The Grey King Read Free

A rainbow danced over the low ceiling, cast up in a sun-spell from the handle of the glass milk jug.
    â€œWarm, too,” said Aunt Jen. “We are going to have an Indian summer for you, Will. And fatten you up a bit too, my dear. Have some more bread.”
    â€œIt’s lovely. I haven’t eaten so much for months.” Will watched small Aunt Jen with affection as she bustled about the kitchen. Strictly speaking, she was not his aunt at all, but a cousin of his mother’s; the two had grown up as close friends, and still exchanged quantities of letters. But Aunt Jen had left Buckinghamshire long before; it was one of the more romantic legends in the family, the tale of how she had come to Wales for a holiday, fallen shatteringly in love with a young Welsh farmer, and never gone home again.She even sounded Welsh herself now—and looked it, with her small, cosily plump form and bright dark eyes.
    â€œWhere’s Uncle David?” he said.
    â€œOut in the yard somewhere. This is a busy time of the year with the sheep, the hill farms send their yearlings down for the winter . . . he has to drive to Tywyn soon, he wondered if you would like to go too. Go to the beach, you could, in this sunshine.”
    â€œSuper.”
    â€œNo swimming, mind,” said Aunt Jen hastily.
    Will laughed. “I know, I’m fragile, I’ll be careful. . . . I’d love to go. I can send Mum a card, saying I got here in one piece.”
    A clatter and a shadow came in the doorway; it was Rhys, dishevelled, pulling off a sweater. “Morning, Will. Have you left us some breakfast?”
    â€œYou’re late,” Will said cheekily.
    â€œLate, is it?” Rhys glared at him in mock fury. “Just hear him—and us out since six with only an old cup of tea inside. Tomorrow morning, John, we will pull this young monkey out of bed and take him with us.”
    Behind him, a deep voice chuckled. Will’s attention was caught by a face he had not seen before.
    â€œWill, this is John Rowlands. The best man with sheep in Wales.”
    â€œAnd with the harp, too,” Aunt Jen said.
    It was a lean face, with cheekbones carved high in it, and many lines everywhere, creased upward now round the eyes by smiling. Dark eyes, brown as coffee; thinning dark hair, streaked with grey at the sides; the well-shaped, modelled mouth of the Celt. For a moment Will stared, fascinated; there was a curious indefinable strength in this John Rowlands, even though he was not at all a big man.
    â€œCroeso, Will,” said John Rowlands. “Welcome to Clwyd. I heard about you from your sister, last spring.”
    â€œGood heavens,” said Will in unthinking astonishment, and everyone laughed.
    â€œNothing bad,” Rowlands said, smiling. “How is Mary?”
    â€œShe’s fine,” Will said. “She said she had a marvellous time here, last Easter. I was away too, then. In Cornwall.”
    He fell silent for a moment, his face suddenly abstracted and blank; John Rowlands looked at him swiftly, then sat down at the table where Rhys was already poised over bacon and eggs. Will’s uncle came in, carrying a batch of papers.
    â€œCwpanaid o de, cariad?” said Aunt Jen, when she saw him.
    â€œDiolch yn fawr,” said David Evans, taking the cup of tea she held out to him. “And then I must be off to Tywyn. You want to come, Will?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œWe may be a couple of hours.” The sound of his words was very precise always; he was a small, neatly-made man, sharp-featured, but with an unexpectedly vague, reflective look sometimes in his dark eyes. “I have to go to the bank, and to see Llew Thomas, and there will be the new tyre for the Land-Rover. The car that jumped up in the air and got itself a puncture.”
    Rhys, with his mouth full, made a strangled noise of protest. “Now, Da,” he said, swallowing. “I know how