The Summer of the Danes (34 page)

On
the throne of rock she sat down, wringing the water from the hem of her gown,
and looked across the sea, and waited, without impatience, without doubts. Once,
in this place, she had looked immeasurably lonely and forsaken, but that had
been illusion, even then. Now she looked like one in serene possession of all
that lay about her, dear companion to the sea and the sky. The orb of the sun
was declining before her, due west, gilding her face and body.

The
little ship, lean and dark and sudden, came darting down from the north,
surging out of the concealment of the rising shoreline beyond the sandy warrens
across the strait. Somewhere up-coast it had lain waiting off Anglesey until
the sunset hour. There had been, thought Cadfael, watching intently, no
compact, no spoken tryst at all. They had had no time to exchange so much as a
word when she was snatched away. There had been only the inward assurance to keep
them constant, that the ship would come, and that she would be there waiting.
Body and blood, they had been superbly sure, each of the other. No sooner had
Heledd recovered her breath and accepted the fact of her innocent abduction
than she had come to terms with events, knowing how they must and would end.
Why else had she gone so serenely about passing the waiting time, disarming
suspicion, even putting herself out, who knows how ruefully, to give Ieuan ab
Ifor some brief pleasure before he was to pay for it with perpetual loss. In
the end Canon Meirion’s daughter knew what she wanted, and was ruthless in
pursuing it, since no one among her menfolk and masters showed any sign of
helping her to her desire.

Small,
serpentine and unbelievably swift, oars driving as one, Turcaill’s dragon-ship
swooped inshore, but held clear of beaching. It hung for a moment still, oars
trailed, like a bird hovering, and Turcaill leaped over the side and came
wading waist-deep towards the tiny island of rock. His flaxen hair shone almost
red in the crimson descent of the sun, a match for Owain Gwynedd’s, as dominant
and as fair. And Heledd, when they turned their eyes again on her, had risen
and walked into the sea. The tension of the ebbing tide drew her with it,
skirts floating. Turcaill came up glistening out of the deeper water. They met
midway, and she walked into his arms, and was swung aloft against his heart.
There was no great show, only a distant, brief peal of mingled laughter rising
on the air to the two who stood watching. No need for more, there had never
been any doubt in either of these sea creatures as to the inevitable ending.

Turcaill
had turned his back, and was striding through the surf back to his ship, with
Heledd in his arms, and the tide, receding more rapidly as the sun declined,
gave back before him in iridescent fountains of spray, minor rainbows wreathing
his naked feet. Lightly he hoisted the girl over the low side of his dragon,
and swung himself after. And she, as soon as she had her footing, turned to him
and embraced him. They heard her laughter, high and wild and sweet, thinner
than a bird’s song at this distance, but piercing and clear as a carillon of
bells.

All
the long, sinuous bank of oars, suspended in air, dipped together. The little
serpent heeled and sped, creaming spray, round into the clear passage between
the sandy shoals, already showing golden levels beneath the blue, but more than
deep enough yet for this speedy voyager. She sped away end-on, small and ever
smaller, a leaf carried on an impetuous current, borne away to Ireland, to
Dublin of the Danish kings and the restless seafarers. And a fitting mate
Turcaill had carried away with him, and formidable progeny they would breed
between them to master these uneasy oceans in generations to come. Canon
Meirion need not fret that his daughter would ever reappear to imperil his
status with his bishop, his reputation or his advancement. Love her as he
might, and wish her well as he probably did, he had desired heartily that she
should enjoy her good fortune elsewhere, out of sight if not out of mind. He
had his wish. Nor need he agonise, thought Cadfael, watching that resplendent
departure, over her happiness. She had what she wanted, a man of her own
choosing. By that she would abide, wise or unwise by her father’s measure. She
measured by other means, and was not likely to suffer any regrets.

The
small black speck, racing home, was barely visible as a dot of darkness upon a
bright and glittering sea.

“They
are gone,” said Brother Mark, and turned and smiled. “And we may go, too.” They
had overstayed their time. Ten days at the most, Mark had said, and Brother
Cadfael would be returned safe and sound to his herb garden and his proper work
among the sick. But perhaps Abbot Radulfus and Bishop de Clinton would regard
the truant days as well spent, considering the outcome. Even Bishop Gilbert
might be highly content to keep his able and energetic canon, and have
Meirion’s inconvenient daughter safely oversea, and his scandalous marriage
forgotten. Everyone else appeared well content to have so satisfactory a
settlement of what might well have been a bloody business. What mattered now
was to return to the level sanity of daily living, and allow old grudges and
animosities to fade gradually into the obscurity of the past. Yes, Cadwaladr
would be restored, on probation, Owain could not totally discard him. But not
wholly restored, and not yet. Gwion, who by any measure had been the loser,
would be decently buried, with no very great acknowledgement of his loyalty
from the lord who had bitterly disappointed him. Cuhelyn would remain here in
Gwynedd, and in time surely be glad that he had not had to do murder with his
own hands to see Anarawd avenged, at least upon Bledri ap Rhys. Princes, who
can depute other hands to do their less savoury work for them, commonly escape
all temporary judgements, but not the last.

And
Ieuan ab Ifor would simply have to resign himself to losing a delusory image of
a submissive wife, a creature Heledd could never become. He had barely seen or
spoken with her, his heart could scarcely be broken at losing her, however his
dignity might be bruised. There were pleasant women in Anglesey who could
console him, if he did but look about him here at home.

And
she… she had what she wanted, and she was where she wanted to be, and not where
others had found it convenient to place her. Owain had laughed when he heard of
it, though considerately he had kept a grave face in Ieuan’s presence. And
there was one more waiting in Aber who would have the last word in the story of
Heledd.

The
last word, when Canon Meirion had heard and digested the tale of his daughter’s
choice, came after a deep-drawn breath of relief for her safety at least—or was
it for his own deliverance?

“Well,
well!” said Meirion, knotting and unknotting his long hands. “There is a sea
between.” True, and there was relief for both of them in that. But then he
continued: “I shall never see her again!” and there was as much of grief in it
as of satisfaction. Cadfael was always to be in two minds about Canon Meirion.
They came to the border of the shire in the early evening of the second day,
and on the principle that it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,
turned aside to pass the night with Hugh at Maesbury. The horses would be
grateful for the rest, and Hugh would be glad to hear at first hand what had
passed in Gwynedd, and how the Norman bishop was rubbing along with his Welsh
flock. There was also the pleasure of spending a few placid hours with Aline
and Giles, in a domesticity all the more delightful to contemplate because they
had forsworn it for themselves, along with the world outside the Order. Some
such unguarded remark Cadfael made, sitting contentedly by Hugh’s hearth with
Giles on his knees. And Hugh laughed at him.

“You,
forswear the world? And you just back from gallivanting to the farthest western
edge of Wales? If they manage to keep you within the pale for more than a month
or two, even after this jaunt, it will be a marvel. I’ve known you restless after
a week of strict observance. Now and again I’ve wondered if some day you
wouldn’t set out for Saint Giles, and end up in Jerusalem.”

“Oh,
no, not that!” said Cadfael, with serene certainty. “It’s true, now and again
my feet itch for the road.” He was looking deep into himself, where old
memories survived, and remained, after their fashion, warming and satisfying,
but of the past, never to be repeated, no longer desirable. “But when it comes
down to it,” said Cadfael, with profound content, “as roads go, the road home
is as good as any.”

About the Author

ELLIS PETERS is
the
nom-de-crime
of English novelist Edith Pargeter, author of scores of
books under her own name. She is the recipient of the Silver Dagger Award,
conferred by the Crime Writers Association in Britain, as well as the coveted
Edgar, awarded by the Mystery Writers of America. Miss Pargeter is also well
known as a translator of poetry and prose from the Czech and has been awarded
the Gold Medal and Ribbon of the Czechoslovak Society for Foreign Relations for
her services to Czech literature. She passed away in 1995, at the age of 82, at
home in her beloved Shropshire.