The wind howled and the rain lashed down. Hilary slept fitfully, and awoke to find herself sitting bolt upright in bed.

The chamber looked ominous in the moonlight. Some of the furniture was still shrouded, and under its white dust sheets it looked like misshapen ghosts. Even worse, she thought she could hear pattering footsteps outside her door, but it was no more than the sound of the rain pattering against the window. Breathing a sigh of relief she lay down again and fell into another fitful slumber, only to be disturbed by an even worse dream. This time she awoke with the conviction that she could hear a pitiful moaning. As she clutched the covers up to her chin she was convinced that she could still hear it . . . until she realized that it was nothing more frightening than the sound of the wind howling in the chimney.

She was just about to lie down again when she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Once again she was convinced she could hear footsteps in the corridor outside . . . and this time she was n't asleep.

She froze.

They must be Lund's footsteps as he busied himself about some household task, she told herself bracingly.

But what would Lund be doing out of bed at this time of night?

Summoning her courage she threw back the covers and slipped out of bed. She padded over to the fire, and from the glowing embers she lit a candle. Then she crossed to the door and opened it a crack. Peering out, to her astonishment she saw Lord Carisbrooke, dressed in nothing more than shirt and breeches. He was clutching his arm . . . and it was seeping blood.

Extract from Carisbrooke Abbey by Amanda Grange, published by Thorpe, part of the Ulverscroft group