by Linda Davies
‘Presumably if this Professor Parks authenticates the book, then it will be worth much more?’ he asked.
‘He implied as much,’ replied Merry. ‘He also said that according to the treasure laws the proceeds of anything found there is split fifty-fifty between the landowner and the finder.’
‘Well, that means we get hundred per cent of the book anyway,’ said Elinor. ‘It was Merry who found it.’ She paused. ‘It was on our land, wasn’t it?’ she said urgently to her husband. ‘It’s hard to tell in the forest and we went quite far in.’
The look in Caradoc’s eyes became distant again, and Merry knew he was going over the geography in his head.
‘I’m sure it’s on our side,’ he said. ‘Not by much, though. Maybe as little as a hundred yards or so.’ He turned to Merry. ‘We’ll set out at first light tomorrow to check. Set your alarm for five.’
She nodded. She couldn’t speak. It had to be on their side …
‘Parks thinks there might be other things there too, that were buried with the book,’ Merry managed to say. ‘Things that will help authenticate the book but that might be valuable in themselves.’
‘Whoever this Professor Parks is, we need his help,’ declared Caradoc. ‘We need to get him to start work on the burial mound immediately and authenticate the book. Then we can sell it and go fifty-fifty with him on anything else he finds.’
‘He’s coming here tomorrow at eleven o’clock to discuss it with you,’ said Merry.
‘Thank God for the burial mound and whoever’s buried there,’ said Caradoc, exhaling slowly. ‘And thank God for his book.’
‘Thank God,’ echoed Elinor, slumping back in her chair.
Merry sat straight-backed, looking ahead, seeing not the walls of her kitchen but the upturned oak, the chest, and the book hidden inside. As if the earth had offered it up like a gift.
But she had the feeling even then that some gifts come at a price.
News of the book spread quickly. Elinor told their nearest neighbours, the Joneses. Mrs Jones told her sister Christine, who told her best friend, Jemima, who told Mrs Ivy, the barmaid at the Nightingale, Nanteos’s pub, who told a selection of the regulars. From his guest room in the Black Castle, Dr Philipps called his colleagues at the Museum of Wales and other experts at the British Museum and discussed the book with them, emailed them pictures he’d taken with his phone, created a veritable frisson in museums and universities around the country and beyond. Meanwhile, the Countess de Courcy, eager to discover how much such a book might fetch on the open market, telephoned two of London’s leading auction houses and told them all about it. They in turn made enquiries consulting experts and collectors around the world.
As darkness fell, the lost tale of the Mabinogion was anything but a secret.
Merry was in her bedroom, oblivious to all this. She was standing on the tapestry carpet in the middle of her room, holding on to her new bow as if it might give her strength, get her through the next weeks and months in which the future of the Owens’ farm, her future, would be decided.
The Owens normally stored their bows and arrows, the ancient deeds to their land with the fourth Earl de Courcy’s signature on them, and the little of value they owned in the tallboy, a massive old piece of furniture, seven feet tall, that sat in the downstairs hall, but Merry had a habit of keeping every new bow in her room for a good few weeks. She’d done this since she’d been given her first bow.
Finally, she propped her bow in the corner and changed into her flannel pyjamas. It was still cold at night in these parts of Wales and she always liked to sleep with the window open, letting in fresh air. But, even in her thick PJs, she shivered suddenly. Something more than cold air, a sort of sudden chill of apprehension hit her.
Maybe she felt something of the reverberations, the ripples her book was causing, because she suddenly called to mind the warning of Dr Philipps.
She had been keeping the book wrapped in its chest, pushed under her bed, but now she thought maybe that wasn’t good enough. She lay down on the floor, pulled out the chest.
There was a loose board beneath where the chest had sat. She hadn’t used it for years. When she was younger she used to hide things underneath it: a secret stash of chocolate, smooth stones she found in the river swimming with James, all the little treasures that pleased her childish mind. She remembered that and smiled and then coughed as a wave of dust tickled her nose.
The space wasn’t big enough to fit the chest but it would fit the swaddled book in its plastic bag perfectly.
She hid the book, replaced the floorboard and then put the empty chest on top of it. She felt better immediately
She turned off her lamp, slid into bed, pulled the duvet up high, tucking it under her chin, and quickly fell asleep.
The light from a full moon slipped through a gap in the curtains, silvering the stave of Merry’s new bow, which cast a shadow so long it disappeared under the bed. It was as if it crawled up to the chest, lifted the floorboard, took out the book and leafed through it because Merry’s dreams were a mad mix of book and bow. It was as if each were a talisman, powerful in its own right, but infinitely more so together. Halfway between sleep and wakefulness, the words Dr Philipps had translated ran through Merry’s head:
There is a cave where the green turns blue … only the strong pass through …
The Merry of her dreams rode out, bow in her right hand, book in her left, hunting for the riddle cave. There was nothing to suggest it was the single biggest decision she would ever make, that her own life, and the lives of those she loved, would be marked by it for ever.
At five fifteen the next morning, Merry and her father set off across the dew-drenched fields, heading for the Black Wood. Neither of them spoke. Caradoc carried an Ordnance Survey map and a compass. Merry carried the tape measure they used for positioning their start point when they practised on their longbows. Sometimes they would play with the distances, fifty yards, seventy, a hundred, the maximum range of the tape. They never thought it would be used to measure their future.
They entered the darkness of the Black Wood. The sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to penetrate the forest, and father and daughter had to make their way carefully along the narrow track, avoiding the overhanging branches reaching down from the moss-covered trees.
The awakening birds sang but Merry stayed silent. Her father paused from time to time, consulted the map, then counted out his footsteps, paused again and consulted the map. He took a pen from his pocket and made notations on the map. As the light grew stronger, Merry could make out the swathe of a yellow highlighter pen that marked the boundary between their land and the de Courcys’.
She could see from her father’s annotations that they were getting perilously close to it.
Then at last, there was the dark mass of the burial mound and the stranded roots of the old oak. Caradoc Owen took one end of the tape measure from Merry. He checked his map again, checked his compass, marched forward thirty paces till he came to the mound, marked the map again. Merry paused, watched his back, felt the breath catch inside her.
He walked back to her, spooling the tape in, his face impassive, then he broke into a huge beaming smile. Merry threw herself into his open arms, felt them come around her tight, holding her close. She just stood there for a while and breathed.
‘Ninety yards, by my reckoning,’ Caradoc said, releasing her and holding her at arm’s length. ‘I could be out by twenty or so. Maybe as much as forty or fifty, but it’s ours, cariad. It’s definitely ours.’
And Merry felt a lightening in her chest, and a warm wash of relief flood through her. Their problems weren’t over yet, but at least now they knew they had a chance.
At eleven o’clock sharp, there was an officious knock at the front door. Merry and her parents, who’d been sitting in silence at the table, all got to their feet and exchanged a quick look, of hope, worry and wariness. Gawain was lying in his playpen, kicking his heels in the air while
attempting to eat his fingers, happily oblivious to the tension in his sister and parents.
Caradoc opened the door, studied the man standing there.
Merry walked up behind her father.
‘You must be Caradoc Owen. I’m Professor Parks,’ said the man.
Her father nodded, gripped the man’s hand. ‘Please come in.’
Merry noticed Parks wincing. Her father’s handshakes were notorious. He simply did not know his own strength. Or maybe he did.
‘Miss Owen,’ said Parks with a nod as he walked into their house.
‘Professor Parks,’ replied Merry.
The three of them sat at the breakfast table. Elinor had disappeared upstairs to put Gawain to bed for his morning nap.
‘So,’ began Caradoc, ‘you’d like to excavate our burial mound?’
Parks nodded. He kept his face impassive this time, no sign of yesterday’s gleam.
‘I would,’ he replied briskly. ‘It’s logical that there are more artefacts buried there. Those artefacts will be doubly valuable, first of all in and of themselves, and secondly in helping to authenticate the book itself. They will tell the book’s backstory, they will help us date it and identify who is buried there. Researching that in turn will help with the authentication process.’
Caradoc nodded. ‘That makes sense.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ replied Professor Parks. ‘You see, there’s a chain of events here and your daughter, if I may say so, was spectacularly lucky to make her find in the seemingly effortless way that she did, but now we need to follow it up with weeks of painstaking work.’
‘Wouldn’t it be faster if you worked in a team?’ asked Elinor, appearing at the doorway. ‘I’m Mrs Owen,’ she added. Professor Parks turned his gaze on to Merry’s mother. Merry could see him taking in her beauty and the casual way she wore it, even in her paint-spattered dungarees.
‘It would if I could find a team of the highest calibre,’ he replied. ‘I’ve found through bitter experience it’s often better in the long run, albeit more time-consuming, to work alone.’ He turned back to Caradoc. ‘So, Mr Owen, would you be amenable to my conducting a dig on your land? Did your daughter explain that we would split the proceeds of anything new I find fifty-fifty?’
‘She did. She also said that your excavations would help increase the value of the book.’
Parks nodded. ‘That is correct.’
‘Any idea what the book might be worth?’ asked Elinor.
Parks paused and his eyes took on that distant gleam again. ‘There are private collectors who would sell their mother for such an artefact,’ he replied.
Elinor gave a snort. ‘I hope not.’
‘We wouldn’t want to see it go to a private collector anyway,’ observed Caradoc. ‘This book belongs in a Welsh museum.’
‘You’d get much less for it, then. Still a substantial sum, though, especially if they had time to raise the necessary funds.’
‘Over sixty thousand pounds?’ asked Caradoc.
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Very good,’ replied Caradoc. ‘How long might that take?’
Parks gave him a sharp look. ‘Are you in a hurry? Digs take time. The whole authentication process takes time.’
‘In that case, you’d better get started,’ cut in Elinor.
‘I take it, then, that you are happy for me to proceed with the excavation on the terms I suggested?’ continued Parks.
Elinor, her husband, and Merry all exchanged a quick glance. Twenty-one generations of Owens had lived at Nanteos Farm for nearly seven hundred years. Losing it was unthinkable. If doing a deal with Professor Parks was the price to pay, they all had no doubt it was a price worth paying.
‘Yes,’ replied Caradoc. ‘We are. Merry, would you be kind enough to show Professor Parks to the burial mound?’
Merry and Parks walked out to his car. Parks opened it up and took out a huge backpack. He shouldered it, tightened the straps, looked expectantly at Merry.
‘Shall we?’
She eyed his backpack as they set off down the valley towards the forest. Merry’s second visit of the morning. ‘What’s in there?’ she asked.
‘Tools for digging. Sterile containers for finds. A body suit so I don’t contaminate the site.’
Merry got the clear impression that this was some kind of reprimand to her. What was she supposed to have done? Left the chest where it was and called him in like Ghostbusters?
‘How long d’you think the dig will last?’ she asked, wondering how long she could stand this man – even though his presence was crucial – and how long it would take before they could sell the book.
‘May I assess it all first, thoroughly, before I give you an ill-considered answer?’ Parks replied.
Merry shrugged, veiled her irritation, increased her pace.
Parks didn’t even break a sweat, despite the weight of his pack. ‘Where would you recommend I stay in the area?’ he asked, oblivious to her annoyance. ‘I was meant to leave the Black Castle yesterday, but with all the drama, I stayed on another night. I’ll need to move on today, though,’ he added.
‘The Nightingale Arms in Nanteos,’ replied Merry. ‘They’ve got a few rooms over the pub and the food’s good.’
‘Marvellous. I’ll ring them later,’ replied Parks. ‘Thanks, Merry,’ he added, flashing her what was clearly meant to be a charming smile.
Merry was unmoved. ‘Hm,’ she replied.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Merry slowed as they neared the mound. The huge tree looked like the fallen on a battlefield.
Merry stopped beside it, looked down into the hole in the earth where she had found the chest. A breeze grazed her cheek, cold and sharp. Hello, chieftain, she said in her mind. Forgive me.
‘I found it down there,’ she told Parks. ‘The rest you know.’
‘I do indeed,’ he replied, eyes never leaving the site. ‘Thank you, Miss Owen.’
‘One thing,’ said Merry.
‘What’s that?’
‘What about whoever’s buried there?’
‘What about them?’ Parks glanced at her with barely concealed impatience.
‘What will you do with them?’
‘Well, excavate them of course!’
‘And re-bury them?’
Parks narrowed his eyes. ‘What, d’you think it’s an ancestor of yours, lying down here? Are you worried he’ll come after you in retribution for disturbing his grave, taking his treasure?’
‘Who knows,’ replied Merry.
‘Let me put your mind at rest,’ replied Parks, all friendly condescension now. ‘Whoever is buried there is, how shall I put this delicately, a man of importance, a lord, a chieftain. Your family, as I understand it, were peasant farmers, skilled with a bow admittedly, but peasants nonetheless, who parlayed their skill into a smallholding. Whoever is down here is not from your past.’
‘Thank you for that,’ replied Merry, her sarcasm sliding off Parks’s thick skin.
‘My pleasure. Happy to put your mind at rest.’ Parks shrugged off his backpack. ‘Now, Miss Owen, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone. I don’t work well with an audience.’
Reluctantly, Merry walked away. Parks was wrong. He had not put her mind at rest. He had spoken aloud her fears, brought them from the shadowy realm of half-realized nighttime worries into the full glare of day. She could not shake the feeling that there would be a price to pay for disturbing the chieftain’s grave.
She broke into a jog, wondering with a rush of emotions just what she had set into motion. It was good, she told herself. Anything that meant saving the farm had to be.
When Merry got home she took the book out from its secret hiding place under her bed to reassure herself that they were doing the right thing. She opened it to the page with the picture that had so caught her attention and studied it. Something about it made her blood hum. From the second Dr Philipps had translated the words
, Merry had wondered about the riddle pool, its secrets and treasures. Now, with her family’s desperate need for money, there was even more reason to go seeking those treasures. She didn’t think about the many who had died. Instead she thought about the strong who had passed through. She was strong, she was fit, she was young. She wasn’t naive enough to think that bad things could never happen to her. She knew too well that they could, but competing with that awareness was the strain of boldness that ran through her. Merry loved risk-taking, thrived on adrenalin, yearned for adventure.
That side won out over caution every time.
She put away her book again. Safely hidden. Out of sight but in no way out of mind.
She had to wait until late afternoon to go searching for the pool. She had a less-than-cheery family lunch then her parents and Gawain set off for the antiques shop in Brecon, hoping to sell some family heirlooms to pay that month’s mortgage.
Merry watched them drive off. Desperate to get away from the farm and all its worries, she set off into the fields to find Jacintha.
She looked up at the summits of the Beacons. The limestone of which the mountains and valleys were made had fissured and cracked over the millennia into hundreds of sinkholes and caves. There were some large waterfalls on the mountains, tumbling off the cliff faces. She could head up on the Roman road, Sarn Helen, and explore there, but there were far more waterfalls on the lower slopes, hidden by the thick forests that stretched over the common lands. It was even known as waterfall country. If she were to find the riddle pool, she felt sure it would be here.
She found Jacintha in one of the far fields, gave her a handful of oats, scratched her behind her ears for a bit, then hooked a rope on to her halter, fashioning it into reins.
‘Time for an outing,’ she whispered; then with a hand on her pony’s withers, she vaulted on. Bareback, she guided Jacintha through the gate.
As she hacked across the fields, it began to rain, horribly and heavily. Trying to ignore it, Merry rode along the narrow paths, regularly dismounting where the gnarly roots from ancient trees made trips and barriers and traps. Under the onslaught of the rain, it was slow. Jacintha managed to pick her way along safely enough but Merry slipped a few times and ended up muddied and sore. It almost felt as if nature were trying to keep her out.