The Tower and the Emerald

by Moyra Caldecott

  Terrified, she drew back, and then remembered what she clutched in her hand. She raised it up. She watched the sunlight flash through it, the star riding just above the surface . . .

  Suddenly the Janus-god was gone.

  The ferryman seemed confused. He rushed forward, but appeared not to be able to see her. He searched the water on either side of the boat . . . he looked frantically towards the bank.

  Like the star in the rose-crystal sphere, she was momentarily invisible!

  She slipped over the side and swam and waded the short distance to the bank, the water hardly moving under the lee of a bend in the river.

  It was Hunydd who gave her away, scrambling beside her up the steep bank, breaking off great chunks of loose earth as she did so. She heard the ferryman shout, and breathlessly hauled herself up by clutching roots where the lapping water had undercut the bank. With a foot in the loop of one, she grabbed Hunydd’s bridle, and used the mare’s strength to swing her up on to the riverside path.

  She guided the mare downstream, hoping that they would come upon Caradawc, but there was no sign of him – only the river flowing hard and strong to the distant sea; the willows crowding thickly, leaning well over the water as though to drink; the occasional heron watching for fish. She looked frequently over her shoulder to check if she was being followed.

  She saw no one. But in the scramble to mount Hunydd she had dropped the precious rose quartz sphere, and the dark river mud had sucked it down into its depths.

  * * * *

  Eventually Viviane gave up searching for Caradawc and turned to the north, away from the river, hoping to find the monastery the smith’s wife had described. She headed into woods of oak and ash and alder, Hunydd’s hooves muted on the thick carpet of leaves and ground ivy. Out in the sunshine on the other side she found peasants working the strip fields, women and children beside the men, bent double, pulling weeds, hoeing and trimming. They straightened up when they saw her and stared at her silently. She asked a woman with a child on her hip for directions, and was given them, briefly, unsmilingly. She supposed she must appear strange to them, a ragged woman on a mare fit for a princess.

  Following instructions she climbed towards the long rocky ridge beyond the fields. She could feel the peasants’ eyes still upon her back.

  Near the top Hunydd began to sniff the air nervously and sidestep a little. But Viviane urged her on firmly until they could look down on to the plain on the other side; and there she saw the reason. The monastery, which a few hours previously must have consisted of a collection of sturdily built wooden houses gathered around a central chapel, was now a smouldering and blackened ruin. Viviane shivered, the thought that Idoc might have been responsible crossing her mind.

  Near her on the ridge stood an ancient preaching cross – a cross bearing a circle – the symbol of the new religion and the old combined in one powerful stone image – a marker that had been there for centuries before the monks had come and would remain there long after they were gone. She climbed down from Hunydd and put her arms around the stone, leaning her head against it, saying a silent prayer.

  What now? She did not want to go back to the cold, unfriendly peasants and beg a bed for the night in one of their cramped little huts. Nor could she return to the comforts of Castle Goreu. Her father’s home was far, far away. There was still the Community of the Fish . . . but would she ever be able to find that?

  Since she had left the woods, clouds had gathered. She searched the landscape that lay spread out like a quilt below her, wondering where in all that web of forest, rock and stream, crop-field and pasture, she would find what she was looking for . . .

  There was a ridge of hills in the distance but the black clouds hung so oppressively low they were almost invisible. Suddenly she heard a sound above her and looked up to see that a pair of swans had risen into the air and, like white thunder, were winging their way across the landscape. Their necks outstretched, like living arrows, they pointed the way to a knoll of rock in the distance – a knoll she recognized for it overlooked the sanctuary she sought. At that very moment, as though in confirmation, the clouds parted a fraction and a ray of light caught the swans’ wings, burnishing them with dazzling silver. She caught her breath. But as suddenly as it had happened it was over. The clouds closed over again. The swans landed. The moment now only existed in her memory . . . but she knew that it had been a gift and she would cherish it forever.

  The landscape seemed even darker now in contrast to the brilliant white of the swans, and she noticed that the knoll overlooking the sanctuary was not the only prominence. Dark as the clouds were, she had the impression that there was a more powerful source of darkness on the earth. Its centre seemed to be a hill with a tower upon it, lying between her and the sanctuary. Towards this, like shoals of fish all swimming in the same direction, flashes and gleams of light seemed to be drawn: only to scatter in apparent confusion as they reached the black shadow surrounding the tower. Most were instantly sucked in, finding the force of darkness too strong for them. When they re-emerged they themselves had taken on the darkness and were part of the shadow that was reaching out across the land.

  Shivering, she spoke to Hunydd. ‘Come, we must find shelter before it rains.’ She would try to skirt the dark tower, but meanwhile there was a great deal of travelling to be done.

  She had not gone far when she came upon a party of warriors. They surrounded her at once, their eyes stripping her naked.

  ‘What have we here?’ one said.

  ‘A woman ready for laying,’ another replied.

  ‘My turn first,’ a third broke in.

  ‘No, mine!’ spoke a fourth.

  ‘Let’s toss for it.’

  ‘Neol should go first.’

  ‘After Neol we’ll toss.’

  Hands came out and groped her, one cupping a breast while the others whistled. She tried to pull away but they were pressing too close, and had Hunydd firmly by the bridle.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ she said fiercely. ‘I am the betrothed of Caradawc, son of Goreu!’

  The effect of her words was startling.

  The men drew back at once and gathered into a tight knot for consultation. Seeing them thus occupied, she encouraged Hunydd to slip away and make for the woods where she hoped she would have a better chance of hiding. But they turned and spotted her before she reached cover, and set off at once in pursuit. Once again Hunydd was urged to a gallop, but the men were upon her in moments, the leader leaning over to seize her bridle. The others encircled her – but this time silently. Only the one holding the bridle spoke, and with more respect than before.

  ‘We apologize, my lady,’ he said. ‘You must be the Princess Viviane?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tried to keep her dignity, in spite of the eyes that still looked her over greedily.

  ‘You must agree . . . dressed as you are . . . it was an easy mistake for my men to make.’

  ‘Is any woman who comes your way subjected to the same treatment?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘We are men, my lady,’ he answered, equally coldly.

  ‘I know men who would not behave thus.’

  ‘I know women who would not ride about the countryside pretending to be peasants when they are royal born.’

  ‘I have been through many dangers, sir, and would be grateful if you would give me your protection and guide me to some civilized household where I may find rest and food and perhaps a change of clothes. I am sure that the Lord Caradawc will amply reward you.’

  At this the men laughed loudly, and even the polite young man who had been speaking smiled grimly.

  ‘I am sure he will, my lady,’ he said quietly, but she did not miss the irony in his voice.

  Her heart was beating fast as she realized that she was not among friends – but perhaps they would be held at bay by what they feared to lose or hoped to gain from Caradawc.

  The young man in charge spoke briefly to his companions, sending most of them on
to continue along the way they had been going, but choosing others to head back with him in the direction whence they had come. Viviane was to ride beside him, his hand still on her bridle.

  ‘Where are you taking me, sir?’ she asked calmly, though she felt far from calm.

  ‘To my father’s house,’ he said.

  ‘Your father, sir?’

  ‘Huandaw, son of Neved.’ The names meant nothing to her. She had come too recently to the area to know the enmities and rivalries of all the local houses. But she caught the pride in the young man’s voice.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Neol, son of Huandaw.’

  ‘I greet you, Neol, son of Huandaw.’

  ‘And I greet you, Viviane, daughter of Garwys,’ he said coldly.

  ‘You know my father, sir?’

  ‘No, my lady, but I have heard of you.’

  ‘You know Prince Caradawc?’

  The answer did not come quickly this time. She could not see his face, but she saw his shoulders stiffen.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, the word devoid of any emotion.

  ‘And his father, Goreu?’

  ‘Particularly his father, Goreu!’ To these words he gave bitter emphasis.

  ‘The Lord Goreu is dead,’ she said hastily, hoping that the ill feeling she could sense lay between Huandaw and Goreu, and not between Caradawc and Neol.

  ‘I know,’ he said stiffly.

  They rode in silence for a while, the others keeping just behind them.

  Suddenly he shouted an order and one of the men rode swiftly ahead, no doubt to prepare Huandaw for their arrival. She began to feel more and more uneasy.

  ‘When I am guest in your father’s house’ – she chose the word carefully, knowing that to be a guest was to be under the host’s protection – ‘I would like to send a message to . . . to my father.’ What had this young man heard of the murder of Goreu, the fire, her disappearance? What interpretation did he put on finding her here so far from Caradawc’s lands, ragged and clad like a peasant?

  ‘My lady, you will not be a “guest” in my father’s house,’ Neol replied equally carefully. ‘You will be a hostage.’

  Her heart sank. ‘A hostage, sir?’

  ‘Surely you must know that the House of Goreu and the House of Huandaw are sworn enemies?’

  ‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You will find that I am not of much value as a hostage, sir,’ she continued, trying to steady her voice. ‘My relationship with the House of Goreu is no longer good.’

  ‘Yet when it suited you you claimed Caradawc’s protection?’ He turned and looked at her sharply.

  She flushed. ‘Surely you can understand, sir, a woman set upon must defend herself as best she can.’

  ‘And when her deception is found out – what protection can she expect then?’

  What indeed?

  ‘Sir – the protection of an honourable man: Neol, son of Huandaw.’

  He reined in their two steeds, and the others came to a halt behind them. He looked at her long and closely; but in that look she could read nothing of what he was thinking.

  * * * *

  Idoc was in his tower, staring into his scrying mirror. The images before him appeared to float in front of the mirror; they were solid-seeming, almost tangible. He bit the knuckles of his left hand. Even in rags she was beautiful: the sun catching her hair, touching the curve of her breast . . . The image was so clear he could even see the long dark lashes shadowing her green-grey eyes. The interference of Neol had not been in his plan. Who was this Neol that he looked at her so boldly? Was he contemplating taking her from Caradawc? That must not be allowed! Caradawc’s body was open to Idoc in a way that Neol’s would never be, for Caradawc had been under his control in that past life, and Caradawc’s weakness then was his weakness now: then as now he could be manipulated – by fear . . . by jealousy . . . by loving too blindly. Neol was a colder, harder man, one who knew his own strengths and weaknesses, and those of the people around him. He would never allow himself to be taken over. Idoc strode about the chamber. If Neol lay with Viviane he, Idoc, would not be able to feel a thing. Cursing, he returned to the mirror to see what further was happening.

  If Neol had made reply to Viviane, Idoc had missed it, and he was furious with himself for allowing his irritation to interfere. The group of figures was on the move again: as before, Neol leading Viviane. But the image was fading. Idoc cursed again. It was his own agitation that was causing this – his control was slipping. He was allowing his feelings for the woman he had once desired so desperately to interfere with his simple pursuit of revenge. Bitterly he put his hand over her image in the mirror, his palm against the ice-cold obsidian. He would not look at her. To look at her was to desire her. To desire her was to be diverted from his purpose.

  Viviane, riding beside Neol, felt a sudden shadow cross her path and, as it touched her, it was like the touch of a hand.

  * * * *

  It was Gerin who found Caradawc sitting on the north bank where the river narrowed and the water divided into fierce white streams rushing between huge rounded boulders. He was badly bruised and there was blood on his shoulder, but he had been very lucky to recover consciousness before hitting the worst of the rapids.

  Gerin himself had crossed the river further downstream, and was making his way back towards Huandaw’s house when he came upon the young king, soaked and shivering.

  When Caradawc told him how he had found and rescued Viviane, Gerin thought his heart would leap out of his chest. Since the first moment he had set eyes on her he had been drawn to her, so strongly that it was almost more than he could do to hide it from his friends. It was he who had found the charred remains of Goreu with Viviane’s dagger still in his back, and it was he who had removed it before anyone else could see it; confiding only in Caradawc. Had she been driven crazy by remorse for what she had done? Why else would she have plunged into the river and tried to drown herself? Why else, after Caradawc had risked his life to rescue her, would she still run from him, and bribe the ferryman to push him off the ferry?

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean him to kill me. She even tried to help me – but it was too late. The man was over-zealous.’

  ‘At any rate,’ Gerin said, ‘we know she is alive and heading north. She’s probably trying to return to her father.’

  Caradawc frowned. ‘That is too far! She’ll never reach him on her own.’

  The two young men fell silent, thinking. They had set off to solve the mystery of the black knight, but that seemed unimportant now.

  Gerin stood up decisively. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I find Osla,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll look for her together.’

  Caradawc nodded. ‘Take care,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You too, my friend. Keep out of sight if you hear anyone coming. We are very close to Huandaw’s lands, if not already on them.’

  Caradawc nodded, and Gerin remounted and rode off the way he had come.

  * * * *

  Rheged was the first to find a place where he could watch the house of Huandaw without being seen. He found a tor capped with rocks and trees, and took up his position inside a huge boulder that had been cracked open by an oak tree. The tree itself was stunted and deformed, all its energy having gone into the prodigious work of splitting the solid rock.

  From here, hidden by leaves and branches, Rheged could see down into the walled area of the great house: he could watch all the comings and goings in the courtyard and through the main gate. He could see a herdboy driving cattle back from the pasture, and hear the thin, high call as he summoned his dog. He could see a woman scattering grain for the chickens, and children playing around the well. The tor was out of arrow range, but there was a higher hill nearer to the buildings where he was sure a lookout would be posted. It was not the intention of Caradawc’s friends to beard Huandaw in his den, or even to plan a revenge raid. They had not thought further than discovering more about the mysterious black knight: whether he w
as part of Huandaw’s household, or whether he had arrived during the battle for some other purpose – unknown both to Huandaw and to Caradawc alike.

  There was certainly no sign of his presence here in the valley.

  Rheged’s limbs were growing stiff in the cramped position he had chosen and he glanced anxiously more than once at the sky, where the clouds were pressing ominously low. He had just decided he would stay no longer fruitlessly watching, when suddenly he spotted a party of riders emerging from a nearby copse.

  In front rode a figure that looked like Huandaw’s son, Neol, leading a white horse beside his own. As Rheged suddenly leant forward he nearly pitched headlong down the tor, saving himself just in time by seizing hold of a branch. A few pebbles went skittering down the steep slope to the valley, and he feared someone watching from the other hill might notice, but any guard there was also watching the horsemen, for no one appeared to challenge him.

  Rheged had recognized Viviane on the white horse.

  The men accompanying her were joined by others from the house, and she was led through the gate in triumph, everyone running to stare at her, with Huandaw himself appearing at the door of the main hall.

  Rheged saw her helped down from her mare by Neol, and presented to his father. They then went inside and out of sight. He continued to watch while the other horsemen dismounted and handed over their mounts to grooms and stable boys. The others who had ridden out to meet them dispersed to take up guard positions: it was clear that they were expecting trouble.

  When one began to ride towards the tor on which Rheged was hidden, he knew that if he did not leave at once he would be discovered. Luckily, what sounds he made as he descended the tor were lost as the storm that had been brewing finally broke. His last glimpse of Huandaw’s yard was of the children running for the house, squealing, as the huge drops of rain started to pelt down and the air rumbled with thunder.