Lady in Rags

Chapter Fifteen: An Air of Abandonment and Waiting

He was right, as it turned out. By the time the seven of them (for the three-year-old Henry was also invited) climbed into Prothero's two coaches, a pale sunlight was peering curiously through the clouds. When they arrived at Bastien's Castle, in the middle of the forest, the sun had climbed out fully, and the world, though still damp, seemed infinitely more cheerful for it.

Bastien's Castle, Mr Prothero explained to Verity on the way there, wasn't a castle at all, but a tiny little stone hovel in the middle of the forest. In the eight century, a peasant had insurrected against his lord, Duke Corentin, and proclaimed himself King Bastien of the forest. If he had had any followers, his revolution would have been swiftly put down. As it was, everybody looked upon him as a crazy fool, and Duke Corentin tolerated King Bastien with amusement, even encouraged him. King Bastien began to build his castle in the forest, from local stones and mud and branches. For a moat, he diverted water from a nearby stream, and managed to make a muddy puddle around his castle. In wet springs, it had been known to grow as deep as two feet. In dry summers, it was often nothing more than baked mud. The castle itself never expanded more than the one low stone room, which still stood today, forlornly, in the middle of its moat.

King Bastien's tale ended sadly, said Prothero. It occurred to King Bastien that every king needed a queen, and the only woman of high birth from thereabouts was Lady Rozenn, Duke Corentin's daughter. What had amused the duke until the day King Bastien stole off with his daughter amused him no longer. King Bastien was slain by the duke's own blade.

Scores of local legends remained about the place. Some said King Bastien haunted it, and that on moonlit nights you might come across him, and be granted your deepest desire. Darker legends suggested you really didn't want to.

Either way, it was a pleasant picnic spot, in daylight at least. The moat was silver and sparkling in the pale sunlight, surrounded by pleasant grasses. Weeping willows overlooked the stream, and the forest around the castle had been cleared into a sweet, grassy little meadow, across which butterflies flitted and blue-bells nested. The building itself seemed to be held together by moss and lichen, and was reached by a charming wooden fretwork bridge that someone had put up in more recent years.

Inside, Verity found it less charming. There were no windows, and the only light came through the open doorway, and the mossed-over smoke hole. She had to stoop not to bang her head on the ceiling, and the floor was an unpleasant, tacky mud, that smelled like rotten fish and mould. A pile of stones in one corner suggested what might have been a throne, at one time. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the smoke hole and across the seat, warming it for a king who hadn't sat there in a thousand years. The entire place had a forlorn air of abandonment and waiting.

"Not the most pleasant home," Mr Prothero admitted, entering after her. "Look, someone's been lighting fires. I suppose the local children play here. I can't imagine how anyone ever lived here though. It's miserable."

"Yes. Miserable's the word for it." For a moment, she could almost see Bastien, as he had been, cross-legged on his ramshackle throne, lording it over his imaginary domain and stolen queen. "What happened to Lady Rozenn?"

Prothero hesitated moment, before answering, "She took her own life. She drowned herself."

"Gruesome." Verity shuddered. Suddenly, the atmosphere of the hut was too much for her, and she went gladly back into the sunlight outside.

They ate lunch in the meadow, on the grass, and when they were finished, walked up and down the shore of the stream, or into the gentle green woods. Baby Henry splashed his toes in the water of the moat, and screamed when he discovered how cold it was. Mrs Prothero rushed to comfort him. Verity skipped stones in the stream, but never managed more than three skips before they sunk. There were not enough rocks around to discover any really smooth and flat, for skipping. Then Baby Henry decided he want to do it too, only for Baby Henry it meant slamming the largest rocks he could into the moat, and dodging the splashes (he had already forgotten the cold).