‘Don’t tease, Gwen,’ Rafael warned gently. There was real affection between them, Ari realised. A lifelong friendship. They had been childhood sweethearts, or at least that was what Laure had implied. She seemed to think Gwen was just waiting for Rafael to come back to her. That was the impression Ari had got at dinner the other night.
Gwen batted her long pale lashes at him. ‘I’m not teasing. I’m interested. Please go on.’
She looked genuine. But maybe she was a really good actress.
Ari glanced at Rafael, but he just nodded, encouraging her to continue.
‘What was the name of Sainte Sirène before it was Sainte Sirène? The Breton name, I mean.’
‘The Breton name? Sant Sieren?’
‘But that’s just a direct translation from the French, isn’t it?’ Rafael said. ‘There was an older name. I thought it would be in our library, but I couldn’t find it.’
‘You didn’t think to ask Mémé? Dear me, Rafael, you’re slipping.’
‘She was sleeping and I didn’t… Look, it doesn’t matter. Not now. You’re here. You’ve got to know, Gwen.’
‘Let me see.’
She paused as their food arrived and Ari found herself presented with a savoury buckwheat pancake stuffed with scallops, leek and cream. She tucked in, relishing every bite, waiting for Gwen to answer.
‘There was a name, but I don’t think it’s been used in hundreds of years. Ker-Gwagenn. The home of the wave. Sometimes they called it Ker-ar-Groac’h, after the water witch who lived in the caves. Many of our names come from legend. The French changed them. It was a way of stamping out the language and the culture, but it never really worked. And, of course, our mermaid legends lent into the new name. There was no real saint called Sirène. She never existed. The stained glass in the chapel and the sculptures depict someone else.’
‘Dahut of Ys?’
Gwen gave a brief, dismissive laugh. ‘Perhaps. If such a person ever existed either. More likely, it’s just another Madonna. Poor Dahut. She is so very maligned in all our legends, but really she was just looking for true love. Everyone else let her down. She could have been a wonderful ruler for all we know, but the Christians blamed her for everything. Like Eve.’
‘She didn’t open the gates and destroy the city?’
‘Her last lover did. He betrayed her.’
‘He had good reason,’ said Rafael, putting down his cutlery with an uncharacteristic clatter. ‘Her city was feeding like a parasite off the surrounding population. She was a despot, a monster. And her father, the supposed king, did nothing to control her. Besides, she had a habit of murdering the men she slept with.’
‘The men who lied to her,’ Gwen corrected him gently. ‘Perhaps they forfeited their lives by doing that. They craved only her power. And she was powerful.’
‘Power corrupts,’ said Rafael.
Gwen reached out to tuck a stray lock of his dark hair behind his ear, so simple and intimate a gesture. ‘The du Lac version of events. We’ve all heard them before, Mac’htiern.’
Ari felt like an interloper, a voyeur. They had that easy familiarity of old lovers and for a moment Rafael wore a dazed expression. He’d been looking at her the same way not so very long ago. Well, maybe not the same, not quite. The fire she’d seen in him wasn’t there, the pain and passion that had rattled her so much and left her insisting they come here instead. To Gwen.
She’d known Simon, spoke about him with affection. Had he reacted to her in the same way? Ari’s heart almost stopped. But Gwen went on speaking.
‘Scandalous rumours, put about by the man who betrayed her. Her mother was an enchantress, a fey woman. Their ways are not the same as mankind’s. She inherited Morvan’s power, and ruling was her right. Her father had no say in the matter. Even Ankou bowed before her, the Servant of Death himself. Men always think they know best, but seldom do. Every Breton woman knows that.’
‘Not just everyBretonwoman,’ Ari muttered and caught Rafael’s eye again.
A shiver ran through him and he seemed more himself again. He grinned at her.
Such a dangerous grin. It made her think of that kiss again, of the way she’d lost herself in him. She had to force herself to look away and instantly regretted it.
Gwen laughed. ‘Oh, you’ll fit right in, Ari. Hardly foreign at all.’
‘Not French, you mean?’
Rafael interrupted. ‘NotBreton, is what she means. Even the French are foreign here. Don’t mind her.’
Gwen finished her cider and poured some more. ‘You’re a fellow Celt, Dr Walker, that’s enough. I can tell these things. So, you study the stories people tell and the names they give their homes to find the pathway to the past. Like a bard. We’ll make you a member of the Goursez Vreizh yet.’
