Lamp Black, Wolf Grey (17 page)

“‘Spells for Fertility and Conception.’ Look how many there are!”

“You’re not the first woman to need a little help. It’s a well-trodden path. Look, this one is a Celtic spell. It originated in Wales, centuries ago. I’ll copy it out for you if you like.”

Laura smiled. Hadn’t she tried everything else? Was this any sillier or more far-fetched than some of the cranky diets or crystal healing or divination she had endured?

“OK,” she said. “Do that. I’ll give it a go. What harm can it do?”

Rhys smiled back at her.

“What harm indeed?”

*   *   *

L
ATER, AN HOUR
or so after she arrived home, Dan telephoned. He was not given to calling during his working day and Laura could sense the concern in his voice. Could he possibly suspect something? She told herself she was being ridiculous.

“So you’re OK, then?” Dan asked for the second time.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Stop worrying about me, Dan.”

“I know, I’m fussing. You just looked so small, standing there all alone when I drove off this morning. And this weekend you seemed, I don’t know, distant, I suppose.”

“Did I? I’m sorry.” She paused, relieved he was not able to see her face. All at once the enormity of what she had done, of the measure of her betrayal, took hold of her.
I can’t do this,
her voice screamed inside her head,
I cannot do this.
She took a steadying breath, then said “You know how distracted I get when I’m painting sometimes. Especially when I’m working on something new.”

“Of course. I guess I’m just feeling a bit guilty, about not being there with you, I mean.”

Laura closed her eyes, her own guilt swamping her. “Don’t be daft. It’s only for a little while, remember?”

“Yes. I know. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you again tonight.”

Laura clicked off the phone and took a moment to steady herself. “Laura Mathews, what on earth do you think you are doing?” she said aloud.

7

T
HE MORNING AFTER
Midnight’s illness, when Lord Geraint learned that his steed had survived, he did not see fit to apologize to Megan, nor to thank her for her efforts. She had not expected anything of the kind. Instead he sent word she was to be excused from her duties with the children for the day. This might have been to allow her to recover from a lost night’s sleep, but when the page completed his message saying she could have use of a horse, Lord Geraint’s intentions were clear. He would expect her to go to Merlin. Megan found herself battling with conflicting emotions. She dreaded the prospect of running her avaricious master’s errands, yet feared for her father if she did not do as she was bid. However weighted with another’s purpose her visit was to be, though, she was also conscious of a lifting of her spirits. Of a lightness in her step as she walked to the stables. The truth was she was eager to see Merlin again and was glad of the chance to thank him for his magical intervention the night before. But for his help, Midnight would have died, Megan was certain of it. The thought of a mortal being having such power both frightened and thrilled her. Such gifts could be used for great good, for healing, for helping those in need. Or they could be misused for personal gain and base desires. The idea of Lord Geraint forcing Merlin to act for him had now taken on a more terrifying aspect.

Megan paused to spend a moment with Midnight. He was still weak, but his condition was improving by the hour. She instructed Dafydd to continue to add salt and ground garlic to the horse feed and made him promise to find a plentiful supply of honey to speed Midnight’s recovery. She saddled Hazel and set off toward Ty Bychan. She rode slowly up the hill, enjoying the rhythm of the little palfrey’s stride and the peaceful beauty of the landscape. The hot and heavy weather had been washed away by the storm of Lammas Day, and now summer was subsiding into a gentle, fruitful autumn. She felt stiff and weary from lack of sleep, but was in part revived by the freshness of the morning. As she climbed higher up the mountain, beyond her father’s farmhouse, the air was cool beneath high, white clouds. Megan dismounted to pick a palmful of whinberries and ate them as she continued her journey. At last she could see Ty Bychan, sturdy and humble, built low into the lee of a slope against the weather. She glimpsed Merlin and her stomach tightened with a mixture of delight and foreboding.

By the time she reached the little stone wall of the garden Merlin was standing at the gate to meet her. As she slid from her saddle the wolf padded out on silent paws. Hazel snorted and began to pull back on the reins. Megan stood her ground. For an instant she was afraid, but the wolf greeted her gently, wagging his tail and licking her hand.

“He remembers you,” Merlin told her. “How could he not?”

“He is certainly something I will remember all my life,” said Megan, loosening Hazel’s cinch and looping the reins over the gatepost. The horse at once rested a hind foot and settled to doze.

Merlin took Megan’s hand then stopped, surprised by the amethyst.

“A present from Lord Geraint,” Megan told him, her tone making her feelings plain. “He insists I wear it.”

“It is very pretty.”

“It makes a pretty shackle.”

“Come, sit with me beneath this benevolent sun.”

He led her to a low bench beside the front door. Megan sat as he went inside the tiny house. A moment later he returned with wooden cups of spring water and a small loaf.

They sat in silence, drinking the peaty water and breaking the bread. The mountain was singing with life. Well-grown lambs bleated in the meadows far below, their bold voices carried up on the breeze. Robins and finches pipped and cheeped as they hopped about the garden, competing for worms and beetles. Crickets whirred in the wiry grass. Bees mumbled into foxgloves. Above it all rang the
pee-wit
of the ponderous curlew. There was not a house nor a sign of man’s hand on the land to be seen and it was, for a brief moment, possible to believe that nothing could reach such a place to threaten its peace. Megan watched Merlin as he ate and knew she had never felt so at ease. Never felt such a sense of freedom, and yet of belonging to someone else. How different was Merlin’s hold over her from that she had known all her life—the grip of ownership, of control, of noble birthright. She saw now that love meant giving your freedom willingly, and to take that freedom by threat or force was the very opposite of all that was loving. She knew she had to speak plainly.

“Lord Geraint hopes I will be able to convince you to help him defeat Lord Idris,” she said.

“And do you think I should?”

“No. That is, you should do what you think is right.”

“Do you know why your master is so set on routing his neighbor?”

“Well, Lord Idris has designs on land beyond his own.”

“You know this?”

“There have been skirmishes. Battles even. I have seen Lord Geraint’s men return from the fray. I have treated some of the wounded horses.”

“Yes, there has been fighting. I have heard of it. But I do not believe these battles were of Lord Idris’s making. I think it is Lord Geraint who wishes to increase his holding in the region. It is he who causes men to be cut down and slain to further his own purposes. And there is another reason he despises his neighbor so.”

“Oh?”

“At one time they were allies. They banded together against their common enemies.”

“I do remember such times, but that was many years ago.”

“Seven years, to be exact. Tell me, Megan, how old is Master Huw?”

“This is his seventh summer.”

“And has it never puzzled you that he has neither the black hair of his mother nor the brown of Lord Geraint?”

“I have always thought his blond curls an endearing quirk.”

“But you must certainly have witnessed the way in which Lord Geraint favors Brychan.”

“It is natural. He is his first born, his eldest son.”

“His eldest, or his only?” Merlin looked at her levelly now.

Megan gasped as she took in the implications of what she was being told.

“Huw is the child of Lord Idris? Why, yes, it could be true. It would explain Lord Geraint’s hatred of the man, as well as his coldness toward Lady Rhiannon. In truth, he barely tolerates Huw. Poor Huw.” She played with the ring on her finger, pondering life’s twists and turns. She met Merlin’s gaze. “What will you do?”

“For the present, nothing. Lord Geraint is an impatient man, but even he will wait awhile for my response. I bide here only until I am called to service elsewhere, Megan. My gifts are not for the use of people such as your master, and my destiny does not lie in these hills.”

Megan studied his face, trying to be clear about what he was saying. Was he telling her he would be gone soon? That she could not be a part of his life? That there was something more important that would take him from her? She opened her mouth to tell him of Lord Geraint’s threats, of the danger both she and her father faced if he did not agree to her master’s demands. But she could not make herself say the words. She knew that to do so would place Merlin in an impossible position. And she would not be the one to force such a man to bend to Lord Geraint’s will. She would have to find her own way to ensure her father’s safety.

Instead she placed her hand over his. The warmth of his flesh made her heart ache for him.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly, searching for the right way to explain herself. “To thank you for your help. Last night. With Midnight. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Merlin smiled at her.

“Such a brave animal, and with such a fine doctor in attendance. Do you really think you needed my help?”

“I know he would have died without it, and that this morning he is instead enjoying honeyed hay. I know also that I was not the only healer by his side last night,” she said with a smile.

Merlin nodded but said no more. Leaning forward he lifted his hand and, with the tenderest of touches, stroked Megan’s cheek.

*   *   *

L
AURA STOOD AT
the newly fitted window of her studio and watched the rain beating down outside. A warm September had quickly given way to a wet October, and for weeks the view had been obscured by low clouds. Her visible world had shrunk to a few hundred yards. Feeling hemmed in and mildly claustrophobic was not something Laura had expected when she moved to Penlan. The weather made walking on the hills both treacherous and unpleasant, and painting outdoors was impossible. She turned to contemplate the canvas on her easel. At last she had found her stride once more and was painting again. But it was not solely the landscape of her new home that had inspired her. There was something else. Or someone else. What or who exactly was still a muddle in her mind. At first she thought it was Rhys. Or, more accurately, the lustful sex she had shared with him, the wild side of her own nature he had unleashed. But she had come to realize that wasn’t it either. That lust, that passion, had been all but obliterated by guilt. Acrid, sour, corrosive guilt.

She walked over to inspect her morning’s work. The impasto paint was still sticky and wet. It would be several hours before she could continue with the picture. To be impatient and touch it now would produce a muddied mess. Laura had produced, at first glance, a strongly atmospheric painting of the oak woods. Gone were the summer colors of clear greens and bright blues. Now her palette was made up of ochers and umbers and siennas. In the picture a tempest disturbed the branches of the trees and whipped up the fallen leaves, creating a maelstrom of color and texture as the woodland twisted and tangled in the fierce wind. The old Laura would have been content with such a scene, happy to depict nature in its wildness, in its struggle. But the new, obsessive Laura had included aspects of her own passion and turmoil in the painting. A girl could be glimpsed among the trees. It was not a self-portrait as such, more a notion of that wild and young part of herself that was attracted to Rhys. The girl’s hair was long and loose, her dress floor-length and flowing, her attitude ambiguous. Was she lost or free? Laura was undecided.

Later, when she had packed up for the day and returned to the house, she was about to pour herself a glass of wine when Rhys appeared in the doorway. She started at the sight of him, her emotions flipping. Desire leaping up to be quelled quickly by guilt, shame, and a fresh resolve to pull herself together.

“Rhys, I wasn’t expecting you.” She put the bottle down on the kitchen table, not wanting to offer him a glass.

He stepped forward and scooped her into his arms.

“My lovely Laura,” he murmured into her hair. “I had to come. I’ve been hoping you would come to me, at the croft.”

“Oh, it’s been difficult. You know…”

He nodded. “I understand. Don’t worry. I can be patient. I’ve waited for you for so long, a few more weeks … I always knew you existed out there, somewhere, and that I would find you. Or that you would find your way to me. Laura, who was meant for me. Returned to me.”

Laura frowned. “I’m sorry, Rhys. I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s a lot to take in. I know that. All will become clear.”

She pulled away from him, smiling, but not meeting his eyes. She had to play for time. To put some distance between herself and Rhys. To let him slowly realize that what had happened could not happen again. She wouldn’t let it. She busied herself putting away plates that had been draining by the sink.

“I’m a bit distracted at the moment. We’ve got guests coming this weekend.”

“Friends or family?”

“Friends. My oldest and dearest, her husband, and their two delicious little boys. Though actually they feel more like family. Her parents are elderly and live in Spain. Angus has a dipsomaniac father roaming the Scottish highlands somewhere. We’re all they’ve got, I suppose. We’ve spent Christmases together for as long as I can remember.”

“How old are the children?”

“Let me think, William is just seven. Hamish is five. He’s adorable, all soft and puppyish. William is fascinating, such a grown-up little chap. I so enjoy spending time with them. They call me Auntie, which makes me feel about ninety, but I don’t mind. I’m lucky to have them in my life.”