Named of the Dragon (18 page)

No, I thought, impossible. We couldn't both be dreaming of the same young woman. Dreams were individual, the products of a single mind, not things that could be shared.

"She has a son," said Elen, still intent on curling Stevie's hair. "Like me. His name is Harry. And the dragon tried to take him, too—because it knew, you see. It knew what Harry was. What Stevie is."

I swallowed, hard. "And what is that?"

But Elen shook her head. "I mustn't say. He told me that I mustn't say."

Terrific, I thought, as I registered the masculine pronoun—here was somebody
else
to confuse things. "Who told you?"

"Merlin."

She said it so naturally, that's what amazed me. She might have been talking of Gareth, or Christopher. '
'Merlin?"
I echoed.

She nodded. "He comes to me, too. Well, his voice does—I don't really see him, because of the mist. But I hear him. I hear what he says, about Stevie, and why Stevie's here. It's because of the dragon," she told me, her voice dropping low. "The dragon knows Stevie was sent here to kill it, that's why it doesn't want him to grow up to be a man."

"Ah," I said. It seemed the only thing
to
say.

"You see," Elen said, leaning forward, confiding, "the dragon that lives in the tower is white."

I heard steps on the stairs and a voice from the landing, and Christopher came through the door of the nursery, a tray in his hands. "Here you are, I've made tea," he informed us both, cheerfully. "Tea always helps."

A stiff measure of whisky, I thought to myself, would help more.

XXI

We are closed in, and the key is turned

On our uncertainty...

W. B. Yeats, "The Stare's Nest By My Window"

Bridget poked her head in through the dining-room door an hour later. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Mm. Just knackered." And descending slowly into madness, I added to myself, in silence. After a day like this one, all I wanted was to sit awhile and have a drink and try to sort things through.

"You're not just staying home so you'll be here if Elen needs somebody?"

"No."

"Because she's really all right on her own, you know."

"I know."

"And you heard her, she didn't want anyone. Not even Owen."

"I am not," I said, firmly, "staying home because of Elen. In fact, if I have one more glass of whisky, I very much doubt if I'd hear the girl scream, let alone be of use to her."

"Well, you know where to find us, if you change your mind."

"Are you off, then?" I asked, as she bent her head to check the contents of her handbag.

' 'Yes, as soon as James remembers where he left the car keys."

I smiled, and rolled my head against the cushions of the chair back. "It's only a two-minute walk to the pub."

"I'm in heels," she said, holding out one foot to show me. "And besides, driving's warmer. The wind's bloody cold out there."

"Mm." I could hear it. Since we'd come back from Elen's, a half-hour ago, the weather had turned. Behind the soft folds of the curtains, the long windows shuddered and rattled with each violent gust, and the chimney had started to moan. I felt snug in my chair, with my feet tucked up into the cushions, and the whisky slowly spreading warmth through all my veins.

James called from the back door, and Bridget turned happily. "Right then, we shan't be too long."

"Be as long as you like," I invited.

I rather liked being alone in the house. After living so long in the flat on my own, it always took a bit of getting used to, having other people round. They disrupted my daily routine. It felt good to be back in control for an evening, to make the sort of meal I usually made—omelette and chips with fruit compote and custard cream biscuits and tea—and to carry it through to the cosy little sitting-room that opened off the kitchen, so I could eat as I usually ate, from a tray, while watching television.

I flipped through the channels, quite comforted.

"... never meant to marry me, did you? You ... must be rather careful with your measurements, at this point, or the pudding will.. . return year after year to celebrate the solstice." I stopped; left it there, as the camera zoomed in on a group of young people in white robes, playing Druid. It had snowed where they were, and a talcum-soft dusting had covered the grass and the top of the lone standing stone around which they had gathered. One of the girls had a nose-ring. They looked, I decided, about as convincing as Bridget would look in a nun's habit.

The deep, solemn voice of an unseen narrator continued to speak. "The ancient Celts apparently took little notice of the sun-based solstices, but modern druids, notwithstanding, choose to celebrate Midwinter's Day as the "Light of—"

And then, quite unexpectedly, there was no light at all. Surprised, I sat surrounded by the sudden blackness while the wind shrieked past the windows, spitting rain against the glass. The storm had knocked the power out.

Easing carefully out of my chair so as not to spill my supper tray, I felt round the fireplace hearth for the box of big wooden matches, and used them to search the kitchen. I found a small torch nestled in the drawer that held the tea towels. Its batteries were nearly dead, but it managed to throw out a small thread of light that, at length, touched the edge of a box of plain white kitchen candles, tucked back in a cupboard. I'd known they would be somewhere. Every farmer I had ever known kept candles in the kitchen, to guard against just such emergencies.

There was even a candlestick stored alongside them— an ornate antique silver piece that held three candles. Relieved, I struck a match.

The heating had only been off a few minutes, but already the cold was beginning to creep through the walls of the old house, and the candle flames fluttered and dipped in a draught as I turned, casting weird slanting shadows that danced at the edge of the darkness. I found enough coal in the sitting-room scuttle to start a small fire, but it didn't help much. What I needed, I thought, was a blanket or rug that would help keep me warm till the heat came back on.

I felt like a character in a Hitchcock film as I carefully made my way upstairs, using the candles to show me the way and keeping one hand on the railing. The linen cupboard, I knew, was at the end of the passage—I'd seen James fetching clean sheets from it, yesterday. The handle wouldn't budge at first, but a closer look showed me the old-fashioned key in the lock. Rather odd, I thought, to lock the linen cupboard—but then, every household had its quirks. I gave the key a half-turn and the door swung inwards soundlessly, without the noisy protest I'd expected from its hinges.

It wasn't the cupboard I'd wanted.

I stood for a moment, confused, as the candlelight showed me a section of shelving stacked with clothes and cuddly toys. Another door stood partway open just in front of me, and through it I could hear the sound of soft and rapid breathing. I knew now where I was. I had passed into the East House and was standing in the built-in cupboard set into the corner of the nursery, Stevie's nursery, just a few feet from his cot. And if I'd wanted to, I could have snatched him up and run away, without his mother ever knowing.

*-*-*-*-*

It bothered me more than I cared to admit, finding that door. Not because I truly thought that anyone had sneaked into the nursery, earlier, but because I knew that someone
could
have done it. And that knowledge was troubling.

I had felt an unwelcome intruder myself, standing quiet and still in the shadowy cupboard. Guiltily, I'd closed the door again and locked it firmly, checked it twice, to make quite certain little Stevie was secure. And then I'd stepped a little to the left and found the linen cupboard door— unlocked, as linen cupboards ought to be—and blindly pulled a blanket from the woodsy-scented shelves, trailing it after me back down the stairs to the sitting-room.

Now, settled in my chair again, I wrapped the blanket snugly round my shoulders and tried to be rational.

So there was a door leading into the East House. So what? No one here would have had any reason to want to harm Stevie.
So stop being foolish,
I told myself crossly.
Stop worrying.

I turned my mind to other things. My omelette and chips had congealed on the plate, but the biscuits and fruit remained edible, and I managed to coax a second cup of still-warm tea from the pot. Sitting back, I stared at the black reflecting screen of the television, willing it to come back on and offer a diversion. Even the druids, I thought, would be better than nothing. I'd never know, now, why the devil they had all been dancing around in the snow. Celebrating the solstice, the narrator had said. Some festival—the Light of Something ...

And then the thought struck me. I put down my fork. "Jesus."

The dining-room, with its tall windows, was already freezing cold, and the storm seemed determined to come through the glass, howling and beating its fists in a fury. I held up the candles and crossed to the bookcase, my breath making mist in the air. The book was still there, on the second shelf, waiting—
The Druid's Year.

I pulled it out and flipped the pages, scarcely seeing Julia's exquisite illustrations. The months passed in a blur of colour... November... December... my fingers slowed ... December the twenty-first.

"Alban Arthuan," the book informed me. "Believed by modern druids to be the day that King Arthur was born and delivered, as promised, to Merlin. Sometimes called "The Light of Arthur' ..."

The Light of Arthur, I thought numbly. Arthur's Light.

But that wasn't the thing that disturbed me the most. The most disturbing thing, to me, was that someone had marked the page.

XXII

Scarce had we slept on the Forbidden Ground,

When the Woods shook...

John Dryden, Merlin, or The British Enchanter

I was running, half-stumbling, and dragging the golden-haired child along by one hand. It was night. All around us the mist swirled and rose and formed strange shifting shapes and I couldn't see anything—only the rough trampled path at my feet. I could hear the child's breathing, behind me, and somewhere below us the sound of the sea. Then from out of the mist came another sound, terrible, shaking the ground like a wildcat's scream.

I scooped up the boy and ran faster, spurred on by the weight of his arms round my neck and the feel of his small, panicked heartbeat. He was crying, without making noise, and the tears trickled warm down the side of my neck. I squeezed him tight. "It's all right, love, we're nearly there."

But the path appeared endless.

The creature was gaining. It screamed again, closer, and the shadow of a claw slashed through the mist.
Oh, God,
I prayed, silently,
don't let me lose him. I must keep him safe.
I was breathing in sobs, now. The path tilted up and I scrambled up with it, seeking any foothold I could find.

I passed a shape that looked like James, standing off to one side of the path, calmly smoking a cigarette. "My dear girl," his voice said, "it's hardly the end of the world."

Further up, someone else—Owen, I think—reached to take the child from me, but I didn't let go. I kept running. The ground underneath me was shuddering now, and I felt the searing heat of my pursuer's breath. And then all of a sudden the path disappeared, and I was falling into nothingness, with the roar of the sea rising swiftly to calm me. I pressed the boy closer, surrounding him, trying to shield him, my own scream as loud as the thing at our backs.

Something clamped round my shoulder.

"Don't worry," said Gareth Gwyn Morgan,
"I'll
catch you."

I opened my eyes.

I was lying, quite safe, on my bed, looking up at the ceiling. My hands had made fists round the sheets and I tried to relax them, to force them to open. Still feeling unreasoning panic I turned my head sideways and looked at the window, seeking reassurance that the dream was really over.

The bright morning sunlight had pushed through the folds of my curtains to shimmer and dance on the soft painted walls. I focused on it, calmed my mind. But still, it took a long time for my heartbeat to regain its normal rhythm.

I could hear someone banging about in the bathroom, and voices. And craving the comfort of people around me, I rose rather stiffly, and dressed, and went to find out who it was. The electricity had come on again. Outside my room on the landing the air had lost its sharpness.

In the bathroom I found Bridget perched on the edge of the tub, watching Owen, who knelt, full of purpose, half-in and half-out of the double-doored airing cupboard.

"Well, finally," she said, when she saw me. "I was beginning to think that you'd frozen to death in your sleep, or something."

Her voice, familiar and good-natured, helped dissolve the horror of my nightmare and I felt much more myself as I assured her I'd been fine. "I had extra blankets. I slept like a log. I don't remember hearing you come in."

"We got back quite late—after one, I should think. Everyone was being very jolly at the pub."

"Did they manage to serve you your meals, then, before the lights went out?"

"Naturally." She grinned. "If they hadn't, I'd have come home for a sandwich, storm or no storm."

Owen emerged from the cupboard, to wish me good morning.

"Good morning, yourself. What's the trouble?"

"Damned immersion heater, that's what. Everything else came back on, except this." He slapped the mustard-coloured water heater with one hand and stood, with a whoofing breath of protest. "Bloody stubborn bastard," he said, but whether he meant the immersion heater or himself, I couldn't tell.

Bridget swung one long leg. ' 'Yes, and I want my bath. I've been waiting for ages."

"Hold on," said Owen, "I'll just go downstairs now, and twiddle a switch."

Bridget waited until he was gone, and then motioned me closer, bursting to tell me something. "He was there."

I lowered my voice to match hers. ' 'Who was where?''

"Gareth was at the Hibernia, last night. And Lyn," she confided, "I think that I've hooked him."

"Oh?"

"He bought me a drink. And you'll never guess what?" She looked from left to right, dramatically, before continuing. "He asked me to drop round to see him, this afternoon. Just on my own."

"Oh." I knew what was coming. I waited.

"So here's what I'll need you to do," she went on.

"After lunch, before James gets his nose in his writing, you ask him to show you the sights."

"Any sights in particular?"

"I don't know, maybe Freshwater West, or St Govan's. He loves to show people St. Govan's. Just ask him. Then I'll plead a headache, or something, and stay behind here."

"And what about Christopher?"

"I guess you'll have to take him with you, too."

I looked aside, and made a show of trying to remember. "I don't recall this being in the Agent's Code of Practice."

"Of course it is. It comes between 'thou shalt do everything thy author asks' and 'thou shalt assist thy author in seducing sexy men.' "

"I see."

Owen was coming upstairs again. Bridget sat back and fell silent.

Apparently the switch-twiddling had done the trick. He put his head back in the airing cupboard and a moment later the heater clicked on with a comforting hum. "There now, that's got it. Just leave that to run for an hour or so, and you'll have all the hot water you need."

"Wonderful," Bridget said. "Thanks."

Leaving her in privacy, I followed Owen back out to the landing. "You'll be late for your walk," he said, teasing.

I didn't answer him immediately—I was too absorbed in staring at the door, just past his shoulder. The door that I had opened by mistake last night... the one that led to little Stevie's nursery, through the cupboard. It looked just as I had left it, but for one detail: the key no longer rested in the lock. It hadn't fallen to the carpet, either. Someone had removed it.

"Is something wrong?" asked Owen.

"No." I looked quickly away from the door; forced a confident smile. "It's nothing."

*-*-*-*-*

I pushed my pace harder and crested the hill, my lungs burning. I didn't have time for this, really—it was after eleven already and Bridget, I knew, would be done with her bath now and having a fit. She would never forgive me if I didn't get back by lunch-time to help with her plan.

But I'd needed the walk.

I had taken a different route, over the bridge and along the south shore of the bay, through the cooling green woods that surrounded the Hall. I'd barely glimpsed the Hall itself, little more than a suggestion of pale walls and privilege set deep in the trees at the end of a long curving drive, looking rather forlorn with its owners away. And when the path had split in two a little further on, with one fork keeping to the coastal route along the soft shore of the bay, I'd turned instead and headed inland, up the wider lane and past the Lodge, where a little dog had come to the edge of the garden and barked its encouragement.

It hadn't
looked
a steep hill, from the bottom, but now that I had reached the top my legs felt rather sore and I needed several breaths of air to slow my racing heart.

I moved on more slowly, not paying attention. Normally, walking was good for my mind. Not today, though—my thoughts were a jumble. Part of me wanted to side with the others, and say Elen's story was madness; but part of me couldn't be sure.

Either James or Christopher could easily have entered. Stevie's room last night. I couldn't think why they'd have wanted to—certainly not to harm Stevie. If anyone wanted to harm him, I felt fairly sure they'd have done it by now. The only thing that came to mind was that maybe they liked to make poor Elen panic, liked to play upon her paranoia. It would have been a rotten thing to do, but I knew they could have done it, all the same. And the more I thought about that door, the more I felt convinced that someone
had
gone into the nursery. Why else, I wondered, would the key be in the lock last night, and not this morning?

And the marked page in
The Druid's Year
could hardly be coincidence. Which meant the culprit must have known that yesterday would be the one day Elen worried most that Stevie would be stolen—the day another "chosen child," King Arthur, had been taken from his mother.

I frowned, thinking of Gareth and his talk about the mythical divine child as I turned a second time to follow the signposted footpath that cut westward through the wood.

It was peaceful, here—green and deliriously quiet, the fallen leaves damp and too languid to do more than sigh when I stepped on them. Last night's storm had made mud of the path and it sucked at my feet, forcing me to go more slowly, to notice the rich earthy smells and the way that the sunlight came filtering down and the kiss of the mild morning breeze. I noticed the ground, too—the ruts in the mud and the rounded deep imprints of hooves.

So I should have been ready. I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when I heard the horse coming behind me, not trotting but walking, quite leisurely, taking its time. And I should have expected the voice.

"God, it's you again." Gareth, on horseback, looked rather like one of those centaurs I'd seen as a child in my book of Greek myths—dark and not completely tamed, his jaw set high with arrogance, black jodhpurs and boots and thick-knitted black pullover blending right in to the midnight black mare till the two of them moved like one animal, towering over me. They slowed to a halt, stomping a few times to flatten the deep mud, and Sovereign stretched her lovely neck towards me, nostrils flared to catch my scent. I fancied that her eyes held recognition. Gareth's though, held something else. "Are you always this subtle when stalking a client?"

I looked at him, opened my mouth to respond and then closed it, deciding it wasn't worth the effort. Instead I simply turned my back and went on walking, as if he wasn't there. Sovereign followed along like a shadow.

"What, no comeback?" asked Gareth. "No protest? No speech about what a detestable bastard I am?''

"All right, then. You are a detestable bastard. Does that make you happy?"

"Ecstatic." He reined the horse closer, and slanted a searching look down at my face.

I stopped again, bending to make a great fuss over Chance, who had given up snuffing for rabbits and mice in the field and come running to greet me, his whole body wagging. Gareth gave a tight sigh and I glanced up. My eyes met his, warily, just for a moment, then darted away. But that was enough.

"Something's happened," he said.

"Don't be daft. Nothing's—"

"Tell me."

I don't know what possessed me, then. It might have been the sight of him on horseback, stirring memories of my riding days and friends I'd shared my life with at the stables. It might have been the silence of the wood, like a confessional, with Gareth putting me in mind of a medieval hermit priest, a warrior monk who'd turned his back upon the world. Or it might have been the aura of the man himself, the way his solid, sure demeanour made a contrast to the ever-shifting atmosphere of Castle Farm, demanding nothing, giving less.

Whatever the reason, I found myself telling him everything. I told him about the locked door, and the key, and
The Druid's Year,
and how yesterday had been the Light of Arthur, and the words tumbled out in a haphazard way like a litter of puppies pressed up to a gate that had suddenly opened. Gareth, no doubt, must have thought me quite mad.

When I'd finished, I said, "... and it's probably nothing, I know, but if someone
did
do that to Elen—trying to make her think there really
was
a dragon living in the tower that was wanting to take Stevie—then I think it was a horrid thing to do, and ... well, that's all."

He didn't break the silence right away. He went on looking down at me as though I were an alien, while the mare danced a step in impatience and Chance went back to hunting mice. "I see," said Gareth, finally.

Embarrassed now, I cleared my throat. "I thought you had a right to know."

Something strange, imperceptible, flashed in his eyes, but I was already turning from it, wanting to escape. And since he was clearly headed west, I wheeled and faced the way I'd come—the route that seemed the safest. "Sorry I interrupted your ride," I said, trying to sound not the slightest bit sorry. For, after all, he was making me feel like an idiot, and he was meeting with Bridget, and ...

"Thank you," he said. The phrase sounded rough in his throat, as though he hadn't used it in a long while. I stopped in my tracks to look back, but he'd already signalled the mare to walk on, and I couldn't do much more than stand there and watch them—black horse and black rider—melt into the shadows that dappled the path, with the little dog trotting behind.