3

‘What can I do for you?' Arwel's expression when he opened his door and saw who was on his doorstep was not encouraging, but after a moment's hesitation he stood back to let Cadi in.

His house was several doors up from the terrace where Cadi lived, in lonely splendour on the opposite side of the road, small and determinedly detached behind a wild hedge of untrimmed hawthorn. Behind it a narrow lane led up to the village's ancient church.

The room into which he led her was full of books. It smelled stale and the window, she noticed, was firmly shut in spite of the building heat of the morning. A huge partners' desk took up most of the floor space, apart from two deep armchairs placed on either side of the fireplace. She walked past him and perched uncomfortably on the arm of the chair furthest from the door where Arwel remained, standing in silence, his arms folded. A wiry man with thick pepper-and-salt hair, short in stature with sharp, very dark eyes and a prominent, slightly hooked nose, he reminded her of a bird of prey about to pounce. There was no reason for either of them to mention his son, Ifan. She hadn't been in the house since she and Ifan had finally split up. This room at least hadn't changed.

‘I wanted to ask you about the history of the village.' She forced herself to relax. ‘Specifically, I wondered if you knew anything about there being a Roman villa in the area. In Camp Meadow.'

‘Ah.' He walked over and seated himself on the corner of his desk. ‘So, you do know about the planning dispute.'

‘I didn't realise until recently that there was a planning dispute. I had no idea building permission had been applied for. I think it's terrible.'

‘Is it?' He glared at her.

‘Well, isn't it?' She took a deep breath. ‘So, was there a villa there? Surely if there is archaeological evidence for something like that they won't be able to develop the land at least until they've done a proper survey.'

‘There was no villa.' He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Why do you think it's called Camp Meadow?'

‘I gather there was a military camp there as well. To be -honest, I hadn't really thought about it before.'

‘No, of course you hadn't.'

She forced herself to stay calm. She could feel the heat rising in her face. ‘So if there was a camp, would that be enough to qualify for some kind of rescue dig?'

‘There was a Roman camp, yes. There was a trial ditch dug before the last war. But if they did find anything it had presumably left little or no trace because they filled in the ditch. No doubt the planning people will check before they give permission for any development. I believe they do ground radar tests of some sort. But even if they deem a rescue dig worthwhile, they would in the end cover it up and go ahead with the building. Don't worry. If you have a financial interest, you'll still get your money.'

‘I don't own it, Arwel,' she replied as calmly as she could. If he thought that, it would be yet another reason for his hostility. ‘Neither does my ex-husband's family. I gather the farm was sold soon after the war. David checked yesterday. Then apparently it changed hands again about four years ago and is now owned by a development company. I had so hoped it was the site of somewhere important.'

‘If it was the site of somewhere important we would all know about it, wouldn't we.' He stood up and walked towards the door. It was clearly a signal that she should leave.

‘It's no good. He wasn't interested.' Cadi went straight over to Sally's. Her neighbour had just returned from a walk with Gemma. It was Saturday so there was no school.

‘Well, everyone else is interested even if he isn't.' Sally led the way into her living room. ‘Dai Prosser is getting up a petition and Christopher and Mel at the mill have already lodged a formal objection.'

‘Good.' Cadi hesitated. ‘They don't all think I owned the field, do they? Arwel did.'

Sally shook her head. ‘Don't worry. I've put them right on that one. Couldn't Arwel think of anything we could do?'

‘He says there was a marching camp there but it wasn't worth excavating.'

Sally thought for a few seconds. ‘It sounds as though he was in curmudgeon mode.' Sitting down she patted her knee and her little dog jumped onto her lap. A cross between a West Highland terrier and an unknown suitor, Gemma, white, fluffy and, according to her mistress, with the super-intelligence of a Nobel prizewinner, appeared to be listening intently to the conversation.

Cadi laughed. ‘Isn't he always? Wretched man.'

‘Never mind.' Sally was philosophical. ‘There must be other experts about. Maybe we could find something ourselves. Do you know anyone with a metal detector?'

‘As I expect you know, a marching camp was a temporary -military camp they set up when the legions were on their way somewhere. Probably early on, before they had built any -proper fortresses or towns to suppress the wild Welsh.' Chris -Chatto had obviously been doing his homework. He was finish-ing tidying up the mill kitchen, his face red from the baking ovens. He set the timer and led the way out onto the narrow terrace that bordered the millstream. Behind them the great mill wheel was stationary. It obviously wasn't a day for grinding flour.

He sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs and stuck his legs out in front of him with a satisfied sigh. ‘That's the last batch. Mel did most of the baking first thing.' Chris and his wife Melissa ran a popular little café, shop and bakery as part of the working watermill that ground local flour several times a week. He pushed a tall glass of fruit cordial across the table towards Cadi. ‘I've become an expert on the Roman invasion of Britain in the last few days. God bless the internet! Arwel's right. There probably isn't anything left in the field but the name.' He paused. ‘I've checked the planning application. It implies there has been a preliminary survey of the site and that it showed nothing of interest. They claim there is no need for further investigation. Oh, Cadi.' He sighed. ‘I don't know about you– and after all, you live next door to the place– but as far as I can gather no one around here, no one at all, has seen or heard anything that might amount to a survey going on. But then of course it might have consisted of nothing more than a quick walk through the field. Call me cynical, but I can't help wondering if it ever -happened at all. One hears about schemes being waved through all thetime.'

‘Oh Chris, if you're implying what I think you're implying, that's awful. But I certainly never saw anything that made me suspect the field was being surveyed,' Cadi shook her head, ‘but then, I'm not watching it every second of the day. Far from it. Although, shouldn't there be yellow planning application notices stuck on the gate or in the hedge somewhere?' She thought for a moment. ‘So, why would the Romans have had a temporary camp here when there were places like Caerleon with all its wonderful Roman remains a few miles up the road?'

‘Either this was here first, or they were on the way somewhere else. There's a Roman road running straight through the village– you of all people should know that, living in Sarnelen Cottage.'

Cadi nodded. Sarn Helen or Sarn Elen was not only the name of her road, it was the name of several roads in Wales, Roman roads, one in particular, from the south coast to the north, built, so legend had it, by Macsen's wife, the Welsh princess of the Mabinogion, the princess about whom she was about to write.

Chris glanced at his watch. ‘You know how stories get around. Memories of a camp with a few wooden buildings might have escalated into a villa over the centuries. Far more glamorous. That's how legends develop.' He sighed. ‘Four more minutes and I'll have to go back to the kitchen. The girls will be in to prep for lunch soon.' He drained his glass and stood up. ‘By the way, you might hear the wheel in action later this afternoon. There's a party of kids coming to see it. A birthday treat for one of them. This mill has Roman foundations, did you know? I think there are a lot of places round here like us. Just think, the noise of that wheel turning the millstones won't have changed much in two thousand years. Whatever Arwel says, we may not have had a villa, but there was certainly some kind of settlement here. And I mean to find it.'

Cadi stood in the middle of the meadow staring down at the ground as if it could show her the outline of whatever building had stood there so long ago. The grass was long, lush, full of wildflowers. Presumably Dai would come in soon to mow it for hay. Normally, once the bales had gone he would bring in his sheep to graze for a few weeks, growing fat on what was left. But who knew what would happen this year? She loved this space next to her house. It was somewhere she could come to be alone, to think, to compose her poetry, to absorb the glorious peace as she sat on the grass or wandered around, following the faint tracks left by the rabbits. They had to save it, they just had to. Not just because she loved it so much, but because everyone in the village felt the same. Turning onto the -narrow public footpath that threaded its way through the -grasses across the centre of the meadow she made her way down towards the brook and the diverted leat that served the mill. There the midday sun glinted in the water as it rippled across the rocks to fall into a deep pool in the shade of the alders and willows. The footpath led on towards some stepping stones across the brook and from there climbed through the scrub towards the steeper hillside. There was nothing to be seen of the remains of the hill fort from here, but up there, on the flattened summit, hundreds of feet above the spot where she was standing, there was a stunning view for miles across the countryside, north towards the mountains and hills of the Bannau Brycheiniog and south towards the distant Severn estuary and the Bristol Channel, and there one could still see amongst the heather and gorse the concentric deep ditches and an outline of the ramparts that had sheltered an entire community. Who did the hill belong to, she wondered. Was that too in danger? Surely it was an ancient monument of some kind. She would need to check the notice at the foot of the path from the lane. She left the footpath and pushed on down through the long grass and nettles towards the shingle beach where Dai's sheep always congregated to drink.

The sound of hoofbeats seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute she was listening to the quiet splashing of the water and the repetitive echoing call of a song thrush high in one of the trees, then the ground was shaking with the drumming of hooves and she heard the angry scream of a frightened horse. Spinning round with a cry of alarm, she automatically leapt out of the way, but there was nothing there. It had gone. Silence settled around her again, broken only by the gentle gurgle of the water. The thrush had flown away.

Retracing her steps, her heart thudding with fright, she stared round but the meadow was empty.

‘I don't know where it went. It must have jumped the stream.' Still trembling with shock, she called Dai Prosser on her mobile. From the frantic baaing noises in the background she could tell he was with his sheep. ‘I'm so sorry, I must have scared it. But to be fair it scared me. I didn't realise there was a horse in the field. Will it be safe up there in the woods?'

‘There isn't a horse in the field—' Dai cut off in mid sentence and she heard another man's voice in the background.

‘Sorry. Are you busy?'

Dai laughed. ‘I'm always busy. Right now I'm shearing sheep, my lovely. Look, I don't know anything about a horse. It shouldn't be there. It hasn't thrown its rider somewhere, has it? Was it tacked up? Best you have a quick look round. Sorry, I've got to go.' She heard the sound of electric shears in the background and then the phone went dead.

She gazed round helplessly. There was no sign of anyone or anything in the gently swaying long grasses. All she could hear was the hum of bees.

Cadi told Sally what had happened that evening as they strolled together up the lane with Gemma.

‘I rang Dai in case he had let someone graze a horse in here. He said not. He wasn't much interested, to be fair.'

‘He's shearing.' Sally opened the gate and they walked back into the meadow. She bent to let the little dog off the lead. ‘Do you want to walk down to the stream to make sure there's no one wandering around concussed?'

Cadi laughed. ‘I suppose it would put my mind at rest. And if there was someone lying unconscious in the grass somewhere, wouldn't Gemma find them?'

‘Some hope. Tracker dog she isn't, although, she might be up for it if they were eating biscuits.'

The two women followed the path across the meadow, with Gemma in front of them, nose to the ground, indeed giving the impression of a dog on the trail of something interesting. The something turned out to be a rabbit. Sally called her back, laughing. ‘I doubt a rabbit could snort and thump and shake the ground enough to sound like a horse's hooves, and if there was a human round here the creature would have fled long since.'

‘Rabbits do thump with their back legs,' Cadi put in. She stopped. ‘What's the matter with Gemma?' The dog had frozen in her tracks, crouching low to the ground, staring ahead. They could both see the hackles bristling on the back of her neck.

‘Come on,' Sally whispered. ‘We'd better go and see.'

They tiptoed down the path. ‘I can't see anyone.'

‘I can hear the horse,' Cadi murmured. ‘Listen.'

Sally shook her head. ‘There's nothing here.' She turned round slowly. At her feet Gemma was panting, eyes wide, ears flat against her head.

‘Let's go back.' Cadi could feel her skin beginning to -prickle. ‘There's something here; something weird, and Gemma can sense it.' She didn't wait for Sally, who paused to glance once more over her shoulder around the empty meadow before following Cadi back towards the lane, Gemma close at her heels.

‘Do you think there's a big cat out here somewhere?' Sally said as she unlatched the gate. ‘You hear about them from time to time.'

Cadi shook her head. ‘It's a horse,' she insisted. ‘I heard the wretched thing.'

‘A disappearing horse? A magic horse? Ceffyl Dw?r– a water horse? A beast of ill omen.' Sally loved the Welsh legends. She gave an involuntary shudder.

‘No. A real horse, heavy enough to make the ground shake as it galloped.'

‘But invisible.'

Cadi shook her head in mock despair. ‘If you say so. More likely I suspect it's in a field across the brook somewhere or perhaps even further away than that and there are some kind of strange acoustics at work. Vibrations in the earth. Or—'

‘Or you imagined it.' Sally laughed. ‘A ghost horse. Think of that.' She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Where's Gemma?' She gave a whistle. ‘Where's she gone? Whatever it was, let's hope it drives the developers away. Gemma!' she called again. ‘Come on. Time to go home.'

The meadow behind them was deserted. There was no answering rustle in the grass, no sharp bark in response.

‘Where is she?' Sally was growing anxious. ‘Gemma! Come on, Gem! She was here a minute ago.' With a quick glance at Cadi she turned back along the footpath, whistling as she went.

Twenty minutes later, after splitting up and searching the path all the way across the meadow, along the brook and up the lower slopes of the wood, they met up in the centre of the meadow again, still scanning the grass. ‘She could be anywhere. Supposing she's gone down a rabbit hole and got stuck.'

‘We'd hear her barking, surely,' Cadi said. ‘I don't understand it. She followed us to the gate. She did, didn't she? There's no one else around. No other dogs. Do you think she's gone all the way up to the fort?'

‘I suppose she might if she was chasing something.' Sally was distraught.

They turned and made their way back to the shingle beach on the edge of the brook, jumped from stone to stone to the other side and began to walk up the path through the trees. After ten minutes Sally stopped. ‘It's no good. She wouldn't have come this far. She never goes this far away from me.' There were tears in her eyes.

‘Look, Sal. Think about it. She's a clever little dog. She knows where she lives. If she's lost, she'll find her way home. Something frightened her out there—' Cadi stopped and swallowed. ‘If she was scared, she would run home, wouldn't she? Perhaps she lost her bearings momentarily.'

‘But she would come to me. She would want me to pick her up and comfort her.' The tears were falling now.

‘If she's not at home we can ask around the village. Everyone knows her. Lots of other people walk their dogs here. If she's trapped somewhere, one of them will find her.'

‘Do you think someone could have stolen her? She's such a beautiful little dog.' Sally had found a tissue and was mopping frantically at her eyes.

Cadi shook her head slowly. ‘We'd have seen if there were strangers around. Or anyone else at all.' She knew as well as Sally the news was always full of stories about stolen dogs. Best not even think about it. ‘I'm sure she'll come home by herself. She might already be there waiting for you.'

* * *

She heard the marching feet again that night. There was no rain this time. She was woken by the moon shining through the crack in the curtains. She listened as the sounds drew -closer. They were louder this time, somehow more sinister. A large group of men, in step, heading towards Camp -Meadow. She lay rigid, not daring to move. They were right outside now. She clenched her fists, terrified they might come to a halt outside her cottage, the crunch of boots inexorable, threatening. Closing her eyes, she held her breath but they marched on up the road. Only when the sounds had died away completely did she slide out of bed and tiptoe to the window. The road was empty.

As she looked out a light came on at the far end of the street. Arwel was awake too.