50

The police guessed that Ifan must have a car and had left it -hidden on the far side of the woods. It could be anywhere and in the dark there seemed no point in searching for him any -longer. In the end they were called back to base, leaving -Sarnelen Cottage to its own devices. The search would resume in the morning.

When they were alone at last, Cadi sat down with an exhausted sigh. ‘He won't come back, will he.' They were all badly shaken. Arwel had returned to his house once the police had searched it and called someone to fix secure bolts on both back and front doors. Sally had gone too. ‘I don't think he's interested in me, anyway,' she said as she left, Gemma in her arms. ‘At least, I hope not. But I'll call if I get suspicious, I promise.' Once again Charles saw her next door and waited outside until he heard her turn the key and slot the bolt in place.

The broken French doors had been boarded up, thanks to a mate of Chris's who had arrived within what seemed like minutes of being alerted. He was a big man called Phil, with a bushy ginger beard and piercing blue eyes. He left them with a cheery grin. ‘Call me if you feel the slightest bit worried,' he said, brandishing the hammer from his toolbox as he left. ‘I'm only up the road and I can be here in three minutes. And I'll be back with new doors tomorrow.'

Charles reached out for Cadi's hand. ‘I don't think Ifan'll be back this time. He won't dare.'

She gave a faint grin. ‘I'm glad you're here.'

‘So am I. And I'm going to sleep down here on the sofa to make sure you stay safe.'

Alone in her bedroom, Cadi picked up her notebook and her pen. She could hear the rain outside. Downstairs all was quiet. It felt inordinately comforting to know that Charles was there and briefly she wondered what it would be like if she had invited him to come upstairs with her. She smiled, glad that Sally wasn't there to guess at her thoughts. Sternly she turned her attention back to her story. And this time her pen was ready to move.

Elen had become a wanderer. No longer able to tolerate the memory of the legions at Segontium, she followed the road that came to bear her name south towards Y Gaer and then onwards to the place of her birth, where the echoes of invasion and fire hung over the ruins of the palace she had called home. The overgrown meadow that had once been a garden and a horse paddock was no place to dawdle; the atmosphere, strange and unsettled, drove her away. She moved on, always searching out the hidden places, staying a week, a month, perhaps the whole of a season here or there, to pray and meditate with the spirits of the earth and sky, of the waters and the winds, and dedicate these special places to the holy saints who now walked the mountains and moors of Britannia and to Our Lady, the special patron of the land, founding a hermitage here, a clas or a convent or a priory there, to continue her work.

Her children all kept in close touch with her, and somehow found her wherever she was, to sit and talk and tell her of their lives, all except Maxima, who lived in faraway Africa, but who still managed to write long vivid letters to her mother of her life in the sun. Sevira's husband Vortigern had become a powerful war leader and she wrote her mother letters from the Emperor Hadrian's wall, where he was fighting the incursions from the Picti and the Caledonii. Elen's little grandson Vortimer had been born amongst those northern hills. Peblig had indeed left home to study at colleges run by the greatest churches and would soon become a priest and the special sword had been hidden in the foundations of his church at Segontium until the time came for it to be wielded to save the land of Albion. Elen's stepson Victor had, to her great sorrow, died without leaving any children, but as if to make up for the loss his brother Constantine now had three sons. The eldest, Constans, had also dedicated his life to Christ and for a long time there had been no more children, but now there were two more little boys, Ambrosius and Uther.

It was near a fortress on a hill beside a lake in the foothills of Yr Wyddfa that her stepson Constantine found her one spring day. Her heart ached when she saw his smile; he was so like his father. He had left a troop of men to broach their rations on the roadside far below them, and, wandering up the long winding track, found her at last alone, sitting on a rocky outcrop, watching a black-and-white fish hawk hovering over the lake. He sat down beside her and they remained like that, in companionable silence, for a while.

She turned to him at last. ‘You haven't come to find me to sit and watch the birds.'

He grinned. ‘I was trying to think of words to break my news.'

She looked away. ‘So, do I assume it's bad?'

He shook his head. ‘Not for me. It's exciting. But for you, it may bring back unhappy memories.'

She looked back at him and he felt the full power of her intense scrutiny. His father had told him he always quailed when confronted with that look. He knew she could read his innermost secrets, however hard he had tried to hide them. He wondered if she was doing it now.

‘So?' Just the one word.

He took a deep breath. ‘The armies of Britannia, all that are left of the legions, all mercenaries and native troops, now, perhaps together some six thousand men, all that were left after my father led the rest overseas...' The words trailed off uncomfortably. That had not ended well for anyone. He straightened his back and announced, ‘They have chosen me as their emperor.'

He waited for a response, glancing at her sideways, then looking away again, down towards the lake. The bird had caught a fish in its talons and was carrying it away towards the high peaks of the mountains. He could see it wriggling desperately as bird and prey disappeared and he thought with a bitter smile he knew how the fish must feel.

‘Say something,' he said at last, under his breath.

‘What is there to say?' she sighed. ‘I assume you have agreed?'

‘Of course.'

‘And you are going to take that last remnant of the Britannic forces overseas, and leave this province defenceless, just as your father did?'

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not quite defenceless. You have strong kings, natural-born kings of Britannia, to fill my place. Your father and Conan amongst them. And King Cunedda and Vortigern. All chosen and confirmed in their appointments by my father.'

‘And you consider the numbers of the men you will take sufficient to defeat not only Honorius, who as I understand it, is currently recognised as emperor of the West, to say nothing of the vast barbarian hordes that, sensing its growing weakness, I hear, invade the empire from every side?'

‘I know it is sufficient. They are well trained, they are keen, and they have not been paid, lately not at all, here, in this remote province. They are hungry. They will fight for me, Emperor Constantine III.' He paused, unable to hide his pride in the title.

‘Then there is no more to be said. I wish you well, my son.' She gave him a look so full of sorrow that he shrank back.

‘There is one other thing, Mama.' She always loved it when he called her that. ‘I am taking Constans with me as my heir. We will form a new dynasty just as my father would have wished.'

She turned on him. ‘Your son is a monk, Constantine! He serves God!' She was very proud of the young man she thought of as her grandson.

He nodded almost sadly. ‘I have persuaded him. He understands that he will serve God better at his father's side. -Ambrosius and Uther will go with their mother to Armorica. They are too young to go with me and they will be safe there.'

Under the full force of her disbelieving glance he looked away.

‘And I don't suppose I can persuade you to change your mind?'

‘No.'

‘Go then.' She turned away. The great hawk had returned and was once more flying over the lake.

He stood up. ‘Can I have your blessing?'

‘Your father had my blessings, Constantine. That didn't save his life. Nor did it save your little brother.' Her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away angrily. ‘I will pray for you both,' she said eventually. ‘God go with you, my son.'

She didn't watch him go, nor see the cohort of men march away along the road towards the south.

It was almost dark when Branwen came to find her. Elen was still sitting there, on the rocky outcrop watching the last crimson streaks of light in the sky.

‘The colour of blood,' she said bitterly as Branwen sat down beside her.

‘Such is the destiny of men,' Branwen replied softly. ‘Nothing we say will ever change that.'

Cadi sighed. The sky in her story was almost dark and it was the same outside her bedroom window. The full moon was rising. Soon its light would flood the countryside. She stood looking longingly out of the window. She knew she wouldn't be able to pluck up the courage to go out alone. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever again. She wandered back to bed and climbed in. Pulling up her duvet and propped against the pillows she opened her notebook, illuminated in the pool of light from the bedside lamp. The rest of the room was in darkness.

Slowly and carefully she reread the last pages of her story, checking every word.

Constantine and his son Constans. And Ambrosius and Uther. Those names leapt out at her. Was this the Uther who would be the father of King Arthur? Arthur, for whom the sword, Caledfwlch– Excalibur– was waiting, hidden under the church of St Peblig. Arthur, whose knights spent so long searching for the Holy Grail. And Uther's brother Ambrosius– hadn't he had something to do with Merlin? She had thought it was Sevira who was the link to Arthur, but it was her -husband -Vortigern who was there at the start of the story of Merlin. -Merlin who was so inextricably part of Arthur's story. Sevira was to be the mother of kings. It said so on the Stone of Eliseg, but not after all, of Arthur.

Was all this true? Was it real? But of course it was real. Everything in the dream world of her automatic writing was real, at least to her.

Outside clouds slowly drifted across the moon and once again the rain began to fall and once more her pen began to move.

It was the second time Elen had been back to her birthplace since her daughters had left Segontium. The villa was still in ruins, much of the building material gone, presumably quietly in the night to neighbouring farms and villages and some of it no doubt, to help build the clas, a tiny monastery she had founded in the cwm where an abbot and two monks prayed for the souls of those slaughtered by the invaders who had destroyed the area.

Her visit had taken her first up to the oppidum, the hill fort of Bryndinas, Branwen's home, then down to the meadow. On the way back along the track she stopped to say a prayer at the spring. The offerings were still to the local goddess and Elen knew it would be a long time before that would change, but in the meantime she could place a cross near the source and beg Our Lady or one of the holy saints to come and watch over it. It was nearly dark and she could hear the call of an owl from the trees. The bird of Minerva, and of Blodeuwedd. She smiled to herself, remembering the stories Branwen used to tell her all those years ago about the lady made of flowers who was punished for her crimes by being turned into an owl, and of the goddess Arianrhod who transformed herself into an owl in order to read the human soul. She found herself wondering if Jesus had a tutelary owl, but perhaps they didn't have owls in his part of the empire.

The hind tiptoed into the clearing, her head held high, her eyes enormous in the half-light. Elen smiled. She sat still, waiting until the animal drew close before quietly raising her hand to scratch the warm furry neck. ‘So, my friend. You've come to greet me, you who walk between the worlds.' She reached out and felt the nibble of the soft lips on her hand. ‘Do you want to drink at the spring? The water is blessed by God.'

‘The water is blessed by older gods than yours.' She had not heard Branwen behind her. The deer raised her head, startled, but stayed for a moment longer to enjoy the touch of Elen's fingers before turning towards the bubbling spring and lowering her head to drink.

The shout from the field below brought Elen to her feet. She turned and peered down through the trees. A man was -running for his life across the meadow, glancing over his shoulder behind him. He was being followed, she saw, by two -pursuers, one ofthem somehow projecting a beam of light over the grass. Sheshivered. Crossing herself, she crept nearer to the edge of the wood. She could no longer see the ruins; the grass was flat and even; it was as if the palace had never been. As she watched, the man in the lead swerved aside as if dodging something she could not see, before he plunged into the darkness of the trees. The two men behind him skidded to a halt, staring round. Obviously they had lost him.

There was a quiet chuckle behind her and Elen turned swiftly to see Branwen leaning against the bole of a nearby tree, her arms folded, wrapped as always in a cloak of dark-dyed wool, the colour of which melded seamlessly into the shadows of the woods. ‘What is happening? Who is he?' Elen asked. She turned back to peer through the trees. The man and his pursuers had gone. Below them the meadow was empty and peaceful once more, the misty ruins wet with rain and wrapped now in darkness.

‘That is the man who tried to burn down the house of the seer Meryn,' Branwen replied, thoughtful now. ‘He came very close to the time gate in the meadow and he dodged round it as if he saw it. Very few manage to do that.'

‘The time gate?' Elen turned to face her.

‘That is where your little dog Gemma came from and where she went back to her own people.' Branwen smiled. ‘It is closed again now. The meadow is quiet.'

Elen glanced back. The rain had cleared and she could see the ruins of the palace clearly visible in the moonlight as black clouds raced across the sky.

‘That man was in another time, wasn't he?' Elen asked quiet-ly, her eyes on the animal drinking near her.

Branwen nodded. ‘He's hiding in our woods, but he is in his own world. It would have been better if he had come to us so that he could disappear into the mountains. I doubt if he would be missed by those he has left behind. He has evil intentions.'

‘You too could feel his heart is black.' Elen smiled at the hind as she turned away from the water, her mouth dripping diamond droplets in the moonlight, and melted back into the woods.

She glanced up at the sky. The cloud had cleared and she could see the glittering zigzag of stars in the sky which was the court of the goddess D?n. Which had been, she corrected herself sharply. She wondered what names Christ had for the great constellations of the stars which, Branwen had taught her, were the dwelling places of the old gods.

Branwen was watching her with a quizzical smile.

Elen felt a twinge of guilt, just as she had when she was a child, sure that Branwen could read her every thought. ‘So, what is the answer?' she asked sharply. ‘Where has he gone? What will happen to him?'

Branwen shook her head. ‘I can't answer that question. Perhaps it is one for your god. Does he not answer your prayers?'

Elen was silent. She had prayed for God to keep Macsen safe. She had prayed for God to keep Victor safe. But then he had answered her prayers to keep the other children safe. Hehadbrought her back to Britannia and he had helped her and Peblig hide the sword for a future king, and he had watched her stow the little dish in the cave in the mountains, blessed by the ghost of the old hermit, who by now must surely be numbered amongst the saints.

‘He answers everyone's prayers,' she said at last, almost to herself. ‘But he judges what the answer should be for the best.'

‘And it was best that little Victor die?' Branwen homed in on the one question that could never be answered.

‘Just because I cannot see his reasoning it doesn't mean there isn't any,' Elen snapped back.

Branwen inclined her head. ‘So he will judge that man and decide his future.' She looked back towards the woods on the lower slopes of the hill. ‘Tell me, does your Christ love the animals as our gods do?' she asked at last.

Both women glanced back at the trees where the hind had disappeared, leaving not even the tremble of a leaf to show where she had gone.

‘I am sure he does.' Elen didn't remember Bishop Martin ever mentioning animals, but how could a merciful god not love animals?

As though to emphasise her words the silence of the woods was broken by the lonely howl of a wolf far away to the north.

Below them, hiding on the wooded slopes of Bryndinas, in another place and another time, Ifan Davies heard the sound and shivered. He hid for a long time in the woods, heart thudding uncomfortably as he hunkered down and waited. The police were still out there looking for him. They had powerful torches. As they appeared in the meadow behind him he had watched the beams flashing across the grass as he splashed across the brook and crouched amongst the bushes. He saw the lights stop near the centre of the field, scanning the meadow, forward, back, round. They hadn't seen which way he went. Slowly his breath steadied as he listened for any sound of his pursuers but there was nothing to hear but the pattering of rain on the leaves all round him. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. He had a feeling he was being watched, but the police were far away down in the field. Surely there was no one up here in this godawful place. From the depths of the alder brake a blackbird shrieked its indignation. Nearby an owl hooted. It was watching him as it sat above him in a tree, hiding from the rain. Its mate replied from far away, the call echoing through the night. He huddled deeper into the undergrowth and only then did he realise his teeth were chattering.

Above him on the hillside, near the source of the spring, Branwen was watching. Wrapped in her dark cloak, her arms folded into its deep folds, her hair hidden beneath her hood, she was no more than a silent shadow.

So, Elen and Branwen had seen Ifan out there on the hillside. Cadi read over the passage again. Two women from -an-other agehad watched him run across the field, followed by the police. They were close by, interacting with the world of -another time. They had recognised the blackness of his heart and argued about the powers of God to interfere in the affairs of men. And Elen? Had she glimpsed, just for a moment, a possible reason why in some versions of Elen's legend she was remembered as the personification of the antlered -goddess. Was she, this passionate Christian, who was credited with bringing the idea of isolated monasteries and lonely hermits to the sacred isles of Britain, in reality a Saint Francis type figure who talked to the animals?