Lamp Black, Wolf Grey (11 page)

Megan wondered that any man could keep his manners and his dignity under such brash ridicule. If Lord Geraint had truly hoped to make an ally of Merlin it seemed he was prepared to give up such an idea quickly if the stranger proved unwilling. He must fear the magician to treat him with such contempt. Was his purpose then to threaten him? To control him at any cost if he could not secure his friendship? If Merlin suspected any such thing he showed no outward sign.

“I see you have jesters and fools in your employ already, Lord Geraint. They would not thank me, I think, for acting in their place.”

At this Lady Rhiannon could be heard laughing sharply. Lord Geraint frowned. Beside him his men at arms grew restless.

“Indeed, I know a fool when I see one,” he said flatly. “Just as I know a man who would crush another beneath his foot to get to where he wants to be, and yet another who would smile as he pushed a dagger into your heart.” He illustrated his observation by stabbing another piece of meat with his silver knife. “Which are you, I wonder?”

“I would not choose to be any such person, my Lord. But each man must do as his conscience bids him, surely?” Merlin held Lord Geraint’s stare as he spoke.

“He must. And I aim to see that your conscience bids you assist me, Magician. I have these past seven years suffered unwanted intrusions and skirmishes from a neighbor who calls himself ‘noble.’ I plan to be rid of him once and for all. But the terrain that lies between us is dense with woodland and narrow valleys. It is a place for ambush and defeat for any army that ventures within, unless they had the advantage of surprise, perhaps. And of knowing the movements and actions of their adversary. Such a talented person as you yourself could, I understand, furnish me with this information at the precise time I require it. I can rely upon you to do this for me? Assure me of this.”

All at the table fell silent now. While the feasting and merrymaking continued among the villagers, and the minstrels played on, those within earshot of Lord Geraint’s words waited for the stranger’s response.

Merlin put down his knife slowly. He seemed on the point of speaking when a loud cry went up from the top of the hill.

“The wheel is ready!”

Everyone turned to look and the villagers scrambled to their feet. At the top of the hill a cartwheel had been daubed with tallow and was now set alight. Amidst much cheering and shouting it was moved into position. Children and young men raced from their places to take positions behind the wheel.

Brychan and Huw leaped from their seats.

“May we go, Father, may we?”

“Please!” they clamored.

Lord Geraint was in no mood for such frivolity, but Lady Rhiannon stepped forward, pushing the boys gently.

“Go, children, hurry up. Llewelyn, go with them. See they stay safe,” she said.

Llewelyn narrowed his eyes at the indignity of the task, hesitating. Lord Geraint growled at him.

“Go, man! Do as she bids you.”

The adults watched as the excited children took their places. The wheel was ready. The priest stood by muttering a harvest prayer, but his words were lost in the older, more basic exultations of the crowd. This was a ritual the church had seen fit to include in its celebrations, but it belonged to a time when gods were many and men made offerings and symbolic gestures to stave off starvation in the winter months to come. At last the wheel was heaved over the brow and began its descent. The faster it rolled the more fiercely it burned, until it was a fiery mass hurtling down the hill. Behind it ran the youngsters, screaming and shouting, caught up in the wake of the dancing flames. That the wheel kept to its given course and did not divert to plow through the villagers and their feast was nothing if not a small miracle in itself, and confirmed to all the blessing that was upon the occasion. At last the fireball came to a crashing stop at the bottom of the hill. The revelers danced around it, jeering and baying, in a moment that signified a mood shift in the day. The musicians struck up raucous tunes, their pipes and drums blaring and thumping into the hot air. Many people left their food and came to the wheel to dance, while others called for more ale, draining their tankards and banging them on the table to be replenished. As if some greater power watching the proceedings disapproved of these beginnings of bawdiness the sky darkened.

Megan’s skin prickled in the damp heat, and something in the frenzy of the villagers’ actions unsettled her. The awkward moment at the table had passed, though she knew it would not be forgotten. No doubt Lord Geraint had ways and means of getting most people to comply with his demands. Most people, but would that include Merlin?

“Ha!” Lord Geraint staggered to his feet, waving his goblet of wine above his head. “Enough talk of war. This is a day for celebration. Come, let us join in the fun. There will be battles enough to be waged tomorrow.” He looked pointedly at his revered guest as he spoke. Merlin merely gave a small bow of acknowledgment and stood aside to let Lord Geraint pass.

Megan stood up, intending to slip back to her father if possible, but Merlin reached forward and took her hand. In that instant she felt something of the nearby fire coursing through her veins.

“Dance with me, Megan,” he said.

It was the first time he had said her name, and she liked the way it sounded on his lips. She smiled at him and was about to let him lead her to the minstrels when Lady Rhiannon caught her eye. She pulled away her hand quickly.

“I am sorry,” she muttered, studying the ground between them. “I am needed elsewhere.”

Lady Rhiannon made her way to Merlin’s side.

“They tell me that Magicians cannot dance,” she said, her back to Megan. “I know you will prove this to be some wicked untruth.”

She offered him her hand. Megan knew better than to stand in the way of her mistress’s desires, and she stepped back, waiting for her moment to melt into the crowd. To her astonishment, she felt Merlin take her hand again.

“You will forgive me, Lady Rhiannon. I had already promised to dance with Megan.”

So saying he led her, stumbling, away. Megan could hear her Lady’s hiss of indignation and knew that Merlin had made not one but two powerful enemies that day.

Merlin took her not to join the restrained dancing of those from the upper table, but to the rowdy merrymakers nearer the burning wheel. Here was dancing that allowed him to hold her as they moved to the lively music. As they whirled and turned and spun across the short grass, Megan felt her fears for his safety and the rage of her employers lessen. Only the moment mattered. The moment and Merlin, his gaze locked with hers, his strong arms sending her spinning away and catching her again, his smile lighting up his dark face as he looked at her.

All about them the party grew ever wilder and more debauched. Mothers rounded up small children and dragged them back toward their homes. Men and women too old to join in such rowdiness began their stiff journey back to the village, their aching joints numbed by quantities of ale. Maids and their would-be suitors danced on. Couples embraced, some reclining on the turf, drinking more than was good for them.

At once there was a lowering of the clouds and the threatened rain threw itself down onto the celebrations. There were squeals and cries. Lord Geraint, Lady Rhiannon, and their entourage hurried to the castle, their servants scurrying after them. The stalwart merrymakers would not be put off, some crawling beneath the tables to continue their feasting, others slipping and falling in the fresh mud, too drunk to care or notice the filth and water. Some danced on, as the doughty musicians continued to play even as their instruments were waterlogged.

Merlin and Megan stopped dancing. They stood looking at one another, water coursing down their faces. She smiled, then laughed as the rain filled her mouth. She lifted her face to the sky, still laughing. Merlin held her hands, and they leaned back, bathing in the rain, letting the water wash away their cares, laughing as the party disintegrated into debauchery around them.

*   *   *

L
AURA DID NOT
protest when Rhys picked her up and carried her to his cottage. A mixture of fear, exhaustion, and relief had left her weak and tearful. Rhys kicked open the front door and set her down in front of the old, black range. The whole of the downstairs was a single space, with a kitchen area at one end and a sitting room at the other. The windows here were even smaller than those of Penlan, and it took a while for Laura’s eyes to adjust to the low level of light. She found she was shivering and moved closer to the fire as Rhys prodded it into new life. He split some kindling with a chopper and threw a handful on the fire to produce more flame. There was a hiss as water dropped from his hair onto the range. He fetched a woolen blanket, draped it around her shoulders, and then set about lighting candles. Only at that point did Laura realize there was no electricity at the cottage. Now she could see candles on every surface, as well as oil lamps hanging from hooks in the beams. The ceilings were low, and Rhys had to keep ducking to avoid them. There was a wooden spiral staircase in the far corner of the kitchen. The furniture was simple and rustic, but beautiful, too. The top of the long kitchen table had been fashioned out of a single piece of wood, and the bench and chairs beside it were chunky and roughly hewn. There was a sink with a single tap and a collection of heavy pots and pans, blackened from hours of use on the range. In the sitting area were two low sofas, a wood-burning stove, and shelves sagging under an impressive book collection. Rhys poured hot water from the iron kettle into a large enamel bowl. He fetched a cloth and a towel and sat at Laura’s feet. He dipped the cloth in the steaming water, wrung it out and, with the utmost gentleness, reached up and washed the mud from Laura’s face. She sat motionless, letting him tend to her, enjoying the comfort of his care and the warm water, feeling her tired muscles begin to unknot at last. He dabbed her face dry with the towel before moving the blanket and bathing her arms and hands. He worked on wordlessly, changing the water before starting on her scratched and battered legs. Laura winced as he rinsed her stinging cuts. The smell of lavender replaced that of mud and mountain. When her legs were clean Rhys took the towel and dried them with light, tender movements. He looked up at her and smiled. She had never felt so cherished as she did at that moment. Nor had she experienced anything so utterly erotic. Neither of them had spoken, and yet she felt incredibly close to Rhys, as if she had known him a lifetime already.

He stood up, “I’ll find you some dry clothes,” he said, before springing lightly up the stairs to the room above.

His footsteps echoed through the wooden boards as he moved about upstairs. Laura turned to the small fire, gazing into the flames. She had thought Penlan to be a timeless place, a place capable of transporting a person back through centuries by the roughness of a beam, or the coolness of a flagstone. But here, in this cottage, she felt as if the modern world no longer existed. People must have lived in the croft just as Rhys did now for generations. Little had changed. The books, maybe. New glass in the windows. A windup radio on the windowsill. What must it be like to live in such a house alone, cut off from everyone? Laura remembered the dog she had seen with Rhys the day she and Dan viewed Penlan. There was no sign of it now, nor that a dog had been in the house recently.

Rhys returned with a shirt, jeans, and a belt. She took them, standing awkwardly. Should she strip off in front of him?

“We need some more wood. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, saving her embarrassment. After he had gone out she changed quickly. Once in the dry garments she felt stronger and restored to some sort of normality, though with a frisson of excitement at the feel of his clothes against her freshly bathed skin. She undid her sodden hair and blotted it with the towel as she wandered around the room. Although the place was sparsely furnished and the facilities basic, it was anything but empty. In every niche and corner Laura found an intricate wood carving or a beautiful piece of stained glass or a small cluster of pebbles. She picked up an egg-shaped stone and ran her fingers over it. It was smooth as fine china yet hard and heavy as lead. The one next to it was milk white with a hole through the center. She reached up and touched one of the wood carvings—a bird of prey. It occurred to her that though lovely to look at, most of these objects must have been chosen for their tactile qualities. They cried out to be touched, and through her fingertips they told of their individual origins. Of their own special beauty. Of their magic.

Rhys came back with the wood and built up the fire. The storm had moved off now, and with it the heat of the last few days. The rain had cooled the earth and left a dampness that Laura felt had got into her very bones while she was on the mountain. She shivered.

“Here,” Rhys said as he beckoned her. “Stay by the fire. I’ll fix you a hot drink.”

She half expected some herbal concoction but was relieved to see him reach for a jar of good quality coffee. She settled back on a chair by the warmth of the range and watched Rhys. His movements were quiet and nimble for a tall man in such a small space. He took care in each task, fully concentrating on what he was doing. Laura admired that, having so often to rein in her own grasshopper mind in order to focus. Painting was the only thing that could absorb her so. And lately even that had failed to captivate her mind in the way it always used to.

Rhys pulled up a chair beside her, handing her a steaming mug.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. “I was in such a state.”

“More seasoned mountain walkers than you have got themselves lost up here when the weather changes.”

“It happened so quickly. One minute a sunny day, the next … I’d never experienced a storm like that. I was terrified. So stupid of me.”

“You were right to be scared. The open hill is not a place to share with lightning.”

“Could it have killed me?”

“Of course.”

Laura shivered again and sipped her drink, “It felt so powerful. And so eerie. It was as if the storm itself was a living thing. And it was angry. And it was after me. How ridiculous does that sound?” She laughed quietly at herself.