Arcadia (73 page)

While he was speaking he laid Rosalind on the grass and Pamarchon, who was skilled at such things, looked carefully. A bad cut across the ribs, where Jaqui’s knife had caught her as she pushed him through the light. It was bleeding heavily, but looked worse than it was. She opened her eyes at his touch and smiled as she saw his worried face. ‘I’m really not that bad,’ she said. ‘I am quite capable of walking, thank you.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

Rosie lay still as he examined her and then smiled at Antros. ‘That is the second time you have rescued me, Antros the brave,’ she said faintly. ‘I do hope the Professor hasn’t been reading about Launcelot and Guinevere as well.’

Pamarchon picked her up himself and walked towards the house, with Antros running ahead to summon a healer. Catherine came out, and immediately abandoned the ceremony of installation to hurry over as well. Then the healers took over and banished them, laying her on soft sheets and getting clean cloths and astringents to clean the wound before binding it up.

‘Stop looking so frightened, young man,’ one said to the panicking Pamarchon. ‘Anyone would think you had never seen blood before. Now go away. She does not need you, and nor do we. She needs calm and quiet. You may see her when we are done. It is not such a very bad wound, so stop fretting.’

And Pamarchon, in the company of Antros and Catherine, had to wait, pacing up and down, constantly sending in messages to ask how she was.

‘Anyone would think he was in love,’ Catherine remarked to Antros quietly as they watched him. He laughed softly.

‘It seems you did very well back there,’ she added.

‘I followed instructions.’

‘I suspect you were given none.’

‘Perhaps.’

Antros, though, had other things on his mind.

‘Pamarchon?’ he asked. ‘What about Ossenfud?’

He nodded. ‘After I see Rosalind, I will go. I’ll have to hurry; I need to get ahead of Gontal’s party. I’m sure he must have dispatched people already but he is still here. Catherine, could you make sure he doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning?’

‘I will smother him with kindness and hospitality. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll break open some of Willdon’s best barrels of brandy. By the time I’m done he won’t even remember what Ossenfud is.’

‘Thank you. Antros, you must return to the camp, say what has happened. Keep everyone calm. Tell them I will explain on my return.’

*

Pamarchon returned two days later, exhausted, but satisfied. He had done everything he needed, raced ahead on one of Catherine’s finest horses and intercepted his troop of men some fifteen miles outside Ossenfud. The expedition, he said, was no longer needed. Wonderful things had happened in Willdon …

They had camped, and he had regaled them with a tale such as no man had ever heard before. He told it well, from their march to the Shrine to the appearance of the spirit, the trial, the unmasking of Jaqui as the murderer.

‘The spirit moved Catherine to end this feud. Those who wish can take up their lives, with land and in freedom. Those who do not will be rewarded, pardoned for any crime, and will be free to go as they wish.’

‘What about you?’ It was Djon who asked.

‘Ah, my dear friend! I will marry my fairy and I will help settle my people. Then I will get a ship, the finest ship ever built, and I will set sail.’

He looked at their faces in the flickering flames, saw how he had astonished them with every part of his narrative. ‘I will need a crew, of course,’ he said. ‘A job for the adventurous, the daring, the reckless. Do you by any chance know where I might find such people?’

Aching and tired, dirty, hungry and thirsty, he arrived back at Willdon and slid off the beast which was as exhausted as he was. Was Rosalind recovered? Had they lied to him or made a mistake? What if she was in a coma, infected, even dead?

He hurried across the beautiful gardens as the sun set to the west, and saw a slim, youthful figure running out of the healing rooms, waving at him.

He felt a surge of relief that banished all tiredness and began to run as well.

*

‘You must be very nice to me, Pamarchon son of,’ Rosalind said, when each was finally prepared to let the other go. ‘For as long as
we live. You know that, I hope. I cannot go home now. Not ever. I made my choice and it was you. I hope you haven’t changed your mind.’ It was three days since the tumultuous events of the Shrine, and already it felt as though it had never happened. Already she could feel a difference in the way that people were opening up, looking about themselves. She had heard people talking differently. ‘I will go … When I went … Next year … Many years ago …’

‘I am more certain than ever.’

‘Did you tell me the truth about voyaging? Or do you plan to settle down on a farm with pigs in your yard and chickens in your bed?’

‘I will be ready when you are. I would go tomorrow if you would come with me, or stay here for ever if you changed your mind.’

‘Silly,’ she said. ‘I won’t change my mind. Seeing the whole world will be easy in comparison to what I have seen already.’

She smiled her sweetest smile at him and he took her in his arms once more.

*

‘Lady Rosalind,’ Catherine said, when the girl had finally left Pamarchon and gone into the house. ‘I am glad to see you rested and recovered. Are you well?’

Rosalind nodded. She had been in bed for three days – two days longer than she thought necessary, in fact; her wound was on the mend and even the fussiest of the nurses had reluctantly conceded that there was no reason she should not be allowed to dress and leave the healing rooms. She had put on fresh clothes brought over from the house, and walked into the gardens just as Pamarchon had arrived. Now she was in the room of records where she had first talked to Catherine after her arrival. She no longer had any idea when that was; sometimes she thought it was only a week, sometimes it seemed like years.

‘I am very well. It looked much worse than it was. It was kind of you to come and visit me so often.’

‘I had to deploy all my authority to be allowed in. The nurses are tyrants in their domain. We were all very anxious for you.’

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Henary has gone to Ossenfud; he wants to mend fences with Gontal by proposing they collaborate on the Shelf of Perplexities. He is hoping that you will help him there. Bait, if you see what I mean. Gontal is rather afraid of you. Jay is still here, striking up awkward conversations with Aliena which are a joy to overhear, and that splendid young man Antros has disappeared back into the forest. Pamarchon, as you are well aware, has just returned.’

Rosalind blushed and smiled shyly.

‘Do you really plan to voyage?’

‘Soon enough, although I can’t refuse Henary’s request, and one of the nurses pointed out that spring would be a better time to set off. So in about nine months’ time we will leave, I hope.’

‘And see the world in all its majesty.’ She smiled. ‘Rain, fog, snow, danger.’

‘That’s it,’ Rosalind agreed happily. ‘And beautiful, wonderful things as well.’

‘Until then, I hope you will stay here as much as possible. I could use your assistance too.’

‘With pleasure, my Lady.’ Rosie curtsied, and Catherine laughed.

‘Ah, no. You do not call me that. You of all people. In fact, it occurs to me that we have never actually been introduced. Not properly.’

‘Then let us do it properly. I present myself to you as Rosalind, betrothed of Pamarchon, son of Isenwar. But I think I know your name already.’

‘Do you indeed?’

‘I think so. It was what the Professor said, how you became a major character in his story all on your own, a bit like I did. That made me think that perhaps you are not from here either.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think,’ here she paused for a moment, a little uncertainly, ‘I think you must be Angela Meerson. It is the only explanation which makes sense to me.’

Catherine smiled. ‘Good try. But I am not.’

‘Oh, what a pity! I was certain that you had to be.’

‘You were very close. My name is Emily Strang. I am Angela’s daughter.’

‘Now that I did not expect,’ Rosalind said with a hint of disappointment in her voice. ‘But then I didn’t know she even had a daughter. I never met her, you see.’

‘Nor I.’

‘Really? Your own mother? Poor you.’

‘She has looked after me in other ways.’

‘How on earth did you get here?’

‘Now that is a whole story of its own, and a very great one. It will take many hours to tell, but it is worth hearing. I hope you will stay long enough, because I will tell you of my mother and her work, of the Exile and the Return, or at least what I think it must have been. I have seen extraordinary things and would like to tell the one person who will understand, and perhaps help me unravel more of the truth. There is much I do not know.’

‘I’d love to.’

‘But that is for another day; there is no hurry. Now we must celebrate and be happy.’

She turned to look out of the window, over the broad gardens of Willdon, across to the woods beyond.

‘It is beautiful here, you know,’ she said quietly. ‘We can make something truly wonderful of it, this time.’

Acknowledgements

With thanks for help, support and advice to Ruth Harris, Alex Pears, Michael Pears, David Brown, Felicity Bryan, Catherine Clarke, Bouzha Cookman, Loren Eskenazi, Josie Gardiner, Michael Holyoke, Andrew Katz, Bill Lehr, Lyndal Roper, Mark Rowse, Sarah Savitt, Alex Scott, Nick Stargardt, André Stern, Henry Volans, Simon Whitaker.

About the Author

Iain Pears was born in Coventry in 1955. Educated at Wadham College, Oxford, he has worked as a journalist, an art historian and a television consultant. He is the bestselling author of
An Instance of the Fingerpost, The Dream of Scipio, The Portrait
and
Stone’s Fall
. He has also written several highly praised detective novels, a book of art history, an opera libretto and countless articles on artistic, financial and historical subjects.

By the Same Author

fiction
AN
INSTANCE
OF
THE
FINGERPOST
THE
DREAM
OF
SCIPIO
THE
PORTRAIT
STONE
’
S
FALL

Jonathan Argyll Art Mysteries
THE
RAPHAEL
AFFAIR
THE
TITIAN
COMMITTEE
THE
BERNINI
BUST
THE
LAST
JUDGEMENT
GIOTTO
’
S
HAND
DEATH
AND
RESTORATION
THE
IMMACULATE
DECEPTION

non-fiction
THE
DISCOVERY
OF
PAINTING
:
THE
GROWTH
OF
INTEREST
IN
THE
ARTS
IN
ENGLAND
, 1680–1768

Copyright

First published in 2015
by Faber & Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA

All rights reserved
© Iain Pears, 2015

Cover design by Faber
Cover images © artjazz/Shutterstock (wheatfield);
© Boris Bulychev/Shutterstock (boy)

The right of Iain Pears to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 978-0571-30159-1