Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
TWENTY-FIVE
‘This is a bad business.’ Demelza’s thumb idly smoothed Meilyr’s cuff as they walked arm-in-arm under the dappled shade of the hydrangeas. The air hung with the summer scents of grass and greenery, fresh buds and clear air; birds sang, insects hummed, and the little stones of the path crunched under their boots.
Ahead, Faina and Aldreda had ensconced themselves in a private world with Edeva laughing and swinging between their arms, her tiny shoes scuffing each time she kicked off. The love between them was as tangible as the life of the flora. Though, Faina seemed a little out of sorts.
‘Osian was right to come down hard,’ Demelza continued. ‘Although…’
The tangle of thorned emotions still hemmed around Meilyr, like bracken in the undergrowth. Concern for Wade Bevan. A thousand other shapeless fears. ‘Although?’ he asked, hesitant.
‘I worry for him. One of the reasons I came here was to… assuage doubt.’
‘Doubt? About Osian?’ There were those who disagreed with him – wished to undermine him. But this was something else.
Concern lined her tired eyes. She was exhausted, fighting valiantly to hide it. ‘You must understand, he has always seen the world differently. Black and white where others saw grey, and the reverse. He has a kind soul not meant, perhaps, for the burdens he must bear, as I’ve no doubt you have seen.’
He said nothing. Felt the truth of her words like the subdued rock of the waves vying to drown him.
‘It would make him a truly great ruler were the world half as understanding. Alas, especially in times such as these, when fear is rampant…’ She slowed, feigning interest in the withering petals.
Meilyr lowered his voice. ‘What is it, Highness?’
She squeezed his arm. ‘There are whispers of his… sympathies, in regards to you, to Cyngalon. He has always felt this strongly, but people will gossip. The Marches fear his power over their autonomy, they and the court crave someone to blame, and there are… rumours that have never helped him.’
Meilyr was afraid to ask, but had to. ‘What rumours?’
The close scuffing of pebbles – Edeva skidded to a halt before them, grabbing Meilyr’s sleeve and hand. ‘Black flowers! I found black flowers! Faina says they’re dahlias!’
They were both willingly dragged, until something across the lawn made Meilyr slow.
Edeva stopped and looked with him. ‘What is it?’
‘Highness Cadogan?’ Demelza asked.
The dappled shade beneath the small rowan tree stirred in the breeze. The sharp barbs of golden henbane nodded. For a moment, it had seemed…
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I thought I saw something. Where are these dahlias, then?’
Edeva scrunched her nose, not believing him.
Faina called from further down the path, ‘Darlings, hurry now!’
That spurred Edeva on.
But as Meilyr looked back, he could not tell if the way the light fell beneath the tree caught merely leaflitter – or fur.
He kept his eyes on the undergrowth as they continued on, until a natural lull allowed him to say, ‘I will just be a moment, I need to check on something for a tisane.’
He stepped over an edging of bright yellow poppies onto the lawn, threading his way under the cherry trees and back. He had to have been mistaken, but something other than his rational mind set his boots on the grass.
Something was calling him, pulling on an invisible thread in his chest.
Something familiar. Hauntingly, achingly familiar.
Sunlight streamed through the branches. There was the top of the rowan, the henbane-edged shadows beneath. The dappling of light and shade, catching hues of umber and mottled jet. Keen eyes of brilliant gold, waiting—
‘Meilyr?’