Gwen sheathed her dagger, the silver work on the horn handle glinting in the low light as she did so. She stooped down to Bronwen.
‘There now, all will be well,’ she told her, stroking her soft brown curls. ‘They are gone. You are safe.’
‘They forced the door,’ the child said, her eyes full of tears. ‘Dadda could not stop them.’
‘You were brave, Bronwen, and see? They left unrewarded. They will not trouble you again.’ She swept her up in her arms and twirled her around, making her giggle in a pure example of a child’s ability to switch from fear to happiness if made to feel safe again. Gwen’s cheerful manner was known to comfort babes and adults alike.
‘Thanks to you, Lady Gwen,’ said Dafydd. ‘We are forever in your debt.’ His relief was now replaced by puzzlement. ‘But I spoke with your father not two hours since. He said nothing of his plans for the morrow. What was it, truly, that brought you to my door?’
She could not find the words to tell to him why she had walked to his cottage when she did, for she had no way to understand it herself. She knew only that she had been sent, by something unknown. Sent as a deliverance. Sent to protect. Led by that shiver of violence and wickedness, but sent by a benevolent presence she could neither see nor hear. This was the first time Gwen had answered that call. It would not be the last.
London 2019
Tudor steered the Audi through the late morning traffic. The one advantage of having to work to the body clock of a slothful teenager was that rush hour was over and done with before he’d even got the boy in the car. London streets gave no quarter to anyone, wealthy or otherwise, at peak times. Only difference was, you could be stuck in traffic in comfort. Now, though, the car powered south from Hampstead, heading for the river, making good time. Tudor glanced in the mirror to check on his passenger. Charlie Wallace was nineteen and oozed privilege through every oily pore. His watch cost more than most people would earn in a year. His phone was the newest available, queued for by a kid who didn’t have rich parents. His clothes were the same uniform of tee-shirt and jeans as his friends but cost three times as much because of the labels you couldn’t see. His trainers hadn’t lost their freshly picked look and never would. His aftershave was in fact cologne, because he didn’t need to shave yet, and anyway cologne was more sophisticated. The boy raised his eyes from his phone and caught Tudor watching him. If it’d been his regular driver at thewheel he’d have given him a look,wielded that privilege right there. But the boy knew Tudor wasn’t just a driver. The boy knew Tudor. He dropped his gaze.
They turned onto the Embankment and followed the Thames east. What passed for summer in London slanted sunshine through the windscreen and sparkled off the surface of the river. For an instant Tudor saw that same sun, stronger, sharper, reflecting off a tin roof in the desert, its heat so fierce you could hear it zinging above the ragged breathing of his comrades-at-arms as they crouched and waited. And then he was back in the moment, cool English climate, everyday people around him. An open-topped sightseeing bus slowed their progress as it belched fumes in front of them. A bicycle courier cut through the toxic cloud, head low, shortening his already short life expectancy as he weaved away through the pedestrians on the zebra crossing, cutting up a taxi at the lights. Tudor shook his head at the recklessness, though a small part of him envied the guy the thrill. The bus sped up and the line moved on, giving Tudor no more time to contemplate how the daily danger that had once been his life could ever have become something he could regard with nostalgia. He turned left and then immediately right, sweeping around the side of the apartment block to the grand front entrance. He jumped out, taking in his surroundingswith a practiced sweep; a trained glance that told him all he needed to know about the boy’s new home. A private drive but no gate or barrier, so the front door was a vulnerable point, potentially. On the plus side, there was a solid wall between the parking area and the road they had just left, so that everyone above the ground floor had expensive and expansive river views but the tourists were kept nicely back. Some artful planting softened the effect, but the barrier was there, and he was glad of it. Old buildings hadn’t been designed to deal with possible bomb threats, or kidnappers in modified vans, or raiders ramming four-by-fours through the main entrance. His charge was prime kidnapping material, which was the main reason Tudor was with him. He hoped the rest of the boy’s new home offered better protection. The position of this block had evidently allowed for a bit of boundary reinforcement that suggested it had, in fact, been built with privacy and security in mind. That was something.
And the Aurora was quite some building. She was a fine example of Art Deco architecture at its most elegant, most flamboyant, and most ambitious. As the best of her kind in the city, and with her enviable riverside position, she was as famous as she was unattainable. Apartments rarely become available, and then only to those with serious wealth and uncommon connections.The Wallace family had both. The son and heir was accustomed to the best of the best, but even he let out a low whistle as Tudor opened the car door for him.
‘Cool!’ he declared, donning sunglasses the better to look up at the building.
For once, Tudor agreed with the kid.
The Aurora was a vision of chalk white stucco with mint green paintwork at the windows, doors and balconies. All crisp, clean lines and sophisticated angles. Only ten storeys tall, but what she lacked in height she made up for in charisma.
Tudor opened the boot of the car and stood back, waiting for the boy to take his pick of the bags. Charlie knew better than to treat his minder as a porter and took a grip and a suit carrier. Tudor effortlessly lifted out the remaining two sizeable cases. As he was locking the car a woman came out through the front doors and started down the broad steps. Her clothes showed good taste come by at a cost, lightly worn. Someone born to wealth and at ease with it. Just the sort of person Mrs Wallace aimed to mix with by installing her son here. The woman paused on the step, taking her sunglasses from her bag, allowing herself to be looked at. Just before she put them on, however, she gave herself away, turning her head a fraction the better to admire Tudor, assessing his broad shoulders and darkgood looks. He felt her eyes on him but did not meet her gaze. There was a time and a place and this was neither.
Charlie used his key card to swipe the lock and the double doors glided open allowing them to step into the vestibule. Here they came to the original doors, solid and stylish, glass, brass and polished wood in a diagonal pattern of some intricacy that gave a taste of what was to come. Charlie pulled on the handle but the door didn’t give. Tudor pressed a buzzer to the left. Through the glass they could see the concierge peering out at them. His movements were unhurried. He consulted a screen at his desk, evidently saw something that confirmed the callers as legitimate, pressed a button, and smiled at them as the doors swung magically open.
The lobby of the building was the place where all the restraint that had been applied to the outside was exchanged for some serious showing off. The space was wider and larger than it needed to be, with a tall reception desk of burr walnut off to the left. Behind this was a striking mural, covering the entire wall in abstract diagonal slices of gilded plaster work, black marble, and richly varnished wood. The centre of the piece held a tense geometric pattern that to Tudor looked somehow familiar. It put him in mind of ancient Egypt,making him wonder if he had seen something similar on his travels in north Africa and the middle east. To the right of the lobby was a seating area, no doubt for those awaiting private cars or taxis so that they could rest their weary bones for the long five minutes it might take. The ceiling was high, with a pair of crystal chandeliers large enough to grace any ballroom, reflecting the sunshine through the windows at the first turn of the stairs. And what stairs they were. The broad sweep divided left and right to curve around the ornate iron lift that was placed in the centre like the robotic spine of the building. The burnished wood of the bannisters and rail were set off beautifully by a dark green and gold Persian rug that covered the stairs. That same green was used to decorate the walls in sharp rectangular painted panels, set into more glorious wood, cool lines picked out with gold. The effect was to make a small man feel smaller and a big one feel more powerful in a way that had nothing to do with size.
‘Good morning, Mr Wallace,’ said the concierge, experience telling him who was a resident and who was an employee. That and the fact that he would have all the new owner’s details committed to memory before they even moved in. ‘Welcome to the Aurora,’ he smiled. He was not yet an old man, but heading that way; bone shape beginning to show beneath kindlyeyes. He handed Charlie a welcome pack, nicely bound in green leather, embossed gold lettering. ‘In here you’ll find all the details regarding the facilities, such as the gym and pool, the bespoke concierge services and so on. My name is Deri. Should you have any questions…’ When the youth answered with a grunt of thanks and headed for the lift, he called after him softly, ‘Welcome to your new home!’
Tudor turned to the man. ‘Deri? A good Welsh name.’
Now the concierge refocussed his attention. He studied Tudor’s face for a long moment, smiling as if in recognition somehow, nodding. ‘Indeed it is, you are quite correct, Mr…?’
‘Rhys Tudor…’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Mostly just Tudor.’
‘A fellow compatriot. Welcome,’ he said, shaking his hand with a surprisingly vigorous grip.
‘I’m responsible for Mr Wallace’s personal protection and security. I will need to check the building. Mind if I take a poke around once I have my client installed?’
‘Of course, sir. If you call by the desk I will be delighted to show you around myself. And later you’ll want to meet our own security guard, Mr McAllen.’
‘Thanks. And it’s just Tudor, remember?’ he said, following Charlie into the lift and pulling the outer and inner cage doors shut.
The newly acquired addition to the Wallace property portfolio was a three bedroom apartment on the ninth floor. Charlie had whined about wanting the penthouse, but to the estate agent’s knowledge, nothing at the top of the building had ever come on the market. Flat Eighteen was a pretty impressive next best. For the second time that morning, Charlie let out a whistle. He dropped his bags and flung himself onto the vast leather sofa that stretched the length of the living room, facing the long, low window that gave a stunning view of the river and London beyond. ‘Super cool!’ he declared, his face lit up for once with youthful wonder rather than its more habitual surly blankness. ‘The lads are going to love this.’
Tudor set the cases down and headed for the balcony. The locks on the glass doors had, like the entire interior, received a recent upgrade and met with his approval. He slid the doors open and stepped outside. The area was roomy enough to accommodate generous seating. The white wall was waist high, topped off with two mint green metal rails. High enough for safety, low enough for a view. Tudor had no time for taking in the sights for which his employer had paid so handsomely. Back inside he completed a swift, thorough tour of the flat, inspecting the panic button, door locks, intercom, windows, and all other details relevant to security.Details he had already gone over on paper several times but was now seeing for the first time. When he returned to the living room Charlie was helping himself to ice and coke from the refrigerated drinks cabinet.
‘Satisfied?’ the boy asked. ‘You can report back to my mother that her darling boy is safe here, right?’
‘The upgrades and alterations I specified have been installed,’ Tudor nodded.
‘So she won’t need to come and see me every five minutes?’
‘Not unless it’s to wipe your arse.’
