State of Grace (Resurrection) (12 page)

‘No women’s saddle. You will have to ride like a man, with your legs apart.’

‘Oh. Good.’ I had never ridden side saddle and I didn’t want to start now. Roman’s expression was his normal blank one, but I got the distinct impression he didn’t approve of me. Or didn’t think I could ride ‘like a man’. Little did he know!

Viktor held the reigns of one horse while Roman moved to lift me into the saddle. Scowling, I shooed him away, and, hoisting my skirt around my thighs
, I prepared to mount. I couldn’t keep the smirk from my face as Viktor, whose face had been as deadpan as Roman’s, caught a peek of my bare leg, and his eyes widened slightly (although you’d only notice if you were looking for it) as I bounced on both feet, then swung one leg over the saddle, before sitting upright and arranging that ridiculous dress, tucking it over and around my legs to keep it out of the way. I felt a tiny glimmer of satisfaction: at least I could ride, and relatively well at that, thanks to mum having competed at three day eventing before she had us kids. Since then she had always kept a horse or two and encouraged both of us to learn to ride. Ianto was better than me and more of a daredevil: there wasn’t a fence he wouldn’t attempt, until dad let him loose on the farm vehicles, and then he lost interest in anything that didn’t have wheels. Apart from sheep, that is: he seemed to have a way with them. He knew when one was ailing or having trouble lambing, and they seemed to trust him. He could even tell them apart. I could spot the one or two we had hand-reared. Maybe. On a good day. The rest simply blended into a sheepy background. He actually knew them all by sight. You can just imagine the jokes he had to put up with down the pub.

Roman mounted with animal grace and he pointed the stallion’s head towards the same gate the other horse had been ridden out of. My gelding followed automatically. I looked around for Viktor. He had disappeared.

‘He will join us later,’ Roman said.

He leant over to take my reins, but I jerked them away from his hand. No way was he going to lead
my horse, like a child on its first ride. He shrugged, then without warning we were cantering between the two towers, clattering over a wooden bridge, with the sluggish gleam of deep water beneath, and the dull thud of hooves on dirt. No one tried to stop us.

The canter became a gallop and I settled into the saddle, learning the rhythm of the horse, concentrating on the dark road ahead, although the horse
’s night vision was considerably keener than mine. I kept as close to the stallion’s flank as I could, hoping Roman could see better than I. I hadn’t ridden for some time and the muscles in my legs quickly protested at the unaccustomed activity. A dull ache was in my shoulders as I fought to keep the gelding steady over the rough ground. We were galloping along a deeply rutted road and I thought the tracks could have been made by carts, or off-road vehicles, though I suspected this world I was imaging didn’t have the benefit of the combustion engine: otherwise, why ride? The earth beneath our hooves was a mixture of packed hard soil, rubble and churned up mud: a deadly combination for animals ridden hard and fast in the middle of the night. More than once the gelding stumbled and I had to use my hands and body to help him regain his balance before he fell. I would hurt tomorrow – if I survived tonight!

Chapter 5

We followed the track for some time, riding as if t
he hounds of hell were after us. The night was blacker than I thought possible, and with the absence of most of my sight my other senses tried to gear up to compensate; my ears were filled with jingle of harness, the steady thud of hooves, the harsh breath of the horses (or was that me breathing like a train?), the wind whipping past my head and the creak of the saddle as it moved slightly at every stride. I could smell the horses and leather, a comforting smell reminding me of my mother, and as the air currents eddied around us, I caught tantalising whiffs of Roman. Boy, that man smelled good! I was sure it wasn’t aftershave or deodorant, but for the life of me I couldn’t work out how he smelled so nice, when the castle had been reeking of unwashed bodies, BO, and other smells I didn’t even want to think about.

The stallion veered in
to me, forcing the gelding off the track and onto another smaller one, and I could sense the path climbing steadily. Roman’s horse dropped to a canter, and the gelding gratefully slowed his pace. Both horses were blowing hard and sweat-lathered by the time the path led into trees. It plunged underneath the canopy, and the horses were forced down into a fast trot as branches whipped past and tree trunks loomed out of the darkness with alarming speed. Roman apparently knew this path well: at least, I hoped he did. I didn’t fancy getting lost, or worse, running into a tree at speed, or a cliff drop to appear suddenly beneath our feet, or… The irresponsibility of riding in the pitch black at stupid speeds was getting to me.

I estimated that we had travelled
at least a couple of miles, probably more: it was difficult to tell in the dark, with no landmarks to take my bearings from, but after a few more minutes of dodging bark the trees thinned, and when the horses reached open ground I could see a faint glow ahead that grew brighter as we approached.

Roman halted the stallion as we entered a yard formed by the junction of two buildings
at right angles to each other. One appeared to be a house, the other a barn. He slid from the saddle and held out a hand to me. This time I accepted his help, swinging a stiff leg over the pommel. He caught my waist in his strong hands and lifted me down with ease. My legs shook when they touched the ground and I hoped they would hold me up. Roman must have been thinking the same thing because he kept one hand on me to steady me. I knew I would ache like the devil tomorrow.

‘Viktor,’ he said, quietly
.

‘Here.’ Viktor appeared silently next to me. I stifled a surprised shriek and both men allowed a little amusement to show on their faces. I say ‘allowed’ because
that’s exactly what they seemed to do. There was nothing involuntary about it.

Even in the dim light spilling from the
house’s open door, I could make out how pale both men were and I took a second to study them. They had some similarities: the dark hair and eyes, the pale skin, and both were clean shaven, although Roman had the merest hint of designer stubble. So many men I had seen in these hallucinations had facial hair. Yeuch! Whenever I saw anything more substantial than a five o’clock shadow I imagined bits of yesterday’s lunch trapped in the hairs, and had flashbacks to my Uncle Billy’s bristly moustache, stained yellow from nicotine. Uncle Billy had been my grandmother’s brother, and in hindsight, I think he must have had a heart condition because his lips always had a blue tinge to them. I was too young to feel anything other than disgust as I recoiled from the sloppy, wet kisses he liked to plant on my cheeks.

Viktor was returning my stare
, his expression shuttered once more (no surprise there, then). He wasn’t what I would call classically handsome, in fact, I’m not sure he was all that good looking, but there was something about him that drew the eye, something that made a girl very aware of him. Perhaps this was what was meant when people said someone had ‘charisma’, and an image of Hitler popped unbidden into my mind: he was said to have been charismatic and look how he turned out. Viktor was definitely attractive, with his brooding dark eyes and slightly hooked nose. He was no match for Roman in the looks department (Roman was drop-dead scrummy), but I remembered what my mother had said about movie stars, ‘they either got it, or they don’t’ and this man had ‘got it’, whatever ‘it’ was.

All the time I was examining him, Viktor was doing the same to me. He inspected me
from the top of my scarf-covered head (although said scarf was coming off, and hanging around my ears) to my leather-slippered feet. He focused on my neck and I knew he could see the bite marks, where the scarf had slipped. His eyes glittered strangely as he stared at the still-raw wounds. He licked his lips, and as they parted I saw his oh-so-white teeth. They, too, were sharp. A frisson of fear slid down my back, making my hairs stand on end. For the umpteenth time that night, I fought the urge to run. After all, I had no idea where to run to and I was under no illusion I could get very far before one of them caught me.

Viktor, with the tiniest of shudders, turned away from me, and t
ook the reins of both horses, leading them away, leaving me standing, watching his retreating back. I felt like a rabbit must feel when crouched in the undergrowth, waiting for the fox to sense it, and the relief it must feel when the fox moved on and death passed it by. For now.

Roman, one hand
still on the small of my back, guided me towards the house, and I stumbled next to him, willing my leaden legs to move. I had stiffened up considerably in just those few minutes and the cold November night air didn’t help. It would be hell to move them tomorrow.   He paused in the doorway, head angled, listening, and I had a moment to question how Viktor had gotten here ahead of us. That was one I would save for later when I had time to think of a logical explanation, especially when logic was effectively eluding me for the moment. Perhaps cars did exist in this universe of mine after all?

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, Roman took my elbow and drew me inside the house. It was a single storey building, solidly made of stone, with one tiny window and a thatched roof. The door led directly into
the cooking and living area, complete with obligatory hearth and fire, which was the dominant feature in the room. There was also a scarred wooden table, two chairs, and a raised platform running along one wall, covered in rough cloth cushions. The floor was stone slabs, and although the room was sparsely furnished, at least it was clean. Another room led off from this one, but a piece of cloth hanging across the doorway obscured my view.

Roman indicated that I should sit and I sank down onto the cushions with a relieved groan. It had been a
long night and I was tired, sore and hungry, and I definitely needed the bathroom.

‘Ummm…’ I bit my lip, uncertain how best to approach the subject.

‘You are safe,’ Roman reassured me. ‘You won’t be harmed here.’

‘Good, but that’s not what on my mind. I need to visit the bathroom. Could you show me where it is?’

‘Bathroom.’ His voice was blank. It was obvious he had no idea what the word meant.

‘Toilet?’ I tried.

No response. I blew out my cheeks and took the bull by the horns. ‘I need to urinate,’ I stated succinctly. I didn’t think any euphemisms, like ‘little girl’s room’ or ‘do a wee’ would work on him. He had enough trouble understanding me as it was.

‘You need the privy?’

‘Yes.’ (I think.)

Without another word h
e led me back outside and around the corner of the house, and continued walking until we came to a tiny squat structure surrounded by grass, some considerable distance from the house. He pointed at it and discretely left me alone to take care of business. Great: an outside loo. Must be a bitch in the rain but at least it wasn’t raining now, so I trudged over to it, and did what was necessary. The experience was not as gruesome as I anticipated: the hole in the ground smelt of earth and rather musty, but not the noisome stench I was expecting. The lack of loo seat took a little getting used to, but I had been in enough foreign countries where good balance is everything, so I managed. I wasn’t impressed with the absence of toilet paper, and it took me a couple of seconds to work out that the bundle of dry moss in the corner was for precisely that purpose. Andrex it was not, but it did the job well enough.

I was thankful
Roman hadn’t waited outside the privy door for me (too embarrassing for words) and I made my way back to the house to find him and Viktor sat at the table. I guessed they had been talking about me because they fell silent at my entrance. Viktor, his eyes never leaving my face, stood and offered me his chair, with a sardonic little bow. I went and sat down on the platform, exhausted beyond belief, not wanting to be too close to either man. Viktor, lips twisted into a small smile as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, reclaimed his chair.

Roman spoke
, his attention appearing to be focused on Viktor although I knew he was as aware of me as I was of him. ‘She speaks Anglo-Saxon,’ he said, continuing their conversation as I hadn’t just come back into the room.

‘
Not British?’

‘No, nor Norm
an or Latin.’

‘I
am
here, you know. I can speak for myself.’

‘Who is she
?’ Viktor asked.

‘I am still here. You can ask me.’ I was starting to get annoy
ed. Perhaps I had disappeared and not noticed or perhaps this cloak he had leant me had powers of invisibility like Harry Potter’s.

‘I don’t know.’ Roman’s pale face was slightly vexed. Then he smiled, a brief upward movement of his well-shaped lips. ‘You could try asking
her.’

‘Yes, ask me,’ I urged.

Viktor looked at me again, his eyes cold and hard. I shuddered. I had a feeling this man could turn vicious without any provocation.

‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly and distinctly.

‘My name is Grace Llewellyn,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.

‘A Llewellyn,’ he mused. ‘Who is your sire?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your father,’ Roman,
who was beginning to grasp the differences in our speech, explained.

I could not think of one earthly reason why Viktor would want to know that, but I answered readily enough. ‘David Llew
ellyn.’

‘D
afydd ap Llewellyn?’ Viktor asked curiously.

‘No, just David Llewellyn.’

‘You are not of royal blood?’

‘No. Well, not recently, anyway. Perhaps way, way back, I might have a princess or two as an ancestor, but no, not so’s you’d notice,’ I admitted, regre
tfully. It must be nice to be able to trace your ancestors back, but knowing my luck, if I could do that I would probably find I was a descendent of Jack the Ripper, not Henry VIII.

I was suddenly nervous: th
e silence as the two men studied me like I was an exhibit in the National History Museum was becoming decidedly uncomfortable. Well, for me anyway. I had the feeling that nothing on earth could make this pair uncomfortable.

Eventually Viktor spoke.
‘Where did she come from? I have not seen her at the castle.’

At this, Roman sort of hitched in a breath, and let it out slowly. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘She
simply appeared as if out of the air. She was not there, and then she was, then she was not again. This has happened four times.’ I was glad I had the inside knowledge on this because his explanation made no sense whatsoever.

Viktor narrowed his eyes. ‘When?’

‘The first time was only a few years after I was resurrected. The next, after the battle at Bredon Hill. The third was earlier this evening.’ He stopped for a second, and then continued emotionlessly, ‘I drank from her.’