Firebird (12 page)

‘Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.'

Llinos smiled at Celia. ‘You don't think he's after my money, do you?'

Celia's face creased into a smile. ‘There's little enough of that in all conscience. Well, take the young man's advice, girl, get off to your bed. Rest easy while you can, no-one knows what tomorrow will bring.'

Llinos shuddered. ‘Don't say that, Celia, it sounds as if something bad might happen.'

‘No, no, love, don't you fret, we've had enough bad things around here to last us for a long time to come.'

Later, curled up in her bed, Llinos listened to the familiar sounds of pottery being stacked ready for drying. She was grateful to Eynon, grateful for his friendship. Whatever other people said about him, she trusted him and she was glad he had come into her life. Somehow, she felt less alone.

She sighed and turned over in the bed. She was restless, sleep would not come. This was something that happened whenever she was over-tired. ‘Past it' as her mother used to say.

Her thoughts pulled up sharply, it was the first time she had admitted to herself that her mother was really gone from her for good. Tears burned behind her closed eyelids and impatiently Llinos slid out of the bed and pulled on a shawl.

Outside, the sky was heavy with the smoke blowing over from the works along the banks of the river. The smell of rotten eggs in the air seemed worse tonight than ever.

She made her way to the shed, passing the warm rounded belly of the kiln. Old Ben was asleep on a pile of straw, his toothless mouth open, his moustache lifting with every breath.

‘I thought you'd gone to bed.' Eynon dusted the clay powder from his hands. ‘You'll have enough work to do tomorrow; there are a lot of pots to glaze.' Eynon caught hold of her hand. ‘Would you like me to come up in the morning? We can talk more then.'

‘I don't like to take up your time, you must have more important things to do than help me.'

‘I should be going to the fancy college my father has chosen but that is not what I want.'

‘What do you want, Eynon?'

‘What I really want might shock you.'

‘I don't think anything you say will shock me,' Llinos said.

‘Let's say that for now all I want is genuine friendship from someone who will like me whatever my faults.'

Llinos smiled shyly. ‘I think I could fit the bill.' She looked down at her hands. ‘Why are you so kind?'

‘Nonsense! I'm not kind at all. Now, do you want me here tomorrow or not?'

‘I'd be very grateful. I will just have to take time off to go to the bank tomorrow.'

‘I've been thinking about that. I'd like to invest some money in your pottery, make it a real going concern. What do you say?'

She felt his offer was made more from kindness than from any real business sense. ‘I couldn't take your money,' Llinos said quickly.

‘Why not? I have plenty of it. You could set up in opposition to my father, wouldn't that be a fine thing?' He was smiling.

Llinos stared at him, trying to read his expression in the dimness. ‘Is that why you are doing this, to get back at your father?'

He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘No, Llinos, it's not. It would take many years to build up a business to rival that of my father. No, your pottery will never be a danger to him, don't you worry.'

There was silence for a moment and Llinos bit her lip. An influx of capital would certainly take a great deal of the worry about the running of the pottery from her shoulders. ‘It's a kind offer. What if I say I'll think about it?'

‘Be brave, Miss Savage.' He spoke softly. ‘What you wish will come true, you have a star above your head, I can see it.'

‘I'd better get back inside.' Llinos sighed heavily. ‘I should try to gel: some sleep.'

He stared at her with a quizzical expression. ‘You have a great deal of courage for one so young. Show a little more and take me up on my offer to help. There would be no strings attached, I promise you.'

‘I might have to accept your offer but, please, give me time.' She smiled. ‘There is no guarantee that even with money I would make a go of things. I might fail and end up in the workhouse.'

‘Well, we'll see that doesn't happen. Good night to you, see you tomorrow.'

Llinos watched as Eynon walked away along the row, a slim figure in a coat that flared around his knees. She thought about his offer, what if she made him a partner? He knew the business of potting; obviously he had been allowed to watch the process, at least before he had been packed off to his posh school and he was pleasant enough.

He was a strange, lonely man and yet Llinos knew instinctively that in the coming months Eynon Morton-Edwards was going to be very important to her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The smell of death hung over the field at Mont-St-Jean. Bodies lay in huddled confusion; French and British soldiers engaged in battle only short hours before lay united now in death.

Joe staggered a little beneath his burden; the wound in his side was bleeding again, it was not a serious wound but the loss of blood was weakening. Still, he would not leave Captain Savage on the field of death.

From behind him came the sound of sporadic gunfire. It seemed the French did not realize the battle was over.

Joe lowered the captain to the ground, settled him against a rock and, exhausted, sank down beside him. He saw in his mind's eye the flash of cannon, heard the cries of the wounded and the dying. He saw again an army advancing towards Mont-St-Jean, the Prussian army. Blücher had come with his troops and Napoleon's defeat was a certainty.

The vision faded as Joe heard the captain groan. Swiftly, he knelt beside him in the dirt.

‘Blücher joined us at the last minute. The war with France is over, Napoleon is defeated,' he said in a low voice.

‘We must go back to the field and share in the victory honours.' Captain Savage made an attempt to rise and fell back, his face contorted with pain.

Joe loved his captain, he would give his life for him if necessary, but he could not share his enthusiasm for what seemed a senseless war.

‘Your legs are shattered.' Joe spoke gently. ‘I have done my best to patch up your wounds but you are not in a fit state to walk.'

‘You go then, Joe, you should not have left the field.' His face was white.

Joe rested his hand on the captain's shoulder. ‘It's all right, we left under orders from Wellington himself.'

‘The Duke said we should leave? Wellington gave permission? Then we should be grateful to the great man for his humanity.'

Joe did not reply. The Duke had issued no such order but then Joe had reasoned that a man with both legs shattered and a half-breed slowly bleeding to death was no loss to the British army. Joe held the water bottle to the captain's lips.

‘Where are we making for, Joe?' The captain's voice was weak.

‘The surgeon's tent is about a mile away, we must make it before darkness falls.' Joe frowned. Or before the life force drained out of one or both of them.

He tore the bottom from his trousers and ripped the coarse material into strips. The larger strip he tied around the wound in his side to stop the bleeding and the other smaller ones he kept over his shoulder.

He hacked several branches from a half-dead tree, apologizing mentally to mother earth for the desecration. Working quickly, he lashed the branches together to form a crude stretcher. As he manoeuvred the captain onto it, he knew that time was running out, for both of them.

He looked up at the fading sun for a long moment and then, with a supreme effort, he lifted one end of the stretcher and began to drag it along the ground.

There was no point in trying to keep under cover, the earth that would succour brush would be uneven, difficult to negotiate. In any case, Joe believed that the time was not right for him to return to the spirit in the sky, he had his life before him, his destiny was not yet fulfilled.

It was strange how at times of crisis he reverted to what the white man would call the superstitions of the American Indian. Perhaps it was the same with the captain, who was uttering prayers now to his God. The words were hushed, faltering, but Joe's hearing was acute.

‘The Lord is my refuge and strength . . .' The captain's voice was fading and Joe closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that it was only unconsciousness that had claimed the captain and not the cold hand of death.

The walk across the harsh land was sapping the last of his strength, he had no compass, it was only the power of his senses and his sheer strength of will that led him forward.

When the moon-mother slid from between the clouds, he looked up, begging her silently for help. A mist formed before his face, he was losing consciousness. He slumped to his knees and feeling the earth power beneath him drew strength from it.

He heard them before he saw them and knew soldiers were coming. If they were the enemy, he was a dead man; the French who had escaped from the battlefield would take no prisoners. He swayed and the light faded, and the last thing Joe knew was the taste of dirt in his mouth.

‘Come on, son, take your hands away from the stretcher, we're only trying to help.'

He opened his eyes. The man bending over him wore an eye patch but his complexion was fresh and his uniform that of a British soldier. Joe sighed and sank back into the darkness where there was no pain.

‘You shape it this way, see?' Llinos felt the raw red clay obey her fingers, forming itself into a tall pot.

‘Looks easy enough.' Watt was frowning.

‘Go on, try it.' Llinos allowed the clay to collapse into a shapeless mound as she stopped turning the wheel.

‘I used to watch the potters work the clay sometimes,' Watt said. ‘One of the potters let me have a go, I was only a nipper then, mind.'

Llinos suppressed a smile. Watt was about nine or ten years old. ‘Right then, get onto the stool and get your feet working so that the wheel spins fast and even. Good thing you're tall for your age.'

Watt tried to grasp the clay as the wheel spun but it eluded him, slipping from his fingers.

‘Damn and bugger it!'

‘Now, Watt, no good losing your temper. Remember the clay won't respond to a pair of hands that can't hold it firmly.'

Watt looked at her wide-eyed. ‘You talk as if the clay has a life of its own.'

‘It has, you wait and see. Come on, tackle it with guts, grab and hold it, show the clay who is boss.'

Watt tried again and this time the clay rose rapidly between his clutching fingers only to splay out over the top and collapse onto itself.

Llinos resisted the urge to laugh at the bemused expression on the boy's face. ‘You keep trying,' she urged. ‘I've got to get some glazing done or we'll never have enough stuff ready for market day.'

Llinos wandered around the shed. Some of the more experienced apprentices were becoming quite skilled, shaping pots with deft fingers. She had at last plucked up enough courage to ask at the workhouse for hands, and three young girls and two boys had been placed in her care. They were not skilled but one or two of them showed promise. If the work was crude it scarcely mattered, the pots were functional rather than decorative.

Soon, she would show the girls how to paint, how to work with transfer patterns. The boys could do much of the heavy work. The Savage Pottery was on its way up again.

A dreaming silence fell over the shed and Llinos became engrossed in the process of mixing the glazes. She had learned from age-old methods that wood ash from beech and holly resulted in a smooth green glaze. Ash or yew tended to make the pot turn a greyish colour. She had experimented with onion skins and other vegetables to make a variety of colours but she preferred the plain terracotta of the red clay which came from Penllergaer.

Binnie came into the shed and looked round the room, a frown of concentration on his face. He approached Llinos and spoke in a low voice.

‘We can thank God for Eynon Morton-Edwards,' he said, seating himself at the wheel. He took up a lump of clay and Llinos watched with raised eyebrows as he began to work.

‘Without his money we would have had to close down by now.' Binnie was trying, without much success, to shape the clay. ‘It would have broken your father's heart if he could have seen the state we were in.'

‘Thank God you came back to me, Binnie. Those few days you stayed away I was worried to death that you wouldn't return.'

Binnie's face took on a closed look and Llinos knew better than to pursue the subject. If Binnie wanted to confide in her about his home life, he would.

‘How did you get on with my father, Binnie?' Llinos looked down at her hands, wondering why she asked such a question now. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was an orphan that made her want to fix her past into some form of pattern, a way of preserving the essence of what was herself.

‘I always found him a good man to work for, hard, mind, but fair.' Binnie was smiling, Llinos could tell from the tone of his voice. She looked up and saw him cut a pot from the wheel.

‘Well done!' She went to admire it. Though a little misshapen, it was, unmistakably, a pot. ‘I didn't know you could throw a pot.'

Binnie laughed, his hair falling across his eyes. ‘I just wanted to try my hand at it. I don't think I'll ever make a potter, though. I'll stick to my job as foreman if it's all the same by you.'

He rubbed the clay from his fingers. ‘How are the children from the workhouse shaping up?'