Named of the Dragon (11 page)

"Try reading further on, towards the end."

I found it in the eighth verse.

"A tale that will come to pass," I slowly read the lines aloud. "A staff of gold, signifying bravery, will be given by the glorious Dragon Kings. The graceful one will vanquish the profaner. Before the child, bright and bold, the Saesons shall fall, and bards will flourish."

He nodded. "That's the one."

"So the Dragon Kings would be ... ?"

"The ancient line of British kings, who claimed descent from Brutus."

"Brutus the Trojan again."

"That's right."

"But he's mythical, surely."

"Most legends," said Gareth, "are rooted in myth. And legends live longer than truth."

I considered this, reading the verse through a second time and frowning as I realized that this couldn't possibly have influenced my dream—I'd never read the poems of Merlin, never knew that they existed. Even Lewis hadn't mentioned them, in all his talk of Wales. But the words had come from somewhere. "And the Saesons are ... who? The Saxons?"

He nodded. "The English, in general."

So this really was just the red dragon again, rising up to defeat the white dragon of England. Except that this poem predicted the Welsh would be led by a child.

Gareth watched me. "Who is he?"

"I'm sorry?"

"This author of yours. The one who's too lazy to do his own research."

"Oh." I shrugged. "You wouldn't know him."

"Try me. What's his name?"

My racing mind hit on a name that I knew wouldn't register—that of my assistant.

Gareth arched a brow. "But that's a Welsh name."

"Well, yes, I believe he was born in Caernarvon ..."

"He should be ashamed of himself, then. Every Welshman should know Merlin's prophecies. They're a part of the
brut,
the old underground poems that fueled Welsh resistance."

I'd been smiling to hear him echoing Lewis's own sentiments, but at the word "resistance" something clicked in my brain, and I suddenly remembered where else I'd heard of Merlin's prophecies. "Of course, you did use them in
Red Dragon Rising,
didn't you? That scene in the church, before Owain Glyn Dwr begins his rebellion—he mentions the prophecies then."

"You have a good memory," said Gareth.

"Well, I did see the play a few times." I remembered now, clearly, the power of that one brief scene, when the rebel Welsh leader confronted his destiny—I even felt sure that he'd used the words "dragon kings." "Do you have a copy of it here?"

He shook his head. "I never read things once they're finished. The urge to revise never ends."

"Oh."

"But you're right about Owain mentioning the prophecies. In real life, he used them quite freely to fuel his rebellion. A very clever man," was Gareth's personal assessment of the legendary rebel, "and in many ways the greatest hero Wales has yet produced. There's a local tradition that claims he was bom here in Pembrokeshire, not far from Wolfscastle, where I grew up."

"Is that why you wrote about him?"

"Partly. But it would be hard to be Welsh and not feel a connection to Owain, no matter where he was born. He was to Wales what William Wallace was to Scotland, only more than that. To the people who followed him, Owain Glyn Dwr was Arthur returned, as the prophecy promised. He was never betrayed," Gareth said, leaning back. "That's a bloody rare thing, in our history. In anyone's history. Even Wallace was sold by the Scots, in the end."

I nodded and glanced at the book in my hand. "So the child Merlin mentions in this poem, then ... is that Arthur, or Owain, or... ?"

"Both, in a way." He shrugged. "The birth of the divine child—the
mab y darogan,
or son of prophecy—is a cornerstone of Celtic myth. Take Arthur, for example— he's conceived by magic, raised by strangers, that's the classic archetype. And Arthur, you'll remember, didn't die. Neither did Owain. The bards sang no eulogies over him, gave him no grave." He paused, and turned his gaze towards the window to the gently rising fields, and his accented voice became something like music, like one of the speeches he wrote for the stage. "We don't let any of them die, in Wales—Merlin and Arthur and Owain—we keep
them close by and asleep in the hills, to be wakened if ever we need them."

I felt the magic of his words, and something more—a sense of solid permanence and peace, deep peace, that flowed between the land and Gareth, drew me in its circle. But the mood only lasted a moment. Turning back, he said, ' 'Now if you' ve finished, I' ve got work I should be doing.'' And all poetry forgotten, he crossed over to the Aga to refill his mug of tea.

XIII

For so must all things excellent begin.

Thomas Heywood, The Life of Merlin

I never trust a man who doesn't drink." James flipped a frying egg and turned his head to light a cigarette. He wasn't drinking tea, himself—he'd poured a generous measure of liqueur into his coffee.

Bridget, at the table, asked: "Why
doesn’t
Gareth drink? I've always wondered."

It was Christopher who answered her. Rocking his chair on its two back legs, he clasped his hands behind his head and slanted her a knowing look. "Because, my dear, the man's an alcoholic."

"Never."

"Mm. Though I suppose, to be perfectly truthful, he's really a ... what do they call it? Oh yes, a recovering alcoholic. Condemned to drink squash for the rest of his life."

James glanced up from his eggs again, clearly intrigued. "Is he really? I wasn't aware."

"Well, it's not common knowledge."

"And you heard it from ... ?"

"Elen."

"Ah. I really should tell the girl..."

"Tell her what?" Christopher asked.

James smiled faintly. "That you can't keep a secret, of course."

Christopher said something rude about secrets and let his chair drop again, yawning. "I hardly think any of
us
will run off to the
News of the World.
And besides, Bridget asked me."

Bridget, who'd been lost in thought, surfaced at the sound of her name. "What? Oh yes, well, I wondered. There's usually a reason, isn't there, why someone doesn't drink, and Garcth didn't strike me as the health-mad type." Buttering a slice of toast, she topped it with one of her own eggs and reached for the pepper mill. "Anyway, Lyn, I'm very angry with you for not waking me this morning. I'd have loved to see the inside of that cottage."

"He's done a lot to it," said James. He tipped his eggs out of the frying pan on to a plate and sat down at the table to join us. "The upstairs, I'm told, is quite unrecognizable. Auntie Frances would be pleased."

Bridget looked up, curious. "And who is Auntie Frances, now? That's not your uncle Ralph's wife's name."

"Quite right," he said. "That's Auntie Pam. No, Auntie Frances would be ... what, Chris? Uncle Ralph's aunt?"

Christopher confessed that he'd lost track of the connection. "She's likely related to everyone, here in the village. No matter how long Gareth lives in that place, or how many improvements he makes, it will always be called Auntie Frances's cottage."

Bridget smiled. "I do miss living in a village."

"I'm afraid I can't quite picture you in one," said James. "You must have caused a scandal."

' 'Heaps of scandals. But that's half the fun, and anyway, a writer is expected to be odd."

I couldn't help but smile myself, remembering the two years she'd spent living in her little house in Hampshire.

Her neighbors, I thought, were probably still undergoing therapy.

"So Lyn," she said, "do tell. What does it look like?"

"Gareth's cottage?" I shrugged. "It looks like you'd expect an old cottage to look. You know."

She sighed. "You'd never make a spy."

"Well, Bridget, have a heart. I only saw two rooms."

"I am amazed," said James, "that you saw anything at all. My own eyes would never be open that early."

They were barely open now. I watched him narrow them against the upwards drift of smoke from his freshly lit cigarette. A man like James, I thought, who concerned himself with interior lives, with a grittier world of clubs and pubs and city streets at midnight—he just wouldn't understand the pleasure in my morning walks, the joy of breathing air that felt alive, of seeing everything laid out before me, clean and new, the way it must have been the day the world began.

Unable to explain, I simply said: "I've always been a morning person."

"Six o'clock, my dear girl, isn't morning. It's the middle of the night."

Christopher smiled and tipped his chair back again, looking at me. "It's good luck that Gareth was already up."

"I didn't go round there to see him," I said, not wanting anyone to get the wrong idea. "I was just walking by, and I stopped for a minute to play with his dog, and he came to the back door, and asked me inside."

I could see Bridget's wheels working. "I wonder," she mused, "whether Gareth is up early every day?"

"Oh, I should think so," said Christopher. "That's when he writes. At least, Elen says—"

"Elen," James said, "says a lot to you, doesn't she?"

"Yes, I suppose that she does." Christopher lifted his chin, and a look passed between the two brothers—an odd sort of challenge. James backed away first, turning smoothly to me.

"So, did you manage a peek at the masterpiece? Gar-eth's new play," he explained, when I looked at him blankly.

"I didn't even know that he was writing one."

"Good lord, I'd have thought that an agent could smell work in progress," he said. "Like a bloodhound. It must have been there on his desk."

"Unless he had it hidden." Bridget rose to rinse her plate. "He's a very private person, darling."

He hadn't hidden it, though. I remembered the neat stack of handwritten pages I'd seen on his desk—the ones he'd turned over before I sat down. "What's the new play about?"

"I don't know," James said. "That's why I asked."

Once again, Christopher showed off his insider's knowledge. "It's another historical, apparently."

"Ah." James stubbed out his cigarette. "There you are, then."

Christopher's mouth curved. "I shouldn't dismiss it so lightly. He did rather well with his last one."

I might have pressed him for details, only just then we were interrupted by the sound of a cheerful bass-baritone voice singing "White Christmas." James, feigning shock, peered out into the garden. "God help us, it's Englebert Humperdinck."

The singing was switched to a spirited whistle as Owen came in through the back door, his boots caked with muck from the cowshed. "What the devil are all of you doing indoors on a glorious morning like this?" was his greeting.

"Finishing breakfast," said James.

"At a quarter past ten? Bloody scandal." He shook his head, turning to me. "You've been out though, I hear, lovely."

Bridget nudged me. "See? That's village life for you. Everyone peeking through windows."

Owen grinned. "I aren't peeking through nothing. Gareth told me. I met him just now, coming back from his ride."

"Gareth rides?" I felt a little twinge, and heard the wistful note that crept into my voice. The last time I'd been on a horse I'd been carrying Justin, a few months before he'd been born. I'd competed in dressage in those days, and loved it. I'd owned my own horse. But I'd sold her a month after Justin had died. After what Ivor had said, I hadn't been able to look at her without wondering, and even though my doctor had done his best to assure me that being on horseback hadn't been a factor in Justin's death, I'd felt enough lingering guilt to take most of the joy out of riding.

Still, I missed it. I missed the smell of horses, and the feel of them beneath me, and I couldn't help but feel a little envious of Gareth.

Owen nodded. "You'll have passed by his mare on your way to the Hib."

"That's the pub we ate dinner in," Bridget explained. "The Hibernia."

' 'There's a paddock,'' said Owen, "this side of the road, just before you reach the Hib. That's where Gareth keeps Sovereign. She'll come to the fence if you call her. Just don't feed her," he warned me, "or Gareth will never forgive you."

James stifled a yawn and remembered his manners. "A cup of tea, Owen?''

He checked his watch. "No, I can't stay. I've got to run back and get cleaned up for church. I just dropped in to ask you to lunch."

That got Bridget's attention. "Lunch?"

James shook his head. "Darling, honestly. You've just finished breakfast."

"But James, a Sunday lunch ... it will be a
real
Sunday lunch, won't it, Owen?"

"With all the trimmings. Come at half-past twelve," he offered, "and we'll have a drink beforehand."

Which rather clinched the deal, for James. "All right,
then. Very kind of you and Dilys to invite us."

Owen grinned. "If you knew my Dilys, boy, you'd know that's not an invitation. It's an order."

*-*-*-*-*

Bridget popped her head around my bedroom door. "We still have an hour or so before lunch. Did you want to come look at the horse?"

"Mm." I nodded, not looking up. "Just give me a minute."

Like a little girl, impatient for an outing, she swung herself round with one hand on the door-jamb and entered my room, dragging her feet as she came to investigate what I was doing. "What's that?"

I shifted my seat on the edge of the bed before answering, seeking the support of the bedpost. "It's a letter from the agency."

"Not the one that came yesterday morning? You've only just opened it?"

"Well, it
was
from the office. And I am on holiday."

"What does it say?"

I read the letter through a third time, to make absolutely certain. "It seems that I've been offered a directorship."

"And high time, too. Congratulations."

I shook my head. "I said that I'd been offered one. I haven't got it, yet."

Bridget's sigh spoke volumes. She had never had much patience with the agency's executive directors. "What, do you have to swim the Channel, first?"

Which came so very near the mark, I couldn't help but smile. "I have to sign a certain client."

"James?" She relaxed. "Well then, there isn't any problem, is there? James is on the brink, you know. He only wants a push."

"Bridget."

"Oh, I know. You're not the pushing type. I'm only saying that you shouldn't have a problem getting James to sign. He's rather taken with you."

I caught the tiny change in her tone, and glanced up. "What?"

' 'Well, everything he says is Lyn this and Lyn that, now. You've even got him getting up for breakfast, for heaven's sake, and he never—"

"Bridget," I cut her off, in protest, "I'm not interested in James. And he's not interested in me, not in the slightest."

"No?"

"I'd know," I assured her.

She weighed this and accepted it. "You're right, I'm being stupid. Now come on, we're running out of time. Let's go and see the horse."

I sighed, and carefully folded the letter along its sharp creases, and slipped it back into its envelope. However good the offer from my agency, I didn't have a hope of ever claiming this directorship—they'd set the bar too high. I'd sign James for them, happily. But I would not, for any price, go after Gareth.

Someone, evidently, had been sharp enough to spot the connection between the playwright and the holiday address that I had left with my assistant. And Gareth hadn't lied when he'd accused my agency of not taking no for an answer. The letter they had sent was single-minded.

Well, if they wanted him so badly, I decided, they could come down here themselves. Talented the man might be, but I, for one, had no intention of trying to woo him.

Bridget had other ideas. As we walked down the lane to the village, a few minutes later, she went up on tip-toe to peer into Gareth's back garden. "Is he home, do you think?"

"How should I know?"

We rounded the corner. She sighed. "No, his car's not there. Damn."

I sent her a dry look. "I thought you were dragging me out here to show me his
horse."

"Quite right. I know how you love horses." Her bounce returning, she turned and led me up the quiet street towards the pub. Just past the bus shelter and phone box, a narrow fenced paddock stretched greenly away from the roadside, and I stopped to lean my elbows on the five-barred gate.

"I don't see her."

"She's probably up in the back corner there, behind the shed." Climbing with confidence on to the gate's bottom rung, she gave a sharp whistle. Bridget whistled like a boy—it nearly split my ears.

But it caught the mare's attention.

"There, you see?" said Bridget proudly, rocking backwards on the gate. "That's Sovereign, now."

I watched the horse emerging from behind the shed, a lovely coal-black mare with one white stocking and a white race slashing boldly down her forehead. "She's enormous," I said. And she was, for a mare, standing easily sixteen hands tall; sixteen-two, maybe. In spite of her size she came forward with uncommon grace, and her dark liquid eyes held a gentle intelligence.

"Pretty, though, isn't she?" Bridget leaned forward and held out a carrot she'd fished from her pocket. "Come on, girl. Come look what I've brought you."

"I thought you weren't supposed to feed her."

"You
weren't. Owen didn't say anything to me." She held the carrot higher and the mare crossed the soft grass obligingly, sniffing the air. A few feet from the gate she stopped, planting her feet and extending her neck to investigate. Encouraged by her eyes, I reached one hand to stroke her questing nose, and felt the soft warm puff of breath against my fingers.