Page 152 of Ironvine

“Oh, Brother de Mont Clare, my first Earl of Ryvves, it’s your iron vine, is it not?” She put away the paper and charcoal to keep them dry and safe and proceeded along the wall.

“Now where is that painting Charles saw?”

The moonlight had dimmed considerably with the gathering clouds, and she used her fingertips along the cut stone to guide her, and they led her upwards. Suddenly the vine engraving looped up the wall. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo against the stones.

Her finger dug into strands of leafy ivy that had latched onto the old stone, and she shoved it out of the way, pulling, tugging to reveal the stone. And as if they’d heeded her inner prayers, the obstinate vines gave way, the hazy clouds dispelled, and the moonlight shone brighter.

Cleared of the ivy, the surface of the stone wall glittered in the light like a thousand tiny diamonds. And there, the grapevine, lush with large leaves and full of grapes, swirled over the wall creating a frame, and at its centre was a shield, rather a coat of arms with a medieval letter R emblazoned on it. Her heart shuddered in her chest.

Laurent de Mont Clare had failed in miniature, yet perhaps, he was better suited to murals. All these years this paint had survived. Her fingers rubbed over it. It was red in tone. “Ochre, of course.”

Ochre was a mineral found in the caves by the iron mines nearby the village for centuries. Mr. Sheffield, her painting tutor had shown it to her after he had purchased it from a local miner. He’d been thrilled with the quality of pigment. Deep red, a spicy yellow. It was a mineral that was easily grated or ground by a mortar and pestle and turned into a fine powder that would be mixed with a liquid and turned into deeply pigmented paint.

Of course. Charles had said Laurent’s wife was the daughter of a Freeminer. She must have shown him the ochres, and surely he must have been delighted and undertook this mural.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed in the mildewed air traced with the cool rain. She’d been right, and this discovery was even better than she’d imagined.

The story Charles had told her about his ancestor was true, not some family legend. A colourful tale passed down from generation to generation, yet each succeeding generation believing in it less and less, and the harsh world twisting it into something it was not.

No more.

Georgina was sure that Laurent de Mont Clare was a passionate vintner and wanted to mark that achievement on the very walls of his home. After all, the king had bestowed him a title and estate for that very achievement. Why not herald it for your house, for your family?

If only she had a torch to see any of the colours. But just as Charles remembered, the design seemed to shimmer on the sparkling rock in the light of the moon. This engraving in the stone had been filled with pigment. He must have added something to the ochre to make it sparkly. And the decision to have the design engraved in the stone ensured it would last as long as the castle stood. Smart man.

The moonlight was fading in and out with the gathering of the clouds. She had to be quick. Opening her satchel once more, she found her pencil and quickly sketched what she saw, but the light waned quickly, the shadows around her thickening.

A flash of light blasted through the interior, the paper in her hands suddenly cold stark white. Thunder pealed and rolled in the distance. Her teeth dug into her lip. Rain, again?

A sharp crack and boom drummed over the area. Quickly putting away her paper and pencil, she moved to go. It was now difficult to see. But from what direction had she come?

A torrent of rain battered the stone floor in the roofless section of the house, and she shuddered at the harsh sounds. Rain fell through the cracks and gaps in the old roof over her. Her boots slipped and slid on the wet mossy stones as her hands attempted to grip the cold slithery wall, but she could not gain any traction upon it.

Cold black waters sloshed and rushed around her feet, surging through the room, and her flesh chilled. Which way to go now?Think, Georgina, think.

Rain thrashed and battered the stones around her as she plodded in the darkness. The water now swirled around her knees, rushing in from the courtyard. She buckled the satchel higher on her body keeping it safe, at least for now.

She raised up, and her one foot swivelled on the wet ground. Pain flashed through her ankle and she gasped. She’d stepped on a jagged rock. Her hand flew up to the stone wall once again to try and regain her footing, her balance. Ragged wood scraped her palm. Was it a door? The door to the tower.

Although the tower sat in the pond, it was not on the side of the river as the house ruins were. Furthermore, it stood higher than the house. She knew there was a doorway that led out of the tower with stone stairs that led to the bridge over the pond.

She would go there. A plan, she had a plan. Sucking in a deep breath as she swiped at her hair that had fallen in her face, wet, and coiled, she pushed forward in the waters. It was as if she were blind, her hands reaching out for anything in her way. She navigated her feet, her hands step by tiny step.

Was she even going in the right direction?

She arrived at the edge of a wall, the end of it. Her hand reached out into the damp air, her chest heaving, the sound of the water swirling behind her. Her fingers found a different texture of stone. Up and down she felt the surface. They slid upward. Different blocks of stone. Was this an archway? The entrance to the tower?

She moved quickly as the water would allow, still stepping carefully. The water had fully flooded her boots now. Something drove into her side, a hard edge, a flapping. Her body jerked away from whatever creature it was that moved past her, and she slid, the muscle of her back pulling tightly.

“Damn!”

She slid again, and her arms flew out to grab onto something, anything, but there was only black water. Splashing, water blew up her nostrils, and she sputtered, coughing, her throat aching. She tried to right herself, but her left leg wouldn’t move. It was stuck. Her foot was wedged between two stones.

She tried shifting, twisting, adjusting. Nothing. A wave of water surged over her. Pushing and pulling her body, filling her nose, her mouth.

There was only water.

ChapterSixty-Seven

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