I couldn’t seem to stop saying the wrong thing somehow. I protested, “But that’s just a way of saying the Welsh and the English fought one another.”
His black eyebrows rose slightly in his marble face. I had never known so much scorn expressed with so little effort. He turned away from me and back to Grundo. “There are several dragons in England,” he said to him. “The white is only the greatest. There are said to be more in Scotland, both in the waters and in the mountains, but I have no personal knowledge of these.”
Grundo looked utterly fascinated. “What about Ireland?” he asked.
“Ireland,” said my grandfather, “is in most places low and green and unsuitable for dragons. If there were any, Saint Patrick expelled them. But to go back to the Laws of Wales. We do not have Judges, as you do. Courts are called when necessary....”
He went into a long explanation. Grundo was still fascinated. I sat and watched their two profiles as they talked, Grundo’s all pale, long nose and freckles, and my grandfather’s like a statue from classical antiquity. My grandfather had quite a long nose, too, but his face was so perfectly proportioned that you hardly noticed. They both had great, deep voices, though where Grundo’s grated and grunted, my grandfather’s voice rolled and boomed.
Soul mates! I thought. I was glad I’d brought Grundo.
At the same time, I began to see some more of my mother’s problem. If my grandfather had been simply cold and strict and distant, it would have been easy to hate him and stop there. But the trouble was that he was also one of those people you wanted to please. There was a sort of grandness to him that made you ache to have him think well of you. Before long I was quite desperate for him to stop talking just to Grundo and notice me—or at least not disapprove of me so much. Mam must have felt exactly the same. But I could see that, no matter how hard she tried, Mam was too softhearted and emotional for her father, and so he treated her with utter scorn. He scorned me for different reasons. I sat at the tall table almost in pain, because I knew I was a courtier born and bred, and that I was smart and good-mannered and used to summing people up so that I could take advantage of their faults, and I could see that my grandfather had nothing but contempt for people like me. It really hurt. Grundo may have been peculiar, but he was not like that, and my grandfather liked him.
It was an enormous relief to me when we were allowed to get up from the table and leave the tall, cold room. My grandfather took us outside, through the front door, into a blast of sunlight and cold, clean air. While I stood blinking, he said to us, “Now, where would you say the red dragon lies?”
Grundo and I looked at one another. Then we pointed, hesitating a bit, to the most distant brown mountains, lying against the horizon in a misty, jagged row.
“Correct,” said my grandfather. “That is a part of his back. He is asleep for now. He will only arouse in extreme need, to those who know how to call him, and he does not like to be roused. The consequences are usually grave. The same is true of the white dragon of England. You call him, too, at your peril.” The way he said this made us shiver. Then he said, in a much more normal way, “You will want to explore now. Go anywhere you like, but don’t try to ride the mare, and be back at six. We have tea then, not the dinner you are used to. I’ll see you at tea. I have work to do before then.”
He went back into the house. He had a study at the back of the hall, as we learned later, though we never saw inside it. It was a bit puzzling, really. We never saw him do any religious duties or see parishioners—there were no other houses for miles anyway—but as Grundo said, dubiously, we were not there on a Sunday or any other holy day, so how could we know?
We did find the chapel. It was downhill to the left of the house, very tiny and gray, with a little arch of stone on its roof with a bell hanging in it. It was surrounded in green, and there was a hump of green turf beside it, like a big beehive, that had water trickling inside it. The whole place gave us an awed, uncertain feeling, so we went uphill again and round to the back of the house, where we came upon a stone shed with the car inside it. Beyond that, things were normal.
We found a kitchen garden there, fringed with those
orange flowers that grow in sprays, and a yard behind the house with a well in it. The water had to be pumped from the well by a handle in the kitchen. Olwen, the fat housekeeper, showed us how to do that. It was hard work. Then we went out beyond the yard to a couple of hidden meadows. One meadow had a pair of cows and a calf in it, and the other had a placid, chunky gray horse.
By this time our feelings of strangeness had worn off. We were used to being in new, unknown places, and we began to feel almost at home. We leaned on the gate and looked at the placid mare, who raised her chalky white face to look back at us and then went calmly on with grazing.
I think her lack of interest irritated Grundo. He went into one of his impish moods. “I’m going to try riding her,” he said, grinning at me.
“Your funeral,” I said. To confess the truth, I almost looked forward to seeing Grundo in trouble with my grandfather. I was feeling mean and depressed about my personality.
Grundo looks soft, but he is surprisingly wiry, and this makes him a much better rider than I am. I have never got much beyond the basics. In a softhearted way that is annoyingly like Mam’s, I am sorry for the horse for having me sit on its back making it do things. Grundo says this is silly. It’s what horses are bred for. He can make most horses do what he wants.
He nipped over the gate and went across to the mare. She took a quick glance at him and lost interest again. She took no notice at all when Grundo put his hands on her. She was not very tall. Grundo had no difficulty hoisting himself onto her back, where he sat and clicked his tongue at her to make her go. She swung her head round then and looked at him in astonishment. Then … I have no idea what she did then, and Grundo says he doesn’t know either. She sort of walked out from underneath him. I swear that for one moment Grundo was sitting on her back, and for another moment Grundo was sitting up in the air, on nothing, looking absolutely stunned, and the next moment the mare was ten feet away and going back to grazing. Grundo came down on the grass on his back with a thump.
He picked himself up and came hobbling over to the gate, saying seriously, “I don’t think I’ll try again. You can see by all the white on her that she’s very old.”
That made me scream with laughter. Grundo was very offended and explained that the mare was old enough to have learned lots of tricks, which only made me laugh more. And after a bit Grundo began to see the funny side of it, too. He said it felt very odd, being left sitting on nothing, and he kept wondering how the mare did it. We went scrambling up to the top of the hill behind the manse, laughing about it.
There were mountains all round as far as we could see up there. The peaks we had thought might be a dragon were lost among all the others.
“Do you think they really are part of a dragon?” I asked, while we went sliding and crouching down the other side of the summit. “It was rather mad, the way he said it.” The thought that my grandfather might be mad really worried me. But it would certainly explain why my mother was so terrified of him.
“He’s not mad,” Grundo said decidedly. “Everyone’s heard of the Welsh dragon.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “He doesn’t behave at all the way people usually do.”
“No, but he behaves like I would behave if I hadn’t been brought up at Court,” Grundo said. “I sort of recognized him. He’s like me underneath.”
This made me feel much better. There was a huge, heathery moor beyond the manse hill, and we rushed out into it with the wind clapping our hair about and cloud shadows racing across us. There was the soft smell of water everywhere. And no roads, no buses, no people, and only the occasional large, high bird. We found a place where water bubbled out of the ground in a tiny fountain that spread into a pool covered with lurid green weeds. Neither of us had seen a natural spring before, and we were delighted with it. We tried blocking it with our hands, but it just spouted up between our fingers, cold as ice.
“I suppose,” Grundo said, “that the well in Sir James’s Inner Garden must fill from a spring like this. Only I don’t think this one’s magic.”
“Oh, don’t!” I cried out. “I don’t want to remember all that! It’s not as if we can do a thing about it, whatever they’re plotting to do.” I spread my arms into the watery-smelling wind. “I feel free for the first time in a hundred years!” I said. “Don’t spoil it.”
Grundo stood with his feet sinking into squashy marsh plants and considered me. “I wish you wouldn’t exaggerate,” he said. “It annoys me. But you do look better. When we’re with the Progress, you always remind me of an ice puddle someone’s stamped in. All icy white edges. I’m afraid of getting cut on you sometimes.”