Page 1 of The Dragon Ring
Chapter One
When I wentto scatter my father’s ashes, I didn’t expect to get kidnapped.
On that chilly Sunday morning in November, I wanted to be alone for the last words I’d ever say to him. With Dad in my backpack, and leaving my boyfriend, Nathan, asleep in bed in our Glastonbury hotel, I climbed the steep path to the Tor.
In the half-light of early morning, thick mist lay over the town, and no one else was about. For miles around only the odd dark treetop and the tip of a church spire emerged from the sea of white.
Easy to see why some people believed this hill could have been part of Avalon, that mystical land King Arthur had vanished to after being mortally wounded in his last battle. My father had been one of those people.
Shouldering off my backpack, I pulled out Dad’s urn. It weighed surprisingly heavily in my hands for someone who’d only been skin and bones when he’d died. I stood him on the grass beside the roofless church tower.
“I wish Artie could be here, Dad.”
No answer, of course. My twin brother was on the far side of the world on a prolonged trip with his mates, and I’d have to imagine him here with me, spiritually, despite the fact he hadn’t made the effort to get back. Typical.
A bitter frost sparkled on the short grass. For a minute or two, I stood looking at the bleak hilltop, remembering the last time I’d been up here seventeen years ago. Artie and I were seven, our mother was already dying. Although being so young we weren’t aware of the limitation on our time with her. I remember it so well because it was the first time I saw the Fancy-Dress-Man.
*
The trees’ nakedbranches rattle in the wind beneath a dull grey sky. Damp cold penetrates to my very bones. My mother’s skin is parchment pale, her once glorious auburn hair wispy and colorless beneath her hand-knitted hat.
My father, over-enthusiastic as usual, expounds on the history of the Tor. He looks old, with his bush of grey hair, jutting eyebrows and thick-lensed spectacles. He’s a university professor and obsessive Arthurian scholar, which is how my brother and I have come to be called Arthur and Guinevere. Although my mother shortens those to Artie and Gwennie.
The hump of Glastonbury Tor rises out of the surrounding flat farmland, long since reclaimed from ancient marshes. Dad parks our Land Rover on a rutted grass verge, and we take the shortest route to the summit.
Artie and I run on ahead, our boots splashing through the puddles. We’re oblivious to the quiet suffering of our mother as she and our father slog along behind us. It’s a pilgrimage for them, as it will be the last time she sees the Tor. But to exuberant seven-year-olds, she just seems annoyingly slow.
We reach the summit together, well ahead of our parents. For a moment the gaunt outline of the tower holds me mesmerized, even though I’ve seen it countless times before. Artie and I have been visiting Glastonbury since just after we were born.
“Race you to the tower.” Artie gives me a backward push and sets off at a run. I sprint after him, but he’s long-legged and athletic and taller than I am, and besides, he’s given himself a cheating head start. He wins, of course. I pretend I haven’t been trying. We walk round to the far side of the tower and look out at the view over the Somerset Levels.
Voices carry on the wind. I peer through the arches of the tower. Our parents appear at the far end of the hilltop.
“Race you back.” Artie’s off again, legs hammering down the slight slope. This time I ignore him.
I’m alone. The wind blows through the empty shell of the tower. Below me, the town lies quiet. I turn on the spot, my short arms outstretched, my face uplifted to the slate grey sky overhead, eyes stretched wide to take it all in. Strands of my long chestnut hair whip across my cheeks.
Above the whistling of the wind, a faint musical note sounds. I close my eyes and open my ears. Such a sweet sound. To a seven-year-old brought up on bedtime tales of Celtic heroes it carries all the allure of fairyland. My lips curl in a smile. My small feet take tentative steps toward the sound.
I open my eyes. I’m standing inside the tower. The wicked wind has died to nothing. All I can hear is that single faint musical note. Beyond the stone arches the world has blurred out of focus, yet within, every stone is crystal clear. I turn around, pushing loose strands of my hair out of my eyes.
He’s standing watching me. A man in strange old-fashioned clothing. Immediately, in my head, I dub him theFancy-Dress-Man.He’s tall and slim and as out of place as a hawk on a garden bird table. His clothes remind me of a picture of the Pied Piper of Hamelin in one of my books. A long russet cloak hangs below his knees. I’m not afraid.
He smiles at me, dark eyes crinkling in a thin, tanned face. His shoulder-length hair’s a darker shade of brown, his clothes like autumn leaves. I smile back, just a little shyly.
He extends a hand. Something sparkles in it. Without thinking, I reach for what he offers. My fingers close over warm metal. It shimmers like solid gold. He releases his hold, and I look down in curiosity.
Heavy in my hand lies an open-ended gold bracelet, at each end an intricately worked dragon’s head. It takes my breath away. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I lift my eyes, words of surprise and, I like to think, of thanks on my lips. But he’s gone. The wind whistles through the tower again and my parents approach up the grassy slope, Artie between them. I’ve never felt more alone.
What a fuss this causes.
There’s nothing secretive about me at seven, and the first thing I do is show my parents, proudly, what I’ve been given.
“The Fancy-Dress-Man gave it to me,” sounds feeble, even though it’s true.
Artie goes green with envy and runs off round the tower looking for the Fancy-Dress-Man until our father brings him back and anchors him down with a firm grip on his hand.
