State of Grace (Resurrection) (32 page)

Reading about the people I had met and talked to stirred up an intense
yearning to discover more. I wanted to visit the castle and I wondered why the idea hadn’t occurred to me before now. I tried to recall what I could about it and I thought I might have been there on a school trip once, but I honestly couldn’t remember much. I checked it out on the net and stared intently at the photos that came up. The castle itself was now part of The Castle Hotel, and it wasn’t something I had taken a great deal of notice of. Perhaps it was time to rectify that.

‘Mum, I’m going into town,’ I
called, pulling on my Nikes and yanking my coat off the hook in the hall.

My mother had been baking. Christmas, for her, had always been one long cook fest, and she
always started early, filling the huge chest freezer that hummed contentedly in the boot room with things the rest of the family weren’t allowed to eat yet, otherwise ‘there’ll be nothing left for Christmas.’ As if!

Her hands were covered i
n flour and so was her jumper and she had a smear, like war paint, on one cheek. She opened her mouth to object and decided against it. She couldn’t keep me wrapped in cotton wool, and to be frank, it was too late anyway. The worse was going to happen, sooner rather than later. Instead she said calmly,’ Can you pick me up some glace cherries? You know, the ones in the jar? The ones your father always picks out of his Christmas cake?’ When she was satisfied I knew what she meant she asked if I wanted a lift.

‘No thanks, it’s ok. I’ll either walk, or if I get tired I’ll catch the bus. I could do with stretching my legs and getting some fresh air.’

She blew me a kiss, the slightest hint of worry betrayed by the tiny frown lines between her eyebrows, and retreated back to the comfort and familiarity of the Christmas cookathon.

I stopped at the main bridge over the River Usk and drank in the sight of the castle. I didn’t recognise it; hardly anything of the original structure was left, just a part of the great hall, but I wasn’t really sure because the angle was all wrong. The huge outer curtain wall had gone, nothing was left of any of the towers, and the one remaining bridge was unrecognisable. It was only because it stretched over the smaller River Honddu that I estimated it had been built over the original bridge leading to the main gate. It looked nothing like I remembered.

I closed my eyes and tried to visua
lise it the way I saw it in my head, even though I had never viewed the castle from the outside in daylight, but when I opened my eyes what was left of the castle, with its white painted hotel building tacked onto what remained of the great hall at right angles, brought back no memories. The life and soul had vanished from it just as surely as the people who had once inhabited it had disappeared from the earth. Time had taken its toll and now nothing remained, except a forlorn ruin. I caught not even the tiniest echo of what once had been from those inert stones.

I continued to stare at it, my feet slowly taking me nearer, the dull December afternoon with its lowering clouds and all-encompassing greyness reflecting my mood. Sadne
ss overwhelmed me and I teared up. I had been quick to cry lately, and it didn’t look like I was done crying yet. I brushed the wetness away from my cheeks impatiently with the back of my hand.

This was ridiculous
, becoming so upset over events that had occurred nearly one thousand years ago and were probably all in my head anyway. I must have read, or been told about, Bernard de Neufmarche’s story and my subconscious mind had dredged it back up to give substance and background to my vision. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself repeatedly. Without success, I might add. Roman still felt exceedingly real and vital to me and deep down I hoped he always would.

It was inevitable then, I would feel the pull to find his cottage. The castle had failed to sustain my memories so I needed to seek proof and comfort elsewhere. The next day was another twilight day, where the sun almost failed to rise and everything was painted in shades of grey: grey-brown bark on the bare trees, grey-green grass, grey stone, grey slate. Even the tops of the Beacons, so often an almost golden colour at this time of year from the die back of the grass, reflected the dull gunmetal of the sky.

The day fitted my mood.

I took pity on Bran, the youngest of our three border collies, who had been left behind and was sulking around the yard, ears down, tail dropping and curling between his back legs in dejection. When he heard my whistle (each dog had their ‘signal’) he came running, expectantly. I wasn’t his master but at a push I would do and mine was the only offer on the table. He was only eighteen months old, generally very obedient, but like any young animal he found it difficult to curb his enthusiasm, so he danced around me, leaping into the air with all four paws leaving the ground. His sheer joy made me laugh out loud.

We set off, heading east, away from the farm, and I paused every few hun
dred yards to look at the shape the mountains made against the sky, comparing it to the image in my mind. Once or twice I had to wait for a particularly low scud of cloud to clear Pen Y Fan and make it visible once more. I was lucky the wind was brisk and kept the cloud moving.

I let Bran be a dog for once. Both my dad and Ianto kept him on a short leash (figuratively speaking because none
of the dogs needed to be physically tethered) as they were usually working, but this was a walk for Bran, purely for fun. He darted around, casting about in every direction, using his nose far more than his eyes to make sense of his world, always being sure to keep me in sight. Every now and again he would rush back, circling me, herding me, his instinct to round me up driving him back to my side so that I wasn’t sure who was taking who for a walk.

I walked until the profile of the mountains was as close to my memory to them as possible, and then, because I was quite high up, I began to drop down, bit by bit, towards the valley floor. It was my turn to cast about. The woods through which we had travelled to the cottage had long gone, replaced by sloping fields
and dry stone walls and the occasional hedgerow. I scanned each field looking for a place where it was flat, and there were quite a few, then trudging to it and standing on it, checking my bearings to see if I had found the right one.

I wasn’t naïve enough to expect to see a building, but
I couldn’t even find any ruins. No tell-tale knee high piles of stone in straightish lines, often seen in the mountains as the last gasp of a dying building. Not even a vague raised outline covered by soil and grass, to show where a building had once stood. I found nothing.

After cov
ering every piece of ground I could, I finally admitted defeat and perched on the horizontal remains of a fallen tree, oblivious to its slick dampness. Bran nudged his nose against my leg, seeking reassurance, sensing my mood. I absently scratched behind his ears, then, without warning, I flung my arms around his warm furry body and buried my head in his neck as the tears came. He gave a startled yelp, but didn’t pull away. I felt like I was grieving: for Roman and what we had shared. It had been weeks now since my last vision and I didn’t know if there would ever be another one. Bran patiently held still, whining occasionally as I poured out my grief. When I finally calmed I felt cleansed. The sense of loss was still there but it no longer dragged at me quite so sharply.

I had also discovered something. I didn’t need a castle or his cottage to remember him. He was firmly in my head. And that’s where I would find him.
Always.

The Resurrection trilogy continues with

Amazing Grace