Freya's Quest Read online

  As I returned to the central landing, Dylan came up the stairs to greet me. ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for the hospitality.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied, smiling.

  He was even more good-looking in the daylight. I felt an immediate attraction to his dark, sultry appearance. He was the type of guy I’d fantasized about in my dreams on all those lonely nights back home.

  ‘How are you feeling? You had quite an ordeal last night.’

  ‘I’ll mend. Just a few painful bruises.’

  He looked concerned.

  ‘Don’t worry. None of this was your fault, you know.’

  ‘Yes it was. If I hadn’t towed you back here, you wouldn’t’ve nearly been killed….Nor your car destroyed.’

  ‘True. But being stranded out in the storm could’ve been just as bad. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  ‘OK. But let me extend my hospitality further. You can stay a few days, if you like.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, trying to disguise my delight.

  Dylan smiled again, as if detecting my emotions despite my efforts. ‘Yes. Anyway, the phone lines are down, so we can’t summon help….And you’ve no car now, so….’

  ‘OK. Thanks. I accept.’

  ‘Hope there’s no one wondering where you are?’

  ‘No. I live alone and tend to travel alone, too. No one will worry till I fail to turn up for work. And I’m on a month’s break, so there’s plenty of time to play with.’

  ‘That’s good. Yet I’m surprised a woman as beautiful as you hasn’t a partner or husband to worry about you.’ He had taken hold of my left hand and was now rubbing his thumb over my bare ring finger.

  I fought off a shyness that had plagued my adolescence and crept back in my adulthood only at moments like these. ‘There was someone special once,’ I finally plucked up the courage to say. ‘His name was John. We’re still friends – he’s actually my boss now. But we were just too young. I’ve had a few boyfriends since, but no one who quite measures up.’

  This seemed to please him.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No one special,’ he said, without elaborating, as if trying to keep an air of mystery about him.

  It was my turn to smile at this growing warmth between us. ‘Now, I’m looking forward to the grand tour. What is this place anyway, some kind of medieval castle?’

  ‘No, it’s an old hunting lodge, dating from the 1840s, just as the Gothic Revival was gathering pace. Designed by a man named Anthony Salvin. Quite a famous architect in his day.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I began to survey the landing area again, an excuse to break away from his penetrative gaze. ‘I’ve already taken a look up here,’ I said, ‘except for this room.’ I gripped the handle of the door in the middle of the central area of masonry. I found it to be locked. ‘What’s behind here?’

  ‘That’s out of bounds, I’m afraid. It leads to the tower, where I do all my work. It’s my only private space here, so please respect that.’ He had taken on a serious tone and an expression to match.

  I promptly nodded.

  The galleried landing had steps leading down from both sides. These converged at a half landing, where a grander staircase swept down to the hallway. As we descended, I gazed up at the glass dome overhead, the ornate plasterwork etched in gold leaf, and the various paintings adorning the walls. I noticed one picture was a portrait of Dylan himself, dressed in Victorian attire and crouched, quill in hand, over a writing desk.

  Dylan strode around his residence with an air of confidence and beaming pride, pointing out the finer architectural details as he went. He took delight in my awe of the building and my attention to his every word. His intense eyes, his brooding looks and the timbre of his husky voice created a magnetism which held me spellbound.

  After the tour of the house, he led me around the beautifully landscaped gardens. Mountaintops, shrouded in wispy clouds, could be glimpsed above the green of the forest. A mature deciduous woodland surrounded the edges of the new plantation. The view of lake and mountain must have been spectacular before the conifers had been planted.

  Dylan left me to wander around the grounds whilst he began the task of cutting up the tree. After several hours I was bored and decided to find out how he was getting on. As I approached, I could hear a chain saw. Dylan was dressed in goggles and protective gloves, his torso caked in wood chippings. He shut off the chain saw and started stacking logs.

  He hadn’t seen me, so I weaved around the fallen trunk, and stood on the opposite embankment from the one we’d fallen down the night before. This was a much shorter slope, ending with a wide expanse of lawn that swept across to the perimeter wall.

  I realized now the tree had come down because of the wind and the waterlogged nature of the ground, rather than a lightning strike. If Grimshaw Lodge had been built in the 1840s as Dylan had said, then these trees must have been planted around the same time. I was saddened for the uprooted tree nearly as much as for my poor Fiat. Rooks squawked from their nests high up in the branches overhead, sounding as disturbed as I felt.

  I grabbed one of the fallen tree’s roots and leant against my arm, watching a family of rabbits in the distance. Everything was so quiet, save for the occasional sounds of nature. I’d been an urban girl for so long I’d forgotten how peaceful the countryside of my upbringing could be.

  Then the chain saw started up again. As I spun around towards Dylan, I happened to look down into the hole left by the tree where there were signs of old burrows under the roots. Something glinted in the mud. Intrigued, I bent down and disturbed the dirt with my fingers. I gripped the metal object and pulled, astonished that a gold chain rose from the ground in my hand. I dug more, and a medallion was revealed. I rubbed at the grime and saw it was a strange object. Something dark lay in the middle, encrusted with dirt, with a gold disc around the outside. I stood up and the object caught the sunlight.

  The next thing I heard was the chain saw approaching, inches from my head! I ducked and felt the juddering blades burying themselves into the trunk above me.

  Dylan had been coming towards me, trance-like, transfixed by the medallion.

  I quivered in the hole, too shocked to move.

  Finally he came to his senses, dropping the chain saw and backing away. ‘Jesus! What’re you doing! I could’ve killed you.’

  For a brief moment, I’d been sure that had been his intention!

  He snatched the medallion out of my hand. ‘What’ve you got there?’ he questioned, brushing his hand over its surface. His eyes widened, but he said nothing more and handed it back. He picked up the chain saw again and returned to work.

  I walked back up the driveway, my adrenaline still pumping, wanting space to recover. I stood against the parapet of the bridge, breathing hard, before moving on again. As I came through the inner gatehouse, my mood calmed further because the Lodge appeared before me in all its splendour: the mock battlements around the top of the walls; the Gothic arch windows and occasional fake arrow slits; the side turrets on each of the four corners marking the location of the bedrooms; and the dominant central tower, rising three storeys above the roof of the main building.

  I found Yasuko in the kitchen. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor vigorously with a stiff-bristled brush. She rose to her feet when she realized I was there, picking up a pail of dirty water and emptying it into the sink. There was an assortment of cleaning fluids on the draining board and the work surfaces were sparkling.

  She looked upset at being distracted from her chores, but when I showed her my discovery she set to work eagerly in cleaning the item. When she handed it back, it was gleaming, as if it had never been buried. The centre was a black stone, carved in the image of a goat’s head and around the edge of the gold disc was a series of weird geometric symbols.

  Dylan drove back into the courtyard. Yasuko had gone into the dining hall to polish the long oak table, but he sent her off to
prepare some sandwiches. Then he led me out through the French doors to the ramparted terrace, which had stunning views of the main garden.

  We sat down at a table, shading ourselves beneath the canopy of its large umbrella. Yasuko soon returned with some food and drink, then stood back as if waiting for further instructions. Dylan obliged, sending her off. I watched her as she returned to her cleaning of the dining hall.

  ‘You work her too hard, Dylan.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about Yasuko Yakamoto – there’s poetry in that name, eh? – she’s a tough character. Runs in the blood. Her father was an American marine; and her maternal grandfather a kamikaze pilot in the Second World War….And I don’t make her clean like that, she chooses to.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Helps having an obsessive compulsive around, though, don’t you think? Drives you mad after a while, but you get a really clean house!’ He chuckled.

  ‘You’re wicked, Dylan!’

  He started to tuck into his sandwiches and I showed him the medallion again.

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Definitely old. Looks Masonic to me. Perhaps we can take it to the local museum. If it’s valuable we can share the profits.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly do that.’

  He smiled in that seductive way of his again. ‘And listen, I’m sorry I startled you earlier.’

  I nodded.

  After a while he said: ‘I reckon I should get most of the drive clear by tonight. If I carry on at the same rate, you should be able to make your escape by tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You look surprised. Don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that exactly.’ Although it was: now I knew his intentions, I would have to formulate a new plan of action. And fast.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Well, it’s going to be difficult without a car.’

  ‘Oh, right. Don’t worry. I own a classic car workshop and museum down near Keswick. Once the tree’s gone, we can transport your Fiat there. I can lend you one of my cars, so you can get to where you wanna go. Don’t want you feeling like I’ve trapped you here.’

  ‘OK. You’re very kind – too kind.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got some guests coming tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, then.’ I sat back and drank some iced water, smiling on the outside but cursing on the inside.

  We finished our lunch in silence.

  Later, I decided to help him to chop up some of the smaller logs into fireplace-sized pieces, reassured that the chain saw was no longer in use.

  ‘No, like this,’ he said, standing the log back onto the larger circular slice of trunk he had rolled onto the lawn. He raised the axe above his head and brought it down with a crisp thud, shattering the wood into two even pieces.

  He made me try again, but I caught the edge, shaving off only a splinter and sending the rest of the log ricocheting into Dylan’s legs. He took a step back, clutching his shin.

  ‘Sorry, you OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, rubbing the bruise with one hand and replacing the log with the other. Then he came round behind me and looped his arms under my own and grasped his hands over mine on the shaft of the axe. We lifted it together and he helped me to guide the blade, which embedded itself in the centre of the log.

  ‘That’s it, you’re getting there slowly,’ he said. Then he swung the axe up again with the log still attached and brought it down with a bang, splitting the log in half.

  He praised me again, ramming the axe into the slice of trunk. But I was lost in the closeness of our bodies and the beat of his heart against my back. Then he withdrew his hands and gathered up my long hair, giving the strands a twist, before placing the makeshift plait inside my T-shirt. ‘That’s better. You’ll be able to see properly now.’

  The touch of his fingers – and now his breath – against my neck, began to arouse me. I knew I wanted him. But he broke away from me and the moment was quickly lost. I resigned myself to continuing with the task in hand.

  After another few hours, most of the bigger branches had been sawn into smaller chunks and Dylan could use the winch on the front of the Land Rover to drag the segments free from the driveway. Finally, all that remained was the bulk of the main trunk, cut into two halves. Now we could see how the Fiat had been crushed from the roof to the sills, right across the front seats. I’d have had no chance of survival if I’d remained inside. This confirmation of my lucky escape made me shudder.

  Dylan could see my distress. He came over and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Look, why don’t you knock it on the head. I can finish up here. Yasuko won’t want to be disturbed, but there’s a TV in the lounge.’

  I turned and gave him a proper hug, whispering my thanks in his ear. Then I headed off towards the main building.

  After a quick wash, I sat down in the lounge. I watched the television for an hour, becoming bored by the mediocrity of daytime broadcasting. I yawned, turning off the set.

  I went into the library instead, discovering ornate bookshelves from floor to ceiling, except where mullioned arch windows brought in much-needed sunlight.

  Dylan had an impressive collection of books. Many were leather-bound and antiquarian; some were important first editions; others were humble paperbacks.

  One shelf unit even turned out to be a clever wooden facade, carved and painted to look like real books; created merely to impress or give balance to the room, I supposed.

  History, philosophy and psychology were well represented. I flicked through a number of volumes, most of which had been heavily annotated; Dylan was an intellectual, then, not simply displaying books for show.

  Yet my attention was drawn to the array of novels. All the classics were here, along with contemporary titles. I was about to pick out The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, when my eyes fell upon five books by Dylan Quest.

  I pulled out the one entitled Friends and Lovers and looked at the photograph of the author on the back cover. And there he was, looking younger and with shorter hair, but still Dylan: “a contemporary literary giant”, if you were to believe the publisher’s blurb.

  I turned to the first page and began to read. Soon I became lost in the powerful story, full of symbolism and allegory.

  I was a quarter of the way through the engrossing novel when Dylan caught up with me again, his hair still wet from a recent bath or shower.

  He looked at me, then down at the book I was holding in my hand. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were Dylan Quest, the novelist? You must’ve known I had no idea.’ I tried to make my astonishment as plausible as I could.

  ‘It’s precisely because I knew you hadn’t a clue that so attracted me in the first place. Naturally, circumstances dictated I had to offer you shelter. But I’ve had too much attention from women lured to me for all the wrong motives.’

  ‘Is this book based on reality?’

  ‘It’s not autobiographical, if that’s what you mean. Of course, every writer draws on his or her own observations and experiences.’ He sat down next to me, putting his arm around me. ‘What do you think of the novel, anyway? – out of interest.’

  ‘It’s good Dylan, very good. So far, at least.’

  This undoubtedly pleased him.

  ‘One thing I did find curious. I notice this novel and the other four are all dedicated to “Seraphina”. Who’s she?’

  I watched Dylan’s face crumple. He slouched back on the sofa, raising his head to the ceiling.

  ‘Sera was my wife. We were married when I was only sixteen.’

  ‘Where’s she now? Are you hinting it didn’t work out because you were too young?’

  Dylan remained silent for what seemed like hours.

  ‘She….’ he croaked, then coughed, trying to force out the words.

  I waited patiently.

  ‘She died shortly after we were married….S
eventeen years ago. In fact, almost to the day!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dylan, I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s been a part of my life the papers and my readership have never known about.’

  ‘How….?’

  ‘Car crash,’ he interrupted.

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that.

  But he was vulnerable. I hugged him tightly and he merged into me. We stayed like this for some minutes. It was difficult to know when my containing gesture began to bring out the sexual undercurrents which had been building between us over the course of the day. But I knew I had to seize my chance. Overcoming my initial shyness, I touched his face with my hand and drew his lips to mine.

  This broke his trance-like despair for his dead wife and he began to respond by directing his own affections towards me.

  Before too long he was leading me upstairs to bed. And I was left confused, no longer certain whether I was really seducing him, or whether he was actually seducing me.

  - III -

  I AWOKE THE next morning, still burnt out from Dylan’s sexual desires, my petite body swallowed up in his tight embrace. I hadn’t quite expected this. John had, no doubt; that’s why he had sent me. I could picture him sitting in the shadows behind his desk, clouded in cigarette smoke, smiling. He had thought my “beauty” would lure him. And he was well aware that I’d spent the last year without anyone, with only my cat – since deceased – to ward off the loneliness of my Battersea flat. And all of the teenage John’s adequacies – and the five lovers I’d had since then – had been shown up by Dylan’s originality.

  Dylan stirred and kissed the back of my neck. I turned around to face him and our lips met.

  ‘Last night was good,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ll be here a little longer than expected.’

  ‘Must be fate,’ I replied. My plan had worked and I had found sexual fulfilment for the first time in years. But I had compromised my objectivity. I knew now it would be a battle to resist becoming too emotionally involved.