Chapter 2

One had to be mad to go around leaping unseen gorges in total darkness. He could come to no other conclusion. He was the prisoner of a giant mad man taking him who-knew-where. With a free hand, he gathered a handful of the stiff cloak, the only thing within reach. Before he was quite ready, he felt the horse gather itself and spring.

For a moment, it felt like flying and then he heard a splashy thud and knew they were again on solid ground. He could not forebear a sigh of relief. In a few more moments, he heard the hollow clatter of hooves upon wood, perhaps another bridge. Then, through a gap in the cloak, he could see light—smoky, sputtering torches thrust at intervals into metal brackets on a stone wall.

Soon, Martin found himself standing on wet cobbles. He swayed at first, relieved of the cloak, and was surprised to feel the rain had ceased and the wind no longer reached him. He turned to thank his strange benefactor, hoping for a glimpse of his face, only to find the dim lights did not penetrate the shadow of the rider’s hooded cape.

“Thank you, good sir, whoever you might be. I do believe this is Ravensrawn and I have arrived safely due to your concern.”

His benefactor replied to that appreciation with clipped, terse words. “‘Tis of no moment. I’d have been riding anyhow. ‘Twas only a short distance out of my way. Good morrow, Master FitzHugh. I must be off now.”

“Stay,” Martin called. “At least tell me your name so I may inform my employer of the service you’ve done for both him and me.”

“He’ll know.” Those final words were flung back as the stranger wheeled the tall, dark horse and it leaped away into the gloom. Horse and rider seemed almost to vanish in front of Martin’s eyes, swallowed by the night.

Martin stood bemused for a moment, until a gentle tug on his arm turned his attention. He saw an elderly-looking woman beside him, urging him by anxious gestures to come along inside. That seemed a sound idea, as it was still damp and chilly, although the rain had stopped.

Passing through a heavy, planked door bound with massive iron fittings, they followed a set of twisting corridors, and a set or two of stairs, which soon had Martin quite lost. At length, they came to a pleasant room where a bed waited, turned back to warm. A lively fire leaped and danced on a stone hearth, providing both heat and light.

“This’ll be your quarters, sor,” the woman said. “If there be anything ye need, ring and it’ll be brought. I’ll have a bath sent and nightclothes, since your traps have yet to arrive, stuck in yon coach.”

“Who was that man, the one who brought me here?”

The woman cocked her head, birdlike. She made no answer to Martin’s question. “Ned be yer chamberlain,” she said, ingeniously. “He’ll be up soon with a hot posset and help ye to bed. We mun’t be waking Himself so late. In the morning, he’ll speak with ye about your duties, and ye’ll meet the Little Master and his sisters. Good morrow to ye, sor.” With no further ado, the small woman turned and marched out.

Martin suddenly realized the extent of his weariness and the soreness of his body, bruised by bouncing about in the coach. Curiosity must take a place behind the simple comforts of bath and bed. He suspected if he tried to follow the woman, he’d only find himself hopelessly lost.

If this were truly Ravensrawn, it was the strangest manor house he had ever seen, more like some ancient, fabled castle of old. Though fine, the furnishings of his room looked old, more suitable to the fifteenth century than the latter half of the nineteenth. What a strange place he’d come to. Everything went fuzzy and dim then, and later he didn’t truly recall anything else before he found himself in bed, sliding into sleep.

He slept long and deeply, disturbed only by fragmentary dreams of dark riders and bottomless gorges, imprisoning castles and faceless strangers. London and the only home he had known since childhood were weary miles away, farther than he might ever go again. With naught to return to, what would be the use of making the journey? Of course, in time this new position would be no more as the young children of the late Earl of Montcalm would grow quickly beyond the need of a tutor. However, he’d confront that matter when it arose. Perhaps a similar situation would present itself at the opportune time.

* * * *

When he awoke, Martin suspected the hour was later than his usual time to rise. Back home in his uncle’s London townhouse, he often rose as early as most of the staff. Over the past few years, the staff diminished at a steady pace as Uncle Claiborne’s financial situation became ever more perilous. At last, the unfortunate gentleman’s gambling debts exploded and Martin’s world with them.