Breaking the Rules (20 page)

In the parlor the innkeeper had already put her to the back of his mind as he mulled over the circumstances that now prevailed where his great goal was concerned. He had made it his business to find out exactly what had happened at the inn during his absence in Dursley, and knew that Ursula had called, and that Conan had returned as well, bringing Bran. What further confirmation was needed that a combined force was working against him, a force that was powerful enough to hinder his labors, maybe even overturn them? They were all thorns in his side, and he would have to pluck them out completely now that time itself was at such an unexpected premium.

Time. Oh, how could he, Cadfan Meriadoc, the
only one
to have remained true to his birthright, have made such an elementary and enormous blunder in his calculations? He had been so certain the relevant period ended at midnight, when May Eve became May Day, 1819, instead of which it was May Eve
tomorrow
night! Now he was forced to resort to desperate spells and charms in order to be ready for the pivotal moment. If he failed, another five hundred years and a disagreeable number of boring existences would have to be endured before he had his next chance to find a treasure more fabulous and plentiful than most men could even dream of. So he couldn’t afford to let the reins be snatched from him at this late stage.

He picked up the empty posset cup, remembered it was empty, and slammed it down again petulantly. When all this was over and done with, he was going to be waited on hand and foot by a veritable seraglio of fawning maidens who would pander to his every whim! See how Vera Pedlar liked
that!
She wouldn’t, and that was a fact. But he would. Oh, indeed he would! The knowledge of sorcery he had acquired during various lives over the past one and a half millennia had won him the favor of the gods, and now he only had to wait for riches to fall into his hands. Then there would be just luxury, without a single cloud to darken his horizon. No more chicanery and swindling the gullible, no more false names and hasty departures, no more bowing and scraping to fools at a country inn, just privilege of the sort that should have been his by right all along; privilege such as the likes of Sir Conan Merrydown had always known, and Theodore Greatorex wished to know.

The path to the site of the treasure had been a winding one, and had to be discovered anew every five hundred years. It had taken his latest self some time to realize that Elcester was the site he sought, and then more time again to work out where exactly in Elcester the High-King Eudaf Hen’s old summer house had been. At first he’d wondered if Hatty Pedlar’s Tump held the key, but had soon been persuaded it didn’t. He’d even wondered if the old yew was an indicator, because it had already been about five hundred years old fifteen hundred years ago, just before the so-called Dark Ages, but now he knew beyond all doubt that the valley would yield the harvest. He had cast the necessary magic and would clear his way of last minute foes, and then discover all he sought.

Taynton inhaled with anticipation. If only they all knew the truth! If the High-King Eudaf Hen had followed the traditional ways by the male line of succession, the throne and treasure should have gone to Kynan Meriadoc—or Sir Conan Merrydown, as he now was. But in the past Kynan had so cravenly accepted the old man’s decision to let Elen of the Ways marry the Roman emperor, that he was owed no allegiance now. As for Theodore Maximilian Greatorex, he might be Macsen Wledig returned, but he had never and would never possess the moral right to the throne, the bride, or the treasure. None of them deserved anything. Only Bellamy Taynton—Samuel Haine—Cadfan Meriadoc, three names, one man, was worthy of the heritage. He would teach them all the error of their ways, past and present. They were about to be trounced, every last one of them, including the infernal wolfhound and the Elcester woman, who had both been in the woods when they shouldn’t have been. Those woods were his domain now, and by the magic he had cast, all else would soon be his as well.

Taynton smiled coldly, for his enemies were almost in his grasp already. He possessed items that belonged to each one of them, including the wolfhound’s collar, for he’d had more than enough of that rabid canine. All he didn’t have was something of Conan’s. The inn and its outbuildings would be ransacked from top to bottom until that missing fob seal was found. If, indeed, it had been lost in the first place. He now guessed it to have been a ruse. Conan Merrydown had been present when the squirrel escaped. It was a suspicious coincidence. Tonight he, Bellamy Taynton, would cut more squares of bark from the yew and go down to the woods to cast the dark ritual spell that was necessary to nullify those who would set themselves against him. He would go alone and take everything he needed with him, including the pieces of bark, Ursula’s ribbon, Theo’s button, Conan’s seal, if found, and Bran’s collar. Would that he could enchant them all tonight, when midnight marked the start of May Eve, but the next midnight, when May Day commenced and the moon was at its fullest, was the time it must be done. It would also be Beltane, but it would be Bellamy Taynton, not witches, who enchanted everything. When the last chime of twelve had died away, and it was May Day, his enemies would cease to be.

“Then I will come into my own, and there will not be a thing that any of them will be able to do about it,” he murmured.

As darkness fell that night, Taynton left the inn to limp toward the village green. The breeze had died away, and the air was much warmer, almost like summer in fact, but he shivered and sneezed because of his chill. The May Day fair had grown considerably during the day, and people were seated on the grass around fires where stew bubbled in iron pots. He paused to talk to them, albeit with more than a few sniffs and sneezes to punctuate his conversation. Not to have spoken would be regarded as offensive. Then he continued to the church.

Daniel Pedlar’s forge fire was still bright, and the sound of hammering issued from the brightly lit entrance. Taynton could see the blacksmith inside, his muscles dirty and shining in the flames. The work he was doing was intricate—Ursula’s weathercock gift for her father, as it happened— and he didn’t look up as the innkeeper hobbled beneath the lych-gate into the churchyard.

A vicarage window was open, and Taynton heard the new twins crying, then Mrs. Arrowsmith’s shrill voice calling for her maid to remove them because her poor head was throbbing with the noise. The innkeeper paid scant attention to her vapors, for he was too intent upon the trunk of the darkly spreading yew tree, where the three scars he’d recently cut into bark seemed strangely bright in the darkness. Three cuts, one to force Elcester to sell the manor, one to do make Jem Cartwright sell the Fleece Inn, and one for the previous night’s incantations. He glanced around, in case there was someone else nearby, but all was dark and quiet, so he took out a knife and carefully cut four new squares of bark. Shoving them inside his coat, he pocketed the knife again and left the churchyard.

He returned to the inn to collect all the things he would need, and put them in an old canvas satchel. Conan’s fob seal had not been found, despite the inn having been gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and Taynton was now convinced it had never been missing at all. It had just been an excuse for Kynan Meriadoc to interfere in things that had ceased to be any concern of his almost fifteen hundred years ago, when he permitted Macsen Wledig to marry Elen of the Roads! Taynton paused, for only then did something else strike him—Kynan Meriadoc had subsequently taken to wife a princess named Ursula ... .

All the old shades from the Otherworld were now present in the form of modern counterparts. Three couples then, and three couples now; Macsen Wledig and Elen of the Ways, Kynan Meriadoc and his Princess Ursula, and last but definitely not least, Cadfan Meriadoc and Lady Severa. All bridal couples in the past, but not one of the modern counterparts would be permitted to stand together beneath the yew. Not one.

The almost full moon had risen by the time the innkeeper made his awkward way down through the field toward the woods. He was glad of his staff, for it helped him to walk, and his satchel of paraphernalia was heavy. In spite of the warmer temperature, the silvery light was cool and remote, seeming to banish the rest of the world as he entered the trees. The scent of bluebells enveloped him as he approached Hazel Pool, where the water reflected the moon and stars like a perfect mirror.

Beneath the oak tree he put on his robes, torque, the wreath of mistletoe and oak, and then the antlers. After that he emptied the satchel on the grass at the edge of the pool. It contained the stolen chalice, a long iron nail, the tinderbox, four squat candles, the pieces of bark, and the ribbon, button, dog collar, together with a slip of paper upon which Conan’s names, past and present, were written. The last would not work as well as an actual item of property, but it was the best that could be done for the time being.

He placed one of the candles and a personal item on each of the little bark rafts, lighted the candles using the tinderbox, and then placed them in a neat line at the very edge of the bank. Then he paused as a huge sneeze overwhelmed him. It was followed by another, and then another, and when they had subsided for the time being, he rooted around in his robe for his handkerchief and blew his nose rather noisily.

Next he took the nail and his staff and hammered the nail into the hollow oak tree with the staff. Then he returned to the edge of the pool and looked down pensively at the chalice, which glinted richly in the moving light from the nearby candles. This was the one part of the puzzle of which he was not sure. He knew from many a dream that the chalice was essential to the whole scheme, but he did not know in what way. It was necessary to guess how to proceed with it, and he was inclined to believe it must be an offering to the Green Man, the god of summer in whose sacred grove both the pool and the oak tree were to be found. The god’s special time commenced now, at Beltane, when spring gave way to the long hot months of the sun. At midsummer, he was said to dance through the woods, reasserting his mastery of nature, but if that was so, it was something that no one had ever seen. Taynton wished to see it. Oh, how he did, for he was the Green Man’s dedicated follower.

His thoughts moved on. If the chalice was an offering, where should it be offered? In the water, as was the time-honored way? Or perhaps in the revered tree? His glance moved back to the oak, and a part of him decided to hedge his bets. If he threw the chalice into the water, he would only find it again with a great deal of trouble, by which time his hour of opportunity might have passed. But if it was in the tree, easily accessible, its retrieval would not be difficult. Yes, better safe than sorry, he thought as he picked up the chalice and took it to the tree. There he sneezed again as he held it up with both hands and muttered secret words before placing it in the hollow trunk.

It was then that a most uncanny sensation of being watched settled over him. He turned sharply toward the spot where Conan had hidden the night before. Was someone there? He took a step toward the clump of coppiced hazels. Nothing moved, so he went closer again, but still there did not seem to be anything. Yet he could not shake off the feeling that someone’s eyes were upon him. He glanced all around. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!” There wasn’t a sound, except the gentle trickle of water where the pool overflowed into the little stream.

Taynton stood there for a long moment, his ears sharpened for even the tiniest sound, but as the seconds ticked by, he began to think he’d been mistaken. Taking a long breath to compose himself for the magic at hand, he returned to the row of candlelit bark ‘rafts’ on the bank. Once again he spread his arms majestically to the sky, but was obliged to quell yet another sneeze before beginning to intone.
“When May Eve turns to my May Day, when May Eve turns to my May Day, when May Eve turns to my May Day, I am your Master. Tipper-ipper-apper—on your shoulder, Tipper-ipper-apper—on your shoulder, Tipper-ipper-apper—on your shoulder, I am your Master!”
With another very commonplace sneeze, he floated the first piece of bark, the one with Conan’s name.

He repeated the words—and the sneezes—three times, until all the little rafts were afloat, their flames gleaming on the surface of the pool. A slight stirring of breeze crept up from somewhere, rippled the water and then died away again, leaving the flames trembling for a moment before becoming still once more. To the innkeeper’s dismay, the fragment of paper had been blown away across the pool, out of reach, even for his staff. Conan would have to wait for his moment of truth.

Composing himself once again, Taynton pointed the staff at the raft upon which Ursula’s ribbon lay.
“Out upon the waiting water, Out upon the waiting water, Out upon the waiting water, I am your Master!”
As he finished, the piece of bark slowly capsized and sank, extinguishing the candle and taking the ribbon to the bottom of the pool.

The same words were uttered for the other rafts, and each time the same thing happened. He wasn’t to know that Theo’s curse was also null and void because before the necessary words had been uttered, the puff of wind that had blown Conan’s paper away had also sent the button to the bottom of the pool. As far as Taynton was aware, the three remaining spells had all been successfully cast, and at the stroke of midnight the next night, Ursula, Theo, and Bran would fall into a sleep from which they would never awaken.

As he straightened a last time, something made him whirl about suddenly. Someone
was
watching him! Was it the Elcester creature? His nostrils flared, and his eyes were iron bright, but then he made out a ghostly figure at the edge of the clearing, where the path he had followed from the Green Man came out of the woods.

He knew that figure. “Eleanor? Elen of the Ways?” he called softly, concealing his dismay that she had not tried to get as far away from him as possible. He had expected her to be long gone while she had the opportunity. Then he remembered that she had heard Theodore Greatorex’s name mentioned. She knew Greatorex was her bridegroom, Macsen Wledig, come again! Taynton’s heart quickened uneasily. It wasn’t sufficient that Greatorex would fall beneath the spell tomorrow night, for there remained hours enough for everything he’d planned to be wrecked.