CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

It takes the stable boy some minutes to saddle the cob from yesterday. It snorts impatiently, keen to be moving, and the sound makes the black hens milling around the horse’s feet disperse in a flurry of feathers. The boy – Rhys, was it? – passes Henry the reins.

‘He’ll be glad for the exercise,’ he says in broken English. ‘Gwydion’s an old soul, used to belong to Lord Hugh as a colt. You need help getting on again?’

There is a hint of mocking amusement in the lad’s voice, and Henry eyes the black beast now pawing the ground in front of him. Horses can be lethal creatures, even when handled correctly – he has treated his fair share of accidents. Fractured shoulders, broken legs, once a hand crushed by the weight of a hoof that later had to be amputated … The thought makes him shudder and so, begrudging, he accepts Rhys’ assistance. Curtly Henry nods his thanks, guides the horse slowly down Plas Helyg’s gravel drive, out through the twisting iron gates.

The cob (Gwydion, he remembers to call him) seems to understand where Henry wishes to go; down the woodland path again, past the fork to the gatehouse, out onto the road at the bottom where he takes the narrow path between the miners’ holdings, follows the track that Linette had taken him on yesterday: past the cluster of buildings in the square, the small rickety tavern, thence down the lane leading to the sea.

His journey is not ignored. Hawk-eyed, the villagers watch him as he guides Gwydion through, their scornful gaze stripping him bare, all the while whispering fiercely to each other thick as thieves, and Henry feels exactly as he did yesterday – resented and exposed.

What has Linette not told him?

Above, a gull trills sharply; Henry watches the bird soar across the sky and disappear behind the canopy of trees above. Gwydion snorts. Henry pats the beast’s solid neck. When he emerges onto the salt marshes the strong sea air – no longer held back by the trees of the lane – buffets the collar of his coat. Keeping one hand on the horse’s reins Henry leans his arm against the cumbersome satchel, raises his other hand to his hat to stop it from flying from his head; and as he concentrates on keeping his balance he realises this will simply not do. He must find an easier way of carrying his implements, must visit Dr Beddoe for supplies, ask advice on how best to manage the logistics of a travelling physician as soon as possible.

And he must ask about Dr Evans.

Again, he could be wrong – Linette did say the doctor was very old. But heart failure tends to be sudden, and typically there is no reason for the face to be contorted in death. Such a thing might happen if the person were to die in anger, in the midst of an argument … or if they were afraid. Henry thinks of the glass vial.

Perhaps Dr Beddoe might know what it contains.

And then, he thinks, steering Gwydion wide to avoid a waterlogged dint, there is the matter of Gwen Tresilian. What, pray, does Dr Beddoe think of her ?

The breeze dies down. Henry lowers his hand.

Her case is an interesting one. In his role at Guy’s Hospital maladies of the mind were not something he typically dealt with, but there were times Henry had been called to Bedlam to treat the poor wretches who inflicted injuries upon themselves and others. He has seen earlobes ripped from the hairline, torn fingernails pulled from their fleshy beds. He has seen deep bite marks in arms, broken jaws, words carved into bare chests with implements either stolen or fashioned in secret. One patient – one of his Bow Street charges – bit off her tongue just so she could not be taken to account. Henry only saw the quieter patients as he passed their cells, but even they could be marked as mad by the way they spoke to their manacles, the way they pushed their foreheads against the walls of their cells. There can be no denying Lady Gwen’s unprovoked screams last night, the way she clawed at her neck …

Henry thinks of the strange words she uttered before those screams took her in their thrall: Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith . Linette said they were not Welsh, but before he went to bed that night he took up the Welsh dictionary anyway, flipped through its thin pages. They were not listed, but there was another word, a word Lady Gwen repeated enough times for Henry to remember it clearly, and he looked through the C’ s until he found something that might match it, frowned deeply into the dictionary’s worn page.

Cythraul . The Welsh word for demon.

The coastal cottages – six in total – are visible now, framed by golden sand dunes, the blue-green bank of water. In the distance, Henry sees the fence of shells outside the Morgans’ cottage swinging wildly from their strings in the wind. Gwydion picks up pace. He will check in on Tomas first, Henry decides, then try his luck with the neighbouring houses.

The door to the Morgans’ is partially open. Henry raps on the whitewashed door, peers through the gap.

The tiny sitting room is empty. The fire is unlit, a spinning wheel stands beside it, its spindles laden with strung wool. On the stone hearth stands a dish containing what looks to be milk. Hesitant, Henry steps inside. There is a wooden bowl by the door filled with seashells of all different shapes and sizes and colours – brown limpets, pale cowries, cream fans that could be scallops or cockles, tiny whelks the shade of sand. On the trail of woodsmoke there is the salt-scent of seaweed, and Henry glances up to find bunches of bladderwrack hanging like dark ribbons of dried-out blisters from the low eaves.

‘Good morning,’ he calls. Then, hesitating over the pronunciation, ‘ Bore da? ’

There is a cough, the sound of movement. Mrs Morgan appears from one of the bedrooms, wiping her hands on a worn-out apron.

‘ O, helo. Mi ddaethoch chi unwaith eto …’

He does not know what that means, but the words are said with some surprise and none of the reserve he sensed the day before, and with a shy smile she beckons him inside.

Between mother, patient and dictionary, Henry manages to ascertain that the fruit and milk were well received, the removal of blankets and the open window have improved Tomas’ temperature, he has bathed with cold water (from the sea, if his translation of o’r m?r is correct) twice yesterday, once already this morning, and from these small changes Henry feels there is already an improvement.

At the front door Henry thumbs the dictionary once more.

‘I’ll come again next week.’ He squints at the word, tests the sound of it on his tongue. ‘ Wythnos? ’ Again, Mrs Morgan nods her head. She stares at him, a look of consideration in her sharp eyes. Then she turns to the bowl of shells, selects one of the sandy-coloured whelks and presses it into Henry’s hand. He runs a thumb over it, likes its spirals pitted with grooves, its grounding rough contours.

‘Thank you,’ he says. Remembers to say it in Welsh.

‘ Diolch .’

A pause.

‘ Diolch ,’ she returns.

The emphasis is different. He raises his head, sees the way she looks at him, her expression kindly, open, and Henry realises she is correcting him. He repeats the word, makes the i sound like an e .

This time, Mrs Morgan smiles.

The other villagers are not so accommodating; only two of the coastal cottages opened their doors. Dictionary once more employed he was able to communicate that he was a doctor, to ask if anyone needed assistance, but their response was a vigorous shake of the head and a hard slam of the door.

Henry knows he must persevere with them. If there is no life for him here, no career for him, where else can he go? What else can he do? Time, he thinks, is the only thing on his side. In time, they will accept him.

They must.

Dejected, Henry leads the cob back across the salt marsh, up through the lane. Halfway he stops, contemplates the hedgerow at his right, the glimpse of cottages beyond. What was it Linette told him? He remembers the names she gave – Bryn Parry, Bronwen Lewis. Gareth Griffiths, his wife, Catrin – all, it seems, in need of assistance.

Henry dismounts, guides Gwydion through the arched gap in the hedge, and in that moment a door from one of the other cottages opens. Out through the low-lintelled door steps a man carrying a thick walking stick crudely made from a tree branch. He is dressed all in black, from his buckle shoes to his tricorn hat. The only shot of colour is the simple white neckcloth at his collar.

‘Ah!’ the man exclaims when he sees Henry, face splitting into a wide smile. ‘You’re the new doctor, then?’ He ambles across the grass, trampling daisies in his wake. ‘Dr Talbot, yes?’

‘That I am,’ Henry replies, cautious, but he holds out his hand in greeting all the same. The man shakes it hard as though he is pulling on a bell rope. Henry tries not to flinch.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he beams. ‘I am the Reverend Mr Owain Dee, Penhelyg’s vicar. Well met, Dr Talbot. Very well met indeed!’

The vicar is lantern-jawed and steel-wigged, severe in his looks, but his hazel eyes are warm, the smile genuine, and Henry finds himself daring to relax.

‘I must say,’ he ventures, ‘it is a relief to find someone who speaks English – indeed, who is happy to speak to me at all.’

The reverend’s eyes glint with amusement. ‘Having trouble, I take it?’

Henry says nothing but he does not have to; the answer must clearly be writ upon his face for the vicar sighs, shakes his head.

‘They’re an obstinate lot, I’m afraid. Mrs Lewis there –’ and here Mr Dee nods to the cottage he has just vacated – ‘might be a little more forthcoming, but I would not disturb her today. I’ve just blessed her baby and now that the little mite has finally stopped crying his mother has taken the opportunity to sleep. She’ll not appreciate the interruption.’ Next he nods to the furthest cottage where a goat grazes in a pen. ‘You’ll get nothing out of Bryn Parry, either, but he’s always been a difficult one, stubborn as a mule. Even Dr Evans struggled to find him agreeable.’

The vicar pauses here, shakes his head.

‘Poor Wynn,’ he says. ‘Sorely missed. Sorely missed indeed.’

Henry’s senses sharpen. ‘You knew the old doctor well?’

Mr Dee brightens. ‘Very well! He was a good friend of mine. We often went walking together, climbed Cadair Idris a few days before he died. If I’d known that was the last time we were to see each other … Well, God saw fit to take him, and who am I to argue with the will of the Lord?’

The latter Henry ignores; God or the Devil, he scarce has time for either. But the former …

‘Forgive me, what is Cadair Idris?’

‘A mountain, dear boy! Over the estuary from Abermaw. A beauty of a thing it is, lots of rugged peaks. Good for the legs.’

He slaps his thighs at the last with a grin, and vaguely Henry recalls a larger mountain nestled between some others along the coastal road from Dolgellau to Abermaw the day he arrived, a cluster of oddly shaped points that reminded him, strangely, of a giant’s sleeping face.

‘Tell me,’ he says now. ‘Did you find him in good health?’

Mr Dee leans back on his heels. ‘I should say so. A little doddery at times but he made no complaint.’

Henry frowns, contemplates his next words, means to glean more information from this barrelled-bodied vicar, but then that man’s eyes catch at a point behind him.

‘Oh, Miss Carew! Come, come and meet our new doctor.’

There is a pause, a rustle of leaves. Henry turns. A young woman steps through the arch of the hedgerow, a wicker basket in her hand, and any thought of pressing the vicar flies clean from Henry’s head, for approaching them is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen in his entire life.

Miss Carew, as Mr Dee called her, has the most striking combination of flame-red hair and amber-brown eyes set within a heart-shaped face; her skin is cream-pale, a smatter of faint freckles spans her straight nose like little stars and her mouth is bud-like, coral-hued. He tries not to stare.

‘Your servant, miss.’

A charming dimple appears in the cushion of the young woman’s round cheek.

‘Dr Talbot. A pleasure to meet you at last.’

A pleasure indeed. Her voice is clear and lilting, with a soft yet very distinct Welsh accent, smooth and fresh like spring water. Henry’s pulse thrums in his throat.

‘Miss Carew is our resident herbalist,’ Mr Dee says. ‘You will be working quite closely together, I should think?’

Henry thinks of the herbs Mrs Morgan showed him yesterday. So, that explains it. They did not belong to Dr Beddoe after all.

‘Perhaps we shall,’ Miss Carew murmurs. ‘But some doctors do not approve of the old remedies. Are you one of them?’

Not wanting her to think less of him, he chooses his words with care.

‘They have their merits,’ he says.

But Miss Carew clearly sees through the bluff and with a small smile says, ‘A clever gentleman’s answer. Unwilling to commit either way.’

Beside him, Mr Dee rocks again on his heels. ‘Methinks, Dr Talbot, you’ve already made a bit of a faux pas! Rowena is a discerning little thing, are you not, my dear?’

Rowena. What a pretty name.

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry tries, ‘it is not—’

But Miss Rowena Carew is shaking her head. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I’m not offended, truly.’

‘No need to be, either,’ the reverend remarks. ‘Your science and Miss Carew’s methods can find a way to work in harmony, I am sure.’

Henry finds himself at a loss for words. He feels embarrassed now, unsure of himself, green like a novice schoolboy. Seeing his discomfort, Mr Dee spreads out his arm.

‘Shall we walk on?’

He gestures in the general direction of the path, and taking Gwydion by the bit Henry gratefully obliges. The four pass through the gap in the hedgerow, back out into the lane, up in the direction of Penhelyg’s square. They walk in silence for a moment until, most delicately, Rowena Carew clears her throat.

‘You arrived late on Monday, I understand?’

Her step is light and feminine – not at all like Linette’s heavy determined stride. A breeze tickles Henry’s nose, and he detects on her the sweet perfume of lavender.

‘I did, yes.’

‘And how do you like Wales?’

Henry hesitates. ‘It’s not at all what I’m used to, I must confess.’

‘You’re from London, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘A great change, then,’ Miss Carew remarks, ducking her red head to avoid the branch of a reaching willow. ‘I’ve heard medical men from the city are most enterprising in their methods. The people of Penhelyg are lucky to have you.’

The reverend, who has been walking up ahead of them, gives a low sigh.

‘’Tis a great pity,’ he says over his shoulder, ‘they are not more welcoming. It will take a while, I fear, for my flock to make their peace with your presence.’

‘So I’ve already been advised,’ Henry returns. ‘I cannot fathom why. Linette Tresilian says it is because I am English, but I find it hard to believe they hate me just because of that.’

Mr Dee stops, turns. He and Miss Carew share a look.

‘I’m afraid there’s a little more to it.’ He cups the wooden head of his staff with both palms. ‘Ancient history, you see.’

‘No,’ Henry says. ‘I don’t see.’

‘Hmm.’ The reverend’s open face closes briefly. ‘The villagers have had some troubling interactions with Plas Helyg over the years. For the household to employ an Englishman, well … it is unlikely they should warm to you easily.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

They have reached the square. Three young women pass behind the vicar, tilting their yokes. They stare at Henry, eyes narrowed, speak between them without even attempting to lower their voices. Miss Carew says something to them in Welsh, and visibly reluctant the girls move on.

The vicar turns then, raises his whorled stick to point.

‘You see the church?’

Henry looks to where the Reverend Dee is signalling. Through the copse of willow trees – across the fields – he spies a distant stone roof, a Celtic cross on its top set in relief against fat clouds.

‘I see it.’

‘My cottage is across the way,’ the vicar says. ‘I am ministering to the poor today so cannot invite you now, but do come to tea sometime soon for I shall be glad to speak with you further. I’m sure you will appreciate a friendly ear.’

Henry would.

‘Thank you. I shall come as soon as I can.’

Mr Dee’s lantern jaw splits into a toothy smile. ‘Splendid. Splendid! In the meantime I shall do my best to alleviate the villagers’ fears. Take heart, Dr Talbot. God is on your side.’

Henry bows his head in farewell, watches the reverend make his way across the square and knock on the door of one of the houses on the other side. A breeze picks up, on its tail the sharp scent of cut grass, Miss Carew’s lavender perfume.

‘Had you come from the Morgans’?’ she asks him now, and Henry turns to her.

‘I did.’

‘And how is Tomas?’

Henry hesitates. The herbs she gave him clearly did not work – it is only by his own direction that Tomas Morgan begins to improve. Still, he cannot bring himself to say so.

‘He does better,’ he says instead.

She smiles. Her teeth are straight except for one crooked incisor in her upper jaw that overlaps the front left tooth, but instead of marring her beauty, to Henry, it adds to it.

‘I am glad.’

‘Good.’ Henry pauses. ‘Forgive me, I had not meant to belittle your ways. To offend you.’

‘You did not offend me,’ she replies. Soft, like feathers. It sends his pulse racing.

A line of ducks crosses the square. Distractedly Henry tracks their meandering progress, watches them disappear behind a stone lean-to before speaking again.

‘I do wonder why Dr Beddoe did not do more for him. If he had …’

Henry trails off deliberately and, as he hoped, she nods her head.

‘Dr Beddoe lacks patience, ’tis true. Have you met him yet?’

He thinks of what he has just learnt about Dr Evans’ good health, and a steely determination settles in his gut.

‘No,’ Henry says, ‘but I mean to, and soon.’

Again, Miss Carew nods.

‘I’d go tomorrow. The weather is meant to be fine, and such a journey is best undertaken under good conditions.’

‘Thank you. I shall.’

In that moment Gwydion tosses his black head, snorts loudly through his nostrils. With her free hand Miss Carew reaches out to stroke the bridge of the cob’s silky nose.

‘Well, then,’ she says. ‘Your horse wishes to be away, and I’d best be away myself. Prynhawn da , Dr Talbot.’

Henry bows.

‘Miss Carew.’

She turns, hesitates, turns back again.

‘I am glad you’re come.’

He looks into those brilliant amber eyes, feels his cheeks grow hot. Then Miss Carew turns again and Henry watches her retreat across the square, is unaccountably disappointed when she does not look back. Shaking himself, he turns in the opposite direction. The three milk women are watching him still with narrowed eyes and Henry sighs, clasps Gwydion’s reins, steers the horse away.

He tried to call on the houses in the square, with no success. Thoroughly disheartened he set off for Plas Helyg, and it is as Henry is manoeuvring Gwydion up the bank toward the main path that he hears sounds of laughter ahead. When he emerges onto the road he sees five boys – the youngest can only be six years of age, the oldest sixteen at most – kicking a wooden ball between them. Henry hesitates, unsure. The lads are blocking his route to the woodland pass; there is no way around them. He considers retreating back into the lane, but then Gwydion whickers and the decision is taken from him for they look up at the sound. When they see Henry they stop, the laughter leaving their faces as if wiped clean with one stroke.

They are only boys, he tells himself as he pushes Gwydion forward. They can do you no injury . Still, instinctively, his grip on the reins tightens. The cob seems to sense Henry’s disquiet for he begins to weave out of line, tossing his large head. The boys, too, appear to mark the change in Henry for they close ranks, and a sneer starts to form on the oldest boy’s face. He walks, Henry sees, with a limp.

Henry pulls at Gwydion’s reins but the horse does not stop. On he plods, shortening the distance between Henry and his would-be aggressors who have straightened their shoulders, begun to come forward, a look of ugly intent in their eyes. Henry pulls the reins again. Reluctant, almost, the cob comes to a stop, and just as he does the oldest boy spits on the ground, narrowly missing Gwydion’s fetlock.

‘ Mynd i rywle, doctor?’

Doctor. That is clear. As for the rest, well, he may not understand them but he does know the words were said with scorn; the look on the lad’s sunburnt face is conceited, over-confident, and Henry recognises that in a battle of words this boy has the upper hand. He should ignore them, ride by without saying a thing … but Henry cannot let himself be silent.

‘I mean no harm here, lad. Let me by.’

He tries to steer Gwydion away but the boys form a semicircle, preventing any movement.

‘ Rydych chi’n mynd y ffordd anghywir .’ The boy shucks his chin in the direction of the open country road, the road leading back to Abermaw. Next to him, one of the others tosses the wooden ball from hand to hand. Henry eyes it warily. ‘ Ewch yn ?l i ble daethoch chi ,’ the boy continues. ‘ Does yna ddim croeso i chi yma. ’

Henry takes a breath. They know he does not understand them, well aware they can taunt him without adequate reproach. He looks to the line of cottages, wills someone to come out, but no one does.

‘Just let me pass,’ Henry says. ‘Your words are wasted on me.’

Perhaps it was his lack of deference, or perhaps his stern tone of voice, but the nasty smiles vanish from their faces. The boy holding the ball keeps tossing it between his hands, slow and steady – back and forth, back and forth – and Henry wonders if he means to throw it. But then, suddenly, the older boy lunges for him, too fast for Henry to react. His medical bag drops to the ground with a grating thud, its contents spilling and rolling in the dirt.

Gwydion rears up. Henry swears, desperately hangs on to the reins, but in doing so he pulls at the bit and the horse tosses his head, kicking out his front legs with a high-pitched whinny that cracks the air like a scream.

The boys jump away. For a fearful moment Henry wonders if the horse has struck any of them but his concentration is solely on keeping himself seated on the saddle, on calming the horse down. He clenches his thighs, leans forward, puts his full weight over Gwydion’s shining neck. He can hear the cob’s heavy breathing through his flared nostrils, and Henry does his best to console the animal with nonsensical words. It is only when he has steadied him that he sees – to both his relief and consternation – the lads are unharmed. Indeed, they are laughing loudly, pointing, without a care for Henry’s safety or their own.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he shouts, temper lost. ‘You could have hurt yourselves!’

He looks again to the cottages. Why does no one come?

The boys are whooping now; two run away into the bank of willow trees. Three remain, staring insolently up at him with hard faces, resentment in their eyes.

‘Let me pass. Go home, else your parents will hear of this.’

The three remaining boys continue to stare. Then, after a moment, the oldest shucks his head at the other two. The lads exchange a glance but do as they are told – they walk backward at first before spinning on their toes, disappearing round the back of the narrow cottages, out of sight.

The lad that is left stares up at him for one long drawn-out moment. Though Gwydion stands high, the boy’s head comes easily to the cob’s withers and Henry senses he is trying to use this height to his advantage. But Henry will not under any circumstances be threatened by a bully such as he.

‘I said, go home.’

The boy smiles unpleasantly. One of his front teeth is cracked. ‘ Sais ,’ he hisses. Then, despite his limp, he flees like a rabbit into the willows after his friends.