Excerpt from the Diary Of Ivywilde Tilps

April 24, 1986

This week has been simply lovely, despite the strangeness, joining my dear friend Joan Nolava in Chepstow. She toured me through her beloved museum of which she’s been running for the last 20 years and made certain to elaborate on the history of all her favorite pieces. I fear this visit was far overdue for all our correspondence over the last few decades, I felt quite bad for not having visited sooner.

We even had the pleasure of visiting the castle ruins not too far out of town where she took the time to introduce me to her local friend living near the grounds. He was a young and inquisitive fellow, passionate about the local history nearly as much as Joan, though his endless energy made me feel quite old. 

We spent much of the afternoon exploring the ruins, though come dusk, Jonathan had us nearly running back to his cottage. He seemed to become increasingly agitated as dusk approached, constantly scanning the tree line with his torch. I attempted to console his uneasiness but Joan stopped me with a light touch to my shoulder and a brief shake of the head. 

On our way back into town after the long day of exploring, Joan explained elaborated on the erratic behavior. “He’s told me of strange things in the woods near the ruins and his cottage. He simply won’t go out past sundown anymore.”

I felt a faint sense of dread, however trying to conceal my uneasiness, I replied, “How peculiar, whatever would scare him off? He seems quite young and fit, enough so to handle living by himself in that cottage by his myself these last few years,” 

Joan’s brow furrowed in uncertainty, hesitating, “Jonathan has been an absolute dear to me all these years, I’d say I see him far more than my own boys at this point, but I can’t help but wonder… at his mental wellness. Anytime I’ve visited him on his side of town he refuses to be out past dusk. It took several attempts before he would explain anything to me but even then… I feel as if I still don’t understand the whole situation,” she paused for a moment, steepling her tanned, wrinkled hands over her thick woolen skirt. “There was one night on our way back from the ruins he became exceptionally frightened just as we were passing a large patch of juniper. I think he’d seen something past the tree line, and I might be inclined to believe him as I’d heard a strange, distant, metallic sound echoing out from the woods earlier in the evening. There was a loud sudden crash, like the crack of a large branch that started him, and just like that, he grabbed my hand and dragged me along at the best jog I could muster. I feared something terrible was wrong so I went along best I could without complaint until we reached his cottage. He seemed utterly erratic, swiftly locking the doors and windows and pulling the drapes. After catching my breath, I questioned him as to whatever the matter was. ‘I… I saw it again’, he’d replied shakily. His eyes were wide as teacup saucers. I’d never seen such a man so shaken.” Joan was staring at her hands now, a pale rising over her face at the recollection. I swiftly interjected, “what exactly had he’d seen?” 

Joan, as if pulled back from the uncomfortable memory, adjusted her tone, putting on an indifferent lighthearted air. “Oh… it was nonsense really. He spoke of knights or something of that nature. I’m sure he’d just seen a deer or some other kind of animal out past the trees that night,”

“What of these Knights? Like medieval knights?” I questioned, my attension piqued.

“Oh goodness knows, maybe it was some film actor or history enthusiast visiting the grounds previously that spooked him. I know there’s been several instances of cinema producers visiting the castle in the past… I simply don’t understand what has him riled up. Maybe he’s been alone in that cottage by himself for too long; I’ve tried introducing him to several of the local girls but he seems too set on his work to care for pursing anyone.”

I was perplexed by the strange story, I’ve seen and heard my fair share of peculiar things in the English countryside but never forest knights. “How utterly strange,” I murmured in reply, lost in thought. 

“Yes, exactly! He said the strangest things, like they only walk about at night, somehow quiet despite wearing full knightly regalia, including a purple tunic the shade of juniper berries. And he mentioned something of the foliage, as if it had grown with the knights as one, like some forested cavalier or fantastical medieval camouflage. I tell you this man has spent far too much time in his own imagination to see such conjurings.” Joan said apprehensively. “He even said he’d seen one approach his window at night, that he once saw its armor through a crack in the drapes all the way from his bed. It must be night terrors or something of the like; I’m unsure how he’d see something of that nature by the light of his wood stove in the mere witching hours”

Joan’s recollection disturbed me, despite the otherwise pleasant trip. I’ve made note of everything I was told here so I can hopefully follow up with Jonathan in the near future. I’ve saved his contact information in my address book with a note to review this journal entry. For now, I’m settling back into the house for another beautiful summer in Arcadia after my return from Wales. I hope it won’t be too long before I have time to write Jonathan and further research his strange story.