Dark Angels

She peered in, twisting her hands together, but drew back and turned entreatingly towards him.

“I can’t get in.

“But of course you—”

Wolf paused. Perhaps she was mad… Through the transparent veil he glimpsed a sweet, wild face. “What’s your name, lady?” he asked gently. But the question appeared to distress her. “I can’t remember,” she moaned, swaying in a sort of absent-minded dance. “Gwae fi! I can’t remember!”

Wolf stared at her feet. She had crossed that dirty yard right behind him. His own shoes were clotted with mud. Yet there wasn’t a single stain on her little white slippers.

He looked up. She was gazing at him through the veil with owl-black eyes. Surely eyes shouldn’t be so round and so big — like dark coins? He began to back away.

“I can’t get in!” she wailed.

“Sorry — sorry,” Wolf gabbled. “I don’t know what to…” It wasn’t just the lady’s fluttering clothes that were almost transparent. He could see the dark stones of the arched chapel doorway curving right through her body.

“Help!” Wolf shouted, stumbling away. “Help!”

From the other side of the bailey, a guard dog barked, deep and echoing. Someone shouted from the ramparts, “Shut up! Stop that racket! How-ell-ll!” And a nearby door creaked open, disclosing a glimmer of firelight. A white-haired old man limped out into the yard. The priest who had said the blessing at supper!

Wolf rushed at him. “Help me!” He clung to the old man’s arm. “A ghost! She spoke to me! She wants to get into the chapel!”

The old man nodded as though he expected this. “No, no, that’s no ghost, that’s just our little ladi wen, our White Lady. No, she can’t get in, the poor child. Don’t worry, I’ll soon deal with it.”

He stepped forward so briskly that Wolf felt compelled to follow. Billows of mist floated across the yard, and the pale lady was still moaning and wringing her hands at the chapel door. “Hush now, hush!” the old man called in a soothing voice. The lady turned to him like a frightened child.

“I can’t remember my name…”

“Dear, dear.” The old man put on a pretence of surprise; Wolf got the impression he had done this many times before. “But that’s all right, because, you see, we have a name for you. Dame Blanche; our White Lady. Our sweet Ladi Wen.” He dropped into musical Welsh, and the lady listened very attentively. When he finished, she bowed her head in sorrowful consent, and walked smoothly away. The mist followed her. Her feet moved a fraction above the ground, and she drifted at a slight angle to the way she was facing, as though the wind had caught her — and when she reached the dark corner where the pig lay, Wolf wasn’t sure if she went around it, or just vanished.

“There’s better, now,” said the old man cheerfully. “I suggested she takes a bath, see? She loves to have a splash in the cistern, and it’s still an hour or two from daybreak.”

Wolf wetted his lips. “But — but—”

The old man patted him. “Come in and see if my Hunith can make us both a nice hot drink.”

Wolf followed him into a small, homely room containing a bed, a hearth, a few pots and pans hanging on the walls, and a tiny little woman. She was as wrinkled as a walnut, and gave him a toothless smile of pure delight as she drew him warmly to the fireside, patting and stroking his hand and murmuring some Welsh greeting.

“This is my Hunith,” said the old man, “she cannot speak a word of French or English, but she wants me to tell you how happy she is, see? — to welcome you to our house.”

Hunith was still holding his hand. Wolf managed to pull it gently away just before she kissed his fingers.

“And I am Howell,” added the old man, beaming. He had a snub nose, a wide mouth, a bald forehead, and a fringe of hair as white as thistle-floss circling the back of his head. “And you are Wolf, and you have come all the way over Brig y Diafol, I hear — over Devil’s Edge — from the great Abbey of Christ and St Ethelbert at Wenford?”

“Yes, sir—”

“I would like to hear more about that,” said Howell wistfully. “It is my dream one day to visit that great abbey where the bones of Saint Ethelred rest.”

Wolf interrupted. “Sir, please! What was that thing outside? I could see right through her. I—” He stopped. In a dry whisper he added, “In the chapel — there’s a tomb. With a woman lying on it. Lord Hugo’s wife. Eluned.”

Old Howell’s eyebrows shot up, and his forehead wrinkled. With his halo of downy white hair and his rosy apple of a face, he couldn’t look really stern, but he did his best. “The Lady Eluned died almost seven years ago in the faith of Our Lord and is assuredly now in Paradise with holy Saint Catherine and blessed Saint Margaret. Do you really suppose she would leave the bliss of Heaven to wander about our yard?” His tone was severe.

“No sir. I suppose not.” Grimly, Wolf wondered what Howell would say if he knew that Lord Hugo had been calling his wife’s name into a black cave on Devil’s Edge.

“No, indeed!” The old man’s face relaxed. “But our little White Lady,” he said almost tenderly. “Everyone knows her. Nobody minds her. She does no harm at all.”

“But what is she? Why does she want to get into the chapel?”

“Ah, she often flits about the chapel. She can’t get in, and that makes her curious, you see. As for her nature, I don’t know for sure, but —” Howell rubbed his nose thoughtfully “— do you know the history of this island of Britain?”

“No.” Wolf blinked at the sudden change of subject.

“Then it will be my pleasure to instruct you!” Howell lifted a gnarled finger. “The first settlers came here not long after the city of Troy burned to the ground, fully one thousand years before the birth of Our Lord! And what did those first men find? Giants (which they killed), and spirits such as pans, fauns and naiads, which our Lord God set from the beginning of the world to dwell in every element, some in air, some in fire, and some in water. If you stay here you’ll notice our White Lady loves the cistern. There’s a spring bubbles up in the corner, and often a bit of a mist floating over it, and the water is the sweetest you’ll ever taste. And it’s my belief she’s nothing other than an elemental spirit, placed there long ago as the keeper of the spring by the will of the Creator, blessed be He.”

“Oh?” Wolf hesitated. He knew what Brother Thomas would have called such creatures. Demons, without a shadow of a doubt. But poor, mournful Ladi Wen didn’t seem very demonic.

“Shouldn’t you sprinkle her with holy water?” he mumbled. “Wouldn’t that get rid of her?”

“Why should I want to get rid of her?” Howell asked. “What harm does the poor creature do? They even say that if she ever leaves, the luck of the place will go with her. She belongs here, and always has. Doubtless, she has no soul, and perhaps she and all her kind will pass away forever at the dreadful Day of Judgement, but let us leave that to the mercy of God.”

Wolf felt rather ashamed. “She did save me from falling over the pig,” he admitted. Old Howell’s face creased into a million merry wrinkles.

“My Morwenna! I heard her squealing. So it was you who disturbed her, was it? A wonderful pig she is. And clever, my goodness!” He turned and spoke to Hunith, who clapped her hands in delight. Her face shone.