The Warrior's Princess Read online

  ‘No!’

  ‘That boyfriend of yours –’

  ‘Not my boyfriend. A colleague.’

  ‘Well, your colleague. He was trying to scare you, wasn’t he? Thought if you were frightened enough you would jump into bed with him.’

  ‘No!’ Jess turned on him furiously. ‘That is complete crap!’

  ‘So, you’re telling me he doesn’t fancy you?’ He favoured her with a look which made her feel first hot then cold as her mouth dropped open with indignation.

  ‘No, he doesn’t. At least …’ She paused. ‘No, of course he doesn’t. He’s a married man!’

  ‘Since when has that stopped people? Two of you here alone, no one for miles. Pretty house, lots of wine, no one here to interrupt, till I blunder in! You both made it pretty clear you did not want company.’

  ‘No, Rhodri. You’ve got it all wrong.’ She stared down at the sketchbook again. ‘How could anyone fake all that?’

  ‘Easy. Another sketchbook – so badly damaged you couldn’t tell. Lots of glass and spilled wine which could be cleaned up in the night. No real cut on his hand, just Kensington Gore.’

  ‘Kensington Gore?’ Jess was staring at him, bewildered.

  ‘Fake blood, darling!’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘No. You’re wrong,’ she repeated angrily. ‘Quite wrong!’

  ‘Am I? Maybe.’ He smiled. ‘Blame my profession. I have a taste for melodrama. But I’m a damn good judge of character. I wouldn’t trust that guy further than I could throw him.’

  ‘He’s my friend.’ She drew herself upright. ‘You have no business to say things like that!’

  ‘OK!’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Forget I said anything. The great thing is that no harm was done and if you gave in to his comforting advances, then I apologise.’

  ‘He didn’t make any advances!’ Jess broke off abruptly. Suddenly she was remembering Dan’s ambiguous goodnight, the way he had stepped forward to kiss her, the bedroom door latch, the creak on the landing. She shivered. No. That was rubbish. Dan didn’t fancy her. He never had.

  Seeing Rhodri’s raised eyebrow she went on, ‘Whatever else he might have done he couldn’t have faked my sketchbook. That was ruined last night. You saw it. It was covered in blood. It’s the same book.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then I can’t explain how he did it. The man’s a miracle worker!’

  She glared at him, shaking her head. ‘There is another possibility,’ she said tentatively. ‘Do you know if this house is haunted?’

  Rhodri roared with laughter. ‘Ah, so it was the ghost!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  When she didn’t smile he sobered rapidly. He studied her face, his head on one side. ‘Your sister thinks it is. She told my mother about it.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘There’s a child here. A naughty child. She breaks things in the studio.’

  Jess felt her stomach lurch. For a moment she said nothing.

  Rhodri looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I think that is a cue for a drink if ever there was one.’

  Jess watched as he vanished into the kitchen and with a confidence born of long association reached down two glasses from the cupboard, found a corkscrew and set about opening his bottle. He returned and handed her a glass. ‘This whole valley is haunted. I was brought up with the legends of these hills. Down there,’ he gestured towards the window, ‘in the valley bottom where the river runs, is the site of an ancient battle, so the story goes. And up on the hill behind us, there is an Iron Age fort. The place is full of ghosts of fallen warriors and anguished gods. Stories like that are told over centuries and improve with the telling, but there must be some truth behind them. Round here they claim it is the location of the last stand of Caratacus against the Romans. He was the Welsh hero who rallied the tribes.’

  ‘And the child in this house was his daughter,’ Jess said, half to herself.

  Rhodri looked sceptical. ‘That’s a huge deduction! But come to think of it, why not.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘It would be surprising if there weren’t ghosts round here. The Welsh borders are full of them. A thousand battles, two thousand years of strife. Mist and magic round every corner. It is a blessed place.’ He grinned.

  Jess found herself smiling back almost against her will. When he wasn’t being aggressive he had a nice face. ‘Unless you happen to be living on top of a hot spot!’

  ‘Nicely put. You know what this house is called. Ty Bran. That means, Ravens House. And down there they call it the Valley of Ravens. It fits the story. Ravens come to a battlefield to pick the bodies of the dead clean. The battle goddess, is a raven goddess.’

  Jess shivered. ‘It’s hardly surprising memories of something like that haunt a place.’

  He hesitated. ‘Well, don’t let it put you off. It’s all in the past.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ She smiled sadly.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her with a frown. ‘Yes, it is.’ He drained his glass and put it down. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. My agent is coming over. He won’t stay long though. He doesn’t like to be out of the metropolis after dark! The ghosts are too much for him as well. Ring me if it all gets too much for you, girl, and I’ll take you down to the pub later. Distract you with a bevvy and a meal.’ He headed for the door. ‘Believe me, you’re better on your own up here. That chap was no good for you.’

  She opened her mouth to argue but he was already halfway across the yard and climbing back into his car.

  ‘Cheeky bastard!’ she muttered as he began to back out of the gate. But for some reason he had made her feel better.

  6

  That afternoon she walked up the track and into the wood, splashing through glittering puddles, listening to the chatter of the leaves in the light wind, feeling the dappled sunlight on her face. The track wound its way upwards through stands of ash and oak, every now and then coming near enough to the edge of the trees for her to be able to rest and gaze across the broad river valley towards the north. From here she could just see the river, a strip of glittering blue, fringed with willows, winding its way across the water meadows. In the distance she could hear sheep calling, and the wild yelping cry of a buzzard, soaring out across the hills. It was blessedly peaceful and very hard to imagine a battle taking place anywhere nearby.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached a stand of older trees, ancient lichen-covered oaks, near the top of the hill, and beside them a venerable yew. Falling away to the south the ground was steep, almost terraced, with knotted roots and tangled brambles hugging the contours down towards a rocky stream far below. As she stood trying to regain her breath she saw a fox, trotting across a clearing only metres away from her. Intent on its own affairs it never saw her, vanishing almost at once into a thicket.

  Sitting down on a mossy log at the foot of one of the trees she leaned back against the trunk, content to rest for a few minutes in the sunlight, suddenly aware that in the distance a dog was barking.

  The praefectus sent ten men out to the spot where Cerys and Eigon had been found. They spent a day searching the woods for the two children without success. Dogs were brought in and the whole area combed again; then Eigon was brought with her mother to the track near the tumbled byre. The child was crying as Cerys led her forward into the trees, followed by the legionaries. The men looked grave. They knew there was nowhere else to search. Every foxhole and badger sett, with all their miles of passages, the nant flowing over its rocky bed, the ditches and hollows under the roots of the trees had been scoured now by men or dogs. There was nowhere else to look. Before them the trees thrashed in yet another storm, leaves flying in a whirl into the mud, obscuring any tracks not already overlaid by the heavy tramp of the nailed sandals of the soldiers.

  ‘Just try, sweetheart. Did you run up or down the hill, can you remember? Did you cross the stream?’ Cerys held her daughter’s hand tightly, trying desperately not to show her fear.

  ‘We played a game. Hide and se
ek. I told them not to come out.’

  ‘That was right. That was what I told you to do.’ Cerys’s voice was shaking. ‘But now we need to call them.’

  Already it was growing dark again. The heavy sky hid any trace of the sunset as the rain clouds streamed in across the land from the west.

  Two of the men approached their officer and saluted. ‘We’re not going to find them, sir. We’ve been over every inch of ground. They must have wandered off or someone or something must have got them.’

  ‘No!’ Cerys’s wail of despair echoed through the trees. Dropping Eigon’s hand she grabbed the arm of the praefectus. ‘Please, you can’t stop looking. You can’t!’

  He looked down at her thoughtfully. The woman was right. It was not so much the plight of the children which motivated him, but the thought of what the commander would say if any of Caratacus’s family were mislaid. Hostages were vital at the best of times and these particular hostages, more vital than most. The bargaining power implicit in their capture was enormous. He turned to the men. ‘Widen the search. Continue through the night if necessary. Bring another fifty men.’

  Justinus personally escorted Cerys and her daughter back to the encampment and left them at the entrance to their tent. As Eigon disappeared inside, her tear-streaked face wan with exhaustion, the praefectus put a restraining hand on her mother’s arm.

  ‘Could you identify the men who assaulted you?’ he asked.

  Cerys shook her head. ‘I lost consciousness. I don’t remember –’

  ‘And the child?’

  Cerys shook her head miserably. ‘How can I even ask her?’

  ‘If you want them punished you will ask her.’ He looked down at her grimly. ‘Consider, madam, whether those same men could have found your son and your other daughter.’

  Cerys let out a small moan of distress. She turned back towards him but already he had saluted and turned away, tramping off through the mud into the darkness towards the long lines of tents. The guards at her own had already stepped forward, crossing their spears across the entrance to imprison her. Inside, in the gentle light of the single oil lamp on the empty clothes trunk which served as a table she could see the woman who had been assigned to wait on them gently rubbing Eigon’s hair with a towel.

  ‘Sweetheart!’ Waving the woman away, Cerys knelt in front of the child and took hold of her firmly by the arms. ‘I want you to tell me something. The man who hurt you so badly,’ she paused, staring into her daughter’s eyes, ‘would you know him again?’

  She saw the eyes widen, the terror at the violent return of the memory, a moment of total paralysis as the fear returned and then the slow reluctant nod.

  ‘How would you recognise him?’

  ‘He had eyes like a wolf; the colour of your sunshine beads.’

  Amber.

  ‘He had a tattoo high up on his arm. But not a beautiful pattern like our warriors. It was hard and rough. A picture of a Roman sword with writing on.’

  Sinking down on her knees Cerys breathed deeply, releasing the child and clenching her fists in the folds of her skirt until her knuckles were white. ‘Would you know him if you saw him?’

  The little girl nodded. ‘His face is a picture inside my head. And his arm too. I looked at it hard while he –’ there was a sudden painful pause. ‘While he was hurting me. I will never forget his arm …’

  ‘His arm!’ Jess’s eyes flew open. The arm, across her throat, pushing her back, holding her down on the bed, she could see it suddenly as clearly as she could see her own hand, clenched on her knees. And the arm though it was tanned, and covered in fine dark hairs, was without any doubt at all the arm of a white man. It was not Ash!

  She was still leaning against the tree. The sun was still shining. Above her the buzzard was calling, a lonely wild wail high amongst the clouds, and suddenly she was shaking violently. The bastard! He was holding her down on her bed. His face was there, above her, all she had to do was open her eyes to see his face. But she couldn’t see his face. The memory had gone.

  ‘Shit!’ She lowered her forehead onto her knees. Will. It had to have been Will.

  Raising her face to the sun, she stared out between the trees into the misty blue distances.

  She couldn’t bear it to be Will.

  But if not Will, who?

  Dan?

  It was a long time before she stood up and headed slowly back along the track towards home.

  She went straight to the telephone to call Dan. She could at least ask him if he had faked the wrecking of the dining room. As a joke as Rhodri had suggested. Some joke.

  The message light on the phone was flashing. It was Rhodri. ‘Jess? I’ve just noticed in the Radio Times, there is a play on Radio 4 tonight. About Cartimandua. Have you ever heard of her? Listen to it. I think it might interest you. Eight o’clock.’

  ‘No, I haven’t heard of her! Who the hell is Cartimandua!’ Jess murmured as she punched in Dan’s number. The phone rang and rang. Neither Dan nor his message service picked up and she hung up with a sigh.

  The house was very quiet, the quietness almost eerie as though someone was there, listening. She walked over to the door and peered out into the hall, then walked slowly through the house, holding her breath. There was no one there, no sign that anyone had been in while she was out.

  As the sun began to go down she bolted the front door, and removing Steph’s dried flowers, lit a fire of old apple logs in the living room. Making herself a supper of scrambled eggs on toast she sat on the floor in the long summer twilight to listen to the radio as she watched the flicker of flames on the old soot-stained stone of the fireplace.

  Cartimandua was, it appeared, an Iron Age, Celtic queen, a contemporary of Caratacus and of Boudica, but in contrast to her sister queen, she was an ally of Rome. Pushing aside her plate and picking up her glass of wine Jess leaned back against the sofa and listened enthralled as the play unfolded. Caradoc. The name echoed through the room as the evening faded into darkness round her. Caradoc was the name the Celts gave him. Caratacus was the Roman version. This was the man whose army had been defeated here in the valley below her sister’s house. And now she knew what had happened to him. He had fled after the battle, having no choice but to abandon his wife and children and make his way almost alone and badly wounded, into the mountains, fleeing north and then east towards the lands of the Brigantes, the vast tribal confederation which was ruled by his kinswoman, Queen Cartimandua. There, he was sure he would find safety and help. He found neither. She took him prisoner, and feeling herself irrevocably bound by a treaty she had made with the Emperor Claudius when he had invaded the country seven years before, offered Caradoc, as a captive, back to his enemies.

  ‘What a cow!’ Jess threw more logs onto the fire and poured herself another glass of wine. ‘So, what happened to him after that?’

  The play did not reveal the answer. It followed the course of the queen’s life and loves; once Caratacus had been dragged away in chains by his Roman escort he was not mentioned again. She wondered if Cartimandua had given him another thought.

  Jess sat for a long time after the play finished, gazing into the flames, listening to the crackle of burning logs. Had Caratacus been reunited with his wife and children? Was he killed? Were they all killed? She did not know.

  But she had a strong feeling that Eigon and Glads would tell her.

  In her dreams, or as they rampaged round the house in their rage and fear, the ghost children who had been Caratacus’s daughters would tell her the story whether she wanted to hear it or not. Jess shivered. She had no choice. A link had been forged between her and Eigon through the experience of rape and betrayal; as long as she stayed in the house she would have to listen to Eigon’s story.

  Is Papa there?

  The voice was thin and reedy, terrified, echoing against the sound of the wind and rain against the window. Jess lay still, clutching the sheet to her chin, staring up at the ceiling. It was two thirty a.m. She had j
ust checked the clock again. Closing her eyes against the bedside light she turned over, humping the sheet over her shoulder against the glare, yet not daring to turn it off.

  Have we finished playing the game? Papa will know where Togo and Glads are. He knows everything.

  There was a click from the door. Jess turned over, staring at it in terror. Slowly it swung open. Beyond it the landing was pitch dark.

  Clutching her pillow to her breasts, she sat up. Someone was walking towards her across the room. She couldn’t see them or hear them, she just sensed it. ‘Go away!’ she cried. Her voice wavered uncertainly. ‘Please go away. I can’t help you. I don’t know where they are. I don’t know where your father is!’

  The presence stopped. It was listening. Jess clenched her fists into the cotton of the pillowslip. ‘Look, I would help you if I could. Your father went to the Queen of the Brigantes for help. I know that much. He was hurt, but he wasn’t killed in the battle.’

  The silence in the room grew intense. It had a thick palpable quality; it was hard to breathe. Jess could feel her lungs straining; her mouth was dry, her eyes gritty. ‘Please, Eigon. Go away. I can’t help you. I would if I could. I know how you feel –’ She paused. ‘I understand.’ The feeling of invasion, of pain, deep within her soul, the anguish of a woman who has been raped and violated and left for dead. And this child wasn’t even a woman when she had been attacked by those men; she was barely more than a baby. Of course she understood!

  ‘Sweetheart, I know how hard it is. But it will get better.’ She shivered. How could she say that, utter platitudes to an invisible thought form standing in the middle of her bedroom floor when she didn’t even know if the child had survived; or her father, her mother, her brother and sister. All might have been dead within days or weeks of the battle. One thing was for sure. They were all dead now.

  ‘I’m asleep,’ she said suddenly to herself. ‘None of this is happening. This is a dream. I am asleep and there is no one here. I am all alone. Soon it will be time to get up and have breakfast in the sunshine and I will wonder what I was worrying about. In fact, I won’t remember anything about this. Nothing at all.’