Sleeper’s Castle: An epic historical romance from the Sunday Times bestseller. Barbara Erskine

cry in her dream was nothing more than the husky scream of a barn owl.

       4

      ‘Had you never wondered why it was called Sleeper’s Castle?’

      Sian’s supper party was going well. Andy looked round the table in contentment as her hostess put a steaming dish before them. The question had been asked by Roy Pascoe, who was sitting next to her at the scrubbed pine table in Sian’s kitchen. He and his wife Ella lived several miles away, apparently, and ran a history bookshop in Hay. He was a gentle, intense man of middle height, his hair thinning, his round spectacles reflecting the light from the candle in the centre of the table. His wife had a slight build; she gave the impression of being overwhelmed by her long linen skirt and blue sweater offset by a heavy agate necklace.

      ‘I am sure Sue must have told me,’ Andy replied as Sian passed round plates of spicy casseroled lamb. Ella laughed. ‘Wrong answer, Andy. What you should have said was, “No, Roy, I’ve no idea, do tell me!”’

      ‘Shut up,’ Roy retorted good-naturedly. ‘Anyone would think I like to display my knowledge.’

      ‘Well, you do, dear,’ Ella put in.

      ‘I would like to hear it,’ Andy chipped in quickly. ‘If she did say anything, I’ve forgotten. It’s a fascinating old house. Sue isn’t all that interested in history, as far as I can make out. I don’t remember her saying anything much about it beyond how very old it was. She is passionate about her herbs, but when I asked her about the ruins in the garden she just rolled her eyes and said they made a perfect place to grow valerian.’

      They all laughed. ‘That sounds like Sue.’ Sian was passing round bowls of creamy mash and roast vegetables.

      ‘Well,’ Roy went on patiently, ‘since you asked, and as the others are so anxious to hear what I have to say, I will expound upon the history of the place!’ He paused as his wife punched him on the arm, then went on, ‘It was once a fortified manor house and quite an imposing building, judging by the bits that are left. Fortified because, like us here, it’s on the Welsh– English border. You’re in Wales, up your valley, Andy; we’re in England down here in the Dingle. The Dulas Brook marks the border. The border March is dangerous country, never at peace, always a bit edgy.’ He laughed. ‘Sleeper’s Castle is medieval of course, and what is left of the building is remarkably unchanged, I should imagine. Outside it’s stone-built – which is always hard to date – slate-roofed and beautiful. Inside, there was a central great hall. As in all bigger medieval houses the hall was the main living space, but, probably early on in its history, it was divided – quite crudely, in my opinion – with oak studs and lathe and plaster, to partition off two smaller rooms: the dining room and the parlour behind it. That made the great hall less great, but it’s still impressively large as a living room.

      ‘The kitchen is interesting too. The free-standing early medieval kitchen and bakehouse were in later medieval times incorporated into the main house. The pantry and the buttery are original, and upstairs the two smaller end bedrooms with the lovely mullioned windows would have been the original solar, or private quarters of the house owner. There was a catastrophic fire at some point in its history and I suspect it was abandoned for a while after the outer walls fell. But, and this is what is so intriguing’ – he leaned forward, his eyes sparkling enthusiastically – ‘all that, ancient as it is, is relatively modern stuff according to tradition. The story of Sleeper’s Castle goes back hundreds and hundreds, even thousands of years to the ancient Druids, who used the place for sacred dreaming. Hence Sleeper’s Castle.’ He took off his glasses and polished them, waiting for Andy to comment. She was staring at him.

      ‘Sacred dreaming?’

      He nodded. ‘It’s mentioned in ancient Celtic chronicles and poems. A seer would wrap himself in a bull’s hide and sleep to dream, to foretell the future. Sometimes he would place a heavy rock on his chest.’

      ‘Enough, Roy,’ Ella interrupted. ‘Pass Andy the vegetables.’

      ‘A rock?’ Andy echoed him in astonishment. ‘What on earth for?’

      Roy picked up the dish and held it for her. ‘To help concentrate the mind, I would think. Isn’t it fascinating? I don’t know when the rest of the house was demolished or who lived there more recently – most likely a yeoman, or a tenant farmer – but in the end it became part of the Hereford Estates, and it was then sold off by Viscount Hereford in the 1960s. That’s about it, isn’t it, Sian?’

      Sian began to pour the wine. ‘Goodness knows, Roy. You’re the expert. You’ve covered it pretty well, I’d say. Best not to overwhelm Andy with too much history to start with.’ She set down the bottle and reached for the vegetables. ‘You’ll find, Andy, that Roy is passionate about history. He can bore for England on the subject! So, tell him to shut up if he overwhelms you with detail.’

      ‘I’m not bored, I promise you,’ Andy put in hastily.

      ‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask Meryn over to meet Andy,’ Roy said a few minutes later. He glanced at Sian. ‘If Andy is interested, he would know more about the Sleeper’s side of the story. And he’s a neighbour too, in a manner of speaking.’

      ‘I did try to ring him a couple of times,’ Sian said. ‘No reply and no answer machine. You know what he’s like. He’s probably away somewhere on one of his mad escapades.’

      Andy looked from one dinner guest to another. ‘That sounds intriguing.’

      ‘He is,’ Ella put in. ‘He’s a real Druid. Or soothsayer. Or something. Quite a character round here, but he does tend to keep himself to himself, and he goes over to the States quite a bit, I think. He lives up on the mountain, a mile or so beyond you. He’ll turn up one of these days, then you’ll meet him. I think the pair of you would get on.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a really interesting man, and if you’re not into Druids, he does herbs as well, which might be more up your street.’

      The conversation flowed on, away from the house, and slowly Andy began to find out about her new neighbours. Roy and Ella were self-evidently passionate about history and books. It had been their shared interest in history that had brought them together. Roy’s other passion was hill walking. ‘You may well see me from time to time strolling along on the footpath behind Sleeper’s Castle,’ he said. ‘It’s one of my favourite walks.’ Ella had shaken her head eloquently. ‘You won’t see me there. Roy walks. I read.’

      And then there was Sian herself, who, Andy discovered, had originally been married to a London businessman. He adored the City life and she had hated it. This house had been their second home, destined to be a place to wind down. But, it appeared, her husband had never actually wanted to wind down and Sian had come to Herefordshire more and more often on her own. ‘It was inevitable,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and quite amicable. I had far more in common with people here than I did with his friends’ wives in the City. I bought the dogs, who also preferred it here to London, and one day when I was due to drive home to Clapham I just rang him and told him I wasn’t coming. I didn’t intend to never go back, but I had inadvertently created a vacancy. There’s always someone waiting to jump into the empty place at a successful man’s side.’ She gave a small self-deprecating shake of the head.

      ‘He didn’t deserve you, darling,’ Ella said. ‘You’re better off without him.’

      There was a moment of silence and then Andy realised they were waiting for her to speak. Story for story. It was only fair.

      She cleared her throat. ‘I suppose in some ways I was in the opposite corner,’ she said. ‘My partner was married, but his wife had left him quite a bit of time before we met; she had moved on to another man and showed no signs of ever wanting to come back. I’d been introduced to him with a view to illustrating his books and we began