by Sandra Heath
He colored, knowing he deserved her wrath. “No, just Mr. Greatorex. Nor is there anything else I should have told you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“But it is all for the manor and village,” he added.
“A fact that right now I’m having to force myself to bear in mind,” she replied crossly. Just let him say one more word about her disobedience at dawn, just one word, and she would have a few things of her own to say!
A respectful tap came at the door, and a maid entered with the overdue edition of The Times. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr. Taynton at the Green Man says he’s very sorry, but he inadvertently sent it on to Gloucester by stagecoach. The mistake was only discovered when the innkeeper of the New Inn sent it back with the next coach.”
Mr. Elcester was a little placated. “Oh, very well. By the way, tell the cook that I like a little more curry in my kedgeree. That was a little bland.”
“Yes, sir.” The maid curtsied and hurried out.
Ursula eyed her father’s empty plate. “I notice you managed two helpings of it, bland or not,” she observed.
“That’s as may be, but I do like a little more spice.” Mr. Elcester poured himself a cup of strong coffee and settled to read awhile. Silence descended, except for the rustle of the paper, but then he gave an exclamation as a certain name leapt out at him from the close-packed columns. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“What is it?”
“That fellow Samuel Haine hasn’t left the country after all! A false trail has been uncovered, but his actual whereabouts remain unknown. All that can be said with any conviction is that he is still somewhere in England. No doubt he is swindling some other poor gull. By God, if I had him here, I’d wring his vile neck!”
Ursula forbore to reply. She couldn’t think of a fate horrible enough for Samuel Haine, whose devious activities had signaled the untimely extinction of her cherished spinsterhood!
* * * *
It was noon, and her father had departed for Stroud, when Ursula went to sit on the steps of the topiary garden with her notebooks, her mother’s old manuscripts, and a freshly sharpened pencil. She still wore her checkered gown, and the ribbons on her day bonnet lifted gently in the slight breeze. Some gardeners were at work planting the tubers that in late summer would produce the new white double dahlias her father had gone to so much trouble to acquire. A boy was brushing the flagstones around the fountain, where the squirrels had played at dawn. Squirrels were in the offing now, she noticed almost casually. One was sitting atop the wall, and another was digging busily in a far corner, as if searching for nuts it had buried and mislaid.
Soon she was lost in the world of Macsen Wledig. The manuscripts had been in her mother’s family for generations, and whoever had written them had a spidery hand that was sometimes difficult to decipher, but she felt she was translating accurately.
The Dream of Macsen Wledig—being the story of how the Emperor Macsen, who was as handsome a man as ever came out of Hispania, found his bride, and how she gained her name, Elen of the Ways. One evening a long, long time ago, after a day’s hunting near Rome with his favorite white wolfhound, Macsen the emperor, dreamed of a Welsh princess called Elen, who lived beyond the north wind. It was Maytime, and he saw her castle at C— — (Cannot read, she’d noted in the margin) on an island rising out of a spring mist.
Inside, the castle hall was bright with jewels and gold, and he found two young noblemen, Kynan and his younger brother, Cadfan, playing a board game that reminded Macsen of chess, except that the ivory and blue glass “men” were animals—horses, dogs, and squirrels. The brothers’ betrothed wives sat by a window nearby, embroidering fine gloves for their future husbands, and the young men’s august uncle, Eudaf, High-King of Britain, was seated on a golden throne, carving new pieces for his nephews. His beautiful and only daughter, the Princess Elen, sat at his feet. She wore a white gown embroidered all over with golden squirrels, her hair was as red as the sunset, and her eyes as green as the woods in summer.
When Elen saw Macsen, she rose gladly to her feet and went to him. “Oh, my dear lord,’ she said, ‘I have waited so long for you to come. If you will but love and marry me, all my father’s lands and treasures will be yours. What you see around you now is but a fraction of his wealth, most of which is kept fast in his summer house nearby.”
The High-King nodded, and said that his land needed an emperor’s hand to rule it. At this Kynan, the elder of his nephews bowed his head, knowing that if Macsen accepted, he himself would be passed over. Kynan was a wise young man, but untested, and could not in all honesty say his uncle was wrong to choose Macsen.
The younger nephew, Cadfan, however, was hotheaded and bitter. Kynan could stand meekly aside if he chose, but Cadfan would not do the same. He had more of a right to succeed than a Roman stranger from Hispania. In a fury he overturned the game board, scattering the precious pieces in all directions, and as they fell they became living creatures, and went to Elen of the Ways, whom they revered and loved. The High-King stretched out a soothing hand to Cadfan, but he would have none of it, and ran from the hall, shouting that he would never accept a Roman usurper, even if he was the emperor. He, Cadfan, would fight for what was his by right.
Macsen was too enchanted by the maiden to pay heed to Cadfan’s anger. He gazed into her magical eyes, and reached out to touch her, but his hand passed right through her. At that point the emperor awakened, and vowed to find her.
Ursula had been working for nearly two hours when she reached this point, so she set everything aside and stretched. She wished she could decipher the name of the castle, but that fragment of the manuscript was too worn to make out, beyond beginning with a C. She could only imagine that if Macsen himself was real, then the castle might also be. A number of Welsh castles began with C—Caernarvon, Carmarthen, Conwy, and Caerleon, for instance—but none of them stood on an island, unless one accepted that the British mainland was an island in itself.
She drew her knees up and rested her chin on her hands. The squirrel by the fountain came to the foot of the steps and looked cheekily up at her. It curled its long fluffy tail up in the air and flicked it occasionally, then turned and bounded away again. Ursula watched it almost resignedly. Would it be too foolish to wonder about all these squirrels and the appearance of the same creature in the myth? Suddenly an odd similarity struck her. A green-eyed maiden with red hair and a white gown. A green-eyed squirrel with a red head and white body ...
She got up, feeling cross. Yes, it would indeed be too foolish! Just because for some reason Taynton was trying to frighten people out of the woods, she was letting her imagination run away with her. She looked across the valley at the Green Man. She disliked Mr. Bellamy Taynton more each time she thought of him, and she had not forgotten her resolve to release the caged squirrel. But how and when to do it without being caught in the act? The best time would probably be when the inn was very busy, preferably when a stagecoach had just arrived and Taynton and the others were distracted.
She knew the interior of the Green Man like the back of her hand, having often gone there as a child because the previous landlord’s wife made particularly fine and sticky gingerbread, and could be guaranteed to press a slice upon her. A back way led past Taynton’s private quarters to the rear of the taproom. A convenient curtain screened the end of the passage from eyes in the taproom, and all it would require would be a few quick tiptoed steps to the cage, the turning of the little door handle, and that would be it. The squirrel would do the rest!
Ursula warmed to the idea. The Tetbury Arrow had recently begun to halt at the Green Man every evening at eight. It was always crowded with passengers eager for one of Vera’s fine dinners, so the taproom would be a hive of activity. Shadows would be very long then, maybe even merged into the onset of twilight. She smiled. Yes, she would do it tonight!
Chapter 10
Conan and Theo were destined to be at the Green Man at that time too
, although they had no idea of this as their traveling carriage neared Elcester. Now it was dusk, and the journey from London had been wearisome. First they had been held up by a wagon overturn that blocked the turnpike. Then one of the horses had cast a shoe in the middle of nowhere, and now they were both tired and hungry and there were still at least six miles to go, with a hazardous descent from the escarpment, and then a long toil up Carmartin Hill.
Both men had endured more than enough of the open road for one day, and now wished they were at journey’s end. They slumped in opposite corners, Theo with Bran sprawled on the seat beside him. Neither of them had mentioned their seemingly supernatural experiences in London, but both were thinking about them. Conan had brought the ribbon with him in his greatcoat pocket, although he didn’t really know why. He still felt he was in the hands of fate; a novel feeling, but a stimulating one. Currents he didn’t understand were swirling in the shadows all around him, as was a yearning in his heart, and he still meant to let them take him where they would.
Suddenly, the horses were frightened by something, and both men jolted forward as the coachman shouted and tried to bring the startled animals under control. Bran scrambled to his feet and began to make noise. The carriage slewed across the road and lurched to a standstill. Conan, fearing highwaymen, reached under the seat for the pistol he always kept there. He gestured to Theo to keep Bran quiet, and after a few seconds the wolfhound was prevailed upon. Then they listened, but there were no strange voices, no demands, just the coachman doing his utmost to soothe the rattled team.
Conan opened the door and jumped down. The carriage had come close to an overturn in a ditch, but was safe enough. Apart from the uneasy horses, their white coats ghostly in the fading light, all seemed quiet. There wasn’t even another vehicle in the road. Nothing. He looked inquiringly at the coachman, named Gardner. “What happened?”
“I don’t rightly know, sir.” The man’s face was pale and uneasy in the fading light.
Conan knew he wasn’t being truthful. “Come on, Gardner, spit it out.”
“Well, sir, I-I thought I saw a man standing in the middle of the road. The horses saw him too, and that’s what set them off.”
“What sort of man?” Conan asked, glancing around, pistol at the ready.
The coachman swallowed. “A tall man in white robes, with antlers on his head.”
Conan stared at him. “With what on his head?”
“Antlers, sir, and I-I could see right through him. Like he was made of glass!”
“Have you been at the contraband brandy again?”
“No, sir! I swear it! Upon my mother’s grave, there was just such a man in the road!”
Theo had heard by now, and alighted from the carriage with Bran. The wolfhound growled and stared straight ahead, where the lights of Elcester were beginning to glimmer. The church bell sounded the half hour, and some sheep called in a nearby field. There was a wooded valley to the right, and on the far side of it some illuminated windows of what seemed to be a big house.
A key-bugle sounded, and Conan looked across the field to the north of the village to see a stagecoach pulling out of a well-lit inn and driving off. He’d had more than enough of today. If the inn had rooms, he intended to stay overnight and continue in the morning, when sanity should again prevail. Antlers indeed!
“Come on,” he said to Theo. “We’ll walk the damned team the rest of the way. They’re a little too unnerved for my liking.”
“What, six miles?” gasped Theo, appalled.
“No, just as far as that inn.”
“Oh. Very well.” Theo was a little mollified.
Bran was obliged to resume his place in the carriage, much to his vociferous disgust, but Conan wasn’t about to have an enormous wolfhound charging all over the road and adjacent fields. The wretched canine was too enthusiastic by far, and certainly didn’t count obedience among his attributes.
Gardner clambered down from his seat, and the three men coaxed the rattled horses to walk on. It was a quarter to eight and virtually dark when they reached the Green Man. Neither Conan nor Theo much liked the leering face on the inn sign, but the general atmosphere of the inn seemed to bode well for good food and a comfortable bed. Another key-bugle could be heard faintly in the distance as they led the horses into the rear yard, where grooms hastened to attend them. The men seemed a little bothered by the fact that the team was white, and Conan was puzzled enough to ask them about it. Their response was to politely brush such a notion aside.
Still a little puzzled, he glanced around. It was a tightly run establishment, he decided with approval, and counted his blessings, for it could so easily have been little more than a lowly village tavern. The stables were all very well stocked, the yard itself was regularly cleaned, and there were various vehicles drawn up, including another stagecoach. Through the lighted windows of the inn itself he could see a number of people seated at tables covered with snowy white cloths.
A small gate next to the coach house opened into the field at the back, which sloped down toward the treed valley he had seen from the other road. It was hard to make out now, for the moon had slipped behind clouds, but the lights of the big house glimmered in the virtual darkness. He was about to ask a groom what house it was when Theo chose to release Bran from the carriage.
The wolfhound leapt out joyously and immediately stood on his hind legs, his front paws on his master’s shoulders. His tail wagged so much it caused a draft, and if a dog could grin, it was clear that Bran the Blessed, Son of Llyr, was doing just that. The wolfhound minded his manners for once, and observed the rule that there should not be any barking in a yard where there were strange horses, so it certainly wasn’t his bad behavior that brought the head groom running in dismay.
“Oh, you can’t bring that hound here, sir!” he cried.
“Why not?” Theo demanded.
“The landlord, Mr. Taynton, would not wish it, sir.” The man’s eyes moved to the team of white horses, and he became more agitated. “Perhaps it would be best if you drove on, sir.”
Conan interceded. “Drove on? Certainly not.”
“Why can’t I bring Bran here?” Theo demanded again.
The man hesitated. “Because he’s white, sir.”
“What sort of answer is that?” replied Theo, astonished.
“Please, sir—
“Bran stays.” Theo dug his heels in, daring the man to make a further issue of it.
The man exchanged uneasy glances with some of his underlings, and then gave in. “No doubt you will take it up with Mr. Taynton,” he muttered.
“Oh, I will indeed,” Theo replied firmly. Damn it, he thought, Bran was being a veritable angel, so if this lout thought he was about to travel on because the landlord had some foible or other, he was very much mistaken! And so was Mine Host! He turned to speak to Conan in a low voice. “What in God’s own name has white got to do with it?”
“Superstition, most likely.”
“This is Gloucestershire, not darkest Africa!”
Conan grinned. “If that fearsome inn sign is anything to go by, it might as well be Africa.”
The approaching key-bugle sounded again, very loudly now. The stagecoach was virtually at the inn. Conan’s coachman was urgently requested to move the carriage farther in, to make room, and in seconds there was uproar as the Arrow clattered beneath the archway.
Conan perceived the remaining tables would soon be snapped up, so he caught Theo’s arm. “Come on, let’s confront this Taynton fellow.”
“With Bran?”
“Certes with Bran. I see several other dogs inside, so it’s clearly not a rule of the house.”
Conan led the way to the door through which Ursula had entered the day before. There was a great deal of noise and chatter, the rattle of cutlery, and the smell of food as waiters and maids scurried to and from the dining room with fully laden trays. Fewer people were in the taproom, however, and there were a number of empty tables. Co
nan chose one in a corner, and he and Theo took their places. Bran sat on the floor, still on his very best behavior. Conan glanced around and saw the squirrel. “Well, well, look at that. Clearly friend Taynton doesn’t object to all white creatures, just wolfhounds. Mind you, there are times when Bran the Pest drives me to full agreement with him.”
“Don’t call him that when he’s being a model of good conduct.”
“It won’t last,” Conan replied dryly. He glanced at the squirrel again. It gazed mournfully back at him with eyes that were almost human. He brushed such a notion aside. It was just a rare, almost albino squirrel, no more, no less.
The passengers from the Arrow crowded in, and the last places were taken, although no one presumed to join the two gentlemen in the corner. In spite of the new clamor, Bran’s arrival in the room had not gone unnoticed. Taynton happened to be drawing two tankards of perry from one of the barrels near the squirrel, and he was so startled to see the enormous white wolfhound that he overfilled one of them. He pushed the tankards into Vera’s hands, then hurried to the corner table, wiping his hands on a towel. A fresh nosegay, wallflowers and heartsease, adorned his lapel, and his gold pin caught the light as he beamed at them both.
“Good evening, sirs.”
“Good evening,” Theo replied, bridling in readiness for more awkwardness.
“May I inquire which of you gentlemen owns the wolfhound?”
“I do,” said Theo.
“May I know your name, sir?”
“You may. I am the Honorable Theodore Greatorex, and my uncle is Lord Carmartin of Carmartin Park,” Theo supplied impressively. Throwing in his uncle’s name always added clout.
Taynton gazed at him without a flicker. “Welcome to the Green Man, Mr. Greatorex.”
“I trust my wolfhound is welcome too?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir,” Taynton replied, although Bran had begun to growl deep in his throat, and Theo was obliged to put a warning hand on his collar. The wolfhound clearly did not like the landlord at all.
