Death Plays a Part. Vivian Conroy
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a blue one Guinevere read: ‘Medieval re-enactment at Cornisea Castle.’
Underneath were a few lines of explanation that the Cornisea Historical Society was to re-create the trial of Branok the Cold-hearted, the steward of Cornisea Castle, who had been accused of vile acts against the villagers under his care.
‘Based on medieval sources, the play gives a true-to-life representation of the trial, the parties involved, and medieval justice, against the breathtaking backdrop of the centuries-old castle and its rugged environment,’ she read to Dolly.
What perfect timing. Her theatrical expertise would come in handy for this re-enactment. She might help with costumes or setting the scene or whatever else was needed.
Guinevere already saw herself choosing some props from the castle’s extensive collection. Maybe some items from the armoury would lend nice touches?
And if Lord Bolingbrooke didn’t want the real things to be used, they might make copies of a coat of arms, hand-painting them in the bright heraldic gold, blue, and red.
The woman behind the window leaned on the counter and called out to her, ‘You can take that leaflet along if you want to. They’re free.’The woman looked at Guinevere’s clothes – her poppy-strewn dress with broad red belt, her matching red pumps, and the long braid hanging down her right shoulder – and asked in a conspiratorial tone, ‘You’re here for that re-enactment, right? You look sort of … vintage.’
‘Thank you. But no, I’m going to work at the castle for the summer. Cataloguing books.’
‘With Lord Bolingbrooke? You don’t say.’
Her surprise matched that of the woman on the train, and Guinevere got an unpleasant twinge of worry in her stomach. All of these people seemed baffled that Lord Bolingbrooke would invite an outsider to his keep. As if he was the type of man who kept to himself and shooed away strangers.
But he had advertised for someone to catalogue his books, right?
Guinevere frowned a moment. She hadn’t actually seen the advertisement. Mr Betts had told her about it and had encouraged her to write an application email to an email address he had provided to her on a sticky note. She had received a reply from an O. Bolingbrooke, inviting her over at her earliest convenience. She hadn’t printed it off, thinking it was all settled now. Should she have brought it, to prove she had actually been invited? Lord Bolingbrooke might not personally open the door.
Guinevere thought a moment longer and then shook it off, thanking the woman behind the window and putting the leaflet about the re-enactment in her bag.
The woman said, ‘Just follow the road, and you’ll see the island soon enough. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you for the directions. Have a wonderful day.’
Clutching her suitcase, Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who wanted to sniff all the exciting smells. The road was a simple cobbled affair, broad enough for two cars to pass each other if the drivers took a little care. The houses on either side of it were built from grey stone, the low walls circling the gardens put together from rocks that stayed in place because of their own weight.
The occasional tree in a garden leaned into the road, spreading its branches to throw shade across the verge and attract birds, which swooped down to peck in the grass only to shoot back up into the tree again as soon as they spotted a possible threat.
Dolly poked her long nose through a wooden fence and barked at some ducks that waddled through a garden – probably to keep it free from snails.
‘Come on. Leave those poor ducks be. They’re only doing their job.’ Guinevere pulled the dachshund along, eager to see the island. As the road went up here, it was impossible to see the sea yet and if you weren’t aware that it should be out there, you might be mistaken and think you were still far from it. But all of a sudden they were at the highest point and could see the landscape before them.
The road went down at a steep angle, ending abruptly where the land changed to water. There was a path there though, narrower, continuing with a few mild curves to lead across the water to the island. This causeway had been there for centuries, allowing people to reach Cornisea Island when the tide was low.
Staring at it, Guinevere could just picture the people who had walked across it in centuries past: merchants who came to offer their wares at the castle, theatrical companies like theirs in London who wanted to provide entertainment for a feast.
A wedding maybe, between the lord of the castle and a princess who had come here from France, carrying the sweet scent of the blossoming lavender fields with her in the dried flowers she had sprinkled between her clothes in her many trunks. Maybe that princess had also brought the seeds of plants and small trees to fill out the gardens and arboretum that Cornisea Castle was famous for?
The island itself was an oval piece of land that seemed to have drifted away from the shore to lie by itself, surrounded by choppy waves. The left of the island was wild: towering cliffs, dense trees and shrubs, and a beach where Guinevere could see herself walking Dolly, playing a little fetch as the sun set and turned the waters into a deep red and purple while the first stars appeared against the velvety skies.
In contrast to the wild, uncultivated left of the island, the right consisted of neat cottages in a row forming a front along a sheltered harbour where boats bobbed on the waves.
There Guinevere pictured the bakery, which the kind woman on the train had mentioned. Just the idea of sweet smells made her mouth water. She needed a snack after the long train ride.
The few houses sat there like a miniature village, taking refuge in the shadow of the castle above. It towered over everything as the crowning piece on a wedding cake.
It was no fairy-tale castle in light colours with many high, elegant towers flying colourful banners, but instead was a sturdy old burg with two plump towers, flat above with a row of merlons all around. From up there you had to have a magnificent view across the island and the surrounding sea, the mainland so close by.
Guinevere began to descend, holding her weight back, Dolly pulling ahead of her. The doggy had never been to the seaside, but she didn’t seem to get nervous about all the water or about the fact they had to continue walking on a road that was surrounded by water on both sides. From the day Dolly had run into the theatre and right onto the stage – during a performance! – she hadn’t been fazed by anything new she met.
The causeway was only accessible during low tide, while at high tide the island was completely cut off from the mainland. The distance wasn’t great, and of course there were always boats to take, but still Cornisea had a certain isolation that contributed to its special appeal.
Walking here in the footsteps of those who had once visited the castle – to sell, to perform, to wed, to dance, to laugh and cry, to honour old traditions like the historical society was going to do with their re-enactment of the Branok trial – Guinevere’s heart beat faster that she had been given this unique chance. To work in a world of her own, a place where time had stood still and traditions of old were very much alive.
‘Isn’t it peaceful?’ Guinevere said to Dolly. ‘The gulls overhead, the island in front of us, the smell of the sea. Not at all like London, right, with all the traffic and the exhaust fumes.’
She hadn’t finished yet, when an engine roared behind Guinevere. She just had time to halt and step aside before a motorcycle blasted past her. The sun reflected off the shiny mirrors and the silver helmet that the motorcyclist wore.
‘Maniac!’ Guinevere called after him, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear her, or Dolly’s indignant barking, over the roar of the engine.
In a cloud of bluish fumes the rider sped ahead of her.
Waving a hand in front of her face, Guinevere waited for the fumes to clear before she walked on, following the man with her eyes. He came to the end of the causeway and turned right into the harbour area. Then, having startled two fishermen busy with their nets, he turned again, disappearing between the cottages.