by Sandra Heath
Seeing his reluctance, Paul addressed him again. “Please, my lord, for our Russian weather will not do you any good when you are still unwell, and the czar would be very displeased with me if he discovered I had failed to offer the owner of the Griffin stud the comfort and shelter of my carriage.”
“You seem to know a great deal about me, sir,” Athan replied.
“It is my business to know things,” Paul nodded peremptorily at the Tatar, who stepped swiftly forward, and before Athan knew what was happening, he was being bundled into the carriage.
“There, my lord, we have saved you from the cold,” Paul murmured as the carriage drove on again.
“There was no need, sir, for I am of the opinion that exercise is beneficial.” Athan had no option but to make himself as comfortable as possible on the empty seat opposite.
“Exercise when one is ill? How very British,” Paul answered with a slight laugh. “You know what is said in Russia? That the baths are the people’s first doctor, vodka their second, and raw garlic their third.”
“Indeed?”
Valentin said nothing, but his eyes continued to glitter in a way that made Athan wonder what was going through his head. Not anything wise or humane, that was certain.
“It is good that relations between our two countries are amiable again,” Prince Paul observed.
“Indeed, sir, for there is much need of unity against the French.” Athan felt rather than saw the cold twitch of Valentin’s sensuous lips, and guessed that he disagreed entirely.
Paul continued smoothly, “The czar strongly desires an alliance. He was appalled by the execution of the Duc d’Enghien last year, and by Bonaparte’s coronation as Emperor Napoleon. Both are an affront to the royal houses of Europe. You know, I suppose, that the czar has sent a special emissary to London to discuss a treaty?”
Athan cleared his throat. “Well, there are rumors, of course, but I believe the matter is supposed to be secret.”
“As it happens, my nephew is soon to go to Britain as well,” Paul supplied.
“Really?”
Valentin spoke at last. “I do not look forward to it, for the British have no idea how to heat their houses. They have never heard of stoves, but light foolish fires that heat only the vastness of the heavens.”
“We have a quaint attachment to the open hearth, Prince Valentin,” Athan answered.
Valentin’s dark eyes returned his gaze for a moment, then flickered away, leaving Athan fully aware of his animosity.
Paul’s smile was a study in cultivated charm. “Lord Griffin, I will be honest with you. It is no accident that we have accosted you in this way.”
“I didn’t for a moment think it was,” Athan replied.
“I am given to understand that you own a china works?”
Athan blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A china works, for the making of fine porcelain. Pâte tendre, I believe it is called.”
“Well, I own the land upon which such a china works stands,” Athan corrected, wondering where on earth this could be leading. It was one thing for the czar to have heard about the Griffin stud, for when it came to horse breeding the world was actually rather small, but he couldn’t even begin to guess how word of John Bailey’s small venture had reached the ears of someone like Prince Paul Dalmatsky.
“Mr. John Bailey is the proprietor?” Paul inquired.
“He is.”
Paul smiled coolly. “Mr. Bailey’s skills are renowned, Lord Griffin.”
“They are?”
“Oh, yes. Valentin has been making inquiries and feels that Mr. Bailey is the very best for the task of creating a commemorative soup tureen for the czar.”
Athan tried not to show the utter astonishment he felt. He did not doubt that John could—if exceedingly fortunate—produce one of the finest soup tureens in the world, but with levels of wastage being so very high, it might be some time before he managed to fire one sufficiently well for decorating.
On the other hand, of course, the success of such an imperial order, even for a single tureen, would mean immeasurable fame for the Nantgarth china works. “I ... I’m sure Mr. Bailey will be most interested to hear of it,” he said at last, knowing the words were a masterly understatement. John would dance a joyful jig when he heard the news.
“It is on account of this tureen that Valentin is going to Britain,” Paul went on, “and in this he is hopeful of enlisting your assistance, my lord.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. It occurred to me that perhaps you might offer him the hospitality of your Berkeley Square town house in London, and of Castle Griffin itself?”
Athan’s expression became a little fixed, for he was astonished at the audacity of the request. He was even more astonished when Paul went on, “Our families are connected, after all. Your sister and brother-in-law reside at a very reasonable rent in one of my properties. Mr. Brasier’s fur business flourishes at the moment, so let us hope that it continues to do so.”
There was no open threat in the words, but it was there all the same, and Athan was forced to tread very carefully for Louise and Charles’s sakes. “Then of course Prince Valentin may reside temporarily in my properties.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” Prince Paul murmured, “and as you now feel well enough to leave the house, I can only imagine you will wish to return to Britain as soon as possible in order to oversee the matter of the czar’s horses.”
Athan was beginning to feel that his thoughts had somehow been read.
Paul smiled. “Perhaps you would find it convenient to make the journey with Valentin?”
Athan managed another bland smile. “You are too kind, Prince Paul.”
“Not at all. Ah, here we are, at your sister’s door.”
The carriage swayed to a halt on a waterfront that was lined with trees and fine gray and gold mansions, many occupied by the British. Equally as many were occupied by the Russian nobility, including two grand dukes, for this was one of the most coveted addresses in St. Petersburg. The property rented by Louise and Charles was particularly imposing, with a balustraded roof adorned with statues, finely proportioned windows on four floors, a handsome colonnaded porch, and a blue door with a bronze lion knocker.
Like all houses throughout Russia on this important day of Epiphany, it was being cleaned throughout, with furniture brought outside and many windows opened so they could be polished. It was a custom with which nothing was allowed to interfere.
The Tatar climbed down from the box again and opened the carriage door, and Athan climbed gladly out, trusting that in spite of all that had been agreed, he would somehow manage to evade all future contact with Prince Valentin Andreyev. But as he turned to bow to the occupants of the vehicle, Paul leaned forward a last time.
“My name is not to be mentioned in connection with this business, Lord Griffin, for it is entirely Valentin’s affair, and I do not wish to take any of the credit. I trust you will humor me in this?”
“Of course.”
“You will not bring my name into it at all?”
“If that is your wish.”
Paul gave another thin smile. “The commission for a tureen from Mr. Bailey is a matter of some urgency, because it is required here in St. Petersburg by the day of Saints Peter and Paul—that’s by our calendar, not yours—and I know the delicate and painstaking completion of porcelain will take months. Leaving for Britain is a problem, however, because the Neva is in the full grip of winter and therefore icebound, but the Gulf of Finland is open farther west at Riga, where my private yacht is always in readiness. My nephew leaves for that destination in the morning. My voiturier will call for you at eight.”
Tomorrow? Athan was appalled. “Sir, I don’t think that’s possible. My passport must be—” he began, but Prince Paul interrupted quietly.
“I have already attended to your passport, Lord Griffin. Everything is signed and settled.”
“You seem to be damned sure of me,
” Athan replied, more than a little annoyed by this entire encounter.
“I did not doubt that when it comes to family, you would be a man of reason, Lord Griffin.” Paul smiled again. “The post horses have all been arranged, and the traveling carriage prepared. There is nothing to hamper your departure.”
“Even so—”
Again the polite but firm interruption. “Be sure to bring a firearm with you, for it is wild forested country, and hungry bears and wolves are a danger at this time of the year. A bientôt, milord.”
The Tatar had already returned to the box, and the carriage pulled smartly off, the sledge runners whining over the packed snow. The Dalmatian dogs fell into a loping gait beside it, and the whole striking equipage sped away.
For Louise’s sake Athan would go along with the Russians’ wishes, but he wasn’t a fool, and knew that there was far more to Prince Valentin Andreyev’s visit to Britain than the mere acquisition of a soup tureen from John Bailey’s china works.
Chapter Thirteen
A few days later, in the kinder climate of a Welsh winter, Ellie set off on horseback just after midday to explore the mountainside above Nantgarth. A sidesaddle had been found for her at Castle Griffin as soon as it was known John Bailey’s niece would be coming to live at Nantgarth House. It was a rather old-fashioned saddle, once owned by Athan’s grandmother, but it was more than adequate.
It was January twenty-fifth, which was, so Mrs. Lewis informed her, St. Dwynwen’s Day. Dwynwen—pronounced Dwinn-wen—was a fifth-century princess whose well was to be found on the mountain by the gate of the church that was dedicated to her. She was the patron saint of Welsh lovers, St. Valentine being of little importance to people hereabouts.
Ellie was dressed in a mustard yellow woolen riding habit and brown beaver hat, and mounted on her uncle’s sturdy bay cob, Tomos, whose appearance in Hyde Park would surely have sent the beau monde into a universal attack of the vapors. He was rather old, decidedly shaggy, and of a stubborn turn of mind, but he was generally very comfortable; she was informed that the ascent of Nantgarth mountain would be nothing to him.
She had also been assured that the rain that had fallen so heavily overnight would not return until the evening, enabling her to enjoy a dry ride; however, looking back at the new clouds burgeoning to the southwest over Cardiff Bay, she wasn’t confident that this would be entirely so. But she was prepared to take the chance.
Men were shooting woodcock in the woods as she rode along the valley road to the fork, where she glanced right toward Castle Griffin before turning Tomos up the track the parishioners of Nantgarth had to climb in order to attend worship. Her purpose was to investigate something rather curious about her enemy, Fleur, who rode up to the church almost every day, although never at the time of any service. She left her horse by St. Dwynwen’s well at the churchyard gate and went into the church, where she remained for sometimes as long as two hours.
Ellie had never seen anyone else, just Fleur, whose bright red riding habit and white horse were clearly discernible from Nantgarth House. What on earth did the future Lady Griffin do up there? Ellie couldn’t envisage Fleur diligently reading the Bible, or doing anything else remotely religious, so the mystery had to be investigated.
The track led up through a shallow draw, where a little stream cascaded between clumps of heather and whortleberry. Windblown silver birch trees, naked and slender, hung over the water, their branches rubbing together in the light breeze, as if willing spring to hasten. Oak trees grew there too, but they were as cold and barren in January as the rest of the draw, which in warmer months would be filled with bluebells and foxgloves.
There would be forget-me-nots and ferns along the fringes of the stream, and smooth green sheep paths would wend between islands of cool green bracken. The mountain air was bracing yet sweet, and overhead, white clouds raced across the blue sky, chasing the most recent shower and bringing the next one hard upon their heels.
The clouds were advancing more swiftly than anticipated, but by now Ellie was halfway between Nantgarth House and the church, and too intrigued by Fleur’s odd activities to want to turn back. She ought to be able to reach the church before any rain began to fall, and with luck would be able to wait safely inside and then return between downpours.
Well, that was the theory of it; the practice would no doubt be far less convenient. Reaching the top of the draw, she managed to persuade Tomos into a grudging canter as the track traversed the undulating breast of the mountain.
From up there the view was magnificent, allowing her to see the market town of Pontypridd, four miles to the north, and as far as Cardiff to the south. She was also able to see how coal mining and other industries were beginning to change the landscape. The Taff followed its rocky course through the valley, while the smooth silver ribbon of the canal snaked along the eastern flank. Far below, looking almost snug amid the evergreen trees, were Nantgarth House and the china works.
The elevation also permitted a much better view of Castle Griffin. Now she could see that the gardens were a succession of terraces and lawns that seemed to tumble down clearings on the thickly wooded slopes. She saw fountains and flower beds, summerhouses and dovecotes, symbols of the gracious living the centuries had imposed upon the once grim feudal stronghold.
Beyond the castle, on the slopes overlooking the Taff valley, she could just make out the stables and pastures of the Griffin stud. It was easy to see why the Normans had chosen such a spot for a castle, because it completely commanded the narrow pass below. No one could go by undetected, and certainly an enemy army would be completely at the castle’s mercy.
Ellie rode on. She hadn’t met anyone since leaving the house, so it came as a shock to ride over a small brow and be confronted by not only the church and churchyard, but also by someone with two white horses, a mare and a colt, at the well by the gate. For an awful moment she feared an encounter with Fleur, but was then relieved to realize it was only Gwilym.
He was trying to coax his charges toward the little square, stone-edged pool that was St. Dwynwen’s well, and where, oddly, Ellie noticed a white handkerchief had been spread on the water. An ancient thorn bush grew nearby, its crooked branches covered with little knots of cloth that suggested something more pagan than Christian.
Gwilym turned quickly the moment he heard Tomos’s hooves. “Good afternoon to you, Miss Ellie.”
“Good afternoon, Gwilym. What are you doing?” she asked, maneuvering Tomos closer.
“The mare is barren, Miss Ellie, and the colt needs to be as strong and healthy as it is possible to be, so I have come to ask St. Dwynwen for her help.”
“But isn’t she the patron saint of Welsh lovers?”
Gwilym smiled. “And of friendship and animals. That is her symbol.” He pointed at an exposed rock that had been incorporated into the churchyard wall, and upon which was carved what seemed to be a crescent moon.
“Will you mind if I watch?” Ellie asked.
He shook his head. “Watch if you wish, Miss Ellie, for it will make no difference to me, but first I must wait to see if St. Dwynwen will grant my request.” He turned toward the spring, where the handkerchief floated motionless.
The mountain air seemed suddenly still, and Ellie held her breath. She could hear her own heartbeats, and—she thought—those of the horses too. Suddenly the handkerchief moved, as if something in the water had twitched it. Ellie gasped. “What was that?”
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Ellie, for it is an eel.”
Her eyes became larger. “An eel! All the way up here? But—”
“It is no ordinary eel, but a sacred fish, and it has given me a sign that St. Dwynwen has heard me. The eel appears when she is lending her help. Today she shows me that she is giving her blessing to the mare.”
Ellie’s gaze was still upon the handkerchief, which twitched again. Then she heard the splash of water, and the handkerchief heaved as the eel—if that indeed was what it was—surged up in order
to plunge down again. Then the spring became still once more. “Has ... has it gone?” she asked.
Gwilym nodded. “Back into the heart of the mountain.” He bent to retrieve the handkerchief, with which he then wiped the mare’s belly. Then he squeezed the water out and limped over to the thorn tree to tie the handkerchief among the other cloths. Coming back, he paused to look at her for a moment. “There is something in the church for you to find,” he said suddenly.
“Find? What do you mean?”
He spread his hands. “I don’t know. The knowledge comes to me, but I do not always understand it. In the church, hidden, is something your eyes should see.”
Then he seemed to forget all about that and returned to the horses, taking their bridles and drawing their heads toward his. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and he seemed to rock slightly as he began to make soft sounds to them, sometimes whispering, sometimes clicking his tongue; then he breathed into their nostrils, as if imparting his own spirit.
Ellie was transfixed. The magic of ages seemed to swirl around the mountainside, bringing echoes from ancient times, when druids and wizards had walked this land. Gwilym Lewis was part of that Wales of long ago, the Wales of St. Dwynwen, the Mari Llwyd, and Merlin. The mare nuzzled his face and brushed against him, so willing to do his bidding that when he stepped aside and pointed at the well, she went to the water and drank.
Ellie was so rapt in what was happening that Gwilym’s sudden light laugh gave her a start. “There now, they will be fine and healthy from now on. The colt will become a fine stallion and sire many foals, and the mare will be a dam many times over.”
“You can be so sure of that?”
The question surprised him. “But of course, Miss Ellie, there is no doubt. They will be all that is required when they start their new life in the emperor of Russia’s stables.”
“They are going to the czar?” Ellie remembered what her uncle had said.
