Named of the Dragon (25 page)

I felt Gareth's eyes on my face, but I left it to him to break the silence. When he finally did, his voice was calm and even, making conversation. "He was taken from his mother as a young boy; so was I. Raised by strangers; so was I. He never knew his father." As I turned my head to look at him, he said, "Writing Henry would be little more than putting my own words in Henry's mouth. I bloody hate that kind of self-indulgence on the stage."

I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

"Why be sorry? I survived."

Watching his jaw settle into the now familiar stubborn pose, I tried to picture what he would have looked like as a little boy, a child of five or thereabouts. I had no right, I knew, to ask him anything, but as someone who'd carried a baby myself I couldn't help wanting to know. "Your mother..."

' 'Drank herself to death, I'm told. A minor family illness she was kind enough to pass to me." The bitterness, I thought, was not for her. Not for his mother. It was meant for those who'd stepped between them, taken him away. "She couldn't stop the drinking, so they said she wasn't fit to raise a child. But she tried. She wanted help, not a bloody care order."

I understood now why, when he'd talked about social workers this morning on the cliff, he'd been so harsh. And I understood something else, too.

"So you see," he said, taking the thought from my mind, "why I do what I can to help Elen and Stevie, the way someone should have helped us. And why I'd like to kill whoever made that call to the social services."

I nodded, saying nothing. I had meant to share my suspicions of Christopher, but looking at Gareth's face I decided that wouldn't be wise. Not, at least, till I'd come up with actual proof.

"Nothing new on that front?" he asked.

"No, not really. I'm keeping an eye on what everyone does, like you said, but so far—" I broke off as a great hurling spatter of rain hit the window, surprising us both. It came down the chimney as well, landing on the coals with a scattering of tiny hisses. Gareth leaned over and twitched back the curtain to look. "It's really coming down," he said. "You'll have a wet walk home."

"Oh, that's all right, I've got my raincoat. And I'm only going to the pub, just up the road. I'm supposed to meet the others there at eight."

He let the curtain fall. "I'll run you up there in the car." "No, really, I'll be fine. You needn't—" "I take it they don't know you're here, with me?" Actually, I'd told Bridget some story about needing to phone through to Canada and discuss some non-existent crisis with my brother, but I didn't want Gareth to know I'd gone to such elaborate lengths just to bring him a Christmas present. I was trying to decide what I should tell him when he shrugged and said, "No problem. If they notice me dropping you off you can tell them we met in the lane and I gave you a lift."

"Thanks." And then, remembering how deeply he valued his privacy, I added, "I won't tell anyone, you know, about... well, what you said."

He'd finished his chocolate. Shifting the papers aside with his elbow, he swivelled to set the mug down on his desk. "If I'd thought there was any real danger of that, I'd have kept my mouth shut in the first place, now wouldn't I?"

Which was probably, I reasoned, as close as he would ever come to paying me a compliment.

XXIX

...
and thro' the tree

Rushed ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind

Pierced ever a child's cry...

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Last Tournament"

No one seemed to notice that I wasn't soaking wet. Except, perhaps, for Christopher, who flicked me a curious glance but said nothing, mainly because he was too busy fending off questions about where he himself had been. "Nowhere, really."

"You had to be somewhere," said James.

"I just went for a drive. Oh, and rented some videos."

That got Bridget's attention. "Videos?"

' 'Mm.
Miracle on 34th Street
and A
Christmas Carol
— the old black and white one, with Alastair Sim. Uncle Ralph's got a video recorder, we might as well use it."

Bridget, predictably, thought it a brilliant idea. For once, she didn't linger over after-dinner coffee, but herded us into the car and straight home to make popcorn. Not that I minded—it made a nice change from our usual gather-around-by-the-Christmas-tree evenings. It was heaven to lounge in the dark on the sitting-room sofa, with everyone silent and no need to make conversation.

I even did rather well, staying awake, but it was nearly midnight when we slipped the second tape into the video, and though I tried my best to follow Scrooge's nasty undertakings, by the time Marley's ghost finally clanked through the bedchamber, sleep was attacking in waves. Yawning, I leaned my head back on the cushions and let my eyes close. It was Marley's voice, really, that finished me off—that drab, mournful monotone, lecturing Scrooge.

As I drifted, I heard the ghost rise in a shrieking of chains, but the shrieking became something else, full of menace and terrible ...

Something behind me.

It roared again, gaining, and clutching the child I dragged myself free of the water and reeds and climbed on to the hard, frozen turf of an unknown field. I was too tired to run now, my legs moving leadenly. Soon it would be at our backs, it would catch us, and then ...

"Almost there," a voice whispered, ahead in the darkness. "Seek the light and then follow it. There you'll find safety."

I looked for the speaker. "Where are you?"

"Follow the light," came the answer, more faintly.

And a small, steady gleam like the flame of a lantern chased over the cold ground ahead of me, beckoning. It paused when I stumbled but never stopped moving, leading me swiftly across the strange field while the mist swirled around us and hid us from view. And then, when my strength had all gone and I felt I would faint if I went one step further, the light led me out of the mist altogether. I might have stepped over a threshold—a nebulous wall shifted shape at my back, as though held in place by some invisible force, while before me the moonlight struck pale through the perfect clear night to shine upon an ancient grove of oaks.

Their tangled branches, silvered by the moon, dripped thick with mistletoe, and somewhere in their twisted depths an owl hooted out a warning. The light had halted, quite abruptly, in the centre of the grove. And slowly the shadow beside it turned round and resolved itself into the shape of a man.

The old man I'd seen at St. Govan's.

His eyes met mine kindly, his hair blowing white as he took a step forwards and held out his hands. "It is time," he said. "Give me the child."

I tightened my hold. "No, I can't."

"It is time," he repeated. "Your journey is done. The boy's path lies with me now. Let him go."

"No." My hand closed protectively over the tousled fair curls, pressing his head to the curve of my shoulder. "He chose me. I have to protect him."

"If you would save him, you must give him into my care now or all will be lost. This is the boy's destiny."

My eyes filled. "Please, you can't take him from me."

The old man stood firm, hands outstretched. "So have I prophesied; so must it be."

"No." I turned, and in that one unguarded instant came a flash of flame that brought the night alive.

The shadows writhed in fury and an evil yellow eye, too close to mine, rolled over white as one thick grasping claw slashed through the wall of mist to steal the child from me. And the creature screamed its triumph, wheeled and vanished in a sudden flap of wings while I stood stunned and empty-handed on the scorched and barren earth.

I heard the child cry in terror; heard him cry, but couldn't follow. I could only stand and listen as the crying grew more distant, till it sounded somehow smaller like the wailing of a newborn.

Then a sudden swell of music rose to underscore the drama, and I forced my eyes to open.

On the screen, Scrooge was leaving the room where his sister had died.
Almost
died, I corrected myself... she revived for a moment and murmured in fever, too late for her brother to hear. "Promise me you'll take care of my boy,"

she implored him. "Promise me you'll take care..."

Bridget stirred in her chair and glanced over with glistening eyes. "I know. It always gets me, too, this part," she said, and handed me a tissue.

XXX

Then this is the Deciding Day.

John Dryden, Merlin, or The British Enchanter

There was only one shop in the village, but it seemed to sell everything, tidily organized into a space that was barely the size of my parents' front room.

"... and the sprouts ... yes, that's it." Bridget finished checking through the box of fruit and veg assembled to her order on the counter. "That's brilliant, Sheila. What do I owe you?"

The small dark-haired shopkeeper tallied the bill while I struggled to get a good hold on the turkey. It was fresh and enormous and kept slipping out of my hands.

"Having company, are you?" the shopkeeper asked.

Bridget smiled. "No, I just adore food."

' 'Well now, Elen from over your way came this morning to pick up her turkey, and I thought she said you were having a party."

"Oh right, yes, tonight. Just a few people over for drinks and things, really, before we go out to the Christmas Eve service."

The shopkeeper nodded approval. "Very nice of your man to ask Elen, I thought. She doesn't get out much, poor thing."

I couldn't resist throwing Bridget a smug look as we edged out the narrow shop door with our purchases, but sticking to her guns she shook her head.

"She won't come. She never wants to socialize when Gareth isn't there."

"Gareth's not coming?" I said that too quickly, but Bridget, absorbed in herself, didn't notice.

"Apparently not. He said thanks very much, but he likes to stay in Christmas Eve, on his own."

"Oh."

Misinterpreting my tone, she nodded. "Yes, I thought you'd be happy to hear that. I know you don't like him."

I hefted the turkey and followed her across the street to the green-painted gate leading into the playground, my gaze drifting sideways to the low grey stone wall with its bright sprays of cotoneaster, and the quiet pink cottage behind, nestled up to the trees. The gate clanged behind us, disturbing the crows in the branches above so they rose in a black flapping whirl, hurling insults.

"Doesn't look like he's home," Bridget said, with a glance at the cottage. "I don't see his car."

I turned my head deliberately, taking the positive view. "Well, at least I won't have to worry tonight, then, about how to keep James distracted."

"Has it been such a worry? I'm sorry. I never do think, do I? Here you are, meant to be having a holiday ..."

"At least you're feeding me," I said, and hugged the turkey with a smile. "I can't complain."

"I do owe you a break, though. Tonight," she vowed bravely, "I shan't flirt with anyone. Not even James."

I laughed, I couldn't help it. "Now,
there's
an empty promise if I've ever heard one."

"You don't think I can do it?"

"Well, maybe if you were unconscious ..."

"All right then," she told me. "I'll bet you ten pounds."

"That you go a whole night without flirting? You're on."

Indignant, she wedged herself, box and all, into the kissing gate. "I could go a whole week if I wanted to."

She very nearly lost her bet when Christopher came out to meet us at the bottom of the drive, his hands outstretched. "Here, let me take that. It looks far too heavy."

As she handed him the vegetables her mouth began to form the wide and slightly breathless smile she only showed to men, but in time she remembered and caught herself. "Thanks," she said simply.

"You're welcome to take this one, too, if you like," I told Christopher, offering my turkey. It was meant as a test of his chivalry, really—I didn't think he'd take it. But he rose to the challenge.

"Right." He extended the box. "Chuck it in."

"Only if it doesn't crush the veg," instructed Bridget.

"You can't crush sprouts," he said. "They're hard as bullets."

She took his word and led us up the drive, past the grassy spot where the Merc should have been. "Where's James?''

"He's gone into town."

"What, again? He'll be wearing great grooves in the road," Bridget said. "What on earth was he after this time?"

"More champagne and smoked salmon."

"Oh, God." Her eyes rolled. "You'd think the Queen was coming."

I flexed my strained arms, massaging the quivering muscles. "Who
is
coming?"

' 'Owen and Dilys, of course, and a bunch of local people you don't know." She named them anyway, and she was right—the names meant nothing.

"And Elen," I added, straight-faced.

But Christopher shook his head. "No, she's not coming."

Trying my best to ignore Bridget's gloating expression, I asked him why not.

"She said she wasn't feeling well—a touch of this 'flu that's been going around, maybe. It wouldn't surprise me, she doesn't take care of herself." I thought I detected a note of complaint in his voice, and that struck me as odd, but it had vanished by the time we reached the back door. "Mind you," he added, "I don't think she'll miss much. I can think of half a dozen ways I'd rather spend my Christmas Eve."

"Oh, I don't know," said Bridget. "I rather like a good party."

"So do I." His tone was dry. "But it's my brother throwing this one, don't forget. That spells disaster."

Inside the back passage, the whine of the Hoover drowned everything, prim and industrious. It seemed strange to see Dilys here, doing the cleaning—I'd have thought that cleaning house for someone else would be beneath her. But James had assured me that wasn't the case.' 'No, no," he'd told me, earlier,' 'she always does this, honestly. It's a matter of pride with her, having the place looking spotless. She doesn't bother when it's only Christopher and me, but if we dare to entertain ..." HeM rolled his eyes, expressively. "She won't have anybody saying Owen doesn't take good care of Castle Farm, while Uncle Ralph's away. She was in here scrubbing floors, you know, the day before you came."

She didn't look like any cleaner I'd ever met. In fact, I decided, the way she looked now must be quite like the way she had looked in her Sister Casualty days. Bustling round in her floral-print pinafore, carefully lipsticked and smelling of hand cream, she made me feel wet and incompetent.

"Now mind you wipe your feet," she said, switching off the Hoover as we tramped in. "I've done this bit already; I'm not keen to do it over."

Bridget defiantly shrugged off her jacket and shook out the damp before tossing it anyhow into the comer. "I'm off to have a bath," she announced.

Christopher stepped through to set his box down in the kitchen. "Just shout if you need me to come scrub your back."

I saw what it cost her to let that line pass without making some equally flirty reply, but she'd taken our wager to heart and she didn't like losing. Her gaze flicked towards me, to make sure that I'd noticed, before she tossed her head and walked away.

Dilys bent to pick up Bridget's jacket, lips compressed in disapproval. "She'll make a proper pair with lames— they'll have to have somebody living in to clean up after them. I've never seen such a mess as that room that he writes in."

Christopher, who'd gone through to the kitchen, poked his head back round the door. "You didn't clean it, did you?''

"Well, of course I did. You never know where guests are going to look," she said. And looping the Hoover's cord over the handle, she rolled off to see to the dining-room.

Christopher watched her go, shaking his head, and then slid his gaze sideways to me. "Just a word to the wise: When my brother gets home, keep your head down—he's bound to explode."

But James, quite surprisingly, took the invasion of his writing-room in stride. "Oh, well," was his only comment, after seeing his papers and books stacked with knife-edge precision on the gleaming rosewood table. And then he turned and closed the door and went upstairs to wash.

He came down whistling, riding the crest of a good mood that lasted through supper and left Bridget mystified.

"Maybe you've caught Elen's 'flu," she said, feeling his forehead.

"I do wish you'd stop that. I've told you I'm fine." Smiling, he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. "Shall I help with the dishes?"

"You see? There you go again," Bridget accused him. "It's like one of those films, where an alien takes over somebody's body..."

He laughed. "I'm no alien."

"That," said his brother, "is open to argument. What time is this party supposed to begin?"

James shrugged. "I said nine-thirtyish."

"Well, I'd better get dressed, then."

"I'll check to see everything's organized," James said, and pushed back his own chair to rise.

Bridget frowned. "It won't help you, you know."

"What won't?"

"Running away. I won't rest till I know what you're up to."

"Who says I'm up to anything?" He smiled and bent to kiss her. "It's Christmas, darling."

As he left us, Bridget looked across at me, one eyebrow arched. "God bless us, every one."

*-*-*-*-*

The dining-room looked different with the table pushed against the longer wall, beneath the windows, and the high-backed chairs turned round to face the room for extra seating. At one end the Christmas tree, gracefully sparkling, soared to the ceiling, while at the other end the sideboard had been heaped with heat-and-serve treats.

The party appeared to be constantly swelling, a mingled confusion of laughter and talk and new faces, all friendly, and in their midst James moving round with the skill of a chef, stirring people together. Bridget, in her element, played hostess—though I noticed she never strayed far from the sideboard. She was into my smoked salmon roll-ups again when I came to refill my champagne glass.

I searched through the platters. "What happened to all of those cheese things?''

"Mwuf," Bridget said, with an innocent shrug.

"You're impossible."

Smiling, she poured my champagne. "So, do the tights fit all right?"

"Mm. That just goes to show you, I'm not nearly as organized as my mother. She would never have forgotten to pack an extra pair of tights."

"At least you remembered the little black dress," she pointed out. "And very fetching it looks, too."

"Thanks."

"Having fun?"

"Yes, I am, rather." I picked up a bowl that was empty except for a few scattered crumbs. ' 'Did you eat the crisps, too?"

"There are more in the kitchen."

"I'll get them. Here, hold this." I gave her my glass. "And for heaven's sake don't finish anything else while I'm gone."

In the kitchen I found Christopher, standing by the corner cupboard.looking at something he held in his hands. He glanced up quickly as I came in, and my eyebrows came down in suspicion. I'd been trying to keep him in my sights all evening. Having decided that he was most likely the person who'd been bothering Elen, I had wanted to be sure he didn't get a chance to spoil her Christmas Eve.

He must have sensed the change in me. His smile tried too hard. "Enjoying the party?"

"Very much. We need more crisps," I said, holding out the empty bowl as evidence.

"Oh right. I think they're by the toaster, there."

"I see them." Shaking out the bag, I stole a sideways look to see what he was doing. "Are you after food, as well?"

"What? No," he said, smiling, and hung something up on a hook in the cupboard. He swung the door shut. "No, just poking about."

"Well, if you're going back in, could you carry these,

please? I should heat up some more of those cheese things."

"Sure." Taking the bowl of crisps from me he scooped up a rattling handful and sauntered off into the passage. I waited till his footsteps had been swallowed by the general party din before I crossed the kitchen floor to check the cupboard.

He'd been looking at a ring of keys—a large, old-fashioned ring with keys of every shape and size slung round it, crowded tight together.

Lifting my head, I looked towards the door, the way that Christopher had gone, and frowned again. I couldn't be sure that he'd taken a key from the ring, but I rather suspected he had. And I thought I knew, too, just which key it would be. Well, if he meant to play another trick on Elen, I thought stoutly, he would have to come through me.

Damping down my anger, I went back to join the party.

Bridget was still by the sideboard. ' 'I thought you were bringing more cheese things," she said, as she handed me back my champagne.

"I couldn't find them." Which was an outright lie—I hadn't looked. But my mind was occupied with other things. My gaze wandered over the clusters of heads, touching briefly on James's dark blond one before settling in on its true target, Christopher, standing at the far end of the room beside the Christmas tree.

Owen stepped in front of me and blocked my line of vision, cheerful in his bright red reindeer pullover. "You can't be a wallflower, lovely—especially not in that frock. Go and mingle."