The Warrior's Princess

  ‘Steph –’

  Jess always found it hard to get a word in edgeways with her sister. It was probably trying for so many years that had made her such a good teacher. Quiet persistence was the name of the game. ‘Steph, listen, I want to ask you something. Is this place haunted?’

  There was a moment’s silence the other end of the line. At last she had Steph’s attention. ‘Why?’ Steph’s cautious response in Rome was almost drowned by a volley of hooting in the street outside the apartment window behind her. Jess heard it and smiled wistfully. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘I –’ Steph hesitated. ‘To be honest I have suspected there might be something odd there once or twice. Just noises. The feeling sometimes that I was being watched. I haven’t seen anything.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not scared up there on your own are you?’ She sounded worried.

  Jess grimaced. ‘No, of course not. As you say, noises. It’s probably because I’m not used to rural silence after London, that’s all.’

  There was a chuckle the other end of the phone. ‘My dear, if you think London is noisy, try Rome! Listen.’

  Jess guessed the telephone was being held out of the open window the other end. A muffled unspecified roar punctuated by the staccato wail of a car alarm confirmed her guess.

  ‘Listen, Jess. Kim’s come back with our panini and the giornali. I’ve got to go.’ Steph was on the end of the line again. ‘I’ll call you again in a few days, OK?’

  ‘Wait, Steph!’

  But it was too late. Steph had hung up. ‘Let me have your number, in case I need to get in touch …’ Jess finished the sentence softly to herself as she put down the phone. All her life Steph had been doing this to her. Talking so hard and so fast Jess had either forgotten what she was going to say or she had given up trying. She gave a wry grin. Well, at least they communicated which was more than many sisters did. And there was always Steph’s mobile.

  4

  The Prices were her sister’s nearest neighbours. She remembered their warmth and friendliness from her previous visits and even the thought of going to see them cheered her up enormously. She glanced round the kitchen. The house felt welcoming and warm. There was no trace of anything spooky here now.

  The spookiness, she reasoned to herself firmly, was tied up with the dream and the dream was tied up to what had happened to her. Rape was not something she was going to shrug off and forget just like that. The experience had wounded her in a way she would probably never completely recover from. But she was here in the peace and quiet of this beautiful countryside to do just that, she was a strong woman. She would get over it. Dan’s words. Get over it.

  The walk down the lane and up across the fields to Cwm-nant, the Prices’ farm in the next valley, was a long one but she enjoyed it. She had done it several times before with Steph. Meg and Ken Price ran a sheep farm but had still found time to help Steph when she had first moved in, to welcome her whenever she looked in and to treat her as family. Jess was pretty sure of a pot of tea and some gossip in the farmhouse kitchen. Unused to country walking, she was exhausted by the time she climbed over the last fence and dropped down into their lane, noting the fields were empty. The sheep must be up on the hills for the summer. She walked into the yard and greeted the two collies who ran up to her.

  The back door of the farmhouse was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard and light blue eyes. He must have been in his early forties. Dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt he filled the doorway with his bulk as he clicked his fingers at the dogs milling round her heels. They slunk away across the yard towards the kennel.

  Jess’s heart sank at the sight of the stranger. ‘Are Meg and Ken in?’ It hadn’t occurred to her to ring first. Steph never did.

  He shook his head. ‘They’re on holiday.’ His voice was deep and mellow but not particularly friendly. Her disappointment must however have been obvious for he raised an eyebrow. ‘As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m their son, Rhodri. Can I help?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really. I just thought I’d call in to say hello.’ She gave him a tentative smile.

  He glanced over her shoulder towards the gate. ‘Just passing, were you?’

  The lack of a car and the fact that the lane dead-ended at the farm made that unlikely. She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Jess Kendal.’ He ignored the hand and she dropped it, suddenly embarrassed. She hadn’t even realised the Prices had a son. She didn’t think Meg or Steph had ever mentioned him. ‘My sister is a neighbour,’ she ploughed on. ‘Across the fields. Ty Bran?’ She waited for a sign of recognition as she waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the ridge above the field beyond the lane. It looked deceptively close in the warm sunshine. ‘I’m staying there for a bit while Steph is away. I just thought I would come over to say hello to Meg, that’s all. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘You haven’t. Not so far.’ He frowned.

  She smiled uncomfortably. This was not the man in whom to confide her fear of ghosts or her fear of anything for that matter. Nor, clearly, was he going to offer her the hoped for cup of tea. Or even a civil smile. ‘I’ll be on my way.’ She hesitated, not quite sure how to terminate the conversation. She needn’t have worried. He was already shutting the door. ‘Rude bastard!’ She addressed the dogs with feeling as they reappeared, tails wagging as soon as the door was safely closed. ‘I hope he’s feeding you properly.’

  The walk back seemed endless. Far more of it was uphill on the return journey and it was strenuous. She was breathless and thirsty by the time she reached Ty Bran and was diving into the fridge for a glass of cold juice when she noticed a large black 4 x 4 turning in at the gate. It drew up beside her Ka, the door opened and Rhodri Price climbed out. She saw him stand for a minute, glancing round the yard.

  ‘Shit!’ He was not someone she had been expecting to see again so soon.

  He approached the open door of the house with what might have been a sheepish grin as he caught sight of her watching. ‘I think I may owe you an apology.’

  She stood her ground in the doorway, glass of orange still in her hand. ‘Why?’

  ‘I was rude.’

  ‘Were you? I thought that must be your normal manner.’ She could feel herself bristling.

  He shrugged. ‘Touché! It probably is, if I’m honest. I’m not very keen on fans tracking me down when I’m off duty, and I assumed you were one of them. My mother says it was unforgivable of me. She rang just after you left and she put me right. Forgive me.’ He was wearing a contrite expression completely at odds with his squared shoulders and confident, upright bearing.

  ‘I don’t see why you should be rude to your fans, if they have taken the trouble to track you down in the middle of nowhere,’ she retorted. ‘Who are these fans? Are you a popstar or something?’

  It was strangely satisfying to see him stare at her, genuinely shocked. ‘You don’t know who I am?’

  ‘No.’ She met his gaze and held it. ‘Should I?’ She had taken a huge dislike to this man with his smug arrogance and she was, she realised with sudden shock, feeling quite intimidated by him. Both emotions were unusual for her. Through most of her life she had found herself inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt; liking them until they gave her a good reason not to. But then he had done just that, hadn’t he! He had made her walk all the way back across the fields without her cup of tea! She took a deep breath and stood a little straighter. She was not going to make it easy for him.

  ‘It was nice of you to come over but there was no need, I assure you. I shouldn’t have intruded on your privacy.’ Stepping back into the stone-flagged passage, she gently pushed the door closed in his face. She listened intently, her ear to the solid oak. She could hear nothing. He didn’t move for several seconds, then he turned on his heel and walked back to his car. In a moment he had backed out of the gate and disappeared down the lane.

  ‘Oh God! I shouldn’t have done that!’ She bit her lip.
As she walked into the kitchen she found she was giggling out loud. ‘Pompous prick! Who the hell does he think he is? How can such nice people as the Prices have such an awful son!’

  The dining room was the perfect place to put all her sketchbooks and paints and set up her easel. The line of north-facing windows looked out across the valley towards the distant hillsides, on the far side of the house from the courtyard and Steph’s studio – nothing would persuade her to settle down in there. As she laid out her brushes and began to paint, the sun was setting in a haze of crimson cloud streaked with gold. Her mobile rang from her handbag as she watched, brush in hand. Reaching for it automatically she glanced down at the number. Will. She cut off the call. There were four other missed calls, she saw. All from Will. With a grimace she threw the phone back into her bag and went back to the window. She stood there for several minutes watching as the shadows lengthened across the valley filling the deep fissures in the hillside with velvet blackness. It was almost a shock to turn her back on the view at last to find the room had grown dark behind her, too dark to paint. Thoughtfully she went back into the kitchen, turning on all the lights on the way. The courtyard was lost in darkness now as well. And beyond it the woods. She needed to distract herself from those woods; she had no desire to think about her nightmare. None at all. Make soup. Cooking was something she enjoyed and while she was doing it she would listen to some music. She had spotted a pile of CDs on the dresser next to Steph’s sound system. She grinned fondly. Sound system was altogether too grand a name for this old CD player and speakers which appeared to be liberally smeared with flour and clay and paint and other nameless substances. She glanced at the CDs and her mouth fell open in astonishment. The first two sported pictures of Rhodri Price. She stood, one in each hand, staring at the handsome arrogant face, the wild hair, the dramatic stance. In one he wore evening dress, in the other an open-necked shirt. In the first he had obviously been photographed in a concert hall, in the other, the more informal, he was standing on the wild hillside. ‘Oh my God! He’s the opera singer.’ She bit her lip. Of course she had heard of him. Who hadn’t? Alone as she was, she closed her eyes in embarrassment. It was no excuse that this was not her kind of music. She was not particularly keen on opera but she loved orchestral music and instruments like the harpsichord and this man sang all kinds of music. He gave recitals. He sang at football matches, he was often on TV. He was a celebrity!

  Still smiling ruefully to herself, she slid the disk into the machine and his voice filled the room, singing in Welsh, a wild wonderful folk song backed by the rippling cadences of a harp. It was spellbinding. She stood and listened for several minutes before at last turning back to her cooking. She found onions and potatoes in the boxes she had brought with her and listened as she began to dice them and threw them into a heavy iron pan. His voice soared over the sizzling of the oil and she found herself standing still again, mesmerised, a knife in one hand, onion in the other as song succeeded song, some sad, some exultant, some wistful, all lyrical. She brushed her eyes with the back of her wrist. Onions always made her cry.

  Standing at her bedroom window much later she could see the moon sailing clear of the wood. It was incredibly beautiful out there; something else to try and capture on paper. She frowned. There was a figure on the track, standing motionless in a silvery patch of moonlight. She bit her lip. Was it the child? No, the child was part of her dream. Holding her breath she pushed the window open and leaned out. The figure didn’t move. It was a girl, she could see that clearly. A girl, standing with her back to the house, gazing into the trees, a girl with dark hair this time, not blonde. Eigon. Jess held her breath. The moonlight on the path cast silver-edged shadows before it; the long shadows of the trees. The figure threw no shadow. A band of cloud was racing down the valley now; she glanced up at the moon. In a second it would be obscured. She knew before it happened that when the path was again floodlit by the clear cold light the girl would have gone.

  Almost as soon as her head touched the pillow Jess began to dream again. It was as though Eigon was waiting for her, a small lonely figure, her hair ebony in the moonlight, revealed in all its long tangles as the sun rose over the stone walls of the old byre where she was lying half-naked amongst the nettles.

  When Eigon awoke the sky was blue and the birds were singing and she was looking up into the eyes of yet another Roman.

  Only one of the men had raped the child. The others had sated their lust on the women. When finally they had ridden away just before dawn both Eigon and her mother were unconscious; Alys and Blodeyn were dead. There was no sign of Togo or Gwladys.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ The Roman dismounted from his horse and bent to examine the women. Eigon saw him shake his head as he glanced at Alys. No one could have survived that vicious knife slash to the throat. It had almost severed the woman’s head from her body. With a cursory glance at the naked twisted body which was Blodeyn, he laid a hand, gently, on Cerys’s forehead. She groaned. He glanced over his shoulder to the men behind him. ‘I think we’ve found the missing family. Look, this woman is no peasant. See her hands? She is either Caratacus’s wife, or one of his family.’ He used the Roman version of Eigon’s father’s name. He took Cerys’s hand in his own and held it for a few seconds, examining her nails. Her eyes flickered open for a moment, then closed again. He could see the marks where her arm rings had been wrenched from her; her necklet too had gone, leaving a telltale bruise on the side of her throat. The woman had worn jewellery; what was left of her gown had been fine linen, beautifully stitched and embroidered. He turned to Eigon. His eyes moved slowly over the child’s naked, pale body, noting the blood, the bruises, the obscenely splayed legs and his mouth tightened. ‘Bring something to cover them,’ he commanded curtly. ‘Look for the other children. There were three, I understand; bury these two women with honour, then bring these two back to the camp. Gently!’ He shouted the last word up at his second in command who nodded gravely, at last sliding down from his own horse.

  ‘And find out who committed this outrage,’ the officer went on, his voice deceptively quiet. ‘Whoever they were, they will pay with their lives.’

  When Eigon woke she was lying on a low bed in a tent. Her mother was gently sponging her body with warm water. Behind her a lamp burned, throwing shadows round the walls. She could smell lavender.

  ‘Mam?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Quietly, sweetheart. Everything is going to be all right.’ Cerys managed an exhausted smile. She had been given hot water and clothes and food, though she had eaten little, watching over her daughter as the child lay, a small alabaster figure on the bed, moaning now and then as slowly the shroud of dreams lifted and consciousness began to return.

  A figure appeared at the door of the tent behind her. It was the officer who had brought her back. His name she now knew was Justinus. ‘Queen Cerys?’

  There had been no point in denying who she was. Dozens of men and women from the fort had been captured together with hundreds of her husband’s warriors. Some of them would be bound to confirm her name in exchange for a promise to save their lives. The others were dead. Thousands, he had told her. Putting down the sponge she carefully pulled the sheet up round her daughter’s small body as he stood looking down at her. ‘How is she?’

  Cerys stood up wearily. The child’s eyes had closed again. ‘The gods have blessed her with sleep for the time being.’

  ‘And she hasn’t spoken at all?’

  Cerys shook her head.

  ‘We need to find your other children, lady. For their own safety. They are alone out there on the hills.’ Justinus glanced towards the entrance to the tent and shook his head slightly. ‘Better my men find them than …’ He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Both of them looked down at Eigon’s sleeping face. There was a short silence. ‘I have spoken to our commander, Publius Ostorius Scapula,’ he said quietly. ‘There is as yet no sign of your husband.’

  She closed her eyes w
ith a murmured prayer of gratitude to the gods. If he had escaped the battlefield he would return to rescue her.

  ‘He might have been slain, lady,’ he said gently. He had read her thoughts immediately. ‘There are still bodies to be recovered from the battlefield.’

  ‘I think his capture or his killing would have been shouted from the highest summit of the hills,’ she said sharply. She straightened her shoulders painfully. ‘My husband is a king and the saviour of his people; the greatest warrior in Britain. If he had fallen, we would know it.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are probably right to say that.’ He sighed. ‘Scapula wishes to speak with you, lady. I told him you are injured.’ He glanced at the bruises on her face and at her throat and on her arms, and the strapping on her ankle, showing beneath the mantle and cloak in which she was huddled. ‘He has ordered me to bring you to him when you are well enough.’

  ‘Thank you for giving me that respite at least.’ She bowed her head. So far she had been treated with courtesy, even consideration, but that she was a prisoner was beyond doubt. Two men stood outside the entrance to the tent, their spears crossed over the doorway. They had snapped to attention as the praefectus had entered, but crossed them again behind him.

  ‘If there is anything you need for yourself or the child, tell one of the guards,’ he went on. Then he bowed. He left her sitting at Eigon’s bedside, her hand over the child’s pale cold fist as it lay on the bedcover.

  When Eigon woke again at last the lamp had burned low; the oil was sputtering in the bowl and the tent was almost dark. She stared round. ‘Mam?’