Lamp Black, Wolf Grey

by Paula Brackston

  “By all that’s holy!” muttered Dafydd.

  Megan rushed forward, steadying the stumbling horse.

  “There! There, my brave warrior.” She patted his neck and rubbed his clammy ears. “You see? Your story has not yet ended.” As she calmed the animal she offered silent thanks to the unseen power who had answered her call for help.

  * * *

  WITH DAN HOME the weekend passed in an exhausting series of emotional swoops and highs for Laura. She would be doing her best to focus on her husband, enjoying some simple task in the garden with him or sharing a bottle of wine, when she would catch her mind straying to think of Rhys. And the thought of him made the hours crawl by. By the time Dan left for London two days later, Laura was desperate to see Rhys again. She waited until Dan’s car disappeared out of sight and then hurried upstairs. Despite the fact that an autumn coolness was in the air, she chose a floaty, button-down summer dress. She wanted to look pretty for him, to look feminine. His touch, the way he looked at her, had made her feel womanly in a way she had never thought she could. It was as if the shortcomings of her body, her barrenness, her lack, were made to matter less. Not because Rhys could take away her longing for a child, but because with him at least her body was desirable, nubile, ripe, willing, and joyous. At least when she was near him she felt as if she was a complete woman, a woman who could give him all that he wanted. It was many painful years since Dan had been able to make her feel that. Laura brushed out her hair, leaving it loose and glossy, slipped on a pair of flat, leather sandals, and spritzed herself with perfume. She had her hand on the front door when the phone rang. She hesitated, moved toward it, then decided to let the answering machine click on. Penny’s voice was chipper as ever.

  “Hi, Laura. Just to let you know, I’ve had the dates confirmed. We open the last week in November. Private view on the twenty-fifth. Give me a ring when you get this. Ciao!”

  Laura frowned. She should pick up and speak to Penny, but her mind was focused elsewhere. She set off for the croft.

  Summer was losing its glow. The landscape looked a little tired and scruffy as plants finished unburdening their seeds and fruits, flowers faded, and the sun’s rays weakened. Laura walked briskly along the shortest route she knew to Rhys’s cottage. She felt exhilarated. She knew she was being reckless. A part of her was appalled at what she was doing. But still she found herself unable to turn back. If she stopped to think about how her actions might affect Dan, or about what the possible consequences of such an affair might be, she would be paralyzed with guilt and fear. As it was she pushed such thoughts to the darkest recesses of her mind, determined to allow herself this experience, this pleasure.

  As she neared the croft she could see Rhys, shirt off, working in the garden. She felt a thrill at the sight of him and at the memory of how his body felt pressed against hers. How it smelled. How it tasted. She raised an arm to wave at him. The movement must have caught his eye, for he straightened up and waved back slowly, watching her as she climbed the last few yards of the hill.

  She stood in front of him, a little out of breath. She found it difficult to speak, to put what she was feeling into words. “I wanted to see you again,” she said, holding his gaze.

  He propped his hoe against the garden wall and brushed dirt from his hands. He moved close to her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her gently to him.

  “My beautiful, beautiful Laura,” he whispered into her hair. He kissed her neck softly, then found her mouth. Laura was surprised by the urgency and force of his kisses now, and surprised at herself. She kissed him back eagerly, running her fingers through his hair, pulling him tighter to her, meeting his body with her own. Rhys grabbed her wrists, holding her hands firmly by her sides, laughing at her enthusiasm, teasing her, taking control.

  “My beautiful, impatient Laura,” he said, before swiftly lifting her up and carrying her into the house. She liked the fact that he took her straight to his unmade bed. It didn’t matter that he had been working in the garden—she delighted in the saltiness of his skin. When he pinned her down and quickly bound her hands with his leather belt before tying them to the bedpost it only increased her excitement and desire for him. With Rhys she wasn’t the Laura anyone else who knew her would recognize. With Rhys she was reckless, hungry, completely shameless. She lay watching as he kicked off his sandals and removed his jeans. His body was toned and muscular and tanned from spending hours out of doors, naked, apparently. He was glorious. Laura felt deliciously vulnerable as he began to undo the buttons of her flimsy dress. He kissed her shoulders, and her arms, and her belly, until she was inflamed to the point of madness. Sensing her intense arousal Rhys smiled at her.

  “I know what you want,” he growled into her ear. “I know you, Laura. I know you.”

  In an instant his mood and behavior changed. He became rough, wild, almost animalistic in the way that he made love to her. She was at first shocked, and then fiercely aroused. She submitted to Rhys for a moment, almost passively. But soon she found herself responding in kind. She had never experienced such abandoned, uninhibited, satisfying sex before. If Dan had treated her the same way she would have been appalled. With Rhys it was different. She was different.

  After prolonged and athletic lovemaking, Laura slept in Rhys’s arms, astonished at how happy she could feel when she knew she was behaving unforgivably. By the time she woke up the September sun had already dropped toward the horizon.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  Rhys stretched lazily. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s early yet. Stay there. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  Laura watched as he crossed the room naked, completely at ease with his body, and with her. He disappeared down the spiral staircase and she could hear him whistling as he filled the kettle. Only now did Laura begin to take in what Rhys’s bedroom was like. There was something uniquely intimate about being there on her own, in his private space. The bedroom was built into the roof of the cottage, so that the ceilings sloped steeply, making it impossible to stand up unless you kept to the center. The large, low bed filled most of the available space. There were candles and lamps and a chest of drawers, as well as a clothes rail by the small dormer window. The end wall was covered by a large wall hanging. There was little space for anything else. Even so, there were books stacked in every spare corner. Laura leaned over to rummage through a pile on the floor beside the bed and as she did so she glimpsed a small plastic box in the shelf of the bedside cabinet. She peered at it. It was a case for contact lenses. She was mildly surprised. For one thing, it was hard to imagine Rhys’s body being anything but perfect in every way. For another, if he did have poor eyesight, she would have thought him much more the type to wear glasses, not lenses. It seemed somehow too vain and too self-conscious. She turned her attention back to the books. Most were on myths and legends and local folklore. They all looked well thumbed, with turned-down pages or makeshift bookmarks. One was devoted entirely to the subject of Merlin. Laura sat up in bed to study it but found the limited light made reading difficult. She was still squinting at the pictures when Rhys returned with the coffee.

  “This looks interesting,” she said. “Or at least it would if I could see it properly. How do you manage to read anything in here?”

  Rhys grinned. “Your eyes are accustomed to brighter lighting. It’s all a matter of what you’re used to. You’re right, though—it’s a wonderful book. I read it again and again.”

  “Is Merlin a hero of yours?”

  “Something like that. I do have an interest in him, you could say.”

  “I admit I know very little about him,” said Laura, sitting up more to take her drink from him. “Actually, I’d never really thought about him before I came to live here.”

  “And now?” Rhys settled himself on the bed next to her not bothering to cover up his nakedness. He smelled of clean sweat and dirty sex. Laura decided that on him this was the perfect combination of aromas.

&nb
sp; “And now I find he is part of a local legend. Feels like I should read up on him a bit. Besides,” she hesitated, wondering how she could explain what she had seen. What she had felt. Would Rhys understand? She was puzzled to realize that the reason she was reluctant to discuss her sighting of Merlin with him was because she thought he might be jealous. The ridiculousness of the notion made her give a little laugh.

  “Besides?” Rhys was waiting for her to finish her sentence.

  “Oh, nothing. Like I said, if he’s part of a local story I feel I should find out a bit more. This is my home now—I want to understand as much about it as I can.”

  “Well, if you want to know about Merlin you’ve come to the right man,” Rhys told her, flipping shut the book on her lap. “You don’t even need to strain your eyes to read about him—just ask me anything you want to know.”

  “Great, thanks.” Laura sipped her drink, annoyed that she had missed the chance to ask to borrow the book. She did want to find out more about the mysterious figure who she seemed to connect with in some inexplicable way. True, she could quiz Rhys. He obviously enjoyed the subject and clearly had done a lot of research. But no, this was something Laura wanted to keep separate from Rhys. As to why she was baffled, instinct told her not to confide in him about her experiences. She decided to shift the focus of the conversation. She leaned down and pulled another book from the pile. It was a heavy tome, the size of a good dictionary or a city telephone directory. It was bound in leather of faded crimson with flowing titles tooled in gold.

  “This one is quite beautiful,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen one of those before?” Rhys asked.

  “What is it?”

  “A grimoire.”

  “Sorry?”

  “A grimoire, a book of spells.”

  Laura’s first reaction was a small laugh, but she could see from his face that Rhys was in earnest. She settled the book onto her lap and opened the cover. The pages were gossamer thin, hundreds of them, each with detailed descriptions of spells, incantations, curses, hexes, and other things Laura had only ever heard of in fairy tales.

  “I never knew such a thing really existed,” she said.

  “Of course. Just as a cook needs her recipe book, so every witch needs her grimoire. There are spells here collected from magic practices from the far ends of Earth. And some a little nearer to home. Look here, for instance,” he said, turning the pages. Laura read the heading.

  “‘Spells for Fertility and Conception.’ Look how many there are!”

  “You’re not the first woman to need a little help. It’s a well-trodden path. Look, this one is a Celtic spell. It originated in Wales, centuries ago. I’ll copy it out for you if you like.”

  Laura smiled. Hadn’t she tried everything else? Was this any sillier or more far-fetched than some of the cranky diets or crystal healing or divination she had endured?

  “OK,” she said. “Do that. I’ll give it a go. What harm can it do?”

  Rhys smiled back at her.

  “What harm indeed?”

  * * *

  LATER, AN HOUR or so after she arrived home, Dan telephoned. He was not given to calling during his working day and Laura could sense the concern in his voice. Could he possibly suspect something? She told herself she was being ridiculous.

  “So you’re OK, then?” Dan asked for the second time.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Stop worrying about me, Dan.”

  “I know, I’m fussing. You just looked so small, standing there all alone when I drove off this morning. And this weekend you seemed, I don’t know, distant, I suppose.”

  “Did I? I’m sorry.” She paused, relieved he was not able to see her face. All at once the enormity of what she had done, of the measure of her betrayal, took hold of her. I can’t do this, her voice screamed inside her head, I cannot do this. She took a steadying breath, then said “You know how distracted I get when I’m painting sometimes. Especially when I’m working on something new.”

  “Of course. I guess I’m just feeling a bit guilty, about not being there with you, I mean.”

  Laura closed her eyes, her own guilt swamping her. “Don’t be daft. It’s only for a little while, remember?”

  “Yes. I know. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you again tonight.”

  Laura clicked off the phone and took a moment to steady herself. “Laura Mathews, what on earth do you think you are doing?” she said aloud.

  7

  THE MORNING AFTER Midnight’s illness, when Lord Geraint learned that his steed had survived, he did not see fit to apologize to Megan, nor to thank her for her efforts. She had not expected anything of the kind. Instead he sent word she was to be excused from her duties with the children for the day. This might have been to allow her to recover from a lost night’s sleep, but when the page completed his message saying she could have use of a horse, Lord Geraint’s intentions were clear. He would expect her to go to Merlin. Megan found herself battling with conflicting emotions. She dreaded the prospect of running her avaricious master’s errands, yet feared for her father if she did not do as she was bid. However weighted with another’s purpose her visit was to be, though, she was also conscious of a lifting of her spirits. Of a lightness in her step as she walked to the stables. The truth was she was eager to see Merlin again and was glad of the chance to thank him for his magical intervention the night before. But for his help, Midnight would have died, Megan was certain of it. The thought of a mortal being having such power both frightened and thrilled her. Such gifts could be used for great good, for healing, for helping those in need. Or they could be misused for personal gain and base desires. The idea of Lord Geraint forcing Merlin to act for him had now taken on a more terrifying aspect.

  Megan paused to spend a moment with Midnight. He was still weak, but his condition was improving by the hour. She instructed Dafydd to continue to add salt and ground garlic to the horse feed and made him promise to find a plentiful supply of honey to speed Midnight’s recovery. She saddled Hazel and set off toward Ty Bychan. She rode slowly up the hill, enjoying the rhythm of the little palfrey’s stride and the peaceful beauty of the landscape. The hot and heavy weather had been washed away by the storm of Lammas Day, and now summer was subsiding into a gentle, fruitful autumn. She felt stiff and weary from lack of sleep, but was in part revived by the freshness of the morning. As she climbed higher up the mountain, beyond her father’s farmhouse, the air was cool beneath high, white clouds. Megan dismounted to pick a palmful of whinberries and ate them as she continued her journey. At last she could see Ty Bychan, sturdy and humble, built low into the lee of a slope against the weather. She glimpsed Merlin and her stomach tightened with a mixture of delight and foreboding.

  By the time she reached the little stone wall of the garden Merlin was standing at the gate to meet her. As she slid from her saddle the wolf padded out on silent paws. Hazel snorted and began to pull back on the reins. Megan stood her ground. For an instant she was afraid, but the wolf greeted her gently, wagging his tail and licking her hand.

  “He remembers you,” Merlin told her. “How could he not?”

  “He is certainly something I will remember all my life,” said Megan, loosening Hazel’s cinch and looping the reins over the gatepost. The horse at once rested a hind foot and settled to doze.

  Merlin took Megan’s hand then stopped, surprised by the amethyst.

  “A present from Lord Geraint,” Megan told him, her tone making her feelings plain. “He insists I wear it.”

  “It is very pretty.”

  “It makes a pretty shackle.”

  “Come, sit with me beneath this benevolent sun.”

  He led her to a low bench beside the front door. Megan sat as he went inside the tiny house. A moment later he returned with wooden cups of spring water and a small loaf.

  They sat in silence, drinking the peaty water and breaking the bread. The mountain was singing with life. Well-grown lambs bleated in the meadows f
ar below, their bold voices carried up on the breeze. Robins and finches pipped and cheeped as they hopped about the garden, competing for worms and beetles. Crickets whirred in the wiry grass. Bees mumbled into foxgloves. Above it all rang the pee-wit of the ponderous curlew. There was not a house nor a sign of man’s hand on the land to be seen and it was, for a brief moment, possible to believe that nothing could reach such a place to threaten its peace. Megan watched Merlin as he ate and knew she had never felt so at ease. Never felt such a sense of freedom, and yet of belonging to someone else. How different was Merlin’s hold over her from that she had known all her life—the grip of ownership, of control, of noble birthright. She saw now that love meant giving your freedom willingly, and to take that freedom by threat or force was the very opposite of all that was loving. She knew she had to speak plainly.

  “Lord Geraint hopes I will be able to convince you to help him defeat Lord Idris,” she said.

  “And do you think I should?”

  “No. That is, you should do what you think is right.”

  “Do you know why your master is so set on routing his neighbor?”

  “Well, Lord Idris has designs on land beyond his own.”

  “You know this?”

  “There have been skirmishes. Battles even. I have seen Lord Geraint’s men return from the fray. I have treated some of the wounded horses.”