‘You’re a lot like him, aren’t you?’
‘Is that a question too? Really? Are you like he described you, I wonder?’
‘Spoilt, lazy, and with attitude?’ Charlie sauntered into the room with the walk of a person in the right enjoying another’s discomfort.
‘That, yeah.’ She watched him look her up and down. ‘Looks like he might have been right.’
‘Wow, you inherited his people skills as well as his eyebrows.’
Emily had to stop her hand going to her brows as a reflex. ‘So, are you moving back in, or what?’
‘So, are you moving out?’ he asked, nodding at her case. When she hesitated he went on. ‘I mean, don’t mind me. Feel free to come and go as you please,’ he told her, taking a moment to glance round the living room.
She had the uncomfortable feeling he was checking for signs of damage, or possibly missing valuables. Reluctant as she was to agree with her father about anything, she felt he could well have described Charlie Wilson pretty accurately. Too much money. Too much freedom. Too much in the way of good looks. All resulting in thinking too much of himself and no doubt very little of everyone else.
‘I thought your mother had called you home and forbidden you to stay here,’ she said, loving the tiny flinch at the mention of his mother’s control.
Instead of replying he went to the kitchen area and pulled open the enormous American refrigerator. Emily squirmed a little at the uncool contents. Not a bottle of champagne in sight. He closed the door again andturned to look at her. She knew she should continue on her way. Just take the lift down to the foyer, summon an Uber and go home. Show her father how she felt about being left alone again. Show this arrogant young man she wasn’t interested. And yet, he was very good looking. And there was something annoyingly appealing about the way he was leaning against the island and openly gawping at her right then. He wasn’t like the boys at her school. There was arrogance, yes, but subtly different. More like confidence. With something to back it up. All the things that her father disliked about him seemed, at that moment, to make him all the more attractive to her. And of course, there was added spice in the thought that her father wouldn’t want her to have anything to do with him.
She smiled then, enjoying the way his own expression softened when she did so. ‘Do you swim?’ she asked.
Tretower,Wales 1450
‘Have a care,’ Rhiannon told the men as they lifted one half of the pair of great doors into position. ‘Yes, alittle to the left and I think you have it.’ She stepped back to give them room to work. The double doors were the final piece of construction she would oversea. When the hinges and bolts were fitted, the manor house would, at last, be complete. It had been a long time in the building, a fact that she had not, at first, minded. The slow progress of the work had allowed her time to adjust to the idea of at last leaving the house that had been her home for so many years. She had seen so many changes there, during her lifetime. Seen people she loved grow up, have children, grow old and pass over to the next world. Seen their children and grandchildren grow to fine adults and have families of their own. See the garden she and her mother had planted blossom and mature over years that turned to decades, that turned to centuries. She had seen the Norman king take his seat of power only to die not very many years later. She had seen the Plantagenets rise to prominence and claim the crown. And now, from that success, two great families battled for the right to rule. Red rose and white. The houses of Lancaster and York. It often seemed to Rhiannon that as quickly as one war was over, another started, and these times were no different. But the scale was greater. The theatre of war larger. She had come to realise that if she were to keep her people, her coven, safe, and serve successfully as awitch of the White Shadow, she needed a new stronghold. A new house that would consolidate her position as Lady of the Black Mountains. A position that was increasingly coming under new challenges and assaults. Of course the stone keep at the far end of the meadow had been built two centuries before the first stone of the manor house was laid. Her original intention had been to live there herself, but she had no heart for it. The pull of her family home was still strong. Instead she had installed a succession of grateful nobles there, a prized reward for good service from one loyal family after another. Until the structure had become unfashionable, the mode of living outdated.
And so, beside the old stone keep that was all that remained of the original fortification, she had commissioned the building of the beautiful manor house. It was ‘L’ shaped, with added buildings and walls to give it an inner courtyard, with gardens on three sides. The fourth side consisted of a high wall with castellations at the top; ramparts from which the far reach of the valley could be seen in all directions. The great doors - ten feet high and almost as wide - were set into the centre of the wall. When opened, they gave access to the inner courtyard, across which could be found the front door to the main part of the house. When closed, they presented a sturdy fortification which would not beeasily breached. More than this, they gave a clear indication to all who looked at them, that this was a house of someone of importance. Someone of history. Someone of noble birth and high standing in society. Someone of power and influence. They did this not only by their grandeur and strength, but by the elaborate and intricate carvings upon them. To Rhiannon’s instructions and with great care and craftsmanship, scenes of the mountains, the valley, the river and its people had been worked into the fabric of the doors. She put her hand on the warm wood now and let her fingers trace the route of the littleRhiangollriver, thinking wistfully how happily she had played in it as a child over four hundred years before.
‘The doors are to your liking, my Lady?’ The carpenter stood, hat in hand, nervously waiting for her approval.
Rhiannon smiled, watching him relax beneath that smile. ‘They are, Arwel. You have surpassed my expectations. I am so grateful to you.’
‘It was an honour to play a small part in the creation of such a splendid house, my Lady,’ he said, lowering his gaze a little to hide the emotion written on his face.
‘Everyone has worked so hard. I could not be more delighted. Are you looking forward to the celebrations tomorrow? Will your lovely wife sing for us?’
‘Happily! The whole valley has spoken of little else for weeks past.’
‘You have all earned a day of enjoyment. Cook has been preparing the feast.’ She leaned closer to Arwel and whispered. ‘And I have bought a barrel of Melvyn Watkins’ finest ale. I’m told this year’s is particularly strong.’
He laughed loudly at that, forgetting for a moment the gulf in social standing between them. It was as he was laughing that Rhiannon experienced another of the fleeting visions that had been becoming increasingly frequent in recent months. They were always the same. It was as if she were glimpsing something at the very periphery of her vision. A flicker of light. A blur of colours. Gold and red. And at the centre a white shape, indistinct, moving and staying forever just beyond her ability to identify it. At times she thought it a flower. At others a ship. Still others had her convinced it was an animal of some sort. The one constant factor, the thing that invariably accompanied this vision, was a feeling. It was an intuition, a knowing without knowing, a whispered thought at the back of her mind that told her over and over the same thing:Tudor is close!
Two weeks after the installation of the doors, Rhiannon rode north east in the direction of the ancient townof Tewkesbury. She and her entourage of two maids and four guards were to attend the tournament at the home of Lord Flenchcombe, half an hour’s journey beyond the parish boundary. They had made two overnight stops and were now only a short distance from the venue itself. There was good natured excitement amongst the party as they travelled, the girls in particular gleefully anticipating the opportunity to venture beyond their home. To enjoy the entertainments and festivities. To mix with strangers. To search for a husband. Rhiannon was pleased they found these trips so diverting, and thankful they had not tired of them. This was the fourth tourney they had attended in only three months. As ever, it was her deepest hope and dearest wish that she would find Tudor among the contestants. Having come so close to meeting him in previous lives, she knew with each incarnation her chances of success were increasing. As her skills as a witch grew, so did her powers of summoning and foretelling. She drew on all of these, casting spells, seeking guidance and help from her fellow witches, and trying to interpret her own visions. She also employed more earthbound tactics, putting out the word that she required a knight to work for her. Sending her own herald to attend tournaments in search of Tudor. And, asnow, attending tourneys herself in the hope of drawing him to her with her own presence.
‘Oh, my Lady, look!’ Eleri, the younger of the two maids, was the first to see the flags and banners in the distance as they approached Lord Flenchcombe’s estate. She was not yet sixteen and her head was stuffed full of the romance of the contests. She was a pretty girl, and lively with it. Rhiannon was certain she would soon lose her to matrimony.
The ground chosen for the tournament was indeed the perfect setting. The rich colours of the banners stood out against a backdrop of woodlands. The lush green of the meadows prettily set off the bright finery of the guests. The viewing stands had been constructed to take advantage of the slight slope, and already seats were filling with well dressed ladies, gentlemen and nobles. Even the more lowly benches provided a display of colour and bustle, with local people eagerly taking advantage of having such sport and spectacle within reach. As they drew closer they could hear musicians playing, and the happy sound of children cheering at a dancing dog, or exclaiming at the skills of a juggler, or clapping with delight at the daring of a fire-eater. As they rode into the thick of the event, Rhiannon felt her spirits lifted by the joyfulness of the occasion, as well as her own raised hopes. She watched hermaids and guards as their faces, too, shone with the fun of the day. A brightly painted giant strode past on stilts. Two men in clothing made entirely of feathers acted out a comedy on an improvised stage. In every available space, someone was doing something to entertain, or to advertise their wares. The smell of freshly cooked pies made Rhiannon’s mouth water. In a few yards she counted three pie sellers but they need not fear the competition, for there were plenty of hungry spectators with coin to spend. An old man played a tune on a flute while his granddaughter encouraged a goose to hop through a hoop. Armorers displayed gleaming swords or brightly flighted arrows. There were stands where a herald could buy new fabric for his master’s tabard, or a maid could buy new braid for her hair. There were men selling knives and women selling jars of ale. All tastes and needs for a fine tournament were catered for.
Rhiannon signalled to her party to stop. One of her men hurried forwards to help her down from her horse, though she was perfectly able to dismount unassisted. It was important she observe the niceties and traditions of courtly behaviour when she was away from home. She had a noble reputation to keep up, for the sake of all she protected. Taran loped over to shadow her steps. She dropped a hand onto the hound’s head to reassure him. He would have followed her into battle, had sheasked it of him, as his ancestors had done, but still he disliked the noise and hubbub of a crowd. She made her way to the seats reserved for those attending under his Lordship’s invitation. She kept her maids and Taran with her. Two of her men would take turns in looking after the horses. One would wait within sight of her in case she needed him. The other was charged with searching for Tudor. She gave specific instructions. First to look for his name among those listed as putting themselves forward for the jousting. Second to listen out for news of a talented knight, most likely not particularly highborn, probably of Cymraeg heritage, for he might not be using a name she recognised. Next she bid her man pay attention to the horses. If there was one which appeared especially bad tempered and difficult for anyone but its master to handle, she would hear of it. By the time she and her maids had taken their seats and nodded to their host and his wife, the competition was ready to begin.
A fanfare of trumpets heralded the arrival of the first pair of knights. One rode a dapple grey, resplendent in purple rug and trimmings to match the plume in his elaborate helmet. His armour was extravagant and his shield showed, not inappropriately, that his coat of arms included a peacock. Some of the ladies watching sniggered behind their hands. When he rode up tosalute his host he raised his visor and revealed bushy brows and plump cheeks which somehow were at odds with the persona he was aiming to present. His opponent sat on a solid brown horse and favoured plain blue garb. Sadly for the women watching, he too was unappealing in the flesh.
Eleri whispered to her mistress. ‘Upon my word, my Lady, these men are greatly improved by their visors!’
Rhiannon smiled but gently chided the girl. ‘A knight with a handsome face does not always win the tournament,’ she pointed out.
‘No,’ Eleri sighed, ‘yet he might win my heart.’
They watched the men joust. The purple knight had the edge on style from the start, his horse doing most of the work for him. He had only to stay in the saddle to win the day. His opponent, while clumsier, however, was more determined. As they galloped headlong down the list, lances couched, there was a gasp of surprise as the purple knight was unseated with the first blow. A cheer went up. The red knight, evidently quite astonished at his success, raised a hand to salute the crowd.
