Named of the Dragon (16 page)

"I assume that we're meant to go this way," I said, pointing left. "Up into the Bygate Tower, and round the walls, clockwise."

"Then let's go the other way. Live on the edge." He was mocking, of course, but from what I'd seen of James I suspected he liked leading minor rebellions. He paused underneath the portcullis, hands on hips. "The most logical place to begin is die Keep, really. Start at the middle and work our way out."

I looked where he was looking, straight ahead. The castle was an ancient one, built, my guidebook told me, by a Norman earl named Roger de Montgomery. The guidebook went on to brag that when the Welsh had laid siege to the Norman invaders, a year or so afterwards, Pembroke's castle had been the only one in all of southwest Wales that hadn't fallen. It was easy to see why.

Roger de Montgomery, and those who had come after him, had built the castle thick and strong and solid, double-warded.

We were entering the Outer Ward, a level field of close-clipped green with one large square of tarmac that I guessed provided space for modern spectacles. In olden times, when danger threatened, those who laboured in the fields around the castle walls could move their families here for safety, while their lord and master made his own retreat to the enormous round-walled Keep within the Inner Ward. This massive tower, meant to stand when all the other fortified defences had been breached, would be the final refuge of those living in the castle, and the men who'd built it knew that they might one day need its strength.

While the halls beside it crumbled from the strain of staying upright, Pembroke Castle's Keep had stood through eight long centuries of tumult, and looked capable of weathering another eight with ease. It had been poked at, over time. Bits of the parapet surrounding the domed roof had tumbled down, or been removed, and when we walked round to the north side I could see the black and jagged hole that marked the first floor entrance, stripped of all its finer facing stones. But such small scars went virtually unnoticed on a building so imposing.

"I'm not sure you should be doing that," said James, as I scampered up the flight of steps towards the gaping doorway. "Those steps might not be safe. And anyway, you can't get in that way, you have to go through here."

The steps
didn't feel
dangerous, but I didn't imagine that open defiance was something James craved in an agent, and I ought to be trying to show him how well I could listen. Reluctantly, I turned back and went through the proper entrance, a much smaller door set at ground level. It felt like walking through a tunnel—the walls of the Keep must have been a good twenty feet thick—but at length it discharged us, like puny adventurers, into the cavernous space.

"You see?" James, who had seen it before, pointed up at a ragged-edged hole, streaming light. "It's a doorway to nothing, the floors have all gone."

I had tipped my head backwards, struck dumb by the sight.

Originally, there would have been three or more levels here, comfortable rooms, wooden floors, warming fires that burned in the royal apartments, but all of that was lost now to the callous hand of time. What remained, though, was in some ways more impressive.

Stripped to its bare outer walls, it was like a cathedral, a great hollow soaring cathedral of stone, with a perfect domed ceiling and small arching windows that slanted pale light through the reverent gloom. From every ledge and opening long streaks of soft and mossy green dripped downwards, passing shades of rust and gentle blues that stained the walls in places where the plaster had not fallen from the grey, unyielding stones.

I took a breath, inhaling dust, and fumbled for my guidebook. "Seventy-five feet," I said, in awe. "This shaft is seventy-five feet tall."

James looked at me. "You say that as though it's a challenge."

"It is." I'd always liked climbing things. Turning, I spotted the newel stair, and happily squeezed up one tight winding flight to the first narrow landing. Resting my hands on the cold metal piping that served as a guardrail, I leaned through the open arched doorway to look down at James. "Coming up?"

"No, I've done it once, thank you." He sauntered forwards, moving through a shifting web of light and shadow, to see me better. By the time I reached the third and final landing, he was standing in the centre of the floor. "Do warn me if you're going to fall," he said, "so I can step aside."

"You wouldn't catch me?"

"From that height? You must be mad."

I took a firm grip on the guardrail and leaned out as far as I dared, to admire the view. The dome, from this height, was a marvel of masonry, hundreds of stones set with perfect precision to form an impossible half-sphere that floated above me. Absorbed, I leaned further, and felt my hand slip in the instant before something clamped round my shoulder.

"Don't worry," said Gareth, behind me. "I’ll catch you."

XIX

Cadwalader's blood lineally descending,

Long hath be told of such a Prince coming,

Wherefore Friends, if that I shall not lie,

This same is the Fulfiller of the Prophecy.

Citizens' Welcome to Henry VII at Worcester, 1486

I nearly shot out of my skin. Only when he'd hauled me I away from the edge, when my heart had returned to my rib cage and everything seemed right side up, did my fear turn to fury. I sputtered and burned like a fuse as I whipped round to yank myself free. "Dammit, what are you doing? You scared me to death."

"Then we're even." He let go my shoulder but didn't step back. He was closer to me now than he had ever been, close enough that I could smell the cleanness of him, the soapy warm scent of his skin and the trace of detergent that clung to the folds of the shirt that he wore underneath his dark jacket of old, beaten leather that smelted of the damp, cold outdoors.

He'd been up on the roof, I thought. Feeling the chill draught that swept down the spiralling stairs just behind us, I realized that Gareth would have to have been there, concealed by the shadows and blocking the wind, when I'd climbed to this level. I would have heard him, otherwise— he couldn't have come up or down the stairs, without me hearing. So he must have been there, standing silent, watching me...

In the confines of the landing, with the stone walls pressing all around, this new awareness of him felt disturbing, and I had to fight back an irrational urge to leap over the edge of the guardrail and into the void.

"You'd have bloody well broken your neck," he came back at me, "falling from here."

I looked up and studied his thundercloud face with the calmness that follows a shock, seeing no reason why
he
should be angry. "I was not," I said, very sure, "going to fall. I was perfectly balanced."

"Well, the next time you balance so perfectly, see that you're not standing sixty feet up."

James called out, below us. "Lyn?"

"Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Who's that you're talking to?"

Gareth answered, arrogant. "It's me."

I heard James shuffle backwards, trying to see. "Gareth?"

"Got it in one."

"What the devil are
you
doing up there?"

"I'm being bloody unappreciated, that's what."

"Sorry?"

Sighing, I raised my voice. "Never mind, James, we'll be down in a minute. I just want to look at the roof."

Gareth lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, brilliant. A fall from up there would be much more impressive."

"I'm not going to fall."

"No, you're not," he agreed, "because I'm coming with you."

From anyone else, I'd have found such concern for my welfare endearing—from Gareth, it rankled. I didn't know why. It might have had something to do with the way that he touched me, his hand holding firm to the back of my coat as I climbed to the top of the parapet. His touch didn't question its right to be there, it was simple possession. And the more I tried to break from it, the stronger it became.

"That's far enough," he said. "You can see all you need to see from here."

But in defiance I went one step higher, spreading my stance to the buffeting wind and enjoying the feel of achievement. I felt like I was standing on the prow of some great ship, with all the other towers bowed beneath me, supplicant. All round me, to both west and east, a muddy-bottomed tidal river flowed and pooled about the castle walls, the water slow and idle now, with nothing to defend.

It made a calming contrast to the hurly-burly running through the Main Street in the opposite direction, where lines of miniature cars and people jostled past the tiny shops of Pembroke.

I would have gone still higher—it appeared that from the rough-flagged inner wall-walk there was some way I could climb the outer dome and reach the summit of the tower—but the hand at my back was determined.

"Good enough?" Gareth asked.

"I suppose it will have to be." Looking straight down, I examined the warren of crumbling walls to the east of the keep. "What is that?"

He glanced over. "The old halls and chancery. Why, did you want to climb them while you're at it?"

I turned my head sideways. His eyes were unchanged, but I hadn't mistaken the thread of dry wit in his voice. "Maybe," I said.

"Then I'd best show you round them myself. Swift won't be any help, he's got no head for heights."

James, waiting at the doorway of the Keep, agreed. "Oh, God no, I have no great desire to go up any building that's falling to pieces." He seemed rather pleased to see Gareth. I found that surprising. From what I'd seen so far since coming to Angle, I wouldn't have thought either man had much use for the other. "No, you two go ahead."

I held back. "I can go by myself, it's all right. I'm sure that Mr. Morgan doesn't want to waste his time."

Gareth let go my jacket and shrugged. "I'm not in any rash."

His tone was a challenge. He knew I wouldn't risk appearing rude in front of James, and with his eyes he let me know he knew it. Silently, I set my jaw. Fine then, I thought. If I couldn't stop Gareth from dogging my steps round the ruins, I could at least see that he didn't enjoy the experience.

And my methods were effective. Nearly half an hour later, as I pulled myself on to the wall of the Northern Hall, Gareth began to unravel. "Is it really necessary," he asked, "to go up every bloody flight of stairs you see?"

"What, getting tired?"

"No." He sounded like a little boy, complaining, and I turned to hide my smile.

"I've told you that you needn't bother trying to keep up with me. I never fall. And even if I did fall," I went on, "I don't see why that should worry you. It's not as though you like me."

He considered this a moment "Do you know," he said, "you're absolutely right."

Surprised by the change in his tone, I looked over my shoulder. "I am?"

"Yes. The next oubliette that we pass," he said, firmly, "I'm chucking you in."

He wasn't serious, I told myself, remembering the horror of that cramped hole in the dungeon tower, where prisoners were thrown to be forgotten. I knew he wasn't serious. But he played it so brilliantly, straight-faced and sober, that I wavered a few seconds, doubting. "You wouldn't dare."

His smile was unexpected. He stood, hands on hips, planted square in the stairwell. "Are we going down, now?"

I followed him warily, not really sure how to handle a Gareth in good humour. At the bottom of the newel stair
we found James, waiting patiently and smoking, looking small against the lofty arching ruins of the Northern Hall. He glanced at us, friendly. "Well done," he said. "The only thing left to see here is the Wogan."

"She likes to go up," Gareth told him, "not down."

But he went with me anyway, into the Wogan—a huge limestone cavern set under the hall. Carved by nature, die ceiling soared over our heads, descending, into darkness at its outer edges. The great yawning mouth of the cavern was sealed by a stout wall, with windows and arrow-slits over an iron-grilled Watergate.

"This was used as a boat store," said Gareth.

"Was die water higher in those days?"

"Probably not."

"Then how did tiiey get the boats up here?" I asked.

"Well, they wouldn't have carried the bloody things on their backs. I'm sure they knew enough to build a slipway."

"Oh." I looked at his silhouette, black and unyielding against the cold light creeping through die thick bars of the Watergate. "Now,
this
place," I told him, "would make a great setting for drama." When he didn't dispute me, I pushed forwards, braver. "I'm told that you're writing another historical?"

I watched his head turn, heard the pause. "Maybe."

"Is it set here, at Pembroke?"

"It might be."

I lifted my guidebook and leafed through the pages that detailed me castle's long history, trying to spot who his subject might be. "William Marshal?" I named the great earl who had been the right arm of the first Plantagenets, and who'd nearly outlasted the lot of them, surviving three kings and standing Regent to the fourth.

"A good one, but no. Guess again."

I bent to die guidebook a second time, straining to read in die dim light. Now, who, I wondered, would appeal to Gareth? The last play he'd written had been about Owain Glyn Dwr, a soldier, a leader, a man who had battled great odds...

"Henry Tudor," I said.

Gareth watched and said nothing.

"That's it," I said, "isn't it? Henry VII." The first Tudor king, born at Pembroke, who'd struggled through exile and intrigue to capture the crown in the battle of Bosworth and end England's War of the Roses by joining in marriage his own house of Lancaster with the rival house of York. He'd make a fitting hero for a Gareth Morgan play.

I closed my guidebook, very sure. Gareth, an unreadable shadow against the grey light, took a step back from the Watergate, and as he turned I caught the fading corner of his smile. "We'd best get on with it," he said. "There's still a lot of castle left to see."

I didn't let him shake me off so easily. As we strolled along the pathway that would take us through the curtain wall and back into the Outer Ward, I looked at James, pure innocence. "Wasn't Henry VII born here?"

"Yes, in that tower, there," he said, pointing ahead to the place in the fortified wall. "His uncle, Jasper Tudor, was the Earl of Pembroke, then. It paid to be related to the King."

My history lessons flooded back. I had nearly forgotten the tale of how Katherine of Valois, the widowed Queen of Henry V, had risked her neck in secret marriage to the Welshman Owen Tudor, and had given him two sons— half-brothers to the boy King Henry VI. Jasper, I thought, would have been one of those sons. And the other, the one who'd fathered Henry VII, his name was ...

"Edmund," said James, when I couldn't remember. "Edmund had the luck of marriage on his side—his wife had royal blood, as well. I think Henry's claim to the throne came from her family, somehow."

"I'd like to see the room where he was born," I said, and made a point of looking at my watch. "Perhaps we ought to go there next. We're running out of time."

Beside me, Gareth calmly turned his head and showed me, in a glance, he wasn't fooled. "I have a feeling you'll be disappointed."

James agreed. "There's nothing there to see." But he indulged me, all the same.

The ascent from the Outer Ward into the tower was simple and straight, and the tower itself had been fully restored—James appeared to have no problem climbing the stairs to the sturdy first floor. It was here, he informed me, in this close round chamber, that the first Tudor king had been born. "Not the nicest of rooms," he said, looking around from the narrow rectangular windows that faced outwards, over the town, to the large fireplace opposite, its reconstructed chimneypiece bearing a plaque to commemorate "the birth of Henry VII in this castle on the 28th of January 1457."

"Oh, I don't know," I countered, liking the warmth of the wooden plank floor, and the stout ceiling beams overhead. "It's really rather cosy, I think. Once you put a bed in here, and draperies ..."

Gareth interrupted my imaginings. "Henry's mother," he told us, "was fourteen years old, with her man two months dead, and a baby that wanted to fight his way out of her. I doubt that she cared about draperies."

I thought about this, stepping back to make way for a trio of tourists who'd just tumbled in from the wall-walk. Young and laughing, reddened by the cold, they peered through the windows and glanced at the fireplace, exchanging comments in a language that might have been German, then whirled past us into the dark narrow gallery linking the tower to the neighboring gatehouse.

I felt the air stir in their wake, felt it brush me, as soft as a whispering gown. Looking down, I consulted my guidebook. "Did he live here very long?"

"Who, Henry?" Gareth shrugged. "Not really. When he was four or five his uncle Jasper lost this castle to the Yorkists, and the boy was taken too, as hostage. It happened all the time, in those days," he said, seeing the look on my face.

"How long was he held hostage?"

"Ten years or so."

It seemed barbaric, really, and I said as much. "To take a woman's child away ..."

"I know," said Gareth.

James was less affected. "Oh, she got him back eventually. And then his uncle took him to the continent for safety, brought him back in time for Bosworth Field." He looked up at the chimneypiece. "We're meant to be descended from him, Christopher and I. Supposedly when Henry marched through on his way to do battle with Richard HI, he stopped the night with a family near New Quay and took a special liking to the daughter of the house. My mother's family trace their line from Henry's little accident."

"Is that a fact?" Gareth studied him with interest.