Ghost Knight

  “What is it, royal bastard?” he growled, throwing back his long hair, which was as silver as the rest of him. “You feel like a little joust in the cloisters? If not, what did you wake me for?”

  “Not tonight,” Longspee answered. “I wanted to introduce the friends of my squire.”

  Cheney turned to face us. Stu inched even closer to Angus’s side.

  “Your squire?” he asked, scratching his huge neck. Even ghosts get itchy skin sometimes. “Which one is it?”

  I raised my hand. “Me. Jon Whitcroft.” I nearly added, “Hartgill on my mother’s side,” as I stepped to Longspee’s side. But the ghost to whom that would have meant something was gone and forgotten.

  Cheney eyed me from head to toe. Then he shoved his fist into Longspee’s chest. “Does that mean you now have a squire and I don’t?”

  “I could be your squire… sir!” Angus stepped forward so eagerly that he stumbled over his own feet.

  Cheney sneezed into his pale hand and gave Angus a disparaging look. “You? You look suspiciously like a Scot!” he snorted disdainfully. “Everybody knows Scots are far too troublesome to make good squires. On the other hand,” he added with a look at Stu, “you’re a good bit better than your scrawny friend. He wouldn’t even make a good lance shaft!” Cheney started laughing.

  “Very funny!” Stu replied in an injured voice. The insult had obviously made him forget his fear. “From what I heard from Jon, your kind can’t even lift a feather, let alone a lance!”

  “I think I have to teach you some respect, you scrawny little weasel!” Cheney growled, advancing toward Stu. But Longspee stepped into his path.

  “Go back to sleep, John!” he said. “Your mood really is abominable when you are awoken before midnight.”

  In reply, Cheney yawned so thoroughly that we could see the whole cathedral through his mouth.

  “Are you the only ghosts here?” Angus asked. He obviously still liked the knight, despite his comment about Scottish squires.

  “No,” Longspee answered. “This cathedral is home to many, but most show themselves only to their own kind.”

  “And then they spend most of their time moaning,” Cheney observed. “I shall go back to sleep. I hope the next time I get woken up, it will be by someone who knows how to pay a knight.” And he was gone.

  Angus stared at Cheney’s tomb as longingly as a dog would at his master’s grave. I only had eyes for Longspee, whose shape was starting to fade.

  “Wait, Longspee!” I called after him. “How will I see you again?”

  “You are my squire, Jon Whitcroft,” he answered. “You can call me anytime. And I, you.”

  That is true to this day. I’ve never made him wait, and neither has he.

  Maybe the full moon made all the ghosts in the cathedral restless that night. We met the mason’s apprentice in one of the cloisters. He wasn’t much older than we were, but he was cloaked in so much misery that we could feel it like a cold shadow. Stu announced he’d had enough of ghosts for one night.

  We didn’t get to see Edward Popplewell’s shotgun as we climbed back in through the window on the first floor, and to this day I’m not sure whether Stu made up that story. It was long after midnight, but none of us felt like sleeping, and so we played cards on Stu’s bed by flashlight. I still think none of us wanted that night to end because we knew that the memory of all we’d seen would fade in the daylight, just like Longspee.

  NOT SUCH A BAD PLACE

  Three days later Mum came to Salisbury, and that morning, as I brushed my teeth, I tried to put the grumpy expression I’d mastered so perfectly back on my face. But it just felt as if I were looking at Aleister Jindrich’s eternally pouty face in the mirror.

  “Yep, Jon Whitcroft, you might as well admit it,” I whispered to my reflection, even though that earned me an irritated look from Stu, who was standing next to me, scrubbing away at one of his tattoos. “You’re having a good time here, even though you were nearly torn to pieces by a pack of demon hounds and almost thrown off a church tower.”

  I had no intention of telling Mum about any of that.

  She picked me up from school and took me to the café on Market Square, where the cake is so good that Stu sometimes groans about it in his sleep. She was as nervous as I was. I could see it in the way she clutched the straps of the horrible handbag The Beard had bought her as an engagement present. As promised, she’d come without him, but she couldn’t spare me the kisses and hugs in front of Angus and Stu. The two of them also have mothers and, like true friends, they both pretended they hadn’t seen anything. As Mum and I walked toward the school gate, I spotted Ella walking ahead of us with some of her friends. I didn’t dare to call out to her. Her friends were terrible gossips—and still are. Ella, I would like you to meet my mother would’ve probably given them material for weeks of scandalous rumors. But I couldn’t help staring after her. Her dark hair fell over her back as Ela of Salisbury’s veil had back in Lacock.

  “What is it?” Mum put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. Ella walked out of sight between the trees at the end of the road. I’d already told her that Longspee hadn’t disappeared from the cathedral, and I would’ve loved to walk with her across the sheep meadows to Zelda’s house, talking about everything and nothing. Nobody did that as well as Ella.

  “Nothing?” Mum asked. “I can see you’re thinking about something.”

  Oh dear. This was going to get difficult. What should I talk to her about? School? Teachers? Talking to someone is really hard when you have to avoid all those topics that really matter to you. But I was still determined not to tell Mum anything about Stourton or Longspee.

  “Jon?” Uh-oh. Her tone meant that things were about to get serious. “I came here to talk to you about something.”

  “Mum!” I quickly interrupted her. “We don’t have to talk. Really. We don’t.”

  That plunged her into an awkward silence all the way up High Street, except for the short story she told about my youngest sister, who’d rescued a bird with a broken leg and brought it into the house.

  The café on Market Square was quite full, so we climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the only other customers were three old ladies sipping their tea. They eyed us inquisitively as we sat down at one of the tables by the window. I was just biting into my second éclair when my mother cleared her throat. She had started making knots in her napkin (which, considering it was a paper napkin, was not a mean feat).

  “Jon?” she said again. “I’m here to tell you that you can come home now.”

  I nearly choked on my Coke. I know. Terribly embarrassing. All that foam coming out of my nose, and my mum slapping my back in a panic. When I could finally breathe again, she told me proudly that she’d already spoken to the headmaster. I had won! I’d really won! But all I could think about was no more Ella, no more Angus, no more Stu. No more elderberry lemonade on Zelda’s sofa, no more Alma-lavender-soap smell. No more Popplewells, no Bishop’s Palace, no more chorister gowns swishing along the corridors, no more Tinkerbell greetings first thing in the morning (“Hello, Jon, another glorious day today, isn’t it?”). I was sure I’d even miss Bonapart, and even dead old Aleister, not to mention Longspee.

  “… and be that as it may,” I heard my mum say, “you will no doubt be glad to hear that I’m no longer sure whether Matthew is really the right man for me.”

  “What?” I stared at her so intently that her face became bright red.

  “He… a few days ago he drove to his mother’s. I’ve met her only once. She’s a little unusual. I’m not sure… have I told you she has toads in her house? Anyway… Matthew went to see her on some urgent family business, and since he’s been back, he’s been acting very strange. He shaved off his beard, which is good, since I never really liked it, but he keeps asking the strangest questions. Whether I believe in ghosts and what I think about knights and whether”—she took a quick sip of her coffee—“and
whether, after his death, I would bury his heart in our garden. I know you never liked him, and I should’ve asked you why. But anyway, I won’t be marrying him after all.”

  She had tears in her eyes, and I knew she expected some expression of joy from me. But instead I just sat there, the éclair in my sticky fingers, and all I could think about was The Beard hiding himself in the bushes in the Kilmington cemetery with Zelda’s rifle.

  “I actually think that’s not a good enough reason, Mum,” I heard myself say. I could’ve bitten off my own tongue!

  “What? What are you doing?” Mum was wiping her eyes with her napkin, smudging her makeup in the process. “Are you making fun of me, Jon?” she asked testily.

  “No, I’m totally serious!” I whispered intently. (The three ladies were starting to lean in our direction.) “And those questions he asks… I think they’re really good questions.”

  I had no idea what had come over me. Had Longspee brought out my noble side? “You idiot! Here’s your chance to get rid of The Beard for good!” my not-so-noble self whispered. “Take it!” But my noble side whispered back rather cunningly, “Really? Does that mean you’d like to get rid of Ella as well? He’s her uncle, after all.”

  My mother was staring at me in disbelief. “Really good questions?” she asked.

  Wrong topic, Jon! Quickly, change the subject.

  “Mum,” I said, taking another fortifying bite of my éclair, though that didn’t make talking any easier. “Actually… I don’t really want to go home. I like it here. So why don’t you marry The Beard, and I’ll come visit every other weekend?”

  “Oh, Jon!” she sobbed, and her tears started really flowing. They rolled freely down her face, and one of the old ladies came over to give her a handkerchief (quite a hideous one, with pink lace and embroidered roses). The look the woman gave me made it quite clear what she thought about children in general and me in particular. My mother, however, smudged her black eyeliner all over the printed roses and began to giggle. Now the looks from the three ladies also made it quite clear what they thought about giggling mothers.

  “Mum!” I whispered across the table. “It’s fine! I can come every weekend if you like.”

  “Oh, Jon!” she whispered back, rubbing her eyes with the handkerchief. Then she leaned across the table, pulled me close, whispered, “Thank you,” and hugged me so hard that I thought she wasn’t going to ever let go. But when she did, she looked very happy. She even gave the three ladies a smile. Then she returned the soggy, blackened handkerchief, and we went downstairs.

  It was a beautiful day, warmer than any I’d seen in Salisbury so far, and we talked about my sisters and the house and the The Beard’s allergy to Larry’s dog hairs—and somehow we found our way back to the Cathedral Close.

  “Come, let’s go into the cathedral,” Mum said. “The last time I was here was with your father.”

  The cloisters were nearly deserted, and even the cathedral was empty. We walked down the central aisle, until my mother suddenly stopped in front of Longspee’s tomb.

  “Your father loved this tomb,” she said. “He knew everything about this knight. I can’t even remember his name….”

  “Longspee,” I said. “William Longspee.”

  “Exactly! That was it. They really teach you a lot of things in this school! Your father was obsessed with him. He once took me up to Old Sarum, just to show me the spot where Longspee died. Did you know they say he was poisoned?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And he loved his wife very much.”

  “Really?”

  “Mum?” I asked back. “Did Dad ever tell you whether he met Longspee?”

  “Met? What do you mean?”

  She looked completely puzzled. So, he hadn’t. Or he’d just never told her. Just like me.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Mum?”

  She looked at Longspee’s marble face and then let her glance run over all the other dead who were sleeping between the columns.

  “No,” she finally said. “No, I don’t. If there were such a thing as ghosts, then I think your father would’ve visited me after he died.” She reached into her bag. “Oh, why did I return that horrid handkerchief to that lady?” she muttered, her voice already muffled by tears. “I should have known I’d need it again!”

  I took her hand. “It’s good that he didn’t come back, Mum,” I said quietly. “Because it means that he’s happy wherever he is now. Ghosts are not very happy, you know?”

  She looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. “Since when do you think about ghosts, Jon? Everybody is suddenly talking about ghosts. Did Matthew put that nonsense in your head?”

  “No!” I answered. “We’ve just been talking about it at school.” It didn’t feel right to lie in the cathedral, but I think on that day my mother was in no shape to hear the whole Longspee-Stourton story. The Beard and I only told her many years later, and I’m still not sure she believed us.

  “At school?” Mum asked incredulously. “They talk about ghosts there? What subject is this?”

  “Oh, um, English?” I sputtered. “You know, Shakespeare and all that.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “Sure.” Then she squeezed my hand and ruffled my hair (extremely embarrassing for an eleven-year-old). “What do you think? Shall we say good-bye to the dead knight and find ourselves some dinner?”

  “Good idea,” I mumbled. For a moment I thought I could see Longspee between the columns, with a smile on his face. It was a few weeks after that when I asked the knight whether he remembered meeting another boy named Whitcroft approximately thirty-five years earlier. But my father had never called Longspee, because even back then my dad had been simply a happy person and hadn’t needed any help.

  “What about friends?” my mother asked as we walked side by side across the grass in front of the cathedral. “Those boys we met by the school—are they your best friends?”

  “Angus and Stu?” I asked. “Yes. Although… no, not really.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean, now?” Mum asked.

  The evening sun shone on the old houses around us, and I realized we were standing in the exact spot where Stourton had caught up with me and where Bonapart had picked me up from the ground.

  “My best friend is a girl,” I said. “And you know her uncle. In fact, you’re going to marry him.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I first had the idea for this book many years ago when, on my way to visit my English publisher, Barry Cunningham, my family and I stopped for a few days in Salisbury.

  When I stepped into the cathedral, I immediately knew I’d come to the kind of place that is unforgettable and that immediately tells you many stories. We took a tour with a German guide, and I heard about William Longspee for the first time. And the seed was sown.

  I returned later to visit the Salisbury Cathedral School, for I knew that the boy who was going to be the hero of my story went to school there. I spoke with the students about their ghost stories, and they gave me a tour of the school and their favorite places. I learned about the “island,” and I saw the painting of the chorister whose ghost we meet in the school chapel. The students’ helpfulness was unbelievable, and I very much hope that the teachers and pupils of the Cathedral School won’t be upset that I took some liberties with my story. Their daily school life is definitely very different from the way I describe it here. I don’t think students keep sneaking off, as Jon has to at some point, and there is no Bonapart, only very nice teachers like Peter Smith, who helped me in every possible way.

  Of course, I also visited the boardinghouse. No Popplewells there—they are my invention. There are also no ghosts standing under the windows. But should you ever visit Salisbury, I hope you’ll still find a lot of the things I’ve described.

  Even the dean of the cathedral—the only woman in Britain who runs a medieval cathedral—was always ready to help, and I had the privilege of witnessing her admirable work when I attended an
evensong and Easter service with my children.

  I encountered the same friendliness and helpfulness in Kilmington and Lacock Abbey. I climbed the tower in which William Hartgill found refuge from Lord Stourton. I saw the cellar where the Hartgills were probably kept prisoners, and I followed Ela to Lacock Abbey.

  A few words about the other Ella, who helps Jon call Longspee: After my British publisher read the manuscript for this book the first time, he called me and asked how I had come up with that wonderful girl character. I answered, “I stole her!” For Ella Littlejohn is actually Ella Wigram, the eldest daughter of Lionel Wigram, with whom I worked on the book Reckless for many years. When I found out that William Longspee had a very famous wife by the name of Ela, I thought: “Hold on, Cornelia! Why don’t you put a girl named Ella in the story, who reminds the knight of his wife?” It was, of course, a perfect coincidence that Lionel’s daughter was also called Ella, and I couldn’t have wished for a better inspiration for my character. Ella has read several versions of this story, and of course I asked for her permission before I put her into the book.

  And there is another real-life inspiration for a character in this story: Wellington, the dog who distracts the guards at Stonehenge. He is based on the faithful dog companion of my friend Elinor Bagenal, and he was also asked for his permission before he was turned into a character.

  And one final point: There really are ghost tours in Salisbury! How else would I have come up with the idea that that’s what Ella’s grandmother does?

  So… this is my most heartfelt THANK YOU to all the lovely people in Salisbury, Kilmington, and Lacock who helped me with the story. My special thanks go to Peter Smith, Tim Tatten Brown, and June Osborne, the dean of the cathedral. I also want to thank Elinor for all the research and for introducing me to the real Wellington. Thank you again to Ella, for being such a great model for my character. And as far as Jon is concerned, my American editor told me he reminds her of a youthful version of my British agent, Andrew Nurnberg. That was not intentional, but the more I think about it… yes, there are some obvious similarities!