Westgate Manor

Prologue (story on hold)

Guildford, Southeast England

-1810

            12:30 a.m.

            The night was still, quiet, and peaceful at Westgate Manor. A slight breeze caused the leaves on the trees to dance and rustle in the night, and the insects around the place took part in the grand orchestra of nature. All of that came to an abrupt halt, however, when a group of men galloped at neck-breaking speed towards the place that seemed to be so encompassed in peace. The crowd of men reared their sweat-glistened horses to a sudden halt before the great stone building. The torches they carried illuminated the anger etched into their features and the crazed obsession in their eyes.

            “This is th’ place?” one man gruffly questioned, straightening his prancing horse’s reins with one thickly muscled arm, and lifting his torch up a bit higher as he surveyed the great building.

            “Aye, this is it,” their leader grimly answered, before dismounting and motioning for the other men to follow his lead.

                                                                                 oOo

The sound of horses hooves on the cobblestone below, combined with their frantic neighing, caused six-year old Abigail to stir in her bed. She tossed and turned endlessly, causing her legs to become entangled in her nightgown, before the noise and the fabric twisting around her legs finally slashed her dreams to bits. She sat up in the bed, looking towards her window. An orange glow lit the windowpane and came through to cast a soft glow on the floorboards and trunk near her windowsill. Soon thereafter, pounding on the main door below stairs and angry yells reached her ears.

            Curious, she crawled on hands and knees to the edge of her bed, intent on discovering who their visitors could be. A large hand suddenly grabbed her arm, and she screamed instantly. The hand slapped over her mouth, and turned her face so that she could see who had intruded upon her.

            “Shh! Abby, we must go and quickly. Put yer’ shoes on.”

            The deep-baritone voice instantly soothed her, but inner peace proved to be short-lived when the panic in the voice finally sank through. Abigail’s eyes widened in fright, “but why papa? We only just moved here. Where are we going?”

            Gregory Greenwood ran a hand through his strawberry-blonde hair, before leaving his crouched position at her bedside to stand at his full height of six-foot two.

“Just do it, love.” A candle was grasped firmly in his right hand, illuminating the room. He watched as Abigail got on her tummy and retrieved one shoe from under the bed, before looking around in confusion for the other. Gregory’s eyes fell upon her doll; situated atop her trunk. After taking the small slipper off of the doll’s tiny foot, he handed it to her, and once she had shoes on, grasped her hand, tugging her out of the room.

“Papa-“

 “No time for questions, come!”

            Sleep dulled her senses, and she tripped and stumbled in her father’s haste to get her out of the room.

            More pounding sounded on the door below. “Gregory! Open up. Yer’ surrounded!”

            “Who is at the door, papa?”