Longbow Girl
Page 25
‘Can’t. Or won’t?’ asked Williams. ‘You need to answer for the heartache you’ve caused. Not to mention the manpower used searching for you.’
‘It’s not like that!’ shouted Merry. ‘Don’t blame him.’
‘No!’ agreed the countess in a voice of ice. ‘Don’t blame my son!’ She pointed at Merry. ‘Blame her! She’s a bad influence on my son. Always was!’
Elinor Owen jumped to her feet. ‘How dare you! Don’t you dare judge my daughter!’
‘Quiet! Please. Stop it!’ Now James de Courcy was on his feet. Gawain looked from participant to participant with goggling eyes. This was huge fun, the grown-ups shouting.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ James told his mother.
The countess’s mouth dropped open. She moved to say something but the earl clamped his hand on her arm and gave her a warning look.
‘Merry and I ran away to have an adventure. Simple as that. Nothing else went on.’
‘And it’s going to stay that way!’ declared the countess, wriggling out of her husband’s grip. ‘As from now, you two shall never meet!’
‘Well, that’ll keep them happily to their homes, won’t it?’ observed Seren.
The countess turned on her. ‘So what would you do, then?’
‘I would let them be free. Let them follow their destiny,’ she declared.
The earl raised his eyebrows almost to his receding hairline. ‘What the devil does that mean?’ he asked crisply.
But Seren just smiled. She saw the images in her mind as time scrolled forward: the portrait hanging in the hall: the blonde beauty, part witch, part horse whisperer, part longbow girl; the one-eyed countess … In this very drawing room, she saw James and Merry, in their sixties, just as much in love as ever, chatting animatedly with their five children.
The images swirled and disappeared. She looked at the young James and Merry. She wondered if they had any inkling. She’d seen the love in their eyes when she found them riding back along the road, but she wasn’t sure either of them acknowledged it. She supposed that for them, living in the moment was going to be just fine.
The police declared the case of the missing teenagers closed. Merry and James had returned to their parents, scratched, cold, starving, clearly lying about something or other but none the worse for wear. No crime seemed to have been committed.
Neither Merry nor James spoke of Parks. He’d probably have died back in the sixteenth century, they thought. Without antibiotics, it would have been very unlikely that his arrow wound would have healed. Mair would not have tended him. Enough damage had been done. Some secrets needed to be kept.
The burial mound was covered over by a large tarpaulin while Merry and her parents debated what to do. Merry thought that the chieftain should be left at peace, but there was pressure from Dr Philipps and the museum to continue the excavation.
Merry hid her talismans: the gold coins given to her by King Henry VIII and, her favourite, a four-leaf clover. She pressed it to preserve it. Sometimes she would take it out and hold it on the palm of her hand and that day would come flooding back: the young girl with the blonde hair and the blue eyes handing it to her with a shy smile and wishing her luck.
James signed with Manchester United. His parents, in a radical change of approach, born of their terror that they had lost their son for ever, did a deal with him. He had to sit his GCSEs in a few weeks’ time; then he could leave school and play football full time. For as long as he wanted to. For as long as he was able. The Black Castle and his inheritance would wait for him.
In the wilds of the Owens’s five hundred acres, the herd of Welsh Mountain ponies and the Arab stallion ran free. His stud fees brought in a healthy income. And Merry Owen and James de Courcy … they too knew the meaning of freedom and what it meant to be alive.
The book stayed in the Museum of Wales. It didn’t take Dr Philipps long to raise the sixty thousand pounds that secured the future of Nanteos Farm for the Owens.
Merry went to look at the book from time to time. She thought there was nothing more for her in it, that after all that had happened, it had relinquished her.
But deep inside the Brecon Beacons, the River of Time rolled on.
Acknowledgements
Longbow Girl began in my own childhood. My father brought me up in the same way as he raised my older brothers. I was expected to do just what they could do and for that I am profoundly grateful.
When I was eight, my father gave me and my brother Kenneth longbows for Christmas. I had never had anything quite so wonderful! Kenneth and I would go off for hours shooting at tin cans, with some success, and in the case of my brother, the high wires of the electricity pylons, with (I am now extremely happy to say) zero success. I loved the satisfaction that came with honing my aim, with being able to shoot a tin can cleanly off the top of a wall from a decent distance away.
Some years later, my parents brought more magic into my life – they gave me a Welsh Section B pony called Ceulan Jacintha. She was an eleven-month-old weanling, and effectively became my child. Every evening after school I looked after her and when she was old enough to ride, I trained her. And then the wild Welsh hills that were our home became our playground. We would ride out for hours, and at the weekends and school holidays, for full days. Girl and pony with incredible freedom …
Quite often, my father or mother would come with me when I went to look after Jacintha, especially when it was pitch-dark in the seemingly endless winters when the nights drew in. My father and I would walk to the farm where we kept Jacintha, but my mother and I preferred to cycle. We only had one bike, so we both squeezed on. The way back was all downhill. Perched on the bike, we would career down the hills, roaring with laughter.
All these are such happy memories. To plunge back into this world of my childhood has been such an exhilarating and joyful experience for me.
I have so many people to thank for these experiences, first my father, the late Prof. Glyn Davies and my mother, Grethe Davies. And my brother Kenneth, for all those hours on our longbows, chatting away, shooting more than the breeze. And of course my pony Jacintha for taking me to worlds both physical and mental, that I could never have reached on my own or on foot.
You are all my inspiration and the gifts you have given me are as powerful today as they ever were.
And now we jump forward many years in time to the writing of Longbow Girl.
And here I have my husband, Rupert, and our three children, Hugh, Tom and Lara to thank. Rupert has read aloud probably ten different drafts of this novel to our children over a four-year period. The children have listened loyally and interestedly and have given me excellent, if sometimes painful, input. My husband has also risked wifely wrath by daring to tell me when things weren’t working on the page. He has lived patiently and supportively with my Longbow Girl obsession for a very long time! My debt to Rupert and our children is profound.
My brother Roy is a fluent Welsh speaker and writer with an encyclopaedic command of all things Welsh and his knowledge, suggestions and enthusiasm have been a great help.
Marc Grady of the Longbow Emporium not only made the most beautiful longbow for me, but has also cast his eye over the longbow scenes and shared with me many fascinating bits of longbow esoterica.
Dr Wynne Davies, breeder extraordinaire of Welsh Section B ponies, many, many years ago sold us the wonderful Ceulan Jacintha, and more recently sat with me and recalled so many lovely memories as well as discussing the fascinating history of the Welsh Mountain pony and how they were hunted centuries past, by King Henry VIII.
Thank you all.
When it came to bringing Longbow Girl to the world, I have my fabulous agents at AGI Vigliano Literary to thank: the wonderful Matt Carlini who has now moved on to other things, the ever-smiling Thomas Flannery and the guru himself, David Vigliano, who are due special thanks for their faith and commitment.
I believe, as I suspect all Chicken House authors do,
that in finding a home with Chicken House, I have hit the jackpot. I could not conjure a more wonderful publisher. From the charismatic, visionary and wildly creative Barry Cunningham, to the clear-eyed mastermind Rachel Hickman, to the superefficient and incredibly helpful sales and publicity assistant, Jasmine Bartlett, and to my beyond wonderful editor, Rachel Leyshon, she who sees what can be and what others miss. Rachel read the manuscript when it was quite far from what appears here now but she saw enough in it to love and had sufficient faith in me to run with the amazing guidance she has given me and for that I give her my very profoundest thanks.
Also, huge thanks to Elinor Bagenal for wizarding foreign rights and Kesia Lupo for fielding panicked calls re the finer points of copy-editing. You are all an amazing team!
In the United States, I am lucky enough to be published by the amazing powerhouse that is Scholastic. And here I would like to give deepest thanks for her faith and commitment to the fabulous Emellia Zamani. Looking forward very much to seeing you in NY again!
You have all enabled me to live with this book which is very much written from the heart and which I love and must now hand over to you, my reader. I thank you for picking it up. I hope that you love it too.
Linda Davies
Suffolk, May 2015
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Text © Linda Davies 2015
First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2015
This electronic edition published in 2015
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