Page 73 of The Road to Avalon
Con stepped onto the stern, feet wide-planted, his long pole in his hand, and pushed us off. We drifted out onto the misty lake and the current took us.
The boat being low in the water, we were below the height of the mist, swathed in its opaque white shroud, moisture settling on our clothing and in our hair. Maybe Con’s head rose above it, but I couldn’t tell. He stood like some colossus in front of us, his muscles rippling as he poled the boat along.
“Where is he taking us?” Archfedd whispered. “Isn’t Ynys Witrin where Gwyn ap Nudd lives? Isn’t it the doorway to Annwfn?”
I put an arm around her shoulders. “Old wives’ tales. It’s also where Reaghan has gone to be a religious and where the abbey is. It’s always been associated with some sort of worship, but now it’s Christian, so you’re quite safe. I’m taking you to the abbot. He’ll keep us safe.”
The little boat glided silently on, skimming the water and making scarce a ripple across its mirrored surface. Silence pressed in from all sides, broken only by the splash of unseen waterbirds heading for safety in the thick reedbeds. Beneath the boat, braids of green weed trailed, like the tresses of some hidden water creature.
Archfedd, brave as she was, huddled close to me until at last Con’s boat bumped the wooden landing stage of the monk’s wharf and he leapt ashore with the mooring rope. Once he’d secured the boat fore and aft, he helped us out.
“No need to wait,” I said. “We won’t be going back.”
Con’s eyes shot into his shaggy fringe, but he didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he tugged his forelock and after untying the ropes, hopped back into his boat.
For a moment our eyes met. “Look after our horses,” I said. “Please.” Then he was gone, swallowed up by the mist.
“If someone comes after us, they’ll find the horses and know where we’ve gone,” Archfedd said.
I nodded. “But we’ll be safe at the abbey by then. Come on. Not far now.”
We turned our backs on the wharf and the marshes, and set off inland.
Chapter Thirty
The path fromthe monks’ wharf to the abbey led at first through tall trees, keeping the high ridge of land that would one day be called Wearyall Hill on our left. Ahead of us rose the imposing bulk of the Tor itself, something I’d marked as an absolute last resort as it couldn’t be relied upon to work.
The late summer morning warmed fast, dispelling the last shreds of mist. A bright sun beat down on us and made me wish I hadn’t bothered with a cloak. Archfedd stopped and unfastened hers, so I did the same. We rolled them up and tucked them under our arms.
When we came to the rolling apple orchards, she stopped again. “Oh, my goodness, look at this place!”
For a moment I viewed it through her eyes. More apple trees than she could ever have seen ran away in every direction. Divested now of their pink and white blossoms, they sported countless small green fruits just waiting to ripen and be gathered to make into the monks’ famous cider that we drank all year round.
She pointed at the Tor. “Is that the hill we can see from our walls? I never thought it would be this big up close.”
Not the time to reveal all and admit to her how I’d ended up here, but maybe I was going to have to at some point, especially if I decided the only way to save her from Medraut was to take her back to my old world. Even though that would mean taking her away from Llawfrodedd as well as Medraut.Ifthe door would even open… I’d cross that metaphorical bridge when I came to it.
We passed between the rows of trees, where the hundreds of island sheep had nibbled the grass short, and, as the trees thinned out, the abbey came into view. After the island’s one village, this had been the first building I’d encountered when I’d arrived here, and the monks the first people. The first friendly people, at any rate, as the villagers had wanted nothing more than to hang me on the spot as a potential spy, especially Con’s old grandmother.
The abbey buildings formed a compact square around a cobbled courtyard, with double gates facing the church at the far end, and storehouses, monks’ dormitories and the abbot’s accommodation and office down the other two sides. Small, stone-banked fields surrounded the low buildings, dotted with lay brothers working alongside monks who had their habits tucked up into their belts and scrawny hairy legs on show.
Heads turned, and men straightened their backs to peer in open curiosity as we approached the gates, but I ignored them. Taking Archfedd’s hand, I hurried her into the oblong courtyard: empty and swept scrupulously clean. All the monks must be out at work at this time of the morning before the midday prayers of Sext began.
I didn’t need any help– I knew my way to Abbot Jerome’s office of old.
“This is the abbey?” Archfedd asked, staring around herself in wonder. “It’s so big. I was thinking it’d be like the church in our village. How many monks are there? Were those all monks out in the fields?”
“Lay brothers, as well,” I said, pulling her toward the left of the courtyard where a sizeable wooden door stood closed against us. “Now. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to in here. Let me do the talking. I know the abbot well.”
I knocked on the door.
For what felt like forever, nothing happened, and then the door creaked open halfway and a face I knew looked out at me, haloed by a cloud of unruly ginger hair.
“Gildas!” Relief at finding a friendly face swept over me. Years ago, after defeating his father at Dun Breattann, far to the north of the Wall, Arthur had brought the boy Gildas south as a hostage, and I’d engineered his placement in the abbey where he could follow his chosen vocation of learning. He and I had been friends ever since, although I’d not seen him for some time.
His too-wide mouth broke into a grin of delight revealing large, unevenly spaced yellow teeth, and he flung the door wide open. “Gwen!” He waved arms still gangly with persistent youth, despite the fact he must have been all of twenty-five by now. “Come inside, please. You’re a long way from home. What can I do for you?” His gaze went to Archfedd. “This can’t be your daughter? I thought she was a child, not a beautiful young woman.” Even a monk isn’t immune to a pretty girl.
Archfedd managed a wary smile.
