Two of my characters from the Red Cross of Gold series go on a little road trip up the country to an old castle ruin in 1953.
The Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay idled past an ominous lump of brown canvas that had, at first, appeared to be a small boulder sitting in his drive at the foot of the wide steps in front of his home. He narrowed his deep blue eyes sharply and drew an aggravated breath. He was not expecting company and it seemed someone had apparently made himself quite at home.
The Knight jammed the floor shift into first gear, popped the clutch on his 1940 Austin 8 and sped on down the drive to the barn where he pulled the immaculate pearl gray sedan inside and stopped. He got out and reached back through the rear window for his raincoat and hat. The day had started out gloomy and wet, but had taken a pleasant turn on his way back from Edinburgh. The sun was shining on the meadows and forested tracts and had been the source of a sort of spiritual boost, as it were, until he had discovered a strange automobile parked in his drive.
He jammed his gray fedora over his head and turned toward the 1940 Ford-Ferguson 9N tractor. The old gray tractor, like his automobile, was strong and sturdy, reliable and in showroom condition. A tuft of grass on the floor board caught his eye and he reached to flick it away before letting go an involuntary shriek.
The dirty, but comical face eliciting the startled outcry belonged to none other than the Mystic Healer, Sir Simon d'Ornan, Sir Ramsay's Brother of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold.
“Sacre bleu!” Simon blurted and then clamped a greasy hand over his mouth. “You have frightened the entirety of my wits!”
“What the devil are you doing, Brother?” Mark recovered quickly and plucked his hat from his head.
“I am making a comparative study,” the smallish Frenchman answered and disappeared behind the tractor. “This beast has a four cylinder engine with power take off. I think I can boost the power for you with little trouble. You will make more hay while the sun shines.”
“I don't need a powerful tractor, Simon.” Mark smiled and sighed. “It is just fine the way it is.”
“You simply do not appreciate the power of the combustion engine, Brother,” Simon's muffled voice was accompanied by a number of clinks and clanks. “The possibilities are endless, Brother.”
Mark propped one boot on the front wheel hub and draped his raincoat across his thigh.
“I supposed that pile of canvas in my front yard is your Flivver?” he asked.
“Flivver? You are out of date, my friend,” Simon answered through the spaces between the chassis and the engine. “Flivver went out of date years ago along with Tin Lizzie and jalopy. But no, that is not my Flivver or jalopy. It is a spanking new1953 Allard Palm Tourer with a six cylinder engine. It can put your old heap to shame, I can attest to that much.”
“I'll bet it's yellow,” Mark muttered and rolled his eyes. Simon's obsession with automobiles was legendary amongst the members of the Order. And his insistence on the color yellow everywhere he could manage it, was mostly ignored even though colors other than white, black, brown and gray were strictly forbidden by the Rule of Order. Only the older priests bothered to chastise the sad-eyed Healer. No matter his sunny disposition, his chronic illness left him with a less than healthy complexion.
“It is yellow!” he called and then laughed. “I had to pay extra for the paint job, but it was worth every penny. Wait until you see it. Sleek as a mink and convertible for sunny days.”
“Not fit for Scotland,” Mark snorted and stood up when Simon's blond hair topped the tractor body once more. “Come on into the house before you lose a finger.”
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“Let's take a ride up to Dunbar,” Simon suggested as he washed up in the laundry room. “Take a look around the old castle.”
Mark shook his head and pushed back the brim of his hat. He'd just gotten home from Edinburgh. He wanted to try out the new oven he'd bought for his laboratory. Besides he was a homebody. Midlothian was where he wanted to be. Dunbar held nothing but memories and long dead ghosts for him.
“If you want to poke around in the past, Simon, Dalhousie castle is in better repair.”
“That belongs to your clan, doesn't it?” Simon looked up at him thoughtfully. Only Sir Ramsay, of all the semi-immortal Knights of the Council of Twelve retained any real ties to family.
“Not my clan, Brother. The Clan Ramsay, yes. They don't know me,” Mark said quietly and turned away.
Simon finished drying his hands and face and hurried after the Scot.
“But they are your relatives,” he insisted as they passed through the kitchen and headed for the library. Simon stopped to kiss the old cook and the gardener, greeting them in the ancient manner of the Templars. Both men were retired Templar soldiers who worked for Sir Ramsay on his extensive estate.
“They are my descendants of a sort,” Ramsay told him when he entered the library. “Not the same thing. How would I explain myself to them. Besides, I may not really be related to them at all. My father served King William and I see no record of him in the history books.”
“Well, be that as it may,” Simon sat down in a comfortably well-worn leather armchair near the hearth. “There is still a connection. But no! I don't want to go to Dalhousie. I want to go to Dunbar.”
“Why?” Ramsay frowned at him. “If you are so bloody set on my connections, Dalhousie is the place. It still belongs to the Ramsays.”
“Hmmm,” the clever Healer sat up on the edge of the chair when one of Ramsay's Irish wolfhounds sauntered over for a chin scratch. “Matthew? Luke?”
“Matthew. Luke has lighter ears,” Mark said automatically. When Luke heard his name, he stretched his long, lanky body off the stone hearth and presented himself for equal treatment.
“So, you want to go home. I see,” Simon said as he roughed up the monstrous dog and was then rewarded by a sound slap in the face from Matthew's tail.
“Don't be a fool, Brother,” Mark muttered. “This is my home and you bloody well know it.”
“Jolly good, then as the English say,” Simon said more brightly “a compromise. I've always had a hankering to see Goblin Ha' at Yester Castle.”
“Goblin Ha'!” Mark sat up straighter. “What the hell, Simon? Are you hankering for trouble as well?”
“To tell you the truth, I've been a bit bored lately.” The Healer pushed Matthew away and leaned back. “I was complaining to the Grand Master that none of my illustrious Brothers had gotten themselves killed or mortally wounded in battle in such a long time, I was losing my touch. He suggested I take a holiday.”
“Oh, he did, did he? Did he also say 'Go up country. Find Brother Ramsay and annoy the hell out of him'?”
“Something to that degree.”
Mark sighed and then smiled. He was actually glad his unexpected visitor was Simon d'Ornan. It could have been much worse.
“Alrighty then. Goblin Ha', you say?” Mark smiled wickedly at the Healer causing him to perk up. “I'll get my fancy vestments, my extra shiny crucifix and my crystal decanter of Holy Water and we'll be off.”
Simon returned the smile. The place was less than two hours drive and could be reached easily enough by walking along one of several paths leading through the forest adjoining the property where the ruins of Yester Castle lay in a tangled growth of woods and brambles. In fact, Goblin Ha' had been his destination of choice, but he had learned over the years not to take a direct approach with Sir Ramsay. The Scot was terminally gloomy of disposition and never wanted to go anywhere or do anything just for fun unless it was absolutely necessary.
Ramsay shoved Luke away, brushed off his dark slacks and stood up. He cast one last disdainful look at his guest and headed for the entry hall. Simon followed him more slowly and watched as the Knight disappeared up the wide stairs. While he waited, he wandered around the hall, admiring the carved designs on the dark paneling. The house was a masterpiece in wood and stone and probably half as old as he was. He stopped in front of a set of tall double doors opposite the library. These, he knew, would be locked, but he tried the shining brass handles anyway. Locked, as usual. The room beyond was no doubt a receiving parlor or drawing room at least as big as the library, though he had never seen inside it. The tall windows were covered with lace panels and deep, shimmering green drapes blocking the view from the outside. He shook his head as he recalled his numerous attempts to see beyond the walls and windows. Whatever was locked inside the room must have been very special, indeed. Ramsay refused to shed any light on the subject whatsoever.
A noise from high within the house drifted down and he turned toward the stairs, listening closely. He had assumed Brother Ramsay had to get something from his bedroom, but the distant footsteps indicated he had gone much further, perhaps even up to the attic. Simon had seen the attic... once. Once was enough.
Mark reappeared at the top of stairs with a small parcel wrapped in black cloth tucked under his left arm. Without a word of explanation, he grabbed a brown Harris tweed coat and a tan deerstalker from the hall treel and headed out the front doors. When Simon turned and hesitated with a somewhat puzzled look on his face, Mark stopped on the porch to look back.
“Time's a'wastin', lad.”
“Right!” Simon agreed and followed after the taller man quickly, closing the heavy front doors after him.
They pulled the canvas cover from the Allard Beach Tourer and the Scot stood shaking his head in amusement. The low-slung sports car, painted pale yellow sported only enough room for three people. The chrome sparkled in the sunshine and the brown leather interior smelled warm and inviting. Simon rolled up the cover and stuffed it in the boot, all the while extolling the attributes of the car with no small amount of pride and excitement.
Mark climbed in on the passenger side, reluctantly resigning himself to what he knew would be a hair-raising race through the countryside at breakneck speeds, dodging sheep and sheep herders, pigs and chickens, cyclists and pedestrians, all of whom would give them a good what for while Simon laughed all the way to Yester Castle.
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But Sir Ramsay was wrong. Simon, in his usual way, managed to pry the story of Goblin Ha' from the Scot as they drove up the country. Even though Ramsay claimed to know nothing much about the place to begin with, he eventually gave in and told what he knew.
“Sometime in the thirteenth century, a while and a bit before you were born,” Ramsay said as he settled into the seat and relaxed a bit. Trading a story for a little less speed seemed like a bargain to him. “A man named Hugo Giffard built what was called Yester Castle. Apparently, Laird Giffard was supposed to be some sort of warlock or sorcerer, who dabbled about in necromancy. The legend goes Goblin Ha' or Goblin Hall as it should have been called was built by an army of demons or goblins summoned up by Laird Giffard to built his castle. I've never been there myself, but it seems to me that he might have found himself either burnt to a cinder or strung up by the neck, if he was truly practicing the dark arts back then. A dangerous hobby, I should bloody well think.”
“So this Goblin Ha' is supposed to be where Lord Giffard practiced his witchcraft?” Simon glanced over at Mark and raised both eyebrows. His training as a monk and cleric in the Cistercian Order during the fourteenth century made him a bit skittish of anything associated with the so-called 'dark arts'. Even though he had seen a number of supernatural things in his long association with the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. He attributed the Templar mysticism to King Solomon, and he revered King Solomon as a man of God. Angelic magic was one thing, whereas satanic magic was altogether different. Goblins and demons were not part of God’s domain.
Mark suppressed a smirk when he perceived the apprehension on the Healer's face. “We can still head up to Dalhousie Castle, if you prefer.”
“There you go with Dalhousie again,” Simon answered quickly. “I think you are obsessed with your own importance in the history of Scotland.”
“Pride is a sin, Brother,” Mark reminded him. “I had nothing to do with Scotland's history. Remember? I was in Jerusalem and then Cyprus and then France.”
“And then you rode with Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn,” Simon interjected. “I may not know the history of Scotland, but I know the history of the Order, Brother.”
“So did a number of our esteemed Brothers. I do seem to remember your face amongst the ranks. Does that make you a part of Scottish history? Will you be changing your name to McOrnan, now?”
“God forbid! Bite your tongue,” Simon laughed aloud. “I prefer to remain a Frenchman, if you don't mind.”
“And I prefer to remain anonymous,” Ramsay said.
“So what else do you know about Goblin Ha' and this... Yester Castle, is it?”
“Not much. The castle is mostly gone now. As a matter of fact, Robert the Bruce had it cut down to ground level during the war to keep the English out of it. I passed by that way a few years ago and the place is all overgrown. Can't see much of anything from the road, but the hall is still there or so the tales go.”
“And this wizard. Why was he thought to be a wizard?” Simon prodded.
“I can't say much on that other than one story I know something about,” Ramsay said and stared across the misty green countryside.
“Do tell,” Simon urged after the Scot fell silent for several moments.
Mark sighed and squinted up at the sun, which was somewhat obscured by a thin cloud cover. “It seems the good Laird gave one of his daughters a strange dowry on her wedding day. They say he plucked a ripe pear from a tree as the wedding party came out of the chapel, and he handed it to the newlyweds saying that as long as they kept the pear safe, they would prosper.”
“That certainly would have been a disappointment,” Simon said. “That's it? That's all? What happened to the pear?”
“You're too impatient,” Mark grumbled and then continued his story. “So his new son-in-law, Sir Broun of Colstoun, put the pear in a silver casket and preserved it. The family flourished for three hundred years or so.”
“Because of the pear?” Simon frowned at him and then waved at a little boy herding three geese down the roadside. “That's ridiculous. How could they attribute their good fortune to a pear?”
“Well, it seems that one of Sir Broun's descendants sometime in seventeenth century or thereabouts married and got his wife with child. Not something unusual of itself, of course, but during an especially bad bout of craving for fresh fruit, she opened the casket and found the pear looking as fresh as one just plucked from the bough.”
“Oh, no,” Simon moaned dramatically. “Don't tell me she ate it.”
“I won't tell you she ate it, but she supposedly took a healthy bite out of it.”
“So what happened? She died, right?”
“No. The pear shriveled up, turned black and hard as a rock.”
“I've heard of saints having been buried for centuries and yet looking pristine when their tombs were opened. They usually collapsed into a horrid pile of bones and dust shortly after being exposed to air. Mayhap this pear was simply such a case?”
“Perhaps, but it had her teeth marks in it, and not long afterward, the family's fortune began to fail miserably. The new Laird of Colstoun ran up huge gambling debts and ended up selling his estate to his brother in an attempt to raise money. Shortly after taking possession of the house, the Laird's brother and both his sons were drowned in a flash flood on the way to Edinburgh. The estate reverted to Laird... ahhhhh, George, I believe was his name. The estate is said to be the oldest house in Scotland to have been kept in the same family for so many generations. The house is in fine condition and I might be able to secure room and board for the night. I do have a few connections in Lothian, as you say. We could go there, if you like.”
“No, no. Wait,” Simon said and shook his head. “We were talking about the Wizard of Yester and somehow we got off the subject altogether. We're going to Goblin Ha' and that's a fact.”
“As you wish.” Ramsay smiled and leaned his head back against the leather. He stiffened as he felt the car speeding up considerably.
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Simon pulled the Allard Tourer carefully onto the side of the road and parked. The woods were thick with bush and bramble, but there were a number of well-worn trails leading off from the roadway.
“Are you sure this is it?” Simon asked somewhat skeptical of Ramsay's instructions. He had not quite expected so much wilderness.
“Come on. What are you afraid of?” Ramsay chided.
Simon grimaced and then watched as his enigmatic Brother retrieved the small bundle from the back seat. Ramsay started off down the central path at an energetic clip and Simon had to run to catch up with him.
The afternoon sun dappled the pathway and lifted Simon's spirits somewhat by spotlighting a number of wildflowers and fallen logs covered with dark green mosses and mushrooms. Here and there he caught glimpses of the local wildlife. A red fox scampered away at their approach leaving a much relieved, but frightened hare panting beside a gnarled stump. Birds chittered overhead and butterflies rose and fell in graceful swoops, flashing colorful wings in and out of the sun's rays. Leaf mould and twigs crunched under their boots and squirrels scolded them from the nearby trees. They crossed a wide ditch overgrown by ancient trees.
An ancient stone edifice almost entirely hidden in the trees loomed up in front of them. Ramsay noted that this was not a part of Yester Castle, but a substantially more modern fifteenth century tower house. Shortly, a sizable section of stone wall with an arched entryway came into view. This, Ramsay told him, was a part of the castle wall. At the bottom of a small gully, were two small entrances or possibly a door and a window covered with iron grilles.
“There's your Goblin Ha',” Ramsay announced.
Simon slipped and slid into the gully and peered through the barred doorway. “I can’t see a thing!” he called back to Ramsay who watched him ruin his white dress shoes in the muck.
“We can get in from the other side,” Ramsay said casually and then had to duck when the Healer threw a rock at his head.
After much grumbling and complaining on the part of the French Knight, they found their way into the hall through a very low arched door. The cramped tunnel grew taller as they made their way into the hall. The air was cool, almost chilly in the vaulted chamber. Every noise they made seemed amplified and unwelcomed by the eerie silence. The hall was not particularly creepy as Simon might have expected, but rather melancholy in demeanor. Simon felt a profound feeling of sadness wash over him as he walked around the high-ceilinged enclosure, looking into the various nooks and crannies. One passage, blocked and useless by debris led straight into the hillside. Another dimly lit set of slippery stairs led down to an old well or cistern that had been filled in. Ramsay told him that the well had probably been the source of water for the castle in case of siege, perhaps.
While Simon poked around amongst the debris, fallen masonry and assorted trash collected on the floor of the hall, Mark found a cubicle stone near the center of the room and pushed it around the muddy floor until it was squared with the walls. He then took out the mysterious parcel he had tucked in his coat pocket and set it on the cube. A quick glance at the Healer found him squinting at a rather extensive work of graffiti scrawled in white paint by someone with poor spelling habits.
Sir Ramsay held both hands, palm down over the bag and closed his eyes, his lips forming silent words.
When Simon finally translated the meaning of the words probably written sometime in the earlier part of the century, he spat in disgust and crossed himself.
“Such filth has no place in this world,” he said and turned to find Mark watching him closely. “I’ve seen enough. I don’t see the attraction. It doesn’t seem particularly haunted or mysterious to me. Just an abandoned cellar.”
Ramsay nodded his agreement and they made their way back to the road where Simon attempted to scrape the mud from his boots before soiling his Allard Beach Tourer too badly.
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On the return trip, they stopped at a small tavern for a drink and a bowl of stew.
“So, Brother, tell me,” Simon said as he sipped from a heavy glass of foamy ale. “What was that you were carrying with us? Some good luck charm to ward off ghosts and ghoulies?”
“Not at all,” Sir Ramsay tossed back his second dram of Scotch and smiled crookedly at the smaller man. “Would you like to see it?”
Simon hesitated. Sir Ramsay was not normally so forth-coming.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “I would.”
Ramsay pulled out the black bag and reached inside it. He met Simon’s pale blue eyes with a peculiar expression in his own. “Are you sure?”
Simon nodded.
Ramsay took out a small, rather ancient-looking silver box. An ornate catch adorned one end and an elaborate letter C set in brass fittings decorated the lid. Simon watched almost breathless as the Scot flipped up the latch and raised the lid.
The Healer frowned at the sight of a luscious pear lying inside the box with one bite missing. The fruit glistened, ripe and juicy.
“The Colstoun Pear?” he whispered. “You are pulling my leg. How did you come by this thing, Brother?”
“An old man gave it to me when I was in India,” Mark said lightly.
“An old man?” Simon repeated. “But I thought it was… ruined.”
“And I thought the Goblin Ha’ and the Wizard of Yester simply folklore until today, but apparently there is some power yet to found in the old stones.”
“Who was this old man?” Simon asked suspiciously.
“His name was Sir Andrew Ramsay, Governor General of India and Eighteenth Earl of Dalhousie and he, like you, assumed that I had to be of some relation to him though I denied it vehemently.”
Simon’s mouth fell open.
“You will remember that ill-fated mission the Grand Master sent me on in 1854, I believe it was. He thought it only right to send a Ramsay to parley with a Ramsay. I made very little headway, but he did give me this as a parting gift. Said it was of no use to him.”
“Isn’t he the fellow responsible for the Indian Mutiny of 1857?” Simon asked.
“Yes, the very same. Seems his mother was a Colstoun or some such. The Master wanted me to speak with him about his policies, but he was a stubborn, proud fellow ready for retirement. A typical Ramsay,” Mark said and raised his empty glass for another dram. The barmaid supplied his drink almost immediately and he tipped her lavishly.
“What a luscious pear!” she said when her eyes fell on the silver box with the fruit inside.
“Yes. Yes… we are,” Ramsay answered, winked at Simon and received a kick under the table.
Thanks for the compliments, Ronald! I've owned a few classic cars, but have never been a great enthusiast as far as maintaining one. I do admire them and find old tractors and implements fascinating. Glad you enjoyed the story. That is awesome about your grandfather's tractor and also in awe of you having all those twins in one family! Love it.
A very well written and interesting story in a genre that is not my cup of tea. I am not into mysteries and bringing the Knights Templar back.
That said, my twin brother would enjoy your cars. He is the proud owner of a Jaguar (proudly owned and built by Ford) for the family sedan and has owned many classic British sports cars along with my younger twin brothers who also caught his affection for them. One younger brother has an immaculate TR 6. As far as I know, in spite of our name being English, no desire to be sleuths.
My grandfather owned one of those versatile Ford tractors.
Let yourself take on a sexy adventurous read, walk on the sensual dark side of human adventure through the shadows of your mind. And, challenge your senses of the normal versus the paranormal, and the abnormal. Accept the quest, get onboard and disco
The Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay idled past an ominous lump of brown canvas that had, at first, appeared to be a small boulder sitting in his drive at the foot of the wide steps in front of his home. He narrowed his deep blue eyes sharply and drew an aggravated breath. He was not expecting company and it seemed someone had apparently made himself quite at home.
