Free Castle of Secrets by Amanda Grange

would not be seen.
    She passed
through the arch and saw the light again, in the distance. It looked unearthly,
bobbing along, detached from the ground, a ball of glowing yellow in the
darkness. She followed it, but soon she began to grow uneasy as she felt the
gravel give way to coarse grass and found herself walking across the moor.
    The wind
whipped round her, stronger than it had been in the courtyard, pulling her
cloak open and knifing her with freezing air. She pulled it around her, holding
it closed with folded arms, and went on.
    An owl hooted
as it flew by her on silent wings, making her jump, and she turned and looked
at the castle, nervously wondering if she should turn back. But if she did, she
would learn nothing.
    The grass
beneath her feet was tufted with hillocks that made the going uneven, and once
or twice she stumbled as her foot caught in a ditch. Then her shin hit
something hard and she found that she had reached a low wall. She felt along it
with her hands until she found a gap and went through.
    The light was
now further away and she hurried forwards, only to trip over a large stone.
When she looked down, she dimly made out the shape of a headstone. It had
fallen onto its side and lay, neglected, on the turf. She stepped back in
alarm, and found the back of her legs were against another tomb. Icy fingers of
fear crawled up her spine. She was in a graveyard. What was someone doing there
after dark? And why had she followed them? Why was she not safely in her own
room, in front of the fire, reading about knights and battles, instead of
following a dancing light through a place of the dead?
    Her panic
began to dissipate as she reminded herself that it was only seven o’clock . It was early evening,
not the middle of the night. There was probably a down-to-earth explanation,
and she would soon discover it.
    The light had
disappeared and she moved forwards cautiously, fearing the lantern had been
hooded. Her footsteps halted. She could see a figure kneeling ahead,
silhouetted against the lantern, which was on the ground. As she stood there
uncertainly, the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and in the cold light she
saw that the figure was Lord Torkrow. To her shock, he was slumped forwards.
His shoulders were heaving, and she realised he was crying.
    Her heart
lurched at the desolate sound, as she found herself privy to a terrible grief.
She was torn between a desire to leave and an impulse to go forward and comfort
him, and caught between the two impulses she remained where she was.
    She was
frozen, lost in a timeless expanse, until at last his grief was spent. His
cries subsided and he stood up, reclaiming his lantern. Helena shrank back against the
gravestone and he passed by without seeing her, his lantern bobbing away from
her in the dark.
    When he had
gained a sufficient lead she followed the light back across the moors, back
through the arch and back to the castle. She slipped round the side to the
small door and let herself in, her fingers trembling as they lifted the latch.
    What had she
just witnessed? she asked herself. Was it grief for the loss of  a loved one,
or could there a more sinister explanation? Could it be that his tears had been
produced by guilt?
    As she slipped
upstairs, she felt the atmosphere of the castle beginning to oppress her.  Why
did the villagers talk about Lord Torkrow? What did they say about him? Why did
Mrs Beal stop suddenly whenever she began to talk of his past?
    She had only
questions and no answers.
    She undressed,
glad to be safe in her room, and warmed by the fire. But as she put on her
nightdress and slipped into bed, Lord Torkrow’s desolate cries echoed in her
ears.

Chapter
Five
     
    Helena dreamt that she was outside, late at
night, and flying across the moor. Above her was a gibbous moon, with torn
clouds blowing across its face. Ahead of her was a blasted tree, its twigs
spreading like fingers and its joints creaking as it was bent and twisted by
the