by Linda Davies
She pulled on her warmest boots, down coat, hat and gloves, and she took from the chest of drawers in the boot room the present her father had given her for her thirteenth birthday. A flick knife. It was a typical Caradoc Owen gift: unique, useful and, to gentler minds, wholly inappropriate. But not on a farm, when there were always a hundred uses for a knife: twine on bales of hay to cut, snagged ropes to free, feed bags to slice open. And now there was another use.
Merry slipped the knife into her pocket. Would she ever be able to stab someone, she wondered, as she unlocked the door, stepped out into the dazzling whiteness, locked the door behind her. She hoped it would never come to that. Another voice slipped into her mind: Survival has rules of its own. She jolted. Where had that come from?
She headed out into the falling snow. Wondering if there were eyes watching her even now, she looked over her shoulder, turned in circles, scanned the bushes in the garden, peered behind corners, checking. Rechecking. But there was no one around. No footprints, just the smooth untrampled snow, and her.
She released Jacintha from her stable. The pony’d be bored alone, would welcome the company of the herd, and was well able to handle the cold and the snow. But, more than that, Merry didn’t want Jacintha penned up, vulnerable. When she cast her mind back, she felt pretty sure she had secured the stable bolt properly. She had the strongest sense that the thief had freed Jacintha to lure her outside. It hadn’t been the wind that slammed the branch into her, knocking her over. It had been the thief, taking their chance, buying time to rush back into the farmhouse and finish their search for the book while she lay unconscious in the snow.
Jacintha shadowed Merry as she went to the barn, grabbed a bale of hay and heaved it on to her back. It was as if she gauged Merry’s mood, her jumpiness and wanted to comfort her. The pony snuffled at Merry, then walked by her side as she trekked across the snow to the field where the herd huddled together.
She stopped every so often, turning circles. Saw no one. She dumped the bale of hay, pulled out her knife, released the safety and with a satisfying click, the blade sprang open. She cut the twine and pulled free armfuls of hay, scattering it on the rick for the grateful ponies. She closed the blade, grasped the hilt firmly and used it to break the ice on the frozen troughs.
She headed back to the farmhouse. Still no sign of anyone, no movement in her peripheral vision. But she took no comfort from that.
Inside, she drank coffee, warmed up, then set to cleaning the cottage, top to bottom. She broke for lunch, forced down a bowl of soup and three pieces of toast covered with peanut butter; then she finished cleaning. Still the time crawled. She felt sick. She decided to bake. She made fairy cakes, forty-eight of them. She put them in the oven. She paced. She listened. Swore. She felt like a caged animal. She peered out. It had stopped snowing at last.
If anyone was still out there, waiting, she’d give them something to watch.
She layered up with loose, flexible fleeces, unlocked the tallboy, took her bow, grabbed her quiver and headed out.
She removed the tarpaulin from the straw target, strode back seventy paces. She didn’t turn circles this time, not wanting to appear a victim, as if she were scared. But she still checked. She just made it look natural, as if she were merely walking back and forth to mark a line from which she would shoot.
She had her knife in her pocket, would always carry it with her now, but the longbow was her real weapon.
Whoever had come into her home last night had changed something in her. Bubbling up through the fear, through the sense of vulnerability and violation, was a growing fury. Whoever had broken in, whoever had slammed her with the branch and left her lying unconscious in the snow, had declared war on her, her home and her family.
She strung her bow, nocked an arrow, eyed the target. She took in the rings of colour: white, black, red, blue and dead centre, the golden bullseye. For the first time in her life, she conjured another image, replacing the straw target. She visualized a man. The faceless thief.
Then she hauled back the string and let her arrow fly. In quick succession she shot ten arrows. Every single one hit the gold. Every single one was a kill shot. In her quiver, she had kept two spare arrows. Just in case …
Now she turned a full circle. Not a circle of fear. Not an invitation. But a declaration of her own. She was not a helpless victim. She was a trained archer with lethal skills.
Another of her father’s favourite sayings slipped into her head. He’d told her how he and his army comrades used this one when they were lost and frightened. It was their own version of the Twenty-Third Psalm: Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, because I am the meanest son of a gun in the valley. Merry amended it further: I will fear no evil, because I am the Longbow Girl.
She headed back into the farmhouse, locked the doors behind her, pulled shut all the curtains against the darkening sky, spent the evening deep in thought. The threat was still out there, she knew that. She could and she would defend herself, but what she really needed to do was make the threat go away. Neutralize it completely. And that meant getting rid of the book as quickly as possible.
The next day, a thaw finished off what the snowploughs had started, allowing James to head home from Manchester.
He knew it was time to face his parents. He couldn’t stay in Manchester for ever – at least, not yet.
He walked to the station, took a train, then a bus and walked again from the centre of Nanteos, up the road, across the de Courcy parkland, into the Black Castle. It would have been so much easier to have driven, he thought to himself. Illegal, but easier.
Like many children who lived on farms, James had learnt to drive way below the legal age. He considered himself a good driver. It was just the law that prevented him driving on public roads. He couldn’t wait for his sixteenth birthday, in a few weeks, let alone his seventeenth. To be able to get a job, the job … fund himself, drive, be independent. But in the meantime, he had to deal with his parents as best he could. He arrived home and headed straight for his father’s muniments room, where he felt sure his father would be locked away with Parks and Philipps, deep in documents.
He paused outside when he heard the raised voices.
‘Heard that the Owens are in some kind of financial difficulty. Falling behind with mortgage payments,’ his father was saying.
James froze.
‘How d’you know that?’ his mother asked.
‘Bank manager tipped me off,’ replied his father. ‘Said if something doesn’t come up, they might have to sell.’
James recoiled in horror. The Owens losing their farm? It was unthinkable. Did Merry know? And was this because of the stallion?
‘I imagine in that case,’ came Dr Philipps’s voice, ‘that they would want to sell the book. I’d heard the farm has been in their hands for over seven hundred years,’ he said gently, his voice laced with sympathy.
‘Yes,’ replied his mother. ‘But interestingly, not long enough!’ she declared, sounding oddly triumphant.
‘What’s your point, darling?’ asked his father. ‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’
His mother gave a little chuckle. ‘Well, how long they’ve had the land is rather crucial, when you think about it. You reckon the book comes from the 1200s, Dr Philipps?’
‘That is my estimate, Lady de Courcy, but I would like to do some more testing back in the laboratory,’ replied the historian.
‘Professor Parks, do you have a view?’ continued his mother.
‘I’ll have more of a view after I’ve carried out a full excavation of the site, Lady de Courcy,’ said Parks. ‘It’s still covered with snow. I cannot resume until it is fully thawed.’
‘Hmm,’ replied his mother. That wasn’t the answer she was seeking.
James clenched his fists. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
‘Let’s just go with Dr Philipps’s view for the time being, shall we?’ his mothe
r went on. ‘That the book dates from the 1200s. That means that when it was placed in the burial mound that land belonged to us, to the de Courcys, not to the Owens. They did not get their mitts on the land until Crécy in 1346. So, legally, the book is ours. In which case they cannot sell it to save their farm … in which case we can buy the farm when they are forced to sell and we can get back our lands!’ she declared triumphantly.
‘It’s an interesting idea,’ mused his father.
James’s disbelief turned to outrage.
‘I don’t think it’s that simple,’ came Professor Parks’s voice. ‘Although the book most likely dates from the 1200s, it could have been placed within the burial mound at any time thereafter.’
‘Could doesn’t mean would,’ his mother was saying. ‘That book belongs to—’
James had heard enough. He flung open the door and stormed in. ‘Why can’t you leave the Owens alone, Ma?’ he demanded. ‘They have little enough, but what they do have you can’t help wanting to take. Their book. Their home?’
His mother opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it and closed it again.
‘The prodigal son returns,’ remarked his father drily, eyeing James up and down. His father was immaculate in one of his tailored tweed suits. James wore sweatpants and a Manchester United hoodie.
His mother stepped towards James, but then stopped at a look from her husband.
Professor Parks and Dr Philipps exchanged a look of their own.
‘If you’ll excuse us,’ said Dr Philipps. ‘Time to pack.’
The two men diplomatically excused themselves, closing the door softly behind them, leaving James alone with his parents.
‘Manchester United. The football club, really?’ continued his father, voice laced with scorn.
‘Is that all you want to talk about when Merry and her family are facing ruin?’ James demanded, emotions raging inside him.
‘You are my primary concern,’ replied his father. ‘So I ask you again. Manchester United?’
‘Yes,’ said James, struggling for calm. ‘Manchester United. The Premier League club. Most people’s dream. My dream.’
‘Consorting with that feral, one-eyed girl, leaping to her defence,’ spluttered the countess. ‘It’s not appropriate, James. She’s a bad influence on you. She’s encouraging you in this football madness, I’m sure!’
‘My friendship with Merry is none of your business,’ replied James through clenched teeth. He glowered at his mother. Much as he loved her, the way she behaved towards the Owens and spoke of Merry filled him with shame, and rage.
‘If I were you, I’d concern yourself less with Merry and her family and the book and more with behaving in a manner befitting the lord and heir of the Black Castle,’ declared his father.
‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’ James said. ‘You’re not me.’
He turned and made for the door.
‘We’ll have a full and frank discussion about this on holiday in Bali,’ called his father. ‘Don’t think for a second this is over.’
James walked out before he could say anything he’d regret, hurrying through the hallways, climbing the stairs two at a time, barely glancing at where he was going, as he rushed through the home he felt sure he was going to lose. The threat had hung in the air, underneath his father’s words: the estate or football. He felt an odd lightness steal over him as he made his choice. It was easy for him, he realized with a savage pang. But across the valley, Merry had no choice.
Upstairs in his room, he called her.
She picked up almost immediately.
‘Hi, what you up to?’ he asked, trying to push down all his emotions.
‘Not a lot. Waiting for the snow to melt. You back home?’
He wondered if she knew about her family’s predicament or was just covering it up.
‘Yep,’ he said slowly, blowing out a breath. ‘I am. And deep in it.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Merry darkly. ‘Listen,’ she said, her voice brightening. ‘I need to hear about Man U, about your trial, about everything!’
‘I can’t wait to tell you, but that’s not why I’m calling.’ He wouldn’t tell her about what he’d heard about her home, but he had to warn her about his mother’s attempts to get the book and stake another claim on the Owens’s land. Selling it quickly to someone else looked like the Owens’s only way out of trouble.
He paused, trying to think of the best way to say it. Merry, ever impatient, jumped in.
‘Look. I was going to call you anyway,’ she said. ‘Are Dr Philipps and Professor Parks still there?’
‘Yes,’ replied James. ‘They are, but they’ve just gone to pack.’
‘Keep them there,’ said Merry urgently. ‘Tell them to stay put. I want to discuss my book with them.’ She paused. ‘Will I be allowed in?’
‘Oh, you will be. Flavour of the month now, aren’t you, with your book,’ he managed to say. ‘Look, Merry. Er, I think you should sell Dr Philipps your book.’
‘Why?’ she asked, the edge of suspicion in her voice.
‘Oh. Just because then everyone could see it, if it’s in a museum,’ he said, hoping he’d sounded casual enough.
There was a silence, then Merry laughed. ‘Funnily enough, I agree with you.’
James felt a flood of relief wash over him, but he couldn’t help wondering: what had made her change her mind?
Merry dug out the book from its hiding place. She sat cross-legged on the floor, holding it gently in her lap. She turned the beautiful pages carefully, gazing at the lavish images, then turning back to the riddle pool.
The dark pool reflecting clouds overhead, the sunlight arrowing through the water, the thicket of bushes, the nightingale watching from the oak … She didn’t need the book to find the riddle pool. The image was seared into her mind. When she went to sleep at night, she saw it there …
She shut the book, wrapped it away safely in its swaddling, placed it inside its chest.
‘Goodbye, beautiful book,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t help thinking I was meant to find you, that there’s something in you just for me, but I can’t keep you.’
She thought of her mother, of her baby brother. They weren’t safe. And, despite her exhibition with her longbow, she wasn’t either. Her father would obliterate anyone who threatened any of them, but he couldn’t be around 24-7.
She thought of the chieftain, hoped he’d be at peace with her decision. But really, she thought as she squeezed the chest into a plastic bag and let herself out, locking the door behind her, what choice did she have?
She set off through the thawing fields. No tunnel this time. She climbed the boundary wall, walked straight across the parkland, up to the massive stone face of the Black Castle.
James was waiting for her on the drawbridge. He looked pale, thought Merry, and she could feel a current of emotion running through him like electricity. Football, she guessed, and his parents’ threats.
They smiled at each other.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ She punched his arm. ‘Congrats, superstar.’
‘I’m not there yet.’
‘My money’s on you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said softly. ‘But first things first. They’re all waiting for you. It’s a tad tense. Just had a bit of an argument, to put it mildly, but I interrupted Parks and Dr Philipps in their packing. They’ll help keep it civilized.’
‘Don’t leave me alone in there,’ Merry whispered, feeling suddenly nervous. She had to pull this off, and cleverly.
James gave a grim smile that puzzled her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there.’
‘What did they say about you, about Manchester United?’ Merry asked him as they walked across the cobbled courtyard.
‘They said we’ll talk about it in Bali. Annual family holiday in the sun,’ he said with unconcealed misery. He didn’t mention what they’d said about Merry. That was the last thing she needed to hear, and what she hadn’t hea
rd wouldn’t hurt her.
Merry could imagine the scene. Suncream, coconuts, harsh words.
‘When are you off?’ she asked.
James glanced away. ‘Tomorrow,’ he mumbled. ‘As soon as Alicia’s school hols start. We’ll pick her up from boarding school on the way to Heathrow. But I might not go,’ he said, turning back to Merry.
‘What d’you mean? You’ll just refuse?’
‘Pretty much. I mean, I don’t actually want to go. I don’t want to have those endless discussions.’
‘What do you want, then?’
‘I want to move to Manchester. Carry on training. Try and get a contract.’
Merry blew out a breath. ‘Wow! When will you decide?’
‘Tonight. I’ll make up my mind, one way or another.’
‘Ring me when you do.’
James nodded. ‘I will. Keep your phone on you, then. You’re always off somewhere forgetting it.’
‘Promise,’ replied Merry.
*
In the muniments room, the earl and the countess, Merry and James, Professor Parks and Dr Philipps stood in a circle, peering down at her book. Merry wasn’t sure what the countess was doing there. She didn’t think James’s mother was remotely interested in books.
Merry turned to Dr Philipps. ‘I’ve been thinking, about what you said about my keeping the book, about it not being safe.’
He eyed her speculatively.
‘How about if I sell it to you?’ she asked. ‘Now.’
He blinked. ‘Well … goodness! The Museum of Wales would absolutely love to have it. A Welsh museum is where this book belongs, if I may say so.’
Merry beamed. ‘Yes,’ she only half fibbed. ‘That’s what I think too.’
‘But there’s a problem.’
‘What?’
‘Funds. Or rather, lack of funds. You see, if you can wait say, six months, we can launch a campaign, raise money for it, give you a fair price, but at the moment we’ve got very little in the kitty, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you certain it’s yours to sell?’ the countess asked Merry.