The Devil’s Diadem. Sara Douglass

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СКАЧАТЬ I present Ralph d’Avranches, the garrison commander at Pengraic.’

      I remembered his name from the conversation I’d heard in the solar at Rosseley. D’Avranches was from a distinguished and noble Norman family, and was renowned for his military skill.

      ‘My lord,’ I said, dipping in courtesy.

      ‘Mistress,’ d’Avranches said, with the minimum of politeness. He was singularly uninterested in either myself or Owain, and turned immediately back to Stephen, with whom I imagined he had been deep in conversation before Stephen detoured into the garden. ‘If I have your leave, my lord.’

      ‘By all means,’ Stephen said, and, with a half bow to Stephen, d’Avranches turned on his heel and was gone, his booted feet crunching along the gravel path.

      ‘I am glad to see you about,’ Stephen said to me. ‘I am sorry I have not attended my mother as I should, but …’ he shrugged. ‘Garrison matters always seem to crowd round me, demanding my attention. How does she keep, Maeb?’

      ‘She is well enough,’ I said. ‘She has regained some colour, and eats better now she is not constantly travelling. She has a little cough from the dampness of the stone, or perhaps a lingering chill caught while travelling, but otherwise she is much improved.’

      ‘I am relieved I managed to escort her home safe,’ Stephen said. ‘I worried for her, and the child. There is not yet sign of its birth?’

      ‘My lady thinks a little while yet, my lord,’ I said.

      Stephen nodded, then grinned at Owain. ‘No doubt such tedious household gossip bores you, my friend.’

      ‘Indeed not, my lord,’ Owain said. He looked to me. ‘I did not know my lady has been unwell. Would you ask her if she would like me to attend on her?’

      ‘Owain is skilled with herbals,’ Stephen said, ‘and I should have thought to have asked you to visit her before now, Owain. I will attend her this very afternoon, and speak to her of you.’

      Owain gave a small bow. ‘I was about to show Mistress Maeb the chapel, my lord. Will you accompany us?’

      I was not sure I should be seen with Stephen at all, for I still heeded the countess’ and Evelyn’s warnings. But no one from my lady’s chambers could see us here, and the chapel would be private. No harm could come of it, surely.

      Stephen made a movement as if he were about to offer me his arm, then thought better of it. ‘I would be glad of it,’ he said, ‘for the chapel always gives me great peace.’

      I collected Rosamund, who had by now picked enough flowers to wind into a chain about her head, and together with Stephen and Owain we entered the southern door of the chapel.

      The chapel was dim, lit only by a score of candles and the light from the imposing eastern window (which I took a moment to marvel at, for I had never seen the like). My eyes adjusted slowly to the light and by then Rosamund was squirming in my arms, trying to get down.

      I looked to Owain for permission.

      ‘Let her run free,’ he said. ‘I have no objection.’

      I set her down with a small sigh of relief and a few words of stern warning not to touch the candles.

      She wandered off, happily intrigued by the intricately carved sandalled feet of the nearby stone statue of a saint, and I turned to look more fully about the chapel.

      Apart from its size — this was the largest chapel I had ever entered — it was as all chapels in which I had worshipped, save that it was far more richly appointed and that the wall paintings were somehow different. I frowned at them, not immediately able to see how they differed from all others I had seen, then …

      ‘Oh,’ I said, and both Owain and Stephen laughed.

      ‘Come,’ said Owain, ‘walk a little closer. This panel here is among my favourites. What do you make of it?’

      All churches and chapels had their walls painted with various scenes from the Bible as well as from the martyrdom of saints and scenes of the last judgment. But here the paintings were markedly different. While they showed scenes from the Bible and of saints’ martyrdoms, all these scenes were set within magnificent forests.

      The chapel walls were alive with trees. Branches dipped this way and that, and saints, apostles and martyrs danced in and out of clearings and veils of leaves.

      Even the figures of the people depicted within were different. All the people were tall and willowy, and had a sense of the otherworldly about them.

      ‘I have never seen anything like it!’ I said. ‘It is very … unusual.’

      In truth, I found the heavily wooded nature of the walls somewhat unsettling. It made the chapel darker than otherwise it might have been, and, sweet Jesu, I wondered if I looked hard enough would I see any wood dryads or fairies peeking out from the crowns of the trees.

      ‘The chapel was painted many years ago,’ Stephen said, walking over and softly laying the fingertips of one hand against a depiction of a gnarled tree trunk. ‘I believe my ancestor made good use of the craftsmen in Crickhoel. I saw you looking at the figures, Maeb. They are said to be of the Old People who I mentioned to you, those who were here before the Welsh came. They are long gone now.’

      ‘To the Old People this was a sacred spot,’ Owain said. ‘On some festivity days the villagers of Crickhoel ask the earl if they can come and worship in this chapel. They like to lay flowers on the heartstone. The earl never refuses.’

      I studied the paintings further. ‘Why are there wolves running among the people?’

      ‘Again,’ Owain said, ‘these walls depict ancient myths as well as Christian tales. It is said the wolves are the protectors of this land, and of the ancient peoples, and of those who today still bear their bloodlines.’

      ‘My mother wants these forests and people and wolves painted over,’ Stephen said, turning to me and smiling, ‘but my father has for the moment resisted her. It would be a shame to lose them, for I enjoy knowing I have a forest so close whenever I need its solace.’

      ‘But these painting are very … pagan,’ I said. ‘Do they not worry you, Owain, plastered as they are about a chapel dedicated to our Lord Christ Saviour?’

      ‘No,’ Owain said. ‘If anything, they give me comfort. I like to think that the Old People are still here, watching over us.’

      That was very un-Christian of him, I thought. Perhaps Owain was as much, or more, a man of these mountains and their past than he was Lord Christ’s man?

      ‘Maeb,’ Stephen said, ‘have you seen this? This is the stone of which Owain just spoke.’

      He led us toward an immense stone set in the very heart of the nave. It was five or six times the size of the other floor slabs, and irregularly shaped.

      It was very smooth, worn smooth over the centuries by the passage of thousands of feet.

      ‘This stone was here before the chapel was built,’ Stephen said. ‘It was set into the space atop this hill, perhaps by the Old People. We call it the heartstone: СКАЧАТЬ