With a rare moment of clarity Laura saw that these were the paintings she should put in her show. Up until now, she had gone out of her way to hide them, but at that moment she realized they were the best, the most sincere, the most striking work she had done in a very long time. Excitedly she stood the pictures up around the room. There were only five paintings, but she had time to produce a few more, maybe, and she could include the sketches and drawings. Together with the landscapes and self-portraits she very nearly had a show and, standing back to take in the collection, Laura could see it worked. Merlin needed to be surrounded by the landscapes to be in context. She could not say how such a subject would be received. She could only follow her heart and trust her artistic instincts. If Penny didn’t like it, well, that was too bad. It was far too late to produce alternative paintings, and Penny would rather pull out her own eyelashes than cancel a show.
Laura heard the door open and turned, her heart leaping for a moment at the thought that it might be Merlin. But Merlin did not need to open doors. Rhys stood before her, looking strangely haunted and wired.
“I saw the others leave,” he told her, stepping forward to take hold of her. “I’ve wanted to come and see you so much. It’s torture, having to stay away.”
“They won’t be gone long.” Laura lied, resisting the impulse to push him away. However little hard proof she had of him being a violent and dangerous man, in her heart she had convinced herself, and she knew she must tread carefully. She let him kiss her, then slipped from his arms, smiling. “Your hands are cold. It’s freezing out there. Let me make you some coffee.” She set about fixing the drinks. Rhys was about to say something when he caught sight of the paintings of Merlin. He hurried closer.
“When did you do these?”
Laura was thrown. However she felt about going public with the pictures, Rhys was the last person she wanted to discuss them with.
“Oh, over time. Some a while ago. Those two more recently,” she said as casually as she could. She continued to make the coffee, but all the while watched him out of the corner of her eye.
Rhys studied the paintings up close for an age before turning back to her. His face was quite lit up.
“They’re fantastic, Laura. I knew you were good, but these … And I’m deeply touched.”
“You are?”
“Of course, who wouldn’t be? To think, I’ve been in agony, not seeing you, having to stay away, thinking maybe you didn’t want to see me anymore.”
“Oh, no…”
“I know. Silly of me. When there you were, all this time, painting these wonderful, loving portraits of me. She stared at him. He wasn’t joking. He truly believed the pictures were of him. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. She really did not want him thinking she was so caught up in him, so fixated. On the other hand, if he thought it was his face she had been adoringly reproducing all these weeks he wouldn’t ask any awkward questions about Merlin.
Something odd caught her attention. There was something different about Rhys’s face. She looked closer and wondered why she had not spotted it the instant he walked in. One of his eyes was brown. The effect was disconcerting. It took Laura a moment to work out that the contact lenses he wore must be colored. The bewitching blue was not his own, but artifice, an illusion, a deliberate attempt to change himself in what seemed to her a very fundamental way. As he clearly had not noticed the lens was missing it could serve no other purpose than a cosmetic one. It struck Laura as deeply odd that a man purporting to live a simple existence should do something so unnecessary, so vain. She looked away, trying to refocus on the matter of the portraits. At all costs she wanted to keep Rhys placated at the moment.
“I’m glad you like them,” she managed to mutter at last.
Rhys found a stool and perched on it, watching her now.
“So,” he said, “your husband and your best friend off together without you. Again.”
“I’ve got to get on with some work.”
“I’m sure they’ll have a fine time without you.”
Laura turned to frown at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. They get on very well, those two, don’t they? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why on earth should it?”
“You wouldn’t mind? If they were screwing each other?”
“Dan and Steph? Oh don’t be ridiculous!”
“He seems pretty pleased to have her staying here all this time. I notice he’s been taking time off to be here more, to take her out. They’re always going off together.”
“With the boys,” she pointed out.
“But without you.”
Laura shook her head. “You couldn’t be more wrong. They are fond of each other, of course. We’ve all been friends for years. But there’s nothing more to it than that. Besides, as you said, she’s my best friend. And Dan would never…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“Cheat on you? He must be more in love with you than you are with him, then.”
“You’re imagining the whole thing, Rhys. It’s ridiculous,” she snapped.
Rhys shrugged, “You know them best.” He slipped off the stool and ran a hand down the curve of her back. “I’ve been watching the house,” he said. “Just waiting for a chance to come and see you. Have you any idea how much I’ve missed you?”
“Of course. It’s been hard for me, too.” She avoided looking at him. “But what can we do? Things are still very uncertain for poor Angus.”
“Will he live?”
It was such a bald question and devoid of any warmth or concern. Laura shuddered as she thought of how Rhys must have pushed Angus off the path and onto the rocks. And then what, while the others had gone for help? Had he really been so cold-blooded as to strip him of the vital survival blanket and sit waiting for him to die? A man who could do that would be capable of almost anything. And how would she ever be able to prove any of it?
“Let’s hope so,” she said, spooning coffee into cups. She tried to steady her nerves by remembering what Merlin had said. He would not directly harm you. Was he right? If she told him it was over between them might he not turn his violence toward her? She sought for ways to deflect his interest in her, to distract him. “He opened his eyes yesterday.” She was glad she had her back to him as she lied.
“Really?”
“Yes. Just for a moment. But that must be a hopeful sign, don’t you think?” She handed him a mug.
“Did he say anything?”
“No.” Laura realized she was playing a dangerous game. She sipped her coffee, trying to hold his gaze, wishing her tired brain could come up with a way of dealing with such an alarming situation. She gestured at the prepared canvas that sat on the easel. “I came in here to try and do some work. With all that’s happened I’ve got horribly behind. If I don’t produce something worthwhile soon I’ll be having an empty show. An exhibition of blank walls.” She wandered around the studio, idly peering at paintings stacked here and there. She heard him follow her. Soon she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He put down his coffee and moved her hair to one side, nuzzling into the nape of her neck.
“I’ve missed you so much, my beautiful, beautiful Laura. I want you so much,” he said as his hands finding their way to her breasts.
Laura was horrified. The thought of having sex with him now made her feel physically sick. Where once his touch had inflamed her with desire, now she felt repulsed. She fought panic. Of course he would expect her to want to make the most of the opportunity, too. They had not been alone together for some time. He would be bound to notice the change in her response to him. She turned to face him and forced herself to kiss him with as much conviction as she could manage. His probing tongue in her mouth made her want to retch. She pulled away, breathless, but for all the wrong reasons. She held his face in her hands, a gesture she hoped he would interpret as one of tenderness, when in fact she was simply trying to avoid another kiss.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “But … we can’t … not today.”
He frowned. “Why ever not? It’s the best chance we’ve had for days. Weeks, for Chrissake.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got so much work to do. Dan’s expecting me to be on top of things, to show him what I’ve done, do you see? I have to work.”
“Fucking brilliant,” he said. It was the first time she had heard him use such language, as if a mask were slipping and she was glimpsing another face beneath. The real face. The real, frightening Rhys.
“Things will get easier, soon. A few days perhaps.”
“Will you come to me then? Straightaway?”
“If I can…”
“Say you will. Promise me you will.” He was gripping her arms tightly now.
“How can I?”
“Wait until everyone is asleep. They won’t notice you are missing. There’s a full moon two nights from now. Come to the croft after midnight. Promise!” He squeezed her arms until they hurt.
“I promise,” she said, determined not to show how scared he was making her. “Thursday night. I’ll come to the croft.”
He held her for a full minute, then, at last, seemed satisfied and let her go. He stepped back, smiling, relaxed, playful now.
“That’s my girl. Don’t worry. I’ll make it worth the walk.” He went toward the door, pausing on his way to blow her a kiss. “Until Thursday night, my love.”
“Bye.” She gave a feeble wave and a smile to match. As he closed the door behind him she leaned heavily against the door, her heart pounding, her palms sticky with sweat.
* * *
MEGAN SLEPT FITFULLY in the gnawing cold of her prison, and as she slept she dreamed. Her dream took place in a dark forest, somewhere she did not recognize. Tall trees loomed above a party of riders as they threaded their way through the wood. The men numbered three dozen or more. The horses wore breastplates and some had armor over their bridles, so that the dull thud of their hooves was accompanied by the clanking and jangling of beaten metal. As the vision became clearer the riders revealed themselves as soldiers bearing arms—heavy swords, bows, knives, spears, and axes. The lead rider stood out from the others. His destrier was frost white and very fine beneath gleaming armor and rugs of gold and blue. The rider himself wore chain mail and a shining breastplate. His visored helmet and elaborately tooled sword marked him out as a noble or a knight. To one side of him rode the standard bearer, the flag unfurling in the wind to reveal a red dragon and a falcon. On the far side of the nobleman rode a tall figure on a mount the color of ripe corn. The rider was dressed in dark hooded robes and wore no armor. He did not carry a sword but a staff, and close to his courser’s hooves loped a large, grey wolf.
The path narrowed between ever denser trees and descended a steep hill, the horses dropping back on their hocks as they slithered and slid down toward a clearing at the bottom of the incline. They had not descended more than halfway when the first arrows whipped through the air toward them. As the sharpened heads found their mark the men screamed in pain, while their captain shouted for them to rally and fight. Within seconds they were set upon. They had unwittingly ridden into a deadly ambush. With terrifying shouts and roars upward of fifty soldiers sprang from their hiding places, swords raised, axes swinging. The clash of weapons and the cries of the stricken riders echoed through the trees as they were outnumbered and overwhelmed. The nobleman wheeled his destrier about, slashing at those who ran toward him. His own soldiers marshaled themselves and fought back, even though the situation was hopeless. The hooded rider urged his horse into the fray, wielding his staff with deadly accuracy, sending men flying backward into the undergrowth, where they lay like rag dolls, their skulls cracked and their senses gone. Beside him the wolf defended its master, biting the throat from a soldier who raised his knife to attack. But the ambushers were too many, and one by one the riders fell. At last the nobleman bid his men retreat, and those who were able turned and fled into the cover of the forest. The hooded man turned his courser to follow them, but behind him a well-armored soldier drew a dagger from his hip and threw it. As he did so the wolf lunged at him, tearing his hand from his arm. But the soldier’s aim had been good, and the knife sank into its target’s back to the hilt. The rider cried out and slumped forward, clinging to his mount’s mane. The courser raced away, bearing its rider out of the reach of further harm, not stopping until all sounds and smells of the gruesome battle were well behind it. When finally the animal came to a halt, breathing heavily, its neck running with its own sweat and its master’s blood, the rider slumped to the ground.
All was silent, and a preternatural stillness surrounded the fallen man. The wolf found its master and circled him, whining pitifully. A movement disturbed the animal, which backed off warily. From the trees emerged an old woman, stout and ruddy, walking on thick legs, bundled up in a muddle of clothes against the winter cold. She stooped over the wounded rider and used her foot to turn him so that his face was clearly revealed. The dream ended with a lingering image of the crone’s dimpled features as she peered down at the bleeding man at her feet.
Megan awoke with a cry.
“Merlin!” she shouted aloud. “Oh, my poor Merlin.” She let the tears fall unchecked down her face, shaking her head, realizing that this had been more than a dream. She knew now why he had been silent for so long, why she had not heard him or sensed his presence. But was he dead? Or had he survived his terrible wounds? Had the old woman sought to help him or to turn him in to his enemies? Megan felt herself giving way to despair. He had been riding from some distant place, toward her, she had no doubt of that. And now he lay mortally wounded, and death could be claiming him at that very moment. And she was powerless to help him. She beat her fists against the cruel stones, tears of grief and anger and frustration lending vigor to the futile gesture. At that darkest of lightless moments the sound of a small boy’s voice was indeed sweet music. “Megan? Megan? Are you well?” whispered Huw.
“Oh, Huw! Yes, yes. I thought you might not come again.”
“And leave you here alone? Never. Here, I’ll pass through the leather and the food. I’ve brought cheese today. I was given it for my supper, but I hid it and saved it for you.”
“You are a brave and clever boy.” Megan wiped the tears from her cheeks and squared her shoulders. All was not yet lost. She drank more gritty water and caught some in the leather pouch before hungrily devouring the food. “Huw, have you heard news of Merlin?”
There was a worrying silence on the other side of the wall.
“Please tell me what you know, little one. I must hear the truth.” Megan kept her voice level but was terrified at what the response to her question might be.
“Oh, Megan…” Huw began to cry. “There was a battle. I heard Llewelyn discussing it with my father. They did not know they were overheard. Merlin had gone to the castle of Lord Idris and raised help. He was on his way to fight for your freedom. But one of Lord Idris’s men betrayed them, and my father laid an ambush. Lord Idris escaped, though most of his men were slain.”
“And Merlin? What of him?” The bread had turned to sawdust in her mouth.
“It is only known that he was wounded by Llewelyn, who himself lost a hand to a monstrous wolf that fought alongside Idris’s men. Merlin fled, but I heard Llewelyn assure my father that he … he could not have lived. I’m so sorry, Megan,” said Huw through heavy sobs.
“Hush, hush now.” Megan clutched instinctively at her stomach, as if to protect all that she had left of Merlin. Huw had confirmed what her dream had told her. What neither of them knew was the extent of Merlin’s wounds. Megan reasoned that the vision had been sent to her, and that must surely mean he lived. The old woman must have taken pity on him and staunched the flow of his blood. Llewelyn had failed to bring home a corpse, so he would naturally seek to convince Lord Geraint of the success of his mission. Megan believed the truth was very different, and she clung to that be
lief with all her fading might.
* * *
LAURA WOKE WITH a jolt. Her dreams had been vivid and disturbing, with images of Angus bleeding onto the rocks, of Rhys naked, and of the boys lost in a fog somewhere, with Steph shouting out their names over and over. At the end of it all Laura had heard another voice. Merlin’s voice. He had been calling her name.
She looked over at Dan. He was sleeping soundly, though she knew he, too, was tortured by what had happened on the mountain that day. She slipped from the bed, shivering despite the heavy white cotton nightshirt she had taken to wearing. Bright moonbeams fell through the gap in the curtains. She went to the window and looked outside. The landscape was illuminated by a fat full moon. There was not a breath of wind, and a sharp frost was crystallizing on the grass. Again, even though she was now fully awake, Laura was sure she heard Merlin calling her. She pulled on a long, warm skirt, quickly fastening its belt, slipped her feet into the nearest pair of sandals, and crept downstairs. Now that the wood-burning stove had gone out even the sitting room was cold. She took a Welsh tweed rug off the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders before heading out the front door.
The luminous moon was so bright she had no need of a torch. She had never before seen such perfect moon shadows. Her own followed her now as she crossed the yard and walked through the meadows in the direction of the woods. Bats swooped low past her head as she walked. She was aware of small animals ahead of her scuttling away, startled by the unexpected human presence. Soon she had left the lights of the house behind her and entered the shady woods. From the roots of a lightning-scarred oak came the snortling grunts of a badger, his temper ruined by this unwelcome disturbance. The coolness of the air removed almost all of the forest scents, save for a pungent patch of fungus on a rotting beech trunk. Laura felt strangely unable to process the information her eyes were sending to her already unsettled mind. The light was so unusual, so opposite to what she ordinarily sought out for her work, that she had few points of reference with which to connect. What was normally burnt umber autumn fern was changed to a much paler yellow ocher. The moss beneath her feet was no longer Hooker’s dark green, but a soft sap green. The sky was dark beyond knowing, yet the stars were so brilliant it made her squint to look at them. The artist part of her brain, forever shouting to be heard, demanded she commit this ethereal scene to canvas at the earliest opportunity.
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey Page 24
