Chapter 1 – The Family
“Andronica, ach gwaharddedig at chofnoda ’r llyfrdy!” Father always spoke Welsh when he was angry,
and today he was angrier than usual, as this was the third time in a fortnight
that I had been caught in the library.
He extended his hand for the book concealed behind my back – Caesar’s
history of the Gallic Wars – but I stood firm and refused to relinquish it.
“Pater, non sum puella
parvula. Lego quidquid volo.” I answered in Latin to lend gravity to my
refusal, simultaneously straightening to appear as tall as possible. Though only a month had passed since my
thirteenth birthday, I now considered myself an adult and quite capable of
choosing my own reading material – and this certainly did not include those
tiresome pamphlets intended for “young ladies of good breeding” which Father brought
from his visits to London.
“I should have that tutor of
yours flogged for teaching you Latin without my permission,” he continued in
English after his initial fit of temper had subsided. “Latin is a language used only by learned men, and of course by Papists. Since you are neither, what purpose can it
possibly serve? It is only a waste of
time better spent at your needlepoint.
At this rate, I despair that you will ever become a lady.”
To avoid provoking Father any further,
I switched to English as well, though his implication that proper learning was
something reserved for the male sex incensed me all the more.
“Father, by the calendar this is
the year 1748, but your thinking is from the Dark Ages. Can you explain to me why boys should be
allowed to learn Latin, when girls are not?”
“It’s simply not proper for
young ladies,” he insisted, taking refuge as usual in the irrational arguments
of time-worn tradition.
“You yourself often say that I
have twice the brains of anyone else in Wales,” I reasoned, “so why do you
begrudge me a proper education? Besides,
Mr Smythe has been teaching me Latin that I might read Livy and Tacitus. Roman history is much more interesting than
that dreary Popish rubbish. Did you know
that Rome nearly lost the Second Punic War?
Think of what our country would be like today if the Romans had never
come here – our Celtic race might still be master of our own land. Instead of merely being the twenty-fifth Duke
of Caerfyrddin, perhaps you would be King of the Britons. Kendrick the First! And I would be the Princess of Wales.”
“Oh Andronica, please don’t
start that again,” sighed Father. “We
simply must accept that the English are our rulers and be done with it. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got work to
do. That idiot Cuthbert has sent the
newest ledgers, and they’re teeming with errors. If not corrected before the next inspection
by His Majesty’s Customs, there’ll be hell to pay – not to mention the arrears
on the rum excise and the fines to boot.
So be off with you!”
I started for the door, hoping
Father would not notice that Caesar was now hidden in the folds of my dress.
“Ahem. The book, if you please.”
Dropping the tome
unceremoniously on his secrétaire, I
stormed out of the room without a further word.
There was no point in trying to make him understand. I didn’t want
to be a lady – at least not the kind he meant, always smiling demurely and
attending to her husband’s every whim, little better than a servant.
To keep the day from falling
into compete ruin, I thought to visit my cousin Bronwyn, as she always seemed
to have a wise word on such occasions, being the eldest of the twenty-odd
cousins in the Llewellyn clan of Caerfyrddin.
The cottage of Uncle Gareth and
Aunt Gwyneth was but a short walk through the woods which were virtually all
that remained of our ancestral estate, the rest having been expropriated by the
English over the centuries. Although
Father was a direct descendant of the legendary Llywelyn the Great, the thirteenth-century ruler of Wales, his noble heritage brought us little
tangible benefit. For all our grand
titles, the family income was quite meagre and we maintained our semblance of
dignity only through the revenues generated by Father’s shipping business in
Bristol, which was administered by his benighted cousin Cuthbert. At least we had inherited the manor house,
such as it was. Someday I would inherit Father’s
title as well, since there were no male heirs. Perhaps because of this, he always insisted
that people address me as the twenty-sixth Duchess of Caerfyrddin, even though
it was not strictly proper while he still lived, so that everyone – including
myself – should become accustomed to the idea that I would succeed him as head
of the clan.
“Hello Aunt Gwyneth,” I called
through the cottage window, which stood open despite the chill of an early
October morning. “Is Bronwyn at home?”
“Andronica, when will you learn
to knock like a decent young lady?” complained my aunt.
“But you’re family,” I objected,
entering the house without waiting for an invitation.
“That doesn’t give you the right
to treat us like common rabble. If your
mother were alive, I’m sure she would have taught you some manners.”
“That’s not fair, Aunt Gwyneth,”
I said, collapsing into the threadbare armchair. “Why must you always say such things? I wasn’t responsible for her death, even if
it did come as the result of my birth.
Though I never knew her, I miss my mother more than you can possibly
imagine.”
Aunt Gwyneth glared at me for a
moment, then her expression softened and a tear came to her eye.
“You’re right, child, and I’m
sorry for being unkind. But Anwyn was my
only sister, and things have never been the same since she died. Life with your Uncle Gareth can be difficult
at times – you know how taciturn he is – and I lack the comfort of Anwyn’s
laughter. It’s been terribly hard for
your father as well, trying to raise you alone.
Kendrick is too proud to ask for help, but you’re now getting to be that
age when a woman’s guidance is essential.
Only three more years and it will be time for you to marry, just like
Bronwyn. Speaking of whom, did you know
that Edward has finally asked Gareth for her hand?”
“Is that so?” I had never liked Edward Maddox, though I
wasn’t sure why. He was a pleasant
enough lad and would soon have a handsome income, as he was learning the
silversmith’s trade from his grandfather.
But Edward simply didn’t seem worthy of Bronwyn. In fact, I could not think of any boy who
was.
“Well, I’m sure you won’t lack
for suitors of the finer sort,” said Aunt Gwyneth. “Margaret will see to that.”
“What do you mean?” Aunt Margaret was Father’s younger sister and
was generally regarded as the black sheep of the family, having moved to London
years ago, where she had married some stuffy but well-to-do English
gentleman. She had excellent connections
among the gentry there – through blackmail, it was said.
“Oh, haven’t you been told? You’re to be sent to London upon reaching
your fifteenth birthday. Margaret is
arranging for you to be accepted as a lady-in-waiting to the Princess of Wales,
who despite her title is German. She
says that you’ll surely be married to a viscount, at the very least, once you
come of age the following year.”
“Of all the perfidious
schemes! I don’t want to live in London,
and I certainly won’t marry an Englishman – not after all they’ve done to our
country. Doesn’t anyone have the courtesy
to inquire as to my own wishes?”
“It’s not your place to have
wishes, Andronica. Your elders know
what’s best for you.”
I wanted to scream, and would
have done if Bronwyn had not entered the room at that moment.
“Oh hello, Andronica. What brings you here today?”
“Don’t ask, just come walk with
me.” I fairly dragged her out the door.
Among the cousins, Bronwyn was
my favourite, not least because we were often mistaken for twins. Though she was older by three years, our
stature was nearly the same, as I had always been tall for my age. The resemblance had lessened when she
developed her womanly figure, of which I had lately become quite envious, since
mine had yet to show. Otherwise, our
appearance was remarkably similar in features and colouring, with the same dark
hair and rosy complexion. Only our eye-colour
differed markedly, hers being the azure blue common to our clan, while mine was
an extraordinary amber yellow, unique among all the family. When Aunt Gwyneth was in one of her less
charitable moods, she sometimes said that I had been the cuckoo’s egg laid in
the nest of her sister’s womb.
“I haven’t much time,” said
Bronwyn, “as Edward is calling for me at noon.
We have been given permission to marry, as I’m sure Mother has told you,
and I expect he will be bringing me a surprise to mark the occasion.”
“Edward be damned,” I
fumed. “I’m no mood to hear about
marriage.”
“Whatever is the matter?”
“I have just learned that ‘my
elders’ have decided I’m to be packed off to London when I turn fifteen and be
made ready to serve as breeding-stock for some English fop. I’ll not have it!”
“Sounds like you’re living up to
your name again,” commented Bronwyn.
Andronica. In Greek it means she who is victorious over men.
My mother had chosen the name a few days before I was born, certain that
I would be a girl-child. Father objected
at the time that it was not properly Welsh and that the meaning was patently
offensive. Nevertheless, my mother
remained adamant. As she lay dying after
giving birth to me, she exacted a promise from Father that I should be
christened thus. He therefore had no
choice but to comply with her final wish.
“Nomen est omen,” I quoted.
“You know that I have no patience for silly boys, and even less for
Englishmen. Father doesn’t understand,
and insists that I be prepared for marriage like a trained bear. How I loathe all those ‘ladylike pursuits’ he
tries to force upon me. Lately he gave
me a book on needlepoint and is angry that I prefer Latin instead. Today he caught me in the library again and
confiscated my beloved Caesar. Oh
Bronwyn, I should so have loved to serve in the Thirteenth Legion during the
Gallic Wars – surely I would have made a superb general.”
“I have no doubt of it,
Andronica. But may I remind you that we
are living in the eighteenth century…”
“Of course, that’s why I’ve
secretly taught myself to fire a pistol.”
“…and that a woman’s lot in life
is not to command armies, but to marry and bear children.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“Please stop speaking Latin –
you know that I can’t understand a word.
What I mean to say is: we must make the best of what we have been
given. You are extremely fortunate to
have such a fine tutor as Mr Smythe, for example, who has taught you to speak
French so perfectly that you could pass for a lady at the Court of Louis
XV. Uncle Kendrick obviously has high hopes
that you will marry well and carry on the family traditions.”
“More likely that I should
contribute to the family coffers, leeching off a wealthy Englishman.”
“Now you’re being cynical.”
“Am I? He and Aunt Margaret must have been planning
this all along. Why else would Father
always bring that insipid ladies’ literature from London? At least he does think to buy the latest
scores by Mr Handel as well. Thank God
for that. If I didn’t have my music, I
would certainly go quite mad.”
“But playing the harpsichord is
a ‘ladylike pursuit’ is it not? That is
exactly what I mean – make use of your God-given talent. When you’re married, you can regale the
salons of London with your music.”
“Don’t you understand,
Bronwyn? I don’t wish to be married, and
I hate London already, though I’ve not yet been there. You know that I love nothing more than to
roam the woods and ride through the fields.
I certainly can’t take Ptolemy to London, so I won’t go. I would simply die without her.”
“You are the only person I know
who would name a mare Ptolemy.”
“It’s a perfectly good name for
a horse, whether mare, gelding, or stallion.
Ptolemy was Alexander the Great’s most trusted general. There’s not a nobler name to be found.”
“Andronica, you are
incorrigible.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
We walked in silence for a few
minutes before coming to Uncle Gareth’s kennels. The dogs seemed unusually restless. As we approached the cage, they began barking
furiously, as though alarmed by something.
“That’s odd,” said Bronwyn. “They’ve never acted like this before. I wonder why they’re so aggressive.”
“It reminds me of my Dream.”
“Your what?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s only a recurring nightmare I’ve had
since I was a small child, something with wild animals.”
“Well, I should best go fetch my
father, in case there’s something wrong with the dogs. Just wait here, will you?”
“Sorry, but I really should be
going now. You’ll be wanting to prepare
for Edward’s visit anyway. Please
forgive what I said about him. I’m
really very happy for you. Will you come
up to the house tonight and tell me all about his surprise?”
“Of course, but I may be rather
late.”
“No matter. Come whenever you can.”
Bronwyn went off to find Uncle
Gareth, whilst I stood for another minute before the kennel. The dogs were tearing at the bars in such a
frenzy that I was afraid they would break through and attack me. I had never seen animals so ferocious –
except in my Dream.
I did not return to the house
directly, but instead took the long way round past the stables. Since I was still angry and not yet ready to
face Father again, I thought to take Ptolemy out for a ride. As I approached her stall, however, she
reared and lashed out with her hooves, such that I would have been brained had
I been standing any closer. All attempts
to calm her failed, and the longer I attempted the more agitated she
became. The other horses began neighing
frantically as well.
“What the devil has gotten into
the animals?” Father had heard the
commotion and come to investigate, pistol in hand. As he entered the stable, Ptolemy broke free
from her stall and nearly trampled me in her fury. I would have been killed on the spot, had not
Father pulled me aside at the last possible moment. When she continued rearing dangerously, he
levelled his pistol at her.
“No, don’t shoot!” I jostled Father’s arm to spoil his aim and
the shot went wide.
“Go into the house at once,” he
shouted over the din, “and let me tend to this.”
I ran to the back door and
stumbled into the kitchen. Mrs Jones,
our part-time housekeeper, helped me to my feet.
“Whatever is happening, Lady
Andronica? Did I hear a gunshot? Is something amiss with the horses?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong, Mrs
Jones. When I entered the stable just
now, Ptolemy became uncontrollably agitated, as if in fear for her life. Father saved me from being trodden, and then
he nearly shot her…”
I could not stop trembling, and
began to cry.
“There, there,” said Mrs Jones,
taking me into her arms, “let’s get you into the sitting room, and I’ll make
you a nice cup of chocolate to calm your nerves.”
After Mrs Jones had seen me
settled on the good sofa and supplied with the soothing liquid – one of our few
luxuries – I waited for Father to return. The scene in the stable replayed itself before
my eyes, and I realised how narrowly I had escaped death. Then I thought of Father, and I could not
imagine the grief it would have caused him.
In that moment, it became clear
to me that Father was more important to me than anything else in the world,
despite our petty differences, and I felt ashamed for my behaviour towards him.
It had been difficult enough for him after
my mother died, and with no son to carry on the family name he had pinned all
his hopes upon me, that I might at least secure an auspicious marriage. My disinterest in all things ladylike was
therefore a constant source of worry and frustration for him. I resolved to better myself and speak more
kindly to him, though I still could not imagine submitting willingly to his
plans for my future.
The noises from the stable had
gradually subsided, and presently I heard Father’s voice from the kitchen
calling my name. Seconds later, he
appeared at the door to the sitting room.
I rose to embrace him, and noticed that he too was shaking.
“Andronica, thank God you are
unharmed,” he said. “Have you any notion
what frightened the horses?”
“Not the slightest idea,” I
answered, “but when I was visiting Bronwyn a little while ago, Uncle Gareth’s
dogs were also behaving strangely.”
“I will speak with him about
it. Perhaps there’s a wild animal on the
loose hereabouts.”
He held me silently for a
moment.
“Father, I owe you an apology,”
I said finally.
“Whatever for? The horses’ starting was certainly not your
fault.”
“That’s not what I mean. I am very sorry for being such a wayward
daughter. I must be such a
disappointment to you.”
“My little duchess, what on
earth are you talking about? You mean
everything to me, and are never a disappointment. My heart nearly stopped when I saw Ptolemy rearing
at you in the stable. If anything, I
should apologise for nearly shooting her.
I thought your life was in danger, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to
protect you.”
“But I am frightfully contrary
and have not given sufficient attention to certain aspects of my education
which are important to you. Therefore, I
promise in future to apply myself more to needlepoint and other ladies’
matters. I’ll even read some of those pamphlets
you’ve brought for me. But in return,
you must promise something as well.”
“Anything you wish, within
reason of course.”
“Please don’t send me away to
London, and don’t make me marry some awful Englishman.”
“Who told you about that?”
“Aunt Gwyneth.”
“Damn her! I wanted to wait at least another year before
broaching the subject.”
Father went to stand by the
window and pretended to look outside, though it was impossible to see the
grounds clearly through the centuries-old leadlight windows. Not a year went by that he didn’t talk about
replacing them, but fine French glass was quite beyond our income.
“My dear,” he said softly, his
back still turned, “we must face facts.
Soon you will be expected to marry, and I haven’t the means to secure
you a proper husband through a dowry…”
“Another word for bribery.”
“…so I have no choice but to ask
your Aunt Margaret to assist in this matter.
She assures me that a position can be obtained for you in service to the
Princess of Wales, which will give you an entrée
into London’s finest society. After a
judicious interval, Prince Frederick himself will speak on your behalf amongst
his circle of friends.”
“Why in heaven’s name would he
do that?”
“It seems that Margaret has some
kind of…influence…over him. I didn’t ask
further.”
“So I’m to be married off by
means of blackmail?” I was becoming
incensed again.
“Oh Andronica, please don’t
regard it that way. You know our
financial situation. What else am I to
do?”
“Perhaps the rum trade will
improve,” I suggested.
Father was silent again for a
moment – the kind of brooding silence which always meant that he had something
more to say but didn’t know how to begin.
Finally he turned around, his face set in a determined expression.
“There’s one more thing,” he
began. “When you arrive in London two
years hence, you will be judged not for your knowledge of the Second Punic War,
but for your ability to fulfil a woman’s proper role in society. Therefore I have decided to ask your Aunt
Gwyneth to take responsibility for your education after the Yule, so that you
may be properly instructed in the ways of women. You will have the next three months in which
to complete your current studies with Mr Smythe.”
My heart sank, but I remembered
to curb my tongue. Before I could say
anything, however, Father raised his hand and gestured across the hall towards
the library.
“Since I realise that this decision
may be difficult for you to accept, by way of compensation you have my
permission henceforth to read any book in the library, whenever you wish,
provided Gwyneth confirms that you are making satisfactory progress in ladies’
matters.”
“I may read anything at
all?” My mood brightened at this
concession on his part.
“The library is yours.”
“Well, I promise not to corrupt
my mind by reading the Papist literature.”
“See to it that you don’t,” said
Father, “or I shall be forced to deliver you to the Magistrate on charges of
Popery and sedition.”
“And I will denounce you for
possession of forbidden books, treasonous to the Crown.”
We both laughed.
“Oh Father, I do love you.”
“And I wish that necessity did
not force me to send you away. Though it
still be two years hence, I cannot imagine that you will be leaving here. This house will be very empty without you.”
He turned away again and
pretended there was something in his eye.
“Now I must attend to business matters
in town,” he said presently, “and will not return until late. Will you be all right alone? Mrs Jones will only stay until two o’clock,
you know.”
“I will be just fine. Besides, Bronwyn has promised to call this
evening after her visit with Edward. You
have probably heard that Uncle Gareth is allowing them to marry.”
“Yes. A fine lad, from a good family of solid
tradesmen.”
“But not good enough for
Bronwyn. She’s a Llewellyn too and
shouldn’t have to marry some common silversmith’s apprentice.”
“Perhaps not, but Gareth’s means
are even less than our own. You should
be thankful that we have Margaret looking out for our interests. Being the twenty-fifth Duke of Caerfyrddin is
not entirely without advantages.”
“That’s exactly what Bronwyn
would say.”
Chapter 2 – The Library
After Father had departed, I
wandered into the library. While I was horrified
at the thought of being instructed by my dour Aunt Gwyneth, the possibility of
having free access to this treasure-trove of knowledge was tempting indeed. Besides, there was no real alternative. If Father had decided to dismiss Mr Smythe,
then nothing could change his mind. At
least I had already learned the essentials from him: the trivium of grammar, rhetoric and logic, as well as the necessary
grounding in Latin and French. Father
had also insisted that the old schoolmaster pay close attention to my English
diction, clearly because he deemed the Welsh accent to be detrimental to future
matrimonial prospects.
Standing in the middle of the
library, I remained motionless for several minutes surveying the carved oaken
bookcases, full to overflowing with books, maps, parchments, and even the odd
papyrus scroll Father had bought from a dealer of antiquities in London, who
claimed they were Egyptian, though I held them to be forgeries from
Whitechapel. Until this moment there had
never been sufficient opportunity to really see
the library as a whole, as my furtive forays into the forbidden room hadn’t allowed
more than the quick appropriation of a particular volume before I was
discovered. Now the full implication of
my new-found freedom began to dawn on me: I could read anything here, provided I understood the language of course, and
could even sit in the comfortable armchair instead of having to hide my reading
under the bed-clothes in my room.
Where should I begin? The Roman histories I already knew from
previous clandestine raids. Belles-lettres perhaps? There were plenty of French novels and books
of poetry in Italian, which was similar enough to Latin that it was at least
roughly comprehensible. Or would it be
better to delve into scientific matters?
Without Mr Smythe, I would have to learn the quadrivium – arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music theory –
entirely on my own. Then again, perhaps
I should read about the far-flung corners of the world. A whole section of the library contained German
treatises on geography, Dutch books about the East Indies, and Spanish
catalogues of the flora and fauna in South America. These were interesting subjects to be sure,
but unfortunately closed to me, for I had yet no command of these languages.
One bookshelf was enclosed by a
glass front – to keep out the dust, I supposed.
The books within appeared to be very old, as they did not have fine
bindings like the others. To my dismay,
the case was locked. However, since
Father had said I might read any book
in the library, I interpreted his permission to include these as well and
searched for the key. Predictably, it
was in the secret compartment of his secrétaire
– though I couldn’t imagine why it was called that, since the hiding-place was so
obvious that I had already discovered it at the age of six.
With key in hand, I returned to
the glass door. Opening it, I perceived
immediately that my initial supposition had been false: instead of keeping the
dust out, the door rather seemed to
have kept it in. Coughing through the cloud which arose when I
lifted out the first tomes, I could see that these books had not been disturbed
for a very long time, perhaps centuries.
As gently as possible, I opened one of the smaller volumes, fearing that
it might crumble to dust in my hands. To
my surprise, however, it showed no signs of age whatsoever, as the pages were
made not of paper but of fine vellum,
the soft skin of young lambs.
My eyes followed the delicate
curves ornamenting the capital letters and came to rest on marvellous miniature
paintings depicting birds, animals, and…Churchmen dressed in bishops’ robes! No wonder the case was locked – it contained
Papist literature! In my hands was a
truly forbidden book, which made me all the more eager to decipher the cryptic
letters I recognised as spelling Latin words.
Turning to the beginning, I puzzled out the first line of text.
In…principio…creavit…Deus…caelum…et…terram.
My disappointment was
profound. This was merely the initial
verse in the Book of Genesis. Strictly
speaking, possession of a Latin Bible was an offence, but certainly not a very
exciting one, so I rummaged through the remaining shelves for something really
dangerous, setting free more dust clouds in the process. There were several Bibles and other prayer
books, some with the most beautiful illuminations, but nothing that I could
brandish before Father’s nose in triumph: This
is your undoing, sir! You are
apprehended and charged with possession of Popish heresies and slanders against
the Church of England. To the dungeon
with you!
After some time, I found a book
which appeared different from all the others.
It had a worn leather binding and was secured by a massive seal bearing
the Llewellyn crest. Unable to restrain
my curiosity, I broke the seal and examined the pages. This manuscript was written in Latin as well,
but in coarse cursive handwriting very unlike the chiselled letters in the
liturgical books. Furthermore, there
were many different hands present, suggesting that it was a journal of some
sort. With some difficulty, I worked out
the title: Historia Leolinorum de
antiquitate ad aetatem nostram. A
family history! I doubted that Father
even knew about it.
The first entries had been made
in the twelfth century, during the generation of Owain Gwynedd ap
Gruffydd, who titled himself King of Wales and was grandfather to Llywelyn
the Great. Picking my way through the
earliest parts of the text, I came upon a lengthy passage describing a lupum insanum which had terrorised the
countryside in the year 1166, killing more than twenty people. Strangely, the chronicler associated this
mad-wolf with what he called a maledictionem
familiae, a circumstance I found oddly unsettling, although family curses
must have seemed quite commonplace to the superstitious mind of the Middle
Ages.
Turning to the back of the book,
I saw that the final pages were dated 1648, exactly a century ago. It seemed peculiar that the history ended
there. Then something else struck my
eye: the name Andronica. I read in
horror that a woman bearing this name had been convicted of witchcraft and
burnt at the stake. Just imagining it
caused a knot to form in my stomach.
Quickly finding the beginning of this entry, I studied it in
detail.
The chronicle told of Rhioganedd
Llewellyn, the twenty-first Duke of Caerfyrddin, and his young wife Anwyn, who
had died in childbirth in the year 1610.
Anwyn – that was my own mother’s
name! Shortly before her
confinement, Anwyn announced that she carried a girl-child and insisted that
the infant be named Andronica. This was
regarded as an ill omen, though the writer (evidently Rhioganedd himself)
expressed his hope that the sinister fate which had befallen the others of that
name would not be repeated in his daughter’s case.
What others? I thought.
A subsequent entry described how
the child Andronica had been befriended in her tenth year by an unusual
white-haired woman, who appeared neither young nor old and was revered as a
healer by the local population. This
woman, known only as Lysandra, took Andronica into her care, becoming both
teacher and confidante. Andronica
insisted on Lysandra’s company day and night, much to the displeasure of the
family, who held her in suspicion of witchcraft. Upon reaching the age of thirteen, in the
year of Rhioganedd’s second marriage, Andronica journeyed against her father’s
objections to Ffestiniog in the north of Wales to visit Lysandra’s people. When she returned to Caerfyrddin some months
later without Lysandra, Andronica was hardly recognisable, as she had grown
into the flower of womanhood much beyond her years. Henceforth she had many suitors, but would
take none of them.
In the meantime, Rhioganedd’s
first-born son, Baeddan, arrived in the summer of 1625 and commanded the
family’s attentions for a time. The
following spring, Lysandra reappeared, and the family observed an “unnatural
familiarity” between the two women. Soon
afterwards, they departed from Caerfyrddin.
Andronica was not seen again until September of 1648, when she returned
unexpectedly, in an unkempt and emaciated state.
The chronicler was ambiguous
about subsequent events, but only a month later Andronica was put to death for
witchcraft, her half-brother Baeddan setting the blaze himself. The final sentences of the account were
written in Welsh:
Thus endeth the
History of Llewellyn. Would that it had
never begun, for we are a wretched and accursed race. By order of my father Rhioganedd, the twenty-first
Duke of Caerfyrddin, I set my seal on this, the fifth day of October, in the
Year of Our Lord 1648. May God have
mercy upon us all.
Reading the date, I
shuddered. Today was 5th
October 1748. To think that something so
horrible happened in this very place, and on this very day a century ago. But what exactly did happen? The text was
frightfully vague about the particulars.
Perhaps there were clues earlier in the chronicle, as the writer had
mentioned other women named Andronica and suggested that fate was repeating
itself.
For the next three hours, I scanned
the ancient manuscript for further mentions of my name, eventually finding references
to five different individuals. Each had
been christened Andronica at the urging of her mother – who at least twice was
also named Anwyn. In every case, the
mother had died during childbirth. The
stories were not very specific about what had happened to my historical
namesakes, saying only that they had left Caerfyrddin at an early age,
sometimes with an older female companion of unusual appearance.
Perhaps the most disturbing of these
accounts – apart from the witch-burning – was a legend, put into writing during
the fourteenth century, about the very first Andronica. According to the tale, she was a young Druid
priestess who had lived a millennium before the coming of the Romans. This Andronica was evidently the daughter and
granddaughter of a long line of priestesses, much loved and respected by her
people. Like other Druids, she possessed
secrets of nature lost to us today, and was able to see the truth behind
illnesses, giving her the ability to heal merely by look or touch. At the height of her powers, however, the priestess
Andronica had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The chronicler said that she had delved too
deeply into the darkest secrets of Nature, finally becoming part of it herself.
As I read these words, I was
again reminded of my Dream, in which I myself was one with Nature, in the form
of wild animals running through the forest.
Although it had accompanied me since my earliest childhood, I had never
understood the meaning of my Dream, which contained so many disturbing images
of life and death incomprehensible to a young girl. Nevertheless, I could not help but think that
the Dream was somehow associated with this obscure legend and with the other
disquieting stories contained in the Historia
Leolinorum.
Contemplating these matters, I
suddenly perceived that the room had grown quite dark around me, which seemed
very odd, as I had been reading easily without the aid of a candle. At the same time, I noticed a gnawing
discomfort in my bowels, so I headed for the kitchen in the hope of finding something
edible there. Mrs Jones had long since
gone for the day, but it was her custom to leave food for Father when he was
absent from the regular mealtime.
Tonight there was a venison pie on the sideboard. So great was my hunger that I consumed it
greedily, not even thinking to save anything for Father. After the fact, looking at the empty dish, I
was surprised to have eaten the entire pie, since I did not usually have such a
prodigious appetite.
I made some chocolate and went
to the sitting room to await Bronwyn’s arrival.
On the way, I stopped in the library to collect the family history,
intending to read the accounts again more carefully in case I had missed
anything of importance. For another hour
I sat, pondering over the scrawled markings that passed for penmanship in former
times. All the while, my intestinal
distress continued to grow, gradually becoming a dull ache in my lower
abdomen.
The discomfort eventually became
so distracting that I stopped reading and went to sit by the fire, hoping that
the heat would relieve the pain. Before
long, the warmth and my full stomach made me drowsy. As I slipped away into sleep, I could sense that
the Dream was coming.
Chapter 3 – The Dream
It is early evening and I am
standing in a forest clearing with my mother and the others of the herd. I am some kind of animal, perhaps a
deer. It has been a warm spring day and
the forest is fragrant with the smells of growing things. The sun has long since disappeared behind the
trees, though the clouds are still glowing brightly against the darkening
sky. For a moment, I find it strange
that the sunset has no colour, but vision is the least of my senses, as mine is
a world of hearing. I am now surrounded
by many familiar sounds: the reassuring murmur of my mother’s breathing, the
gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze, and that peculiar chirping which birds
make after they have found their roost for the night.
Abruptly my mother and the others
become still, listening intently for something they have heard in the
forest. All at once, they leap into the
air and bolt away in panic. My own ears
have perceived nothing, but instinctively I run after the herd. Their pace quickens and I must struggle to
keep up, as the thick underbrush makes it difficult to move quickly. Being the youngest, I do not possess the
speed and agility of the others. They
take no heed of me, but fly headlong through the wood.
After a short while I lose sight
of the others, but can easily follow the sound as they crash through the dense
growth of the forest floor. At the same
time, I strain to hear the cause of their fright. Soon I perceive it, a sound I have never
heard before. It is a silent sound,
little more than a vibration in the air.
Something is behind me, moving quickly but in almost total silence. Its approach is more felt than heard, except
for the occasional snap of a twig as it passes.
I am now running for my
life. If only I can gain the main trail
before the sound overtakes me, then I can make for the stream where the water
will put my pursuer off the scent. Still
the silence gains on me, and others have joined it. There is a second moving to my left, and a
third to my right, forcing me away from the path. I now recognise this silence to be the sound
of Death approaching.
Fleeing in mortal terror, I
break through a final wall of brush and burst upon the trail leading to the
stream and safety. When I lift my head,
however, I find that Death is waiting in the form of yellow eyes and sharp
teeth. There is a brief moment of pain
as a powerful bite snaps my spine, and then everything goes black.
When the darkness lifts, I have
changed places with the predator and can taste blood in my mouth. I open my jaws and a young deer falls dead to
the ground. Before I can begin to devour
it, however, the others emerge silently from beneath the trees onto the
path. They are winded from the chase,
but they have done well, driving our prey straight into the trap. We have always hunted thus, with three to
pursue and one to wait. It is the way of
our kind.
As the others settle down to
feed on the carcass, I become the deer once again and can sense teeth and claws
tearing into my entrails. Though already
dead, I feel every moment of my own disembowelment. Then the blackness envelops me a second time.
The gloom disperses to reveal a
familiar place, a great city made of marble.
It is night, and the warm air is redolent with the scent of
jasmine. There is a trickling sound of
water nearby, perhaps from a small fountain.
I stand between tall, fluted columns, waiting anxiously for someone.
In the distance, I hear shouting
and the echo of running feet on the pavement.
Frightened, I hurry to the other side of the colonnade, searching for a
place to hide. Seconds later, a dozen soldiers armed with the short swords of legionnaires
enter the courtyard. They are searching
for me. The weapons of the three
foremost warriors are different from the others. Instead of dull iron, they gleam of silver in
the moonlight, and I know that their thrust will be deadly.
There is movement behind me, and
a woman’s voice calls my name. I turn
and see her – my Companion, my eternal beloved.
She is so beautiful, with her snow-white hair and fierce amber
eyes. She calls for me again, motioning that
I should flee with her. But it is too
late, and the pursuers have surrounded me.
As three silver swords pierce my breast, the last thing I see are the
tears on my Companion’s face.
I sink now into a darkness from
which there is no return. At first,
there is only nothingness, but gradually I perceive two yellow eyes in the
distance – eyes so like my own, yet older and wiser. As I gaze into them, they gradually grow
larger, and I begin to fall. The Eyes
grow ever larger, and I plunge ever faster.
Soon I am plummeting as if from a great height, and the Eyes have grown
so large that they fill my entire being.
Finally there is nothing else in the universe except her Eyes, and I am
falling forever.
Then a hand touches mine, and I
wake with a start.
Chapter 4 – The Flowers
“Andronica, wake up.” Bronwyn was shaking my hand. “You were talking in your sleep, repeating
something about ‘eyes’ again and again.
Was it that recurring nightmare you mentioned?”
I was surprised to find myself
on the floor of the sitting room, since the last things I remembered were
forests and ancient marble palaces.
Gradually the events of the Dream came back to me: the chase and the
kill, death and disembowelment, then the swords and the Eyes. Something had been different, however, a
detail I had never before perceived clearly.
The woman in the Dream had white hair.
This immediately reminded me of Lysandra, the companion of the last
Andronica described in the Historia Leolinorum.
“It was my Dream sure enough,” I
reflected, “but for the first time I noticed the woman’s hair…”
“What woman? I thought you said the nightmare was about
wild animals.”
“It is, mostly, and quite
horrible. But near the end a woman
appears who seems extremely familiar to me, as if we have known each other
forever. And now I could see that she
has pure white hair.”
“So she is an old woman, like
Edward’s great-grandmother?”
“Not at all. She is very beautiful. Her eyes are the same colour as mine, but her
hair is like snow. I’ve never told
anyone about the Dream before, not even Father.
There’s something about it which seems so real. I can actually feel what it’s like to die.”
“That’s cheerful,” said
Bronwyn. “But if you don’t mind, I’m not
in the mood to talk about death. Edward
and I have spent the most wonderful day together.”
“How nice for you.” I really had no desire to hear about Edward
again and stared listlessly into the fire.
“It’s not like you to be so
glum, Andronica. Are you still angry
about your father’s plans that you should go to London?”
“I suppose so, but that’s not
the reason. I’m not feeling very well
today. It’s probably from the shock this
morning.”
“You mean the incident with the
dogs?”
“And what happened shortly
afterwards. I came back here to the
stable, as I wanted to go riding with Ptolemy.
When I entered, the horses went mad exactly as the hounds had done
earlier. Ptolemy almost trampled me to
death.”
“That’s awful,” said
Bronwyn. “Were you hurt?”
“Fortunately not, thanks to
Father, who rescued me just in time. I’ve not felt quite right ever since, and it’s
getting worse.”
“Well, here’s something to cheer
you up,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Edward gave me this ring today as a symbol of our betrothal. He made it himself in his grandfather’s workshop.”
“It’s lovely,” I said absently
whilst inspecting the ring. It was a
simple wrought-silver setting containing a small green garnet. I felt vaguely jealous that Bronwyn would
soon belong to someone else, and she was obviously disappointed that I wanted
to hear nothing more about her precious Edward, so we sat in silence for a
while.
“What have you got there?” asked
Bronwyn finally, eyeing the family history suspiciously. “That’s not Popish literature, is it? You are always trying to find forbidden books
in Uncle Kendrick’s library. Have you
been sneaking about in there again?”
“Believe it or not, this
afternoon Father gave me permission to use the library freely. I found this in a locked case, along with
some Catholic liturgical books. Though
the text is all in Latin, there’s nothing treasonous here. It’s a history of the Llewellyn clan, and
quite ancient. The book was sealed shut,
apparently because of a scandal in the last century involving one of our
ancestors, so I’m certain that not a living soul today knows anything about
it.”
“And what have you learned thus
far? Are we really descended from the
first King of Wales?”
“Yes, not that there was ever
any doubt. The book starts just before
the age of Llywelyn the Great
and goes right up to the year 1648. But
here’s the odd thing. Did you know that
there have been at least six girls named Andronica in our clan, including
me? And all of them seem to have gotten
into some kind of trouble. The last was
burned as a witch on this very day exactly one hundred years ago. Can you imagine? I feel quite ill just thinking about it.”
Bronwyn began leafing through
the book, which was entirely pointless, since she could barely read English let
alone Latin.
“You can actually understand
this? It looks like chicken-scratching
to me.”
“Well, it is somewhat difficult,
but only because the style of handwriting is unfamiliar. The text itself is simple enough, as the
writers hadn’t mastered the finer points of Latin. Even Julius Caesar’s prose was more elegant than
this.”
She put down the book and
pouted.
“Oh Andronica, must you always show
off your education? It’s not my fault
that Mother wouldn’t hire a tutor for me.
She is not as liberal-minded as your father.”
“You call him liberal-minded? Today he
told me that Mr Smythe will be released from service at the end of the year, so
that I can learn women’s matters from your
mother.”
An expression of shock crossed
Bronwyn’s face briefly, but family loyalty prevented her from saying aloud what
she might have been thinking.
“I am sorry to hear that Mr
Smythe will be leaving,” she said diplomatically, “because you really have
learnt a great deal from him, but Mother will teach you important things as
well. You have spent entirely too much
time in the company of Uncle Kendrick, and have not had the benefit of a proper
ladies’ education.”
“If I hear that expression once
more, I’ll go as mad as the dogs and horses.
Perhaps I need some music to calm my nerves. Would you like to hear something on the
harpsichord by Mr Handel?”
I made to stand up, but a wave
of pain and nausea struck me such that I groaned aloud. Bronwyn was instantly alarmed.
“You are ill,” she said, her voice suddenly full of concern. “This is certainly neither the result of a
shock nor the effect of reading old Latin books. Where is the pain? Have you eaten anything in the past hour?”
“Here is where it hurts,” I
said, pointing to my lower abdomen, “and yes, I ate a whole venison pie a little
while ago. But the pain is not in my
stomach – it’s further down. The feeling
is like wind in the bowels, but duller, and it comes in waves.”
“Sounds to me like you’re
getting the flowers,” said Bronwyn.
“The what?”
“You know…the flowers. Menses.”
“I have no idea what you’re
talking about.”
“Have you never bled
before? My God, has no one told you?”
I simply gave her a blank look
and shrugged my shoulders. Another wave
of pain came, and I almost doubled over.
“Andronica come, please sit
down.” She helped me onto the sofa. “Poor girl, you really have been around men
too long. There are some things which
you will learn only from another woman.”
Bronwyn then proceeded to
explain how I would bleed a few days every month for the next thirty years or
so, and that it was normal for the flowers to be accompanied by short temper
and cramping pain. I was horrified.
“How appalling,” I said after
the anatomy lesson. “Do you mean to say
that I will suffer this for the rest of my life?”
“Well, it does generally cease
sometime after the age of forty, if you live that long. And of course it also stops when you are with
child.”
I pointedly ignored the last
remark, since thoughts of childbirth always made me think of my own mother’s
death.
“There’s nothing which can be
done to prevent it?”
“Unfortunately not,” she said. “There are powders and tonics which can help
reduce the pain a little, but not the bleeding.
Speaking of which, I had better get you something to use as a
napkin. We don’t want this fine sofa
soaked with blood.”
Bronwyn left the room in search
of a suitable cloth.
Whilst waiting for her return, I
considered what was happening to me.
Somehow I had always assumed that the process of becoming an adult was
simply a matter of growing larger and perhaps a bit wiser. Naturally, I was aware of the physical distinctions
between boys and girls, but now I was being confronted with one of the most
significant differences of all, and nobody had ever bothered to tell me about
it. I was certain that additional
unpleasant surprises would be forthcoming.
Bronwyn returned with one of the
rags Mrs Jones used to dry the dishes.
“Here, bind this between your
legs,” she said, “so that it won’t show when the bleeding starts.”
Another wave of pain coursed through
my abdomen. Bronwyn hesitated for a
moment, considering whether or not to say something.
“There is a little trick which
can help ease the cramping for a while,” she whispered, as if someone might be
listening. “All you need do is pleasure
yourself.”
I gave her another vacant look.
“Have you never…?” Bronwyn raised her eyebrows pleadingly. “Must I explain this to you also?”
My expression remained
blank.
“Very well,” she said. “You take your fingers and… No. It
will be easier simply to show you than try explaining it. Now just watch me, and do as I do.” Bronwyn settled back on the sofa and raised
her dress. The binding between her legs
showed a small brownish stain. “Here you
see my napkin, which has a little blood now, as my flowers are almost past.”
She pulled the cloth away to
reveal a large patch of dark hair. I
stared in astonishment and felt a certain thrill at the sight.
“I don’t suppose you have ever
seen a grown woman’s cunny before, have you?
This hair is normal as well. I
warrant that in a few months’ time you will sprout a thatch here too, and that
your breasts will start to swell.”
Bronwyn began massaging herself
gently, and motioned that I should do the same.
“It helps if you think of a boy
you fancy,” she said. “I need only to
imagine Edward fondling me, and my cunny gets wet.”
I was completely at a loss, having
never fancied any boy in the way she clearly meant. Nevertheless, I tried to imitate her
motions. After a few minutes, Bronwyn
began to sigh. I stopped my own efforts –
not least because my parts were so dry that the rubbing was itself painful –
and watched in fascination.
The glow from the candles and
the fireplace added to the growing flush on her cheeks, and Bronwyn seemed to
transform before my eyes, becoming the very essence of femininity, like some
primordial Celtic goddess. Contemplating
this lovely creature caused my pulse to quicken, and it stirred a powerful longing
in my breast. Bronwyn was so beautiful
that I felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her.
The power of this urge was frightening to me, so unexpectedly had it
arisen.
As Bronwyn climaxed, her whole
body appeared to shudder and she let out a cry sounding more like one of the
farm animals than a human being. Was
this also part of becoming a woman, to lose control of one’s body and
mind? This too frightened me, for I
sensed that my own female essence would prove to be altogether different from
Bronwyn’s. Again I was reminded of the
Dream and of the pursuit through the forest, in the roles of both predator and
prey. Which was I, and which was
she?
I had been observing Bronwyn so
intently that I had failed to notice the wetness seeping between my legs. Now I reached down with my hand and felt the warm
liquid pooling on the towel, which I had fortunately placed on the sofa before
beginning our little exercise. Raising my
hand, I saw that it was covered with bright red blood.
“There you see? It’s happening already.” Bronwyn had recovered her wits and was binding
her napkin again. “You’ve got your first
flowers, which means that tonight you have become a woman. I think this is cause for a celebration. Have you any French wine in the house? For medicinal purposes only, of course – it will
help you sleep and may take the edge off the cramping pain.”
“There’s some claret in the
cellar,” I replied tersely.
After Bronwyn went off in search
of the wine, I stared at my hand. The
blood glistened in the light from the fireplace, making it appear an even more
brilliant crimson. After a moment, I
reached down below my cunny and let the fluid collect in my palm. Again I raised my hand, turning it from side
to side and watching as the blood dripped onto the towel. Then I brought my fingers up and sniffed. On impulse, I tasted the blood.
At once, the room went dark and
my head swam. I thrust my entire hand into
my mouth and sucked the fingers dry of blood, then reached down with the other
hand to collect more. The pain in my
abdomen gave way to voracious hunger. I
picked up the blood-soaked towel, heedless of the stain which had already
spread through to the sofa below, and began chewing upon it.
As I gnawed on the cloth, the
room slowly changed. Where a moment before
it had gone dark, now everything was becoming bright as day. At the same time, the colour was draining
away, as if the redness of the fire were being absorbed into the towel I held
between my teeth.
Then something snapped inside
me.
* * *
I found myself tangled within a
soft covering which constricted my movements.
Pulling at it with my teeth, I managed to tear myself free. I sprang down to the ground and stood for a
moment, swaying unsteadily as if having just awakened from a long sleep. I shook myself and took stock of my
situation. It appeared that I was in an
odd sort of cave with a flat wooden floor and very smooth walls. The taste of blood was in my mouth. From the scent on the air, there was prey
nearby. I was very hungry. Padding over to a dark opening in one of the
walls, I stopped to listen carefully.
From a distant part of the cave came the sounds of an animal moving. As the noise grew louder, I retreated behind
an obstacle and waited. The hunt began.
Soon the animal appeared, a
strange thing on two legs. It smelled
female. The creature stood motionless
for a moment, producing an odd sound from her small mouth. I intended to circle around to the left, and then
leap for the throat to make a quick kill.
In my unsteadiness, however, I stumbled against the obstacle and made a
deafening noise. Alerted, the animal
turned to face me and emitted a high-pitched cry that pained my ears. She dropped something to the ground which
crashed and transformed into a foul liquid and what appeared to be many small
pieces of ice. As I lunged for the
creature’s jugular, the sharp ice cut into in my paws, causing me to miss the
mark. Instead of the throat, I caught one
of the forelegs. A quick twist of my
head severed the lower joint, which I swallowed whole. The animal gave another piercing cry and
fled. There was a loud bang and she
simply disappeared.
Following in close pursuit, I ran
full into a barrier blocking my way, though it had not been present an instant
before. Now I turned back and entered the
dark opening in the other wall, seeking a way around this obstruction. I found myself in a passageway so narrow that
it made me feel intensely uncomfortable.
Through another opening on the right I saw moonlight and moved in that
direction. This place was confining as
well, so I ran swiftly towards the moonlight and freedom. Abruptly, my snout encountered a barely-seen
barrier. It made a loud noise as I crashed
through, and I felt sharp stabs of pain about the ears and flanks. Outside, I landed on soft grass under an open
sky and was glad to have escaped the strange cave.
In the distance, I could hear
the cries of my prey as she lurched through the forest. This was certainly the loudest creature I had
ever hunted. She would be easy to catch,
even without help from my Sisters. Then
it occurred to me: where were they? I
called to them, but received no answer.
Quickly picking up the scent of the animal’s blood on the grass, I
entered the wood and called again. Still
there was no response. I would have to
play both parts in the hunt – the chaser and the waiter.
My prey was evidently heading
for some lights visible through the trees ahead. I passed to her right and made just enough
sound that she would sense my presence and veer to the left, away from the
lights and towards where I knew there would be a clearing. Then I ran swiftly and silently ahead, making
a wide circle around the creature, reaching the clearing well before her.
The two-legged animal entered the
glade a few moments later, moving clumsily and stumbling every few steps. She was coming straight towards me. I waited until the last possible second and
then sprang. This time, my lunge for the
creature’s throat was accurate, but I misjudged the strength of my jaws and removed
her head entirely. The carcass fell to
the ground twitching, whilst the head landed a short distance away. Dying eyes watched me as the mouth moved in a
silent cry. This sight was somehow
disturbing, but I was too famished to consider it further. The time had come to feed.
Pushing back the animal’s odd
fur with my snout, I tore greedily at the tender flesh between her legs. Soon I came to the inner organs and ate my
fill. Sated from the steaming entrails,
I sat back on my haunches and called for my Sisters to feed as well. The silence of the forest told me that they
would not come. I was alone.
I contemplated the carcass lying
before me. There was plenty of meat
left, so I decided to hide the remains to feed upon again later. Taking the thing’s peculiar hide into my
muzzle, I pulled the torso out of sight into the underbrush. For some reason, it seemed proper to replace
the fur neatly in the places where it had been pushed aside.
Satisfied that the meat was sufficiently
hidden, I returned to the now-unmoving head in the clearing, cracked open the
skull with my teeth, and lapped out the tasty brains. The rest of the head had not enough meat to
warrant hiding, so I left it for the crows.
Now I made off in a direction
away from the lights and sought a place to sleep. Crossing a small stream, which would put any
possible pursuers off my scent, I found a deep pile of leaves and settled down
to rest. I thought to lick the wounds in
my paws, but found that they had healed already. Satisfied, I soon fell into a dreamless
sleep.
Chapter 5 – The Passing
I awoke in a soft bed,
comfortably warm and drowsy, as if I had just eaten a full meal. From somewhere far away confused sounds could
be heard, which I gradually recognised as the voices of men and the barking of
dogs. One voice was issuing orders.
“Cover that at once, before
anyone else sees the condition of the corpse.
There’s no use if rumours begin to spread about a monster on the loose.”
“Yes, m’lord. But why would an animal deliberately replace
her clothing after…feeding?”
“Let us not waste time with
useless speculation,” said the voice.
“My daughter is still out here somewhere. Take those men and search south of the
stream. The rest of you follow me. Gareth?”
“Leave me be, Kendrick,” rasped
another voice in a harsh whisper. “Just
leave me be.”
As I listened to this
conversation – easily audible despite the distance of at least a hundred yards
– my head began to clear. The last thing
I could remember was talking with Bronwyn in the sitting room. No, that was not quite the last thing. I had been dreaming. It was like my Dream, but the hunt had been
different in some way. Vaguely I
remembered walking on sharp ice which had cut my feet and being trapped in a
series of frightening caves. The voices
grew nearer, and I caught the musky scent of wet dogs.
Something was not right.
Opening my eyes, I found myself
in the midst of a thicket, half-buried in a pile of rotting leaves. Though the sun was invisible, by the light it
appeared to be about mid-day. A freezing
drizzle was falling. Looking down, I
perceived that my body was naked and covered with clotted blood. I screamed.
Within seconds, a half-dozen
dogs and several men reached the place where I lay. The latter I recognised as Uncle Gareth’s labourers.
“Lord Llewellyn,” cried one of
them, “come here quickly. I’ve found
your daughter, and she appears to be badly hurt.”
Cowering in the leaves, I began
to panic. How had I gotten into the
woods? Why was I naked? Where had all the blood come from? And where was Bronwyn?
“Andronica, thank God!” It was Father’s voice. “Smithson, run to the house and bring some
woollen blankets!”
Turning on my side, I saw Father
approach, followed by Uncle Gareth. Both
were carrying pistols in their belts, and my uncle’s face was ashen and
expressionless. His haggard appearance
at once made me apprehensive.
Bronwyn, I thought, something
terrible has happened to her.
Father covered my body with his
cloak and took me into his arms.
Wordlessly, he carried me some distance through the woods and across the
stream, continuing along the path until we reached a clearing. There stood a hand-cart beside a thing draped
with sack-cloth. A smaller object,
similarly covered, lay nearby.
“My daughter has lost a great
deal of blood,” said Father. “We must
get her out of the cold without delay, or she shall surely die as well.”
“Please don’t worry about me,” I
said. The sound of my own voice startled
me, as if it belonged to someone else.
“I am neither hurt nor suffering from chill, but I do fear for Bronwyn’s
safety. You must find her at once.”
Uncle Gareth stared at me as if
I had spoken the foulest blasphemy and fell to the ground sobbing. Father laid a comforting hand on my head.
“Your cousin Bronwyn is dead,”
he said softly. The words struck me like
a hammer-blow.
“What happened? Where is she?
I must see her!”
“No, Andronica, you must not see her,” said Father. “She was slain by an animal, and her body has
been badly disfigured. Do not concern
yourself about it. Right now I am more
worried about you, as you are clearly suffering from fever. I shall send for a physician immediately.”
My uncle was still kneeling in
the mud, and the labourers had begun putting the greater pile of sack-cloth
onto the cart. One of the dogs was rooting
about the lesser heap. Another came and
sniffed; then the two started bickering over it. They tugged at the cloth, pulling it away to
reveal a small black furry object. The larger
of the hounds chased the other away and began gnawing at the thing.
The commotion had attracted my
uncle’s attention, who now came to his feet.
When he saw what was happening, his eyes widened and his expression became
enraged. Uttering a bitter oath in
Welsh, he drew his pistol and shot the hound dead.
“For pity’s sake Gareth,” said
Father, “it’s not the dog’s doing.”
At that moment, the identity of
the small object under the sack-cloth became clear to me. I struggled free from Father’s grip, slipped
from beneath the cloak, and ran naked to where Bronwyn’s head lay upon the
grass.
A knot formed in the pit of my
stomach when I gazed upon it. The dark
hair was still bound with a ribbon, now smeared with blood, and in place of her
blue eyes were gaping holes where the crows had already feasted. The top of her skull was missing and the
cranium was empty.
I turned towards the cart. Father rushed forward to prevent my looking,
but I was the faster. Raising the
sack-cloth, I found a headless body wearing Bronwyn’s favourite dress. Before anyone could stop me, I pushed the
dress aside to reveal a most gruesome sight.
Were it not for the two perfectly formed breasts which were virtually
all that remained of the torso, the mangled thing was hardly recognisable as
having once been human.
Now the knot in my stomach exploded
and I vomited. This was no ordinary puke,
however, for out came an enormous quantity of blood. Nothing else, only blood. I retched again and expelled more of the
horrific gore.
Father reached me and draped his
cloak about my shoulders once more. All
the warmth had suddenly gone out of my body, and I began shivering from the
cold. Father gave instructions that one
of the men should hurry down to Caerfyrddin and fetch Doctor Vaughan, relaying
the message that I was feverish and bleeding from internal injuries. He then carried me back to our house, whilst
the other men trundled the cart bearing Bronwyn’s remains away in the opposite
direction. Uncle Gareth remained
standing in the clearing as if he had turned to stone.
* * *
Doctor Vaughan had been our
family’s physician since before I was born.
He had attended my mother in her final hours and was now examining me, obviously
apprehensive that he might have to inform Father of my impending demise as
well. For his part, Father stood
silently in the corner, waiting pensively for the diagnosis.
“Do you feel discomfort when I
press here?” asked the doctor, prodding my abdomen.
“Not the slightest,” I replied.
He repeated the procedure in
several places, asking each time if I experienced any pain. With every negative reply, the doctor’s expression
gradually changed from concern to puzzlement.
“Lord Llewellyn, I am entirely
at a loss to explain this,” he said finally.
“Though your daughter was clearly suffering from fever when she was
found, her body temperature is now quite normal. There is no evidence whatsoever of internal injury,
nor of any infectious disease.
Nevertheless, as a precaution, she should remain in bed under constant
watch for the next three days and be given no solid food.”
“I am much relieved to hear it,”
said Father. “Can you be persuaded to remain
the night, in case Andronica suffers a relapse?”
“Of course. It will be a pleasure to serve Your Grace’s
family, as always. But first I must send
word to my wife not to expect me before tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
After the doctor had left the
room, Father sat beside me on the bed and began formulating a question. With a gesture of my hand, I bade him to
remain silent.
“I know what you wish to ask,
Father, but there are no ready answers forthcoming. I can remember nothing between Bronwyn’s
arrival yesterday evening and this afternoon when you found me in the
wood.” It seemed prudent not to mention the
dream about the cave and the sharp ice on the floor. “How did you know where to look for me?”
“When I returned last night at
about half-past ten,” Father began, “I discovered the sitting room in a
frightful condition. There was blood on
the sofa and the floor, which was covered with shards from a broken
wine-bottle. At first, I assumed that someone
had been hurt by the cut glass, though such a trifling injury could hardly
account for the great quantity of blood.
I called your name and Bronwyn’s, supposing you to be upstairs. When there was no reply, I searched the
house.
“In the library, I found the
window broken and blood on the sill.
There was also what appeared to be animal hair stuck to the leaden
muntins. I fetched a lantern and went to
examine the ground outside the window.
There were animal tracks in the grass.
At the front of the house, I came across a bloody trail leading into the
wood, in the direction of Gareth’s house.
I surmised that one of you was seriously injured and that you had sought
help from Bronwyn’s parents. When I
arrived there, however, I found your aunt and uncle in a state of distress, as
they had long since expected Bronwyn to return.
They were all the more worried, for they had heard what sounded like the
howling of wolves in the wood. We agreed
that a search could only be conducted after sunrise, still some hours off, and
that I should wait here in case you returned.
“When the dawn broke and there
was still no sign of you, Gareth came round with several men and his
hunting-dogs. First we investigated the
entire house carefully, inside and out.
Not surprisingly, given the animal hair I had seen before, we discovered
the bloody footprints of a large canine leading from the sitting room to the
library. Now comes the curious
part. Nearly all the glass from the
broken library window was found outside
on the lawn. The muntins were bent outwards
as well, so the creature must have entered the house by some other way, and
exited via the library window.”
Father paused, thinking. Then he kissed me and went to the door.
“I must go into town and arrange
for a hunting party to track down this beast, which is likely the same one as
gave the dogs and horses such a fright yesterday. The good doctor will return presently to sit
with you. Please follow his instructions
to the letter and remain in bed.”
I was beside myself with
grief. Bronwyn had been my only true
friend, and I was just now beginning to realise that my feelings for her went
deeper than mere friendship and familial affection. I could not think of her without crying and
was plagued with guilt that she had been killed whilst I remained
unharmed. Furthermore, a feeling
troubled me that I had been somehow responsible for her death, as the memory of
my enigmatic dream continued to haunt my thoughts.
* * *
After keeping close watch for more
than a day, Doctor Vaughan finally took his leave the following evening. He told Father that my internal bleeding had evidently
ceased – if there had been any to begin with – and that I should be expected to
make a full recovery. Indeed, apart from
a complete absence of hunger, I had never felt better physically.
Two days after the incident,
Father announced that he had reconsidered about Mr Smythe and asked the
schoolmaster to remain for another year.
Only later did I learn the reason for his unusual change of mind: Aunt
Gwyneth had insisted on seeing Bronwyn’s body, and the sight had driven her mad. It was unlikely that she would ever give me
instruction on ladies’ matters or any other subject.
On the morning of the fourth
day, I rose from my bed for the first time.
Father was out with the hunting party he had organised, and Mrs Jones
was in the kitchen, so I was alone in my room.
No sooner had I stood upright than a burning sensation manifested in my
lower intestines. Impelled by the powerful urge for a bowel movement, I reached
the chamber-pot just in time. The stool
began to pass and I was overcome by intense pain, as if a red-hot iron had been
inserted into my nether regions. Stopping
the pressure only increased the torment, so I redoubled my efforts.
When I had finally passed the
agonising excrement, the air was filled with the stench of charred flesh. Fully expecting some new horror, I hesitated
at first to glance down into the chamber-pot.
No stretch of my imagination could have prepared me for the sight when at
last I did look. Embedded in the turd
gleamed Bronwyn’s silver ring, now encrusted with scorched and smoking bits of
my own entrails. There was only one
possible explanation for the ring’s presence there.
I had eaten my cousin.
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