Lamp Black, Wolf Grey

by Paula Brackston

  “Such people have a way of looking at the world,” Anwen went on. “A way of seeing things that is sometimes a little bit different to the rest.” She turned to face Laura again, her expression gentle but earnest. “There is plenty in this world to be seen by those who are able to look, cariad. You are one of the lucky ones.”

  Laura felt her scalp begin to tingle. Was the old woman talking about ghosts? Surely not. Laura had never been even remotely susceptible to such things. She was the only girl at a séance at school to get a hopeless fit of the giggles and had never found ghost stories the smallest bit scary. There were those strange, unexplained experiences in the house. Those sensations, and the thought that she wasn’t alone somehow, but she had already dismissed the idea of ghosts. It just wasn’t her. An echo of past inhabitants of the house, maybe. She could accept that. As if their voices and deeds might be somehow held in the walls of the ancient place. Recorded, in some way. But dead people wandering about in broad daylight? No, definitely not. Laura fidgeted on the wooden slats of the bench. She did not want to offend Anwen, but there had to be a more mundane explanation as to the identity of the unknown walker.

  “I know the air is pretty thin up here, but I really don’t think I’ve started seeing ghosts,” she said with a smile.

  “Ghosts! Did I say they were ghosts?” There was an edge to Anwen’s voice now. “That man you saw was as real as you or I. As real as you or I. Not dead. Not imagined. Not a will-o’-the-wisp. All I’m saying is not everyone would have seen him. And you did. Was this the first time?”

  “No. No, I saw him when we first came to the house. He was in the distance, so I didn’t get a good look. But I’m sure it was the same person. Actually, at first I thought it must have been our neighbor, Rhys, but it wasn’t. You know, from the croft up the hill?”

  “Ty Bychan, you mean?” Anwen looked away again. “There are those who can not be seen clearly, even when you are standing toe to toe. Look closely, girl. Look with that artist’s eye of yours.”

  Laura’s mouth dried. She stared at the old woman.

  “How did you know I was an artist?”

  Now Anwen laughed again. “Well, it could have been village gossip, but let’s say your clothes gave you away this time.”

  Laura looked down at her paint-splattered shirt. “Oh, of course.” She felt Anwen was trying to change the subject, but she couldn’t really make sense of what she had told her. She tried a different tack. “I’ve started doing some reading about the area. It’s another world, isn’t it, out here?”

  “You’re used to city life. It will take time for you to slow down to the rhythm of the countryside, but you will. Eventually. Let the seasons be your calendar.”

  “I so want to paint the landscape, but I don’t seem able to settle. So far all I’ve produced is a mess. So much for my artist’s eye.” She waited, hoping Anwen might offer something more about ghosts that weren’t ghosts and the mysterious walker, but nothing came. The old woman seemed tired now, distracted, and barely aware of her visitor anymore. Laura felt she had overstayed her welcome. She stood up. “I’d better get back. Thank you so much for the drink. Please, call in if you find yourself up near Penlan.”

  “Oh, I don’t go far from the farm anymore.” She rose with difficulty, puffing as her legs took her weight.

  Laura thought now she looked very, very old.

  Anwen turned to her with a tired little smile. “Penlan has been waiting for you for a long time. Don’t be surprised if there are those who are eager to show themselves to you once more.”

  So saying, she gave a little wave and shuffled back inside the house, leaving Laura more baffled than before.

  The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, and long shadows fringed the field as she made her way back to the woods. The low light flashed between the trunks of the trees now, rather than fighting its way down through the woodland canopy. Laura squinted against the glare as she walked, her mind busy with muddled thoughts. She had never met anyone quite like Anwen before. She could not imagine her getting many visitors in so remote a place, and yet she had been very welcoming and friendly. What could she have meant about people wanting to show themselves to her? “Once more,” she had said, as if they were people Laura had already met. And as for Penlan waiting for her, it reminded her of something Rhys had said, the first time he came to the house. Something about her being where she belonged. Again. The thought of Rhys made her feel even more confused. She had hoped to lose herself in a new painting and forget the intensity of the time she had spent with him up at the croft. So much for that idea. And what was it Anwen had said about him? That some people couldn’t be seen? Maybe she was a barmy old woman after all, and nothing she said should be taken too seriously.

  A snapping twig behind her made Laura pivot on her heel. There was nothing visible. She craned her neck, searching the undergrowth, half hoping and half fearing to see the man with the dog again. Her breath quickened a little, whether in fear or excitement she could not be sure. She waited, but there was no sign of movement. She hurried back toward Penlan. When she reached the gate from the meadows into her own yard she was surprised to see the studio door open. Had she left it like that? She couldn’t recall doing so. Cautiously she pushed it and stepped inside. At first the room seemed empty, then she heard a sound from behind some of the unpacked crates.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded. There was a second’s pause, then a tall, dark figure stepped out from the shadows.

  “Rhys! Oh, my God, you startled me. I thought…” She left the sentence unfinished, not knowing how to explain. She barely had time to register the oddness of finding him wandering about in her studio without invitation before he had moved to stand close to her. Close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. His eyes were serious and his expression intense.

  “I had to come and see you,” he said, quietly reaching up to stroke her hair.

  Laura thought how strange it was to stand so physically close to someone and yet to not get a proper sense of them. She truly had no idea what was going on in his mind, beyond his obvious desire for her. Anwen’s voice came into her head. Some people cannot be seen, even when you are standing toe to toe. She felt him staring at her and raised her eyes to meet his. The strength of his gaze sent a thrill through her entire body.

  “You are beautiful, Laura,” he said quietly. “But of course you already know that. What you don’t know is how incredibly special you are. You are different from other women, different in such very important ways,” he told her. As he spoke he wound her hair around his hand at the back of her neck, holding her with a firm grip now, pulling her head back ever so slightly. “I knew from the first moment I saw you that we were meant to be together. Shhh!” He held a finger to her lips to silence her protest. “I know this is not easy for you. Don’t worry. I will take care of you. I will take care of everything, Laura. Trust me.”

  “Rhys, I…”

  With a suddenness that surprised her he pulled Laura to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. For an instant she thought to resist. She knew that she should. That this was wrong. That people she loved could be badly hurt. But her hesitation was fleeting. Rhys held her tight and close, and Laura began to return his urgent kisses. The next moment he drew back and ripped open her shirt. He yanked her head back farther as he plunged his hand inside her bra and leaned down to take her breast in his mouth. Laura cried out, half of her panicked by the roughness of his actions, half of her inflamed by it. She took his own hair in her hands and pulled him up, kissing him hungrily again. His response was to push her backward onto the workbench behind her. Jars of turpentine and medium and tubes of paint and boxes of charcoal and pots of brushes were scattered and thrown in all directions as Rhys tore at her clothes.

  She looked up at him, breathing hard, half naked beneath him, trapped on the hard bench, wanting him with a desire she had not felt in many, many years.

  Suddenly, she knew she had to stop. She
could not give in to this, however much she wanted it.

  “No! Rhys, stop!” She turned her head from him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as he leaned over her, panting. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT FEW days passed in a blur. Laura was horrified to find she had bruises on her wrists and back after her encounter with Rhys. She was relieved to see them fade quickly, particularly as Dan announced he would be home a day early that week. She locked herself in her studio and immersed herself in her work, struggling to shut out vivid flashbacks of Rhys kissing her. They had come so close to making love. She had never behaved like that before and was shocked, not just at the fact that she had so nearly been unfaithful to Dan, but the nature of that act. The wildness of it. By Thursday evening she had pulled herself together a little but still found herself wracked with guilt at the sight of Dan. In the kitchen, she cracked an egg on the side of a pan and watched the yolk split and spread into the oil. Cursing silently she tapped another and watched the same thing happen again. She was not in a fit state to cook, but Dan was upstairs having a shower after a long day at work and a long journey home from London, and she had to throw something together for supper. Her hair was still wet from the shower she herself had taken after coming in from the studio. She remembered the shower she had had a few days earlier. After Rhys. She had stood under the water for a long time, trying to wash away the guilt along with the sweat—his as well as hers. She had put on fresh clothes and even some perfume. She had stopped him—she kept reminding herself of this crucial fact. She had not, technically, been unfaithful to Dan. But still she felt she stank of lust, of betrayal. Her abandoned thrashing about with Rhys had made a terrible mess of the studio, and it had taken an age to clear it all up. It was as if, with him, she was a different person.

  She wriggled a spatula beneath the eggs and did her best to work them into an appealing shape. They refused to cooperate, as if even the simplest things around her were now in chaos. The fat spat spitefully.

  “Ow!” she blurted out in pain, then quickly sucking her finger and whipping the pan off the heat.

  “Steady on,” Dan said as he entered the kitchen. “What have those eggs ever done to you?”

  Laura was rendered momentarily speechless by the sight of what Dan was holding in his hand. It was a loose cotton shirt. The one Rhys had given her at his house after the thunderstorm. She might have been imagining things, but she fancied Dan was watching her reaction to seeing the shirt very closely.

  “This isn’t mine,” he said.

  Laura turned back to the stove and fiddled with the eggs in an effort to cover her panic.

  “Oh, I did a bit of shopping. Got it in a secondhand shop. In Abergavenny. You’ll need some more casual stuff out here, and I know how you hate shopping for clothes.”

  “I found it in the ironing pile.”

  “Thought I’d wash it before I gave it to you.” She tried to keep her voice casual, but her mouth was uncomfortably dry. She felt hysteria rising at the thought that her lies were already tripping her up.

  “How sweet.” He came over and kissed the back of her neck. “Hmm, you smell delicious. I think I fancy you more than I do those poor eggs.”

  Laura wriggled free, busying herself with laying the table.

  “Sit down. It’ll be ready in a minute. Do you want mushrooms? Or tomatoes?”

  “No, just murdered eggs.” He steered her toward a chair. “You sit down. I’ll finish this off. You are obviously too away with the fairies to be left in charge of a frying pan. How has the painting gone this week?”

  Laura leaned her elbows on the table and rubbed her temples. Was she going to have to lie about that, too? She took a steadying breath.

  “Oh, it wouldn’t go right. Too keen after such a long break, I suppose. I went for a few walks. Found Glyn the Bryn’s farm. It’s a bit of a shambles.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “I met his wife, Anwen. She’s lovely. Not a bit like the old man.”

  “Was he there?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “Here you go.” Dan set platefuls of food on the table. As he sat he gave Laura’s hand an affectionate squeeze. She had to fight her impulse to pull it away.

  “Let’s have some wine,” she said, getting quickly to her feet. With her back to him she bit her lip and rolled her eyes, wondering if life would ever feel within her control again.

  Later, after more pinot grigio than was good for her, Laura fell into a fitful sleep. As she slept she dreamed. She dreamed of Rhys, of his strong arms, his powerful gaze, and his warm, passionate kisses. She dreamed she was lying beneath him, waiting, wanting, looking up at those exquisitely blue eyes. Then, as he lowered himself to her, his face changed subtly. The mouth that descended to cover hers was not Rhys’s, but belonged to the dark stranger in the woods. Laura tried to cry out as the stern-looking man loomed over her. She let out a silent scream and woke up gasping. And as she awoke she realized that she knew who the stranger was. She glanced at Dan, who had slept through her shriek, and then rifled through the books beside the bed. At last she found the one she was looking for. She flicked quickly through the pages, searching anxiously. She stared at the picture as she located the right page. The man stood with his hair and clothes seemingly entwined with the branches and briars of the windswept woodland around him. In his hand was a stout walking stick. At his side was his tame wolf. This was Merlin, magician of myth, seer and prophet, hero of legend. And this was, beyond any doubt, the man Laura had seen in the woods.

  * * *

  MEGAN WALKED BRISKLY along the road to the village. Dafydd had taken the boys out riding, and she had seized the chance to go to the market on her own. The boys would no doubt sulk when they learned they had missed an outing but Megan would be quicker about her errands without them. She needed thread and more woolen cloth to repair some of Huw’s shirts and fashion new ones for both children. She would have help with the sewing from other servants at the castle, but the duty of seeing that the children were properly clothed fell to her, and she trusted no one else to go to the mercer’s stall.

  Penybont was a large village when judged by others in the district but the weekly market was still a modest occasion. This was not a fair, nor a wake day, but a practical gathering of sellers and buyers. A day for peddling produce and replenishing stores and bargaining for snippets of this and snatches of that for a dress or a blanket or a necessary tool for a tradesman. There would be poultry and some livestock, as well as vegetables from growers with surplus, and a good bakery stall, as well as the mercer, a candle maker, a knife sharpener, and doubtless the odd fortune-teller and fool. The village was a little over a mile from Castle Craig, and by the time Megan arrived the stalls were set out and much noise and bustle announced that brisk business was already being done. Chickens sat in baskets peering balefully out between wicker bars, or lay feet-bound on the sticky ground. The recent rain had changed the streets from dust to mud, so that with every footfall the going became heavier. Pigs squealed, a donkey brayed, men shouted the quality of their wares, and everywhere children darted between the stalls. Megan hitched up her skirts to avoid the soupy earth. She pushed her way through the throng, nodding greetings to those she knew, pausing to inquire after the health of an elderly friend of her father’s, and to tickle the bare toes of a new baby. The smell of freshly baked bread made her mouth run. She stood awhile looking at the display of loaves and cobs and homity pies, before deciding to buy a treat to take back for the boys. She could picture their hungry little faces after their ride and knew a warm pie might go some way to mollifying their irritation at not having attended the market themselves. As she waited for her purchases to be placed in her basket she became aware of someone standing close beside her. In the general hubbub this was not noteworthy, but she knew at once whose presence she felt so strongly.

  She smiled, without looking around, and said, “So, a magician has a weakn
ess for pies like any other man, I see.”

  “If you believe it is the pastry that brings me to stand here, you do yourself a disservice,” Merlin answered.

  Megan turned to face him, her spirits lifting further at the sight of him.

  “Am I to think then that you came to market all the way from Ty Bychan to find me?”

  Merlin smiled, his naturally serious expression softening. “Where else would I look for a maid on market day?”

  “I am on errands for my young masters. I am here to buy cloth from the mercer.”

  “Then I should tell you, you have just handed your money to a baker!”

  Megan laughed, taking her basket and walking on. Merlin followed, slipping into step beside her to take her arm. She raised her eyebrows at this familiar gesture.

  “The mud is uncommonly deep in places,” he explained. “Would you have me let you fall into the mire?”

  Before she could answer a cry went up and the frantic squealing of a hog grew louder as the animal broke free of its owner and plunged through the crowd. Men, women, and children were scattered, some clambering onto stalls and wagons for safety, others pitching headlong into the mud. Those who were able joined in the chase, doing their best to corner the bolting creature, but mud made it slipperier than an eel, and panic made it quicker than a deer. It darted this way and that, upturning a table of vegetables and trampling a tray of eggs. Fists were waved and oaths sworn, but still the animal could not be contained. A boy with a wagon of turnips pulled by a young courser chose that very moment to turn into the main thoroughfare of the village. The pig barreled into the hind legs of the horse, which gave way to its natural fear of swine and galloped forward. The boy was unseated from his perch, leaving the wagon to careen through the marketplace unmanned. Angry shouts at the hog turned to anxious cries and shrieks of terror as the runaway cart plowed through the market, straight toward where Megan stood. She held her ground, reaching out a hand to steady the terrified horse, but Merlin wrenched her from its path. The courser attempted to turn suddenly, causing the wagon to pitch at a dangerous angle. The heavy load made the outfit unstable at such speeds and as the horse strained against its harness one cartwheel rose up. There was a second of silence, then a bone-crunching crash as the wagon fell onto its side. Megan and Merlin dashed forward, as did others who could hear the desperate cries of those pinned beneath the cart. The horse lay still and lifeless, trapped between the shafts, an unlucky combination of weight and angle having snapped its neck. People were pulled from under the wreckage, some bloodied, some bruised, some with broken limbs.