CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

Linette leaves the cottage first, folds her arms tight across her chest as the sea breeze pushes firm like a salt wall. On the air she smells sand, the brine-scent of fish. The shells jangle on their strings. Behind her she hears the doctor close the cottage door, the dull thud of the latch falling into place, and she turns to him with a ‘thank you' on her lips, but a deep frown is furrowing his forehead, the flat of his hand spread out against the deep grain of pitted wood.

‘Dr Talbot?'

‘Why do the doors have white marks on them? I noticed the miners' houses up the way had similar marks.'

She looks at the wood, the light washing of white daubed onto it in a haphazard line.

‘It's a local superstition,' says Linette. ‘People here think that by whitening their houses they shut the door against the Devil. It is what Mrs Morgan meant when she said she'd made the mark too late.' Dr Talbot stares as if he does not comprehend. ‘When she said, " Fe wnes i'r marc yn rhy hwyr ",' Linette adds by way of explanation. ‘She thinks if she had done it sooner Tomas would not have got sick.'

There is a beat of silence. Within it Linette watches him twist the fancy of it around in his head, marks the very moment he discards her words for lunacy.

‘The Devil doesn't exist,' Dr Talbot says finally, hand slipping from the door. ‘To believe in such things is the mark of fools.'

‘Well, while you mightn't believe in the Devil the people of Penhelyg do. You will gain no esteem here if you taunt the beliefs of your patients.'

‘I do not taunt,' Dr Talbot counters, as if lecturing a child, ‘but there can be no denying the ridiculousness of such a notion. How can marking doors white possibly ward off the Devil?'

Linette shrugs. ‘White for purity, I suppose?'

‘But how is that rational?' he persists, his face bright with the passion of a man determined to push his point. ‘Even if the Devil existed no amount of white paint could possibly make a difference.'

‘Perhaps,' Linette counters, feeling herself grow defensive again, ‘it is not the paint that makes a difference, but the belief that it will.'

Dr Talbot stares at her from beneath the rim of his hat, dark eyes thoughtful.

There is something familiar about the way he looks at her. It is a calculating regard, one that succeeds in making her feel exposed, somehow, but then he shrugs, returns to Gwydion, and Linette lets out the breath she had not realised she was holding.

When Linette was a child, Enaid used to recite tales of magic and myth to her at bedtime. They were filled with the adventures of young farmhands and gallant knights, of mighty giants and enchanted lakes. Many tales featured wily fairy folk and their wicked deeds; how they would swap innocent children for their own, how they would fool weary travellers into a castle that disappeared once they awoke to find themselves cold and wet on the moors, or how if one were to step inside their stone circles, one would be trapped in dance for ever.

Other tales told of darker beings, much more sinister and chilling – monstrous hounds, tormented banshees, water creatures which would drag unsuspecting victims into the depths of their lairs to feast upon their drowned corpses.

To Linette's mind, they are stories and nothing more. But there can be no denying that sometimes – just sometimes – when she has been out in the fields or woods or mountains, she has fancied to have seen a tantalising glimpse of an ellyll from the corner of her eye, or heard the mournful singing of Gwrach y Rhibyn high on the wind. Often she has seen clusters of the moss-bound rocks so favoured by the tylwyth teg and found a way around them. Just in case.

But it is clear to her there is little point in telling this plain-speaking doctor any of that.

They manoeuvre the horses across the salt marshes, back up to the narrow path. Linette points at some cottages hidden by a tall hedge, tells him of their inhabitants. (Bryn Parry is not expected to see out the summer, Bronwen Lewis has a baby just weaned, Gareth Griffiths suffers from headaches and his wife, Catrin, is prone to gout.) Henry Talbot responds to these facts in curt polite tones and, beginning to feel as though she is wasting breath, Linette presses her tongue between her teeth.

At length they reach Penhelyg's square. Even at its busiest, the village is quiet during the daytime hours. With the majority of men working up at the mines it is the women who hold sway here; some are weavers of nets which they sell down at the docks of Abermaw, some launder, others bake, and farmers' wives can often be found trading milk or livestock in exchange for these small commodities. Linette nods to them all in greeting, but to her dismay some of the women – women she has known all her life – fail to acknowledge her. Indeed, they appear to take great pains to ignore Linette completely and for a brief moment she cannot fathom it … until the butcher's wife narrows her eyes at a point over Linette's shoulder and turns heel.

Oh. She has marked who I'm with.

Linette twists in her saddle to see if he, too, understands, and it troubles her to find he does; Henry Talbot is watching Delyth Hughes' cold retreat. Is she imagining it, this animosity? She looks about the square, spots Rhiannon and one of the Parry girls sitting now by one of the water troughs near the tavern. Keen to be sure, Linette steers Pryderi toward them, beckons Dr Talbot to follow. On their approach the girls look up, and like the others their usual friendly smiles do not come. Linette's own smile slips from her face as she reins the horse in.

‘Good afternoon, Rhiannon. Good afternoon, Erin. How are you both?'

Erin – the younger of the two – nervously flicks a glance at Rhiannon, then stares hard at the ground. She mumbles a greeting, the words muffled into the rough of her woollen collar. Rhiannon, however, simply watches Linette with steely eyes.

‘Well enough, mistress.'

Her gaze slides to the doctor then back again. She says nothing else.

‘This is Dr Talbot, our new physician.'

Linette gestures to him. The doctor doffs his hat. Rhiannon's pointed jaw clenches.

‘I know.'

A statement, harmless enough. Why then does it feel like an attack?

‘We've just come from Tomas Morgan's bedside,' Linette tries in a lighter tone. ‘Will your father be able to spare some milk for him? Dr Talbot says it will be curative.'

Erin looks taught as harp strings. Rhiannon's eyes darken.

‘I'm sure we can spare some. But for Tomas' sake. Not his.'

The last words are said with derision, and Linette swallows as her suspicions are confirmed.

Rhiannon Einion is only a few years younger than Linette. Not old enough, not really, to take the rumours to heart. Yet her grandmother had been well-loved in Penhelyg and though – like Linette – the girl never knew the woman, the memory of her has been passed down, the tragic tale with it. Still, it has no bearing on Henry Talbot and Rhiannon should know that.

They all should.

‘For Tomas' sake,' Linette says now, forcing a smile. ‘It is all I ask.'

For a moment Rhiannon stares. Then she turns up her nose, rises from the bench; Erin stumbles up with her.

‘Very well,' she replies, and looks at Dr Talbot once more, a vicious gleam in her dark eyes. Then, with not one word further, Rhiannon brushes past Pryderi's legs. The horse huffs; Linette presses her heels to steady him. Erin – with a shy, apologetic glance – hurries after her, skirts spilling dust, and Linette watches them go with a deep sense of unease. Next to her, Dr Talbot clears his throat.

‘I do not need to understand Welsh to know that we were not well met.'

Linette sighs, turns now to look at him. His expression reveals no upset, no derogatory manner, but she hears the reserve in his voice just the same.

‘I'm sorry. I do not know …' She trails off. Cannot lie. ‘Your presence here will take some getting used to. That's all.'

Something flickers in his face.

‘Will it?'

Linette opens her mouth, shuts it again.

No, she cannot bring herself to lie. Instead, it is better to say nothing at all.

They are nearing the fork at the gatehouse when the shot comes. It splits the air with a deafening crack , causing an explosion of birds to scatter high into the trees. Linette hears the splinter-break of impacted wood, but she has no chance to see which tree has fallen victim to it for beneath her Pryderi rears up with a loud whicker, and Linette clings on to his reins, digs her heels into the cob's flanks to keep him steady. Gwydion's cry is louder – the horse's scream pierces her ears, and Linette is vaguely aware of the new doctor clinging desperately on as the cob throws his head.

‘ Pwyll ,' she says now, leaning forward into Pryderi's ear, ‘steady now.'

The horse snorts deeply, paws the ground, and Linette takes that opportunity to reach out for Gwydion's reins swinging wildly at his neck. Her companion has his fingers buried in the horse's coarse black mane, white-knuckled – it is only when Linette calms his mount that he releases his grip.

‘Are you all right?' she asks, breathless.

The doctor is ghost-pale. Visibly he swallows.

‘I think so, yes. Yes,' he says again, more firmly, as if to assure himself of the fact.

There is a snap of twig. Over his shoulder a movement catches her eye. Seeing the direction of her gaze Dr Talbot twists in his saddle, dark eyes scanning the trees.

‘Hello?' he calls.

There is no answer.

‘Perhaps,' Linette ventures, ‘it was one of the farmhands. Pheasants are plentiful in these woods. My tenants have free rein to hunt wherever they please.'

‘Then why did they not call out?'

‘Mayhap they did not realise.'

It sounds feeble, even to her lips. He called into the woods, loud enough that whoever it was should hear him. They should have heard the horses scream, at least. Why, then, would they not come forward and apologise?

Linette squints into the dense woodland, tries to make out whatever it was she saw a moment before, but there is nothing. Nothing but the natural sounds of the forest, its creaking branches, its rustle of leaves.

Henry Talbot is looking now in the direction of where the bullet landed. The trunk of a sycamore possesses an ugly splintered wound, and seeing it Linette feels her blood run cold. It is exactly at eye level. This was the tree she had passed a moment before, her companion following close behind …

Furtively Henry dismounts. Handing Gwydion's reins to Linette, he approaches it.

He stares at the tree for a long moment before looking about him on the forest floor where – Linette sees now – his medical bag has fallen amongst the feathered fronds of a fern. He opens the bag, sifts through it, takes out the small knife he proposed to use on Tomas Morgan.

Linette watches, fascinated, as he angles the blade into the trunk, plucks something from it, places it in his palm. He prods at it with the tip of the knife, his lips a grim line.

‘What is it?'

A bullet, of course, but that is not what Linette means. The doctor seems to recognise this, however, for he raises his gaze to meet hers, hard as stones.

‘Someone just took a shot at me.'

Linette blinks. ‘I beg your pardon?'

She realises he is breathing deeply, is striving for a calm he clearly does not feel.

‘From the behaviour of the villagers just now it's abundantly clear I'm not wanted here.' A hint of bitterness. ‘And when we were speaking of Dr Evans earlier you said he would not be easily replaced, especially by an Englishman. What did you mean by that?'

‘I …'

He levels her with a stern look.

Linette sighs. ‘'Tis difficult to explain …'

‘I'm listening.'

She does not respond, for how can she possibly make him understand? But her silence only seems to provoke him.

‘Someone shot at me!' he cries, and Linette sighs again in answer.

‘I'm sorry, but I simply can't believe it was deliberate. A stray bullet, a bad aim, that is all.'

The young doctor's face is flushed with emotion.

‘First the gatehouse,' he says, ‘now this. I've not been in Penhelyg even a day, yet it seems your tenants are determined to be rid of me.'

Linette stares. A sliver of cold runs down her back, making her flinch.

‘Are you suggesting someone tried to kill you?'

He slips the bullet into his pocket. ‘Or warn me off.'

‘No. No,' she says again, shaking her head. ‘They would not do such a thing.' But doubt now is clawing at her insides, burying itself like a worm.

Above them a goshawk lets out a sharp screech. Together they look up, watch it glide through the air before disappearing into the treetops. Pryderi shifts beneath her; Gwydion in turn pulls at the reins she still holds, and suddenly Linette is overwhelmingly tired.

Henry Talbot narrows his eyes. ‘I deserve to know why they should dislike me so.'

‘Yes. You do. But now is not the time to tell you.'

‘Someone shot at me!' he says again, voice raised and pinched. ‘These villagers, they—'

‘Dr Talbot,' she snaps, ‘I shall not have you slandering my people in such a manner.' The physician opens his mouth to counter her with a reply, but Linette holds up her palm to stop him. ‘I'll discuss this only when we are both calm, and not before. Is that perfectly clear?'

And with that she instructs Pryderi forward, into the now silent trees.