Longbow Girl (28 page)

M
erry and James stopped running. Behind were the hunters. In front Merry's murderous enemy.

Merry nocked an arrow.

‘Get out of here, Parks, or I
will
shoot you.'

The man gave a mocking smile. ‘Oh, I think we've established that you haven't the stomach to kill,' he replied.

And then it was Merry's turn to smile. ‘Maybe not, Parks, but I can stop you.'

Parks just laughed and began walking towards them as if her words meant nothing. In her side vision, Merry saw James lift the axe.

‘Oh, please, Lord James. Put down your toy,' jeered Parks. ‘You don't have it in you either!'

Merry thought of Mair, of Angharad and Gawain and their
mother, with no one to protect them from this man.

Mark. Draw. Loose
.

With a sickening thud the arrow embedded itself into Park's thigh. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain and rage. It was enough to stop him – for now and perhaps for ever.

But there were answering calls from the hunters, closing on them.

Merry and James glanced around. They could see the outlines of the men, weaving through the forest, just fifty yards away. Merry grabbed her remaining arrows and together she and James ran past Parks, who writhed on the path, screaming curses after her.

The deer tracks widened and they sped up, but so did their hunters.

They could hear the heavy footfalls, the snapping branches, the cries of pursuit. And then came the sound of baying. More wolfhounds. Rapidly closing.

Desperate now, muscles on fire, Merry and James ran on uphill. Then the forest began to slope away to the left and they saw the flash of silver that was the stream.

They plunged through the thorn bushes, heedless of the cuts and blood. There was a great thundering of hooves and Merry thought the huntsmen were upon them. She and James turned to face them, James with his axe at the ready, Merry with her bow.

But instead, careening out of the forest, came the Arab stallion. He must have made his home here in the forest.

Gasping with relief, they turned and jumped into the
stream, splashing through the water, wading towards the waterfall.

‘It's easier this way,' panted Merry. ‘The current takes you forward. Just swim down and keep your head below the rock ceiling.'

James nodded. There was no time for talking.

The shouts and the drumming hoofbeats got nearer. A wolfhound shot from the trees, pursuing the stallion. Another one appeared and changed direction, heading for them, baying hideously.

Merry grabbed James's hand, looked into his eyes. They blazed back at her, full of life, full of fire. She allowed herself just a moment more to look at him; then she released his hand.

They dropped their weapons.

‘See you on the other side.'

A
ir, light, soft rain falling. No wolfhounds. No huntsmen. Just birds fluttering and squawking as Merry and James stepped from the water.

They bent over, arms braced on their legs, sucking in air till their breathing slowed to normal. Then they straightened, looked at each other. They saw every detail of faces they had known for almost all of their lives. Every freckle, every cut, every scratch.

‘D'you smell it?' asked Merry.

‘What?' asked James.

‘Petrol fumes. The faintest whiff.' Merry smiled, stepped towards James, pulled him into a hug. ‘We're home,' she said, her breath warm on his neck. ‘We made it!'

James pulled back from her, looked at her face, so full of life
and of something else, some new kind of light. Then he drew her to him and he kissed her. Not on her cheek, on her lips.

Merry hesitated, just for a moment. All the fears, all the
what ifs
, everything else was irrelevant. Nothing else mattered save the here and the now. Save this time.
Their
time. She kissed James back as the water flowed around them.

There was a sudden wild thrashing behind them. They pulled apart, wheeled around, ready to face whatever had followed them from the sixteenth century.

But all that came out from under the waterfall was the Arab stallion.

Merry gave a laugh of delight. She held out her palm. ‘Come on, boy. You're safe now. Here. With us.'

James put his arm around Merry's shoulder.

‘Looks like you might not have to sell your mare after all . . . ' he said.

T
he police ordered everyone to convene at the Black Castle. There was more room there. The de Courcys were pleased by that; it gave them an element of control over the proceedings, or so they believed. The castle was their fortress. And they needed it. Their unblinking self-confidence had been shaken. There were things they could not control. There were miracles their money could not buy.

Auberon de Courcy stood before a roaring fire, eyeing the assembled throng. Anne de Courcy sat with James on a small green sofa. She had her son's hand clamped in hers like she'd never let go. She kept flicking him glances as if she didn't quite believe he was there. James smiled back at her, squeezed her hand. He looked exhausted and cold but strangely tranquil in the way that those who have overcome appalling danger
sometimes can be. His sister, Lady Alicia, sat beside the fire, glancing nervously from her father to her brother.

Caradoc and Elinor Owen sat on a plush plum-coloured velvet sofa flanking Merry. They looked worn out, ecstatic, relieved, and fiercely protective.

Gawain snuggled in Merry's arms, warming her. He beamed up at his sister and gazed around the big room in wide-eyed curiosity.

Merry felt deliriously exhausted and relieved. The ruthlessness that she had drawn on, that had gushed up inside her when needed, was hidden back down deep inside.

Mrs Baskerville, still wearing her apron and a look of stubborn determination, hovered by the door, trying to make herself invisible. Nothing was going to keep her out of the room.

Seren Morgan sat in a tub chair, glancing from Merry to James with her quiet scrutiny. The local policeman, PC Griffiths, stood, feet planted, arms folded behind his back, off to the left of the Earl de Courcy. He was flanked by the two senior detectives who had been responsible for the major manhunt to find Merry Owen and James de Courcy: Detective Inspector Williams and Detective Constable Evans.

‘So, let me get this straight,' began DI Williams nasally. ‘Having spoken to you both separately, what I'm to gather from each of your stories is the following: Merry Owen and Lord James ran away four nights ago. You slept rough in the mountains because you both like living rough so much.' At this the detective raised his eyebrow and scanned the opulent
drawing room, all velvets, brocades, Persian rugs and oil paintings . . .

‘Then, on the fifth day, you decide you've tortured your families enough and you come back. Seren Morgan, out for a drive, finds you hiking back along the road on a black Arab stallion with a fleece top as a halter, both of you in filthy costumes, looking fit to drop, covered in cuts and scratches like you've been in a brawl.' Williams raised his arms in a shrug of disbelief.

Merry and James just nodded.

‘But back to first things. Your disappearance,' continued the detective, eyes flicking between them.

They said nothing. It was the countess who spoke.

‘Why?' she asked in a desolate voice. She gave James's hand a shake, as if to liberate the truth. ‘Why?'

James looked deeply uncomfortable. Twelve people turned to him. Even Gawain was riveted.

Finally, he uttered a kind of strangled sound. ‘I can't say. Just can't say.'

‘Can't. Or won't?' asked Williams. ‘You need to answer for the heartache you've caused. Not to mention the manpower used searching for you.'

‘It's not like that!' shouted Merry. ‘Don't blame him.'

‘No!' agreed the countess in a voice of ice. ‘Don't blame my son!' She pointed at Merry. ‘Blame her! She's a bad influence on my son. Always was!'

Elinor Owen jumped to her feet. ‘How dare you! Don't you
dare
judge my daughter!'

‘Quiet! Please. Stop it!' Now James de Courcy was on his feet. Gawain looked from participant to participant with goggling eyes. This was huge fun, the grown-ups shouting.

‘You don't know what you're talking about,' James told his mother.

The countess's mouth dropped open. She moved to say something but the earl clamped his hand on her arm and gave her a warning look.

‘Merry and I ran away to have an adventure. Simple as that. Nothing else went on.'

‘And it's going to stay that way!' declared the countess, wriggling out of her husband's grip. ‘As from now, you two shall never meet!'

‘Well, that'll keep them happily to their homes, won't it?' observed Seren.

The countess turned on her. ‘So what would you do, then?'

‘I would let them be free. Let them follow their destiny,' she declared.

The earl raised his eyebrows almost to his receding hairline. ‘What the devil does that mean?' he asked crisply.

But Seren just smiled. She
saw
the images in her mind as time scrolled forward: the portrait hanging in the hall: the blonde beauty, part witch, part horse whisperer, part longbow girl; the one-eyed countess . . . In this very drawing room, she
saw
James and Merry, in their sixties, just as much in love as ever, chatting animatedly with their five children.

The images swirled and disappeared. She looked at the young James and Merry. She wondered if they had any
inkling. She'd seen the love in their eyes when she found them riding back along the road, but she wasn't sure either of them acknowledged it. She supposed that for them, living in the moment was going to be just fine.

T
he police declared the case of the missing teenagers closed. Merry and James had returned to their parents, scratched, cold, starving, clearly lying about something or other but none the worse for wear. No crime seemed to have been committed.

Neither Merry nor James spoke of Parks. He'd probably have died back in the sixteenth century, they thought. Without antibiotics, it would have been very unlikely that his arrow wound would have healed. Mair would not have tended him. Enough damage had been done. Some secrets needed to be kept.

The burial mound was covered over by a large tarpaulin while Merry and her parents debated what to do. Merry thought that the chieftain should be left at peace, but there was pressure from Dr Philipps and the museum to continue the excavation.

Merry hid her talismans: the gold coins given to her by King Henry VIII and, her favourite, a four-leaf clover. She pressed it to preserve it. Sometimes she would take it out and hold it on the palm of her hand and that day would come flooding back: the young girl with the blonde hair and the blue eyes handing it to her with a shy smile and wishing her luck.

James signed with Manchester United. His parents, in a radical change of approach, born of their terror that they had lost their son for ever, did a deal with him. He had to sit his GCSEs in a few weeks' time; then he could leave school and play football full time. For as long as he wanted to. For as long as he was able. The Black Castle and his inheritance would wait for him.

In the wilds of the Owens's five hundred acres, the herd of Welsh Mountain ponies and the Arab stallion ran free. His stud fees brought in a healthy income. And Merry Owen and James de Courcy . . . they too knew the meaning of freedom and what it meant to be alive.

The book stayed in the Museum of Wales. It didn't take Dr Philipps long to raise the sixty thousand pounds that secured the future of Nanteos Farm for the Owens.

Merry went to look at the book from time to time. She thought there was nothing more for her in it, that after all that had happened, it had relinquished her.

But deep inside the Brecon Beacons, the River of Time rolled on.