Passions of the Ghost (7 page)

But they wouldn’t listen to her.

“No, no, our time will come again! She has promised!”

The keening rose again, so high-pitched that it hurt her ears. She whirled about, spinning in a circle, her cloak billowing around her, her hair flying. Magic crackled, sparking from her skin, her chanting voice boomed like thunder. The dragons screamed and lifted from the ground, their wings slapping like wet sails in a storm.

By the time she was still again, the cavern was quiet and the dragons had taken themselves off to the far end. They would be complaining and plotting, or arguing amongst themselves.

Maybe their time would come again. But for now the mortal world was for the humans who lived in it, and they must be kept safe. If the last dragon, the queen of all the dragons, did not know that already, then she must be taught.

While Amy slept, the Ghost made his way
down the stairs to the antechamber outside the great hall. He’d been thinking about the ceiling painting and wanted to see it again, and he found the room mercifully empty. Everyone was probably resting before the feast, like Amy. He could smell food cooking, and it made his stomach ache. With seven hundred years to make up for, he seemed to be constantly hungry.

He looked up.

The dazzling colors and the realistic depiction of the figures was just as astounding as he remembered. Still looking up, he turned, slowly, taking in the story of his life and its many parts. The artist had done a fine job, and Reynald easily recognized himself in the tall, fair man who was at the center of each scene.

There was his mother, her long, blond hair combed over her back and shoulders, as she held her newborn child. Julius would say it was too much like the Madonna and child to be anything but sacrilegious, but it made Reynald smile. Then his father, brutal in his treatment of everyone in his world, at the head of his troops as they rampaged through Wales, burning the land and subduing the people. Victory by force. Except he hadn’t really won. The Welsh were just pretending to be subdued; they rose again as soon as the danger was past.

Now here he was as a boy, learning to fight and to rule his future kingdom. There was a scene with him practicing his longbow, the arrow ready to fly. Shocked, he realized they’d even painted someone who was supposed to be Morwenna, and the almost tragedy she had wrought. And then—he shuddered—the young woman falling through the blue sky, birds circling her, to her death. The artist had made it look almost pleasant, as if she were floating rather than falling, but Reynald knew differently.

Now he was a grown man. There were scenes where he was meeting with his enemies, of him standing upon his castle walls, of him doing the things he had been bred to do. He was a strange mixture of his tough, arrogant, warmongering father, and his gentle, melancholy, romance-reading mother, although few realized it. He took care that not many saw his softer side.

The artist had reached the crucial day. With a bit of imagination he recognized Julius and the captain of his garrison. And there were the Welsh princes reaching to take the hands of the bishop and other important English guests. Peace at last on the border. Just for a moment. If he were a sentimental man, the memory might have brought tears to his eyes. But the Ghost hadn’t cried in a very long time. And if he’d been tempted, then the final scenes of the artist’s portrayal of his life would have dried up any tears in an instant.

There appeared to be a battle going on. With his head tipped right back, he turned on his feet, trying to make sense of it. His men and the Welsh were at war! But…that was wrong…Where was the monster whose terrifying image was burned forever into his brain? Where were the people, Welsh and English alike, running for their lives? Why hadn’t the artist shown what
really
happened?

“A fine piece of work, is it not?”

Bewildered, still stunned by what he hadn’t seen, the Ghost found himself confronted by a small, rotund woman wearing a bright orange gown tied with a tasseled cord, and long, blond tresses framing a face of middle age.

“I said, it’s a fine piece of work,” she repeated, raising her voice as if he was hard of hearing.

“It has its merits,” he said, still distracted.

“I do think the artist has captured the urgency and barbarity of the thirteenth century. As well as the pomp and cruel beauty of life in that time. What do
you
think?” She had a way of rolling each word around in her mouth before letting it go.

“I think the artist got it wrong,” Reynald said, fascinated by her hair.

“Got it wrong!” the woman boomed. “What on earth do you mean, ‘Got it wrong’?”

“I mean wrong. Incorrect. Mistaken.”

Her eyes flashed, and she tossed a few blond tresses over her shoulder. “Well, I happen to know it is correct in every detail, because it was
I
who advised them on those details, and although I do not normally like to blow my own trumpet, I will make an exception in this case. My name is Miriam Ure, and I am the country’s leading authority on Reynald de Mortimer. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, Mr….?”

Reynald struggled to understand. Did she say she was a trumpet-blowing authority on him? Did that mean she thought she knew more about Reynald than Reynald knew about himself? He found such an idea very disturbing, not to say bizarre. He wished she’d go away and leave him alone.

“Will you answer me, sir!”

She wasn’t going away.

“It is still wrong,” he said, flatly. He pointed at the part of the ceiling he objected to most. “Why is everyone fighting each other?”

“
Why?
” Miriam Ure’s voice rose. “Because there was a battle. That was how everyone died that day. Reynald lured the Welsh here with promises of peace, but he didn’t mean it—he was his father’s son after all—and when he had them, he struck! But the Welsh were prepared—they’d never trusted him—and they refused to surrender. To be put it simply, they all fought
to the death.
No half measures in the thirteenth century.”

“
Lured them?
” Reynald echoed, filled with anger and disbelief. “Everyone came to make peace, no one wanted to fight. Why would they? They had seen war enough, and it was in all their interests to live without war. They wanted to grow their crops and farm their animals and have their children without always fearing one or all of them might be killed. You are wrong, woman!”

Her dark eyes narrowed; she tightened her tasseled belt. “Listen to me,
man
. Reynald inherited land that the Welsh tribes considered was their own. They wanted it back, and he wouldn’t give it back. It was like a constantly festering sore between them.”

“He inherited the land from his father. His father who was always at war, up and down the border. There had been enough war—everyone agreed. Reynald wanted peace, and the prosperity that it would bring. It took years, but eventually he persuaded them he was in earnest. They all came together in agreement. There-was-no-fight-to-the-death!”

She sniffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I can only think you’re drunk, or mad.”

“Lady, you are a yammering shrew.”

“Well, really! Being rude doesn’t make you right, sir.”

“You are accusing me…Reynald of lying and plotting murder, woman. That is why I am being rude.”

“I’m not saying that he did lie and plot, only that it is in keeping with his character—”

“No!”

She sniffed. “Yes.”

He could see that the “authority” was convinced of the rightness of her argument. She truly believed that a battle was how they had all died that dreadful day and that somehow he had planned it. But the Ghost knew the truth, and it was time he spoke it.

“The dragon came,” Reynald said quietly.

Her eyes seemed to pop, and she made a choking sound. “The dragon?” she repeated. “The Welsh dragon is a metaphor for the Welsh people. It is a symbol. When Julius writes in his chronicle that the ‘dragon’ fought, he means that the Welsh fought. Surely you don’t believe he meant a-a real—”

“Julius wrote a chronicle?” Reynald interrupted. “But Julius died that day.”

“No, he didn’t die,” she answered, with exaggerated patience. “He survived, but with terrible injuries.” The woman stared hard at him. “I really would advise you to get your facts right if you’re going to go about disputing the experts.”

Reynald stared back just as hard. “There
was
a dragon. A great red dragon, with enormous wings and a long tail and claws like daggers. It came from the west, across the ravine and over the treetops. At first we…they could only hear the sound of its wings, a slapping and hissing in the still air, then a moaning, keening sound, like a banshee. Everyone was staring. And then the dragon came over them, filling the sky. Reynald looked up and saw its eyes. I tell you, woman, there was more than animal cunning in them. That dragon hated. It was intent on harming everyone it could.

“There had been talk of its coming, but…it wasn’t believed.” I
didn’t believe it
. “So there was no preparation for battle. And, anyway, how could such a creature be fought? They were not magicians, just ordinary men and women. Reynald tried, but…he failed. The carnage was beyond description.”

Miriam Ure was staring up at him and shaking her head slowly, pityingly. “My poor chap, there was no dragon. Dragons are the stuff of myth and legend, they only exist in fiction. You must see that, in reality, such a thing would be impossible. The truth is Reynald de Mortimer and the Welsh thrashed it out, and because neither side would give in, neither side won.”

“The dragon won.”

She shook her head again, and now scorn curled her mouth. In other circumstances Reynald would have understood the woman’s feelings—he was no superstitious fool, and had never accepted talk of the giant flying serpent until he saw it for himself. But he had been there, he knew the truth, and she didn’t. It made him both frustrated and angry.

“I believe there’s a very good psychiatric hospital a few miles down the road,” she said.

Reynald wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, but he knew a hospital was for the sick.

He took a step forward, meaning to remonstrate with her again. Her eyes widened, and she stumbled back. Then it was as if he heard Amy’s voice in his head:

Rey, don’t you dare make another scene!

At once he stopped, all the anger going out of him. What did he think he was doing? The woman didn’t believe him, but that was no reason to frighten her. He should be looking for whatever it was the witch wanted him to find out. The truth that would right the wrong. Only then could he complete his task and return to his own time.

Deliberately, he moderated his tone. “What you have said, about the fighting between the Welsh and my…and Reynald’s men…this is what everyone believes?”

“Of course.”

The dragon had been forgotten. Or dismissed. But Julius must have written down the truth, and Julius was the least likely of any man to indulge in flights of fancy, so why did not one believe him? Somehow the story had been changed in the telling.

Perhaps Amy could explain it to him…

And then it occurred to him that Amy probably didn’t know the truth either. Did she believe he was the kind of man who would lure the Welsh to their deaths? A man without honesty or honor? He had to tell her about the dragon. He had to explain it to her right now.

Reynald made for the stairs, leaving the woman in the wig staring after him, but just as he started up them, Mr. Coster called out to him. Against his better judgment, Reynald stopped and looked back.

Coster was walking toward him, and he seemed to have gotten over his grief at the death of the Singing Santa. In fact, he was smiling. “Ah, good, good. I was hoping to catch you. I wonder if I might have a word…”

Amy woke suddenly and glared at the illuminated
numbers on the clock. It was late. She should have been downstairs at the feast by now. Why hadn’t Rey got her up? She sat up, calling his name and looking around at the empty room with a growing sense of unease.

“Rey? Where are you?”

Well, he wasn’t in here, and there really wasn’t time to go looking for him. Amy barely had enough minutes to shower and dress in the costume she’d chosen for the feast. It was a dress with a tight-fitting dark green bodice and an uneven, zigzag hem. The skirt was constructed of different colors, sewn in strips, and when she twirled they billowed out like a carnival pinwheel. She thought of it as a female version of a harlequin or a jester, and had teamed it with flat, velvet green shoes with bells on the toes. Satisfied with her appearance, Amy brushed her curls, tied some colored ribbons in amongst them, dabbed on makeup, and was out the door.

She could hear the noise long before she reached the great hall; medieval musical instruments competing with the chatter of modern voices. As she passed through the outer room, she instinctively gazed up at the paintings that tracked the life and exploits of Reynald de Mortimer in the thirteenth century.

There he was, standing on his castle walls, gazing upon his subjects as they crowded below, awaiting his words of wisdom. She could imagine Rey looking just like that down his nose—arrogant. As if he was scornful of the weaknesses of lesser mortals.

Like her.

For reasons she preferred not to go into, Amy shivered.

“Amy.” It was Jez, in one of his expensive dark suits.

Amy shot him a narrowed glance. “That’s not medieval.”

“No, but it’s Saville Row,” he said, flicking an imaginary speck off the cuff. “Where’s your big friend?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps he’s gone home,” Jez said hopefully. “I don’t understand why you waste your time with him.”

“You know why, Jez. Coster was going to call the police. Did you want that?”

“I’m not a fool, Amy. I know when you’re playing with the truth to suit yourself.”

She said nothing. How was she going to explain to her brother about Rey? Where did she begin? Even if she left out the seven-hundred-year thing, he’d have her committed.

Jez wasn’t waiting for a reply. “Nicco’s around here somewhere. He was looking for you.”

“Oh good.”

“Amy, you’re trying my patience—”

A tremendous whining, hooting sound blasted out behind them, as two medieval trumpets gave it their all. Amy covered her ears, and Jez gave her a brotherly dig in the ribs.

“Make way! Make way!” boomed a voice.

Amy turned, just in time to see Rey entering at the head of a small procession of people dressed in colorful medieval costume. One of the local theatrical companies had supplied clothing and players. Coster, a crown on his head and a purple cloak about his shoulders, was prominent, with several women gowned in long dresses and pointed hats with veils.

“Make way for King Edward and Lord de Mortimer!”

“Oh my God,” Amy breathed.

Rey was wearing tight dark trousers and a deep red tunic over a white shirt. He looked very handsome, and very imperious, as if he was perfectly at home in the situation. But then, if he really was who he said he was, he would be, wouldn’t he?

As he passed by, he met her gaze, and there was a gleam in his eyes. His lips twitched. He was enjoying himself, and he certainly fit the part. Her gaze sharpened. “Who’s that woman beside him in the Lady of Shallot getup?”

“Terri Kirkby,” Jez said, finally showing some interest. “I’d heard she was coming. They say she’s the next Keira Knightley.”

Amy pretended to yawn. “A blond teenager as thin as a stick. Why am I not surprised?”

“Your claws are showing, little sister.”

They found a place to sit, close enough to the fire to feel its warmth but not be roasted. The meal was a triumph of simple food cooked well: salmon and turkey and beef, and bowls of winter vegetables, as well as chestnut soup, sweet and savory tarts, and, to top it off, a huge Christmas pudding, which was ceremoniously flamed.

“Christmas pudding, as we know it, isn’t medieval, of course,” said a plump woman across the table, who had introduced herself as Miriam Ure, “but it’s so delicious, perhaps we can forgive them for that.”

“I don’t know if
I
can forgive them,” Amy whimpered, feeling her stomach expanding. “I haven’t eaten this much in years.”

“Of course, Yuletide was a time of the year when there was little fresh fare,” the woman went on expansively, tossing back a lock of her blond wig—she’d explained she was here as Lady Godiva, with clothes. “They would have used wild herbs, mushrooms, anything growing in the woods, and foods already in storage, like apples, from the previous growing season. With the weather likely to be cold and bleak outside, everyone wanted the opportunity to eat and be merry.”

“
They
certainly look merry,” Jez said, nodding to the table on the raised dais, where Coster and Rey were seated with pretty Terri Kirkby. “Don’t you think, Amy?”

She ignored him.

He leaned closer, so as not to be overheard. “Here’s your chance to get rid of him. I know that having saved him, you feel obligated to keep him, but now he’s made new friends…?”

Miriam Ure broke in loudly. “Do you know that Reynald de Mortimer, the real one, that is, was very fair of coloring—both hair and eyes? That was why they called him the Ghost. And also, I think, because he had been in many situations where he might have died but somehow survived. When he was a youngster his father’s enemies planted a serving girl in the de Mortimer stronghold to kill the boy. She seduced him, or tried to, then produced a dagger. He survived, but it had its effect. He never allowed a woman to get that close to him again.”

That horrible scar! Amy stared at her with wide eyes. “She tried to…to cut his throat?”

“Yes,” Miriam smiled. “You’ve heard the story, then? It was a close thing, evidently. One can’t blame him for not wanting anything to do with women afterwards, although he’d have to marry, eventually. Every great man needs an heir, and Reynald was a very great man, with a vast amount of wealth.”

“Good lord,” Amy murmured feebly. The scar, she’d seen it, and it looked real. It
was
real.

One of the traditional buxom serving wenches arrived to pour more mead and ale, but she declined, and asked instead for coffee. She was then treated to a ten-minute lecture by Miriam on the origins of coffee and its introduction into England.

In the middle of it, she felt a wave of depression coming on. It seemed a strange moment to feel depressed, during a medieval feast with plenty of food and merriment, and with Jez at her side. She should be making the most of it, reminding herself that after Monday she’d be returning to her real life and leaving all of this behind her forever.

Laughter erupted from the main table.
Well, Reynald was obviously enjoying himself enough for both of them
. So much for his desperate search for the truth and Amy being his chosen companion. It seemed he had plenty of time after all, or maybe that was because he was sitting next to Terri Kirkby.

Abruptly, Amy stood up. “You know, I’m not very good company,” she said to Jez. “If Nicco comes looking for me, tell him I’ll definitely see him later.”

Jez eyed her quizzically. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“What could be wrong?” she retorted, and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Be good.”

She skirted through the tables and chairs, feeling like the only one on the Welsh borders who wasn’t having a good time. A black cloud on a sunny day, that was her. She’d reached the door when a hand closed on her arm and stopped her dead.
Nicco?
But her prickle of awareness told her it wasn’t. With a sense of the inevitable, Amy turned to face her captor.

“Hey, Rey,” she said, as if she wasn’t in the least disturbed by his sudden appearance. “Bored already?”

There was a gleam in his eyes. Sitting beside Terri Kirkby for a couple of hours probably did that to a man.

“I need to speak with you.”

“I really don’t feel like talking. Can we do it later?”

“I want to tell you about—”

“Why don’t you tell Terri? She’s probably dying to hear all about whatever it is.”

Oh God, why had she said that? She could have bitten her tongue off. It made it so obvious. Nervously, she watched his puzzled frown, as he tried to read her. And then his gaze sharpened. He glanced back at Terri, and he smiled at Amy. Color ran into her cheeks.

“You are jealous,” he said.

“Why on earth should I be?” She turned and walked away.

He followed. “You did not like me sitting with Terri. It made you jealous.” He seemed so pleased about it, and she felt so embarrassed, that she just couldn’t bear it.

Amy put on her most world-weary tone. “Rey, I agree that you’re a good-looking bloke, but I’m not looking for a relationship just now. I’m more interested in sorting out my own life than ironing some guy’s shirts.”

He wasn’t fooled. He laughed softly, deep in his throat. It made her stomach drop away.

“Amy,
you
are my companion. I need you to help me right my wrong, to redeem myself. You and no one else. Already, you have done much, and I am grateful to you. You must believe that. I am not looking for a bedmate, and if I was, I would not offer you insult by asking such a thing of you.”

“Rey, flattered as I am by your sweet talk, there’s something you should know.” She hesitated. He was looking down at her as if she was the angel of goodness. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to spoil it, not just yet. “I’m not what you think,” she ended lamely.

He smiled as if he didn’t believe her, but didn’t press the matter. “I wanted to tell you about the painting,” he said. “The battle between my people and the Welsh. It is wrong.”

Amy was confused. “Why is it wrong?”

“Look.” He tugged her by the arm he still held, until she was underneath the section of the painting he seemed interested in. He pointed excitedly up at the ceiling, and because he was so agitated, Amy let him say what was on his mind. “You can see fighting, a great battle.”

“Yes, I can see fighting. Oops, there’s an arm…and a head.”

He frowned at her levity. “What you are seeing is something that didn’t really happen, damsel.”

“There was no battle?”

“No. The dragon came. It was the dragon, Amy!”

Amy stared at him, amazement warring with skepticism. She couldn’t help it. What he was saying was completely ridiculous. Or maybe she’d reached her gullibility limit.

“So you’re telling me that there was a real-live dragon there that day? Is that what you’re telling me, Rey?”

“Yes!” he cried. “A dragon. It flew over us, and its breath was fire and steam and ash. People were running and screaming, thinking only of getting away. I had my longbow, but I did not strike true. I…did not trust myself to strike true. And then the dragon was upon me, and there was nothing.”

He stopped, breathing hard. His chest was rising and falling beneath his red tunic. Amy wanted to put her hand on him. She felt goose bumps on her arms. He was so sincere, so earnest, and she knew him to be an honest man. But how could she believe him? How could any sane person believe that dragons existed, never mind seven-hundred-year-old warriors?

She was well out of her depth.

She looked away, gained some time by smoothing her multicolored skirt and tinkling the bells on her shoes. “I don’t know what to say. You’re telling me that you were killed by a dragon in 1299?”

“Yes.”

“Rey…where did you get that scar on your neck?”

He didn’t answer. When she looked at him, she saw the shocked expression in his eyes.
It was true, it was all true!

Whatever the facts, right now it was too much for her. Amy shook her head and walked away.