Megan’s skin prickled in the damp heat, and something in the frenzy of the villagers’ actions unsettled her. The awkward moment at the table had passed, though she knew it would not be forgotten. No doubt Lord Geraint had ways and means of getting most people to comply with his demands. Most people, but would that include Merlin?
“Ha!” Lord Geraint staggered to his feet, waving his goblet of wine above his head. “Enough talk of war. This is a day for celebration. Come, let us join in the fun. There will be battles enough to be waged tomorrow.” He looked pointedly at his revered guest as he spoke. Merlin merely gave a small bow of acknowledgment and stood aside to let Lord Geraint pass.
Megan stood up, intending to slip back to her father if possible, but Merlin reached forward and took her hand. In that instant she felt something of the nearby fire coursing through her veins.
“Dance with me, Megan,” he said.
It was the first time he had said her name, and she liked the way it sounded on his lips. She smiled at him and was about to let him lead her to the minstrels when Lady Rhiannon caught her eye. She pulled away her hand quickly.
“I am sorry,” she muttered, studying the ground between them. “I am needed elsewhere.”
Lady Rhiannon made her way to Merlin’s side.
“They tell me that Magicians cannot dance,” she said, her back to Megan. “I know you will prove this to be some wicked untruth.”
She offered him her hand. Megan knew better than to stand in the way of her mistress’s desires, and she stepped back, waiting for her moment to melt into the crowd. To her astonishment, she felt Merlin take her hand again.
“You will forgive me, Lady Rhiannon. I had already promised to dance with Megan.”
So saying he led her, stumbling, away. Megan could hear her Lady’s hiss of indignation and knew that Merlin had made not one but two powerful enemies that day.
Merlin took her not to join the restrained dancing of those from the upper table, but to the rowdy merrymakers nearer the burning wheel. Here was dancing that allowed him to hold her as they moved to the lively music. As they whirled and turned and spun across the short grass, Megan felt her fears for his safety and the rage of her employers lessen. Only the moment mattered. The moment and Merlin, his gaze locked with hers, his strong arms sending her spinning away and catching her again, his smile lighting up his dark face as he looked at her.
All about them the party grew ever wilder and more debauched. Mothers rounded up small children and dragged them back toward their homes. Men and women too old to join in such rowdiness began their stiff journey back to the village, their aching joints numbed by quantities of ale. Maids and their would-be suitors danced on. Couples embraced, some reclining on the turf, drinking more than was good for them.
At once there was a lowering of the clouds and the threatened rain threw itself down onto the celebrations. There were squeals and cries. Lord Geraint, Lady Rhiannon, and their entourage hurried to the castle, their servants scurrying after them. The stalwart merrymakers would not be put off, some crawling beneath the tables to continue their feasting, others slipping and falling in the fresh mud, too drunk to care or notice the filth and water. Some danced on, as the doughty musicians continued to play even as their instruments were waterlogged.
Merlin and Megan stopped dancing. They stood looking at one another, water coursing down their faces. She smiled, then laughed as the rain filled her mouth. She lifted her face to the sky, still laughing. Merlin held her hands, and they leaned back, bathing in the rain, letting the water wash away their cares, laughing as the party disintegrated into debauchery around them.
* * *
LAURA DID NOT protest when Rhys picked her up and carried her to his cottage. A mixture of fear, exhaustion, and relief had left her weak and tearful. Rhys kicked open the front door and set her down in front of the old, black range. The whole of the downstairs was a single space, with a kitchen area at one end and a sitting room at the other. The windows here were even smaller than those of Penlan, and it took a while for Laura’s eyes to adjust to the low level of light. She found she was shivering and moved closer to the fire as Rhys prodded it into new life. He split some kindling with a chopper and threw a handful on the fire to produce more flame. There was a hiss as water dropped from his hair onto the range. He fetched a woolen blanket, draped it around her shoulders, and then set about lighting candles. Only at that point did Laura realize there was no electricity at the cottage. Now she could see candles on every surface, as well as oil lamps hanging from hooks in the beams. The ceilings were low, and Rhys had to keep ducking to avoid them. There was a wooden spiral staircase in the far corner of the kitchen. The furniture was simple and rustic, but beautiful, too. The top of the long kitchen table had been fashioned out of a single piece of wood, and the bench and chairs beside it were chunky and roughly hewn. There was a sink with a single tap and a collection of heavy pots and pans, blackened from hours of use on the range. In the sitting area were two low sofas, a wood-burning stove, and shelves sagging under an impressive book collection. Rhys poured hot water from the iron kettle into a large enamel bowl. He fetched a cloth and a towel and sat at Laura’s feet. He dipped the cloth in the steaming water, wrung it out and, with the utmost gentleness, reached up and washed the mud from Laura’s face. She sat motionless, letting him tend to her, enjoying the comfort of his care and the warm water, feeling her tired muscles begin to unknot at last. He dabbed her face dry with the towel before moving the blanket and bathing her arms and hands. He worked on wordlessly, changing the water before starting on her scratched and battered legs. Laura winced as he rinsed her stinging cuts. The smell of lavender replaced that of mud and mountain. When her legs were clean Rhys took the towel and dried them with light, tender movements. He looked up at her and smiled. She had never felt so cherished as she did at that moment. Nor had she experienced anything so utterly erotic. Neither of them had spoken, and yet she felt incredibly close to Rhys, as if she had known him a lifetime already.
He stood up, “I’ll find you some dry clothes,” he said, before springing lightly up the stairs to the room above.
His footsteps echoed through the wooden boards as he moved about upstairs. Laura turned to the small fire, gazing into the flames. She had thought Penlan to be a timeless place, a place capable of transporting a person back through centuries by the roughness of a beam, or the coolness of a flagstone. But here, in this cottage, she felt as if the modern world no longer existed. People must have lived in the croft just as Rhys did now for generations. Little had changed. The books, maybe. New glass in the windows. A windup radio on the windowsill. What must it be like to live in such a house alone, cut off from everyone? Laura remembered the dog she had seen with Rhys the day she and Dan viewed Penlan. There was no sign of it now, nor that a dog had been in the house recently.
Rhys returned with a shirt, jeans, and a belt. She took them, standing awkwardly. Should she strip off in front of him?
“We need some more wood. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, saving her embarrassment. After he had gone out she changed quickly. Once in the dry garments she felt stronger and restored to some sort of normality, though with a frisson of excitement at the feel of his clothes against her freshly bathed skin. She undid her sodden hair and blotted it with the towel as she wandered around the room. Although the place was sparsely furnished and the facilities basic, it was anything but empty. In every niche and corner Laura found an intricate wood carving or a beautiful piece of stained glass or a small cluster of pebbles. She picked up an egg-shaped stone and ran her fingers over it. It was smooth as fine china yet hard and heavy as lead. The one next to it was milk white with a hole through the center. She reached up and touched one of the wood carvings—a bird of prey. It occurred to her that though lovely to look at, most of these objects must have been chosen for their tactile qualities. They cried out to be touched, and through her fingertips they told of their individual origins. Of their own s
pecial beauty. Of their magic.
Rhys came back with the wood and built up the fire. The storm had moved off now, and with it the heat of the last few days. The rain had cooled the earth and left a dampness that Laura felt had got into her very bones while she was on the mountain. She shivered.
“Here,” Rhys said as he beckoned her. “Stay by the fire. I’ll fix you a hot drink.”
She half expected some herbal concoction but was relieved to see him reach for a jar of good quality coffee. She settled back on a chair by the warmth of the range and watched Rhys. His movements were quiet and nimble for a tall man in such a small space. He took care in each task, fully concentrating on what he was doing. Laura admired that, having so often to rein in her own grasshopper mind in order to focus. Painting was the only thing that could absorb her so. And lately even that had failed to captivate her mind in the way it always used to.
Rhys pulled up a chair beside her, handing her a steaming mug.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “I was in such a state.”
“More seasoned mountain walkers than you have got themselves lost up here when the weather changes.”
“It happened so quickly. One minute a sunny day, the next … I’d never experienced a storm like that. I was terrified. So stupid of me.”
“You were right to be scared. The open hill is not a place to share with lightning.”
“Could it have killed me?”
“Of course.”
Laura shivered again and sipped her drink, “It felt so powerful. And so eerie. It was as if the storm itself was a living thing. And it was angry. And it was after me. How ridiculous does that sound?” She laughed quietly at herself.
“The people who lived here long ago believed just that. Or later that the storms were sent by a god to show his rage.”
“Didn’t the ancient Greeks think thunder was the gods quarrelling?”
“I like your idea better,” he said with a smile. “Though I shouldn’t take it personally. Why would the storm single you out?”
“I don’t know, perhaps it didn’t want me up there on the mountain. Maybe I don’t belong.”
“Ah, so you do believe a person can belong to a place and not only the other way around after all.”
Laura remembered now he had asked her that very question about her house. It had all seemed a bit New Age then. But now …
“I do think a place can change a person,” she said. “And I do love living at Penlan. I have to say I think I’d struggle all the way up here, though. Especially on my own.”
“Why is it that people are so afraid of their own company?” he asked.
His question threw her. She had been looking for confirmation that there was no one living at the croft with him. Instead he had turned her probing remark around and aimed it back at her.
“It’s not that. At least, it wouldn’t be with me. I like being alone a lot of the time. I just wouldn’t choose to live on my own in such an isolated place. That’s all. Anyway, I’ve got Dan, haven’t I?”
Rhys nodded, drinking his coffee, giving nothing more away. Laura could stand his evasion no longer.
“So, no wife up here to help you with … all this?” She waved her arm at the range and the garden outside, and inwardly cringed at the crassness of her question.
“No. I’m not married. I choose to live here alone because this place suits me. This is where I feel I am able to be myself.”
“But you’re not local? I mean, you didn’t grow up here, did you?”
“No. I have traveled a little, lived in other places, seen enough of the world to decide I don’t want a great deal to do with it.”
“Well, then, you’re certainly in the right place. Is there even a road up here?”
“A track. I have an old Land Rover, but I don’t use it very often.”
“And you manage without electricity. I don’t suppose there’s a mobile signal up here either?”
“No electricity. No phone. That’s the way I like it. And you?” he asked. “What made you decide to move to Penlan?”
“Oh, you know, had enough of the city, searching for a more relaxed way of life.”
“You have no children?”
There was a tiny but eloquent pause before Laura answered.
“No. Not yet. That is, we’d like to have a family, but we’ve had no luck so far.” She smiled in an attempt to keep her voice level. “Who knows, maybe all this fresh air…”
“I’m sorry.”
She was about to ask what for, but his face told her that. He was not apologizing for raising what was clearly a difficult subject for her. It was as if he understood her suffering. As if her deepest pain was visible to him. She blinked away tears, cursing her own sensitivity.
“Some days I can be philosophical for a whole five minutes. You know, ‘it wasn’t meant to be’ sort of stuff. Other days I feel so angry, and of course there’s no one to be angry with. Except perhaps myself, given that it’s my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“I mean, the problem is with me. Dan could have children with someone else. But not with me, it seems.” Laura fought to deflect the conversation from her own demons. “And you haven’t any children yourself?”
“No. Maybe that is another thing not meant to be. Besides, I think I do best on my own,” he said, a shadow passing over his face as he turned thoughtfully to the fire.
“Do you hate other people so much?”
“I don’t waste my time hating.”
Laura suspected she had touched a nerve. She heard her mother’s voice in her ear and for once acted upon it.
“How on earth do you earn a living up here? You surely can’t survive on selling your veg and eggs. Though it was all delicious, by the way.”
Rhys frowned at this, and Laura feared she had been too nosy and asked one question too many. He leaned forward and picked up the small ax he had used earlier for chopping wood. He turned it around in his hand, staring at the blade. Laura stiffened in her chair. It came home to her now that she was alone, miles from anywhere, with a strangely solitary man whom she knew next to nothing about. Rhys nodded in the direction of the table.
“I make furniture. Things like that. Rustic, natural pieces. I sell them to a shop in Cardiff and another in Hereford. People with city lives like a little bit of the country in their homes, it seems.”
Laura relaxed again, “I love that table. I might have known you’d do something creative.”
“What about you—have you finished your studio yet?”
She was a little surprised he knew about that. She remembered telling him she painted, but couldn’t recall mentioning she was setting up a studio. It was a reasonable assumption, but it made her feel as if he had been watching the house. She shook her head at her own silly notion.
“It’s a long way off being finished, but I can paint in it as it is. Or rather, I will be able to once I’ve settled back into it. I think the move has upset my muse. Must have left her in one of the packing cases somewhere.” She felt oddly uncomfortable discussing her problems with her painting with him. It was as if she ought to apologize for failing to be inspired by such a wonderful place. A place he clearly loved. She got up and walked over to his bookshelves. “Wow, this is quite a collection. I’m surprised you can read by candlelight. I think it would do my eyes in.”
“You get used to it.” He left his chair and followed her as she browsed.
“Hmm, let’s see what you spend your winter evenings reading. Hemingway, Joyce, all the usual suspects. Oh, quite a lot of poetry. Some in Welsh, too. Do you speak the language?”
He nodded, “It is beautiful. Listen.” He took down a well-thumbed book and selected a poem. He read quietly but confidently. Laura could not understand the meaning of the words, but the music in them was unmistakable. She had always thought Welsh to be made up of harsh, guttural, unmanageable sounds, but listening to Rhys now she heard nothing jarring or ugly, only rhythm and pattern
and symmetry. He finished the poem and returned the book to the shelf. “I’ll translate it for you one day. If you’d like me to,” he said.
“Thank you, yes. I would like that very much.”
She browsed on. There were books on gardening and horticulture and wood carving and herbal remedies and all manner of things that fitted with Rhys’s obscure lifestyle. There were plenty of novels, too, and the poetry, and a section on philosophy and theology. Another shelf was given over to mathematics, and still another to psychology, dispelling at last any idea Laura had of Rhys being an aging hippy. Here was a voracious reader. A scholar, even. She was getting a clearer picture of him now, and it revealed a complex and ever more intriguing character. At last she came to a large number of books about legends and myths, most focusing on stories related to Wales and the Celts. “Oh, these are interesting.”
“Do you like legends?”
“I’ve been trying to find out a bit about local ones. Actually, I started off looking for ghost stories. I don’t know, something about Penlan got me thinking about ghosts. Ridiculous, I know, but with such old houses its easy to get daft ideas in your head.”
“You shouldn’t be so quick to consider your ideas ridiculous. You talk more sense than most, it seems to me.”
“Really? You think? Anyway, I didn’t find anything written about that sort of thing. I did get a good book on local myths though, stuff about Merlin. He lived around here for a while, so the story goes. Did you know that? Of course you did—look at all these books on him!”
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