Named of the Dragon (3 page)

It wasn't fierce today. There was only the wind, waving soft down a ripple of dead flaxen grass at the edge of the green field beside me. It might have been spring. I'd read a few brochures on Wales these past few weeks, and endured countless lectures from my Welsh assistant Lewis, so I knew the weather here was somewhat softened by the Gulf Stream. I remembered enough of the maps, too, to know that we were heading west along the Angle peninsula. To the north of us, just out of sight, would be the sheltered waters of Milford Haven. Ahead of us and to the south lay miles of protected scenic coastline, part of the long stretch of high, ragged cliffs, windswept beaches and unspoiled coves that made up the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park—a rambler's paradise, the guidebooks had proclaimed, and one of the most beautiful coasts in all Britain—the only one deemed worthy to be designated a National Park.

I'd expected to be dazzled by the scenery. Which was why, when I finally glimpsed the Milford Haven estuary a minute later, it surprised me to find the view spoiled by a sprawling oil refinery.

Bridget agreed it was awful. "But people have to work somewhere. And at least they're all kept to this bit of the Haven. Once you get round the tip of the peninsula, you'd never even know that they were here. James hates them, though," she told me. "He's as bad as your brother, the way he goes on."

I marked that down as a point in his favour. ' 'Does he have family down here?"

"Who, James? No, I don't think so. Why?"

"I only wondered. His mother's Welsh, as I recall."

Bridget smiled. "Been swotting up on James Swift, have you?"

"Well..."

"Then you know more than I do. I've never really asked him anything about—oh, bloody hell!" she burst out, braking to a sudden stop.

My seat-belt snapped me smartly back to stare in some amazement at the cause of our near-accident. A waddling row of ducks, unhurried, filed across the road as Bridget left the engine idling.

"They do this every bloody time I'm on this road," she complained. "I swear they recognize the car."

She was probably right, I decided. The lead duck certainly seemed more intent on irritating Bridget than on anything else. He reached the other side, pecked once or twice without enthusiasm at the hedgerow, then, turning, led the whole troupe back again, towards the safety of their pond.

He looked up rather smugly as he passed, and Bridget called him something rude.

I laughed. "I thought you liked ducks."

"Oh, I do," she told me, sweetly. "I love ducks. Lying on their backs in orange sauce." The last bird scuttled nervously aside as Bridget rammed the gearstick up again and the MGF sprang forwards. "I daren't run them over, though. My publicist would have a fit. 'Children's author kills defenceless duckling'," she mimicked the headlines. "It would never do."

The road curved and narrowed again till the banks closed in upon us and the blackthorn scraped the car at either side, making it all but impossible to see round the bends or manoeuvre to avoid oncoming cars, but Bridget, ever confident, ploughed bravely on, refusing to reduce her speed. I closed my eyes, and didn't open them until she said, in cheerful tones, "There's Angle."

We were turning now, at the top of a tall hill, preparing to start our descent to the village. Below us, the sea circled round the blunt point of the land, biting in at both ends of the straight line of paved road that cut through the narrowest part of the peninsula, running like a ribbon from one large rounded bay to the other. Along that ribbon I could see the speckled squares of cottages, and rising from their backs were narrow patchwork fields that climbed a hillside nearly as high as the one we were on before falling again to the icy-blue stretch of the Haven behind.

The Haven was filled with activity—two long dark grey ships that were probably tankers inched past the jetties that sprouted like claws from the opposite shore, and a handful of smaller boats wove through the wake of a giant white ferry-boat headed for Ireland. The oil refinery I'd seen earlier was still a dominant feature here, sprawling off to the right, but I caught at least a glimpse of coastal splendour as we dipped towards the village.

My first impression of Angle was a brief one—a cluster of cottages painted in the pastel colours of the seaside, pale cream and lemon and soft pink and mint, their chimneypots puffing out smoke ... the grey stone, crenellated tower of what looked to be a church... the little yellow Walls ice-cream sign set outside to mark the village shop. But I didn't get a proper look. Bridget turned down a short lane through the houses and bumped round the edge of the easternmost bay, where fishing boats bobbed at their moorings in a sheltered inlet and a small stone bridge spanned the tidal estuary that cleft its way across the pebbled shore. Leaving the village behind us, we rolled up and over the bridge and the gates of a long, lovely house rose to welcome us.

It had, as Bridget mentioned, been three houses once—I could still make out the divisions on the front facade. And the ruined tower she had promised me was even better than I had imagined. Square-walled and impressively intact, it stood like a stern grey sentry at the far end of the house, while a few large crows wheeled round its upper reaches, lending atmosphere. The house and the tower would both have been fully at home on the moors—windswept and lonely, with the curlews screaming overhead. But they were equally impressive here, a comfortable stone's throw from this sleeping seaside village, with the reed-choked tidal estuary making a kind of a moat between the tower and the deeply shadowed churchyard opposite.

What a wonderful place for a writer to work, I thought.

Bridget, following my gaze to the cozily smoking chimney at the far end of the house, misunderstood completely. "Don't worry," she assured me. "The fires are just for show. James wouldn't stay in a place that didn't have central heating."

A man had straightened from the front garden at the sound of our approaching car—a tall man in jeans and a heavy ribbed jumper, his dark golden hair slightly longer than I remembered it from his television appearances. He raised his hand in a wave of greeting and came across to meet us.

It wasn't until he drew level with my open window that I realized he wasn't James Swift.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, bending down to rest his elbows on the car. "You're early."

Bridget arched an eyebrow. "And you would be ... ?"

"Christopher." He shot her a boyish grin. "I'm afraid James isn't here at the moment, but if you want to bring your car round the back, I'll get you settled in."

He stood upright again and, turning, led the way along the drive, while Bridget took her foot off the brake to follow. "Well, this is interesting," she said slowly. "A brother, do you think?"

"That would be my guess. They look so much alike."

"They do, indeed."

I flicked her a wary glance, but her expression showed curiosity, and nothing more. "Bridget..."

"Mm?"

"This local man you've set your sights on... he's a playwright, you said?"

"That's right."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Ah," she said, with a smile. "Now, that
would
be telling."

"Oh, come on."

But standing firm, she shook her head. "You'll find out soon enough," she promised. "All good things come to those who wait."

IV

An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower,

A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall

W. B. Yeats, "My House"

It was a bit of a squeeze to coax the MGF through the narrow gap between the ancient tower and the high stone wall at the lawn's edge, but Bridget managed it with confidence, swinging the car round to follow the drive up the side of the house. We were on an uphill slope, now, rising gently to a level with the first-floor windows, while the house appeared to sink into the earth beside us.

Ahead, I saw a row of three large sheds, the middle one blocked by a muddy-wheeled tractor, but before I could ask the obvious question, Bridget stepped in to explain.

"It's not just a name, Castle Farm—it's a real working farm, owned by James's uncle Ralph and auntie Pam. They're not really family, you know, just old friends of his mother; he's known them for years. Their daughter's up in Yorkshire, somewhere, and whenever they visit her James minds the house while Owen—he's a local man, another farmer—minds the animals."

I didn't need to ask what animals she meant. I could see the metal roofs of cowsheds nestled in a hollow just behind the house, and the fields of pasturcland above us on the hillside held a scattering of woolly sheep, watching our approach with idle interest. A marmalade cat scampered out of the way as Bridget parked between a grey Rover and a sleek silver P-reg Mercedes at the top of the drive, on a level bit of grass beside the tractor.

Christopher caught up with us a moment later, stretching out his hand for Bridget's suitcase. "Here, let me take that for you. Mind how you go," he warned, as we turned to double back on foot along the drive, towards the house. "We had some rain at lunch-time, and it's still a little slippery."

I'd forgotten how quickly the weather could change, on the coast. There was no sign of rain now, nor cloud; only the sun glaring down from a blinding blue sky. The brisk wind had teeth and I turned my collar to it, hefting my own small suitcase and falling into step behind Bridget and Christopher.

Castle Farm looked deceptively smaller, from this angle. The middle of the three joined houses jutted backwards from its neighbours, forming one wall of a half-sunken courtyard, sheltered by high earthen banks sloping down from the elbow-curved drive, screened by ash trees and one lovely lilac. It was into this courtyard that Christopher led us. My feet slipped on the flagstone walk, and I shifted my grip on the suitcase to counter-balance, waiting until I was sure of my step before raising my head again to admire this compact gardener's paradise, where every level place and cranny bloomed with pots of greenery and flowers that had somehow held their own against the cold, and a lone leaf still danced at the top of the graceful viburnum that hugged the side wall. Someone, I thought, loved this house a great deal, to have taken such pains with the landscaping.

I followed Christopher and Bridget through the maze of flowerpots, heading for the white-painted porch that protected the house's rear entrance. There were two more cats here—a great hulking tabby that watched us with oddly intelligent eyes, and a tiny pale grey one curled up on a window ledge.

Bridget bent to stroke the larger one, "Hello, Big Boy."

Christopher turned. "Oh, that's right, you've been here before, haven't you? You'll know all about the cats. Aunt Pam's got seven of them now. Elen's been taking care of them, and feeding them, but they still like to wait round the door here, in hope."

The little grey cat meowed sharply and leaped to my shoulders in one fluid movement.

Too late, Christopher warned me, "He does like to jump, that one. Here, let me help." The cat, once settled, wasn't easy to dislodge. It took a few tries but he finally came clear with a small tearing sound, like Velcro.

I raised my head, and caught the crisply pleasant scent of coal smoke. "Now there's something you don't smell in London too often."

"What? Oh, the fire." Christopher nodded, depositing the cat beside the door. "Yes, I like a roaring fire, myself. James isn't so keen. But Uncle Ralph said I could use all the coal that I liked, and Uncle Ralph," he told us, "is the King of Castle Farm. He outranks James."

Bridget raised an eyebrow. "You're James's brother, I take it?"

"Got it in one," he congratulated her, holding the door open. "I'm not so talented nor famous, I'm afraid, but I am much better-looking." He said that lightly, jokingly, with a smile meant to charm, and Bridget smiled back.

Like mirror images, I thought, each trying to beguile the other. But Christopher had already spoiled his chances. Bridget never went for men who were so openly flirtatious. She preferred the ones who snubbed her; who afforded her some challenge. I might have tipped him off, but given that he'd been so quick to carry Bridget's suitcase, leaving me to lug my own across the slippery flagstones, I didn't feel inclined to offer any help to Christopher Swift.

Instead I sidled past him, through the doorway, and into a light-filled porch that ran between the end house and the middle one like a long narrow passage, with wooden doors at either end. The lovely, faintly musty, homely old-house smell assailed me.

"You want the door on the right," he instructed us.

We stepped up and into a spacious, sunny yellow kitchen that looked as though it might have been two rooms, once. They'd been able to remove the wall, but not the fireplace. It stood firm in its red brick surround at the room's centre-point, with great arches to each side of it through which I saw beyond into the sitting area, where a blue Dralon sofa and chairs ringed a small television. The kitchen furniture was plainer—a scrubbed pine table hugged the wall beside me, near the door, and to my left an old Welsh dresser held an orderly display of cream-coloured crockery. I was almost disappointed to see the modern dark green cooker and American-style fridge—I'd half-hoped for an Aga and icebox.

Still, there was a fire in the fireplace, and the sweet sharp smell of coal, and flowered curtains tied well back to let in the afternoon sun.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," Christopher said, pushing plates and cups back from the edge of the worktop. "We had a bit of a crisis last night, with Elen and Stevie, and we haven't caught up with the cleaning. Your beds are made up, though—we did manage that."

"Elen's here?" Bridget said that too sharply. She flicked me a strange, apprehensive glance. ' 'I thought she was going to Bristol."

"She was. But she had a dream, or some damned thing, that told her she should stay." Christopher shrugged, leading us through into another narrow passageway. "You know how Elen is."

Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, "Who's Elen?"

"Uncle Ralph's tenant. She rents the big house at the other end, the East House." We were in the front hall, now, with doors to either side of us and a set of ancient-looking
double doors opening out to the sunlit front porch with its chequerboard flooring of red and grey tiles. Climbing the wide flight of stairs to the first floor and bedrooms, Christopher explained that the East House was still a self-contained unit. "Uncle Ralph meant to knock it together with these," he said, waving his hand to include the two joined houses we were in, "but after Elen and Tony moved in—Tony was her husband, friendly chap, he died the summer before last—after they moved in, Uncle Ralph sort of put his plans on hold. And now that Elen's on her own with the baby ... well, I don't think there'll be any renovations for a while."

My head came up. "She has a baby?"

"Yes, a little boy. Stevie. He's not a year old yet. You'll hear him," he promised. "He's teething."

. My body stiffened slightly, my legs growing heavier, feet dragging up the final few stairs. I felt Bridget watching my face as Christopher came to a stop on die landing, swinging the nearest door wide to reveal a large, high-ceilinged room with a four-poster bed. "You're in here," he informed me, "and Bridget, you're down at the end of the passage, next to James..."

"The Cleopatra room? I know the one. I can give Lyn the rest of the tour," she said, sending him a brilliant smile. "I don't suppose you'd be a dear and put the kettle on? I could murder a cup of tea."

She came into the room with me, standing just inside the doorway while I let my case drop with a bounce to the mattress and took a look round. The room was restful, painted soft pale cream with scagreen carpets and green hangings on the bed. And the bed itself was absolutely splendid—a true antique, its posts carved and rubbed smooth with years of polishing, like those I'd seen in the royal bedchambers at Hampton Court. I was trailing my fingers down one heavy bedpost when Bridget spoke, behind me.

"Look, I didn't think she'd be here, or I would have
told you earlier, you know, about the baby." Bridget hadn't been my client then, five years ago. My employers at Simon Holland had been rather concerned, as a matter of fact, when I'd signed her, since representing a children's writer necessarily meant coming into contact with children themselves, at events and book-signings, but I'd managed to convince them that it didn't bother me to be near children. Only babies.

I'd never mentioned Justin's death to Bridget, that I remembered. But ours was an incestuous business. She would have heard the rumours.

She went on, "If it's going to be a problem for you ..."

"I'll be fine." I set a smile on my face and turned to show her just how fine I was. "Stop worrying."

Relieved, she came forwards. "It's quite the room, isn't it? I told James you'd like it, because of the view."

Since it was a corner room, with one large window facing front and another in the end wall right beside the dainty fireplace, I wasn't sure which view she meant. I chose the front one, drawing back one panel of the deep green velvet curtains.

The ruined castle tower, tall and sombre, dominated everything. It seemed quite close enough to touch, a few short yards away across the lawn, the gaping blackness of its slitted windows staring back at me like human eyes— not sinister, but wary. Perched atop the crumbled crenel-lations, an enormous crow sullenly gazed at the boats in the bay, head sunk low. Beyond the tower and the crow, I saw the line of the village itself—the grey square tower of the church, a lower building with a playing field beside it, that I took to be the school, and a row of huddled roofs that stretched along the road and out of sight, with narrow fields behind.

In summer, Angle likely came alive with families down on holiday, with caravans and barking dogs and children still wet from the beach and sticky with ice lollies. But now winter had come and the village was sleeping. I saw only one car rolling drowsily down through the houses.

"Best view in the house," Bridget said, at my shoulder. "I thought you'd like having the tower so close. I remember how much you enjoyed dragging me through all those ruins in France." She frowned. "I don't think I could sleep with that thing looking in on me, personally. I'd have nightmares."

I'd have nightmares anyway, tower or no, but I didn't tell her that. Instead I lied and said, "Yes, well, I don't have your imagination, do I? So I don't have to worry." Moving back to the bed, I unzipped my suitcase and began to unpack its unexciting contents—a few jumpers, a pair of jeans, plain black trousers, woolly socks ...

"God, I do envy you," Bridget said. "You always pack so sensibly."

"Years of practice." I'd only brought one dress—a simple black velvet thing, sleeveless with a scoop neck, that I hung now in the wardrobe before sorting the rest of my clothes into drawers. "I'm not a patch on my mother, though. She used to go on holiday with a tiny little flight bag, and she'd somehow manage to create a different outfit every day."

Bridget, who had sat on the edge of my bed to watch, laced her fingers round her knees and grinned. "Your mother is a frightening sort of woman, isn't she? Like Mary Poppins. Is there anything she
can't
do?"

Offhand, I couldn't think of anything. I pushed the sock drawer shut and straightened, dusting my hands on my jeans.

"There," I said, "That's that lot taken care of."

"You've forgotten something." Bridget pointed to the bulging Jiffy bag still taking up a corner of my suitcase.

"Oh, that's all right, it can stay there. I had Lewis go through the office shelves and choose some books that I could have on hand for Christmas presents, since I didn't know exactly who would be here."

She reached for the packet, her upward glance dry. "So tell me again that you're not like your mother."

"I'm not, really. And you can stop poking that, your present and James's are still in the car."

She pulled a face and upended the Jiffy bag, spilling its contents out on to the bed. "I'm surprised you let Lewis pick these for you. He has peculiar tastes, as I recall."

I smiled. My assistant was the only man I'd ever met who could resist Bridget's charms—he did it with ease, as a matter of fact, the result being Bridget had always regarded him rather distrustfully. "Look," she said, holding a book up in evidence, "here's one in some bloody foreign language, even."

I looked at the cover, and smiled. "That's Welsh, I expect. Trust Lewis. What else did he put in there?"

She flipped through the titles and called them by category. "Mystery, mystery, poetry, some historical non-fiction thing, that one about trekking through Africa... oh, and bless his heart, he's put in one of mine, as well." She turned it over. "God, why did you let me use that photo? I look hideous."