15

Chris the miller arrived with a bag of croissants, still warm from the ovens, and they seated themselves in the garden with a large pot of coffee. He had left Mel in charge at the mill while he came over for what he described as a quick council of war.

‘You see they've blocked off the field?' he said, plastering butter onto the flaking pastry in his hand.

Cadi nodded. ‘The diversion leads up through the woods and joins the footpath up to the fort.'

‘You've already been up there?'

She nodded.

‘We've got to get our hands on the new survey.' Chris shook his head. ‘I'll have another word with my mate at the council offices.'

‘That might be difficult for him, Chris. He would be risking his job, surely.' She licked her fingers and reached for her coffee mug.

Chris gave a rueful smile. ‘He knows the risk, but he's fully prepared to have a go. He thinks the cause is good. But in the meantime, has your uncle got any ideas?' He glanced at her. ‘Arwel is expecting him to stand in the meadow, his raised staff in his hand, and pretend to curse the site.'

‘Pretend.' She repeated the word thoughtfully.

Chris nodded. ‘But he could do the real thing, yes?'

‘I think that would go against the warlock's code.' She put her mug down. ‘You do know he's a real professor, a proper serious author of books on some very esoteric science?'

‘No, I didn't know that. I've been got at by Arwel. Sorry.'

‘Then I suggest you look Meryn up online.' She relented. ‘I know his is a bit of a specialist field, but I gather science is catching up fast. Quantum physics, the God particle, dark matter, the Hadron Collider, all that stuff. My cousin says he is much respected. And until we can lay our hands on that field survey, he is probably the best we can do– and that is a pretty good best.'

‘Point taken.' It was Chris's turn to lick the butter off his fingers. ‘One piece of news which may or may not be good: they agreed that Dai Prosser could top the grass at least once more. He contacted the land agent and told him he had a long--standing agreement with the previous owner. The agent seemed a very accommodating type of bloke, apparently. He agreed the current owner probably doesn't know one end of a blade of grass from another, but cutting it again would make it easier for everyone to find out what, if anything, is there.'

‘Perhaps he'll find poor little Gemma. I've dreaded discovering her remains on one of our walks.'

Chris grimaced. ‘I'm so sorry for Sally. Term ends soon. She'll miss her even more, being at home on her own.'

It was after Chris had gone that Cadi reached for her file of notes once more. She pulled out the scribbled poem about Gemma that at the time she hadn't even realised she was writing and ran a gentle finger over the words on the page as if she could comfort the little dog through the magic of her touch. She gave a rueful smile. That was something Meryn would understand. And Rachel. Spreading out the notes and looking at her file, stuffed with references and information about the historical Macsen and his rather too anonymous wife, she felt a shot of adrenaline. This was her story now. She was free to pursue it, beyond the limits of the poetic form and it could go anywhere she liked. She could dig deep into historical research and at the same time she could follow her own intuition. Follow her pen. Follow the ghostly story that was revealing itself in the meadow and in the misty mountains of a historical landscape almost two thousand years old.

Brennius, king of the Ordovices, came to see Elen the next day, attended by an escort of local tribesmen from their base in the great fortress of Dinas Dinlle, some four miles away, perched on its cliff above the Hibernian Ocean. Titus Octavius was called by the duty watch as the dozen or so fully armed men were halted at the gateway. Titus hesitated when the man demanded entry. He had heard about the attack by the pirates and was furious that Elen had gone out with so little protection, but she had been very clear that it was her decision and he was not to blame. She was also clear that whatever her husband had told Titus to the contrary, she, the daughter of the high king, was in charge at Segontium.

She received the king and his followers in the antechamber of the principia where Macsen held his meetings. The old man bowed. ‘I have come to offer you the loyalty and protection of my people. This fort is not able to withstand an attack until the legion's return. With our presence known, you will be safe.' He glanced at Titus and his officers who had formed up behind Elen. ‘I would ask you to dismiss your guard, if that is what they are.' He couldn't keep the scorn out of his voice. ‘I have a gift for you, a gift from the gods, and this is for you alone. No one's eyes should fall on it but yours until due time. My men too will leave us.'

Elen sensed Titus tensing behind her. He had no intention of leaving her alone, but already the king's escort had fallen into some kind of order and were marching towards the door.

‘Leave us!' Elen commanded as she turned to Titus. ‘I am perfectly safe. The king is a man of honour and is due every respect.'

Titus hesitated then drew himself up and raised his right arm in salute. He nodded to his men and they filed out after him.

The old man gave a grim smile. ‘I am glad he obeys you. He has an important task, to guard the wife of the general.'

She nodded. ‘He is torn between his duty to my husband, and his recognition of my royal status. He will be outside within call.'

‘And there will be no need to call. What I have brought you is a sacred relic. It has been in my care for many years, and in my father's and his father's before that. As the daughter of the high king and descendant of the bloodline of the gods, you should be its keeper now, and your children after you, until such time as it is needed to save the holy isle of Albion. This is a treasure beyond price.'

He was wearing a chequered woollen cloak fastened with a heavy circular topaz pin, as was customary for the senior menofthe tribes; her father had one like it. He reached into the folds of the cloak and brought out an obviously heavy long package. To her astonishment he knelt before her and laid it on the ground, then he began carefully to unwrap it.

Almost at once she saw it was a sword. A very beautiful sword different in shape from its Roman counterpart, with a delicately carved hilt, set with crudely cut amethysts and garnets and clear sparkling quartz crystals. The blade, decorated with strange otherworldly swirls, had been polished to a dull grey sheen. She stared at it, stunned. Surely she had seen this sword before. She groped in her memory. How could she have forgotten something as beautiful, as powerful as this? But the memory had gone. King Brennius carefully picked it up and laid it across his palms before presenting it to her. She reached forward and took hold of the hilt. It was very cold. ‘I am -honoured,' she whispered.

‘Its name is Caledfwlch. I don't know how old it is, but it was held sacred by the men of the oaks on the Isle of M?n. I heard it was forged by the gods themselves. When the Druids were attacked and slaughtered by the Roman armies three hundred years ago, this treasure was already hidden and survivors of the slaughter gave it to my ancestor and his descendants to keep until the time came for it to be passed on.' He gave her a gentle smile. ‘To you. I sense the time is coming soon when it will be needed. The attacks such as we had yesterday are happening more and more frequently, but the auguries warn the worst will come from the eastern shores, and they will threaten the whole island of Albion. Not in our time, perhaps, but soon.'

She was staring down at the blade. The flame of the oil lamp on a stand behind her was reflecting in its polished surface. She could feel the sacredness of it. She could see the shapes of men and horses, she could hear the shouts and screams of dying soldiers and she could see, faintly but clearly, a young man, the sword in his hand, a coronet on his head. She looked up at the old man kneeling before her and he nodded slowly. ‘You too see its future.'

She bit her lip. ‘We have to keep it safe.' She held it up to the flickering light, feeling its weight. ‘What is it made of?'

‘I believe the metal fell from the stars, and the gems in the hilt came from the womb of Mother Earth, found somewhere long ago in this the land of eagles.' He frowned. ‘This precious thing is not for your husband the general, lady. However high he rises as lord of this isle, this is not for him. He was not born of this holy earth and he will not die here.'

Deep in her heart she had already guessed as much. She lowered her voice: ‘There is nowhere in the fort it would be safe.'

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of this.

She had already made the decision. ‘I want you to take it and hide it again. You have kept it safe for so long, it's right you remain its keeper until the time comes for one of my children to take over the sacred trust.' She held out the sword and he rose to his feet, accepting it with a bow.

‘I will return it to its resting place on Ynys Enlli, the sacred isle, where it can lie in peace,' he said gravely.

‘I can feel its power,' she said almost regretfully as he rewrapped it and secreted it once more beneath his cloak. ‘But its time hasn't yet come. For now we will let it sleep in the dark.'

Macsen returned four weeks after the raid on the hermit's shrine to find his wife in charge of the fort. The parade ground was neatly raked, the garrison immaculately turned out, but more to the point, some two hundred British tribesmen were drawn up outside the gateway in ragged ranks, and more within the outer ramparts, ranged in a tight squadron under the leadership of someone who was obviously the headman of the tribe.

‘Word went out to raise the host.' Elen greeted him formally in front of the men. Macsen's troops had drawn up outside the walls. ‘The Hibernian raiders were captured. They await your judgement.' She lowered her eyes demurely. ‘I have ordered that they all be chained.'

Macsen studied the assembled troops. The brigade he had left behind reinforced now by the British host– men drawn presumably from the ring of great hill forts, nominally subservient to the empire, but he realised almost instantly, loyal to the woman who stood so poised at his side in front of them. The bedraggled prisoners were huddled together on their knees.

‘Did they threaten my daughter?'

‘No. Only her mother.' Elen gritted her teeth, waiting for a rebuke for leaving the fortress without a suitable escort. It didn't come and she glanced up at his face, which was, as always, inscrutable.

‘Where is Titus Octavius?' Macsen's keen eye had noticed at once there was no sign of his commanding officer.

‘He is in the hospital block with a high fever.' Elen refused to meet his eye.

Macsen looked around once more. The remaining officers in charge of the garrison were, he thought, looking sheepish. As his eye ran over them he could see them all visibly straightening their shoulders.

His wife's ragtag army outnumbered his soldiers three to one. But on the other hand his men were highly trained and armed. Hers, he studied their ranks thoughtfully, useful allies. Had they really materialised out of nowhere, summoned to Elen's aid, according to the murmur in his ear of one of the officers at his side, by the servant of the Christian hermit. It seemed they had.

Back in their private rooms at last he stood looking down into the child's cradle. The baby gazed back at him with wide blue eyes, seemingly examining him. Summing him up. He found himself hoping that she did not find him wanting. He glanced at the child's nurse, who was sitting by the window, her fingers busy with her spindle. She had shown no sign of knowing he was there and indeed as he watched he saw the woman's hands fall into her lap and the spindle itself tumble into the basket at her feet. Her head nodded forward and he heard a gentle snore. He glanced back at the baby, who gave him a complicit smile. It seemed as if at last she had registered approval at her father's presence.

He gave the cradle a gentle push and walked slowly across the room, aware that the sound of his nailed sandals on the mosaic floor had awoken the sleeping woman by the window.

Elen was in the next room, a stylus in her hand, sitting at the table making notes on a wax tablet. Gemma was asleep at her feet. Elen looked up. ‘So, the traveller has returned.' The little dog stood up and wagged her tail a little hesitantly. She did not approach him.

He grimaced. ‘I am sorry, my dear. I have been remiss. You of all people I wanted to greet alone, not in front of hundreds of men.' He strode across the room and swept her out of her chair and into his arms. Gemma flinched away and ran to hide under a sideboard in the corner of the room. ‘There is much to talk about.' He glanced over Elen's head towards the door. ‘Come into the courtyard. I need absolute privacy.'

She led him to the bench in the rose bower. The -original sparse planting, surrounded by clay pots and statues that afforded only a degree of protection from the chance of being -overheard, had been augmented with hundreds of new plants with a peristyle and the garden had quickly evolved into a pleasur-able place to take repose. She had employed two freedmen, together with their mother, from the vicus, the township that had grown up over the years outside the walls of the fort, and they had assumed the position of gardeners, similar to those in her father's palace. Their arrival had been satisfyingly -effective. She saw him look round approvingly. She demurely seated -herself beside him and smoothed out her skirt.

‘I've missed you, sweetheart,' he said at last.

‘And I you.' She glanced at him sideways. ‘It's been too long.' She reached out to touch his hand.

‘Tonight,' he said. He winked at her.

A tremor of lust shot through her. She composed herself, aware of watching eyes all around them. ‘Your meeting went well, husband?' She had by now perfected the gracious lift of an eyebrow.

He nodded solemnly. ‘Your father was there as high king, as were tribal kings from across the land, plus most of the district rulers.' There was a significant pause, then: ‘We must be thankful, it appears, that the king of the Ordovices did not see fit to attend.' When she did not reply he went on. ‘We sent a further demand to Gratian for reinforcements. The attacks on this island are growing ever more violent and ever more frequent. If we don't hear back from him there needs to be a way forward on our own terms. We cannot keep referring back to a higher authority who ignores us.'

‘But he made you Comes of the whole island.' She was -indignant.

‘I still have to beg him for reinforcements from overseas and they never come. The ineffectualness and inefficiency of an administration to which we are expected to bow makes me furious.' He stood up impatiently and paced up and down beside the rectangular pool of water that formed a formal centre for the bower. ‘I grow ever more frustrated by our masters in Rome, Elen, and the leaders of this island feel the same. They have made a suggestion that I must consider.'

Elen felt a draught of cold air touch her spine. She waited in silence. ‘We have given them one more chance to send the support we need. If it doesn't appear by the feast of Saturnalia, then I shall feel compelled to make a unilateral declaration to sever our links with the empire, withhold all taxes– of which we have a considerable sum stored in the strongroom here– and use whatever means we can find to keep this island safe. Your father agrees with me. If the empire cannot protect us, then we have to protect ourselves.'

‘Have you talked this over with Titus?'

Macsen's second in command had still not resumed his duties, but he was as far as she knew on the mend. His unexpected and highly convenient fever had rendered him unable to resume his command of the fort. It had struck him down two days after her visit from the king of the Ordovices and she had seen nothing of him since. Julia had been very protective, saying the military physicians were completely baffled by his illness. He was not to have visitors. Macsen was not so understanding. It was Julia who told Elen what had happened the next day. She was simmering with fury.

‘He just walked in, even though the doctor told him Titus was receiving no visitors, and accused my husband of malingering. I can't believe it! The poor man has been so ill. He had a fever. He could hardly stand. Of course he couldn't resume his duties. The general accused him of allowing you to leave the fort without an escort. He said had you been killed it would have been Titus's fault. You have to tell him you deliberately tricked us. You left instructions that you couldn't be disturbed because you were ill. It wasn't Titus who was faking it, it was you.' She gave a sob of rage. ‘You deliberately tricked me, and you didn't want me there, your best friend! I should have been a sponsor for your child, not your serving woman. How could you ask Delyth to stand for her when I would have been more than willing!'

Elen had risen to her feet. ‘Julia—'

‘No!' Weeks of hurt and resentment came flooding out. ‘You never really liked me. You used me. I helped you settle in here. You let me think you were my friend and all the time you despised me. I even stopped Valeria having that wretched dog knocked on the head after it stamped all over her best tunic with muddy feet. And I kept her secrets. I made sure you would never find out about her and the general—'

Julia's hand flew to her mouth. ‘Sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that. I was just so angry.' She stared round desperately, obviously wishing the ground would swallow her up. ‘Forget I said it.'

Elen stared at her. For a moment she couldn't speak. She felt an ice-cold sickness sweep over her. When at last she was able to open her mouth, all she could do was repeat those words. ‘What should I not find out about her and the general?'

Julia shook her head mutely.

‘I need to know, Julia. Don't make me ask him.'

Julia looked up pleadingly. ‘I'm sorry. I was jealous and stupid and cross. Forgive me.'

‘Tell me.'

Julia gave up. She perched on the edge of a chair, her hands clasped and began to talk, hesitantly at first, then as the words became easier, in a torrent of bitter recriminations. Elen had resumed her seat. She sat very still.

‘It was after Ceindrech died. He was lonely and Valeria is a very beautiful woman. Claudius Valentius was away on manoeuvres. They began to take supper together. To begin with, I think it was just a friendship. She had travelled, like him. They could discuss far-off places and the people they had met. They both felt cut off here in Britannia. It is a cold, unwelcoming country to people who are used to hotter climes. His family come from Hispania and she had been to Gallaecia, where he was born.' She shrugged her shoulders desperately. Elen remained stony-faced. ‘I don't know when it became more than friendship. Before he ever met you. It was never going to be more than an affair. She ordered me to keep her secret. She threatened me. She wouldn't listen to me. I stood up for you. I told her how hurt you would be, but she wouldn't listen. She didn't care. She knew he needed to marry again, to make a good alliance.' Her voice trailed away.

‘So, that is all I was. A useful alliance.' Elen's voice was flat. ‘Of course, I knew that, but I hoped we had become more than mere allies. When I was alone; when I was pregnant; when I had given birth to his daughter. He was with her then.'

Julia nodded reluctantly.

‘And she went with him to Eboracum?'

‘Yes.' It was a whisper.

‘Does Claudius Valentius know about this?'

Another nod.

‘Of course he does. Is that how he reached such high rank? Because he knew how to turn a blind eye?'

‘It is the way things are, Princess. I'm sorry.'

Both women looked down as Gemma crept up to Elen, sensing an atmosphere. Elen bent and picked up the little dog. ‘And she wanted my dog killed?'

‘She was angry about the mud on her best tunic. I'm sure she would have regretted it.'

‘I'm sure she would.'

There was a long, awkward silence. At last Julia stood up. ‘I should go.'

Elen didn't reply and with a frantic glance round the room Julia scuttled towards the door.

Elen did not see her husband for two days. He was, it appeared, busy with some reorganisation of the fort's defences. When at last he appeared it was to join her for a private supper. ‘I have decided to send Titus on one final mission to Gratian. It will do him good to have a change of scene and he might be able to gain some traction in our attempt to persuade the emperor to send us supplies of men and weapons. He will take Julia and his household with him.'

Elen inclined her head. ‘That seems a good idea. Are you planning to send Claudius Valentius and his wife with them?' Her tone was ice-cold, her fury carefully controlled.

For a long minute they held one another's gaze and in that gaze she saw that he knew what had happened. At last he shook his head. ‘No. I have to deal with a further threat in the north and I will be leading an army out to deal with that as soon as possible. Claudius will remain in charge here and his household will stay with him.' There was a long thoughtful pause. ‘When we were in Eboracum,' he went on at last, ‘your father asked whether you might be persuaded to return to Venta for a visit so he can meet his granddaughter. I think that would be a good idea. You don't want to come up to Caledonia with the army. Spend a few months with your father and then we will meet back here in the spring.'

So that was it. A line was being drawn in the sand. She didn't argue. A visit south couldn't come quickly enough for her. Her heart was broken.