Treasure of the Celtic Triangle

by Michael Phillips

  Percy laughed lightly. “I have the feeling you will realize that you are awake soon enough. If I know you, you will very soon find yourself thinking of the good your position will allow you to do.”

  “I hope so, Percy. If it is true … oh, I do want to do good. I want to do good for people.”

  “You will, Gwyneth. Maybe this is God’s way of allowing you to spread your bouquets of goodness to many, and with more than flowers.”

  “When will … I cannot say it, Percy,” began Gwyneth. “But when will, you know …”

  “When will you inherit?”

  “If I do.”

  “It will be as it has been for Courtenay—when you are twenty-five.”

  “That will not be for five years,” said Gwyneth in a tone of relief. “I am glad of that. What will happen until then?”

  “Aunt Katherine—and now we may both call her that … although, no … she is actually your … hmm, let me see … yes, she would be your step-grandmother. In any event, she will continue to be viscountess and trustee of the estate.”

  Gwyneth drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “That means I don’t really have to do anything now,” she said then thought a moment. “I would like to do something, though, for Rhawn,” she said. “She is sad. I know it is from the consequences of what she used to be. But I still hurt for her.”

  “Being a friend is what she needs most of all. I think now Florilyn will be a friend to her again, too.”

  “What is Florilyn to me now, Percy? Is she my aunt, or my half aunt? It is very confusing.”

  Percy smiled. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “But I think a half-aunt qualifies as an aunt.”

  “It would be hard to call her Aunt Florilyn.”

  Percy laughed. “Just promise that I am present when you spring an Uncle Courtenay on Courtenay!”

  Gwyneth drew in a deep breath as she peered down toward the lake.

  “I see no movement down there at all,” she said. “I don’t even see deer. They are always there. Something is wrong, Percy.”

  “Shall we walk down and see? Maybe the rabbits are there.”

  They rose. Again Gwyneth hesitated. A puzzled expression came over her face.

  “What is it?” asked Percy.

  “I hear something,” replied Gwyneth softly.

  Gradually intruded faintly into Percy’s hearing what sounded like the far-off sounds of machinery, the dull thudding of wood, an occasional clank of metal … even, though he could not quite be sure, shouts of men’s voices. “I hear it, too,” he said. “What can it be? We are miles from any farm.”

  They hurried to their horses and rode toward the sounds. The terrain was steep, and the hills and peaks surrounding the lake were rocky and jagged. Gwyneth led the way for she knew these hills far better than Percy. In fifteen minutes, they crested the north-south ridge east of the lake. Below them at a distance of about half a mile, a crew of perhaps a dozen men, surrounded by at least twice that many horses, some pulling wagons, others hitched to strange-looking machines, were hard at work. Some of the men appeared to be removing large rocks from a wagon track or roadbed stretching out behind them, while others, ahead of the wagons and machinery, were cutting trees and removing brush and clearing out a way forward. Where the road came from, they had no idea. But they were obviously moving up the ridge in the direction of the lake.

  “What are they doing, Percy?” asked Gwyneth.

  “I have no idea. But I don’t like the look of it.”

  “I thought all this land was Lord Snowdon’s … or Lady Katherine’s now.”

  “As did I. Perhaps they are on someone else’s land. I don’t know where the boundary is. I saw several surveyors out here once before. When I told Aunt Katherine about it, she wasn’t completely sure where the boundary was.”

  “Should we tell Lady Katherine?”

  “Without a doubt—and immediately. Gwyneth, you know these hills better than I. You lead the way back to the manor … and with as much speed as you think is safe!”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  The Lady and the Lord

  Gwyneth and Percy arrived at Westbrooke Manor an hour later, breathing hard and their two mounts lathered from the exertion.

  By then Rhawn had returned to town. Steven and Florilyn, who were walking together back from the stables, saw them ride in.

  Percy dismounted and ran for the house. “Tell them what we saw, Gwyneth,” he said. “Maybe Steven knows something. I’ll try to find Aunt Katherine!”

  When Percy and Katherine emerged from the house two minutes later, Steven, Florilyn, and Gwyneth were standing beside the two sweating horses talking.

  “Steven?” said Katherine as they approached.

  “I know nothing about it,” replied Steven, shaking his head.

  “Do you know the place where Percy and Gwyneth saw the men? Do you know the lake?”

  “I know it well.”

  “Is it near the boundary of the estate? Could it be someone else’s land? Sir Armond’s property borders ours to the northeast, I believe.”

  “There is no chance of that, Lady Katherine,” said Steven. “The estate boundary lies two ridges east from that lake, not one. It is at least a half mile from where, if I have my bearings correct, Percy and Gwyneth describe seeing the men.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “After he hired me as a groom, your husband took me about to show me the extent of the estate. He was especially concerned that I knew where the boundaries were between his land and that of Mr. Burrenchobay. Whatever is going on … it is on your land, Lady Katherine.”

  Half an hour later, on fresh mounts, Katherine, Florilyn, Steven, Gwyneth, and Percy rode away from Westbrooke Manor northeast into the hills. As anxious as they were to make haste, they allowed Steven to set a pace that would not overly tax the horses. By the time they reached the final ridge and began the descent down the slope where the work was still in progress, the afternoon was well advanced.

  Shadows from one of its two surrounding parallel ridges had nearly consumed the valley where the men were working, and their thoughts were turning to the dinner and beer that awaited them back at the inn in Bronaber. It happened that the mastermind of the project had ridden out at day’s end to assess progress.

  As they made their way down through the thickly wooded slope, Katherine nodded to Steven. The others slowed, and he rode on ahead. He made his way into the clearing and toward the scene. A few heads turned as he approached and reined in.

  “Who’s in charge here?” said Steven.

  Other heads turned. A few comments filtered back through the ranks.

  After a moment, a well-dressed man came forward from among them. He was obviously not one of the laborers. “I am Lord Coleraine Litchfield,” he said. “And who might you be?”

  “I am Steven Muir, factor of the Westbrooke Manor estate.”

  “Ah … Mr. Muir. Well, it is nice to meet my new neighbor.”

  “How do you mean, your neighbor?”

  “I am the owner of this land.”

  Steven took in the statement calmly. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “As you can see, my men are building a road.”

  “And this, you say, is your land?”

  “It is.”

  “As of when?”

  “Very recently.”

  “From whom did you purchase it?”

  “From the Westbrooke estate.”

  “I see. That will come as a surprise to the trustee of the estate, who knows nothing about it.” Still seated on his horse, Steven turned and signaled for Katherine to join him.

  As she rode toward them, Lord Litchfield recognized the late viscount’s widow. An indulgent smile came to his lips. “Lady Westbrooke,” he said, “it seems we meet again.”

  “This man tells me that he is the owner of this land,” said Steven.

  Katherine had not liked Lord Litchfield from the first. It was with great difficulty that sh
e now kept her anger in check. “That is a curious claim,” she said, “in that I control the affairs of the estate and have heard nothing about it.”

  “The purchase was carried out through the new viscount,” said Litchfield. “Your son, I believe.”

  “Courtenay sold you this land!”

  “That is true.”

  “It is not his land. He has not inherited yet. None of this is his to sell.”

  “It will be in a matter of days.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are doing … whatever all this is … on my husband’s land when it is not even yet legally yours?”

  “Your son allowed me to commence my plans though the transaction will not be formally finalized for a few more days.”

  “But I do not give you permission. This is not his land.”

  “Three days … four days … what difference do a few hours make? He will be viscount, and this will be my land. Why should I not get under way?”

  “Because at the moment you are trespassing, Lord Litchfield.”

  “Tut, tut, Lady Westbrooke. A mere technicality.”

  “Hardly a technicality, Lord Litchfield, when you consider the fact that although my son will indeed turn twenty-five in four days, he will not become viscount … not then, not ever. Whatever papers you may have signed are not legally binding.”

  “What are you talking about? He will become viscount in four days.”

  “I fear not, Lord Litchfield. Gwyneth dear,” said Katherine, turning in her saddle and beckoning her forward.

  Gwyneth urged her mount up to Katherine’s side.

  “Lord Litchfield,” said Katherine, “may I introduce you to my husband’s granddaughter and heir, the future viscountess and Lady Snowdon.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” laughed Litchfield, sending his eyes in Gwyneth’s direction. “She is a girl … and a young one at that.”

  “My son will not inherit, Lord Litchfield,” said Katherine. “I will not trouble you with the legalities. However, I will trouble you to remove your men and equipment from our land. I will send Mr. Muir out tomorrow to make sure all activities have ceased and all equipment is gone.”

  At last Lord Litchfield found himself without words. But only briefly. “If what you say is true, Lady Westbrooke,” he said. “Then there will be a lawsuit. I have paid your son a good deal of money.”

  “That is between you and him,” rejoined Katherine. “He was not negotiating on behalf of the estate. Furthermore, I may be forced to bring a suit against you for trespassing and for the damage you have done to our land. Good day, Lord Litchfield. You will be hearing from my solicitor.”

  Speaking more boldly than she had ever spoken in her life, nearly trembling in righteous anger both toward Courtenay and Lord Litchfield for what they had tried to do behind her back, Katherine turned her mount around and galloped back to where Percy and Florilyn were waiting, followed by Steven and Gwyneth. She did not slow when she reached them but continued as fast as she was able up the ridge, into the trees, and back to the manor.

  Somewhat calmed by the time she arrived home, Katherine was still infuriated at what Courtenay had tried to do. She went straight to her office and immediately drafted a letter to Hamilton Murray, informing him of what had taken place and requesting that he call at the manor as soon as possible. He must be made aware of Gwyneth’s presence without delay.

  Steven was on his way to Porthmadog with the letter shortly after breakfast the following morning.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  The Solicitor

  In Steven’s absence, Katherine asked Percy to ride again into the hills to make sure Litchfield’s men and equipment were nowhere to be seen. Gwyneth and Florilyn accompanied him. They set out after lunch. They found the site vacant except for the scar through the land that Litchfield had intended as the new road to the lake.

  They returned through Llanfryniog. It was the first time Gwyneth had been in the village again since the day of their arrival on the coach.

  “I would like to see Grannie’s cottage,” said Gwyneth as they rode. “Do you know if it is still vacant?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Percy. “Do you, Florilyn?”

  Florilyn shook her head.

  “There is one way to find out,” said Percy, turning and leading down a narrow side street between the close-built stone houses. As they went, he caught what seemed to be a brief glimpse of purple, which almost the same instant disappeared down one of the narrow lanes leading away from Grannie’s cottage.

  Gwyneth was quiet as they went. She had scampered among all these streets and lanes as a child, as most of the villagers considered her the peculiar stuttering “witch child” of Llanfryniog. The nostalgia of the sights, sounds, and smells brought mingled pains and joys to her heart. Riding down the town’s main street, and now through its narrow lanes, the eyes that followed the three young people all knew Florilyn and Percy. Not a soul recognized the light-haired girl between them nor would have guessed that she was the very one they had feared to speak to fifteen years before. Rumors about the sudden change in her fortunes would begin soon enough, as rumors always do. As yet no whisper had reached them that the urchin who had once left forgiveness bouquets on Llanfryniog’s doors would soon wed their beloved young Scot and then, five years from now, would become the viscountess and mistress of the manor to whom they would pay their rents.

  Percy and Gwyneth dismounted in front of Grannie’s door. Percy tried the latch. The door opened on creaky hinges. He poked his head inside. “There’s nobody here, Gwyneth,” he said.

  Slowly Gwyneth walked inside the poor cottage that had been a second home to her.

  Sensing that it was time to let her ponder the past and future quietly and alone, Percy stepped back into the street. While Gwyneth renewed her memories, Percy helped Florilyn dismount. The two led their horses as they strolled up the lane.

  “Remember the day we visited that creepy lady?” said Florilyn, pointing to the strange and weirdly appointed house at the end of the street.

  “I do indeed. In fact, I thought I saw her a minute ago. It looked like she was scurrying away from Grannie’s cottage.”

  Slowly they wandered toward the house. It was of wood, unusual in this place where stone predominated, painted in white and purple and of an architecture more reminiscent of Germany’s Black Forest than north Wales. The roof was steep slanted, boasting atop it an occultish weathervane. Gargoyles and statues of fairies, trolls, goblins, and other strange figures sat round the small yard. The mere look of the place sent a shiver up Florilyn’s spine.

  A sign above the door, ornate with Celtic symbolism, read: MADAME FLEMING, PSYCHIC—FORTUNES AND FUTURES FORETOLD.

  No one knew why the enigmatic “Madame Fleming” had come to this coastal village with her fortune-telling boutique or where she had come from. On the few occasions she chanced to be seen—in dresses and scarves of reds, pinks, and purples and with gaudy jewelry dangling from ears and neck and wrists—there was no mistaking her.

  When they returned back along the street a few minutes later, Grannie’s former neighbor was talking over a low fence with Gwyneth. None of them had any idea that they were being watched through one of Madame Fleming’s curtained windows. Neither could they have divined what thoughts were racing through the devilish woman’s cunning brain. Nor why, hearing rumors of a young, white-haired beauty newly arrived in the village, she had grown newly fearful of what clues to her own identity might have been left behind in Grannie’s cottage.

  “… just left without a word,” Grannie’s neighbor was saying. “No one knew where she had gone.”

  “She is happy and well, Mrs. Hueil,” said Gwyneth.

  “She is alive! But how do you know, lassie?”

  “I am Gwyneth, Mrs. Hueil.”

  The woman stared back at her speechless.

  “The saints preserve us!” she said in disbelief. “Gwyneth … is it really you, lassie?”

  Gwyneth smiled.
“My father and Grannie are in Ireland, Mrs. Hueil. It is a long story. I came back with Percy for a visit.”

  Mrs. Hueil glanced toward Percy and Florilyn as they walked up the lane toward them.

  “Mr. Drummond … you’re back again, I see,” she said then nodded with a timid smile toward Florilyn. She was dying to know whether any significance might be attached to Florilyn’s being with Percy on this day, for the whole town knew of their broken engagement and her subsequent engagement to Colville Burrenchobay.

  But the rumor mills would have no more grist to add to their grinding wheels on this day. When the three remounted their horses and rode the rest of the way through the village and out of town, they appeared no more nor less than what they were—three friends who had known each other a long time and had been seen together numerous times.

  Steven returned in midafternoon to say that Hamilton Murray would call at the manor on the following day.

  By eleven thirty the next morning, Katherine was seated with the solicitor in the manor’s formal sitting room with Florilyn, Percy, Gwyneth, and Steven, whom she had asked to be present, also. She had just given Mr. Murray a brief account of the turn of events and introduced him to Gwyneth.

  “Well, I must say these are unexpected developments indeed,” said Murray as he and Gwyneth and Katherine resumed their seats. “However, I must confess that I knew something of it before I came. Your son has been busy, Lady Katherine. After you left me yesterday, Mr. Muir,” he said, nodding toward Steven, “I received a telegram from one of London’s noted barristers informing me that he was filing a suit on behalf of one Courtenay Westbrooke, son of the late Viscount Lord Snowdon, in substantiation of his claim as the rightful and legal heir to his father’s title and property.”

  A few comments went round the room. No one was surprised at what Courtenay had done, though having managed it so quickly took them off guard.

  “Obviously I need to research the legal background of the viscountcy and its unique stipulations of inheritance,” said Murray. “I should also read the affidavit you told me about.”