Taylor The House of the Wizard

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-267-7
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

The House of the Wizard is a young adult fantasy novel written by Mary Imlay Taylor. The story follows a young girl named Leslie, who moves into a mysterious old mansion with her family. As soon as Leslie moves into the mansion, she begins to experience strange and supernatural events. She discovers that the mansion is owned by a powerful wizard named Sarastro, who has been dead for many years but has left behind a magical legacy that still lingers in the house. Leslie soon finds herself drawn into a world of magic and adventure as she learns more about the wizard's legacy and the secrets that the mansion holds. She discovers hidden rooms, magical artifacts, and even encounters the ghost of Sarastro himself. As Leslie becomes more immersed in the world of magic, she also finds herself facing dangers and challenges. She must protect the mansion and its magical artifacts from a group of evil sorcerers who seek to use them for their own nefarious purposes. The House of the Wizard is a thrilling and engaging fantasy novel that captures the wonder and excitement of discovering a magical world. Taylor's descriptions of the mansion and its secrets are vivid and imaginative, and the story is full of action, adventure, and suspense. The novel is sure to appeal to fans of Harry Potter and other popular fantasy series.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Taylor, Mary Imlay

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
THE CAREWS OF DEVON
In the days of King Henry VIII., between Honiton and Exeter, at Luppit, stood Mohun’s Ottery, the great house of the Carews of Devon. Built like a fortress, it was too strong to be reduced, save by cannon, and its walls had sheltered for many years a race of gallant gentlemen, while its gates were ever open with a generous hospitality that welcomed both the rich and the poor. Its furnishings and tapestries were so magnificent that it was commonly reported that they would grace the king’s palace at Greenwich and not suffer by contrast with any royal trappings. The Carews were famous, both at home and abroad, and had been since the first Carru came over with the Norman Conqueror. There was never a quarrel on English soil, or for the English cause, that a Carew was not in the forefront of the battle. One had been Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, one a captain of Harfleur for King Henry V., and another fought for Henry VII. A proud and valiant race, claiming kindred with the Geraldines, loyal and courteous to their friends and ready with sword and dagger for England’s foes and their own. Sir William Carew, the head of the Devon branch of the family, held noble sway at Mohun’s Ottery, and day by day a hundred poor and more were fed by his open hand, for in those times there was no niggardly charity, although the king’s laws spared not the valiant beggar. Every gentleman’s house was in itself a tavern, and men of all conditions came unbidden to the board, finding, too, a night’s lodging, even though it might be but a bed of straw upon the stone floor of the hall. The food was neither scanty nor of mean order; cooks who fed a hundred or so at one meal were accustomed to serving in a day beef, mutton, venison, pigs, geese, plovers, curlews, besides pike, bream, and porpoise, and of ale and wine there was no lack. A plentiful, free feast that drew a multitude of pensioners; the odors that floated from the kitchens, even on a fast day, brought a retinue of visitors to the doors, and after meal time the sounds of revelry told their own story, giving ample proof that there were no empty stomachs. It was Shrove Tuesday in the year 1535, and the midday dinner was over at Mohun’s Ottery, as great a company as usual having been entertained. Upon the doorstep stood Sir William Carew and his guest, Master Raleigh, the father of Sir Walter, who was then unborn. These two worthies were engaged in deep and grave converse upon public matters, for the Act of the Supremacy had been followed by the Treason Act, and Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher were in the Tower, having refused to take the oath without conditions. So there was no lack of matter for discussion, and the faces of these two were neither unruffled nor jolly, though they had so lately dined. However, their conversation was doomed to a sharp interruption. A horse and rider came suddenly in sight upon the high-road, advancing at so mad a gait that both men paused in their talk to watch the approach. A great bay horse, flecked with foam and with blood upon his flank, showing a cruel spur, and on his back a large and handsome man, gayly dressed, his velvet cloak embroidered with gold and his hat beplumed, but reeling in his saddle, keeping his seat, as it seemed, only by a miracle. “It is Sir Thomas,” Raleigh remarked, after a second glance at the red face of the rider. “Ay,” retorted Carew, bitterly, “my worthy brother and, as usual, in his cups. A naughty rogue it is, and like to be a disgrace to his blood.” As he spoke, he fixed a scornful gaze upon the drunken man who was now coming to the door, trying, too, to sit straight in the saddle, as if he knew that his brother’s disapproving eyes were on him. A little way from the entrance stood a large stone horse-block, from which the women of the household mounted, and toward this Sir Thomas Carew urged his horse. “He has been gaming at Exeter,” Sir William remarked coldly; “he is ever thus after he has been brawling and drinking in a public house. I have not seen him for a twelvemonth, and I doubt not that he comes to borrow a hundred pounds; such is like to be his case. ’Pon my soul, a meritorious beggar!” The words were scarcely spoken ere Sir Thomas struck his spur again into his horse’s bleeding flank. The great brute plunged, swerving madly to one side; his tipsy rider, reeling from the saddle, fell headlong upon the stone block, rolled over and lay in a hideous heap at his brother’s feet. The horse turning about as suddenly, trampled him under foot and rushed back toward the stables, clearing a wide path in the crowd of spectators who had come out to view the accident. Sir William and Raleigh both hastened to the fallen man, but something in the limpness of his figure told its own story. He lay face downward, and they turned him over to find a lump of mangled flesh, his neck being broken just below the skull, and his drink-blurred eyes stared into space. “Stone dead,” Carew said sternly; “cut off in his sins. God pity him, for he is like enough to be damned!” “Here is a sad end,” rejoined Raleigh, looking gravely at the dead man; “a gallant gentleman brought into such a case by evil communications. Lend a hand, good fellow, and we will carry in this body,” he added, addressing the nearest bystander, for the curious crowd had gathered in a constantly narrowing circle around the central figures. “Let be, Raleigh,” Sir William interposed coldly; “these grooms shall take him up; he deserved less for the dishonor he has brought upon his name.” With the same proud indignation, unforgiving even to the dead, he directed the removal of the corpse, and then he and Raleigh followed it into the house. Without, all tongues were loosed at their departure and gossip flowed on every hand, and there was food enough for it in such a life and such a death as this. “I told Sir Tom ’twould be so!” one of the spectators said, with the air of a man who felt justified; “that brute was like to end some man’s life, and who but a Carew would back him in the state of liquor that yonder poor gentleman was?” “That horse? Why, man, he held him above all else he had,” cried another; “he valued the beast above his daughter.” “Like enough,” was the reply; “certain it is that he valued him above his wife, poor lady!” “She has been dead these many years, I take it,” said a third; for, after the fashion of all such leeches, they were eager to discuss the affairs of the family whose substance they devoured. “Ay, dead enough, good luck to her!” rejoined the first speaker. “They do say Sir Thomas wagered her at dice the very night on which his daughter was born, and lost his bet, too; but his opponent levied not the debt, and the poor lady, dying not many years thereafter, perchance never knew it. Howbeit, it is certain that had she known it, she could not have hated him more heartily than she did.” “That’s true enough, my masters,” said an ancient crone. “I knew her woman, and a sorry death the poor thing made. Even at that hour her husband was as tipsy as he was but now, and came into her chamber blubbering, as a sot will sometimes, and with great oaths, that he would guard her child. My lady heeded not his voice, but cried out to her tirewoman that the end was near, and she thanked the dear God for it, and to let her go in peace! She looked but once at her little daughter and then fell to weeping and blessing her, saying that the queen would care for this lamb, and so turned her white face to the wall and died.” “The queen,—did she commend her baby to the queen?” they all exclaimed. “Ay, ay,” the old woman answered, “to the queen’s grace; there was but one queen then, but now there is the old queen and Queen Nan Bullen, and God wot how many queens there be!” “Hold thy tongue, mistress!” cried one; “thou wilt be up by the Treason Act, and hang at Tyburn, if thou hast so foul a tongue!” “Belike I shall, and all of ye,” the old creature laughed shrilly; “but it would not profit much to twist my shrivelled neck, there be fairer ones that would furnish a better entertainment.” “Where is Carew’s child?” cried one whose thirst for knowledge was not yet slaked. “Hidden somewhere in that old nest of his,” returned one of the gossips; “a sad life she’s had of it and is like to be in a worse case yet. Sir Thomas never did her a good turn until this day; the worst he did was to father her. An ill-favored wench, too, when last I saw her, thin and yellow and with a cold way that made no friends.” “Then ye have not seen her lately,” the old woman said with a chuckle; “she has shot up like a young sapling, and has eyes like two stars, and a smile that will turn many a young fool’s head, albeit her purse is empty and her kirtle patched.” “Poor wench, poor Mistress Betty, my heart doth ache for her,” a kinder woman said, shaking her head. Strangely enough, at that same moment Mistress Betty Carew was spoken of within the house by Sir William and his wife. He turned from his brother’s corpse, a certain stern relenting in his face, and said to Lady Carew, “There is the child.” “Ay, we must have her here, William,” his wife replied at once; “you may not leave your own blood in so poor a strait as he is like to have left the maid.” Sir William mused. “How old is she?” he asked. “Seventeen, come Michaelmas,” Lady Carew replied, watchful of her husband’s face, her own...