by Guy Thorne
Chapter 8
Violet took two steps forward. Then she stood still. She rested one hand on the side of the great Druid stone and stared in front of her.
There was no illusion. The last rich, chords of the harp ceased. The figure of a man in black -- immensely tall it seemed -- was flanked by two huge animals, like lions guarding the throne of a king.
"Where am I?" Violet tried to say, and was surprised to hear that her voice was a croaking whisper.
The immense black figure did not answer, but an arm went out in a commanding gesture, and she saw an arm beckoning.
All willpower seemed to have left her. She felt as if she was being drawn to the centre of the Druid circle by strong steel cables. She hesitated for a moment. She clutched the damp, rough granite of the monolith, but the cords drew her onwards. She stepped out on the short green turf. She was now within the circle of great stones.
In a second she knew she had gone too far. The grey mist receded until it made a wall, into which the stark Druid altars seemed inlaid. A sharp pang of agony went through her. She tried to turn and flee from this magic round, but she knew it was useless.
Then she saw the place where she stood begin to brighten with a pale yellow radiance -- a sort of fallen sunlight, as if the king of day was piercing through the clouds and sending a pallid shaft of light to this unhallowed spot.
She saw everything quite distinctly. The two tawny-coloured dogs, as big as mountain donkeys, which she had thought were carved things of granite, gambolled towards her. One of them put its great head upon her shoulder and bayed aloud with a deep musical note. The other frisked around her. It was horrible, as these immense and ghastly creatures fawned and slobbered upon her in welcome.
The tall man in the black cloak came down the little mound towards her. She saw his face. He was the man she had watched through the palm court of the Midland Hotel in Manchester with Peter Fanshawe.
He came up to her with welcoming hands outstretched. The ravaged, beautiful countenance looked down upon her from his height with a fierce welcome. The black eyes blazed. The cameo-cut lips were parted. He was as beautiful as a fallen angel.
"Ah!" he said, and his voice was sweeter than a band of violins played by the masters of the world. "So my lady has come at last!"
Violet stared at him, trembling.
He passed one strong white hand over his forehead and eyes. "I knew," he said, as though to himself in a voice of awed surprise. "I believed that I could call my mate out of the air!"
Violet crouched upon the damp ash of her alpenstock until it seemed that the very wood would break. "Lord Llandrylas," she said, "I have lost my way upon the moor. Show me the way home, please."
Still his head was a little bent, and he spoke to himself as a man in a dream. "It was all ordained," he murmured, and his voice was like the sound of wind over harp strings. "Oh, I was wrong to have doubted. Spirit of the Mistletoe and Oak, forgive me! Mialgenn, hear my prayer of thanks."
The man's arms were lifted high above his head, and his face was raised until the last faint yellow light of the afternoon touched it with a fantastic glory.
"Lord Llandrylas, let me go home." The cry was sharp and staccato and throbbed with terror. Terror had come to the girl at last.
"Come," was all he said in answer, and once again he beckoned and she had to follow. He turned his back upon her and leapt up to the top of the green mound where Violet saw an immense slab of granite making a platform. He flung the black cloak from his shoulders. He bent forward and kissed the strings of the great harp. He sat upon the Druid stone and pulled the instrument towards him. A deep, soul-searching throb of the plucked strings sent Violet crouching like a flower.
"Listen!" he cried "You know me for what I am. I am Carradoc David Llewellyn Pantydwr, Lord of Llandrylas, Prince of North Cwmry and the Marches. I am he who has long awaited your coming. Moel and Ynad, Llandrylas and Llangarth, are awaking from their sleep. The king is here, the queen comes! Listen!"
The two great dogs crouched on either side of Violet. Hardly knowing what she did, she put her arms round them -- they were warm and living at least. One of them turned and looked up in her face. The broad head, the black muzzle and the powerful jaw would have terrified her at an ordinary moment. She had never seen a dog like this -- few people ever had. But the great red tongue lolled out in friendship and there was a look of love in the black eyes.
"Listen! This is the song of waiting."
"They say he is the greatest harpist in Wales." These words of Gerald's came back to Violet now. The proud head was bowed, the long arms flashed backwards and forwards over the strings, and once again the wild, barbaric wail which she had heard as she approached the Druid circle filled all the air with pain and longing.
She was hypnotized, fascinated as a snake is by some Eastern flute player. She felt as if she was rooted to the spot, incapable of movement or flight. And yet, curiously enough, one side of her brain -- the active, business side, so to speak -- was working rapidly.
"The man must be mad," she thought; "but if so, it is a madness unlike any other I have seen or heard about. He lives in a strange, fantasy world of his own, a world where he is king and supreme. I have strayed into it by chance."
She began to busy herself with plans. Could she possibly turn this strange meeting to advantage? How could she use it to further the campaign? Surely there must be some possibility in it, though at the moment she was at a loss to know what it was.
A shout -- a great tenor call, rather -- clear and musical as a bell, brought back her thoughts to the present. "The waiting is over! Through the mountain clouds the queen is coming!
The music suddenly sank to a muffled throb pregnant with meaning, the very spirit of approach. It was indeed as though someone was drawing near with soft footsteps over the heather, and Violet knew that it was herself that came. And now, instant by instant, the footsteps were merged in the beginnings of a stately march. The sound gathered volume every second -- it was marvellous what a fury of melody was torn from the great instrument. In a few seconds it seemed that a whole diabolic orchestra was at work. There was the crash of the Druid cymbals, the drone of choric song, and then, coming into the grand harmonic melody, rose the first shouts of ecstasy, as if the wild priests of the mountains were at their altars once again and cutting themselves with knives, like the priests of Baal.
The great dogs rose and quivered. A low growl escaped from one of them and its hackles rose. The music had become terrible. The figure of the musician seemed to grow larger. To the eyes of the terrified girl his form seemed clothed in gloomy shades, out of the darkness of which his music shrieked with evil triumph. Utterly unnerved as she was, she almost thought she saw a tall black figure standing behind him, and that long arms stretched over his shoulders and mingled with his own, plucking madly at the harp strings. She thought she heard a bleating, goat-like laugh -- a hideous obbligato amid the rush of agonizing sound. Then the ground seemed rushing upwards, the mist falling like sheets of grey snow, and everything faded away.
She came to herself with a sound of rushing waters in her ears like the receding tide. For how long she had swooned she did not know, but as she opened her eyes she felt an arm around her and saw the face of the harpist looking into her own.
All the wildness and fury had gone. The beautiful dark eyes glowed with tenderness. The pure, proud lips were half parted in a smile. There was an extraordinary, wistful gentleness upon the face, and yet it was royal too.
"Ah, you are better. You were overcome by my music. I can only play like that when I am alone in the sacred places. Then the spirit of the past descends upon me and the blood of my ancestors speaks."
Violet murmured something and strove to rise. He assisted her to a sitting posture.
"In a minute you will be better -- so!"
With the word he placed one long white hand upon her forehead for a moment. It seemed to burn like fire, and then she realized it was icy cold. Some
strange, magnetic force proceeded from it, for she felt the mists go from her brain, the cramp and inertness from her limbs, and warmth suffuse her body in a flood.
Then she stood up.
"Thank you very much, Lord Llandrylas," she said steadily. "As I told you, I lost my way. I am staying at Pwylog with my mother at the hotel. Perhaps you will put me on the right way home."
He did not speak for a moment or two. He regarded her with a curious, steadfast gaze.
"Go?" he said at length, and in a slightly puzzled voice like a child. "Go away?
"Yes; it must be very late in the afternoon. I must get back at once."
"But you are in my kingdom," he said. "I cannot let you go. You are mine now."
Violet felt as if she moved through a scene of some fantastic dream. The man said these extraordinary words in a tone that was almost matter of fact. He made a statement -- that was all. It was as though some Eastern despot whose will was utterly supreme had spoken, and a great rush of anger came over her. She stamped her foot upon the ground.
"How dare you say such a thing to me, sir?" she cried. "You must be mad to talk like that in the twentieth century, and within three miles of an English town."
He looked at her darkly and then he smiled. "She does not know," he said quietly to himself.
He snapped his fingers. Immediately the great dog that had growled leapt at him and put its paws upon his shoulders. He stooped and seemed to whisper something in its ear, and in a moment it had bounded away into the mist and had disappeared.
Violet gripped her alpenstock. "Let me pass, if you please, Lord Llandrylas," she said.
He made no sign of having heard her, but stared in sombre meditation, as if his thoughts were far away from the present. Then she turned and walked away.
He did not pursue her or make the slightest movement, but she had not gone more than ten yards from the Druid circle when she saw figures of men barring her path on every side. Perhaps the mist distorted them and made them seem more than they really were, but she could have sworn to a regiment. They were tall men, all clean shaven and all curiously alike. Their faces were singularly impassive and wooden, and they were dressed in a sort of dark green uniform, such as huntsmen wear when the monarchs of Continental countries attend the chase.
With a terrible pang of fear at her heart she turned to call to Lord Llandrylas, but he had disappeared. One of the men stepped up to her, bowed low and touched her upon the arm. In an instant a second man was at her side. They pointed before them without speaking and she knew she must go with them. Resistance was impossible and out of the question. At that moment of crisis her good sense did not entirely desert her. Of what use would it have been to fight and struggle with these gloomy sentinels? she asked herself. None whatever. The thing could only end in one way.
"I will go with you," she said quietly, though the fear and indignation in her voice was manifest enough. "But remember this: at your master's bidding you are committing an assault that will have the very gravest consequences if there is any law in Britain."
Once more the man who appeared to be in charge, bowed. It seemed as though he had seen her speaking but had not understood her words. Then she began to walk over the heather towards the unknown, on and on through the clinging, wetting mist. The sun by now had long disappeared, the light turned into grey, and the girl's heart began to sink like falling lead.
Then, as she stumbled along with her sinister guards, struggling to keep down the rising tears, she heard a great fanfare of trumpets. The heart-searching call snarled and echoed, and in a moment the gloom was pierced by innumerable red lights. Torch bearers came running towards Violet and her guards.
She saw a great lane of crimson light extend itself on either side, and still the trumpets pealed and snarled and called, until their exultant voices rang backwards and forwards from one great tower to another.
She put her hands before her face. The whole visible world seemed reeling away into fantasy. Then as she looked up again she saw a low carriage of black and silver. A tall footman in a long yellow coat look her by the arm and assisted her into the carriage.
The man then ran round and mounted on the box by the side of the coachman. There was a crack of the whip and the two horses plunged forward.
It seemed that the whole moorland was alight. The orange and blood-red flames of the torches were tossed up and down in a great avenue of mysterious light. The snarling of the trumpets died down.
The carriage was galloping over a turf road. It swayed upon its perfect springs. There was a horrible purpose and design in all this wizard pageantry.
Violet was clutching the edge of the padded seat on which she sat. Her eyes were stretched wide open, her consciousness was like a battlefield on which all was obscure. But her heart called and called unceasingly to Gerald: "The brute has got me! The dreadful man has got me! Oh, Gerald! Gerald!"
The hoofs of the galloping horses made a sharp metallic sound now as they beat upon a road of stone or concrete. The powerful animals plunged forward, and Violet saw something like an immense precipice of rock rise up in front. Here the mist had gone, but the dusk of evening had taken its place. As she stared above she saw two vast towers etched black against the grey and fading sky. There was a hollow thunder as the carriage galloped over the drawbridge of Castle Ynad and a sudden darkness as it rushed beneath the vaulted gate tower. Then grooms came running from every quarter of a great quadrangle, surrounded by massive buildings, glowing with orange light in the tall Gothic windows.
Somewhere high above, perhaps in the great central tower of the keep, a mighty bell began to toll. Boom! Boom! Boom!
She alighted from the carriage like a person in a trance. A man in black clothes came to her and bowed, saying something she hardly heard. She followed him, however, through a low postern door set in the angle made by a circular tower and the wall of the massive central pile.
Violet could never at any time remember the full details of her progress through gloomy passages and up winding stone stairways worn by the feet of centuries. On this landing or on that doors seemed to open, faces peered. There were liveried servants everywhere. It was as though she were walking through a palace of a king hundreds of years ago, a palace where a great court held royal state.
At last in a narrow corridor she came to a door. The servant opened it, bowed and invited her to enter. She did so, and it closed behind her.
She found herself in an immense apartment with a roof of vaulted stone. Many electric lights hung from the roof, and the place was as brilliant as at noon. The windows, which seemed to be filled with stained glass, were tall and narrow, high up in the walls and far out of reach. For a space of some ten feet between the windows and the floor the walls were covered with marvellous tapestry, depicting hunting scenes dating from the days of the Black Prince. The knightly figures, the coursing hounds and antlered stags belonged to a period of art which has been lost in our day. In an immense hearth of stone supported by carved heraldic figures a fire of logs was burning. It would have roasted an ox.
The floor was covered with soft rugs and skins. The furniture was of very ancient oak, and the chairs and stools round the fire were piled with silken cushions. At one end of the room was an immense trophy of arms -- spears, swords, javelins and daggers, inlaid with gold and jewels, shining with a wonderful lustre in the bright light.
Violet advanced to the centre of the room. The door by which she had entered was closed. She was still alone. "Whatever happens, I must keep my head," she said hurriedly to herself several times, as if she were addressing someone else. She stared round her and suddenly became aware of all the richness and beauty of this untouched medieval place. "It is a queen's room! "she murmured with a shudder.
Her eyes fell upon the weapons at the farther end of the room. She looked fearfully round her, and then with noiseless footsteps she glided up to the wall. Close to her hand, in a sheath of gold-rimmed leather, was small dagger with a ten-inch blade and
a richly jewelled hilt. Snatching it from its supports, she drew the blade. I was beautifully damascened in gold, and both edges were as sharp as a razor, and the point was needle-fine.
"I have a weapon, at all events," she thought, as with trembling hands she thrust the beautiful, evil-looking thing into the bosom of her dress.
She hurried away from the wall, afraid of being found there and betraying her secret. Going to a cushioned bench by the fire, she sank down upon it with a moan. For the first time she felt utterly helpless and forlorn. The unthinkable, the incredible had happened. She was a prisoner in Castle Ynad, snatched out of the living world by an imperious hand, as if time had suddenly run backwards to the lawless days when a Llandrylas was a veritable king of Wales.
Then she began to laugh -- helpless, hysterical laughter it was. "It is too funny!" she gurgled. "Who would believe that such a thing was possible today? What would Bud Kinsolving say if he knew?"
Her voice rang in the high, vaulted roof above, rang and died away. Then with the precision of an echo -- though it was not that -- she was answered by a harsh cackle of merriment.
She sprang to her feet and turned, her hand moving instinctively to her breast as she did so. Three yards away stood a figure, which seemed to have stepped straight out of the visions of delirium, or some horrible and fantastic dream.
