by Jean Gill
a horse’s skull on a stick, a man’s body buried in the woods.
Estela felt the howl growing inside her, blocking her ears to all but howls. Mair should be here, a woman who understood. They could howl together. Had the howl escaped into the room? Estela did not know but she saw that her hand had escaped Rhys’ grip, that he stood up.
His mouth moved again. Honour. Service. Chapel. The men left.
Women came. They weren’t Mair. Of course they weren’t. Mair was in that other castle, the one they’d left to come here, so they could go home. They were going home tomorrow and everything would be all right.
Estela ignored the women she’d never bothered to spend time with, the women she didn’t know. She stared at the signet ring Dragonetz had given her as a token, the one that would summon him from the ends of the earth to her side if she needed him. Where are you? she asked the ring.
Once, she had hung it around Musca’s neck, the last time she had left her baby to follow Dragonetz into danger. They had come back home to Musca.
Home. Musca. She had to force herself but she must.
John Halfpenny came to see her. How different people looked when their faces twisted. How softly they spoke. She could hardly hear them.
‘Nothing to keep us here.’
So, he was leaving too. They would leave together, he told her. She didn’t care.
She went to the chapel when she was summoned.
A man who never knew Dragonetz said the deceased had served Christendom and his Liege with loyalty and piety, that he’d been a Crusader, and purgatory would be short. That he’d surely died with God in his heart and would find the hereafter he deserved, even though he’d died unshriven. That man was born of woman and doomed to Adam’s sin, and so on, and so on.
Estela, daughter of Eve, didn’t care.
The leaving of Dinefwr was as anonymous as the entry had been triumphant. John Halfpenny had two horses saddled, ready, and a pack-horse for their goods. Estela would have preferred to take only what she’d come with but the brothers had insisted on giving presents. She barely looked at them but accepted that the clothes would be practical.
She almost forgot to pack her guide and her escritoire, but Musca was her future and she clung to his name as she rode away from Dinefwr, away from Gwalia, through the woods in which her lover’s body lay moldering.
Chapter 26
This time Dragonetz had not imagined metal glinting in the muddy shallows but it was gold, not silver. And not a nugget of the precious metal. He rinsed the object in the race of water, revealing an open-ended arm bracelet, each end a hissing snake, solid, crafted by a master. Perhaps there had been a settlement here, or at least a villa. Either the gold-worker or his customer had left this treasure buried. Perhaps there was more.
He turned the bracelet, admiring the scales engraved on the diamond snake-heads. He could not get his hand or wrist through the opening. A woman’s bracelet. A gift that Estela would appreciate and a small way to show her some reward for all she’d borne in this barbaric, wet country. Tomorrow, at last, they would go home.
He hiked up his jerkin, tucked the bracelet into the scrip tied round his waist and quickly covered up again. The rain was not heavy but ceaseless, wearing. Now would be a good time to explore the tunnels and be sheltered.
Three dark mouths opened like screams in the mist. Dragonetz picked his way around the biggest puddles to the tunnel on the left, framed by old, rotting beams. He would just explore the entry, venturing only a little into the tunnel, until daylight grew too dim.
He had enough headroom to stand comfortably and it was a relief to be out of the rain. He had to watch his footing on the uneven ground, where crumbled rock shifted as he stepped on it. He stood still, looked at the walls, close enough either side to see the different strata. Once more he wished he knew more of mining, to confirm his theory.
Far enough into the tunnel to be sheltered from storms, Dragonetz spotted a stone lamp on a natural ledge, beside a tinder box. He didn’t need a second invitation. He took the fire steel, flint and a piece of charcloth out of the box. On a damp day like this the tinder-dry cloth would catch more easily than the wick. He put the cloth on the fat touching the wick. Then he struck steel against flint until sparks came and the charcloth caught, then the wick. He took the lamp by its handle, the red stone smooth with who knows how many hands gripping it over the years. Now he could explore further. And further.
Daylight was long since gone and he could still walk without stooping, ever further downwards, but he discovered nothing new. The streaks in the rocks continued, shining in the soft lamplight but without glitter. Sometimes a rough edge caught his foot and he’d stumble, but the tunnel seemed safe enough, empty but for its ghosts, the workings long since abandoned. There were passages where old wooden beams supported the stone; diagonal struts and ceiling frames; evidence of walls being strengthened as they were chipped and quarried. A heap of chains told of the mine-workers’ conditions. More ghosts.
He was ready to turn back when he heard water, so he continued. Just a bit further he told himself, seconds before he was forced to stop or fall down a shaft. Peering into the depths by what little light the lamp offered, Dragonetz saw wooden supports, in a pattern. Puzzled, he tried to make sense of what he saw. He recognized the pattern but not from this angle.
He turned the wood in his mind, saw it turning and then he knew – it was a wheel, like the wheel that had powered his paper mill. Far down below, he could hear water. So, the lower levels were filled with water and there was a wheel, maybe more than one wheel. He was not sure of their purpose but whatever it had been, he was sure that these wheels had not turned for years, hundreds of years to judge by the state of the workings on the surface.
He stood, looking down. Something many-legged and pale wriggled over his foot, fleeing the light. As it reached darkness, it glowed green, reminding Dragonetz of the ghosts who had suffered his presence without complaint, so far. He turned to head back to the surface, then, lost in his thoughts, stopped to run his hand along the rock face. He put down the lamp. What if?
He chose a streak, ochre-coloured with flecks in the myriad blue-greys of surrounding rock. He picked up a sharp stone and chipped at the wall. The toc-toc of his hammering rang out in the mine like an alarum to Arthur and his sleeping knights but Dragonetz thought of nothing but the repetition of hard rock hitting softer rock, chipping away. Toc-toc and some flakes on the floor. Toc-toc and he had a lump. He picked up the lamp, held it to the stone in his hand and saw the sparkle of gold.
He put down the lamp once more, leaned down awkwardly to get light as he slipped the precious sample into his scrip and heard the tell-tale slip of shale too late. The toc-toc had hidden the approach of whoever hit Dragonetz over the head, knocking him unconscious.
When he came to, he was back down the tunnel, sitting, his back against the wall, bound hand and foot and chained to a huge wooden strut. Holding the lamp and standing over him was Wyn. Lamplight drew demons over his face. Dragonetz closed his eyes and shook his head to clear his vision but when he opened them again, he still saw Wyn.
Perhaps the man thought him a thief? Dragonetz flushed at the thought. He had intended to keep what he’d found.
‘Wyn?’ His throat hurt. He’d been out for hours and not thought to sip water. All that rain and he was parched! ‘I mean no harm. I was exploring. I found a bracelet. I followed the tunnel. I think–’
Wyn cut him off ‘–I don’t wish to hear what you found. It makes no difference. And you can’t bribe me. I won’t touch anything from this accursed place.’
‘Then, what? Why?’ Dragonetz nodded towards his tied hands.
The Welshmen shrugged, his eyes dark pits in the shadows, unreadable.
‘Your people would all be like you if they knew there was gold here. Like flies to a honeypot, not able to resist it. There would be no talk of allegiance and treaties or good King Henri’s justice! Deheubarth is ours agai
n after so many years and I’m not letting you destroy it with a word to your Henri about how rich this land is. So you’re not going back.’
‘I merit not this treatment!’ Dragonetz used the formula Wyn had taught him but saw no weakening in the man’s face.
‘You are not one of us,’ was all the answer.
‘I give my oath I will say nothing of the gold.’ Nor of anything that would help Henri against the Welsh. Dragonetz could not add. He would report to Aliénor if he could. If he lived.
‘Would you hear a tale of oaths broken? That would outlast the winter! Oaths are worthless.’
‘Take me to Lord Rhys and Lord Maredudd. Let me convince them. They know my oath is my bond.’
‘Those are better bonds.’ Wyn gestured at Dragonetz’ tied body. ‘Who do you think ordered me to follow and kill you?’
Rhys. Maredudd. All those months they’d ridden together meant nothing more than laughter and a catch of fish. Yet he was not dead, despite the orders. Hope remained.
‘Then kill me,’ he challenged Wyn. ‘Or set me free. You will look foolish if I escape and stroll back into Dinefwr.’
‘This is no place for a man to despatch another,’ was the strange reply. ‘It would show disrespect for those who dwell here. Why do you think we leave the gold where it is and keep it secret? It is our curse to know of it and now it is yours.
I offer you to the shades of Dolaucothi and it is up to them how they take you – fast, slow, mad or eaten to death. Your sacrifice today will please them and bring us the year we deserve. The men of Deheubarth will give you thanks throughout the year to come, at every harvest, in every castle you have helped regain. This is your last act to support Deheubarth and we thank you.’ He swept a bow, real or in mockery Dragonetz could not say.
Wyn added, ‘I return now to announce the sad news to the court that Lord Dragonetz was taken by wolves, his remains found in the forest, so bloodied they could only be buried there.’
Estela thought Dragonetz. Estela packing to go home tomorrow.
‘The year ends as it must. May the gods accept our sacrifice for the year to come,’ prayed Wyn as he gagged Dragonetz with a strip of damp cloth. Then he went. All light went with him.
ALL BUT BLIND MEN FEAR the dark, the shadow of death, whatever they pretend. Dragonetz had met fear and the shadow of death before, so he closed his eyes to keep the dark at a distance. He tested the binding but he’d been unconscious when tied, and it was tighter than when he’d been the badger in the Welsh bag. The gag stopped him using his teeth but the moisture was pleasant in his dry mouth.
He wriggled, turned towards the wall, reached it with his hands, rubbed against the wall, ignored the chafing as his skin was grazed. In time, he could scrape through the rope binding, free his mouth, free his feet. But the chain would remain.
Fretting at the ropes, fraying them strand by strand, Dragonetz tried to visualize where he was. Wyn had probably dragged him to the place he’d seen the chains.
What were the chains attached to? Stone? The wooden beams? If the latter, maybe he could bring down the beam itself to free the chain. There was little chance of freeing himself from the chain itself. Unless he cut off his lower leg, along with the anklet and chain.
He could hear what Estela would say, in her physician’s voice, dispassionate, as if a leg was merely an object to be weighed in a balance. Which it was, with his life on the scales. He still had Talharcant and the cut could be clean. You would gush blood and die before you could make fire and cauterize the stump. And you could not take the pain of doing this to yourself. No man could.
It was a relief to accept this as truth. Hacking off his leg would be pointless. But it was a shock to realise that he had no better plan. That he should prepare for death. Estela he thought as he freed his hands. He ripped the gag from his mouth then stuffed it back in, to suck all the moisture from it.
He opened his eyes and Talharcant made swift work of loosing his feet from the rope. All that remained was the chain. One iron chain between him and his life. The dark mocked him as he stood there. Fight me it whispered. I’m right here and you are a warrior. You have a fine sword. What are you waiting for? You can end this now or tomorrow, when your tongue cleaves to your palate and the waking dreams torment you. Or the day after, when you have lost yourself. But the day after that will be too late. You will be too weak to do anything other than die a slow death in your own dirt.
Then Dragonetz understood that he would die and his only choice was how. The Romans called it courage for a man to throw himself on his own sword, those same Romans who made these tunnels, crafted the exquisite bracelet bumping against his hip.
Coward breathed their ghosts. You dare not. You are not a man. Words shook with laughter. We will come for you anyway, one way or another. You know the ways we come. We have met before.
A sudden poppy craving shook Dragonetz, made him sweat. Would he never be free? He remembered the dreams that had tortured him and he didn’t know whether he could face their like, here in the dark, alone. But he had faced them and he had survived, and he had not been alone. Against the voices in the dark, he summoned his faith, that would not let him despair. And he summoned his loved ones, who had been with him in the worst of dreams, with him in the terrible time when they’d stopped him taking the poppy. Arnaut, Malik. Estela.
Join me invited another voice. Sleep among my knights. Take your place here until we are called.
Gladly murmured Dragonetz. When my time comes. And then he began to sing. If he brought the tunnel down and was crushed under stone, so be it. He would be himself for as long as he could be, and trust in God for what came next.
He sang of larks in springtime, lovers parting at dawn, capricious ladies and corrupt lords, the joys of passion and the patience of saints. For his ghostly audience, he sang every tale he knew of the Welsh seer Myrddin, of Arthur and his knights. His throat was dry again, but that wasn’t why he stopped. He saw a light, the flicker of the lamp’s flame coming back down the tunnel towards him. Wyn must have heard the noise and was coming back to complete his errand.
It was not Wyn.
‘I’m sorry,’ said John Halfpenny. ‘I had to wait until I was sure the Welshmen had gone and they stayed talking for hours, sheltering where you left your horse. It was easier to find you than I thought it might be.’
Dragonetz couldn’t speak. As the darkness receded, he understood how close he’d come to being swallowed up.
‘Water,’ he croaked, pointing at the skin Halfpenny carried on his belt. He wondered how he’d managed to sing so many songs. Where did such strength come from? He murmured a prayer of thanks and took several long swigs of precious water, leaning back against the wall.
Halfpenny was already investigating the pile of chains further along the tunnel. He grunted and came back with a key. He unlocked the leg fetter.
Dragonetz had been within feet of his salvation the whole time. Without light and with no mobility, he would never have known. He stood and gathered the little moneyer into an embrace that hid the grubby tears he could feel coursing down his cheeks. Then he sat again, abruptly, drained.
‘Report,’ he ordered.
‘Wyn’s been following you and I’ve been following Wyn. They all think me a fool with little Welsh so they speak as if I’m not there. You did not think they’d let you go home?’
‘No,’ Dragonetz sighed. ‘But I did not foresee this. I thought Rhys and Maredudd would make a move, try me for some trumped-up crime – perhaps something Estela had done...’ he smiled. ‘So near to leaving, my guard was down. I even thought they might keep their word.’
‘You are dead. They planned to announce your death when they returned to Dinefwr. That’s why they waited, to make it more convincing that they’d searched and found you – not tracked you and killed you.’
‘My pony?’
‘They took it. Hid it in another settlement probably. Not that any Welshman would contradict Wyn’s tale an
d I wouldn’t know which horse you took! I don’t think Estela would either.’ A thought struck him. ‘Was anything of importance with the horse?”
‘Nothing.’ Dragonetz said what must be said. ‘I am dead. If I return to Dinefwr, they will make my death a reality and kill both you and Estela for being witnesses.’
‘Yes. There is only one place they will not find you. Unless you sing all the time and they are passing.’
Dragonetz nodded. ‘They won’t look for me because they know I’m here. And they won’t come here because I’m here to die – and they fear the place.’ He did not add with reason but Halfpenny was far from a fool.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Englishman said. ‘You must stay here and I daren’t return. They’ll notice.’
‘Do you have any food?’
Halfpenny passed over the waterskin. ‘You could fill this from the stream at night but don’t risk lighting the lamp. This is all I have.’ He pulled a hunk of stale bread from his belt, manna from heaven.
‘I will live.’ Dragonetz hesitated. ‘Probably a week, with water. I’m not sure after that. I’ll have to take risks, seek food in the forest.’
‘We’ll be back before that,’ Halfpenny reassured him. ‘Once the priest has played his part in this mummery, they will want rid of the fool and the widow. We will leave Dinefwr as soon as we can, to go home – and you will go with us!’
Dragonetz could think of no better plan. ‘You’ll tell Estela that I’m alive.’ It was an order not a question but Halfpenny shook his head.
‘I can’t.’
Estela. The pain of it was searing. ‘You must! Or she’ll hate us both!’
‘Then she must hate us. At least we’ll all be alive.’
‘I would trust her with my life!’ Dragonetz said and he knew it was true.
‘I can’t.’ Halfpenny was adamant. ‘Godspeed,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll be back as soon as we can be.’
Then, once more, the light wavered back up the tunnel until it was gone.
