Collected Stories (10 page)

The door shivered, then split; one half, now splintered, soggy, crashed to the floor; William swung his right-hand saber and struck at the hinges, the door frame, and did not cease until the brickwork lay bare.

Sir Michael disintegrated. The face dissolved into an oval featureless mask, the hair turned white, then seemed to melt into a white powder, the entire body collapsed and became an untidy heap of rags and white bones. In a few minutes these too faded away and William was left staring at a dirty patch of carpet.

He had one last fleeting glimpse of the blue room. The walls and ceiling appeared to fall in, turn into a mass of swirling blue-mist; he saw a great jumble effaces; Negroes with frizzy hair and large, black eyes, young fair-haired girls, children, even animals. Then the shelves of his stationery cupboard came into being—typing paper, ribbons, carbon paper, all merged into their proper place, and William turned his attention to Rosemary, who was stirring uneasily.

He gathered her up into his arms.

The splintered remains of the door lay all around, crumbling, rotten with age.

(1973)

My Lord Dunwilliam was not, to say the least, in a good mood. The interior of the coach was cold, the road, if the snow- covered track could be so designated, was rough, and his lordship was tossed upwards, then flung from side to side, and the coachman, who was steadily freezing high up on his elevated seat, trembled as Dunwilliam gave vent to his rage.

'Blind, blockheaded cretin, drive round the bloody holes, not in them.’

Had he been given the gift of free speech, Coggins, for such was the coachman’s name, might well have pointed out that in a blinding snowstorm it was a miracle that he had so far kept the coach on four wheels, but not being so gifted he did his best to guide the team of four horses on what he devoutly trusted was the centre of the road. His trust was misplaced.

The coach reeled over, then slid into what appeared to be a deep ditch; the horses screamed as they were pulled backwards, and Coggins fell from his perch and landed in a deep pile of snow. He clambered to his feet and hastened to aid his employer, whose scarlet face was glaring at him from the remains of the near-side window.

'You blasted, addle-brained imbecile.’ His lordship was impelled to desist while he made the perilous descent from tilted coach to snow-coated road, then he took a deep breath and continued. 'You walled-eye son of Jezebel, you maggot-ridden ball of excreta, what by the devil and all his angels do you think you’re doing?’

'Snow, me Lord.’ Coggins spoke quickly, knowing he had little time before the next outburst. 'Ditch, me Lord, couldn’t see it, me Lord.’

'A ditch,’ Lord Dunwilliam pointed out with assumed patience, 'is for draining water into. A road is intended for driving coaches on. Those little bags of moisture situated on either side of your misshapened nose are called eyes. They are supposed to inform that minute spec of putrescence that you in all seriousness call a brain, which is which.’

The enormity of his crime came home to Coggins, and he could only mutter: 'Beg pardon, me Lord. Beg pardon.’

"Where are we?’ Dunwilliam pulled his greatcoat tighter about his burly form.

'So far as I can ascertain,’ Coggins was releasing the struggling horses, 'half-way between Llanwddyn and Bala.’

'Right, saddle Lucifer. I’ll sleep in Bala tonight or die in the attempt.’

'But, me Lord,’ Coggins wiped the snow from his eyes, 'it’s all of eight miles, and you have to cross the Berwyn Mountains, and there’ll be deep drifts by now.’

'Get the saddle out of the boot.’ Dunwilliam spat snow out of his mouth. 'Then my valise.’

'My Lord,’ Coggins protested again, 'in a few hours it’ll be as black as the devil’s hand. I know this country and, begging your pardon, your lordship does not, and I would not make such a journey alone on a night like this. If you must go on, turn east and make for Llangynog.’

'Saddle the horse and don’t talk so much,’ Dunwilliam instructed. 'I meet my man of business in Bala tomorrow, and that will not be possible if I go to Llangynog tonight.’

Ten minutes later found Lord Dunwilliam seated upon the leading coachhorse, gazing down at his coachman with an impatient frown.

'What shall I do, my Lord?’ Coggins said.

'Do, man, do? First get blankets from the boot for the horses, then see they are hobbled in a sheltered spot. Afterwards, I suppose you’d better take cover in the coach, always supposing you can sit or lie at an angle. I’ll send someone back when I get to Bala.’

Lord Dunwilliam rode away without a single backward glance, and it seemed the snow was eager to erase the footprints of his horse.

***

It caressed his eyes with icy fingers, it cloyed his nostrils, clogged his ears, clung to his horse’s hoofs and mocked his impotent rage. The wind swept down from the Berwyn Mountains, driving the snow before it like a plague of white moths, and it screamed a terrible cry that was at times one of desolate despair, at others one of unholy joy. Dunwilliam on several occasions was almost lifted out of his saddle, and it was then that he clung to the horse’s neck, digging his toes well under it’s belly, swearing aloud, for his lordship was a man who always coated his fear with a thick layer of anger. He had been riding, if that was the correct expression for this slow plodding, for an hour — maybe two; the light was failing, and he was, without any possible doubt, hopelessly lost. But even now he had no regrets, he did not blame himself for setting out on this nightmare journey. He had to be in Bala before morning, and he blamed the wind, the snow, the night that was falling too soon, for his predicament. Even when he knew death was shrieking in on the wind, striking at his exhausted body with grave-cold fingers, there was no relenting from his purpose, no thought of stopping, surrendering to the nigh-overwhelming need to bed down in a soft blanket of snow and sleep for ever.

Perhaps it was the horse that instinctively made for the only house within ten miles, or maybe Dunwilliam’s own sense of self-preservation was sufficiently developed for him to steer his horse in the right direction, or maybe he was just lucky, but suddenly he found himself peering at a lighted window that was only a few yards in front. A window, a rectangle of light, and next to it was a green door, now daintily framed with crisp snow, and somehow Dunwilliam was pounding upon it, roaring out his demand: 'By the devil and all his angels let me in,’ and his cry was eagerly seized by the wind and hurled back to the glowering mountains.

The door opened and he fell forward into a world of warmth and light; the voices had that soft Welsh lilt he had sometimes found rather irritating, but now they were telling him he had stumbled past the gates of death, that his flesh would not freeze, his heart continue to pump, his senses could still function.

He was in a chair by a roaring log fire, an oil-lamp with a frosted globe casting a soft radiance round the small room, keeping shadows at bay, and making golden-edged patterns on the ceiling.

'I’ve put your horse in the bam, so don’t fret yourself.’

It was a short, stocky man who spoke; a bald-headed fellow, with a strong, pugnacious face, attired in a coarse shirt of unbleached linen, and well-worn corduroy trousers. He blinked down at his unexpected guest and Dunwilliam detected a hint of hostility in the small blue eyes.

'Good of you.' He struggled to sit upright, and was alarmed to find he was weak, trembling like a sere leaf in an autumn wind. 'Lost out there, lucky I stumbled across your cottage.’

'Indeed, you must have been mad, man, to be abroad on a night like this. No more sense than you were born with, I’m thinking, and it’s a wonder you aren’t stark and cold in a blanket of snow - if not worse.’

"What!’ A frown creased Dunwilliam’s brow; no one had spoken to him in such a fashion for twenty years. 'I go where I please, when I please, and damn the insolence of any man who questions that fact. I am Lord Dunwilliam.'

'And I am Evan ap Evans, a prince in my own house, and I’ll damn any man, be he king or commoner, who raises his voice to me.

'Dadda, hush yourself,’ a soft voice interrupted, 'he is tired and speaks without meaning offence. Calm yourself and see to the old fire.’

Evans grunted, then turned in the direction of the fire as Dunwilliam twisted his head to see who had so aptly poured oil on stormy waters, then froze into an attitude of profound astonishment.

She was perhaps eighteen, with the slim grace of a gazelle. A mist of raven hair framed her pale face, and her eyes were dark, without expression, as they gave the burly, but handsome man one swift glance. Her beauty was so vivid and, in some inexplicable way, unearthly, that Dunwilliam experienced a spasm of pain. He was a product of his age and caste; he seduced women of his own class with a certain brutal charm. Those below the salt he just took. But here he knew was an exception; the girl walked and spoke with a gentle naive dignity, and would not be impressed by either his rank or purse; indeed, it soon became apparent she had little interest in him at all.

I will get you something to eat.’ The voice was low, soft, the Welsh lilt barely perceptible. 'Then I’ll make you up some sort of bed before the fire for, to be sure, you’ll not be going out again tonight.’

'I’m obliged to you, Mam.’ Dunwilliam nodded, his eyes ravaging the pale face, vainly trying to find some flaw, some imperfection, so as to subdue the pain, but the skin was smooth and clear; the high cheekbones would not have disgraced Aphrodite herself. 'I’m on my way to Bala, must meet my man of business there tomorrow. I’ve just inherited an estate thereabouts.’

’Indeed.’

She put a large saucepan on the trivet, then went to a dresser and took down plates before proceeding to lay the table.

'Dadda, can you not make yourself useful? We’ll need some more logs if the poor man is not to freeze.’

Evan ap Evans growled, then obediently trudged heavily from the room.

'It must be lonely for you out here.’ Dunwilliam was trying to make conversation, say anything to attract the girl’s attention, and he experienced an unreasoning spasm of anger when she did not even turn her head but continued to lay the table. 'No, I have much to do. Only the idle are lonely.’ 'Damnation, girl! ’ his voice rose, then with an effort he regained self control. 'Surely you crave some kind of social life? People your own age, a bit of gaiety? What the hell do you do with yourself in this God-forsaken place?’

'I walk.’ She moved over to the fireplace so that her slim, but mature, form was silhouetted against the fluttering flames. 'I listen to the voices in the wind.’

'Have you no lover-no sweetheart?’

That, sir, is my affair.’

The rebuke was made in the same cool voice, as though she were snubbing an insolent schoolboy whose ill-manners were the result of ignorance rather than ill-intent, and his anger grew.

'I but asked a civil question.’

'And I replied with a civil answer.’ She walked, or rather glided, to the door. 'Dadda, the food is ready to be served, and you’ll catch your death out there.’

Evan ap Evans appeared, a pile of logs supported by his outstretched arms; his face was like a thunder cloud as he let them fall to the hearth.

'Must you call me as though I were a dog being summoned to its meat? I’m not a servant to come and go as you bid, but your father to respect and obey, and I’m telling you not to forget it.’

She put her arms around this ugly bear of a man, and gently laid her lips on his weather beaten cheek, and Dunwilliam saw the bleak little eyes soften.

‘She rules him with a rod of velvet,’ he told himself. 'He’ll rant and roar, then try to kill the man who looks at her.’

'Be seated at table.’ The words were a command, and Dunwilliam rose to his feet, then seated himself at the rough deal table, determined that he would not look at her, but his eyes seemed unable to remove their burning gaze from that pale, calm face.

The meal was a stew — meat, vegetables, mainly potatoes - all boiled together in one pot, followed by a portion of strong cheese and hard biscuits, but Dunwilliam a,te well, for his journey through the snow had made him ravenous, and he was in no mood to be fastidious. Evan ap Evans was not a silent eater; he smacked his lips, belched, made obscene gurgling sounds, while the girl chewed daintily with closed lips and never once raised her eyes in Dunwilliam’s direction.

You live alone with your daughter?’ He addressed Evans, who did not seem over-pleased at being disturbed while at meat. 'Your good wife, am I to understand...?’

Partaker of glory,’ Evans roared with full mouth.

‘What!’

'She’s been a partaker of glory these past ten years. The cold got her, and she crossed the broad river on a night such as this.’

My condolences.’ Dunwilliam watched the girl and thought of snow on a mountain peak; her face was composed, devoid of expression, a white canvas, and he suddenly wanted to make her angry, hurt her, do anything that would crumble that beautiful mask. He spoke loudly, glaring at her while Evans scraped his plate clean with a spoon.