From Across the Ancient Waters

by Michael Phillips

  His uncle had taken out his riding whip and was shouting and wielding it freely. In the contest of wills between man and enraged beast, however, the whip was not a wise instrument of mediation.

  Suddenly Demon reared again and rose nearly erect. He was clearly trying to unseat his rider. His front hooves pawed violently at the air. The viscount only barely held to the saddle.

  Demon crashed down on his forelegs, jumping and bucking wildly. Then without warning he broke into another furious gallop. Percy had still not reached them when the two receded again into the distance.

  At the bottom of the valley between the two ridges flowed a small river, hardly worthy of the name but of more size than a mere stream. It wound through a rocky channel of uneven terrain strewn with rocks of many sizes and some large boulders. It was a much different course than that of the stream through Gwyneth’s special meadow. It was no place for a wild horse.

  But there was no stopping Demon now. Some four hundred yards ahead, he reached the water and launched himself into the air.

  Percy heard a great cry. A moment later he saw the black stallion flying up the hill on the opposite side of the river.

  No rider was in the saddle.

  He shouted to Red Rhud and hurried toward the scene. Gradually he slowed as the footing became treacherous. Reaching the stream, Percy reined in, jumped to the ground, and sloshed through the water.

  He found his uncle lying motionless on the far side.

  He ran to him and knelt down. A nasty gash was visible on the top of his head where he had crashed into a rock. Wet blood from it flowed into his hair. His hat was yards away. A huge welt rose from his skull.

  “Ah, Percy, my boy,” he said weakly, gasping for breath. “The brute threw me. You were right … a dangerous creature. I was a fool to think—”

  “Just rest easy, Uncle Roderick,” said Percy. “Don’t try to talk. I saw the whole thing. The horse went wild.”

  “I can’t. I’m cold, Percy, my boy.”

  Percy flung his riding jacket from him and laid it over his uncle’s chest. The viscount’s legs from the knees down lay wet in the streambed.

  “I can’t feel my legs, Percy, my boy … don’t think I can ride … if that confounded horse … could ride back together … but I … don’t think I have the strength … to climb up.”

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Roderick,” said Percy. “I’ll ride back to the manor. We’ll bring a cart. You just rest.”

  “Sorry to be a bother … Percy … my boy.”

  “Think nothing of it, Uncle Roderick.”

  Percy saw that he had begun to shiver. He yanked off his shirt and laid it under the jacket. He then splashed back through the water where Red Rhud waited patiently, mounted quickly, and galloped bare-chested in the direction of the manor.

  There was no sign of Demon anywhere.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The Ambulance Cart

  Percy galloped recklessly into the grounds shouting for Stevie and Hollin. By the time they had a small flatbed cart hitched to one of the sturdier horses and Percy had run inside for another shirt and jacket, the commotion had emptied the house with word that their master had had a serious fall.

  “Where is he, Percy?” asked Florilyn as Percy mounted Red Rhud.

  “Where the river runs through the valley, between the ridges on the path we took three days ago, you know, where the ford is so rocky.”

  “What where you doing there?”

  “I’m not sure your uncle intended it. Demon was out of control.”

  “We’ll be right behind you,” said Katherine. She and Florilyn ran to the stables to saddle two more horses.

  Seconds later Percy was flying eastward away from the manor. Stevie knew the place exactly from Percy’s description. He and Hollin followed with the cart.

  By the time Katherine and Florilyn arrived, Percy was seated beside the viscount. There was little he could do. His uncle was barely conscious.

  The cart was only ten minutes behind, bumping down the rocks. They pulled it through the water then set about lifting the viscount onto it.

  “Gently, gently!” exhorted Stevie. “Hollin, you and Percy lift by each shoulder. Lady Katherine and Lady Florilyn, you lift at his waist. I fear his right leg is broken. We must keep him flat.”

  Katherine’s face had gone as pale as her husband’s when she saw him lying broken among the rocks. “Will he … What do you think, Steven?” she asked.

  “I cannot say, Lady Katherine,” replied Stevie. “His head has been injured. We must get him to Dr. Rotherham with all the haste we dare.”

  The others stood by to follow Stevie’s orders. None questioned his taking charge.

  Katherine hesitated then knelt close to the viscount’s face. It was ghostly white. “Oh, Roderick … Roderick,” she said softly. “Be brave … be strong. We will get you home.” She bent forward and kissed him.

  His lips quivered and his eyelids fluttered. But he was unable to speak.

  “Oh, dear Roderick—”

  “Please, Lady Katherine,” urged Stevie. “We must delay no longer.”

  She stood.

  “Place your hands under his waist, Lady Katherine,” said Stevie, “just as Lady Florilyn is doing.”

  How much help she could provide in her condition was doubtful.

  When he was in position beside the viscount’s legs, Stevie nodded to the other two men. “All right, then,” he said, “everyone lift … slowly, gently … “

  He was not so heavy for five of them. But being dead weight and limp as a wet rag, he made an exceedingly awkward burden. A groan sounded from the viscount’s mouth as they lifted him. They managed to get him high enough to lie on the blankets and pillows they had gathered to cushion the bed of the cart.

  Even under the best of conditions, without a road, it would not be a comfortable ride. They had to bump their way over open fields, up and down the ridge, through woodland and across several streams. It took considerably longer than Stevie would have liked. But he chose to err on the side of caution and not add to the viscount’s injuries.

  Meanwhile, Katherine and Florilyn rode ahead. Florilyn galloped straight to town. Luckily she found Dr. Rotherham at home.

  Katherine went on to the manor to prepare a sickroom on the ground floor. By the time the ambulance cart bearing her husband arrived, she had recovered from her initial shock and was again the strong matron of her home.

  A bed was ready and a blazing fire roared in the hearth. Dry clothes were waiting. The entire staff was gathered at Katherine’s side, anxious and ready to obey the slightest command. Florilyn and Dr. Rotherham had arrived only minutes before the cart clattered into the entryway.

  Everyone ran outside. They looked on as Dr. Rotherham now took charge. With the men, he helped get the viscount, completely unconscious, inside and to bed. After giving what instructions were necessary, Dr. Rotherham left the manor to return to his surgery for the required supplies and tools to set the leg.

  The bedside vigil began.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  At the Bedside

  In spite of his distant manner, the viscount was loved by his staff. His tenderness toward Katherine of late had had its effect on his overall demeanor.

  The increase of smiles and kind words had spread among the rest of them as well. He grew appreciative of little things. He became free in expressing his gratitude, even plucked an occasional rose from the garden for Mrs. Drynwydd or Mrs. Llewellyn. This caused the two women to blush and babble a good deal but warmed their hearts more than the viscount ever knew. The accident, therefore, cast a cloud of gloom over the house.

  Word quickly spread through Llanfryniog. The pall of hushed voices and tiptoed step extended throughout the whole village. On the following Sunday, prayers in all three churches were heavy of heart on the viscount’s behalf.

  All that day Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd’s hammer was silent. The blacksmith would never have called the thoughts rising from his min
d prayers. But God’s heart is more open-minded than man’s. He received the good man’s compassion for the viscount and his family into His eternal bosom, nonetheless that the man denied His existence. God is the Father of Christians and atheists alike, though only the former get the full benefit of that Fatherhood by acknowledging their childness. But Gwarthegydd was concerned, and in his own way his unacknowledged Father in heaven received that concern on the viscount’s behalf.

  Dr. Rotherham set the leg but doubted, even if the patient recovered, whether it would ever be much use again. He was far more worried about the injury to the head and neck. The extremeties continued cold, the broken leg like a chunk of ice. He knew what dreadful danger that fact portended. There was little to be done but wait and see how rapidly and how far recovery spread through the viscount’s body.

  Courtenay, who had been away a few days, returned and was civil and courteous to all. He seemed genuinely shaken by the turn of events. He was horseman enough to know how dangerous a fall such as his father had taken could be. He was also perceptive enough to read on the doctor’s face what he was not saying. Courtenay still knew nothing about how matters stood between Percy and his sister.

  Eventually the murderer Demon wandered back to the manor. Hunger had somewhat quieted him, and Stevie was able to secure and return him to the stables. He immediately sought Katherine with his recommendation that the beast either be sold or put down. “You can never reform a bad-tempered horse,” said Stevie. “If you are in agreement, with your permission, I would like to talk to Padrig Gwlwlwyd to see if he might have use for him. If he does, how much would you want for him, Lady Katherine?”

  “If he wants him, Steven,” she replied, “he may have him. I want nothing for him. I don’t want a dangerous animal like that on my conscience. I would give him to Mr. Gwlwlwyd only on the condition that he never put the animal into the hands of one whom he might harm.”

  “A wise stipulation, Lady Katherine,” Stevie nodded. “If Padrig does not think he can be reformed, I will put him down.”

  “Thank you, Steven.”

  Hearing of his mother’s decision, Courtenay was furious. His anger stemmed not so much from the fact that the horse would be lost to him but that his mother had consulted Stevie Muir instead of him.

  Hours went by and turned into days. Though the viscount did not regain consciousness, he was never alone. Someone sat at the bedside around the clock. Dr. Rotherham came every morning to see if there had been a change.

  When the viscount awoke on the sixth day, Courtenay rode immediately for Llanfryniog and returned with the doctor. Great was the rejoicing of the entire community.

  Though he kept his concerns to himself, Dr. Rotherham knew the joyous mood to be premature. Though the viscount appeared to have some of his strength back, circulation remained poor. The extremities were not warming as they should. The left leg was as numb to a poke of the needle as the right.

  To Courtenay’s great annoyance, as often as he was awake, his father seemed more to desire Percy near him than his own flesh and blood. In truth, the sickroom made Courtenay uncomfortable, and he was only too happy to yield his place. Nor did he feel any great filial affection toward his father. But the idea that Percy was so close to him rekindled his former antagonism toward his cousin.

  At last Dr. Rotherham’s professional ethics demanded that he tell someone what he feared. He shrank from making a full revelation to Lady Snowdon for fear of an emotional reaction that would ripple through the house and do no one any good. To tell the children and not the wife would hardly do. In the end, he realized he had no alternative but to speak to the viscount himself.

  He went into the sick chamber, requested of Lady Florilyn that he be left alone for a few minutes with the patient, closed the door behind her, and then sat down in the chair beside the bed.

  “Come to deliver the bad news in person, eh, doctor?” said the viscount, attempting with humor to mask his concern. He had seen the look on Rotherham’s face the moment he entered.

  “You are not so far wrong, Lord Snowdon,” replied the doctor. “I would be remiss not to disclose the nature of your injuries to someone. I hesitate to speak frankly with your wife. I am here to ask your will in the matter. Would you like your wife and son and daughter present?”

  “Present for what?”

  “For what I have to say.”

  “No, confound you,” snapped the viscount, fear overpowering courtesy. “Just say it.”

  “You are certain you wouldn’t like your family—”

  “No, blast you—get on with it!”

  The doctor sat patiently until the viscount calmed.

  “Your leg is not recovering as I had hoped,” said Rotherham after a few moments.

  “Nonsense. I feel fine. Merely a little faintness.”

  “Your right leg is broken below the knee,” Rotherham went on, ignoring the viscount’s protestations. “The injury to both knee and leg are so severe it is unlikely you will walk normally again. Though I cannot be absolutely certain at this point, it may be that amputation will be necessary to save your life.”

  At the word, the viscount turned his face to the wall. The positive horror of the thought filled him with such dread that he was trembling like a child.

  “I am yet more concerned about the injury to your head and neck, Lord Snowdon,” Dr. Rotherham went on. “Your left leg, though to all appearances sound, does not respond to stimulation. I fear paralysis.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “I fear not, my lord.”

  “Am I dying, then?”

  “Absent a miracle from on high, sir, I fear … “

  “Confounded doctors—can’t give a man a straight answer,” growled the viscount. “Blackguards, all of you! I’m dying—why can’t you just say it? I’m man enough to take it. No one lives forever.”

  Again Dr. Rotherham waited. “What would you like me to do, my lord?” he asked at length.

  “About what?” said the viscount testily.

  “Your leg.”

  “Pooh—don’t think I am going to give you leave to saw the thing off!” said the viscount, trembling again at the thought. “Where’s the use if it’s not going to save me? Let my head recover, and we’ll talk about it then.”

  “By then it may be too late.”

  “Then it will be too late and the consequences will be mine!” cried the viscount.

  “Would you like me to discuss the matter with your wife?” asked the doctor calmly.

  “Good heavens, no! The poor woman would wither and go to pieces at the very idea.” The viscount paused and grew serious. “There is one thing you can do for me, doctor,” he said at length.

  “Anything, my lord.”

  “Is there anyone you can trust, who can hold his tongue? If you could get a message to Porthmadog, a telegram or send someone to fetch my solicitor here—Murray is his name.”

  “I know the man. Yes, I could arrange it.”

  “Good. I would appreciate it. Thank you, doctor.”

  Dr. Rotherham left the room.

  Florilyn returned. “Is everything all right, Daddy?” she said.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Everything’s fine.”

  She knew from his tone that he was lying. But she did not press it.

  Her father closed his eyes and pretended to doze. Suddenly there was little time to put right what he had neglected for too many years. He had tried to make some amends a few months ago. Now suddenly the past returned upon him with renewed pangs of guilt.

  But what could he do? How could it be managed? Whom could he trust?

  He had tried to keep from hurting Katherine. Now he wondered if he had done the right thing. So long lethargic and drowsy, his conscience was coming awake. And it stung him.

  Mr. Murray arrived the following afternoon. He presented himself and asked to see viscount Lord Snowdon.

  Broakes vaguely recognized the man but asked whom should he say was calling
.

  “Lord Snowdon’s solicitor, Hamilton Murray,” the man replied.

  It did not take long thereafter for word to circulate through the house, supplied with minor emendations by Broakes, that the viscount was closeted with his solicitor for the purpose of changing his will.

  When the rumor reached Lady Katherine’s ears not many minutes later, she put an immediate stop to it. “Don’t be absurd, Mrs. Drynwydd,” she said, walking into the kitchen and overhearing what had not been intended for her ears. “The disposition of the estate and Westbrooke Manor is decreed by the terms of the original grant of land centuries ago. The title goes with the manor to the eldest child. My husband could not change those terms if he wanted to. I can tell you of a certainty that he is not writing a new will.”

  Despite her strong words, Katherine left the kitchen shaken. She paused in the corridor, light-headed, and took two or three deep breaths to steady herself. She then hurried directly to the sick chamber. She found her husband and Mr. Murray alone.

  “Ah, Katherine,” said the viscount weakly, “you remember Mr. Murray?”

  “Yes … of course.”

  “Hello again, Lady Snowdon,” said the solicitor, extending his hand.

  Katherine shook it but went straight to the bedside. “What is this all about, Roderick?” she asked.

  “A mere formality, my dear,” he answered. “It is only a precaution. I am having Mr. Murray draw up a document—just in case—naming you trustee of the estate until Courtenay is twenty-five. You remember the terms—he will not inherit until his twenty-fifth birthday. But should I … that is, in the unlikely event … that is, should something happen before that time … it is one of the ambiguities of the terms of the inheritance. I never bothered with it before now. But I want you protected … just in case.”

  “I see. Of course. That makes perfect sense. Well then,” she said, turning to go, “I will … uh, leave the two of you—”

  “No, please stay, Katherine,” said the viscount. “This concerns you as well as me. I simply did not want to upset you. As long as you are here … please stay.”