She shivers. “What if what you find makes it all worse?”
“I can only find the truth, my love.” My smile is meant to comfort her. “How can the truth make anything worse?”
“I don't know. Your entire life has been a spider's web of assumptions and conjectures. You believe you were cursed by Harold for desertion, but you have no proof that this is so. You believe you were meant to die at the Field of Hastings to save his life, but you cannot be certain. You are so eager to believe that you chase after charlatans––”
“Charlatans? I say!”
“––who tell you that you might somehow be redeemed but cannot tell you how. So you've tried this and that over the years, trying to understand, trying to make something right when you don't even know what is wrong!”
“I know that deserting my king was wrong! I know that deserting my post let the Normans ambush him at the moment of what should have been his greatest victory. Had I stayed...” I feel hot tears on my face. “I stood on that hill above them, helpless, watching the damned Normans flood toward him, and rather than rejoin the battle, I chose to run again rather than right my wrong. That was my sin! That is what damned me to this life!” I brush the tears away in anger. “Those 'charlatans' offer me the only hope I have. Otherwise I am doomed never to see Annwn and to stay forever in this ill-begotten world of my own creation.”
“My world.”
“Yes,” I say quietly, turning the bite of her words back on her. “I thought you understood.”
“Morgetiud, I do understand. But hear me.” Her voice shakes. “What if raising the Aethelfrith is not part of this redemption at all? What if it angers the gods?”
This is a curious turn. “Do you have reason to think it might?”
She knows what I am asking, and she shakes her head. “No, I have seen nothing that would lead me to think so, at least, nothing clear. But what if you're mistaken about what the gods want? What if raising the Aethylfrith is the wrong path entirely? More importantly, what if you've spent so much time and effort on this that it's kept you from finding the correct path?”
I reach for her to comfort her, but she pulls away from me. “Ceri––”
“No, you must listen, Morgetiud.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I saw a white dog on the step today.”
Another man might dismiss her words as hysterics and superstition, but these are not Ceridwen's particular vices. She is not above manipulation and even overt perjury to get what she wants, to be sure, but I see no gain for her to lie here. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
She closes her eyes. “After you left this morning, I went to the Thames to make an offering to Llyr on your behalf.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I had to find a place where I would not be watched, which took quite a while. So many people were out for the wedding, you see, and many were picnicking on the riverbank.”
“But you made your offering anyway.”
She nods. “Yes, though it was for naught: I saw no visions or signs. But events transpired such that the sun was setting by the time I returned home. As I stepped from the coupé, I saw the dog––an Alsatian, I think, a large brute––sitting on the step by the door.”
I wait for her to go on, but she does not. “That is all?”
“Is it not enough? Morgetiud, it was white.”
“Very well, but did he growl or make any noise?”
She shakes her head grudgingly. “No. He made no sound at all. It was the most remarkable thing. He was so docile that I felt brave enough to walk right up and shoo him away like a common cur.”
“He sounds harmless enough. Did you see where he went?”
“He rounded the corner and was gone from my sight.” Her eyes flash. “I was not inclined to follow him into the underworld.”
“No, of course not, but if you'd followed him round the corner and seen him put on a leash by a kindly old grandfather, you might not be so upset.”
“I am not upset! The dog I saw was a brilliant white, and his eyes were red, the red of the Cŵn Annwn. Morgetiud, I am neither a child nor a fool.”
“Of course not. But Cari, the Cŵn Annwn...” I cannot say to her that she is lending absurd importance to a dog. I cannot tell her how I worry for her delicate mind spending so much time alone. Even through the darkness, her glare silences me.
“Cŵn Annwn is the harbinger of death,” she says. “Someone is going to die.”
“Very well. Say you're right. Let us consider this logically.” I wrap my arms around her and hold her close, but I might as well be holding a marble statue. “You saw it but did not hear it, so you cannot be its prey, and we both know that no hound of Annwn will come for me. So tell me, for whom could it have come, that you, of all people, would have been allowed to see it?”
She lies silent, thinking for a time. “I do not know, and it terrifies me.”
I kiss her soft hair. “I fear you are jumping at shadows, my love.”
I cannot tell what she is thinking. At last, she relents and lets me hold her. “Very well. But if I hear howling tonight, Morgetiud, I should go quite mad.”
Portsmouth
Sunday, November 7, 1899
As happens with complex enterprises entered with the help of good brandy, the morning's sobriety brought attrition. The lesser aristocracy, conscious of appearances, still offered encouragement, but mindful of their modest fortunes, they offered little else. Baron Laurel's extravagant promise to put his entire fleet at our disposal dwindled with his careful reflection to but a small towing vessel and her crew, and not before November. From Laurel's description of a “small towing vessel” in his letter, I despaired of having a ship capable of refloating, much less towing, the remains of a frigate, but as it happened, the SS Merry Margaret was a fine stout steamboat, fully crewed and equipped for salvage. Better still, she moved much faster than I had expected, even against currents and tides.
Through the summer and into autumn, Admiral Paterson remained my staunchest ally, deflecting military officiousness at Portsmouth on my behalf. But October brought war in South Africa and rumours of a curious anti-Western cult gaining followers even in the Chinese Empress's court, not to mention the myriad political brush fires across the rest of the empire to which British forces had to attend. So I was not surprised when I received Sir Joseph's letter from a far corner of the world bearing his deep regrets. But through his continued influence, he was able to secure from Sir Nowell two invaluable gifts: a letter of introduction charging the recipient to grant me any and all accommodation as would assist in my most urgent mission for the Crown, and the promise of a military aide charged with helping to secure any items we find which might be of military interest. The aide will, of course, spy on our efforts and report anything amiss to Sir Nowell. It is a small price to pay.
Lord Rosebery had hoped to be on hand when we raise the Eurydice, but his schedule no longer allows for it. The worldwide conflicts served to bolster his popularity, as well, since now his pleas to expand the navy during his ill-fated term as prime minister appear nothing short of prophetic. Whilst he politely declines the calls for him to challenge the sitting Premier and retake his former position, he enjoys a certain renewed influence in Parliament and with Her Majesty. His regrets brought a rather generous cheque to assure me of his continued support.
Thus the first of November found me the sole partner of our original company to take ship at Portsmouth. I could not have been more pleased.
Ceridwen saw no more of the white Alsatian, not even when she went out alone to make her offerings, and I believe she has accepted at last that it was just someone's pet dog or fighting animal gone astray. Of course, she will never say as much to me, not when her concerns have served her insistence on accompanying me on this venture. She need not have bothered with that gambit. I was already inclined to bring her along, both because a priestess of Llyr will be of great use and because I hope some adventure and fresh environs might cheer her spirit.
To my great delight, “Lady Sarah” and I find Lieutenant Gerald Prescott, the boy who had so thoroughly grilled me at the wedding, waiting at the dock as we board. He has been appointed as my aide and military liaison, thanks to a case of '75 Lagavulin Scotch and a new straight razor sent to his army commander in South Africa, compliments of the Admiral of the Fleet. His father, the Viscount Cloverston, may also have taken a hand in encouraging Prescott's placement since the boy, in his enthusiasm, has wrung quite a bit from the family coffers for this venture. Regardless, I am relieved, partially because I will not need to revisit authenticating my credentials, but also because I am fond of the boy.
As soon as I board, I make clear right away that, in spite of my Victoria's Cross and my impressive record as a former naval officer, about which Laurel apparently went on at length to the ship's captain, I have no interest in commanding the ship, preferring to concentrate my efforts on the search.
I believe the captain, a smiling man with a generous beard by the name of Gabriel Hollins, is grateful for this expression of trust and likely attributes it to graciousness. In fact, it is based in pragmatism: I have never before set foot aboard a ship of any kind. I should find my ruse quite exhausted were I pressed to offer commands to the crew.
Once all ceremony is dispatched, the crew sets to work releasing the boat from its moorings and setting us out into the channel. I grip Ceridwen's hand. She alone can share the deep profundity of this moment with me, finally setting out in search of the Aethelfrith after so long. But her dark blue eyes only reflect the sea, and I cannot guess her thoughts.
Sunday, November 14, 1899
“For my part, I have seen more different types of ships in the last week than I ever saw in London.” Lieutenant Prescott looks around the breakfast table at Captain Hollins, my wife and myself. He grins and spoons up a bite of porridge. “That alone has made this quite a pleasant adventure so far, and we've barely begun.”
“You should have joined the navy.” I butter a bite of bread. “You seem terribly attached to the sea for an army lieutenant.”
Hollins grins. “The water calls to you, lad! Always have need of captains who love the sea.” He has no idea of the boy's station as Prescott insisted that we introduce him simply as Lieutenant Gerald Prescott, without his title. He thought it best that the captain and his crew not be overwhelmed by too much nobility, and I agreed.
“The army is a tradition in my family, Captain,” Prescott laughs. “My father should have died of apoplexy if I had announced that I was joining the navy instead.”
“Ah, understandable,” Hollins says with a nod. “Family traditions are important. Just hate to see a born sailor landlocked.” He pats the boy on the shoulder. “Ever find yourself in need of a berth, lad, you have but to ask. Always room on my boat for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He turns and winks at Ceridwen. The likelihood that the seventeenth Viscount of Cloverston would ever need a berth in a steamboat is low, and yet a young lord might be tempted by the offer of a simple life at sea, at least for a while.
“Lord Briton, must say, been impressed with your patience.” Captain Hollins sips his tea. He emptied his plate of poached eggs and sausages with the haste of a working sailor and now waits politely for us. “A week out, and we've found never a stick of your Eurydice, yet not once have you raised your voice to the men.” He cocks his head. “Not that they or I am complaining, sir. Stellar leadership, sir. Can see why you are so highly regarded.”
“Not that I would deny a compliment, Captain, but I did not expect to find her right where she sank, not after two decades. I should have been quite surprised to find her still here and undiscovered with so many ships coming in and out.” I smile. “So, you see, I am not disappointed. Should I become so, of course, you may not find my patience so stellar.”
Ceridwen takes up the gambit beautifully. “Indeed, Captain, we began at Ventnor only in the interest of thoroughness. I am sorry if your crew feels their efforts here have been in vain. I assure you, they have not.”
“Good to know, ma'am.”
“In the meantime,” Prescott adds, “we may discover some other salvage along the way which could prove profitable, perhaps something unexpected.” He looks around the table, eyes shining with excitement. “We should keep ourselves open to the possibility. After all, ships have been wrecking in the channel for hundreds of years.”
“Thousands,” Ceridwen smiles at him. “Consider the Romans and the Vikings.”
“Oh, I say!” He grins. “I should very much like to discover an old Viking ship. How marvellous that would be!”
Now it is my turn to wink at my wife.
“Now that would turn even my jaded old head,” says Hollins around a bite of bread. “What's a frigate to that?” He looks up at me and his smile fades. “That is, not to denigrate your enterprise, my lord. Be a fine bit of salvage, as well, a frigate. Only meant that the novelty of finding a Viking ship or an old Saxon ship would be quite memorable. Story for the grandchildren.”
“In that case,” Ceridwen smiles and takes up her cup of tea. “Here's hoping we discover one of each.”
“At the least!” adds Prescott, raising his own cup.
We all join her in her toast.
Hollins continues looking at my wife, long enough that I begin to wonder if I should take exception.
“Something, Captain?”
“Beg your pardon, sir.” He breaks his gaze away from her and leans back in his chair. “A matter has come up which I hesitate to mention.” He nods toward Ceridwen. “Touches upon the Lady Sarah, begging your pardon. If the lady would be discomfited to hear, or if you would prefer we not discuss it here––”
“That would depend.” I set down my fork and sit back in my chair. “I assume you would not have brought it up over our private breakfast if you could discuss it openly. Pray, speak.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Prescott clears his throat. “If you would prefer, Lord Briton, I can finish my breakfast elsewhere.”
“No, no, Prescott, that won't be necessary. What is the trouble, Captain?”
Hollins temples his fingers, choosing his words. “Your Lordship is used to captaining military ships and gentlemen, but the private shipping world is something else altogether, full of a rougher sort.”
“Oh, the military is not so different.” I smile, trying to put him at ease. “Have you read Kipling?”
Hollins shakes his head, embarrassed. “Not one for reading, myself.”
“‘An’ if sometimes our conduct isn't all your fancy paints, why, single men in barracks don't grow into plaster saints,'” recites Prescott with a laugh. “That, they assuredly do not. But that the stories might shock Lady Sarah, what I could tell you of my own men would make you wonder if they were born savages.”
“Indeed, the same can be said of sailors aboard ship, even in Her Majesty's navy,” I add. “Captain, I doubt any revelation will surprise me. But come, what is your concern? If you fear that their language or manner may upset Lady Sarah, I assure you––”
Hollins' voice bursts out in a whine. “Wasn't told a woman would be aboard, you see. Begging your pardon, ma'am.”
“No need, Captain,” she nods graciously. “What you say is fact. You could not have known. I did not know myself until the last moment.” She looks between us. “Is my presence proving to be a problem?”
He scratches his head. “Not yet.” He lowers his voice. “This is no passenger vessel, you see. When I berthed most of this crew years ago, 'genteel' was not a consideration. Just muscle and grit.” Speaking to Ceridwen of this seems difficult for him, and he turns to me. “Hard working men, sir. Hard working, but coarse, uneducated and superstitious. Some still believe the sea gets jealous of a woman aboard, see a woman as dead weight, not doing her share, envious of...” he looks down, “other things. Frustrates them.” He looks to her again. “At the risk of seeming indelicate, I fear most sincerely for your safety, ma'am. When we come nea
r Ponthieu, we might should set you ashore and get you a ferry––”
Her eyes blaze.
“Have they not seen me digging my own bare hands through the slurry that comes up in the buckets? Have they not seen that I am more than just a nobleman's pet? I am not here on holiday, Captain.”
“No, ma'am, you are not.”
“I am part of this expedition.”
“Yes, ma'am, you are, and my apologies if I have upset you.”
“To say nothing of the absurdity of my making the sea jealous. Captain, had you any idea how sublimely ridiculous a notion that is....” She laughs bitterly, and I fear that in her anger, she will say too much.
“Indeed, ma'am. Rankest sort of superstition.” He turns to me again. “But no amount of saying so makes any difference to the men. Should have mentioned the difficulties when you came aboard, sir. But as this is no trans-Atlantic voyage, I had thought it an unlikely concern. Hoped it was, I should say.”
Prescott clears his throat. “Have they spoken to you of this directly?”
“Not yet, but you don't keep a crew this long and not learn to read their moods.” He looks down with a curious little shrug. “Hear grumbling. See their eyes grow dark and unwholesome when they look at Her Ladyship. Don't know whether their superstition or their boorishness will threaten her first, but better not to take the chance.”
“I see.” My wife is humiliated, and her smile is forced. She rises, and we rise with her. “Captain, if your crew goes mad at the mere presence of a woman,” she glowers, “then perhaps it is not I who should be put off the ship in France. Consider putting it to them in those terms. Gentlemen.” With that, she walks out, leaving the three of us standing in silence.
Heroes: A Raconteur House Anthology Page 15