Lucien’s expression changed then, and he welcomed me by bowing and murmuring for my ears only, “Lord Shivershanks, at your service.” I choked back a laugh, received his rare but charming smile in return, and like any recipient of that smile, knew all would be right with the world.
Lucien soon became both friend and brother, offering wise-beyond-his-years guidance and his seldom bestowed affection. He taught me how to get on well with my stepfather, protected me against a bully or two, and allowed me to accompany him in every lark imaginable. He taught me the ways and traditions of the Abbey. He also taught me how to find several secret passages within it, and told me stories of its past, thrilling me with tales of ghostly, headless monks haunting the north (and only remaining) tower, of hidden treasures and ancient curses.
“And we must not forget the Christmas Curse,” he whispered to me one chilly evening in late November-when, as usual, he had made use of a priest’s hole to come into my room and visit long after the servants believed him to be abed.
“Can there be such a thing?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said, with one of his mischievous smiles. “You, my dear Edward, have not had the felicity of meeting my Aunt and Uncle Bane and their pack of hellborn brats-Henry, William, and Fanny. Utter thatchgallows.”
“Thatchgallows!” I laughed.
“Shhh! Yes. Born to be hanged, every man Jack of them-and Fanny, too. We shall have to prepare for their arrival. They’ll try to harass you, of course, But don’t worry. Every time one of them behaves odiously, you are to remind yourself that soon we will be handing them a reckoning.”
He was not mistaken. Lord and Lady Bane brought their three interesting offspring to the Abbey not two weeks later. The servants had prepared for their visit by carefully removing the most treasured and fragile objects of the household from sight. From the moment they passed through the imposing entrance of the Abbey, our home was turned upside down. Henry and William, true to Lucien’s prediction, made it their business to make me suffer. Henry was my own age, William a year younger, but they were both taller and stronger than I. All three children favored their father, Lord Alfred Bane, who was both brother-in-law and cousin to the earl. Lord Bane was a red-haired man whose countenance could easily be brought to match it in color. His softest whisper was nothing less than a shout-and he seldom whispered.
His sons were equally loud, and seemed never to stand still for a moment. They contrived to poke, pinch, trip, and jostle me at every opportunity. By the end of their second day among us, I was quite bruised, but did not doubt for a moment that Lucien would come to my aid. In his quiet way, he often did so, surprisingly able to control them as no one else seemed able-giving a quelling look to Henry or William that always made them back off until they chanced to find me apart from him.
When those opportunities arose, any feeble attempt on my part to defend myself caused them to set up a caterwauling that served as a siren call to Lady Sophia Bane. This fond mother relished coming to their aid, and invariably boxed my ears as she rang a peal over my head. On these occasions, my own mother, who knew better than any general how to retreat in good order, would announce that she felt a spasm coming on, and-clutching her vinaigrette to her bosom-excuse herself from the battleground.
Lady Bane complained constantly, perceiving faults everywhere: The food was not to her liking. The servants were never to be found when needed. The room in which she sat was too chilly-when the fires were made larger, she was too warm, and protested that the chimneys smoked. The rooms into which they had been installed were uncomfortable for this reason or that. “Not what we are accustomed to at Bane House!” was a refrain we soon wearied of hearing.
When she declared that their rooms were inconveniently located, my stepfather raised his brows. “But my dear Sophia! They are the very rooms you insisted upon after refusing the ones you had last year, when you thought I was trying to banish you to a far wing of the Abbey.”
It made no difference. Lucien later told me that his father and aunt had been raised separately-the earl spent most of his childhood at the Abbey, with Lucien’s grandfather. Lucien’s grandmother-who disliked life in the country nearly as much as she disliked her husband-lived in Town, with her daughter, Sophia.
I was grateful for these insights. However, Fanny constantly spied on Lucien and me, so we had little opportunity for private speech such as this. After several months of being almost constantly in his company, being unable to share confidences with Lucien made me experience a loneliness that surprised me. But then one evening, just as I was feeling quite sure this would be my most miserable Christmas ever, Lucien winked and smiled at me.
We had been engaged in playing Jackstraws, but Fanny’s governess, who had been overseeing our activities that evening, called the proceedings to a halt-perceiving, I suppose, that this was not the sort of game the Banes could play without violence. As she moved across the room to put the game away, Lucien turned to me and said, “Do you suppose the ghost will walk tonight?”
“What ghost?” the Banes said loudly and in unison.
“The Headless Abbot, of course,” he replied.
Fanny’s eyes grew round.
“What nonsense is this?” asked the governess, but with an air of interest.
“Long, long ago,” Lucien said, casting his spell over us, “a castle was built here-its ruins form part of the north tower. But the castle itself was built over ruins-ruins of an even older abbey, which is how our home came to be named.
“In the days when the Abbey was truly an abbey, a war broke out between two powerful lords. One winter’s night, not long before Christmas, the abbey came under attack, which was a shocking thing, because this was then considered a holy place, with relics and the like. Knights in armor rode their horses into the chapel, where the abbot was leading the evening prayer, and the captain of these rogues took out his broadsword and swoosh!” He made a slicing motion with his hand.
All three Banes and the governess gasped-and I believe I did, too, for though I had heard this tale before, never had Lucien related it in such a dramatic manner.
“Yes,” Lucien said darkly, “he beheaded the holy man where he stood, and his knights murdered all the other monks-defenseless men at their prayers.”
This earned another gasp.
“But why would they do such a thing!” the governess said.
Lucien seemed to hesitate to answer, his manner that of one who was deciding whether or not he should impart a great secret. “The attackers,” he finally said, “had heard a legend, a tale of a treasure kept in the abbey. It probably wasn’t true, for although they examined every cupboard and cabinet, and pulled at loose stones and tiles, and looked in every room and hall for its hiding place, they could not find the treasure.” He paused, then said, “The powerful lord to whom the knight had sworn his loyalty sent a messenger to the captain, saying that he needed his warriors, and so they must make all haste to the battlefield. The greedy captain pretended to have an illness, and sent all but a small number of knights to join their lord in battle, while he remained to continue his search at the abbey.”
He lowered his voice. “But during the night, on the very first evening this small company stayed in the abbey, the men who stood guard were startled to see a strange sight-a man, wearing a monk’s robes, his face hidden by its cowl, seemed to appear out of nowhere. Unlike the brown-robed monks they had slaughtered so mercilessly, this one was dressed all in white, save a splash of red on his chest. ‘Who goes there?’ cried one of the knights. The figure in white halted, and lowered his cowl. With horror, the knights saw that the apparition had no head.”