5

Cadi awoke with her brain obsessively whirring. She had lain awake for hours and eventually she had given up trying to sleep and gone back downstairs, switched on her desk lamp and picked up her pen again. She must have come back to bed in the end because she lay now, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what time it was. Outside it was dark, but dawn was near; she could hear the tentative calls of a bird. She had spent most of the night writing, wild, half-literate scrawls, her hand barely able to keep up with the story unfolding on the page.

She had become fascinated with the original story behind the dream of Macsen in the Mabinogion– fair enough, but this was ridiculous. She had been thinking about how the story might have started and somehow her musings had become entangled with her worries about the meadow and the development and finding a way of stopping the builders in their tracks. She sighed. She was a poet, with a book of poetry to write, but what she had been writing last night had not been poetry. It was barely prose. It was a combination of notes from the history books and internet references, as far as they went, combined with strange compulsive nonsense as though the story was unfurling unstoppably inside her head, the kind of storyshe used to write as a child, undisciplined excited adventure -stories, hidden in exercise books under her pillow, in this case, the story of the meadow. The horse had been in the -meadow; their meadow, but it had been smaller then, a paddock; the characters had mentioned the marching camp and there had been a villa there, in her story, a large beautiful villa with gardens, lying at the eastern half of the present meadow. She heard -Arwel's scornful reference to a palace again in her head. She had seen soldiers, Roman soldiers, foot soldiers, like the men she had heard marching in some ghostly column down her street, but now led by mounted officers. And the man who led them– had that been Macsen? She needed to discuss the new book with Rachel as soon as possible, tell her how the poem would pan out, and that because the original story was so short she was going to incorporate some extra detail the original bards had left out, details they would undoubtedly have included had they thought of it, details like a feisty black horse and a handsome stranger.

It was still barely light. The meadow was lying silent under a blanket of mist. Cadi opened the field gate as quietly as she could and let herself in, latching the metal bolt carefully behind her. She waited for several minutes looking round, listening, still half hoping she would hear a joyful bark, see Sally's dog bounding towards her, but there was nothing there, just the sound of the dawn chorus drifting in waves from the woods on the hillside on the far side of the brook. The path was wet with dew, soaking through her sandals in seconds, and she swore quietly, wishing she had thought to wear something more sensible. Her feet were freezing as she walked through the long grass towards the alder brake where the mist was even thicker, muffling the sound of the water.

Every so often she stopped and looked round. Even if Gemma was not there, there was still the chance she might see the elusive horse grazing in the distance, the horse that in her own mind had taken the form of a wild black colt, but the meadow was empty. There was no sign either that a cohort of marching soldiers had passed this way. As the sun slowly rose and broke through, the mist began to thin and dissipate and it became clear there was nothing there. Even down near the water it was easy to see now. The mud at its edge, the -pebbles, the long grasses were all untouched. No footprints, no pawprints, no hoof marks, and even as she stood there looking down at the water she saw the little dumpy brown-and-white form of a dipper standing on a rock. It did not appear to have seen her. It was concentrating on the still pool of water at its feet. As she watched, it jumped off the rock to swim underwater in strong unbirdlike strokes after some prey she couldn't see. It was near here she had heard the horse, felt the ground shake under its hooves. There was nothing here now. No sign. No trace, no breath of wind, only the birds.

It was a magical place, inspirational. And safe, even when Ifan had tried to spoil it for her. Their relationship had begun so well. He had been there for her when the reality of splitting from David had begun to sink in. She had been lonely and the occasional drink and meal with Arwel's son had been a comfort, enjoyable, a distraction. And the inevitable sex had been incredible. Passionate. Wild. She stood staring down into the water, lost in a flood of unwelcome memories. It had been her own fault; the relationship had intensified without her quite realising what was happening. The occasional overnight stops had become more frequent, until he suggested he move in full-time. She had tried to backtrack– she valued her space– but he insisted. For the first year it seemed to work, but after a while he began to change. He grew more and more controlling. He started following her out here to the meadow. He accused her of meeting other men. She had tried to end it; asked him to leave. He refused. He shouted; he lost his temper, and she realised she was becoming afraid of him.

Then his strategy had changed. He told her he was planning a great future for them both, a future which did not include -living in some poxy village in Wales. They were going to move to -London. He had ambitions. He hated the cottage, the countryside, her writing, his father. She shivered at the flood of memories.

In the end, somehow she had found the courage to stand up to him. No one in the village knew what was happening. Shewas too proud and he was too clever. Although Rachel knew, of course. They had been working closely together on the first story from the Mabinogion– excited, full of plans. Twice Cadi had gone to stay with her cousin for a few days. The first time to talk about the potential series of books and the fact that they had found a publisher. They were happy and optimistic about the future. Ifan was furious. She wasn't sure if he was jealous, or if it was because she had gone away without him, or if it was because her poems were beginning to receive proper recognition. The second time she went to see Rachel it was to get away for a few days' peace by the sea. He rang Rachel afterwards and threatened that if she had anything to do with Cadi again he would rip up her paintings and burn her cottage to the ground.

Sally guessed what was happening, and so probably did Arwel. The day Ifan hit her was the final straw. She threatened to go to the police. It appeared he had more to lose than she did. He left the next day. Their affair had lasted barely more than three years.

That had not been the end, though. There had been months of phone calls. Letters. Online threats. In all that time if he visited his father she never knew about it. His name had not been mentioned again and in the end slowly the threats had stopped. It was Chris Chatto in the village who, not knowing of Cadi's history with him, had mentioned casually in passing that -Arwel's son had married a rich heiress. It appeared he was now the successful businessman he had told her he would be. Cadi had sighed with relief. She had tried to forget she had ever known him.

The threat to the meadow had presumably released this unexpected and unwelcome flood of memories and she shook her head unhappily, trying to rid herself of them. It was as she retraced her steps slowly towards the footpath that she saw a stranger walking across the grass in her direction and for one terrible moment, still distracted by her thoughts, she wondered with a shock of fear if it was Ifan. But of course it wasn't. Almost at once she realised the man was nothing like him. This man was tall, broad shouldered, with a weathered -complexion and-sturdy outdoor gear, something Ifan would never have contemplated wearing. He greeted her cheerfully as soon as he was close enough. ‘You're not the owner of the field, by any chance?'

She shook her head. ‘No. Are you looking for the dog?'

‘Dog?' he seemed perplexed. ‘What dog?'

‘My neighbour has lost hers, here in this field. We're desperately worried.'

He frowned. ‘I haven't seen any dogs, I'm afraid, but I'll keep my eyes open, I promise.' He had a kind face; friendly eyes.

‘And while you're at it,' she added, ‘there was a horse reported in here. You weren't looking for that, I suppose?'

He smiled. ‘No, I'm not looking for a horse either.' As he glanced away as if searching for the missing animals, she examined him. She did not recognise him so he was almost certainly not local. Late forties, early fifties, perhaps, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Nice enough looking. She was suddenly suspicious. Was this someone from the developers, or perhaps the planning office? On the other hand, he might be nothing more sinister than a harmless walker. And yes, he had the obligatory backpack slung over one shoulder. He turned back to her. ‘You're right, I was looking for something. To tell you the truth I was going to do a bit of dowsing. Do you think anyone would mind?'

‘Dowsing?' She had not expected that.

‘A bit like metal detecting, but without the mechanics,' he added.

‘Oh, I know what dowsing is,' she said. ‘Are you looking for the camp?'

‘A villa, or so I was told.' He lifted the pack off his shoulder and pulled out the forked stick that had been poking out of the top. He held it out towards her. ‘Hazel. People usually dowse for ley lines, earth energy, that kind of thing, and of course lots of water companies use it to find burst pipes, but it can be used for almost anything. In my case I look for lost buildings.'

She smiled. ‘My uncle was a dowser.'

‘Was he any good at it?'

She didn't answer at once, thinking about her father's brother for the first time in ages. ‘He was very good. He -probably still is.' She shifted her attention back to the stranger. ‘Are you?'

He nodded with a shy smile. ‘Not bad.'

‘Well, in that case you might be able to help us. This field is threatened with development.'

‘I heard.'

‘There was a marching camp here apparently, hence the name, Camp Meadow, and my husband's family, who lived hereabouts for centuries, had a tradition of there being a villa here, but our local historian says not.'

No villa. But there was a palace. In her strange stream of consciousness dream or vision, there was a palace. The word came back to her with a jolt.

‘So, is it all right with you, if I wander round for a bit?' The stranger looked anxious.

‘Well, this is a public footpath and, as I said, it's not my field, but as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome. If you found something it would be a godsend. It would perhaps help with our appeal against the development.'

He gave a smile by way of acknowledgement and shifted the hazel twig into position, the arms of the fork braced against his thumbs. Almost at once the main shaft of the twig moved sharply downwards and twisted out of his hands.

‘There's something there!' Cadi exclaimed.

He shook his head dismissively. ‘Too soon to tell. I need to get myself tuned in.'

With a faint flicker of excitement she watched him as he wandered off. If he had heard about the villa, maybe it was true. She wondered belatedly where he had heard the story and where he came from, but it was too late to ask now. He was striding purposefully away from her and it was time for her to go home.

‘Don't tell me the virgin poetess has fallen for someone at last!' Cadi had met Sally at her gate. ‘I've taken the day off. Paperwork. And to be honest, I needed a bit of downtime to get my head straight.' Sally gave a guilty little shrug.

Shocked at her friend's miserable face, Cadi insisted she come in for a coffee. After listening to Cadi's description of her encounter with the dowser Sally had laughed.

Cadi felt a leap of pleasure. Sally had not laughed since little Gemma had disappeared. But then she shook her head. ‘Hang on a minute,' she said. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You have described him in minute detail– eye colour, hair colour, speech patterns, historical nous, even clothes, for goodness' sake, all without a hint of criticism.'

‘I meant, what do you mean by the virgin poetess?'

‘Didn't you know? That's what they call you down the pub!'

‘No!'

‘Oh, it's kindly meant, fondly even. Only because you steadfastly ignore all attempts to chat you up. Oh, Cadi, don't be cross. They are proud of you in the village. You're famous. You're our local celebrity.' Sally shook her head in mock despair.

‘They can't think I'm a virgin!' Cadi responded with a laugh. ‘If nothing else, they must know that I've been married.' She paused. And then there had been Ifan. But nothing since. Shehad never even looked at anyone since. She doubted if she ever would again. Ifan had made sure of that. Sally was right. She was unapproachable.

‘So, who's tried to chat me up?'

‘You really don't know? Well, if you haven't noticed, I'm not telling you, girl. We don't want to embarrass anyone, do we. So, what's his name, your mystery man?'

‘I don't know. I never asked.'

‘Oh, Cadi.'

‘I told him to tell Chris at the mill if he found anything.'

‘Ah. Playing hard to get.' Sally tapped the side of her nose.

‘No!' Cadi jumped to her feet. ‘That's it! On your way. I have work to do.'

Sally's laughter rang across the road as she let herself out of the gate and turned towards the post office. Automatically she looked round for Gemma. Her laughter died and her shoulders slumped as she remembered the little dog wasn't there. She had rung the police, the vet, the nearest dog sanctuary, posted on the missing-dog sites and the local community noticeboard. Shehad put up a sign on the meadow gate and another in the post office. There was nothing else to be done.

It was a couple of hours later that the nameless dowser appeared at Cadi's door. ‘I'm sorry to call like this but Christopher -Chatto at the mill thought it would be all right.' The man's jaunty confidence had disappeared. ‘After you'd gone, something weird happened in the field. Christopher thought I should tell you about it.'

After a moment's hesitation she asked him in. Halfway across the room he held out his hand. ‘I'm Charles, by the way. Charles Ford.'

‘Cadi.' She smiled. ‘Cadi Jones. So, what happened?' She waved him towards the sofa by the French doors that overlooked her garden.

‘You told me you saw a horse in there and Christopher said people were asking about it in the village.'

‘Yes,' Cadi sat down opposite him, studying his face. ‘That is, no,' she contradicted herself. ‘I didn't actually see one. I heard it.' She could see the faint tic of a muscle under his eye. He was actually quite handsome. And he was tall. She had noticed how he had had to fold up his legs as he lowered himself onto her sofa. ‘What happened?' she repeated.

He swallowed hard. ‘I had been walking up and down for a while, and I was heading steadily towards the far hedge, following the twig.' He gave an embarrassed half smile. ‘I was -distracted when a bird flew up at my feet and I lost -concentration and the twig flew out of my hands. At that moment I saw -something...' He paused, seemingly lost in thought.

‘A horse?' Cadi prompted.

‘No. It was more a trick of the light. A shimmer on the grass, then it was as if I was looking at– I don't know, a puddle, a reflection, some kind of mirror. And yes, there were -horses there. Men and horses. Real horses, saddled and bridled. I could hear people talking. Not loud enough to make out what they were saying. Just a murmur and the jingle of harnesses. Just for a split second. Then... then, it was as if someone had flickeda switch The sounds had gone. The wholescene-disappeared. Iwas standing there up to my knees in waving grass and therewas total silence. Absolute total silence, and then a -skylark started to sing way up high.' He was staring down at his hands.

‘And you told Chris this?'

‘No.' He smiled as he looked up. ‘No, of course I didn't. I said I heard the sounds coming from beyond the hedge. He knew there was a lost horse around here and he thought you should know about it; that I should drop in and tell you. But, I sensed...' he hesitated, looking straight at her now, ‘that I could tell you the truth.' He gave a shudder. ‘Please tell me I'm not going mad.' He rubbed his hands up and down his face. She heard the rasp of his beard against his palms.

‘You look as if you could do with a drink,' she said, taking pity on him. ‘Whisky?'

There was a bottle in the cupboard beside the kitchen window. Finding a glass, she brought it over, aware as she handed it to him that his hands were shaking.

‘Thank you, that's kind of you.' He had an attractive smile.

She waited until he had taken a sip, then asked, ‘So, tell me, again. Slowly. What did you actually see?'

‘Nothing.'

‘But you mentioned horses.'

‘It was only a second. A trick of the light. Some kind of reflection. A mirage. It was like a mirage.'

‘In a puddle, you said.'

‘I suppose so. I couldn't find the spot again and then I was suddenly very cold and frightened. It made me feel like a child.' He sounded angry. ‘Caught doing something it shouldn't.' He tipped the glass and drained it.

Cadi stood up and went to fetch the bottle. ‘I heard some old ladies in the post office saying there was always something odd about that field, that when they were young their ponies wouldn't go near it,' she said cautiously. ‘And apparently, none of the local children would play in there in the old days– still don't, now I come to think about it. At least, not on their own.'

‘So, I suppose the locals think it's haunted.'

‘I'm beginning to think it might be.' She laughed. ‘Sadly, Idon't suppose that will put off the builders. A ghost horse is, if anything, rather romantic.'

‘It's a very beautiful site. I walked up the hill first thing, before I met you, and one can see the sea far away in the distance.'

Cadi nodded. ‘The estuary,' she corrected gently.

‘It would be a shame to build there,' he said almost absent-mindedly. He stood up and put his glass down on the windowsill. ‘Thank you for that. Much appreciated. I must go. I'm sorry to have burst in on you like this. I was completely rattled. Your neighbour at the mill was too busy to listen, but he could tell I needed someone to talk to.'

‘I'm sorry I couldn't help.'

‘You did. That's good whisky.'

‘And strong. If you're driving, can I suggest you go back to the mill and get yourself something to eat. Chris serves good food. Grounding.' My goodness, she was sounding like a schoolmistress, she thought, hearing herself. It was the sort of thing Sally would say.

He didn't seem to be offended. ‘Point taken.'

Cadi followed him to the door. ‘Will you go back to the meadow?'

‘Maybe. Another time.'

She wondered if he was going to suggest she joined him down at the mill, but he was already outside. ‘Thank you again.'

She watched as he headed up the road and out of sight before closing the door and slowly making her way back to her desk. Within a few minutes she had forgotten him. She thought better with her pen in her hand and the story was lying in wait.