Longbow Girl Page 24

James pushed his face against the bars, trying to see. ‘Aeron, the jailer. With food,’ he whispered.

  Merry had already taken out her catapult and stones, moved into position. She could feel her heart again, thudding in her chest. Calm, she told herself, keep calm. But the guard moved away to the other end of the corridor. Spoke to Longbowman Owen. Their voices were subdued, as if neither of them wanted to be overheard, but then Longbowman Owen raised his voice in anger.

  ‘You have to do something,’ they heard him say.

  ‘They’ll have my head if I do!’ the jailer hissed back. ‘And it’ll change nothing. They’ll never get away. You and I both know the truth, evil as it is. They’re dead already. So’ll you be if you’re not lucky.’

  Merry and James just looked at each other, eyes full of so many conflicting emotions, almost vibrating with tension.

  But the jailer didn’t come to them. His echoing footsteps just faded away.

  ‘Maybe he’ll come back with food for us,’ whispered Merry, blowing on her hands to warm them up.

  ‘Maybe,’ echoed James.

  But the minutes slipped by and it became obvious that the jailer wasn’t coming back.

  Colder, hungrier, thirstier and ever more frightened, Merry and James waited in the darkness of the cell. Exhausted, they lay down on the narrow bench, holding each other tight, for warmth, for comfort. Finally, they fell into a nightmare-filled sleep.

  Footsteps woke Merry again. She had no way of knowing, but it felt like dawn. She sat up, whispered to James.

  ‘Quick! Wake up. Someone’s coming!’

  James sprang up, pushed his hair from his face.

  Merry was freezing, her fingers numb. She rubbed her hands together, desperately trying to get the blood moving. She pulled the catapult from her skins and palmed a couple of stones from her pocket. She kept her hands hidden behind her back.

  The jailer appeared, sleepy-looking himself, with a tray and two bowls of what looked like gruel.

  ‘Morning,’ he said gruffly. ‘Starving you don’t sit right with me. Just can’t do it. You being the longbow girl and all,’ he added.

  Merry and James glanced at each other. They felt bad for the man, for his act of kindness. For what they were about to do. But survival had rules of its own.

  ‘Thank you,’ said James. ‘That’s really very nice of you. We’re both grateful.’ He wanted to keep the man’s attention on him. ‘What have we got, then? It smells delicious. Gruel?’

  Aeron nodded. He bent down, pushed two steaming bowls under the bars. James moved out of range as Merry took her catapult from behind her back and fired. She hadn’t time to aim, just fired from instinct with a shaking hand. The stone shot through the bars and smashed into the wall opposite.

  Startled, the jailer straightened, looked around with a curse. Merry was already reloading. Desperate now, she fired off a second shot. This one hit the man square on the temple. He crumpled and began to fall.

  James stuck his arms through the bars and grabbed him, holding him firmly against the cell. The man was obviously heavy and James struggled to hold him up. Merry reached inside the jailer’s tunic pocket. She grabbed the keys, pulled them out. James’s arms began to shake with the effort.

  ‘Keep him there,’ urged Merry, moving to the lock, trying the keys. ‘Have to be sure it’s the right set of keys. He could have more.’

  She tried one key, then another, then another without luck. Heart pounding, she tried the last one. The lock sprang open. With a great sigh James released their captor and let him slump.

  Merry pushed open the door, moved out with James. Together they pulled the man into the cell. They threw the blanket over him and locked him in.

  ‘Let’s go!’ whispered Merry.

  They ran to the empty cells containing the axe and the hunting bow and arrows – the watchman’s tools. Merry still felt light-headed from lack of food and water but the concussion seemed to have eased. She grabbed the bow and arrows as James took the axe. Then they hurried to the end of the dungeons, to her ancestor.

  Merry took him in close up: tall, powerfully built, with fair hair and beard, and intelligent blue eyes. Another version of her father. She felt a spasm of longing.

  ‘Hello, longbow girl,’ said Owen. His gaze was sharp with curiosity.

  Merry could see the emotion in his eyes and a kind of amazed recognition as he studied her. He opened his mouth to form a question; then the sound of distant footsteps echoed down the stairs.

  Merry fumbled with the keys, trying them in the lock.

  ‘Get ready to run,’ she whispered.

  ‘I was planning on it!’ Owen grabbed a blanket and what looked like a kind of animal-skin water container from his bench as Merry struggled with the lock.

  ‘C’mon! Open,’ she pleaded. Two keys later, it did. Longbowman Owen grabbed the handle, turned it and pushed free.

  The three of them ran to the tunnel door. It was locked. Merry tried the set of keys again, getting desperate as the sound of footsteps drew nearer. The first key failed. Next to her, James and Owen stood, legs braced, facing whatever threat was coming down the stairs.

  The second key turned the lock.

  Almost whimpering with relief, Merry pushed open the door, which creaked horribly. The three of them rushed through. Merry locked the door behind them.

  Fumbling in the darkness, she reached into her backpack, yanked out her head torch, switched it on. Her ancestor stepped back from the light, blinking in shock. He moved his hand towards it in speculation but froze at the cries coming from the other side of the thick oak door. He flicked his head, eyes grim. Time to go.

  Merry, James and Owen raced down the tunnel in the shaking light of the torch. They emerged breathing hard into the slanting rain of a grey dawn.

  Owen turned to Merry and James. ‘I thank you both.’ He smiled at Merry. ‘You’re every inch an Owen, longbow girl.’

  Merry looked at him, at the so-familiar features. On impulse, she grabbed him, felt his own arms come around her, pulling her tight. Merry felt tears roll down her cheek. She pulled away, knuckled them from her eye.

  ‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll hide until I get this travesty cleared up,’ Owen replied, a hardness darkening his gaze. ‘Look after each other,’ he said, slapping his powerful hand on James’s arm. ‘Hang on to your weapons. You’ve a long way to go!’

  James nodded. ‘We will. Good luck.’ He grabbed Merry’s hand. ‘Come on.’

  Merry gazed at her ancestor for one more moment as he powered up the hill towards the wildness of the Beacons; then she and James turned and ran.

  Soon they made the cover of the Black Wood.

  ‘They’re bound to try to track us with dogs,’ said Merry. ‘We’ll never outrun them. Our only hope is to head down to the stream, cross it, hope they’ll lose our trail, then head up to Sarn Helen.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  After five minutes, they found the stream, jumped in, waded along it, then exited on the far bank. They ran alongside it in single file on the narrow track.

  Suddenly the far-off baying of hounds echoed through the trees. Exchanging a quick, silent look of fear, they hurried on. Running with the axe and the bow and arrows slowed them down, but they knew they had no choice. Five minutes later, they heard the hounds again, but they seemed to be further away, maybe seeking their trail in the wrong direction.

  ‘We have to head uphill soon,’ panted Merry. ‘We have to risk recrossing the stream.’

  James nodded. ‘Let’s hope the hounds are too far away to pick us up.’ They forded the stream and found another track through the wood, leading up the side of the valley, towards where Sarn Helen cut across the high plain.

  They ran in silence, the sound of their breathing loud in their ears. At last, each daring to hope they might have got away, they emerged from the wood, on to the plain. They ran from the shelter of one copse of trees to another. They had maybe half a mile to g
o to get to the thick forest that hid the waterfall when they heard the wolfhounds again. Much nearer.

  Then a pair of hounds burst from a thicket two hundred yards behind them.

  ‘We have to stand and fight,’ rasped Merry. ‘We’ll never make it.’

  They slid to a stop, side by side, blowing hard. Turned to face the two wolfhounds, a hundred and fifty yards away now and closing fast.

  Merry nocked an arrow. Life or death. Her heart pounded as the dogs closed, baying for blood.

  She sucked in a breath, waited. The dogs were fifty yards away. Accurate range of thirty yards with this little bow, just time for one shot.

  ‘I’ll get the one on the right,’ she said to James, not taking her eye from the beast.

  ‘Got that,’ he replied, moving sideways.

  The hounds charged towards them, all snarling teeth and flying saliva. Merry took aim. At twenty yards she loosed her arrow.

  She was aware of a great squeal; then the wolfhound was cartwheeling through the air, the arrow embedded in its chest.

  Beside her, James jumped in the air. ‘Here! Over here! Come and get me!’ he roared. The second hound was nearly upon them. Then, at the last moment, James stepped sideways, braced himself and swung the axe at the dog, knocking it off its feet. It gave a chilling howl, rolled, got up, then, as James raised the axe again, it took a stumbling step and collapsed, a mass of muscle and bone and teeth.

  They exchanged a glance mingling horror and relief, then they started running again. They sprinted for the forest, desperate for cover. Human hunters would be following, they both knew. Merry kept glancing over her shoulder and moments later, she saw four horsemen emerge over the brow of the hill, galloping across the plain towards them.

  James saw them too. They didn’t look back again. The trees were in sight, just three hundred yards away. But the horsemen were closing. They could hear the pounding hooves.

  ‘Faster.’ Merry sobbed out the word as they ran, legs burning. Though she was fleet, James was faster, but he kept back with her. At last they were into the trees, just a hundred yards ahead of the huntsmen.

  They heard the shouts of fury, of frustration. The men would have to dismount to follow them. The forest here was too dense to ride through. They ran on, branches whipping their faces, brambles raking their skin as they pushed through the undergrowth. Behind them they could hear the men swearing and shouting and hacking at the branches with their swords.

  They found a track, narrow but passable, and picked up speed. They were young and they were fit but they hadn’t eaten or drunk for over twelve hours. Adrenalin gave them strength, but how long could it last?

  And then, out of the bushes stepped Anthony Parks.

  Merry and James stopped running. Behind were the hunters. In front Merry’s murderous enemy.

  Merry nocked an arrow.

  ‘Get out of here, Parks, or I will shoot you.’

  The man gave a mocking smile. ‘Oh, I think we’ve established that you haven’t the stomach to kill,’ he replied.

  And then it was Merry’s turn to smile. ‘Maybe not, Parks, but I can stop you.’

  Parks just laughed and began walking towards them as if her words meant nothing. In her side vision, Merry saw James lift the axe.

  ‘Oh, please, Lord James. Put down your toy,’ jeered Parks. ‘You don’t have it in you either!’

  Merry thought of Mair, of Angharad and Gawain and their mother, with no one to protect them from this man.

  Mark. Draw. Loose.

  With a sickening thud the arrow embedded itself into Park’s thigh. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain and rage. It was enough to stop him – for now and perhaps for ever.

  But there were answering calls from the hunters, closing on them.

  Merry and James glanced around. They could see the outlines of the men, weaving through the forest, just fifty yards away. Merry grabbed her remaining arrows and together she and James ran past Parks, who writhed on the path, screaming curses after her.

  The deer tracks widened and they sped up, but so did their hunters.

  They could hear the heavy footfalls, the snapping branches, the cries of pursuit. And then came the sound of baying. More wolfhounds. Rapidly closing.

  Desperate now, muscles on fire, Merry and James ran on uphill. Then the forest began to slope away to the left and they saw the flash of silver that was the stream.

  They plunged through the thorn bushes, heedless of the cuts and blood. There was a great thundering of hooves and Merry thought the huntsmen were upon them. She and James turned to face them, James with his axe at the ready, Merry with her bow.

  But instead, careening out of the forest, came the Arab stallion. He must have made his home here in the forest.

  Gasping with relief, they turned and jumped into the stream, splashing through the water, wading towards the waterfall.

  ‘It’s easier this way,’ panted Merry. ‘The current takes you forward. Just swim down and keep your head below the rock ceiling.’

  James nodded. There was no time for talking.

  The shouts and the drumming hoofbeats got nearer. A wolfhound shot from the trees, pursuing the stallion. Another one appeared and changed direction, heading for them, baying hideously.

  Merry grabbed James’s hand, looked into his eyes. They blazed back at her, full of life, full of fire. She allowed herself just a moment more to look at him; then she released his hand.

  They dropped their weapons.

  ‘See you on the other side.’

  Air, light, soft rain falling. No wolfhounds. No huntsmen. Just birds fluttering and squawking as Merry and James stepped from the water.

  They bent over, arms braced on their legs, sucking in air till their breathing slowed to normal. Then they straightened, looked at each other. They saw every detail of faces they had known for almost all of their lives. Every freckle, every cut, every scratch.

  ‘D’you smell it?’ asked Merry.

  ‘What?’ asked James.

  ‘Petrol fumes. The faintest whiff.’ Merry smiled, stepped towards James, pulled him into a hug. ‘We’re home,’ she said, her breath warm on his neck. ‘We made it!’

  James pulled back from her, looked at her face, so full of life and of something else, some new kind of light. Then he drew her to him and he kissed her. Not on her cheek, on her lips.

  Merry hesitated, just for a moment. All the fears, all the what ifs, everything else was irrelevant. Nothing else mattered save the here and the now. Save this time. Their time. She kissed James back as the water flowed around them.

  There was a sudden wild thrashing behind them. They pulled apart, wheeled around, ready to face whatever had followed them from the sixteenth century.

  But all that came out from under the waterfall was the Arab stallion.

  Merry gave a laugh of delight. She held out her palm. ‘Come on, boy. You’re safe now. Here. With us.’

  James put his arm around Merry’s shoulder.

  ‘Looks like you might not have to sell your mare after all … ’ he said.

  The police ordered everyone to convene at the Black Castle. There was more room there. The de Courcys were pleased by that; it gave them an element of control over the proceedings, or so they believed. The castle was their fortress. And they needed it. Their unblinking self-confidence had been shaken. There were things they could not control. There were miracles their money could not buy.

  Auberon de Courcy stood before a roaring fire, eyeing the assembled throng. Anne de Courcy sat with James on a small green sofa. She had her son’s hand clamped in hers like she’d never let go. She kept flicking him glances as if she didn’t quite believe he was there. James smiled back at her, squeezed her hand. He looked exhausted and cold but strangely tranquil in the way that those who have overcome appalling danger sometimes can be. His sister, Lady Alicia, sat beside the fire, glancing nervously from her father to her brother.

  Caradoc and Elinor Owen sat on a plush pl
um-coloured velvet sofa flanking Merry. They looked worn out, ecstatic, relieved, and fiercely protective.

  Gawain snuggled in Merry’s arms, warming her. He beamed up at his sister and gazed around the big room in wide-eyed curiosity.

  Merry felt deliriously exhausted and relieved. The ruthlessness that she had drawn on, that had gushed up inside her when needed, was hidden back down deep inside.

  Mrs Baskerville, still wearing her apron and a look of stubborn determination, hovered by the door, trying to make herself invisible. Nothing was going to keep her out of the room.

  Seren Morgan sat in a tub chair, glancing from Merry to James with her quiet scrutiny. The local policeman, PC Griffiths, stood, feet planted, arms folded behind his back, off to the left of the Earl de Courcy. He was flanked by the two senior detectives who had been responsible for the major manhunt to find Merry Owen and James de Courcy: Detective Inspector Williams and Detective Constable Evans.

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ began DI Williams nasally. ‘Having spoken to you both separately, what I’m to gather from each of your stories is the following: Merry Owen and Lord James ran away four nights ago. You slept rough in the mountains because you both like living rough so much.’ At this the detective raised his eyebrow and scanned the opulent drawing room, all velvets, brocades, Persian rugs and oil paintings …

  ‘Then, on the fifth day, you decide you’ve tortured your families enough and you come back. Seren Morgan, out for a drive, finds you hiking back along the road on a black Arab stallion with a fleece top as a halter, both of you in filthy costumes, looking fit to drop, covered in cuts and scratches like you’ve been in a brawl.’ Williams raised his arms in a shrug of disbelief.

  Merry and James just nodded.

  ‘But back to first things. Your disappearance,’ continued the detective, eyes flicking between them.

  They said nothing. It was the countess who spoke.

  ‘Why?’ she asked in a desolate voice. She gave James’s hand a shake, as if to liberate the truth. ‘Why?’

  James looked deeply uncomfortable. Twelve people turned to him. Even Gawain was riveted.

  Finally, he uttered a kind of strangled sound. ‘I can’t say. Just can’t say.’