The Rose Cord Read online

  Once they had dropped out of the mountains on to the high plain, the road widened and Osgal picked up their speed. Errol had to concentrate on staying in the saddle as he cantered and then galloped to keep up. At first he was scared by the speed, tense at the thought of falling off and the injuries he might sustain. But with each passing mile, so his confidence grew. And, as he relaxed, he began to feel the rhythm of his horse’s movements, settling into them rather than fighting against them.

  ‘Better,’ Osgal shouted as he dropped back along the line of the troop, inspecting each of his men in turn. ‘Maybe we’ll make a rider out of you after all.’ It was the barest compliment, but Errol accepted it nonetheless. It was the first time he could remember the captain saying anything to him that wasn’t a criticism or a threat.

  After about an hour they reached a ford over the river that had followed them down from the mountains. Osgal called a halt.

  ‘Set up camp here,’ he said to his warrior priests. ‘I’ll take the boy into town on my own. If I’m not back by the end of the week, head back to Emmass Fawr and tell Melyn I’m sorry for failing him.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Errol asked. ‘Is there that much danger?’

  ‘Silence, boy!’ Osgal cuffed him across the back of his head. ‘You will speak only when spoken to. And you will speak in Llanwennog. Or did you think they’d be happy to talk to you in Saesneg in Tynewydd?’

  Errol kept his mouth shut, chastened. He had been lulled into a sense of security, riding with a troop of warrior priests into the wild lands. Now he was nearing the first stage of his goal, he remembered the true nature of what he had to do and what was at stake should he fail.

  ‘Come on then, boy.’ Osgal slipped into heavily accented Llanwennog. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  By mid-afternoon they had almost reached their destination. The great spire of rock seemed to shrink rather than grow as they approached it, dwarfed by the wall of rock that formed the far side of the valley. Errol could see that stone buildings had been hacked into its side, culminating in a stubby tower at its peak. A solid-looking wall circled the town, not quite containing all the buildings, and for the first time in many days he saw people milling around.

  They slowed to a trot as they approached the gates to the town, then to a walk as they entered its shaded streets. Errol had expected there to be guards, had thought he would hear Llanwennog spoken by everyone around him. As it was, most of the people looked no different to the captain riding alongside him. And what snippets of conversation he heard were a mixture of both languages and a few words he didn’t recognize at all.

  They climbed slowly through the narrow streets of Tynewydd until finally they reached a wide courtyard. Ahead of them the spire of rock rose into the sky, and Errol could see now that it had been formed into a strong castle. Some time in the past this area had been rich and worth defending, but with the passage of years it had lost much of its importance and the wealth with which to maintain such an impressive fortress. At least that was what he surmised as they approached it, for it was a ramshackle, run-down place.

  The gates were wide open but guarded. At their approach two soldiers stepped together, raising spears to block their path.

  ‘State your business,’ one of them said.

  ‘I’m here to see –’ Osgal began to say, but he was interrupted by a voice from the battlements above his head.

  ‘Ah, Osgal, you’re here,’ a grey-haired man said in fluent Saesneg. ‘Let them pass,’ he added to the guards, switching to their native language.

  They dismounted and led their horses into the castle, where the grey-haired man waited for them. Osgal bowed his head slightly to the man.

  ‘Your Grace, may I be presenting to you Errol Ramsbottom,’ he said in his imperfect Llanwennog. Then he turned to Errol. ‘This is His Grace, Duke Dondal of Tynewydd. He is being your master now.’

  Errol bowed but said nothing. The duke scarcely looked at him. Osgal unclipped two heavy saddlebags from his horse and a couple of stable hands appeared to take the beasts away.

  ‘Give the captain’s horse some feed,’ Dondal said to the first of the two boys. They weren’t that much younger than he was, Errol suspected. ‘But don’t bother with stabling it; he won’t be staying long.’ Then he turned away, heading across the courtyard to a large open doorway, motioning for them to follow.

  Inside was dark, a hall lit by small narrow windows high in the front wall, its back hewn from the rock. The air was cold, with a damp musty smell of caves that put Errol in mind of some of the lower levels of Emmass Fawr. For some reason he recalled the mortuary and the strange hurried post-mortem of Princess Lleyn.

  A long table of dark oak sat beside an empty fireplace, and Duke Dondal slumped into the seat at its head.

  ‘You have something for me, Osgal?’ The duke motioned with a hand encrusted with jewelled rings, still paying Errol no attention. The captain opened the first bag and emptied a pile of gold coins on to the table.

  ‘The other one’s got the same in it.’ Osgal switched to Saesneg with what might have been a sneer in his voice. ‘How soon before you set off to Tynhelyg?’

  ‘Oh that’ll be months yet.’ Dondal casually picked up one of the coins. ‘The boy’s got to settle in here first, learn his new craft. People have to accept him as part of my retinue. But don’t worry; I’ve the perfect cover for him.’

  Osgal stared at Dondal, and in the half-light Errol fancied he could see the anger boiling off the captain like steam on a winter’s morning. He stood, fuming, for some seconds, a poor imitation of the inquisitor.

  ‘Was there anything else, Captain?’

  ‘No, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then I suspect you’ll be wanting to get back to your monastery.’ He pulled a sheaf of papers from the depths of his robe and handed it to the captain. ‘Give this to Melyn, would you.’

  If Osgal bowed, Errol couldn’t see it. The captain glared once at him, said, ‘Remember what I told you,’ then stalked out of the room.

  ‘Such a coarse fellow. I find Padraig’s emissaries so much easier to get on with. And they can at least speak properly.’ He turned finally to Errol. ‘And what about you, boy? Can you convince me?’

  ‘Convince you of what, Your Grace?’ Errol asked in his best Llanwennog.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got the accent reasonably well. Come here.’

  Errol stepped forward, bowing once more. The duke grabbed him by the cheeks, pulling his head up and looking at him like he might judge a ram at a country fair.

  ‘You’re Llanwennog, that’s for sure. Who was your father, Errol?’

  ‘I don’t know, Your Grace. My mother wouldn’t speak of him, except to say he’d been killed in a tavern brawl months before I was born.’

  ‘Did she say where she met him?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Errol said. ‘Although I know she worked for a while at Ystumtuen.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Dondal let go of Errol’s face. ‘That might explain it.’

  ‘Explain what, please, Your Grace?’ Errol asked, immediately regretting his forwardness. The duke looked at him with a quizzical expression, not annoyed as much as surprised that someone would even think of asking him such a question.

  ‘You have royal blood in you, Errol Ramsbottom. Not much, it’s true. But it’s there for anyone with eyes to see.’

  Benfro stood on the green in front of the great hall, back in the village. It was as he remembered it from the day the old dragons had died. It was the day they had died, he thought. Only it was earlier somehow. Everything was still intact, unbroken.

  Then they came, the warrior priests. They marched up the lane on foot, the inquisitor at their head on a horse. As if performing some dreadful dance, groups split off, one by one, into the houses. Their discipline was intimidating, their complete silence terrifying.

  Some of the dragons resisted. Others, heads bowed, accepted with a modicum of grace the fate they had so long feared. None seemed surpr
ised that this time had come. Only Meirionydd fought, lashing out at the nearest men with her talons and screaming such language as he had never heard before. Spells boiled the air around her, pushing back the warrior priests for an instant. He willed her to succeed, to kill one and then all of the dreadful creatures, but all too soon she was stopped. He could not see what held her, some invisible force that she struggled against with all her might even when they put her eyes out. Eventually she could scarcely stand. Blood was running down her sides and one arm was clearly broken. When she finally collapsed, the warrior she had first attacked stepped up to her, pissed on her head and then cut off her wings with a swiftly conjured blade of light. Only then would they allow Ynys Môn and Sir Maesyfed to pick her up and carry her limp body along with the others.

  All were herded on to the green near to where Benfro stood, motionless and disregarded. Those that resisted were beaten with invisible blows that raised ugly scars, snapped scales and bones. Eventually, when the warriors had taken their pleasure, the cowed dragons were lined up in front of the hall in front of their chief tormentor, the inquisitor.

  ‘Where is the hatchling?’ he asked, his voice loaded with barely controlled rage. There was a moment’s silence as the old dragons merely glared at their tormentors. And then a familiar voice came from the back.

  ‘His name is Benfro. He’s the bastard of that witch Morgwm and some great oaf calling himself Trefaldwyn.’

  ‘Who speaks?’ the inquisitor asked. ‘Come forward and show yourself.’

  He knew who was going to edge herself through the pathetic huddle. Frecknock. He had never understood why she disliked him. Could it just be that, until he came along, she was the youngest? Was it just petty jealousy that made her betray her own kind to these monsters? Vanity that had killed them all?

  She stood in front of the inquisitor with her head held high. There were no marks on her hide so she had not resisted when they had come for her but gone meekly.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘I am Frecknock, Your Grace.’

  ‘Ah, sweet Frecknock, we meet at last,’ the inquisitor said, his voice slipping into the unctuous tones of Sir Felyn as he spoke in Draigiaith. ‘See, I am a man of my word.’

  ‘You!’ Frecknock wailed, and for an instant Benfro almost pitied her. She seemed to deflate in front of his eyes as, finally, the true cost of her folly dawned on her.

  ‘Frecknock, what have you done? What have we forced you to?’

  Benfro looked around for whoever it was had spoken, seeing Meirionydd, blinded and battered, trying to hold herself up with some semblance of dignity. He raged to see her so helpless, defeated yet defiant. It boiled in him like his stomach was a bed of coals. And yet he was powerless, invisible, not even there.

  ‘Kill them,’ the inquisitor said. ‘Kill them all. Let the forest creatures pick the meat from their bones. We’ll return for their jewels at our pleasure.’ He turned his back on the dragons and made his way up the track towards the forest, where more warrior priests waited with the horses.

  ‘Your Grace,’ one of the younger men said, ‘with respect, is it wise to kill all of them? A tame one would be a magnificent gift for our new queen. The young female might easily be broken and house-trained.’

  ‘Why is it, Clun,’ the inquisitor asked, ‘that whenever someone prefaces a comment with the words “with respect”, I just know they have anything but respect in mind?’

  ‘Sir, I only meant,’ the young lad stuttered, but he was cut short by the inquisitor’s guttural laugh.

  ‘Don’t panic, boy. You’re right of course. If a few more of you showed such backbone and intelligence I’d feel a deal more confident you might make it through the induction. Keep the young female; the others are no use to us. Kill them.’

  Benfro watched helplessly as Frecknock was forced to lie beside the inquisitor’s nervous horse. The others meanwhile were being herded ever closer to the great hall. Suddenly they all stopped, turned as a mass to stare at their executioners. For a second he thought they might make a stand there. Fight. Sir Frynwy elbowed himself to the front. He stood tall and proud, chest out and fluttering his drab old wings like two pieces of chamois leather well past their best.

  ‘We all of us made a choice, countless years ago,’ he said. ‘Every one of us could have roamed the world, alone and powerful. Yet we chose to live in gentle companionship here, no harm to anyone. Now we make another choice, all of us. You can kill us, true. You have that power over us. But we will not go to slaughter fearful, like cattle. We embrace our deaths with courage and dignity. Come, friends. Follow me.’ And with a last contemptuous sneer at the inquisitor, he whirled round and led them all up the small stone steps and into the hall.

  ‘Fine words, dragon.’ The inquisitor waved an arm lazily across the scene. ‘But you will still die.’

  The warriors took up position around the building and Benfro watched as the inquisitor waved his hand once more. A ball of fire appeared from nowhere, hovering lightly over his outstretched palm. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it crashing through one of the great windows, closely followed by another and another. It wasn’t long before the hall was a wall of flame. Yet no sound rose from the conflagration except the roar of the blaze, the popping of timbers and the crash of stone when the roof at last gave way.

  When he was finally satisfied that no one was going to escape, the inquisitor wheeled his horse round, turned his back on the pyre and shrugged his shoulders in an annoyed way, as if the catharsis he so craved had eluded him once more.

  ‘Fall in,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a hatchling to find. He’ll be frightened and helpless, so I want you all to tune in to his fear.’

  Benfro watched as the warrior priests gathered together like a colony of disturbed ants. A smaller band appeared, leading a group of very nervous-looking horses and a couple of wagons. Soon all of the men were mounted. Frecknock was chained to the back of the last wagon without any complaint. Her face was a mask, unreadable. At a silent command, the column moved out of the village, the inquisitor casting treacherous flames into each house as they passed it. Invisible, Benfro could only stand and stare as the village that had been his home burned to the ground.

  As he stood in the ruins of everything he had ever loved, the sky split open above him, torn like a sheet of paper. Huge taloned claws pulled the sides of the rent wide and a face poked through the gap, looking down on the scene with a malicious, hungry gleam in its eyes. It was a familiar face, draconian, though he could not remember where he had seen it before. He thought at first it had come to wreak havoc on the warrior priests, take revenge for the ill done to its kind. Instead it reached out for the burning hall, dragged the smoking timbers from the collapsed roof with a single taloned finger and then reached into the fiery mass.

  It grabbed one of the seated dragons within, wrapping the still body in its fist and lifting the charred, smoking corpse to its mouth before swallowing it whole. It seemed to grow as it did this, not so much in size as in clarity. Powerless to do anything, Benfro could only watch as, one by one, the dead bodies of his friends were consumed. With each swallow the dragon in the sky solidified, its body gaining coherence to the point where it could begin to clamber through the tear in the sky and stretch its massive wings.

  ‘Magog,’ Benfro whispered to himself.

  The dragon only screamed, a bestial noise that echoed through the forest. Surely the warriors would hear it, come running. But they didn’t. And Benfro knew that they were long gone, his dream moved forward days or even weeks. For that was what it was, he now knew. A dream. Something had forced him to witness the terrible suffering and death of his friends and now it was eating their memory. Furious, he ran into the great hall, now no more than a weed-overgrown tumble of soot-blackened masonry and charred beams.

  The sight that greeted him was if anything worse than the reality he had experienced so many weeks earlier. The dragons were dead, but they were not proudly, defiantly sitting in their
places. They cowered, burned and twisted, under the table, in the lee of the windows, anywhere that might hide them from the dread creature overhead. And with a sickening lurch in his stomach Benfro realized that even in death they were terrified of the great dragon in the sky. As he stared at the carnage with incomprehension, he saw its massive hand reach down again, feeling about blindly in the mess of the hall and wrapping itself around the blackened form of Ynys Môn.

  Instinct took over then. With a roar of anger that had all the power of his frustration and fear of the warrior priests behind it, Benfro launched himself towards the great hand. He felt a rage so hot it boiled in his blood, turned his stomach to fire. And then the flame erupted from him.

  It was like the reckoning fire. It leaped from body to body, ignoring the wooden table and charred beams. As they were engulfed, the dead villagers seemed to straighten up, no longer cowering. And then the flame reached Ynys Môn, who was struggling mightily against the hand of Magog. With a cry of surprise and pain, the great dragon released its quarry and the hand withdrew. Looking up, Benfro could see only the sky, cloudy and darkening.

  Movement dragged his eyes back to the great hall. All the dragons were again seated, determined and upright in their places. The flame played around them, not so much devouring their bodies as slowly, gently, fading them from solid to nothing. Benfro thought he should have been sad. Certainly he felt anguish and shame at having breathed fire, even in a dream. But the feeling of joy emanating from the dead wiped that shame away.

  ‘I’m sorry for ever doubting you, Benfro.’ The words were Sir Frynwy’s, but surely the old dragon was too far gone to be speaking to him? ‘You’ve set us free now and our spirits can mingle here for all time.’

  ‘What … what did I do?’ Benfro asked, confused and happy and sad all at the same time.