The Marriage of Gryphons (Penny White Book 3)

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘Not in all those weeds,’ she said primly.

  ‘Well, I just hope and pray that none of my neighbours were looking.’ I wrapped the coat tighter around my shoulders. ‘It’d be hard to explain how I dropped out of thin air.’

  Tyra said something in Welsh which I couldn’t quite translate, but I was certain it wasn’t physically possible for a human. ‘I will be back in two mornings’ time, Father.’ Then she leapt upwards, the downsweep of her wings blasting the hair away from my face. I gritted my teeth and forced my cold legs to carry me to the house.

  The security light flashed on as I fumbled my keys into the lock. The warmth of home wrapped around me as I stepped inside. I shut the door and took a deep breath. Whisky. That’s what I needed. A nice large helping of Talisker to restore some warmth to my bones.

  The kitchen door crashed open, and I jumped. James stood in the hallway, his face a mottle of white and red. I stared at him. ‘Have you been crying?’

  His mouth opened, but no words came out. Then he charged towards me. Before I could react, his arms were squeezing the air from my lungs and my face was pressed against his chest. ‘Don’t you ever let me lose you again!’ he said fiercely. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’

  ‘I didn’t ask for it,’ I said into his sweater. ‘It’s not like Tyra gave me a choice.’ I disentangled myself and stepped back to look at him. ‘Come on, don’t say that you actually missed me.’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Well, you know, my mental pathways have become accustomed to certain input patterns. When the inputs are absent, they are missed.’

  I found myself grinning. ‘James, are you misquoting Data? Since when do you watch Star Trek?’

  ‘Just started recently.’ He shrugged. ‘I was watching the original series last night. The special effects are a bit lame, aren’t they?’

  ‘But the storylines--’

  ‘Also a bit lame. Can Kirk ever meet a woman and not fancy the pants off her?’

  ‘There was one episode about Spock’s love life.’

  ‘The one on Vulcan? Where he and Kirk end up fighting each other, and Bones gave Kirk a drug to make it look like he’d died? I liked that one.’

  I could feel us both relax as our relationship returned to a more normal footing. ‘Anyway, I’m surprised Kirk isn’t your hero. He sounds very much like someone else I know.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the other way round with me and women.’ And James grinned. ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I got home?’

  ‘When I have some Talisker in my hand.’ I brushed past him to the kitchen, and pulled out two glasses. The fur coat was heavy on my shoulders, and I dumped it onto the kitchen table. ‘Okay, how did you get home?’

  ‘I flew.’ James accepted the second glass, but held it out for a bigger helping of amber liquid. ‘No, not on a dragon. When I got back through the thin place, and told Sue what’d happened, she arranged a helicopter to bring me home. We landed near the church.’

  I groaned, wondering how I was going to explain that to the village. Then I warmed my throat with a swallow of whisky. ‘I need to go make phone calls. Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘You can tell him later.’ Morey landed on the table, fur and feathers slick with anger. ‘Right now, she needs to meet my matriarch. Who’s been waiting in the lounge for over an hour.’

  The chair tipped backwards as I hurried to my feet. ‘There’s a gryphon in my lounge?’ I demanded of my brother. ‘And you haven’t said?’

  ‘It slipped my mind.’

  ‘How can a gryphon slip your mind?’ I handed off the glass. ‘Sorry, Morey, I’ll come now.’

  The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door to the front room. Morey’s mixture of fur and feather had always been a pleasant backdrop in the house. But coming from a creature the size of a horse, it was nearly overwhelming. I blinked to clear my eyes and hoped desperately that I wouldn’t start sneezing. ‘Matriarch.’

  The gryphon bent her brown eagle head, bringing her red eyes down to my level. The coffee table had been heaved to one side, freeing space between the two blue settees for her to rest on her tawny haunches. The black tip of her lion’s tail flicked across the thick talons of her yellow legs. ‘So. You are Father Penny. I was expecting you to be taller.’

  ‘And less tardy,’ I said quickly, relieved that she spoke English. ‘My apologies, Matriarch. I was snatched away by a dragon.’

  ‘And why did that happen?’ James asked from the doorway.

  Morey flew past to land on the settee. ‘That’s not important, now. The matriarch has far more urgent things to discuss.’

  ‘Are these the ones you have mentioned?’ the large gryphon asked, her fierce yellow beak following Clyde’s progress as he slid into the room.

  ‘These are my cefnogwyr, yes. Most of them. One human is missing.’

  ‘And this one, the offeiriad, she is your partner?’

  ‘Yes, we work together.’

  ‘Is she your cyfaill mynwesol?’

  Morey glanced at me. ‘Yes.’

  Morey had just called me his best friend. I stared at him. But the matriarch gave me no time to respond. ‘Then I’ll listen to her as she tells me why she was dragon snatched.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Raven’s gone missing.’

  James edged himself into the room. ‘The dragon that saved me from the longhouse?’

  ‘The same. Raven’s burned down his workshop. His family think he’s gone off to die. They want me to try to find him.’

  Morey’s ‘Why?’ was overtaken by James asking, ‘What’s that got to do with you? I mean, gratitude and all that, but why should you go look for him?’

  ‘Boyfriend,’ Clyde sang out.

  Two gryphons cocked their heads at me. ‘But there’s Peter,’ James said. ‘That’s Pen’s boyfriend.’

  I could feel Morey’s glare. ‘It’s complicated,’ I admitted. ‘Raven is not my boyfriend. But I do owe him--we all owe him our lives.’

  ‘Do not mix,’ the large gryphon warned me. ‘That was my grandson’s undoing, marrying a were-fox.’

  Morey turned his head away and said nothing, but his lashing tail spoke volumes.

  ‘I haven’t said I’m going,’ I told them all. ‘I’ve been told that dragons go somewhere cold to die.’

  James paled. ‘What, like Yorkshire?’

  ‘I had the impression it was worse than that.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  The matriarch eyed me. ‘Would this journey be dangerous?’

  ‘Possibly,’ I admitted.

  ‘And this Raven, what is his colour?’

  ‘Green-black.’

  It took me a moment to realise that her high-pitched wheezing was, in fact, laughter. ‘A search dragon. All the better. Trahaearneifion, you disappointed me greatly in your choice of vocation, and your choice of mate. Here’s the chance to prove yourself, in the estimation of your matriarch and your clan. You’ll go with Father Penny to bring back this dragon. And you will employ him in our service. See this as your first challenge.’

  Morey and I tried to protest at the same time. But James’ voice cut across both of us. ‘I don’t want you to go, Pen. But I’d feel better if Morey were with you.’

  ‘I don’t need looking after,’ I snapped at him.

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Then it’s decided,’ the matriarch declared. ‘Now I must return to my nest. Do not disappoint me again, Trahaearneifion.’

  ‘Of course not, grandmother,’ Morey said. ‘How are the eyasses?’

  ‘They’ll be fledging soon.’

  I pressed myself against a wall as the large gryphon made her way past me. Somehow, she managed to squeeze her way through the doorway to the lounge and the one at the front of the house. When I could no longer see her dark body against the moon, I returned to the room.

  James and Morey were having an argument. ‘You’re not in any condition to look after my sister,’ James said, poin
ting at the yellow-red stains on the bandage around Morey’s ear. ‘Did you ever go to a doctor?’

  Eagle claws scraped against the settee. ‘Well, maybe tomorrow, I was planning--’

  ‘That’s it,’ James announced. ‘Time you took your medicine, Morey. Where’s the horn, Sis? Still in your wardrobe?’

  ‘Under a pile of towels,’ I confirmed. And as James walked out of the lounge, I told Morey, ‘Get that ear healed, and you can come with me.’

  ‘You’re only saying that,’ he complained, ‘to make me swallow horn juice.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ I said, ‘I’ve arranged for Raven to go missing just so I can convince you to take proper care of yourself.’

  Morey’s ears flattened in embarrassment. Then he flew off. When I joined him in the kitchen, he was helping himself to some Talisker. I didn’t stop him. If he needed some Dutch courage, so be it. At least if he were healed, that would one less worry on my mind.

  James returned with a bundle of towels. Morey backed away as my brother placed it onto the table and unwound the cloths. ‘Careful, don’t touch the horn,’ I warned.

  ‘I don’t plan to.’ And then there was a shimmer of light as the horn was exposed. James frowned down at the long spiral of ivory. ‘Does the magic wear off after awhile? Since the mare this came from is dead?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know.’ I rummaged in a drawer for a sharp knife. As James held one end of the horn, his hands protected from direct contact by a length of towel, I carefully scraped at the sharp tip. Silver-white flakes twirled down into a bowl which I held underneath. Clyde, who had taken a place on one of the kitchen chairs, watched with interest.

  ‘I have no idea what the dose should be,’ I told Morey as I used a wooden spoon to grind the flakes into a fine powder. ‘If this doesn’t do the trick, I’ll make up some more.’

  ‘Beer, wine, or whisky?’ James asked him.

  ‘Old Speckled Hen,’ Morey grumbled. ‘If I’m going to have to drink this, at least give me a good ale to wash it down with.’

  And now I knew that Morey was intensely nervous. It wasn’t like him to finish a sentence with a preposition. I tipped the powder into a glass, and added the beer. Then I placed it onto the table.

  Morey took a deep breath, and released it. ‘Tell Taryn that I love her.’ And he sank his yellow beak deep into the brown liquid.

  The sound of his swallows filled the otherwise quiet kitchen. Morey slurped the last drops from the bottom of the glass, and raised his head. ‘There. Happy now?’

  A loud burp almost lifted the gryphon from his feet. He shook his head violently, the bandaged ear flapping against his neck. A glow surrounded his body, highlighting the purple in the grey of his feathers and fur. His tail stood erect, the feathered tip trembling.

  That made me blink. Since when had there been feathers on the end of Morey’s tail?

  ‘I think you can remove the bandage now,’ Morey said quietly.

  ‘Is that it?’ James demanded as I obeyed. ‘Clyde did a song and dance for us when he was healed.’

  ‘“I’m healed, oh, hallelujah! By faith in God alone”,’ Morey sang in a baritone. ‘“For I feel the heav’nly virtue, stream o’er me from the throne.” Is that good enough for you?’

  ‘It’s all gone,’ I marvelled as I touched the ear. ‘The wound, even the infection, all gone. Scars are left, though. Looks like the notch will be permanent.’

  James picked up the empty glass. ‘Better than antibiotics?’

  ‘Well, it makes sense,’ I said. ‘Old recipe books listed powdered unicorn horn as an antidote to poison.’

  ‘Let’s hope none of us will ever need that,’ James said. He rolled the horn back into the towels. ‘I guess I’d better hide this away again.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Time I got changed.’

  As we headed up the stairs, James said quietly, ‘I’m not happy about you going off with that dragon again.’

  ‘I’m not either,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t want to let Raven die. I hope I can talk him out of it.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot of practice in talking to suicidal dragons?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’ I cleared my throat. ‘But I would try to stop anyone from killing himself. Whatever the species.’

  ‘Just be careful. And I'm glad Morey’s going with you.’

  I glanced back at my brother. ‘That’s a quick swing on the love/hate pendulum.’

  ‘He can really piss me off,’ James admitted. ‘But he’d scratch the eyes out of any dragon that went after you.’

  I winced at the image. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  <><><><><>

  Unfortunately, the delay in Tyra’s return meant that I still had to chair a Parochial Church Council meeting the next night. I fixed a smile on my face as the people chosen by church members to be their representatives filed into the dining room of Holly’s house. Rosie, the retired priest who helped me out in the parish, was a comforting presence on my right. On my left was the treasurer, whom I had not trusted ever since he had counted up how many Sunday services I covered in a year. Holly glared at me from the other end of the dark table. I glanced around the room, trying to remember how many of those taking their seats were, if not my friends, at least not my enemies. Had Rachel forgiven me for allowing Meryl to come onto the flower rota? Was George still annoyed because I wouldn’t allow him, a still fit and healthy ninety year old, to climb up a ladder to clear out the church gutters?

  I took a deep breath, reminded myself that a nice bottle of Gigondas was waiting for me at home, and then greeted them. ‘Welcome, everyone, to our last PCC meeting before Easter. Rosie, will you open our meeting with prayer?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She bowed her grey head. ‘Loving God, we thank you for the continued privilege of being entrusted with your mission of reconciliation. Help us to be mindful of the sacrifice which your Son made on the cross, and let Christ’s example guide our discussions tonight and always. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ we all echoed.

  The worship pattern for Holy Week and Easter was discussed, and agreement made to Rosie’s idea of letting the Girl Guides sleep in the church on Easter Eve. ‘They’ll do the readings at the dawn service,’ Rosie explained. ‘It’s a good way to engage younger people in our celebrations.’

  ‘Just don’t expect the heating to be put on,’ Holly said with a sniff. ‘We pay £15.00 per hour to heat the church, and the Guides don’t contribute anything to our running costs.’

  ‘This is called “mission”,’ I replied. ‘You can’t measure it in pounds and pence.’

  ‘And will any of them come to church the next Sunday?’ Holly asked. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Traditionally, very few people come to church the Sunday after Easter,’ Rosie pointed out.

  ‘Is that why it’s called “Low Sunday”?’ Rachel asked, looking up from her knitting.

  ‘It’s called that in contrast to Easter, which is a “High” Sunday,’ Rosie answered. ‘People who were baptised on Easter Sunday wore their white robes for a week, and took them off a week later.’

  ‘And as fascinating this bit of history is for us all,’ said Robert, the treasurer, ‘I have another meeting after this. Can we move on to the accounts?’

  Much to my pleasant surprise, the figures looked quite good for the time of year. Costs were higher during the cold months, and the amount people put on the collection plate usually dipped as the Christmas bills dropped through the letter box. I put my finger on one particular line. ‘We seem to have had a large donation. Did someone leave us some money in a will?’

  A quick look passed between Holly and Robert. ‘The donor wishes to remain anonymous,’ he said steadily. ‘But there may be more.’

  ‘So we don’t have to let the Guides freeze in the church,’ Rosie commented. ‘Perhaps we can put some of the donation towards heating?’

  There was general, if unenthusiastic, agreement. The rest of the meeting unfolde
d in a similar tone. I wondered longingly whether PCC meetings in Lloegyr were so dreary. Once again talk about updating the church website was put on hold, probably because most of the members didn’t have computers. There was the usual moan about the lack of children in Sunday services, and then the usual lack of consensus as to why. For once, the blame didn't seem to fall on me.

  We drifted to the next item on the agenda. ‘I’ve received one piece of correspondence,’ I said, shuffling the letter to the top of my pile. ‘A Mrs Sawyers has written to ask for confirmation that she owns the plot next to her husband’s grave. Which, of course, she doesn’t. So I’d like approval from the PCC, before I write back to let her know how to apply for a faculty to reserve the space.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Holly said quickly. ‘I’ll just make a note on the graveyard plan.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I’ve seen other churches get in trouble for informal arrangements. I’ll send her the documentation and let her know about the fee.’

  Holly held up her hand. ‘You’re busy enough, Vicar. I’ll do that.’

  I didn’t need Rosie’s quick glance to know there was something wrong. ‘That’s very kind of you, Holly, but you’ve told me countless times that you have too much on. I’ll write the letter.’

  Robert coughed. ‘I think Mrs Sawyers believes that the plot is already reserved.’

  I frowned. ‘That can’t be. We only buried her husband six months ago. I would’ve remembered a faculty application.’

  ‘She’s already paid a fee,’ Robert continued. ‘So we can’t ask her for another one.’

  I looked around the table. Most of the PCC looked either perplexed, bored, or both. Then my gaze came to Holly. The churchwarden was perched on the edge of her seat, hands gripped so tightly together that her fingers were white. The image of Holly standing in the churchyard, pointing out a gravestone to a well-dressed man, came to me. ‘To whom did she pay the fee?’

  Holly’s eyes slid from my face. Robert was suddenly very busy with his papers. ‘Seems to me,’ Rosie said quietly, ‘that someone is profiting from the recently bereaved.’

  ‘I’m not the one profiting!’ Holly’s head snapped up, her brown eyes narrowed. ‘Someone needs to keep this church going!’