20

Meryn stayed the night in the end. ‘I am curious to see how you write about all this,' he said as they walked back into the house. ‘Automatic writing is a wonderful gift, and to channel it in the way you seem to be doing is quite remarkable. Maybe there's more of the old family magic in you than you will allow.' He grinned. ‘Don't try and force anything, just go on doing whatever it is that you're doing and we'll read it together in the morning.'

Cadi handed him her file of notes before lunch, retreating outside to pick tomatoes and lettuce from her vegetable patch, concentrating on making a salad, blending oil and balsamic vinegar, grinding pepper, trying not to keep glancing across at him as he sat on the sofa near the open veranda doors, the pages of her typescripts spread out on his knee. Some of it was still a scribble of long hand, the rest neatly ordered and transcribed so that she could read it herself before the weird hieroglyphics became indecipherable. Every now and then he reached for his glass and took a sip of wine, then he went back to reading.

She opened the fridge to find home-cured ham and -cheeses from the deli in the village and laid the food on a flowered -pottery plate, then at last she brought her own glass over and sat down to face him. ‘What do you think?'

‘Fascinating.'

‘Does it read like a romantic novel?'

He smiled. ‘A bit. Maybe.'

She scowled.

‘But it also reads like a wild tempestuous race through history, with here and there remarks which could only come from someone who has seen it all, been there, done that.'

‘What do you think of Branwen. She isn't a historical figure. Did I make her up?'

There was a drawn-out silence as he took another thoughtful sip from his glass. ‘No,' he said at last. ‘I don't think you did. I think she's a major driver of this narrative.' He shuffled all the pages back together and slid them onto the table, then leaned back on the cushions and crossed one leg over the other. ‘What makes you describe her as a Druid?'

‘I'm not sure. I suppose she said she was.'

‘She's interesting. I have come across one or two of these strong female characters in the past. I tried to work with one once a long time ago. She was dangerous.'

‘Dangerous?' Cadi looked up.

‘Oh yes, very dangerous. She had been trained at one of their colleges and her uncle was the archdruid in the time of St Columba. She had learned, amongst other things, to shape shift and to time travel.' He frowned. ‘I suppose she was what you would nowadays call a stalker. She was fixated on a charming Scots doctor and his family. She was possessed with some astonishing powers and was viciously jealous of anyone close to him.'

‘What happened?' Cadi's eyes had widened.

‘I let them all down badly. I was a lot younger then, and inexperienced and a bit gung-ho. I let them think I was much wiser and older than I actually was.' He smiled ruefully.

‘Let them think?' Cadi looked at him sceptically.

‘OK, yes. A bit of sleight of hand. I thought myself into a wiser and more mature persona. If I had been more experienced, I might never have done what I did. I had the knowledge but I was completely outclassed. If I had had the knowledge I have now, perhaps, but'– he shrugged his shoulders– ‘I taught the family what I knew. How to protect themselves. I gave them amulets charged with magic I thought could defeat her. I thought I knew what I was doing. No chance.'

‘Oh, Meryn, how awful.'

He gave a grim smile. ‘I'll tell you the whole story one day. But for now, let's concentrate on our own situation. I'm genuinely older and wiser, I have mountains of learning and -donkey's years of experience, I have been taught by far more powerful adepts than her and her family.' He stretched over and tapped the pile of papers. ‘You said it was Branwen who told Elen to send Gemma back to us.'

Cadi shook her head slowly. ‘In my story, yes. But I assumed I had made up that bit. I doubt Gemma is a time traveller.'

‘Why?'

She frowned. ‘Oh, come on. I needed to put her in the story, and I needed to make up a reason for her disappearance, but surely it's far more likely that someone picked her up and put her in their car and then had a crisis of conscience. You don't really think she ran away down our famous wormhole and spent the last few weeks in a Roman villa in the fourth cen-tury?'

‘I thought you were on board with all this, Cadi.' Meryn was frowning.

‘I was. I am. But— How do we know Branwen isn't frightening and evil like your horrible Druidess?'

‘Because I'm pretty sure that Branwen is one of the good guys.' He smiled cheerfully.

Cadi stood up and walked over towards the kitchen worktop, smacked it with the flat of her hand, a sign of her sheer frustration, with herself and with him, and went to open the fridge. She withdrew the bottle of wine and brought it back to him, topping up his glass with such vigour it slopped over his hand. He licked his fist without comment.

‘I want to believe it. I want to so much.'

‘Really? It's a terrifying concept if one considers it for any length of time. And you have to be sure. Belief, Cadi, is not always something you can will for yourself. If deep down in your heart you can't believe something, it's better not to try. It can't be forced. Walk away.'

‘Have you always believed in this stuff?'

‘Oh yes. I have certainty because I've seen things, heard them, been there, if you like. But maybe, even for me, that was not quite enough. You could say my academic life is my attempt to rationalise a belief in the things I had experienced since I was a child, to bring in real scientific proof, and that is where one could and does come unstuck. They are not the same thing. Belief is one step up from faith. I think you will find the definition of faith has an element of blindness in it, whereas belief comes from certainty where there is still no absolute proof, but nevertheless one's inner knowledge is strong enough to make it unshakeable. This is the marshy ground where your friend Arwel and I cannot and never will, agree. I aim to prove something I have already accepted with my heart and soul, but a -scientist heads out into the wild blue yonder with no -preconceived ideas and hopes to find incontrovertible truth.'

‘But Arwel does have preconceived ideas. He thinks it's all baloney!' She took a gulp from her glass.

Meryn sighed. ‘You have seen people dowsing. You know it works. Why it works doesn't matter. Not now. Not for us. We know this meadow of yours has a certain amount of history and legend attached to it, which was enough to go on at the start. We want to find enough proof to make it eligible for some kind of archaeological exploration and we have become involved in an aspect of its past. We are curious. We want to know what happened. You want to follow your dream of discovering Elen's story via poetic inspiration. You will never claim it to be authentic history. Your readers will love it; your poetry, with Rachel's lovely paintings, will transport them into that past, just as the original Mabinogion did for countless generations of enthralled listeners by the hearths of their houses on long winter nights. Leave the scepticism to Arwel. Leave the technical battle--planning to your friend Chris the miller. Don't get involved. If the land is destined to be built on, then there is nothing you can do. If you don't like the resulting noise next door, you can grow your hedge higher or even sell your house.'

‘No!'

He folded his arms. ‘So, you can't be Zen about all this?'

She laughed. ‘Isn't that rather a mixed metaphor for you?'

‘A mixed spirituality, perhaps.' He watched as she stood up again and went to lay the table.

After a minute he followed her and sat down as she fetched the rest of the food from the fridge. ‘I can't bear the thought of my meadow not being there anymore, Meryn. It means too much to me. I know I'm beyond lucky to have a place like that next door where I can walk at any time of day or night– or at least I could. But it has become part of me. It inspires my work. It has wormed its way deep into my soul. It's what makes me the person, the poet if you like, that I am.' She was fighting back tears. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘So why don't you tell me more about the dangerous Druidess you met.' She pushed a bowl of coleslaw towards him. ‘How did you even get involved if you were so inexperienced?'

He had been studying her face with an expression of overwhelming sympathy. Now he looked away. ‘I didn't intend to set out as adviser on these matters. I lived alone in a cottage in the mountains, much like the one I live in now. I was studying. Meditating. I suppose people came to realise I could help them when it came to dealing with ghosts. Stuff like that. I got to know this lovely local family and they asked my advice. But, well. It's not always that easy. I wish it were.' He sat back in his chair. ‘That case certainly wasn't. But enough about her. Nowadays most people seem to think I'm a herbalist and a healer. I am more often than not asked for sleeping draughts from my garden, thank goodness, although there was an interesting case, just before I went back to California, right on my doorstep.' He stopped. ‘No, enough of all that! You and I have a problem here which needs to be addressed and it's an interesting one for me, as my dowsing skills are seldom called on and apart from your midnight marchers there doesn't seem to be a ghostly element at all.'

‘Just time travel and a wandering dog.'

‘I would like to meet the dog.' Meryn helped himself to -potato salad. ‘From the way you describe it, Branwen could sense that Gemma came from a different world. I would like to see if I can sense that the animal has been elsewhere.'

‘If we go and see them tomorrow, for goodness' sake don't talk about this in front of Sally,' Cadi put in sharply. ‘As far as she is concerned Gemma was kidnapped in this world and the furthest she has been was about twenty miles!'

Cadi woke with a jolt, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The house was completely silent. Sliding out of bed she went over to the -window and, pushing it open, she leaned out. The road was empty, a slight breeze stirring the trees in the hedge -opposite; moon shadows danced across the tarmac. She opened her door and listened. There was a light showing under Meryn's door. She crept back into her room and carefully closed her own doorbefore tiptoeing over to the chest in the far corner of the room and reaching for her notepad and pencils. Climbing back into bed she propped herself up on her pillows and began to write.

The town of Caesarodunum was bustling as the legions began to march in. There had been no opposition for some time now to the arrival in Gaul of Macsen and his armies. As they marched into the province of Lugdunensis they had, on the whole, been welcomed, or at worst ignored by the local population. The fortress opened its gates to them and the resident officials ushered them in. The market was functioning as normal. The people went on busily about their lives.

The housekeeper in charge of the officers' residence, flustered and far from ready for so illustrious a visitor, had no idea how to greet an empress. Elen graciously forgave her. She had still formed no idea herself of what her rank and position in the world merited. Her husband had taken the title of emperor of the West. There was another emperor of the West– Gratian himself, brother-in-law of the Emperor Theodosius, based in Constantinopolis– but so far neither man had appeared. There were no armies massed on the horizon to challenge them.

Elen, exhausted from the miles of dusty roads, everywhere greeting would-be clients of the new regime, found her way to the women's chambers with her entourage of maids and -nurses and the six children. She reassured the housekeeper, gave orders to her steward, Carwyn, and left everything to him. Within minutes the room where she had settled on a shabby couch was silent. The older children had rushed off to explore. The grizzling babies had been borne away by their nanny, leaving her blessedly alone. She had no idea where her husband was, nor his senior officers. Nor did she know where the officers' wives and families were quartered. Somewhere amongst them presumably were Julia Cassia and Valeria Valentina. So far they had always kept scrupulously out of her way. With a sigh she closed her eyes. In too short a time Delyth would appear, servants would bring warm water and towels and refreshments, and the next round of imperial duties would begin.

For Elen this particular stop on their journey to confront Gratian was special for one reason only. This town was the seat of Bishop Martin, one of the greatest and most famous of the Christian teachers, healers and miracle workers in the western world. Macsen had showed no interest. She had never questioned him about his worship of Mithras. She had merely demanded an oratory of her own at Segontium and he had eventually allowed her to have it constructed within the walls of the fort. She had her own chaplain there and all her children save two had now been baptised. Owain and little Peblig, the youngest of her boys, were not yet Christened and she had set her heart on asking Bishop Martin to perform the rite.

Macsen refused to accompany her on her visit to the bishop. When she approached her husband about it, he was as always surrounded by his officers and advisers, the men in intense discussion. They looked worried. Rising to his feet, he drew her aside. ‘Finally Gratian heads towards us with a large army,' he said quietly. ‘It appears our run of good luck has expired and he has at last grown the balls to confront me. We will have to fight him soon.'

She met his gaze with a frown. ‘Surely you knew this must happen.'

He nodded. ‘We have come so far into Gaul with no opposition, I suppose I had hoped to avoid it.'

‘You thought Gratian would give in without a fight?'

‘So my advisers assured me.' Macsen glanced over his -shoulder at the table. The tribune Claudius Valentius was there with Andragathius, the master of Macsen's horse, Macsen's brother, Marcellinus and Titus Octavius, his second in -command from Segontium. ‘Gratian is unpopular. He relies on auxiliary -German troops to enforce his rule. His policies are bad. That is why we have come so far unopposed. The people of Gaul want me as their emperor.'

Elen saw first one then another of the men glance across at her. She gave them a gracious smile. ‘Then I will leave you to plan your next step and, in the meantime, I will go and talk with the man of God. If he is with us, then we cannot fail.'

The Bishop of Caesarodunum was not at home. The bishop's residence, a complex of administrative buildings near the church, in an angle of the amphitheatre wall, was bustling with clergy and administrators, but the bishop himself, it appeared, had withdrawn to find peace at his retreat across the river. His chaplain, who had introduced himself as Brother James, drew Elen into a side office. The man was clearly flustered. ‘My lady empress, the bishop had no idea you were coming or he would have made sure to be here to give you an audience. That is, he would have been here to appear in audience before you.' The man blushed crimson and stumbled over his words. ‘He would have been horrified to know that he had ignored the wife of so great a man as the general. As the emperor.'

Elen smiled. ‘Please, brother, do not be alarmed. I am here as a supplicant like everyone else. Is it possible for me to go to his place of retreat?'

The young man hesitated, clearly unsure how to respond. ‘He has given orders that no one follow him. He goes there to be alone, to pray. Unless it's an emergency—'

‘It is an emergency. My youngest sons need to be baptised, and my husband is a follower of Mithras.'

There was an appalled silence. The young man opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water. ‘The bishop preaches against all pagans, madam. He would want your husband and your children to be brought to God.' He crossed himself.

‘So, can you take me to his place of retreat?'

Elen's escort and the episcopal officers fell away from the two of them as they crossed the bridge over the river and turned alongside the cliff base, Elen riding a borrowed palfrey, the young priest on a mule. The men of the escort had obviously been told not to approach the lonely improvised monastery with its string of caves, each one the cell of a monk, one of which belonged to Martin himself. Nearby, on the bank of the river Elen could see a chapel and another building which Brother James told her was the refectory for the group of hermits who followed Martin into solitude. The only difference was that he frequently had to leave the silence and beauty of his retreat for the busy life he was expected to lead as the leader of his episcopacy in the town, or his missionary travels further afield, leaving them to commune with God without him.

She expected him to be angry at her interruption of his quiet life, but he waved her to the only seat in his cave, a three-legged stool, and sat down cross-legged on the floor himself. He was a tall bony man in his mid-sixties, with a thin face, tanned by the sun and wind of his many journeys across the countryside, dressed in a simple brown robe with a wooden cross hanging from his girdle.

Neither of them realised that this would be the first of many such meetings, or that Macsen himself would -accompany her on the third, that her husband would come again -several timesonhis own and that when at last a date was set for the -baptism of Owain and little Peblig, Macsen, won over by the man's simple sincerity and passion, and perhaps by a more-cynical sense of expedience, would also present himself to be admitted to the Christian faith.

It was early August when Macsen gave orders for his men to set off at last to meet Gratian head on. The legions followed the well-marked road and marched north-east into the province of the Parisii as Gratian moved west with his own troops, who were largely foreign auxiliaries. They met at last near Lutetia where, after skirmishing for several days, Macsen's army won a decisive victory, with much of Gratian's army defecting to his standard. Gratian fled the field, pursued by Andragathius, and was finally cornered and killed at Lugdunum on 25 August.

It was the end of the battle at least for the time being. Victory was declared. Macsen with his empress by his side set up his base at the great Roman city and capital of the Western Empire, Augusta Treverorum.

Gratian's heir was his brother Valentinian, a twelve-year-old boy.