The old woman lay quietly. Mawgan waited impatiently, forced to listen to each breath as it bubbled and crackled with each rise and fall. He had the urge to cough for her to clear away the infection. The waiting was intolerable and he began to wonder if that was all she had to tell him. He was about to leave, when she drew a deep breath and started to speak again.
‘I would never have believed it if I did not see it with my own eyes.’
‘See what?’
‘That you are not a true Pendragon. Pendragon men are real men. They have an obsession with their bloodline. It is what drives them. You don’t have that.’
The woman’s mind has turned, thought Mawgan. He had wasted his journey. Even so, the unease in the pit of his stomach would not go away.
‘I don’t understand.’ His voice sounded feeble to his own ears, but that was how he felt, feeble — and vulnerable.
‘I have watched you grow. I know what others do not know.’ She turned her eyes on him and he felt as if she had stripped him bare. ‘I know who you really are. I know, but the question is, do you?’
Mawgan sat back in his chair. Her breath smelt putrid and he did not care for what the old hag was implying.
Mellin reached out and touched his arm. Her feathery light touch felt alien and he had the urge to recoil. He would have done, but she smiled and he was suddenly reminded why his mother had been so loyal to her maid. Mellin had been a constant throughout his life and her devotion to his family was without question. Despite the poison she was spewing, she meant no harm. She was telling him these things to protect him. Not to harm him. Unfortunately, in her poor health and eagerness to speak to him, she had been less discerning in who she had confided in. Whatever she was trying to say could easily sprout wings and be all over the countryside by the end of the month. As if she read his thoughts, she spoke again. For someone who was dying, she had plenty to say.
‘I hear you are courting Miss Evelyn Pendragon.’ She gave a feeble squeeze of his arm. ‘That is a good thing. It will pour water on the fire and keep you safe from harm. Life is cruel. Pendragon marrying Pendragon. No one can question that.’
‘Question what?’
‘That you should have no place on God’s Earth. Marry Sir Robert’s heir and you will own everyone. No one will dare speak against you.’
‘You think I have enemies?’
‘You will have more than most. I was there the night you were put in your mother’s arms and I have watched you grow. Marry Miss Evelyn Pendragon and you will be safe from rumour and people who wish you harm.’
* * *
Mawgan insisted on leaving the house through the backyard. He needed time, a snatched moment to himself, before the prying eyes of the village could see him. From his countenance and posture, back stiff as a rod with an aristocratic tilt to his chin, Mellin’s daughter had no way of knowing the turmoil he felt inside. Relieved that the meeting had gone well and her mother seemed at peace, she scurried back inside and left Mawgan alone.
Mawgan’s legs buckled as soon as the door shut behind him. He caught at the yard’s wooden gate for support and stood for a moment, trembling and terrified of what was to come. Mellin’s protective but watchful eyes, which had haunted his childhood, now held meaning. He had always suspected there was something different about him and today, in a whispered death rattle, she had spoken his fears. It was as if he had written down her deathbed confession for her. He was not like the other men of the Pendragon line. He was not a true Pendragon.
* * *
‘My God! You look like a ghost!’ exclaimed David as Mawgan climbed in the coach to sit opposite him. ‘What did the old woman say?’
‘Nothing that made sense,’ replied Mawgan. He sat back in the seat, a deep frown cutting his brow in two. He should win an accolade for his acting role.
‘Were they just ramblings of a dying woman?’
‘Yes, something like that,’ he said, noncommittally. He didn’t want to confide in David. The topic was too raw and the experience, which had left him feeling violated and exposed to society, was too recent. David did not press him further. He had come to know Mawgan well and knew when to retreat. The carriage ride home was a gloomy, silent affair.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A heavy mist hung in the air, dampening the skin and casting a fine veil over the passing landscape. The farmer flicked the reins and encouraged his pony to trot faster. He was in a hurry as he had promised his neighbour he would return both cart and pony by milking time. The mist had hampered his progress, as much of his journey had been through the valley. Now, on higher ground, his vision was a little clearer and he was finally hopeful that he could make up the time before the mist swallowed up the track ahead again.
He frowned. In the distance he could just make out a boulder blocking the track. He would have to move it if he was going to get by. As he approached he slowly eased up the pony until he brought it to a stop. He jumped down from the cart, grumbling at his bad luck.
As he approached, the boulder took on the more familiar shape of a man. He was lying on his stomach, his body wet from the heavy rain overnight, but his lips cracked for lack of something to drink. Whatever time he had fallen, he had not moved since before the rain. He saw some bruising on his face and attempted to rouse him. He received no response and suspected he was already dead. He turned him over and, for the first time, saw the full extent of his injuries. The man’s face was swollen to twice the normal size, whilst a gaping wound split one eyebrow in two. The farmer shook his head in disbelief as he allowed his gaze to wander over the man’s body. He was someone’s son. He could not leave him here to rot.
He knelt down to cradle the man’s head in his arms. He felt hot — too hot for a corpse.
‘I’ve got you, boy. I’m going to take you home. Wake up, son. Where shall I take you?’
The man’s lips moved, but nothing came out.
‘You will have to speak louder, boy,’ said the farmer, leaning closer and turning one ear to his lips. ‘What are you called?’
