them said, ‘Some people think it’s silly to talk to dogs. Well, I think it’s silly not to talk to dogs. Had them for all of my life. Retrievers first when I was still living on the farm my parents had. Now I live in the village, in a smaller house. Took in a cocker spaniel when an elderly neighbour moved away and couldn’t take her along. The sweetest little thing. Is by my bedside in the morning, the moment I wake up. Keeps me company while I garden. She’s with my sister today. She doesn’t like trains, you know.’
Guinevere smiled. ‘Dolly likes everything. She’s quite the adventurer. Aren’t you, girl?’
Dolly squeaked again and rubbed her head against Guinevere. Her bright little eyes took in everything that moved outside the window: the clouds against the skies, the specks of birds, a yellow tractor on the fields.
The train was slowing down even more, swaying, and soon they stopped all together. The woman with the basket helped Guinevere to lift her heavy suitcase from the train onto the platform. ‘Is someone coming to get you?’ she asked with a worried frown.
‘No, but I can manage. Thank you for your help. And have a lovely day. Say hello to your cocker spaniel from me and Dolly.’
The woman smiled at her and walked away, calling out to a woman at a flower stand just outside the station. It only had two platforms and an old-fashioned building with vintage motifs of golden fleur-de-lis over the entry doors.
Guinevere took a deep breath. The air carried the typical tinge of salt that always betrays the sea is nearby. But there was also the smell of paper and coffee. She spotted a window where hot beverages were sold. She also saw cans of soft drink in a cool box and newspapers. A turnable rack held leaflets on regional sights and activities.
On a blue one Guinevere read: ‘Medieval re-enactment at Cornisea Castle.’
Underneath were a few lines of explanation that the Cornisea Historical Society was to re-create the trial of Branok the Cold-hearted, the steward of Cornisea Castle, who had been accused of vile acts against the villagers under his care.
‘Based on medieval sources, the play gives a true-to-life representation of the trial, the parties involved, and medieval justice, against the breathtaking backdrop of the centuries-old castle and its rugged environment,’ she read to Dolly.
What perfect timing. Her theatrical expertise would come in handy for this re-enactment. She might help with costumes or setting the scene or whatever else was needed.
Guinevere already saw herself choosing some props from the castle’s extensive collection. Maybe some items from the armoury would lend nice touches?
And if Lord Bolingbrooke didn’t want the real things to be used, they might make copies of a coat of arms, hand-painting them in the bright heraldic gold, blue, and red.
The woman behind the window leaned on the counter and called out to her, ‘You can take that leaflet along if you want to. They’re free.’The woman looked at Guinevere’s clothes – her poppy-strewn dress with broad red belt, her matching red pumps, and the long braid hanging down her right shoulder – and asked in a conspiratorial tone, ‘You’re here for that re-enactment, right? You look sort of … vintage.’
‘Thank you. But no, I’m going to work at the castle for the summer. Cataloguing books.’
‘With Lord Bolingbrooke? You don’t say.’
Her surprise matched that of the woman on the train, and Guinevere got an unpleasant twinge of worry in her stomach. All of these people seemed baffled that Lord Bolingbrooke would invite an outsider to his keep. As if he was the type of man who kept to himself and shooed away strangers.
But he had advertised for someone to catalogue his books, right?
Guinevere frowned a moment. She hadn’t actually seen the advertisement. Mr Betts had told her about it and had encouraged her to write an application email to an email address he had provided to her on a sticky note. She had received a reply from an O. Bolingbrooke, inviting her over at her earliest convenience. She hadn’t printed it off, thinking it was all settled now. Should she have brought it, to prove she had actually been invited? Lord Bolingbrooke might not personally open the door.
Guinevere thought a moment longer and then shook it off, thanking the woman behind the window and putting the leaflet about the re-enactment in her bag.
The woman said, ‘Just follow the road, and you’ll see the island soon enough. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you for the directions. Have a wonderful day.’
Clutching her suitcase, Guinevere pulled Dolly along, who wanted to sniff all the exciting smells. The road was a simple cobbled affair, broad enough for two cars to pass each other if the drivers took a little care. The houses on either side of it were built from grey stone, the low walls circling the gardens put together from rocks that stayed in place because of their own weight.
The occasional tree in a garden leaned into the road, spreading its branches to throw shade across the verge and attract birds, which swooped down to peck in the grass only to shoot back up into the tree again as soon as they spotted a possible threat.
Dolly poked her long nose through a wooden fence and barked at some ducks that waddled through a garden – probably to keep it free from snails.
‘Come on. Leave those poor ducks be. They’re only doing their job.’ Guinevere pulled the dachshund along, eager to see the island. As the road went up here, it was impossible to see the sea yet and if you weren’t aware that it should be out there, you might be mistaken and think you were still far from it. But all of a sudden they were at the highest point and could see the landscape before them.
The road went down at a steep angle, ending abruptly where the land changed to water. There was a path there though, narrower, continuing with a few mild curves to lead across the water to the island. This causeway had been there for centuries, allowing people to reach Cornisea Island when the tide was low.
Staring at it, Guinevere could just picture the people who had walked across it in centuries past: merchants who came to offer their wares at the castle, theatrical companies like theirs in London who wanted to provide entertainment for a feast.
A wedding maybe, between the lord of the castle and a princess who had come here from France, carrying the sweet scent of the blossoming lavender fields with her in the dried flowers she had sprinkled between her clothes in her many trunks. Maybe that princess had also brought the seeds of plants and small trees to fill out the gardens and arboretum that Cornisea Castle was famous for?
The island itself was an oval piece of land that seemed to have drifted away from the shore to lie by itself, surrounded by choppy waves. The left of the island was wild: towering cliffs, dense trees and shrubs, and a beach where Guinevere could see herself walking Dolly, playing a little fetch as the sun set and turned the waters into a deep red and purple while the first stars appeared against the velvety skies.
In contrast to the wild, uncultivated left of the island, the right consisted of neat cottages in a row forming a front along a sheltered harbour where boats bobbed on the waves.
There Guinevere pictured the bakery, which the kind woman on the train had mentioned. Just the idea of sweet smells made her mouth water. She needed a snack after the long train ride.
The few houses sat there like a miniature village, taking refuge in the shadow of the castle above. It
