Named of the Dragon (15 page)

XVIII

Behold, the enchanted towers...

A castle like a rock upon a rock

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The Holy Grail"

I stood in the bay of the writing-room window and watched the crows settle on top of the tower, its stones dripping moisture beneath the grey sky. Those solid square walls had a secretive look; I could almost believe there was something inside.

"Is it still raining?" Bridget asked, crossing behind me.

"Not really. It seems to be clearing."

She leaned forwards and looked for herself, to be certain. "Thank God. I didn't fancy being stuck indoors all day."

I couldn't resist pointing out that spending the day doing shopping in Pembroke amounted to much the same thing. "Shops do tend to be indoors."

"Well yes, I know, but it's just different. And besides, I can't shop
properly
in rain. All that dashing about on the pavement, in puddles."

"Don't worry," I told her. "If the rain does start up again, men will be tripping all over themselves to offer you umbrellas."

"Very likely." She grinned. "Men are idiots."

"Oh? Even Gareth Gwyn Morgan?"

"All right, Gareth excepted. Though sometimes I wonder, the way he lets Elen impose on his time."

I shrugged. "He was friends with her husband."

"Mm."

"Here we go."

"No, I just think it's odd," she said, turning in boredom away from the window. "Maybe Gareth really is the baby's father, like Christopher says."

I let my eyes follow the flight of the crows as they rose in a whirl from the parapet. "Christopher said that?"

"Perhaps not in so many words," she admitted. "He implied it, though."

It surprised me that Bridget should fall so completely for Christopher's bald-faced attempt to seduce her. Not that I imagined he was aiming for seduction in the carnal sense—I fancied he respected James's feelings more than that—but like Bridget, he couldn't seem to help himself. I turned, now, and teased her, "You're losing your touch, if the most you could get from the man was a mere implication."

"Rat." Her eyes brimmed with laughter. "But you're right, I shall have to try harder. It's a shame I can't get him alone for an hour."

"I could try to keep James occupied this afternoon," I offered. "Would that help?"

"Well..."

I saw her doubtful look and sighed. "Oh, Bridget, please. My interest is professional. I don't want James's body, just his books."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

"Look, if this is going to be a problem... if you'd rather that I didn't try to sign him ..."

"What, and see you miss your shot at a directorship? No chance," she said, and shook her head. "Of course you must represent James, don't be silly."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the offer of a directorship had nothing to do with James—that it was Gareth my employers wanted. Not that I'd have told her, anyway. Bridget had a gift for indiscretion, and the last thing that I needed was for Gareth to find out about my letter from the agency—he'd think it vindication of his earlier suspicions, that I'd come down here in search of him, and not because of James. Not that I cared what he thought, I reminded myself. I simply didn't want the aggravation.

Bridget gathered her hair back and started to plait it. "So all right, then. When we get to Pembroke, you take James."

She might have been asking me to mind her pet spaniel. I smiled. "And where would you like me to take him?"

"Oh, anywhere, I don't know. Ask him to show you the castle, he'd like that. Like I said, I only need an hour."

I admired her confidence. Still, given odds, I'd have put my own money on Christopher. Having watched him last night, I knew that his manipulative skills were at least equal to Bridget's and whatever he knew about Gareth Gwyn Morgan, he wasn't too likely to tell her so soon—he would spin it out, artfully; give her a little bit here, and a hint of it there; keep her hungry for more.

She glanced at me. "You'll just have to make sure he doesn't suspect."

"What, James?" I raised my eyebrows. "The man who went on building sandwiches and munching crisps last night, while you Mata Haried his brother? I shouldn't worry. He's either the most trusting man that I've met, or he's hopelessly thick when it comes to relationships."

"He's not thick," Bridget told me. "He's just self-absorbed."

"Ah."

"Most authors are, really."

"I'll try to remember that."

"I'm
not, of course. But then, I'm not an author."

"Since when?"

"I'm a writer," she said. "There's a difference. Authors are rarefied creatures, you know, who write serious fiction."

"And writers ... ?"

"Write books people buy," she explained, with a twinkle of mischief.

A voice from the doorway made both of us jump. "Do you know," James said lightly, "I really must stop sneaking up on you, darling. I hear the most slanderous things."

Bridget whirled, both hands holding her half-finished plait. "All right, then," she told him, "I take it all back. Your fiction's not serious."

"Thank you. That's much better." He moved in to give her a kiss as she fastened off the plait and flipped it down between her shoulders. He mustn't have been standing in the corridor too long, at least not long enough to hear me call him thick, because the smile he turned to me was rather cheerful. "Are we ready?"

"Yes, just let me fetch my raincoat." For after all, I reasoned, as I went out to look on the pegs in the hallway, some of us didn't have Bridget's allure. And if the rain began again, I couldn't count on anybody rushing up to
me
with an umbrella.

*-*-*-*-*

I had seen the castle twice now from the outside, but I still caught my breath as we came round the bend and the great grey walls soared from the top of the hill, keeping watch on the huddle of rooftops below, making toys of the cars that were climbing the steep road towards it.

James switched the wiper on to clear a scattering of moisture from the windscreen, and took a turning just below the high street, squeezing the Merc into a narrow, high-walled lane. "The challenge," he said, "will be finding somewhere to park."

I knew we'd have no trouble, not with Bridget in the car. She could find a spot on Soho Square, and that was saying something. As we inched along the lane we passed a string of terraced car parks and I sealed back to watch as Bridget pressed against her window.

"There," she said, and pointed.

James shook his head. "However do you find them?"

"It's a gift."

He neatly reversed the Merc into the space, and the wiper made one final squeak on the glass before stopping. A burst of fresh, damp air invaded the car as James opened the driver's side door. "Right then, everyone out."

Christopher, wedged in the backseat beside me, shifted one leg in experiment. "I don't think I can move, you know. You'll have, to leave me here."

"Poor thing," said Bridget. Scrambling out, she pulled her own seat forwards and reached back to help him. "Here, take my hand."

"I can't feel my feet."

"It's my fault, for making you ride in the back." Bridget tried to look properly remorseful. "If it wasn't for the fact that I get car-sick..."

"It's all right." He stood and stretched awkwardly, cramped at the knees. "Not to worry. I'm sure that the blood will return."

"Oh, stop whining," said James. "Just go get me a pay and display sticker, will you? The machine's over there."

Christopher stood firm a moment, rebellious, then—being the younger brother—gave in from habit, limping away on stiff legs.

This car park, ringed with stone walls, nestled right behind the high street—I could see the huddled backs of shops and businesses, and hear the swish of unseen traffic sliding wetly past them. The wind, still thick with unshed rain, sailed leaves across the shallow puddles at my feet, and I tipped my face to feel its damp caress, turning slowly round to see the view from every angle.

The low ivied wall at the rear of the car park must once have been part of the old town's defences. Beyond it, the ground tumbled steeply down into a valley, then climbed again, slowly, under a jumble of rooftops, to crest a small hill on the opposite side.

Bridget, at my shoulder, craned forwards to study the green strip of parkland that ran through the valley directly below us. "We could have just parked on the Common, you know. There's a space there, as well."

I looked, hard. "Where?"

"Right there, by that tree. Don't you see it?"

Christopher, returning with the parking sticker, looked at her in mild dismay. "What, we're moving the car?"

"No," said James, "we are not." To emphasize the point, he took the sticker from his brother's hand and pasted it firmly to the inside of the windscreen. "There." The door locks clicked shut as he armed the alarm. "We're good for two hours, now."

Bridget looked doubtful. "Only two?"

"Darting, it's Pembroke, not Bond Street."

I sent him a pitying glance as we walked towards the narrow brick arcade that joined the car park to the high street. "I can tell you've never shopped with Bridget."

"Why?"

"She's not exactly known for speed. I've seen her spend two hours in John Menzies alone, buying magazines."

"Oh."

Bridget linked her arm through his, and smiled win-ningly. "Darling," she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her, "why don't you take Lyn and show her the castle?"

"I've seen it a thousand times."

"Yes, but it's bound to be more fun than trailing after me."

"True." He glanced round at me. "Would you like to do that? Right, then. Chris, what are you doing—staying with Bridget or coming with us?"

Bridget, startled, lost her smile. She hadn't thought of that.

But Christopher gave the right answer. "I'll stay. There are one or two things I should pick up, myself, while I'm here."

The arcade brought us out at the side of a florist's shop, wafting thick fragrances on to the pavement, die plastic pails set round its walls spilling over with freshly cut flowers. Above them, the windows were hidden by holly wreaths, festive with red tartan ribbon and roses or sprays of red berries.

"Ooh," said Bridget, stopping.

James, who appeared to have no patience whatsoever for window-shopping, consulted his watch. "Right, we'll meet you back here at a quarter past three, then." And taking my sleeve in a purposeful grip, he steered me away, down the pavement.

Every town's high street, I thought, had a character. Some were young venture capitalists, slicked-down and smart, while others were tarted-up mannequins, flash without substance, relying on paint to impress the observer. And some were older women, highly bred and full of grace, who seemed to carry beauty with them as they aged. Pembroke's high street—or rather, as James corrected me, its Main Street—was a favourite aunt, lively and cheerful, with an ample lap to welcome you and arms to hug you tight.

As in Angle, all the buildings here were painted in the pastel seaside shades of salmon pink and cream and soft mint green and yellow, the row of colours adding to the general festive air. Around us the shop windows glowed with a warm light that softened the grey afternoon, and the shimmer of tinsel and twinkle of fairy lights blended with snatches of carols and Christmas songs spilling from opening doorways. On the pavement the bustle of bodies pressed close and flowed past like a chattering stream. The teenagcd girl in front of me, her outrageously striped woolly hat smelling strongly of incense, stopped without warning to look in a window, and stepping around her I dodged two young women who'd paused with their pushchairs to greet one another.

"Bloody people," said James. "This is why I don't like to come shopping."

I smiled. ' 'Well, you may find that being with me is no better. I do like to puddle around, in a castle—it drives people mad."

He didn't look worried. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Stretched like a slumbering beast at the top of the street, Pembroke Castle watched the whirl of life and colour passing underneath it, as it must have watched a thousand other market crowds of Christmases long past. The walls loomed very close now, and looking up I felt a surge of childish excitement.

"Careful!" James grabbed my arm for a second time, pulling me clear of a wooden bin heaped with pale cabbages. The pavement here narrowed, in front of the fruiterer's. Breathing the pungent mixed smells of the tropics and sharp autumn orchards, I waited with James for a break in the traffic, then made a brave dash to the opposite side for our final approach to the castle's main gate.

We paused to buy our tickets in the gift shop near the entrance. "Don't be daft," said James, when I offered to pay. "You're my guest."

So instead I invested my pounds in a guidebook—a thick and thorough-looking publication with a plan of the castle set in like a centrefold. I pulled it out, for reference, as we passed through the outer gate into the barbican.