The western gardens are nothing short of spectacular. Soon, they will be decorated with lights and the decorations for your own wedding. But they are not the only gardens in Powis Castle, however famous they may be.
     On the eastern side of the castle, the windows all facing England, there are several smaller gardens. Some are public, most are not. They were started and cultivated by the last Lady Herbert to live here.
     But one was started before that.
     Past the great hall with its huge fireplaces and dining tables, past the public sitting and receiving rooms, the library full of old and musty books, which one might well assume Davydd ap Owain has never read, there is a series of stone stairways, wide stones and vined copses, lead-glass and beveled windows. The stairs aren't steep and soon they lead to an archway of red granite.
     It is then that the apple trees within make their presence known. With the scent, the sweet scent of their blossoms and wood. It is spring and they are in full bloom. In what is both an interior and an exterior courtyard, a copse of apple trees stand, young and old.
     The oldest is in the center, its wood growing knotty with age. A dusting of pink and white blossoms gather at its roots and trunk, the first blossoms of the season to fall. At its feet, its own surface dusted in blossoms, is a bronze plaque. It is far older than the oldest tree. In Welsh, it reads:

To Penelope
Canfyddais blodeuyn yn blodeuo i mewn 'r allt dan 'r chorff chan a log a had ar lawr i mewn 'n anawdd aeafau
Canfyddais blodeuyn yn blodeuo i mewn 'r bwrw eira dan 'r anhudda chan 'r annwyd a had ar lawr acha 'r byd
Canfyddais blodeuyn yn blodeuo i mewn danio a had arwyreinedig i mewn 'r asgre chan ddyn a had 'n anghofiedig
Canfyddais blodeuyn yn prifio i mewn 'm ardda , yn prifio i mewn 'r canola chan caer Adeiladais
Canfyddais blodeuyn , Afaelais 'i achos awr , Afaelais 'i a Carais 'i dan 'r blodeua was na hychwaneg...
     I saw a flower blooming in the wood beneath the body of a log that had fallen in hard winters.
     I saw a flower blooming in the snow beneath the cover of the cold that had fallen on the world
     I saw a flower blossoming in fire that had risen in the heart of a man who had forgotten
     I saw a flower growing in my garden, growing in the center of a castle I constructed
     I saw a flower, I held it for an hour, I held it and I loved it until the flower was no more...

     She's been wandering, her mood bitter-sweet. Without even knowing why it is so - it is, and nothing can shake her from it save perhaps time. Time spent away from the presence of her mother, most particularly.
     Fiona's still in the guise of her punk self - Drancy, in jeans and a stolen t-shirt, fuchsia pageboy with a few golden-white strands interspersed to glitter in the afternoon sun. What sun makes its ways down to where she walks, if any. "Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere..."
     Her quotation stops there, at the edge of the copse of fruit trees in bloom. Footsteps stutter, slow, halt, and her head tips back to look at the ocean of blossoms, the sea of petals. As if she ought not be here - an intrusion. Though it isn't unwelcome she feels, it's - "Should some ghosts not be disturbed?"
     Her expression alters, subtly; settling into stubbornness, a horrible scowl that lasts moments, then eases. Gingerly she tiptoes forward until her footsteps become more normal, more natural, though she peers round every tree's trunk as if looking for someone, who, she's unsure.
     And that center is obtained, pink and white and wooden, eyes gone mercurial grey as a rising storm as she observes it. No; she doesn't know what to think. Or to do. Fiona draws ever closer to the tree and to the plaque, bending until she kneels, to brush from bronzed surface the snowfall of flowers.
     "Penelope."
     She says it, as if expecting the name to leave her unmoved, and the breath catches in her throat, and she shudders. A hand scrabbles among the petals, sweeping them together in a tensed handful, and she looks down at her own knuckles, unseeing, then at the plaque again. Part of her wants to call out; part of her is afraid of being answered. But something, something is needed to break the tension, the hold of the moment.

     Not many wander this way. One might wonder if anyone ever has, but that the stones are swept clean and the garden is well tended. But you do not hear the steps of servants, or the click-clack nails of corgies or any of the other assorted menagerie of Powis.
     There is solitude here, and a kind of enduring sanctuary. There is only the sound of a breeze moving from the exterior of the castle, over the wall to this courtyard, as it moves the upper boughs and branches of the apple trees.
     Apart from you, this 'Penelope' and these trees have only one other visitor. Your husband.
     There are steps, do you hear them? They are coming your way. Softly, slowly, until they carry Rhodri to the entrance. He stops, surprised to see anyone here. "Ah... bore da," a Welsh greeting, good day, hello. "I ..." wasn't expecting to see anyone here, didn't know you knew where this was, "... see you have found the hidden grove..."

     She doesn't stiffen; there's only the slightest tensing in the muscles of her neck, of her jaw to indicate she's heard you speak at all. "I suppose ... it's a blessing in a way, to realize you've never been good at following orders." Not bad at listening. Listening, you're far too good at - but heeding, well. Perhaps the two of you could have have a contest to see which is more heedless.
     Fiona opens her fist, finally, letting apple blossoms spill from her palm. A few petals stick like spun sugar, pollen dusted against her skin in fine, powdery grains of yellow-white. She doesn't look up, staring at the plaque unblinkingly, as if to blink might spill forth tears. "Wasn't so well hidden as some things, but - yes, I found it. Would you prefer I leave?"

     "Of course not," Rhodri quietly replies. "I come here to think. It is a good place for that. Not even Davydd knows it's here." He pauses to smile at that boast. "But then, he pretty well keeps to the Welsh side of the castle. Even this is a bit too Anglicized for his taste."
     He looks to you, the volumes your body language speaks. His eyebrows knit together. Are you alright? Well, clearly not. "Is something the matter? You know...coming here is a good place to get away from your mother." Rhodri comes up behind you, his hand on your head. "Driving you crazy, is she?"
     And we still have a week before the ceremony...
     "I like the color," Rhodri smiles. His fingers tug your hair a little in that 'bend your head back' way, something he usually does with his finger or a strap in a collar. "Why would I ever want you to leave?"

     She sighs, head tipping back, eyes closing against that threatened spill of tears. "Bloody impossible man," Fiona murmurs. "Sit down. Come here and hold me. A goose - a goose just walked over my grave, and I'm the goose, that's all." She shivers, turning a little towards you, one hand lifting so she can smear her palm against her eyelids, wash away tears before they admit themselves as evidence.
     I understand you a little better, now. Maybe not in ways I should. I don't know. I won't know. I wonder if I'll ever say anything - when do I ever keep secrets from you, though? I don't know yet...
     "Mother," Fiona finally murmurs, "is in Cardiff with daddy, for the day. The boys stopped by - they've gone to London, I gave them their marching orders. Getting into trouble, no doubt, but if they need us, they know how to reach us." Her hand winds up against your wrist, along your forearm. "...Take off your shirt."

     He kisses your forehead, but as you mention geese and graves he looks at you a little befuddledly. He glances to the plaque, as he always does, to the words he wrote and the bronze-smith inscribed.
     Sitting on the grass, Rhodri chuckles suddenly. "Take off my shirt?" Here? But he removes it easily enough. Like his nephew, he is...or rather now, was wearing a common t-shirt -- Black Jack Davy's issue, with the winking highwayman in red silkscreen on black clingy cotton. Now all that remains are the jeans. His feet were already bare.
     Rhodri looks at you as he sets the shirt aside, his upraised eyebrows wondering silently if you want anything else removed. Though, he is going to have to protest making love on Penelope's grave...
     "I will have to go to London to check on them, make sure they don't burn the whole thing down." His voice trails off as he looks to you plainly, his tattoos anything but plain as his arms come around you. "So," Rhodri whispers, "... what is on your mind, goose?"

     Fiona doesn't ask for anything else - or not just yet. She leans in against you, rubbing her cheek against those marks. Just as she remembers them, yes. "Everything's - doubled, right now. As if I've got double vision. I feel heavy."
     Deep, she inhales, breathing in the scent of you. "I don't know," she mutters, the words held half under her breath. Fiona scowls, lifting her face to look at you, glowering at you with eyes gone grey. "Damn you for a stubborn bastard, anyway." One palm rises, bounces off your forearm. "And," she sighs, "damn me for being so /bloody/ susceptible to you."
     I am sorry for making you afraid...

     Afraid...?
     Rhodri sits back a little, his hand going to cradle your face. He grins a wayward grin, his head inclining to look at you with all the inspection one might expect of a first class thief. "Well, love, if I were afraid before, I'm not now. So... don't worry..."
     "But," he smoothes his hand over your face, along your neck. "I am stubborn, however. There's no escaping that. I won't even bother denying it."
     His arms surround you again and his mouth finds its way to your scalp amid all that fuschia hair. "You feel heavy, hmm? Tense?" With the wedding coming up, it's no wonder. His hand pats you on the small of your back. "Why don't you turn around, hmm? And I'll rub your shoulders a while. That should help..."

     Of losing me.
     So simple, the words. And she turns, casting a lingering glance at you, eyes to eyes. "It's - jumbled. Mixed up - not like a jigsaw puzzle. More as if you'd taken a photograph and chopped it up, and tossed the pieces into a blender with everything else, mixed it all up and then poured them out. I'm trying..."
     To sort it out. Figure it out. Why I have these flashes of almost-memory. As if I were in that dress again - the dress. Maybe that's it.
     "It's not because of the wedding. I don't feel tense." Fiona pulls almost away from you, one small hand touching your larger paw, and she changes. Eyes closed, now. Hair lengthens, becomes pale and blonde, golden again, clothing ripples and alters until she's again laced into that snug blue gown that you saw - almost the first time you discussed the wedding with her. And she opens her eyes and they are still grey, still locked so intently upon yours.
     "Still a thief. Always a thief. My highwayman. I like you like that," Fiona whispers the words, as if the sighing boughs of the apple trees might hear and carry the words from one bough to the next, rippling outwards in a connubial gossip of blossoms. "You should've grabbed me when you first saw me and run for the hills, you know. But now it's far too late for that."

     What is going on with you...
     "I'm not afraid anymore. And...while it's too late to," there's a slight pause for the sight of you in the dress, "...elope now, the important thing is that I love you, you love me, and we're here... able to ... enjoy it."
     Rhodri leans back, his palms to the grass, he balances himself in a half recline. He tilts his head. Curiosity is as thick as apple blossom perfume on the air. "Still. Always," he echoes quietly. For the first time since his arrival, he glances to the plaque, to the tree and then to you.
     "So... maybe we should start from the beginning, my lady. I feel that we are far a-field. This... puzzle, these pieces... are you seeing, dreaming..." Feeling. He does not see what you see, feel what you feel.

     "True."
     She smiles at you, at that. I love you, her eyes say, the curve of her mouth, given so freely, so open-hearted. Not like your wife of the past, where every word, every smile was granted grudgingly, after such a battle. With Fiona, you have won her, and though she gives you fight, tousle for tousle, the battle, the war has already been won. You know it; she tells you so openly of her love.
     She follows you as you recline, her arms winding around your neck. "I love you," she murmurs aloud, closing her eyes. "What I feel ... that, always. It's as if there's noone else, nothing else. It feels as if it should be night-time, really. Darkness abounding. And you... unmasked at last."
     She nuzzles against your shoulder, her grip sliding slowly from your neck as she leans back with a sigh, props herself amidst grass and blossoms, and she, too, turns to look at the words etched in bronze. "...I don't want to lose you," Fiona says softly, a faint flush of colour rising in her cheeks. "I don't want you to lose me. But - that's nothing new, is it? Not really. I ... I don't know, Rhodri. Where has the Lord Rhys ap Owain gone? I want you for yourself. To be yourself. I want to be who I am... what I am. I don't know why my heart catches so, so strangely in my breast. Where comes this name, where comes this feeling."
     "I'm not used to feeling this fragile, this almost afraid..."

     Lord Rhys ap Owain...
     A name he has not used in ... ages now. "Lord Rhys ap Owain has gone where all figures of history eventually go -- in musty books, on dusty shelves, their place in history over. That me... had to give way to ...different lives, Fiona. He was both name and persona, yes? Much as Kelly. Now, I am the Me of Now..."
     Rhodri looks to you, eyebrows knitting in his concentration. "Beneath Rhys was Rhodri. Beneath Kelly was Rhodri. I am all of the things that have happened to me, but... I have to have room for the things I will become. I am, then... as much myself as I have been till this day."
     It is the philosophy of one remarkably long-lived...
     Rhodri sits up, his hand reaching for one of your own. "I love you, too," and he smiles. "Very much. And I don't want either of us to lose the other. In fact," his hand pats and he looks to them. "I don't want to think of loss at all. Would you mind? If we moved our conversation to the sitting room or..."
     Not on Penny's grave. Somewhere where loss is not so symbolized.
     Bending, Rhodri kisses your fingers and then he stands, his hands plucking up his shirt as he goes. Eyebrows arching, his smile tilts. It is a crafty look. The face of the fox remains unchanged. "Some food, some drink... some time together...?" he suggests.
     You are feeling her... aren't you... her memories, the things she felt and saw. He looks to the plaque, to his words there. To the woman who is truly only memory now. He expects only the jewelry he buried with her remains. Perhaps, even those diamonds have let go of this earth...

     "Everything transcends itself. I told you I'm being a goose." Fiona murmurs it, letting you take hold of her hand, letting you kiss her fingers as she watches your face with that child-like solemnity. "We can go inside, certainly. I feel cold."
     A shiver accentuates the words, though it isn't a false shiver. She rises to her feet, moving towards you as you speak, outside her mind and within, and her arms go round your waist, her face buried into your chest.
     I don't know what I feel. I just ... I want to go inside now. Please. Let's not stay out here...

     There's a soft chuckle as you go on with the goose. You hold onto him tightly and his arm comes around you. It'll be hard to walk with you holding on like this. But... no matter...
     The red fox of old lifts you in his arms and carries you out and up the stairs. It's never too late to run off with you, to steal what you want and carry it away.
     "The fox and the goose," he grins as he heads into the main hall. It's not a bad title for a new story...

Posted by rowan at April 09, 2006 11:04 PM