‘But… it’s not Emily’s fault…’
‘Shut the fuck up!’
‘Dad!’
‘I told you to stay in the flat. What part of that instruction was too complicated for you?’
‘I’m still in the building, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t get smart with me, young lady.’
Theyoung ladybit made her squirm. Wasn’t it enough that he had to be throwing his weight around with Charlie? Did he have to completely humiliate her? She swam for the steps and climbed out with as much dignity as she could summon up. She faced her father and spoke with more composure than she was actually feeling.
‘Dad, I wasn’t on my own. It’s Charlie’s flat, so presumably it’s OK for me to be with him.’
‘You have no idea what’s going on.’
‘So try telling me.’ From the corner of her eye she could see Charlie getting out of the pool.
‘It’s…’
‘…too difficult for me to understand.’
‘Well, we appear to be back at the bit where you didn’t understandstay in the apartment!’ He wasn’t shouting again, but he wasn’t far off it.
Charlie made the mistake of trying to smooth things over again. ‘Look, it’s late, why don’t we go back upstairs?’
Tudor rounded on him. ‘Really? Do I have to talk to you now? OK, you want a chat, start by telling mewhat you are doing here when your parents have forbidden you from using your flat right now? Or how about why you thought it was OK to take my daughter - who isfifteenby the way - swimming in the middle of the fucking night?’
‘Dad, leave him alone! It was my idea, OK? I wanted to go swimming. I wanted to get out of that stupid apartment whereyouleft me on my ownagain. And don’t tell me it was work, or you were keeping me safe…. how come both those things always involved you seeingheragain?’
Tudor shook his head. ‘DI Chowdhury is working on something connected to the attacks. She had…’
‘Save it,’ she said, striding past him and snatching up her towel from the lounger. She wrapped it around her.
‘Pumpkin…’
‘I am not your fucking pumpkin!’ she yelled, tears stinging her eyes as she ran from the room and into the foyer. She pressed the button for the lift but it was at the top of the building and showed no sign of wanting to come down. Cursing and wiping away tears with the back of a wet hand, she trudged up the stairs.
Tretower, Wales 1450
The garden at Tretower Court, as the new manor house was known, had been a joy to plant and a delight to watch as it grew. Now, walking arm in arm with Tudor down through the rose arbour, Rhiannon believed she was the happiest she had ever been. Their courtship had been swift and beautiful. Tudor had readily agreed to become her own knight and chief of her personal guard. All who saw them together commented on how well suited they were. Those who had known Rhiannon for many years were glad to see her find love at last. For the people outside her own tight knit community, they were simply a well-matched couple, two young people of similar social standing, his prowess on the battlefield and in contests helping balance the inequality in their wealth. For Rhiannon had accumulated a fortune over the years. Money that she guarded well not for her own enjoyment or aggrandisement, but so that she might better protect those who needed her, be they local Welsh people, English folk caught up in the squabbles of their rulers, or members of her own coven.As her skirts brushed against the lavender borders she breathed in the soothing scent and offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Tudor stopped to pick a pink rose from the arch above him. He turned and tucked it into the braid of her hair.
Rhiannon smiled. ‘Not a white rose, nor a red one? Even now you are a diplomat.’
‘A knight who is not will have a short career. And most probably a short life.’
She felt a stab of anxiety at this comment. Not because it alluded to the dangerous business of being involved in both battles and politics, but because of her own particular circumstances. Whilst she had already shown Tudor some of her skills as a wise woman and hinted at talents that went beyond a gift with herbs and remedies, she had yet to explain to him her longevity. Soon, they would have that conversation. The same one they had had centuries before, that he would have no recollection of. She was confident he would accept anything about herself she could reveal, however astonishing, however magical. His love for her was absolute, she knew that. What she would have to steel herself against was the pain that would show on his face when he understood what her position as a witch of the White Shadow meant: that he would grow old and die, and leave her to continue without him.
‘It is a fine house you have built,’ he said. ‘It is fitting you should have such a home.’
For a moment they both looked anew at the fine latticed windows, the dark Welsh stone, the glossy slated roof, and the generous proportions of the building. The exterior was not ostentatious, but it was impressive, beautifully crafted, and built to withstand flood or siege. The interior was a wealth of comfortable rooms, warm oak floors, deep fireplaces for the many fires so that all would be snug in winter, and a sizeable kitchen with hoard rooms aplenty. It was more than an imposing reminder of Rhiannon’s status. It was a family home.
At that moment, two squealing children came tearing round the corner and ran straight into them.
‘Hey!’ Tudor laughed, gently righting the red haired boy who had bounced back and fallen on the grass. ‘Have a care, young sir.’
The boy gaped open mouthed at the famous knight who had come to live in their midst.
