But there was something special about Faith, some qualities of inner stillness he had never before encountered. Once or twice he thought he’d glimpsed a spark of possibility in her eyes, before she withdrew again into that calm silence he could not penetrate, and this kept him from giving up.
Impatiently, he stood and paced the confined area of the garden, stopping again at the well. The cover was pulled to one side, enabling him to peer down into the chamber itself. There was said to be a grotto set into one of the walls, large enough for a man to stand in, but he could see no sign of it. Dropping to his knees for a closer look, he didn’t hear Faith coming until she opened the gate to the well garden.
“Don’t fall in,” she teased, coming to stand behind him. “Garnet says it’s the Goddess’s well, and I doubt She’d like some big bloke splashing about in it.”
Faith wore a striped football shirt beneath denim coveralls, and her cropped hair and delicate features looked all the more feminine for it. Bugger Garnet, Nick thought savagely, but he didn’t say it aloud. “I was duly worshiping. Hands and knees, see?”
“Nick, don’t joke. It’s a sacred place.”
Rising, he returned to the bench and patted the seat beside him. “No offense intended. Come and sit; you stand all day.”
She obeyed, but kept a chaste distance between them. His desire for her was driving him to distraction, but he didn’t dare cross the boundaries she’d set, for fear of destroying the friendship they’d forged over the past months. Yet the thought that she had crossed those barriers with someone else was maddening, and it was all he could do not to ask her who … or why she continued to protect him.
Not that he had much opportunity to be alone with Faith. Garnet Todd had become both mother hen and fierce watchdog, and she’d made no effort to conceal her disapproval of Nick’s interest. On the few occasions he’d ventured up to Garnet’s farmhouse to see Faith after work, he’d sat uncomfortably in the primitive kitchen with the two of them, feeling like an unwelcome Victorian suitor. Hence this morning’s tryst in the garden.
“Some people think this is the garden Malory meant when he wrote that Lancelot retired to a valley near Glastonbury,” Nick mused, stretching his arm across the bench top, an inch from Faith’s shoulders. “Do you suppose this very place is where Lancelot lived out his days, dreaming of Guinevere in her nunnery? They died within months of one another—did you know that?”
Faith shivered. “That’s too sad. This garden isn’t meant to be sad: it’s a healing place.”
“I suppose it was a sort of healing for Lancelot, if he came to terms with his love for Gwen and for Arthur in the time he had left. And if he had been denied the Grail, perhaps living by a spring said to flow with the blood of Christ was some compensation.”
“I can see him here,” Faith said dreamily, tilting her head back until her hair brushed his arm. “With his little hut in the woods, and the spring flowing out of the hillside.” Her face darkened. “But the other spring would have been always below him, reminding him of the darkness to come.”
“The White Spring?” It flowed from the base of the Tor itself, and if the Red Spring represented the female element, the White Spring was said to represent the male.
“Garnet says it’s the entrance to Annwn, the home of Gwyn ap Nudd, Lord of the Underworld. And I can feel … something there … it’s a dark place.”
“Oh, bollocks, Faith.” He touched her chin with his fingertips, turning her face towards his. “You don’t really believe that, do you? It’s just a fairy story.”
“How do you know?” She twisted her face away and sat up straight. “The Druids were in tune with the earth itself, and there’s nothing more powerful.”
“But it’s myth, Faith! Symbolism. It was their way of explaining the world. No one’s meant to take it literally.”
“Is what’s happened to Jack a myth? Do you not believe that’s real?”
“Yes, but—”
“If Edmund can speak to us across nine hundred years, how can you set limits on what’s true?” Faith stood and faced him, her eyes bright with anger.
“But that’s different—”
“Is it?”
“Of course it’s different. Glastonbury Abbey was a real place, and monks really did live there. Edmund was a real person—”
“Can you prove it?”
“I don’t need to prove it. I’ve experienced it.”
“Then how can you say other people’s experiences aren’t valid?” she shot back.
He stared at her. This was not going at all the way he’d intended. “Look, Faith, meet me tonight. We can talk about it, but right now we’re both going to be late for work.”
“I can’t. Garnet wants me to study.”
“Study what? The Old Religion?” He heard the loathing in his voice.
Faith’s chin went up defensively. “The first religion. You know the Christian Church just built on what went before. Even Simon says so.”
“That’s not the point. You need to be doing normal, ordinary things. Finishing school. Taking your exams. Thinking about what you’re going to do with your life—and how you’re going to take care of your baby. You need to go home, Faith.” As he said it, he knew it was a mistake, and worse, if she were to take his advice he would very likely lose her altogether.
“Don’t patronize me, Nick Carlisle,” she spat at him. “And don’t tell me how to live my life. I’ve done all right—”
“Only because Garnet took you in, and I suspect she had her reasons—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about! Garnet understands me, and she knows I have something to do, something important—I just can’t see what yet. So just bugger off, okay?” She spun round, opening the gate and clanging it shut behind her.
Jumping up, he called out, “Faith, I’m sorry—” but she ran down the path, away from him.
CHAPTER FIVE
We also had to meet with a certain amount of jealousy from that section of the community which regards all positive happiness as tending to evil, and all beauty as an endowment of the devil; for it did undoubtedly happen that the young things that studied with us acquired a liveliness and a physical carriage that marked them out from their fellows.
—RUTLAND BOUGHTON,
FROM THE GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL MOVEMENT
HAVING GIVEN FAITH chamomile tea and tucked her in bed for a nap, Garnet walked down the hill towards the café, for once oblivious to the beauty of the mild afternoon. Buddy had sent the girl home after lunch, insisting that she take the afternoon off, and Garnet needed to know exactly what had transpired that morning.
She was thankful to find the café empty and Buddy cleaning tables after the lunch rush. When she entered, he smiled and motioned her to a seat with a flourish of his cloth.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, darlin’. It’s been a bugger of a day.” His Texas drawl had never faded, although it was regularly interspersed with English slang.
“And you’re culturally confused,” Garnet replied. There was something about Buddy’s lanky frame and graying ponytail that still made her think of the Wild West, although he swore his only contact with cows had been on a plate and that he wouldn’t know what to do with a horse if it bit him.