hand. We reached ground level, and he immediately brushed away the perspiration with the back of his hand. What passed between us was left unspoken. I had touched him, and he had touched me, and the matter was best left there.
We walked purposefully to the exit of the keep, passing the stone foundations of the pillars. I recalled the scene I had envisaged minutes earlier, and the information in Braithwaite’s little guidebook. I was convinced I had heard the grief of a mother who had lost her son, and before that, some recollection of more joyful times, when the child had been entertained by jesters and performers. It fitted. It made sense.
I was relieved it wasn’t a myth, and that I had conjured up something rooted in history, and not poems or legends. If what I had felt – my skin remained prickly – was verifiable, then I had encountered a real person’s echo and it was as intense as Joseph’s fear of heights. There had also been a notable absence in my daydream tableau. Richard, the maligned king, hadn’t shared the “mad grief” which historians had described – where was the father when the son died?
Joseph stopped. The colour had returned to his face, the loss of control over and forgotten. He looked upwards, scrutinising something.
‘It’s bleak,’ he said.
‘I suppose it is now.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘Did what?’ His quiet tone startled me. ‘Who?’
The blush deepened. ‘Richard the Third. You know, the Princes in the Tower. Did he kill the children?’
I tripped on a grass-covered flagstone. He grabbed my arm to steady me, and I smiled a small thank you. The stumble was as much mental as physical. I had told him my love of history and he had seemed indifferent up until now, but somehow following the episode high above he had latched onto my train of thoughts. I felt a degree of shame. I had in my arrogance assumed that the more castles I notched up, the greater my knowledge of the past. Yet, Joseph was just as capable of seeing things beyond the here and now, and had picked up on the irony in Braithwaite’s benign commentary. The father who supposedly murdered his nephews to gain the throne of England had been denied his one son and heir. He had been punished.
I tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Well, if Richard did it, he died a violent death. So maybe that was justice.’
‘And if he didn’t do it, and his allies hadn’t turned on him, we would never have had the Tudors. Imagine that. No reformation.’ He clucked his tongue.
‘Unlikely, I think it was fate that a new dynasty came to power. I mean, once you start murdering children, self-destruction is inevitable, isn’t it?’
He blanched again, the loss of colour more dramatic than the previous one. His eyes widened; I had shocked him somehow. Given his response, I wasn’t prepared to dig deeper, no matter how curious I felt. To compensate for his discomfort, I blurted a question with little forethought.
‘Did you take history at school?’
There was a notable shifting in his demeanour from rigid to gently indignant, and the roll of his eyes was a swift rebuke. He added nothing else to it.
‘Oh.’ I nibbled my lower lip penitently. I was good at misjudging Joseph. Ever since we had met, I had downgraded him because he dressed like a scruffy street dweller. He was a teacher, and probably more qualified than me. In any case, he didn’t need to study history to know things.
He softened his expression to one that was less critical. ‘I’m sorry. That was unfair. I did study it, although I wasn’t a star pupil, I managed to listen from time to time, and I rather liked the scheming kings in the War of the Roses. Although not Shakespeare’s versions.’ He manufactured a long yawn.
I laughed in sympathy.
Out in the open, we returned to his easel. Nobody had interfered with any of our things. I took back the camera bag, which he had carried with apparent ease, even when hoisting me upright. He examined his half-finished picture and sighed.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to move and pick a different spot. It isn’t working for me down here.’
I said nothing, because I agreed with him. The painting, although technically brilliant, was dark and foreboding, and placed the viewer in a pinioned position, as if the walls were closing in on them. The castle had that effect on the inside, but up above, as I had discovered, it was remarkably open and inspiring. Perhaps Joseph had realised there was more to Middleham than the imposing walls.
I waved my hand to a hill on the other side of the village. ‘I’m going to pick somewhere outside the castle to take a few scenic shots.’
He followed the direction of my pointing finger. ‘Yes, there, or maybe the old earthworks.’
‘You go there, and I’ll meet… we’ll meet up later, won’t we?’
He turned and brought his hand up to shade his eyes. ‘Where do you suggest?’
I searched his face for a hint. Even with the shelter of his arm, the sunlight caught his eyes and when he looked directly at me, I spied an animated sparkle. In coming to my rescue, he had exposed what he had in turn attempted to hide: his fear of heights. If he could take a risk, so perhaps, could I. Dare I tell him what had really happened up there? It would be nice to have his trust, to know that what inspired me was more than an interest in history and the camera in my bag.
The guest house wasn’t appropriate for meeting up. The answer rattled off my tongue with surprising ease. ‘I’ve never been camping.’
He had no idea I had just lied. Once upon a time, I had been a Girl Guide and nearly burnt a tent down with a match in the middle of the night. But I needed a toe in the door, and this was, sadly, the best chat up line I could muster.
I giggled, childishly, and to my delight, Joseph smiled too.
