A Heritage Lost

Crumbling Castles, Prologue

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

AD 1424, Kent County, England

“Mary, cover the windows somehow,” Lady Forrester commanded, hands busy fastening string securely around a bundle she held in her lap. “Make haste, now.”

The young maid tried in vain to lift a table to the window. “I cannot. ’Tis too heavy, My Lady”

“Have you nothing else to use, Mary?” The lady looked up from her work with vexation. “I hate that they should see our light.”

“No, My Lady. Not here in the turret.”

“Then leave off that and pray that our concealment holds.” Lady Forrester tied the last knot off with a savage yank. “What are they about now, do you know?”

Mary looked out cautiously lest the movement be noticed by some watchful eye below. “Oh!” She cried after a moment. “They have fired the gate! We shall be burned before they let us pass unscathed.”

“We shan’t. Our escape is not through the gate, Mary.”

Lady Forrester joined her at the window, watching with sorrow and wrath the destruction below. Seigeworks had been laid against the walls, and the battle had moved to the tops of the outer bulwarks where a few of her men still fought doughtily, though their numbers had dwindled sadly. Now, as Mary had said, the enemy was within, setting fire even to the great gates of the keep itself. There was the fighting thickest, as her knights repulsed the enemy from about the gates and sought to quench the flames and were as oft beaten back again by the greater numbers that stood against them.

“Brash cowards!” She said, disdain tainting her tone. “They would not dare were Granville here, but he is gone.” Her voice softened in sorrow with the last words. “Would that we had some warning of this night,” she went on with a sigh. “Then my son—Granville’s son—would grow up where he ought, to take his father’s seat as Lord of the keep.”

The maid looked at her in surprise. “Will you not stay near to take it back, My Lady?”

“No.”

“Not even for your son to retake it when he is grown?”

“No. I will not raise him in the shadow of what is, by right, his own, Mary. His education would be limited, and the grief be always fresh; moreover, he would wish to strike when he was too young and would be a hunted man or killed before his time. Better life at some distance than death brought close to home.”

A small cry from the corner pulled her attention from the tragic scene unfolding below. She hurried to silence it, dropping gracefully into a crouch beside the little one who had just woken and running a gentle hand over his head.

“Hush, Walter,” she soothed. The child sat up and reached for her, eyes still unfocused and hair tousled from sleep. She gathered him into her arms and held him close, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet. “There, now. No need to cry, son. Mumma’s got you.” She looked back to Mary. “’Tis time we were away. Catch up that bundle, will you, Mary dear? It contains what I would not have fallen into their hands. I would take more, but ’twould be difficult, methinks, to carry so much.”

Mary picked it up and tucked it under her arm, then taking up the lamp, she turned to her mistress. “Will you carry the boy, My Lady, or do you wish me to?”

“Now he is awake, he must walk on his own. I will carry him down the steps, but not after, for I must have free use of my hands if we are to escape.”

“Mumma,” the little boy said from her arms, his voice small. “What’ e’caping?”

“Hush, now, Walter.” She pulled away from the little one so she could look him in the eye. “We are going on an adventure, but we mustn’t make a sound. Promise me you shan’t talk until Mumma says so.”

“Are the bad men ’till out’ide?”

“Yes, quiet now and come with me.” She set him on his feet and turned. “Climb on my back, Walter, Mumma’s going to carry you for a bit, isn’t that nice?”

“Like Fader do tomtimes, Mumma?” The innocent question brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away.

“Yes, dear,” she replied. “Just like that.”

A second later, his little arms circled her neck and she stood, supporting his weight with her hands locked underneath him behind her back. With Mary leading the way with the lamp, the women left the turret, descending the spiral staircase with care not to trip on the narrow steps. With bitter chagrin, Lady Forrester thought that did she not have her son to care for, she would have remained in the turret until the last. Its design was such that one could hold it alone for some time even against a determined enemy, and she was not so careful of her own life in her grief that she would shrink from death when she was overcome.

But there was the boy to consider.

Granville’s son; the last heir of his house, though the house itself was lost. For his sake, she chose to flee, though it irked her.

As they neared the ground floor, the noise of battle penetrated the stone walls; battle cries and the sounds of steel on steel rang from the courtyard. At the foot of the stairs was a door, and when Mary opened this, choking smoke swirled in about them. Coughing, they moved forward blindly, the smoke hiding the light of the lamp. Lady Forrester let her son slide off her back and took his hand in one of hers, running the other along the wall to guide her. The smoke lessened as they moved to the rear of the castle, but of a sudden the noise increased, echoing in the halls about.

“They have breached the gate!” Mary cried in alarm.

“Yes,” Lady Forrester responded with a calm that surprised even her. “Do keep on. We have time, but only just enough. The passage is just ahead.”

They moved more cautiously, listening for sounds of pursuit, until they came to the kitchens, hard up against the rear outer wall of the keep. Here Lady Forrester dropped her son’s hand, feeling him cling to her skirts as he missed her touch, and brushed her left hand across the wall until her finger caught in a dip in the stone. Holding it in place, she reached her right above and the right until it found the ridge she sought. She pressed with both hands.

For a second nothing happened and she felt Mary’s frightened eyes on her in the lamplight. Then a faint click sounded and the wall to their left swung open, revealing a low passage.

“Thank God!” She said under her breath. “Lead the way with the lamp, Mary, I’ll bring up the rear. Walter, dear, let go of Mumma’s skirt and follow Mary please.”

His round eyes met hers and she smiled encouragingly. “Go on, Mumma’s just behind.”

He let go of her skirt and popped one thumb in his mouth, then turned and scampered after Mary. Lady Forrester stepped into the passage and closed the door softly behind her. A musty smell surrounded them as they moved forward, and she could feel cobwebs brushing her face as they hung from the stones above. The passage seemed to stretch on forever, becoming more dank as it went on, until at last they emerged through another hidden door in a tall stile some distance beyond the outer courtyard walls. Walter had grown tired in the tunnel and she now carried him once more.

“Well, that’s over,” she said with forced cheer. “Now for the next leg of the journey.”

“And what is that, My Lady?” Mary asked, adjusting the bundle she had hanging from her shoulder.

“We shall go to London after stopping in the village. Your brother will have a horse for us?”

“As he promised, My Lady.” Mary glanced back toward the castle and her face went white, the lamp shaking in her hand. “Oh, My Lady, look!”

Lady Forrester turned to see, and the night wrapped its chill around her heart at the sight. The castle was in flames. On the ramparts, she still saw the forms of men beating at the flames, but it was futility. It was as though her enemy had fired the entire place, one room at a time, in his search for her.

Feeling tears tempting her to despair, she turned resolutely away. On her shoulder Walter stirred.

“Mumma,” he said, lifting his head to watch their home receding as she walked on into the trees. “It’ all afire.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Fader home?” He pulled back, sitting up in her arms so he could see her face. His eyes were wide with worry. “Mumma, Fader inna fire?”

“No, Walter.” She pressed him back to her shoulder gently. “Only things, not father.”

His father, though he was too young to know, had not lived to see their home consumed by the hatred of a deadly enemy.

A Note from the Author

I am so excited to share this story with you! This may just be the prologue, but I hope it caught your interest! The next installment . . . well, let’s just say I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve for this story.

If you liked this installment, leave me a comment, share it with your friends, and subscribe if you haven’t already!

I can’t wait to share the next installment! If you’re not sure where I’m going with this, check out my overview here. ⤵︎

Until next time,

Blessings!

~Lexi

---

Psst! Did you know I have two other publications? Check them out! When I’m not posting over here, I am usually posting over there!