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 with a murmured prayer of gratitude to the gods. If he had escaped the battlefield he would return to rescue
