The Pendragon Legend (29 page)

We piled into the car, excited and confused, four children left on their own by the grownups to wrestle with Death and the Devil.

“I just need to know where this Caerbryn is,” Osborne announced from behind the steering wheel. “It’s some
godforsaken
little place up in the mountains.”

Close study of the map ensued. At long last we found both it and the shortest way to get there. Thereafter we drove in silence, awed equally by fear and the magic of speed.

Half an hour later we were in the mountains. Soon we had to slow down. The main road had come to an end and we found
ourselves on tracks that had never been intended for cars. We had to consult the map every few minutes.

Meanwhile the morning that had been so friendly had turned dark and threatening.

I would never have believed that in Wales, in Great Britain, there could be such ancient, truly Nordic places, without trace of people or human dwelling. The road was either lined with bald rocks of the most fantastical shapes and sizes, or it led through forests of gigantic trees bearded with moss. But as the view closed in around us we grew steadily more impatient: at last we seemed to be getting somewhere.

Somewhere, at the end of the world, the road came to a halt. The car stopped beside a lake whose waters, in the gloom beneath the mountains, were black as ink. The reeds sighed endlessly, and the trees stretching out their branches were
inexpressibly
sad.

At the edge of the water sat an old woman. She seemed to have been there since the days of the first Earl. She didn’t even look at us, she just carried on mending her ancient and endless net. Every so often she would toss a pebble into the water.

“Excuse me, but which is the way to Caerbryn?” Osborne asked her.

She looked up but gave no answer. Cynthia put a question to her in Welsh, but again there was no reply. She seemed quite
unaware
of our presence. Somehow, though we never admitted this to one another, she filled us all with deep foreboding.

“This lake isn’t on the map,” Osborne remarked. “Perhaps it didn’t exist in 1928, when they made it.”

“Or else you’re looking in the wrong place,” Lene said. “We aren’t where you said we were. You’ve lost the way.”

“Then this must be Llyn-Coled. We’ll have to turn back.”

“Oh, Llyn-Coled!” cried Cynthia.

I knew something had struck her, some dark, superstitious thing she didn’t want to name. The same wild superstition raced through me too, adding to my worst apprehensions.

With much difficulty, we turned the car around.

“We’ve lost three quarters of an hour,” Osborne muttered. “But if we turn right here we’ll find a short cut.”

We were driving between two steep cliffs, in almost total
darkness,
pitching and jolting violently. Suddenly we bounced up out of our seats, almost thrown from the car. An enormous rock had fallen on the road, blocking our way. Turning here was
impossible
. The passengers had to get out and walk alongside as the car reversed slowly out of the canyon.

It had now started to rain. As a pleasure outing, this would not have been a success.

Then Cynthia’s nerves gave way. She came to a halt in the
driving
rain, trembling and shaking with the violence of her sobbing.

“You press ahead,” she wept. “Just leave me here. I’ll go back to Llyn-Coled. Leave me, leave me!” And she stamped her feet hysterically.

Osborne and I looked on helplessly, but Lene was an angel of God. With a couple of affectionately crude remarks she got Cynthia back on her emotional feet, and we continued on our way.

At long last we were out of the canyon and back on a proper road. Soon we found ourselves on a relatively friendly plateau, from which we might have found our bearings had the rain not obliterated the view.

Eventually a village appeared in the distance, clinging to the side of a hill.

“That can only be Caerbryn,” said Osborne.

We were again up to full speed, so far as the road would allow, softened as it was by the rain. Then the car decided to follow Cynthia’s example and have a nervous breakdown. It gave an almighty groan and stopped dead in its tracks. Osborne crawled underneath it, and after a while Lene joined him. Snatches of a fierce argument could be heard from beneath the chassis. After
fifteen
minutes they slithered out again, unrecognisable under their coating of mud.

“I just can’t imagine what could be wrong with it,” said the person who had once been Osborne.

“It doesn’t matter,” the other one stated. “That’s Caerbryn over there. It looks less than two miles. Let’s just walk it. We can leave the car here. It’ll take a genius to steal it.”

We set off on foot. Slowly the details of Caerbryn came into
focus. It was a strangely picturesque mountain village. Every
cottage
was flattened against the precipice; on the summit stood the ruins of a timeless castle, soaking in the rain.

It was three in the afternoon and not one of us had given a thought to lunch. We reached the village by four, drenched to the skin and almost dead with fatigue. But we were finally on
inhabited
ground. The people could even speak English, and showed us the pretty little cottage where John Mansfield lived.

We knocked for some time before the door opened. The man was very old, but with a fine, handsome face.

“Mr Mansfield?” Osborne enquired.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, eyeing Osborne and Lene with evident surprise.

“Mr Mansfield, you must ignore our alarming appearance. I am Osborne Pendragon, this lady is my sister Cynthia, and these are my friends.”

“Come in, come in,” the old man replied, his face brightening. “I’m sorry there’s no fire for you to dry yourself against, but I’ll make one up. Meanwhile, you must have something to eat. A bit of cheese?”

“That would be excellent,” said Osborne. “But first, where is my uncle?”

“His Lordship isn’t here. He went out, perhaps an hour ago. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, I’m sorry, he didn’t. A lady came for him in a car, and he went off with her.”

“A lady? What did she look like?”

“Quite tall, reddish-blond hair: very handsome. The sort you must be familiar with in London.”

“Eileen St Claire!” Cynthia exclaimed.

“She didn’t give her name.”

“Mr Mansfield,” I asked, “do you know whether he was
expecting
her?”

“No, sir, he wasn’t. He was extremely surprised to see her. In fact, he seemed rather shaken. But I couldn’t say … ”

“Where did they go?” Lene asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve really no idea.”

We went outside and held a council of war.

“We’re too late,” said Osborne. “We’ve been pre-empted. He’s been lured into a trap. It’s all up with him.”

Cynthia uttered a loud scream. Lene comforted her.

“We don’t know anything yet,” she growled. “We can’t afford to think the worst. Perhaps she’s only invited him for a friendly chat. Perhaps even as we speak they’re coming to an amicable
agreement
about the legacy. She chose her moment, when she could get him completely alone, so she could raise the question without any distractions. Up here, the Earl couldn’t refuse to see her.”

I didn’t want to say it, but Lene’s theory sounded rather
improbable
. If it was a question of a friendly chat, why not stay and have it here? No, they’d caught him in a snare. There could be no doubt about it.

We went back inside and flopped down around the old oak table. Mr Mansfield brought us cheese and some cider, and Lene made a show of eating and drinking voraciously to cheer us up. We all had a bit of the cider.

“What do we do now?” asked Osborne. “We can’t go home. Who could repair the car?”

“We’ll just have to wait,” said Lene. “Wait patiently and calmly. The Earl will be back soon, and we’ll know everything.”

And we waited. Not because we had much hope; we just couldn’t find anything better to do. Osborne had slumped into an ancient armchair and gone silent. Cynthia quietly sobbed, and Lene
comforted
her. I felt like a man whose insides had become paralysed. I couldn’t think of anything constructive, and had nothing to say. I just kept telling myself it was too late: too late for everything.

The rain drove down steadily. Giant mushrooms were growing in the woods; slowly the flora of decay was covering everything. Evil had been unleashed, and the last bastion had fallen. The Satanic kidnapper would continue to haunt the mountains, and the one person who might have stood up to him was dead …

“They threw them into Llyn-Coled,” Cynthia suddenly burst out. “The English Lords of the Marsh, took them there, the five hundred Welshmen. It was in the days of Llewellyn ap Griffith … Ever since then, the Lake has been grieving in Welsh.”

In the end it was Lene who could bear to wait no longer.

“No. We must do something. After all, we’re in a civilised
country
. This isn’t Maeterlinck’s Castle. The police … Where’s the nearest police station?”

“In Bala,” Osborne replied. “We could get there in an hour by car.”

“Yes, we must go there. To warn the police and the military. We can’t just sit here like this. We should have gone ages ago.”

“But how do we get there?” I asked. “Mr Mansfield, does
anyone
in the village have a car?”

“No one, sir. It’s rather old-fashioned around here.”

“Or a carriage?”

“There could be. Apple wagons, the sort farmers use.”

“How far is the nearest place where we might find a mechanic to repair the car?”

“Well, it depends, sir. There are many sorts of place in the world, and Merioneth is very large.”

“True. But which is the nearest?”

“As I say, that depends, sir. By cart, the nearest is Abersych. On foot, Betws-y-teg.”

“Why is that?”

“The road to Betws-y-teg goes all the way round the mountain, but the footpath cuts straight across it. You can walk it in an hour and a half.”

“And in which of the two would there be a car?”

“In both. Merioneth is a rich county.”

“Then to be on the safe side, we’d better go to both, and meet at the police station in Bala. Mr Mansfield will kindly get us a cart to take us to Abersych, and one of us will go on foot over the mountain to Betws-y-teg.”

My suggestion was accepted, and Mr Mansfield hurried out to look for one. Now we had to decide who would ride in it, and who would walk. By this stage we realised that poor Cynthia was in such a state she would have to remain where she was. She had taken no part in the discussion; she had just sat shivering and trembling in a corner. Since we couldn’t leave her on her own, Lene would have to stay too, as the only one who could do anything to calm her. However Lene also undertook to arrange for the broken-down car to be transported home, should we not return.

That left Osborne and myself. The more practical thing would have been for him to do the walking. As an athlete and a native he would more easily find his way about. He then confessed, rather ashamedly, that on the last part of the journey he had sprained his foot and didn’t think he could use it for another hour and a half.

We ate some of the cheese to give us strength.

Meanwhile Mr Mansfield had returned with the cart, and Osborne set off for Abersych. I took my leave of Cynthia, who sat staring straight ahead, apathetically, said goodbye to Lene, and went out with our host.

The old man accompanied me to the far end of the village, pointed out the path and explained the route I was to take. I was unhappy from the start. The explanation took the form that I was at various times to pass through a beech wood, then one of birch; and an oak wood would also play a major role. But I, alas, had been city bred from a child, and had studied only the liberal arts. I had never been able to tell one tree from another.

However I dared admit none of this to Mr Mansfield. I took my leave of him and set off on my journey. In the final analysis, I thought, all I had to do was go over the mountain.

At first it was plain sailing. The importance of my mission and the sense of being on a real adventure filled me with childish pride. Whistling cheerfully, I progressed up the slope with rapid strides. I thought there would be some sort of view from the top to show me the way. By the time I got there I was thoroughly exhausted. Only then did I realise that there was not just a single peak, but several, one after the other: it was only from lower down that they appeared to be a single feature. And it was growing steadily darker.

I went over to a tree and tried to determine what sort it was. I couldn’t. It was a tree, a generalised tree.

Never mind, I thought, just keep straight on ahead. I lit a
cigarette
and started downhill, in the direction that seemed to me to be a continuation of the way I had come. But I had some
misgivings
. I knew that as a rule my intuitions of this sort were seldom reliable.

Nonetheless, I pressed on regardless. It was only when I had come down from the ridge into a valley and found that the peak
facing me was altogether too craggy and precipitous for me even to think of climbing it, and there was no sign of a path leading upwards, that I started to worry. The old man had said a regular, and easily visible, path went all the way to Betws-y-teg. I was
obviously
lost.

The best thing of course would be to go back and look for the track at the top. But a Roman does not retreat. And to climb a steep hill one had only just finished coming down presented
certain
psychological difficulties.

In the little valley where I stood, a path wound away to the left. Perhaps if I followed that I’d be able to work my way round the mountain and get off it somewhere. So I set out again.

Meanwhile darkness had descended. Not pitch darkness: the clouds had dissipated, and a crescent moon and some stars had appeared. I made my way ‘by the uncertain light of the moon’, as Virgil puts it, and I felt the full force of that magnificent epithet ‘uncertain’.