‘What little imagination they possess,’ Rhiannon said as calmly as her racing heart would allow. She wondered if he could feel the blood quickening within her as he ran his fingers across her palm.
Wordlessly, he lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed upon it the lightest, the most restrained of kisses. Rhiannon stood still, wondering if she should snatch her hand away, but wanting desperately for him to continue kissing her. He looked into her eyes then, questioning, wanting to understand her response. Tentatively, she stepped forward, moving closer so that there was no longer any space between them. Tudor let go her hand and slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her gently to him. The sensation of his strong body against hers, even through her grimy clothes,even through his winter layers, set her flesh singing, and when he leaned forwards and placed his lips upon hers her soul sang too.
‘Rhiannon! Rhiannon!’ Little Bronwen may have been small, but her voice was strong enough to reach them as she came running across the frozen ground. Tudor quickly stepped away. ‘Oh, Rhiannon,’ the child was breathless with excitement, ‘Glyn was so brave, and he said the wolves were mad with rage, and the pig…! The pig is so enormous, and I am so hungry!’ The girl did not cease her chattering even as Rhiannon laughed and scooped her up in her arms, swinging her around.
‘And we shall feast,’ she told the girl, sitting her on her hip, glancing back at Tudor with a smile before striding towards the happy villagers.
The mood among the mountain dwellers was lifted for a while by the successful hunt. There was plenty of meat for a celebratory meal, with some left over to save. They had too little salt to spare for preserving, so instead relied upon the frigid soil to keep it from spoiling. After much discussion among the villagers, one of the wolf pelts was cleaned, dried, treated as best theywere able, and cut up to be sewn into mittens for the women and children. The other was similarly prepared and then fashioned into a handsome cloak. Much to his surprise, this was presented as a gift to Tudor. It was a token of their gratitude, for they understood he had given up his own life and plans to help them, and he was now a valued and important member of their group. If danger ever came calling, he would be the first to risk his life for them again, and they all knew this. Rhiannon had enjoyed watching his reaction on being given such a splendid garment. He had been both proud and humbled at the same time. It was, she believed, the moment when he had felt properly accepted into the community.
Two weeks later, the snow started to fall. There was no wind to whip up dangerous drifts, only layer upon layer of sparkling snowflakes which covered ground, stone, tree and even stream alike. Rhiannon asked Mamgi if she should use her talents to drive off some of the heavier fall, but the old woman told her that at such a time of year, with no crops in the ground, she could make little difference to anyone by doing so. Better to reserve her strength and save her magic for when it could be more usefully employed. One morning, when the sun shone as bright as any spring day yet had not the power to melt more than an inch of thepacked snow, Rhiannon emerged from the gloom of the croft where she had been preparing tinctures, to find Tudor entertaining the children. He had his horse saddled and bridled, and was giving the children rides. Although it was Bronwen who had first forged a bond with the animal, it was soon discovered that he was gentle and calm with all children, and indeed most women. The men of the village he still saw it as his mission to bite chunks from them if they ventured within his reach. Rhiannon smiled at the sight of Tudor, resplendent in his wolf cape, leaning down to grasp the outstretched arms of the next child eager to sit on the great horse. With each new passenger, Tudor took care to hold them secure and then commanded his horse to perform small and intricate moves, so that the animal appeared almost to be following the steps of a dance, moving to music only he could hear.
Tudor looked across the yard and saw Rhiannon watching him. He smiled, and it was such a spontaneous, heartfelt gesture it made her smile back. For a moment they stayed grinning at each other, until the children clamoured for more rides and two women passing Rhiannon chuckled at her. Tudor set a red haired girl down and steered his horse over to her. He held out his hand.
‘Care to try, my lady?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
The horse fidgeted, detecting the heightened state of its master.
Rhiannon hesitated for only a moment before taking Tudor’s hand and allowing herself to be pulled up into the saddle in front of him. For a moment, he made minute adjustments with his heels and hands, causing the horse to step first sideways and then back and then pivot on its hindquarters. Then, without warning, he laid the reins across his mount’s neck and urged it on, sending it springing into a brisk canter as it carried them out of the yard and away across the open mountain beyond.
Soon they were galloping. The freezing air and the speed at which they covered the ground was exhilarating. Rhiannon clutched a handful of the horse’s long mane, at first startled by the swift movement, and then relaxing, feeling Tudor's strong arm around her. She leaned back into him and took in the pristine, glittering landscape as it flashed by. The rough gorse and reedy patches of the hillside had been smoothed over by the snow so that the moorland fell away from them on all sides, a billowing land of softest cushions and silken clothes. Shadows deepened the undulations and sunlight caught the cresting mounds of snow that fatly cloaked anthills and rocks and slumbering winter plants. To the west, the majestic Brecon Beacons roseup spotless and gleaming as if they had just burst forth from the snow-clad land. They galloped on, until Tudor reined in the horse to a steady walk, manoeuvring it down a narrow path into a small dip in the mountain. To Rhiannon’s surprise, they came to the remnant of a stone croft. It was a single building, abandoned and unused, its low thatch in need of repair and its door standing hingeless and at an angle in the doorway. Tudor bid the horse stop. He dismounted, helped Rhiannon down, and tied the reins to a doughty rowan that grew beside the croft. Taking her hand he led her in through the doorway, both of them having to duck to avoid the low set beam.
Rhiannon had expected a dark and fusty interior, but what she found was something else entirely. The tiny space had a fire at its centre, burned quite low but still glowing and giving out a fair heat. The floor and walls had apparently been swept and strewn with dried heather and bracken, sweetening the air. Near the fire sheepskins had been arranged in a pile, warm and inviting. Tudor went to the corner of the room and lit a tallow lamp before fetching another cut of peat to put on the fire, which smouldered and then sprang into new life with dark red flames. He took off his wolf cloak and dropped it beside the sheepskins. Next, he stepped forward and undid the pin on Rhiannon’s cape so thathe could slip if from her shoulders. They stood facing one another. He touched her cheek and then her lips, tracing the curve of her smile with his fingers.
Rhiannon was certain her heartbeat must be loud enough for him to hear.
‘You have gone to such lengths… made such preparations.’
‘Did I do wrong?’
‘You have… assumed much.’
‘Again, tell me if I have done wrong. I acted on the demands of my own heart which would not be ignored longer. I hope and prey your wishes are the same, but, tell me they are not and I will hand you your cape, blow out the lamp, take you home, and we will never speak of it again.’
While he waited for her answer it seemed to Rhiannon that the very air of the room was charged with an energy unfamiliar to her and yet she knew it came from both of them. Like him, she knew her heart would no longer be denied. Nor would her body. She moved towards him, intending only to try a light kiss, but when her mouth found his she was overcome by such a passion, such an urgency, that she could not resist. If she had ever imagined what such fervent kissing might feel like, nothing had prepared her for the waves of pleasure that broke over her. The more she kissed him, themore he kissed her, the hungrier she became, so that she feared her longing might be the end of her.
Sensing the force of her feelings, Tudor stepped back from her. He grasped his woollen shirt at the back of the neck and pulled it over his head, taking his under shirt and vest with it so that he was bare chested. Without hesitating, he removed his boots and trousers until he stood before her naked, his firm, tanned flesh gleaming under the flickering light of the fire and the low glow of the single lamp. Rhiannon reached out and placed her hands on his chest. It was an instinctive movement. She was beyond thinking about what she was doing. She was letting her passion guide her. His skin felt smooth and unexpectedly soft, hiding the strength beneath. Tudor surprised her by dropping to his knees to unlace her boots and gently remove them. She then surprised herself by pulling her dress and kirtle over her head. She hesitated only a second before removing her undershirt, so that she too was naked. Tudor stood up undid the ties on her plait, taking great care to unravel her hair, using his fingers to separate the strands and spread her heavy, dark locks so that they spread over her shoulders and fell down her back. She found her breath catching as her skin tingled with anticipation of his touch, of what he might do next. She could see desire written on his face, and the thought ofhis longing for her made her burn for him. He placed a hand on her arm as if to guide her to the waiting makeshift bed but Rhiannon's passion would not be ruled a moment more. Shocking herself, she wound her hands behind his neck and pulled him to her, kissing him hard, her tongue searching his, her body pressed against his, her heart thudding next to his. She felt his arms encircle her, his slight gasp of surprise at her unrestrained enthusiasm.
He pulled her down onto the sheepskins, keeping his weight on his arm but rolling onto her, nuzzling into her neck, kissing her ear, her eyes, her face, her throat, his other hand finding her breasts.
Rhiannon moaned, astonished at the way pleasure was starting to consume her, shocked at her own wantonness, at how shamelessly she was prepared to follow the desire that pulsed through her. In a swift movement, she rolled from beneath Tudor, changing places so that she sat on top of him. He laughed up at her, smiling, as surprised and delighted as she was by her response to him.
She looked down at his lean, handsome body and could not resist the urge to lower her head and lick his golden skin. The taste of him inflamed her further, so that she moved down, letting her tongue run over his firm belly, gasping at the sight of his arousal. Wonderingwho this crazed woman was who now inhabited her, Rhiannon let instinct rule her completely as she took his manhood into her mouth. The sensation of having him inside her, of feeling the hardness and eagerness of him against her tongue made her moan with desire. She heard Tudor moaning too. Suddenly he put his hands beneath her arms and pulled her up, rolling her over to be under him again. He held her hands above her head, tight against the rough, warm fleece, his eyes dark with desire, his mouth open.
‘Rhiannon,’ he murmured. ‘Do you want to know more? Do you want to know what it is to feel the love of a man?’
‘Show me!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Show me…. everything!’
Tudor smiled, letting go of her hands, and reaching over to snatch up the wolf skin. He threw it over his back and then lowered himself on to her yielding body, laughing as he did so, her own laughter ringing round the tiny room as the fire crackled and flared and outside the soft snow hushed the rest of the world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
London 2019
The restaurant was the sort of place that did not shout about its existence. It sat quietly in a quiet corner of Shepherd’s Bush, with very little to mark it out as a place of interest at all. The fact that Tudor was able to find a lunchtime parking space within sight of the place spoke volumes about how unfashionable the street was. The facade suggested more cafe than high end eatery, with a broad window showing plain modern decor inside, and a single word sign above:Jagoda. He had already typed it into Google translate. Strawberry. Was there, he wondered, some cultural significance lost on those not from Serbia? Or was it an attempt to suggest something sweet and wholesome. From what he had already discovered about the place, and the family who used it as their front, there was very little that was either sweet or wholesome connected to it. Whether or not the food was any good he doubted he would have time to find out. Lunch was not, after all, the purpose of his visit. He clicked the Audi’s fob and heard the answering clunk that rendered it secure. As he crossedthe road his practiced eye swept the area. No obvious muscle to be seen. One ostentatiously expensive car the only indicator that money might be inside.
The first thing he noticed as he stepped through the front door was the aroma of spice. It wrong footed him for a moment. If he had had any preconceptions about the cuisine of central Europe they had not been quite so peppery or aromatic. Speakers emitted a playlist evidently selected to tug at the homesick heartstrings of any Serb within earshot. There were brass instruments over frantic fiddles over wailing vocals, all upbeat and urgent. Not good music to eat to, but he imagined you could successfully plot a revolution to that rhythm. The interior was as modest as the exterior, with a long bar running down one side, small wooden tables randomly positioned, framed sepia photos of distant times and a distant land. Tudor took in the seating arrangement, noticing the tables in the windows were only big enough for couples and allowed good visibility from the bar onto the street. The l-shaped room had a run of tables along its length, most of which were already occupied with happy diners, with the short end at the back boasting cushioned banquette seating and a cosier feel. It was there that he saw an elderly man dressed in a suit too fine for its surroundings, his Rolex and signet ring costly enough to rent the place for a year. Tudorwould put money on this being Branke Begovich, the papa of the family. It wasn’t just his bling that gave him away. It was the meathead standing behind his chair, whose flattened nose and general brawn suggested a history of boxing, and the wiry one sitting at the next table with his eyes on the door that made it plain this man was important enough to have his own protection. And important enough to need it. In Tudor’s experience, big men made big enemies.
He pointedly looked the other way as he approached the bar. He had no intention of ordering food, but he wanted a moment to take in his surroundings. It was too small a place to sit and people-watch without being noticed, that much was clear. He could already feel at least two pairs of eyes on him.
