“Aye, but then if the clan is with us, we are bound to succeed,” said Ned jovially. “Let’s ride.”
“Right, but ye know, yer thieves cant leaves much to be desired. When it comes to talking to these coveys tonight, leave that to me.”
“What shall I do?” Ned objected.
“Look dumb, make no moves, say nothing,” returned Chauncey on a bark of a laugh.
Ned’s jaw dropped but he put up his chin and grumbled something incoherent as he bid his sister get back inside and be safe.
She watched them mount and ride off with a heavy sigh. She didn’t feel very much like sitting alone in her chamber. The night was not so very advanced. There could be no harm in a short walk near the abbey?
After thirty minutes of this and another thirty minutes of sitting by herself, full with her restlessness, she got up and strode toward the barn. To her way of thinking, her brother and Chauncey may have been correct that she couldn’t be seen in public with them, but she felt abandoned, alone and annoyed at being left out of everything all the time.
This way of thinking stirred up her cauldron of impetuosity and got the better of her. It didn’t take long before she had her horse saddled and rode him slowly across the glen.
Truth was, sleeping alone at the abbey, would have been impossible. She had never been alone all night there before. York wasn’t so very far away and by now there was no doubt in her mind that the two were having a rollicking good time at the tavern, while she twiddled her thumbs alone. It was most annoying.
A light mist had seeped into the atmosphere and hung low across the tall dry pasture. However, Mandy had not lived on the moors all her life without coming across this eerie scene before. The vision before her was one where an active imagination might begin to see all sorts of creatures crawling through the low hanging mist, but Mandy was made of sterner stuff.
She attached no unearthly significance to the light gray tentacles at her horse’s hocks. She continued to make her way across Bolton Glen to the main pike, taking this eastward for a short stretch before crossing it and turning onto a path that etched its way through the viscount’s property.
It was a trail that was rarely used.
The fact that the branches of the trees hung over the path making grotesque shadows did not deter her. She knew the woods well and thought nothing of guiding her horse through its dark, winding overgrowths. Perhaps a long ride was what she needed so that she could sleep when she returned to the abbey?
She saw the light of the moon up and ahead in the clearing and smiled because it was not an easy thing to pick her way through the deer path in the dim light of the woods. A breeze brought the scent of heather and it filled her nostrils and she sighed, pleased that she was out and about instead of stuck in a dank room all by herself.
She had never been over the stretch of land ahead at night. It was known as Witch’s Elbow and was avoided even during the day because of the tales told concerning this parcel of glen.
She drew in breath. She did not believe in such things, and yet…one could never be too careful, especially when one was alone in the dark of night.
Gently, she urged her horse onto its treacherous ground when she heard it, stopped all movement, and listened and heard it again.
Sobbing!
A woman sobbing…indeed, a woman…and she was sobbing, yet…was it a woman, or was it something unearthly?
Uncertain…but, there was no denying the strength of the tone. The sobbing seemed to echo, but how was that possible? She shuddered and remembered how Chauncey had warned them to stay away from Witch’s Elbow when they were young.
He had told them roundly, “Tis the spirits of evil caught beneath the ground—make no mistake. They cry for release they do, especially when the moon is full.”
Well, here was the truth to his words.
She and Ned were only eleven or twelve when he warned them away from this place and told them about Old Saltergash who had an inn nearby. The witches played their tricks on all his patrons who dared to travel their land. They would use their magic to lure them into the bog.
Precaution put a stop to her plans. Perhaps she had ridden long enough. She had still the ride back to the ruins.
Best to turn about and get back to the safety of the abbey.
“Yes, but I don’t believe in witches,” she said out loud. However, I do believe in bogs and there could be any number of them along that stretch!
Rationalization came to her rescue and she turned her horse around. She made for Wharfdale Manor road which bordered Skippendon’s preserve. She could take this route quite directly and safely toward the Abbey trail.
Quite suddenly the breeze picked up again. It brought the scent of the damp woods and the sound of human conversation. It was low, hurried and very near. She could hear someone speaking.
She pulled her horse to a stop and tried not to make a sound as she listened, worried about being seen. She slipped quietly off her horse and went to his nose, holding the reins and leading him quietly out of sight and into the shadows.
The voices seemed to get louder and sounded strangely familiar. Curiously, she wondered who it was o