Time's Legacy (53 page)

They had found Romanus and Cynan that evening and borne their bodies home on stretchers of animal skins. When Gaius returned it was to a scene of devastation. He stood looking down at his son, his face white with grief. Already the druids had come from the college and taken Cynan back with them to lie that night in his own cell under the oak trees and within sound of the rustling apple orchards on the edge of the mere.

Lydia came to watch beside her husband and together they stood in silence, hand in hand. ‘Flavius did this,’ he whispered at last. ‘Did he kill Yeshua?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Joseph waited as long as he dared. He had to take the ships out of the channel and round into the sea before the storm came. He said Yeshua knew he couldn’t wait any longer.’

She nodded dumbly.

‘Fergus Mor told me Mora was with him.’

Tears were running down her face. She was no longer capable of speech. Behind them Sorcha came out of the house and gently put a shawl round Lydia’s shoulders, then she went back inside to Petra whose inconsolable sobs echoed round the compound and out into the night.

Kier could hear their grief. He shuddered, hugging his arms around himself, staring out into the dark. Whatever had happened here was of such incomprehensible sadness that it had soaked into the soil of the garden. He could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes.

Behind him the house lay in darkness. How could they sleep when such awful things were happening so close at hand? He stared round wildly, dashing the tears off his cheeks. Someone had to stop this. But how? How could anyone put right something which had scarred the ground where it had happened so deeply that it still echoed two thousand years later?

He stared out at the arch. How did he know it was two thousand years? Abi, of course. She had told him. She had woken these echoes with her crystal ball and her witchcraft. Without her these memories would still be sleeping under the ground. He stood up, slightly unsteadily and walked forward to stand for a moment on the edge of the flowerbed where the stones of the villa lay in the dark. This had not been the house where the tragedy had taken place. Intuitively he knew that. Someone had built a house there in later times, but the boy’s blood was still crying out for revenge. Revenge against who? He stood staring up at the sky. The mist had gone. The clouds had parted and he could see the stars. Was this how Abi felt? She had come to him for help and spiritual guidance to deal with all this weight of guilt and fear and vision under the auspices of the church and he had turned away from her. He had called her names and reviled her, distracted by his own emotions. He had failed her. Again and again he had failed her. He turned sharply and began to walk across the grass, not thinking where he was going, heading automatically for the orchard and beyond it the steep path which led in one direction down to the levels and beyond in the other to the track up towards St Mary’s. Instinctively he knew he would find succour there. And answers.

It was several seconds before Abi could work out where she was next morning. She lay still staring at the whitewashed walls of the tiny room, taking in the deep set window embrasure with cheerful gingham curtains, the small pine chest of drawers with a mirror, a candlestick and a vase of rosebuds. Her bag lay on the floor near her, still closed. She brought her attention to herself. She was still fully dressed except for her shoes, laying under the bedcover rather than in the bed properly. She raised herself onto an elbow as memory returned. She had fallen asleep in the car. They had arrived in the early hours with a thick white mist lying across the hillside and Justin had woken her, led the way indoors, showed her round the cottage and directed her to his spare room while she was still half-asleep. She remembered nothing more of their journey or of their arrival.

They had abandoned the canoe next to several others at a landing stage on the next bend of the river, leaping out and running for the cover of some trees. There was no-one around and they hid, waiting, as the larger boat grew closer.

‘Is it him?’ Mora whispered. She was pressed against the broad trunk of an ancient willow aware of Yeshua beside her, his arm protectively round her shoulders.

He put his finger to his lips. Wisps of mist were drifting ahead of them, coiling around the low hanging branches of ancient trees. Mora glanced across at him and he smiled reassuringly. They could hear the sound of the paddles now, pushing in unison against the sluggish brown water and the low murmur of voices as the boat sped down the centre of the river.

‘He’s there. In the middle of the boat,’ Yeshua breathed. ‘They never even glanced this way. My guess is he is heading for the port. He knows the ships will have to catch the tide. He knows that’s where we’re going.’

‘But your kinsman will wait for you,’ Mora said indignantly.

‘Not if it means losing his cargoes.’ Yeshua released her and they moved away from the tree. ‘It was agreed. If I was not there seven days after the full moon he would leave without me. The equinoctial gales will be on us soon. The weather is deteriorating. He can’t wait any longer.’

‘Not one day!’ Mora was distraught.

‘He doesn’t know we are only one day behind.’ Yeshua shook his head.

‘But there will be other ships.’

‘I am sure there will, but Flavius will be searching every one.’ He walked further into the alder scrub and sat down wearily on a fallen log.

‘Then what shall we do? We can’t go back.’

He caught her hand. ‘You can go back, Mora, and you must. You do not have to come with me any further. I have asked more than enough of you and those you are close to.’

She shook her head. ‘I am coming with you until I know you are safe.’ She glanced back. ‘We can pick up the boat again. Now we know Flavius is on his way north we can follow more slowly.’ She couldn’t believe Yeshua’s kinsman would just leave without him.

But he had. As the river grew wider and they felt the pull of the tidal water become stronger they approached the port at last, wearily keeping an eye out for Flavius and his crew. But the river was deserted. As evening grew near the grey water had become increasingly choppy and unpleasant and when they at last pulled into the bank they staggered ashore with relief. Leaving Yeshua with the boat, Mora walked towards the township. A pedlar carrying a basket of wooden spoons and little carved toys which he had hoped to sell to the sailors, told her that the last of the traders had gone. The harbour was empty, and just as well, as they stood looking down at the mud-coloured waves lashing against the quay in the strong north-westerly gale which blew up the channel. She turned back and told Yeshua the news.

Taking pity on them when he saw their crestfallen faces the pedlar led them to a farmstead where he knew the family and they found themselves ushered into a small round house where they were at last out of the rain and wind.

A druid priestess and an itinerant healer were guests to be honoured, as was the pedlar himself. They were offered baked fish and mussels, flat malt bread and blackberries with honey. Then their host pulled out a bird-bone pipe and played for a while as they sat near his fire. It wasn’t until long after they had eaten that he laid down the pipe and looked at them. ‘There is a Roman in Axiom, who is looking for you. He has let it be known he will pay a reward to anyone who hands you in.’

Mora let out a little cry of distress. Already she was scrambling to her feet. The man held out his hand. ‘We do not betray those who have eaten under our roof, lady.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t take to the man at all.’

Mora put her face in her hands. ‘We have nothing to repay you with.’ He shook his head again. ‘If this young man is a healer, he can suggest something for my aching bones and have a look at my mother. That will be more than enough. Then as soon as the storm lets up and the tides are right, we will make an offering to the goddess Sabrina and I will take you across the estuary. Drop you off in Silurian territory. They don’t hold with Romans over there.’ He chuckled. ‘The way I see it after that, you have two choices. You can make your way back east across country and cross back into Gaul, that way. There are often quiet days, whatever the season, when boats ply the Straights, so I’ve heard. Or you can winter with the Silures and leave in the spring when the traders return. Either way yon Roman will lose track of you. If you stay here or go back to Ynys yr Afalon he will find you.’

It was two in the morning when Kier finally got back to his hotel. He had to knock up the night porter to get in. He regained his room and sat for a while, exhausted, on the bed. He must have dozed off because the next time he glanced at his watch it was nearly five. Splashing his face with cold water he switched on the kettle, then he took his notebook out of his suitcase. He had reached a decision as he sat in the little church in the dark, listening to the owl in the churchyard outside. He was going to follow Abi. She had taken a bag so she was going to stay somewhere. Cal had passed them a basket. If it was food it implied a long journey or going somewhere that might not be ready for them. Justin’s house. It was worth a gamble, and what other lead did he have? He thought hard. Where was it Justin lived? Surely one of the articles he had read online had mentioned a town? Ten minutes later, fortified by a cup of coffee mixed with two pots of disgusting milk substitute, he had the answer. Hay-on-Wye. Fifteen minutes after that with the help of his credit card and the fact that Justin Cavendish was not a common name he had the man’s address. He smiled grimly. The click of a button and he could download a satellite picture and mapped instructions on how to find the cottage. He silently thanked his former curate – former but one – he corrected himself wryly. Almost the only useful attribute that the man had possessed was a sure grasp of computer skills. One day when Kier had bemoaned the fact that he had lost touch with an old college chum the young man had introduced him to the art of people-finding. Kier finished his second cup of coffee, then he stood up. Within half an hour he was washed, shaved, packed and ready to go downstairs to pay his bill. Outside the window, even here in the city, the mist had returned.

Justin was sitting at the table in the living room when Abi appeared at last. A fire was blazing in the grate and the room was full of the incense smell of the oak blocks from the basket. He glanced up with a grin. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘OK.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘Did all that really happen or was it a bad dream?’ She ran her hands through her long hair, still damp from the shower. She had dug a pair of black jeans and a blue shirt out of her bag, with a cardigan slung over her shoulders.

‘It all happened.’ He reached across the table towards a jug and poured her a mug of black coffee. ‘I’ll make you some breakfast. Welcome to my world.’ He gestured towards the windows. The mist was still thick and white, lapping against the glass.

She took a sip of coffee and felt the caffeine hit as a physical jolt. ‘Have you heard anything from Woodley?’

He nodded. They are all there and still waiting for the bishop to arrive, I gather. No sign of Kier. Cal is cooking them all a huge breakfast which is what gave me the idea.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘You and I have work to do later, so food would be a good way of grounding us before we start.’

She scanned his face. ‘Work?’ It was slowly dawning on her that she was alone with this man, a druid priest, who was far too good-looking and attractive for her peace of mind, in the middle of God knows where, part of something which had all the makings of a first-rate melodrama, and they were discussing breakfast.

‘Did you bring your magic stone?’

She nodded. ‘It’s in my bag.’

‘Good. That will be where we start.’

While he was in the small kitchen – ‘only space for one at a time in here, so you can’t help,’ – she stared round. It was a man’s room, a scholar’s room, lined with books. On the table in the window she could see a computer – so he probably did have e-mail – and a phone, papers, more books. But there were other things, interesting things. Crystals, a drum, jars of dried herbs, bunches of ditto, a jar of large feathers – buzzard at a guess. Were these the working tools of a druid in the twenty-first century? Apart from the desk and writing chair there was the large table at which she seated herself, and two deep armchairs near the fire. There was no TV that she could see, and there were no other doors. In the corner of the room a small winding stair led out of sight to the upper storey. That must be where his bedroom was. Her own room was off a passage on the opposite corner on the ground floor, in a converted outbuilding of some sort, as was the kitchen and the obviously newly built bathroom with to her relief, every modern convenience. She was conscious of the smell of bacon drifting through the door. Not a vegetarian then. She bent to throw on another log. She suddenly felt ridiculously happy.

‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked as they tucked into the bacon and eggs and toast.

‘About five years.’ He gazed round the room fondly. ‘This is a magic house. I was incredibly lucky to be able to buy it. A young couple, Beth and Giles Campbell lived here, but they decided it was a bit remote once they started a family. Before that, a friend of mine, Meryn Jones was here for years. My guru and teacher.’ He gave a mischievous grin. ‘He lives in Scotland now, so I have in a sense inherited his hideout.’

‘It feels very special.’ She looked towards the window. ‘Is there a view?’ The mist was still all round them.

He laughed. ‘The gods of the druids have given us protection today. We are on top of the world here. You can see, and be seen, for miles.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry. Does it make you uncomfortable if I talk about other gods? It is easy to forget you are a vicar.’ So he too was aware of the irony of their situation.

It was her turn to laugh. ‘It should, but somehow it doesn’t. Everything that has been happening to me has opened my eyes to other beliefs in a way I hadn’t expected. If Our Lord studied with the druids, why shouldn’t I?’

He reached for the coffee jug. ‘Why not indeed.’ He looked at her attentively. ‘So, would you like to talk about your stone?’