Tom's Inheritance Read online

  Tom's Inheritance

  Published by Mountolive Publishing

  Copyright 2016 TJ Green

  2nd Edition published 2017

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-473-38680-1

  For Jason

  “Or how should England dreaming of his sons

  Hope more for these than some inheritance

  Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine”

  – Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–92)

  Idylls of the King

  Titles available in Tom’s Arthurian Legacy Series

  Excalibur Rises - Short Story Prequel

  Tom’s Inheritance

  Twice Born

  Galatine’s Curse

  Tom’s Arthurian Legacy Box Set

  Invite from the author -

  If you’d like to read more about Tom, you can get two free short stories, Excalibur Rises and Jack’s Encounter, by subscribing to my newsletter.

  By staying on my mailing list you’ll receive free excerpts of my new books, as well as short stories, news of giveaways, and a chance to join my launch team. I’ll also be sharing information about other books in this genre you might enjoy.

  Details can be found at the end of Tom’s Inheritance.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. The Visitors

  2. A Sign

  3. Into the Other

  4. The Eye

  5. The Cavern of the Four Portals

  6. In the Greenwood

  7. Beneath the Hill

  8. Starfall

  9. Vanishing Hall

  10. Old Tales

  11. The Hidden Isle

  12. The Lakeside

  13. Arthur's Icy Tomb

  14. Waiting and Watching

  15. Strange Alliances

  16. Aeriken Forest

  17. The Rotten Heart

  18. The Old Enemy

  19. Legacies and Choices

  Excerpt Twice Born - Exile

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  One evening towards the end of summer, Jack strolled down the path to the bottom of his garden, pushing through the thick vegetation that crowded on either side. The air was thick with pollen and heat, and bees buzzed drunkenly around him. He rested his elbows on the gate and leant his weight against it, feeling his pruning clippers push into his hip. He lit his pipe, narrowing his eyes against the smoke, which he blew around him in an effort to drive off the midges that now appeared in the twilight.

  Beyond the gate a stream trickled by, and here the air was cooler. It smelt earthy and damp; he could feel its sharpness on the back of his throat.

  Jack’s knees and lower back ached. He’d spent too long in the garden and he was too old to cope with it as he used to. He rubbed his cheek and felt the stubble. He could almost feel the grey in it, as if it were coarser than in his youth.

  The silence was disturbed only by the stream, and the wind easing through the trees. He breathed deeply, savouring the cool and the smoke. Shadows slanting through the trees cast the banks into deep shadow, so that he could no longer distinguish between the trees, the banks, the rocks or the stream.

  He started singing an old folk tune, and as he did, saw something stir at the foot of the gnarled yew tree across the stream. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? It looked as if a figure was moving, as if someone was stirring from a long deep sleep. Maybe what looked like long limbs were in fact tree roots thrown into relief by the shadows, and what looked like a face was a knot in the trunk. But then the figure moved again, and legs and arms became distinct. With a jolt, he realised he was looking into two unblinking eyes, fixed upon him with an unexpected intensity.

  Jack’s singing faltered and he blinked rapidly, several times. The figure moved its head as if it were a snake, its eyes glittering, before blinking languorously. It rose in one swift movement and became a man. No, not a man, but something that looked like a man; tall and slim with the grace of wind through tall grass, or water over stones. He was dressed in shades of green and a long cloak fell from his shoulders, almost to his feet, shimmering like a low mist.

  And Jack knew what it must be, and that all the stories from his childhood were true.

  1 The Visitors

  A flicker of movement in the wood caught Tom’s attention. Normally he would take no notice; people often walked in the wood. But this time something was different. The dark shapes flitting around the trees seemed to be hiding, and for the briefest of seconds he saw a tall figure stepping back between the trees before it vanished.

  He stood in his grandfather’s kitchen, looking through the broad window that framed the garden, down to the wood beyond. What if this strange activity in the wood was to do with Granddad?

  More than a year ago, when Tom was fourteen, his grandfather, Jack, had mysteriously disappeared. He’d walked out of his house one evening and never came back. There was no sign of a struggle, only a note left for the family, explaining that he was going on trip with a new friend and that he would send a “sign” that he was all right.

  Impatient after months of waiting, Tom grabbed his jacket and headed into the garden. He jogged down the path, through the gate and across the stream, cursing under his breath as he plunged into an icy pool. He thrust onwards, pushing aside the overhanging branches of a yew before pausing to look around.

  The wood was still and silent. Tom edged forward, peering behind tree trunks and up into the bare branches high overhead. A prickle of unease travelled up his spine and he spun around, convinced he was being watched. Frustrated, he yelled, “Who’s there? I know someone’s there. I saw you!”

  The wood remained silent, frozen in watchfulness, and he stepped back nervously, a branch cracking loudly beneath his feet like a gunshot.

  Swallowing his fear he shouted again. “I know you can hear me! Come out!”

  His prickle of unease grew stronger, and feeling suddenly alone and defenceless, he became sharply aware of the biting cold and his freezing feet. Time to go. Unwilling to turn his back on whatever was out there, he walked slowly backwards, scanning left and right until he reached the stream.

  Someone or something was out there; he knew it, but there was nothing more he could do. Reluctantly, he returned to the cottage.

  The heating was turned up high, but the kitchen still felt cold. Tom sank into the comfortable overstuffed armchair next to the big stone fireplace and pulled off his boots and socks, placing them on the hearth. He lit the fire, and as the flames caught and raced along the wood, he stood warming himself, absentmindedly running his hands through his dark blond hair. Although the prickle along his spine had gone, the after-effects remained and he felt strangely unsettled, as if his privacy had been invaded.

  Tom glanced around the kitchen, reassuring himself with its solid familiarity. A few months ago, he and his father had moved into the cottage, which had stood empty since Granddad’s disappearance. A terrible fight between his parents had prompted the move. Dad had walked out, saying he was going to “look after” the cottage. Tom had come with him, while his little sister had stayed with Mum. But the house felt different without Granddad in it, and Tom missed him. Dad was distracted and working long hours, and every now and again there were more arguments between his parents over the phone.

  Tom’s gaze drifted to one end of the mantelpiece, to a blue stripy bowl filled with old keys, nails and screws. Beneath it was Granddad’s last letter. He picked it up and read it again, musing that he had never known Granddad go on a trip – he’d always been here at the cottage, tending his garden and smoking his pipe. But Dad said he used to travel a lot when he was younger. Maybe he’d got bored and wanted a change.

  As he
stood reading and warming his feet, he heard the front door open and a voice called out, “Hiya, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  The door pushed open and a small slim girl came in, strawberry blond hair swinging behind her. It was his fourteen-year-old cousin, Rebecca, also known as Beansprout on account of her lean and lanky frame. “What you up to?”

  “Not much, just looking at Granddad’s letter again. What you up to?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mum’s driving me mad, fussing about food and stuff for Christmas. I’m heading to the shop to pick up some extras and thought I’d drop in.” She noticed his wet boots. “Where have you been?”

  He paused, wondering how much to say, then grinned. “Hunting!”

  She frowned, “Hunting what?”

  “Watchers in the woods.”

  “Have you gone mad? What are you on about?” She moved to the window and looked out. “There’s no-one there.”

  He joined her, still carrying his granddad’s letter. “But there was. Someone was over there, watching this house.”

  She noticed the letter in Tom’s hand. “Why are you reading Granddad’s letter again? Do you know where he’s gone?”

  Tom sighed. “No, I’ve told you before. I have no idea.”

  “So why are you looking at his letter again?”

  “Because I think that whoever’s watching, knows something about Granddad.”

  “That seems a bit of a leap Tom!” she said, looking doubtful. “Did you find anyone?”

  “No.” He gazed out of the window, desperately hoping he’d see something again. “But I swear someone was there, watching me. I could feel it.”

  Suddenly excited she said, “Let’s go again. Two of us may have more luck.”

  Tom shook his head. “What’s the point? What would we say? ‘Have you kidnapped my granddad?’ They’d laugh at us.”

  “But if we find them, we can follow them and see where they go.”

  “Now who’s being mad? We’d be spotted!”

  She grabbed the letter off him, “Maybe they’re here to leave the sign!”

  Beansprout’s excitement was catching and he grinned. “Maybe. We might solve the mystery!”

  Beansprout leaned against the counter and looked around the kitchen. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Why would he just leave and not tell us where he was going?”

  “OK,” he said, “it’s too late today, but we’ll go out there again tomorrow and have another look. We’ll go a bit further, maybe up to the folly, see if we can see anything. If you want to come?”

  “Of course I want to come. Anything to get out of Christmas prep,” she said with a huff. “I’ll bring food too. What time?”

  “About nine?” Tom thought the earlier they went, the more time they’d have. Dad would be at work, so no one would worry about where they were.

  “Great, I’ll be here. Anyway I better get on. Need anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said, with a shrug. “See you tomorrow. And don’t be late.”

  2 A Sign

  The next morning was bright and clear, and Tom woke early, jolting out of an unsatisfactory night’s sleep. Ever since Granddad had disappeared he’d been having strange dreams about a woman with long white hair. She whispered his name to him. “Tom,” she called, “it is time.” But she never said anything else, and when he tried to answer she would fade away and the dream would evaporate.

  Sometimes other images would come. He would see water, and the glint of something shining deep down beneath the shifting waves where he couldn’t see it clearly. Sometimes he saw a bright blaze of firelight, and heard a low murmured chanting that became louder and louder until it roared in his ears before receding like a tide. And sometimes when he woke up, it felt like someone had punched him on the birthmark at the top of his arm.

  Shrugging off the dreams which he had long since decided to ignore, he lay in bed, looking forward to the day that stretched before him, wondering what it might hold. He had no idea what he might find, or even what to look for, but it would be good to have company. He’d already packed his backpack with spare socks, a jumper and bottles of water, and the sandwiches he’d made the night before were in the fridge.

  He jumped out of bed and went to look at an old map on the bedroom wall. It showed the surrounding land as it had been over a hundred years ago. The cottages along the stream, including Granddad’s, were marked, but the fields and farmland behind them were now covered in houses. The large woods across the narrow stream remained unchanged and were still surrounded by fields, and just visible at the top edge of the map was the small village of Downtree, also virtually unchanged since the map had been made.

  Marked on the map, in the centre of the wood, was the strange, tumbledown stone tower that he and Beansprout would walk to today. Mishap Folly had been built more than a hundred years ago by the owner of the manor house. It was so-called because of the series of unfortunate events that had overtaken the owner: the manor had been damaged by fire, crops had failed, and the owner’s son had died after been thrown from a horse. Then the owner himself had disappeared and was never seen again.

  The tower had stood empty over the years, beginning to crumble as the woods encroached on all sides.

  Tom estimated it would take an hour or so to walk there. It was probably unlikely that Granddad had passed that way, but it had always annoyed Tom that so far, no one had checked it out.

  He dragged on his jeans, pulled on a T-shirt and jumper, and ran down the stairs. After putting some bread in the toaster he opened the back door and took a deep breath as the cold crisp air came flooding in. As he stepped outside he noticed an odd-shaped package on the doorstep. How had that got there?

  He grabbed the parcel as if it might suddenly disappear, and turned back into the kitchen to examine it. The outer wrapping was a lightweight piece of bark, and as he lifted the edges a gauzy material shimmered beneath it. He unfolded it to find his grandfather’s watch and a note. Tom gasped. Who had brought this?

  Behind him the toaster popped loudly and in shock he dropped everything onto the table. Cross with himself for being so jumpy, he frowned at the toaster as he pulled the note from under the watch. It was Granddad’s writing.

  Sorry for the delay, but I’ve been very busy!

  I’ve sent you my watch as it doesn’t really work here, but I wanted you to know that I’m all right.

  I probably won’t be coming home so I hope someone’s looking after the house and garden.

  I miss you all, but I know you’ll be fine.

  Don’t try to find me!

  Love, Granddad xxx

  Tom felt hugely relieved to know Granddad was fine. And then he felt really cross. What did he mean, “Don’t try to find me”? How ridiculous. Where on Earth was he?

  The letter was written on thick parchment-like paper. He wondered if there was some sort of secret message in it, but after reading the note several times, was sure there wasn’t.

  He kicked the table in frustration and buttered his now cold toast. Beansprout had better be on time. Whoever had delivered the note might still be around, and Tom intended to find them.

  Beansprout was as mystified as Tom. She propped her bulging backpack against the table and examined the package while Tom finished his breakfast.

  “Who brings a watch wrapped in bark, Tom? That’s just odd. Perhaps he’s run out of money and is living off the land, like Robinson Crusoe?”

  “And his Man Friday has brought us a present? I doubt it. Besides, he said he doesn’t need his watch where he is, so he must be somewhere else!”

  “Where else? That doesn’t make sense either.”

  “None of this makes sense Beansprout!”

  Beansprout glared at him, but changed the subject. “So are we going to leave your dad a message?”

  “What did you tell your mum?”

  “Just that we’re going out for the day and I’d see her this evening.”<
br />
  “Cool, I’ll do the same.”

  He scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table, then put the contents of the package in his backpack.

  The wood was a tangled mass of bare tree limbs, its floor carpeted in dead leaves. Branches sprang at them, catching their hair and scratching their faces. They slipped and slid on the damp ground, stubbing their toes against roots that lay hidden under layers of slimy leaves.

  Spooked by the stillness around them, which seemed to mock their attempts at conversation, they fell silent; the only sound was their ragged breathing and the occasional crack of a twig.

  It wasn’t until he spotted the roof of the folly through the trees that Tom broke the silence. “I can see it, we’re nearly there!”

  They emerged into a clearing. The round tower loomed above them, its stone walls cracked and crumbling, its roof jagged. The ground was littered with broken stones. Moss had spread like patchwork, and ivy snaked up the walls until there was barely an inch of grey stone to see.

  “Wow!” said Beansprout, “I didn’t know it was so big!”

  “You check the inside and I’ll look round the back,” Tom said. “Be careful!” he added as he tripped over a snaking branch of ivy.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he heard her mutter as she made her way to the entrance. “I’m not a child!”

  Tom reached the far side of the tower. He peered around him at the trees, the tower, and the debris on the floor, and all at once felt stupid. What was he thinking? That he could find Granddad, or the person who had brought the package? He huffed, and thumped back against the wall before sliding to the floor, his backpack squashed behind him.

  Without a whisper of noise, a tall figure emerged from the wood and walked towards him, stopping a few feet away. It was a young man, just a few years older than Tom, with long dark hair and pale skin. There was something different about him that Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wore a loose pale-grey shirt and black cotton trousers tucked into leather boots. A long, thick, grey cloak hung from his shoulders, almost reaching the ground. But what was unnerving was the sword at his side, and the longbow and arrows visible over his shoulder.