Longbow Girl (6 page)

A
t five fifteen the next morning, Merry and her father set off across the dew-drenched fields, heading for the Black Wood. Neither of them spoke. Caradoc carried an Ordnance Survey map and a compass. Merry carried the tape measure they used for positioning their start point when they practised on their longbows. Sometimes they would play with the distances, fifty yards, seventy, a hundred, the maximum range of the tape. They never thought it would be used to measure their future.

They entered the darkness of the Black Wood. The sun hadn't yet risen high enough to penetrate the forest, and father and daughter had to make their way carefully along the narrow track, avoiding the overhanging branches reaching down from the moss-covered trees.

The awakening birds sang but Merry stayed silent. Her
father paused from time to time, consulted the map, then counted out his footsteps, paused again and consulted the map. He took a pen from his pocket and made notations on the map. As the light grew stronger, Merry could make out the swathe of a yellow highlighter pen that marked the boundary between their land and the de Courcys'.

She could see from her father's annotations that they were getting perilously close to it.

Then at last, there was the dark mass of the burial mound and the stranded roots of the old oak. Caradoc Owen took one end of the tape measure from Merry. He checked his map again, checked his compass, marched forward thirty paces till he came to the mound, marked the map again. Merry paused, watched his back, felt the breath catch inside her.

He walked back to her, spooling the tape in, his face impassive, then he broke into a huge beaming smile. Merry threw herself into his open arms, felt them come around her tight, holding her close. She just stood there for a while and breathed.

‘Ninety yards, by my reckoning,' Caradoc said, releasing her and holding her at arm's length. ‘I could be out by twenty or so. Maybe as much as forty or fifty, but it's ours,
cariad
. It's definitely ours.'

And Merry felt a lightening in her chest, and a warm wash of relief flood through her. Their problems weren't over yet, but at least now they knew they had a chance.

At eleven o'clock sharp, there was an officious knock at the front door. Merry and her parents, who'd been sitting in
silence at the table, all got to their feet and exchanged a quick look, of hope, worry and wariness. Gawain was lying in his playpen, kicking his heels in the air while attempting to eat his fingers, happily oblivious to the tension in his sister and parents.

Caradoc opened the door, studied the man standing there.

Merry walked up behind her father.

‘You must be Caradoc Owen. I'm Professor Parks,' said the man.

Her father nodded, gripped the man's hand. ‘Please come in.'

Merry noticed Parks wincing. Her father's handshakes were notorious. He simply did not know his own strength. Or maybe he did.

‘Miss Owen,' said Parks with a nod as he walked into their house.

‘Professor Parks,' replied Merry.

The three of them sat at the breakfast table. Elinor had disappeared upstairs to put Gawain to bed for his morning nap.

‘So,' began Caradoc, ‘you'd like to excavate our burial mound?'

Parks nodded. He kept his face impassive this time, no sign of yesterday's gleam.

‘I would,' he replied briskly. ‘It's logical that there are more artefacts buried there. Those artefacts will be doubly valuable, first of all in and of themselves, and secondly in helping to authenticate the book itself. They will tell the book's
backstory, they will help us date it and identify who is buried there. Researching that in turn will help with the authentication process.'

Caradoc nodded. ‘That makes sense.'

‘I'm glad you think so,' replied Professor Parks. ‘You see, there's a chain of events here and your daughter, if I may say so, was spectacularly lucky to make her find in the seemingly effortless way that she did, but now we need to follow it up with weeks of painstaking work.'

‘Wouldn't it be faster if you worked in a team?' asked Elinor, appearing at the doorway. ‘I'm Mrs Owen,' she added. Professor Parks turned his gaze on to Merry's mother. Merry could see him taking in her beauty and the casual way she wore it, even in her paint-spattered dungarees.

‘It would if I could find a team of the highest calibre,' he replied. ‘I've found through bitter experience it's often better in the long run, albeit more time-consuming, to work alone.' He turned back to Caradoc. ‘So, Mr Owen, would you be amenable to my conducting a dig on your land? Did your daughter explain that we would split the proceeds of anything new I find fifty-fifty?'

‘She did. She also said that your excavations would help increase the value of the book.'

Parks nodded. ‘That is correct.'

‘Any idea what the book might be worth?' asked Elinor.

Parks paused and his eyes took on that distant gleam again. ‘There are private collectors who would sell their mother for such an artefact,' he replied.

Elinor gave a snort. ‘I hope not.'

‘We wouldn't want to see it go to a private collector anyway,' observed Caradoc. ‘This book belongs in a Welsh museum.'

‘You'd get much less for it, then. Still a substantial sum, though, especially if they had time to raise the necessary funds.'

‘Over sixty thousand pounds?' asked Caradoc.

‘Quite possibly.'

‘Very good,' replied Caradoc. ‘How long might that take?'

Parks gave him a sharp look. ‘Are you in a hurry? Digs take time. The whole authentication process takes time.'

‘In that case, you'd better get started,' cut in Elinor.

‘I take it, then, that you are happy for me to proceed with the excavation on the terms I suggested?' continued Parks.

Elinor, her husband, and Merry all exchanged a quick glance. Twenty-one generations of Owens had lived at Nanteos Farm for nearly seven hundred years. Losing it was unthinkable. If doing a deal with Professor Parks was the price to pay, they all had no doubt it was a price worth paying.

‘Yes,' replied Caradoc. ‘We are. Merry, would you be kind enough to show Professor Parks to the burial mound?'

M
erry and Parks walked out to his car. Parks opened it up and took out a huge backpack. He shouldered it, tightened the straps, looked expectantly at Merry.

‘Shall we?'

She eyed his backpack as they set off down the valley towards the forest. Merry's second visit of the morning. ‘What's in there?' she asked.

‘Tools for digging. Sterile containers for finds. A body suit so I don't contaminate the site.'

Merry got the clear impression that this was some kind of reprimand to her. What was she supposed to have done? Left the chest where it was and called him in like Ghostbusters?

‘How long d'you think the dig will last?' she asked, wondering how long she could stand this man – even though his
presence was crucial – and how long it would take before they could sell the book.

‘May I assess it all first, thoroughly, before I give you an ill-considered answer?' Parks replied.

Merry shrugged, veiled her irritation, increased her pace.

Parks didn't even break a sweat, despite the weight of his pack. ‘Where would you recommend I stay in the area?' he asked, oblivious to her annoyance. ‘I was meant to leave the Black Castle yesterday, but with all the drama, I stayed on another night. I'll need to move on today, though,' he added.

‘The Nightingale Arms in Nanteos,' replied Merry. ‘They've got a few rooms over the pub and the food's good.'

‘Marvellous. I'll ring them later,' replied Parks. ‘Thanks, Merry,' he added, flashing her what was clearly meant to be a charming smile.

Merry was unmoved. ‘Hm,' she replied.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Merry slowed as they neared the mound. The huge tree looked like the fallen on a battlefield.

Merry stopped beside it, looked down into the hole in the earth where she had found the chest. A breeze grazed her cheek, cold and sharp.
Hello, chieftain
, she said in her mind.
Forgive me
.

‘I found it down there,' she told Parks. ‘The rest you know.'

‘I do indeed,' he replied, eyes never leaving the site. ‘Thank you, Miss Owen.'

‘One thing,' said Merry.

‘What's that?'

‘What about whoever's buried there?'

‘What about them?' Parks glanced at her with barely concealed impatience.

‘What will you do with them?'

‘Well, excavate them of course!'

‘And re-bury them?'

Parks narrowed his eyes. ‘What, d'you think it's an ancestor of yours, lying down here? Are you worried he'll come after you in retribution for disturbing his grave, taking his treasure?'

‘Who knows,' replied Merry.

‘Let me put your mind at rest,' replied Parks, all friendly condescension now. ‘Whoever is buried there is, how shall I put this delicately, a man of importance, a lord, a chieftain. Your family, as I understand it, were peasant farmers, skilled with a bow admittedly, but peasants nonetheless, who parlayed their skill into a smallholding. Whoever is down here is
not
from your past.'

‘Thank you for that,' replied Merry, her sarcasm sliding off Parks's thick skin.

‘My pleasure. Happy to put your mind at rest.' Parks shrugged off his backpack. ‘Now, Miss Owen, if you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone. I don't work well with an audience.'

Reluctantly, Merry walked away. Parks was wrong. He had not put her mind at rest. He had spoken aloud her fears, brought them from the shadowy realm of half-realized nighttime worries into the full glare of day. She could not shake the feeling that there would be a price to pay for disturbing the
chieftain's grave.

She broke into a jog, wondering with a rush of emotions just what she had set into motion. It was good, she told herself. Anything that meant saving the farm had to be.

W
hen Merry got home she took the book out from its secret hiding place under her bed to reassure herself that they were doing the right thing. She opened it to the page with the picture that had so caught her attention and studied it. Something about it made her blood hum. From the second Dr Philipps had translated the words, Merry had wondered about the riddle pool, its secrets and treasures. Now, with her family's desperate need for money, there was even more reason to go seeking those treasures. She didn't think about
the many who had died
. Instead she thought about
the strong who had passed through
. She was strong, she was fit, she was young. She wasn't naive enough to think that bad things could never happen to her. She knew too well that they could, but competing with that awareness was the strain of boldness that
ran through her. Merry loved risk-taking, thrived on adrenalin, yearned for adventure.

That side won out over caution every time.

She put away her book again. Safely hidden. Out of sight but in no way out of mind.

She had to wait until late afternoon to go searching for the pool. She had a less-than-cheery family lunch then her parents and Gawain set off for the antiques shop in Brecon, hoping to sell some family heirlooms to pay that month's mortgage.

Merry watched them drive off. Desperate to get away from the farm and all its worries, she set off into the fields to find Jacintha.

She looked up at the summits of the Beacons. The limestone of which the mountains and valleys were made had fissured and cracked over the millennia into hundreds of sinkholes and caves. There were some large waterfalls on the mountains, tumbling off the cliff faces. She could head up on the Roman road, Sarn Helen, and explore there, but there were far more waterfalls on the lower slopes, hidden by the thick forests that stretched over the common lands. It was even known as waterfall country. If she were to find the riddle pool, she felt sure it would be here.

She found Jacintha in one of the far fields, gave her a handful of oats, scratched her behind her ears for a bit, then hooked a rope on to her halter, fashioning it into reins.

‘Time for an outing,' she whispered; then with a hand on her pony's withers, she vaulted on. Bareback, she guided Jacintha
through the gate.

As she hacked across the fields, it began to rain, horribly and heavily. Trying to ignore it, Merry rode along the narrow paths, regularly dismounting where the gnarly roots from ancient trees made trips and barriers and traps. Under the onslaught of the rain, it was slow. Jacintha managed to pick her way along safely enough but Merry slipped a few times and ended up muddied and sore. It almost felt as if nature were trying to keep her out.

She found lots of waterfalls and many pools, but no green turning blue, no shimmering earth, no cave that lay veiled behind the falls. Nothing that matched the riddle pool.

She'd just go out again tomorrow, widen her search. She'd go alone again, she decided. For some reason, this was something she didn't want to share with James, and besides, she was sure he had secrets of his own.

She wondered what he was doing. She pulled out her phone, protected in its waterproof cover, and tapped out a text to him.

What you up to? Everyone's out, want to come round?

She sent the text but there was no answering ping.

Ten minutes later, the rain turned to snow, as it so often did in the mountains, even in spring, and Merry forgot about her phone. By the time she got home an hour later, she was chilled to the bone, her fingers and face numb.

She didn't want to turn her pony out into the fields when Jacintha was still warm from exercise. So she rubbed her down, dried her with a towel and left her with food and water
in one of the old stables. The rest of the herd were fine to stay out. Welsh Mountain ponies were tough and hardy, well used to extreme conditions.

She ran to the house. No sign of the Land Rover. Her parents and brother were out there somewhere in the snow . . . they'd have to cross the high pass to get back from Brecon, that remote, barren road between the peaks where the winds howled with a peculiar savagery, where the snow drifted deep, where a breakdown or a skid could be fatal.

Fingers still numb, struggling against the wind, Merry battled to pull open the door to the boot room. She blew inside with a gust of wind and snow. She turned and leant her whole body against the door, heaving it closed again. Inside, she quickly made herself a hot chocolate to warm up, then, curling her fingers around the mug, she picked up the phone and called her mother's mobile. It rang and rang. No reply. She bit her lip and tried not to worry. Then her own mobile rang. It was James.

‘Hi.'

‘Hi. What's up? Where are you?' asked Merry.

‘In Manchester.'

‘What the heck are you doing in Manchester?'

There was a pause and when James next spoke, he couldn't hide the excitement in his voice.

‘You know I told you I played in the National Schools' final . . .'

‘And scored the winning goal,' declared Merry.

‘Well, apparently, there was a Manchester United scout
there. He rang my school yesterday, asked the coach if I'd be interested in having a trial. The coach rang me straight away. I set off early this morning, leaving a note for my parents. They'd never have let me go if I'd asked them. So here I am!'

‘
Manchester United?
' spluttered Merry.

‘Yes!' declared James. ‘Anything is possible! Remember?'

‘I remember all right! God, James. Have you had the trial?' She couldn't begin to imagine how he must have felt: excited, terrified, stunned . . .

‘Just come out of it.'

‘And? Tell me, the suspense is killing me!'

James laughed in delight. ‘They've asked me if I can train with them for a couple of weeks and after that we'd have a discussion. About signing with the junior academy!'

‘But that's amazing, James!' Merry yelled. She danced around the kitchen, phone in her hand. She felt a massive swell of pride, of joy for her friend bubbling up inside her. There was just one dampener. ‘What about your parents?'

‘Yeah. Officially not happy. Try “livid, let down and deceived” in their words.'

‘Try congratulations!' protested Merry.

‘Hmm, yeah, well, the only saving grace is the snow!' James sounded delirious. ‘I'm stuck here. Snowed in! There's this other guy who's sixteen, Huw, he's on the team. He said I can stay with him. Don't have much choice. All the buses and trains are cancelled. Roads blocked too.'

The house phone rang. Merry glanced at the number.

‘Gotta go. It's my mother. Stay safe, have fun. And well
done, James! That really is beyond brilliant. And you deserve it. You really do.'

She hung up and grabbed the house phone. The moment to share her secret about searching for the riddle pool had come and gone, and besides, it seemed so small in comparison to James's revelation. Hers was just a vague quest.

‘Mam! I was getting worried.'

‘Don't be. We're fine. But I think we'll have to stay in Brecon with your aunt Jenni.'

‘OK . . .'

‘I don't like leaving you alone.'

‘Mam, I'm nearly sixteen. I'll be fine!'

‘You could go and stay with Seren.'

Merry was fond of Seren and her adult son, Nat, but she'd enjoy having the house to herself for a change, peace and quiet and no one to account to. Plus, Seren and Nat could both read her far too well. They'd have heard about the book like everyone else in the valley, and they'd want to quiz her. It was hard to keep secrets from those two.

‘I'm nice and comfy here. I'll be fine, Mam, honestly.'

‘Well, make yourself something nice for dinner then. And lock the doors!'

‘I'll lock the doors. I promise.'

But distracted by thoughts of James and Manchester United, making dinner, obsessing about the riddle pool's location and worrying about the chieftain's possible reaction to Parks's digging around in his grave, Merry forgot all about her promise.

She snuggled down in her bed, snow scything through the blackness, the wind rocking the cottage, oblivious to the fact that she'd left the doors unlocked.