Authors: Linda Davies
T
he next morning, across the valley in the stone cottage, Merry and Mair breakfasted on bread and honey and fresh milk.
âI need to go out,' said Merry when they'd finished. âI must practise with the bow.'
The old woman eyed her thoughtfully. âYou can't stay locked away in here, it's true.'
She got up, rummaged around in a drawer. âHere.'
She handed Merry a pointed green woollen hat, triangular in shape. âAn archer's hat. Plait your hair, tuck it up out of the way. From a distance you'll look like a man.'
âOK. Thank you.' Merry took the hat, twisted it in her hands, suddenly nervous. âAnd there's something else. I want to meet my ancestors. Longbowman Owen's wife and children.'
Mair nodded. âSince you'll do battle in their name, it's fitting. And they have a target you'll be able to use.' She got up, pulled on her bonnet. âCome on. Let's go now. It's early. Less people about.'
Merry quickly plaited her hair, twisted it around her head, wedged it under the hat. It filled the triangular top.
Mair nodded. âPassable,' she said, pulling on her shawl.
Merry took the bow, the arrow bag and her own coiled strings: her twenty-first-century interlopers. Out they went into the bitter wind.
There was no sign of anyone, but still Merry glanced about, turning circles, checking. They hurried down the fields towards Nanteos Farm. Merry kept expecting her parents to come running out, carrying Gawain. She felt a wrenching pain, tried to shove it away.
As they neared the Owens's farmhouse,
her home
, Merry felt a wash of emotions. It was familiar but different. Smaller, less well kept. Like Mair's cottage, there was pale linen in place of glass in the tiny windows. No white-painted windowsills. Only one door, at the back of the house. No rose bushes, no well-positioned bench. No leisure time to sit and take in the views, thought Merry. The only thing that remained the same was a small herd of Welsh Mountain ponies. There were four mares and two foals corralled in a small field. They looked just like their modern counterparts with their shaggy winter coats, dished heads, intelligent eyes and powerful bodies on slender legs. Sheep grazed on the other fields and there were rows of something growing in ploughed earth.
As they drew closer, Merry could hear weeping coming from the house.
Mair knocked loudly, called out. The weeping stopped. A woman opened the door.
She had lank hair and a face gnarled by distress and streaked with tears. She was flanked by a boy and girl â maybe six and nine, guessed Merry. She stared at them in amazement. Her flesh and blood.
Her ancestors . . .
Both had her own blonde hair and blue eyes. And close up, the girl looked even more like Merry had at her age, with two eyes. The emotion bubbled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her.
The children shuffled up to her, nervous but intrigued. Merry squatted down.
âWhat's your names, then?' she asked, smiling at them.
The children were too shy to speak. Their mother answered for them.
âAngharad and Gawain. And I'm Rhiannon.'
Merry felt another punch of emotion. Gawain, like her baby brother, just a few years older.
âI'm Merry.'
She gently eased the girl's hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear, just like her own mother did to her. She turned to the boy, a waif with huge eyes in his pale, scared face.
Rhiannon was talking to Mair. âMy husband languishes in the de Courcy dungeons. He might hang. And now the king has declared a tourney. Tomorrow! He called for us to provide a bowman. Else we forfeit our home. Our lands. Our ponies. Our
sheep. Everything. The de Courcys will take it all.' Rhiannon started sobbing again, which set off the children. The three of them stood in a sobbing knot.
Merry felt a tightening in her chest. She blew out a breath. It wouldn't happen. She wouldn't
let
it happen.
âStop!' she said loudly, straightening up. âEnough!'
Rhiannon grabbed her children and stared in shock at Merry. But they all stopped wailing.
âYou shall
not
lose your home,' declared Merry. âYou shall
not
lose your lands. I give you my word.'
âHow do you know? How can you promise that?' asked Rhiannon despairingly.
âBecause I will enter the competition. In your husband's absence.'
Rhiannon opened her eyes as wide as they'd go. âBut you're a woman! And you're not an Owen.'
âRight about the first. Wrong about the second.'
Rhiannon squinted at Merry, a mix of hope and recognition dawning. âHis sister, Blodwen, was given away at birth. Couldn't afford to keep her. Are you her, come back to us?'
âI am.' A necessary lie.
âBut you can't shoot a longbow! That takes a man's strength.'
Merry shook her head. She held out the bow. âI've trained on bows like this since I was five. I
can
shoot a longbow and I can do it as accurately as any man!'
Her words were met with silent disbelief.
âI need to practise now. You can watch me, if you like.' She
needed her ancestors to believe in her. She needed to give them hope. âI assume your husband has a target?'
âHe practised every week before the de Courcys threw him in their dungeons,' replied Rhiannon bitterly. âAs he is bound to do. It's over there, behind the house.'
Merry flinched. The same place her and her father's target stood, five hundred years later.
âI cannot tarry,' Mair was saying. âI have jobs to do and a living to earn.'
The old woman's face was creased in worry. She walked a few paces away, beckoned Merry to her.
âPractise, I know you must,' she said quietly but urgently. âGive them the hope they need, then hurry home. And pray stay out of sight if you see others nearby.'
Merry nodded.
âRemember, the Owens will suffer more if they are seen to be harbouring the one-eyed horse thief.'
Merry reached out and touched the healer's shoulder. âI'll be careful, I promise. They have enough trouble without me adding to it.'
Worrying, all too aware of the dangers that seemed to multiply around her, Merry watched Mair set off up the hill. She turned as she felt the girl, Angharad, pulling at her sleeve.
âShall I walk you to the target?' the girl asked, a hint of boldness in her eyes.
Merry smiled down at her. âThat would be very helpful.'
Angharad took Merry's hand and led her along. Rhiannon and Gawain followed behind.
âHow many summers are you?' Angharad asked, looking up at her.
âI'm fifteen,' replied Merry. âHow many summers are you?'
âEleven' came the reply. Merry hid her surprise. Angharad looked smaller, younger.
âWhere do you bide?'
âBide?' replied Merry with a puzzled look.
â
Live
. Your home,' explained the girl.
Merry felt another jolt of emotion. She blew out a breath. âAh, not too far away,' she managed to say.
Preoccupied, she didn't notice the man watching from the trees.
L
ongbowman Owen's target was different from the ones Merry used, but the principle was the same: hit dead centre! This one was made of a circle of white-painted wood attached to a post that was dug into the ground. In the middle was a black circle about six inches across and inside that a small white circle: the gold.
Merry paced away from it, counting out the yards, looking for any marks in the grass that would reveal the start line.
âWhere's your father's start mark?' she asked Angharad.
âHe has several. The far one is a long, long way back,' replied the girl with a flash of pride.
She strode out, Merry following. At last they came to a scuffed area with a faint streak of white.
âThis must be all of two hundred yards,' Merry said. She felt
a wave of despair.
âYes, but he uses closer ones too,' Angharad added. She pulled Merry back closer to the target. âHundred yards, this one is,' the girl said, pointing at a worn area in the grass.
That was thirty yards more than she trained at, thought Merry. She walked forward another twenty yards. If she were to practise for accuracy, get her eye in, this was as far back as she could go. She could only pray the tourney would focus on shorter range, higher accuracy shooting.
She picked up the unfamiliar bow, weighed it in her hands, tried to get a feel for it. Thicker, heavier, darker wood. It was an old bow, well used, well made. She remembered Ivan Evans words: â
Bit of a history . . . from before my grandfather's time
' . . . She had the strongest sense that it had gone to war. Maybe even Agincourt . . . just over a hundred years ago.
She gripped it tight. She would use its history, use its strength. As always when holding a bow, but today more than ever, she felt the power of the weapon surge through her.
She turned to her ancestors, gave them a brief smile. Their faces remained sombre. And disbelieving.
She turned her attention back to her bow. She used her knee on the stave, putting most of her weight on to it, flexed it, strung it with her own fast flight cord.
She twisted, loosened the drawstring on her arrow bag, pulled out an arrow. She flexed it, proved it, nocked it. She braced her legs, bent over and breathed. In one graceful movement, summoning all her power, Merry straightened, pulling back the bow as she did.
Please don't break
, she thought,
aware of the almost unbearable tension her string placed on the old bow.
She took a moment with the bow at full extension, eyeing the target and the fields behind. Then she released her string. The bow sprang back to vertical with a massive, explosive force, propelling the arrow into the target.
Merry heard the gasps, heard the words, but she ignored them all. Instead she looked up at the cold mountains, watching impassively, the mountains of her childhood. They'd be the mountains of her old age too, if she survived this.
She pulled her attention back to her bow, to the target. She loosed her remaining arrows. Only then did she turn to her audience.
Now
they believed.
Merry continued to practise. She'd hit the black ring and that was a start, but she was not consistently hitting the inner white ring. She had no idea if taking part in the tourney would be enough, or if she had to win. But it seemed to her that winning would be the only sure way to guarantee that her family's pledge was seen to be honoured by the hostile earl and his friend the king.
She shot arrow after arrow till her fingers were raw and her muscles trembling.
The ancestors continued to watch. High above a peregrine falcon circled.
Finally, she got three arrows in a row in the inner white ring. She knew if she practised any more today, her muscles
would seize up. She unstrung her bow.
âI'll see you tomorrow,' she said to Rhiannon and the children.
They nodded gravely.
âYou're like an angel,' said Angharad, awestruck.
âNo, she's not,' said Gawain. âShe's like a warrior!'
Angharad laughed. âAn angel warrior!'
The words hit Merry like an electric shock. Time, legend and truth collided. She looked at her three ancestors and felt the burn of a new purpose and strength grow inside her.
This
was what it was all about.
This
was who and what she'd come back for. Maybe even why she'd been born. To their surprise, she grabbed them, hugged them in turn, then before they could see her tears, she hurried up the hill to Mair's cottage.
M
erry pushed open the door and froze.
Mair lay on the beaten-earth floor, blood leaking from a wound to her temple.
Merry rushed over to her, fell to her knees.
âMair, can you hear me?' she asked, taking the old lady's wrist, frantically feeling for a pulse. After a few terrible seconds she found one.
âOh, thank God. Thank God. You're alive,' she said.
No reply. Mair was unconscious. Merry prayed she wasn't in a coma. Was she breathing? Merry held her hand close to the healer's lips, felt the slightest of draughts.
God, what to do? Move her? What if she had a broken back? Merry didn't think so. It looked like Mair had been hit with a blunt object, perhaps taken by surprise by an intruder who
crept up on her from behind. Then Merry saw the brick on the ground, the hiding place revealed and at that moment, Mair murmured and tried to sit up.
Merry reached her arm around the old lady's back, supported her. âIt's all right, Mair. I'm here.'
âA man,' said the healer in a faint voice. âLooking for
you
. He asked me where
Merry
Owen was. And he took my gold coins and my healer's book.'
Merry glanced from Mair to the door. She felt a kind of blind fury. Fury that had nowhere to go.
âHow long ago?'
âJust now.'
Fury that had somewhere to go. âWill you be all right? If I leave you for a bit?'
The healer nodded, struggled to sit.
Merry strung her bow, shouldered her arrow bag, closed the door. She looked across the empty field, past the lowing cow, down to the forest.
Who
was
this man who had attacked Mair and asked for her by name? And where would he flee to? A flock of birds erupted from the treetops as if in answer to her question.
Merry didn't think twice about following the man. About what might happen if she caught him.
She sprinted down to the forest. Paused, listened. Movement, footfalls, branches breaking. She sprinted on, weaving between the trees, jumping fallen logs.
With luck, the thief would be making so much noise he wouldn't hear her, but she'd have to be careful. She paused
again, heard something further down the slope. She glimpsed movement ahead, a hundred yards away. A lithe figure dodging through the trees.
She ran on, gaining. The man was running, not sprinting. He had no idea he was being chased. As Merry closed the gap on him, she could see he was wearing a green woollen tunic, similar to hers. Underneath, he wore dark leggings. But as she got closer still, she could see that the leggings were made not of rough wool, but of
Lycra
.
Her heart lurched. The man was from her time . . .
She stepped on a fallen branch. It snapped with a loud crack. Birds erupted again from the trees, cawing their alarm.
The man froze. Every single fibre of his body seemed to stop moving. One foot in the air, one arm forward. Then he turned.
Merry gasped. It was Professor Parks! She'd had a sense that someone had been following her, both in her time and now. Parks must have tailed her to the pool, watched her swim under the waterfall, swim back . . . And swum back too. Then stalked her, listened outside the cottage, heard her describing Mair's hiding place, where she kept her gold coins. Knew everything.
He began to walk towards Merry. His face was set, eyes hard, scanning the forest behind her, as if to check she was alone.
Merry took an arrow from her bag, was about to nock it when Parks stopped. Thirty yards away.
He stood, feet planted wide, facing her full on, making a target of himself in silent mockery of the lethal weapon she
held in her hand. He didn't look remotely afraid, or ashamed to have been caught. Instead he grinned at her with what looked like a kind of twisted delight.
âMerry Owen. Who'd have thought it? You and I.
Together
. In King Henry's time?'
He had the beginnings of a beard. It darkened the hollows of his face. He'd always looked vaguely sinister; now he looked frightening. And oddly liberated. As if he'd shrugged off
Professor Parks
and become someone different.
âYou were following me all along, weren't you?' said Merry.
âYou only just figured that out?' He gave her a contemptuous look. âYou really are spectacularly unobservant, aren't you?'
Merry said nothing. She just kept her gaze fixed on him. She could feel her heart thudding.
âAnd it was you who broke into my home.'
Parks laughed. âI didn't even have to break in! You'd left the doors unlocked â you even told me you always did. Quite unbelievable!'
âThat's because I don't live in a world with people who steal, who attack,' said Merry.
âActually,' sneered Parks, âit would appear that you do. Besides, who are you to lecture me? You stole the signet ring.'
âAnd then you stole it again, flogged it to some antiques dealer.'
âWho sold it to the countess . . . Nice little profit, that.'
âYou're a thief and almost a murderer. You hit me and knocked me out! I could have died of hypothermia out there in
the snow.'
Parks shrugged. âYou got in the way. The snow was unfortunate.'
âWhy did you want the book so much?'
âI had a feeling it would lead me to some other discovery.' Parks stretched his arm out. âI had no idea it would be this.' He paused, smiled. âI didn't manage to get the book, but I had the next best thing. You!'
âMe?'
Parks came closer. âI felt sure you were up to something, hunting for something. So I followed you.
Many have died
. Kudos, Merry, for swimming back, for surviving.'
âHow did
you
manage it?'
âIt was
very
tough, even I must admit that, but an oxygen re-breather and flippers proved rather useful.' He smiled again. âI followed you back the first time too. Didn't you sense me?'
âIt was
you
in the tunnel, following me into the castle!'
âIt was indeed. Suicidally risky. I took some little
objets
, souvenirs, couldn't resist . . .' His eyes gleamed at the memory. âThen I went outside again, hid in the forests, waited and watched.' He gave Merry a nod of admiration. âBit of a narrow escape you had that night, galloping off on the Arab horse. If they'd caught you . . .' He made a cutting motion, hand across his throat. âNot even sure you'd have made it as far as the gallows. The men and the dogs hunting you, blood up. You'd have had a far worse fate . . .'
Merry shuddered at the memory. Of being hunted. Of being
prey
.
Parks took another few paces closer.
âDicing with death again, aren't you, coming back,
horse thief
. . .'
âI did what I needed to do then. And now,' replied Merry, anger rising. âBut you . . .
you
had no need to attack an old lady, to steal her savings and her book.'
Parks narrowed his eyes. âHave you
any
idea what this is like for an archaeologist? A historian? Coming back, to another world, a different time? How could I
not
take things?'
âTaking her treasures is bad enough. But attacking her? You could have killed her!' shouted Merry.
Parks's response was chillingly cold, almost devoid of emotion. âShe got in the way.'
âLike me. In the snow.'
Parks nodded. âExactly.'
Merry stood very still, her body tingling with horror. Was this what a psychopath looked like? Reasonable. Remorseless. Ruthless.
Parks continued to approach. He was just fifteen yards away now. Merry knew she'd have to act.
Nock, mark, draw, loose . . .
Could she do it . . . ?
âYou're in my way again,' murmured Parks.
Merry nocked her arrow.
âI can read a lot in people's eyes,' continued Parks. âLike I can read in yours that you want to shoot me.' He gave a half-laugh. âOnly you haven't got the bottle for it, have you, Merry? It's just an ego thing, this longbow girl affectation.' Again he stepped closer.
He was going to rush her, she could see that.
Merry held her bow, the bow she felt sure had gone to war, had more than a few kills to its name . . . She nocked, marked and drew. She looked at the man, looked at the tree behind him, then she loosed her arrow.
It flew towards Parks, nicked his ear and embedded itself in the tree with a loud thud.
Parks swore, dropped the book, touched his ear, stared at his bloody fingers with disbelief. A muscle twitched in his cheek. Merry could feel the fury boiling in the man, the violence waiting to erupt.
She nocked another arrow, marked him, drew again. âPut down the gold coins or I'll shoot this one right into you.' Her voice and her hand on the bow were steady, but inside she was vibrating with fear.
The blood ran down Parks's neck. He pulled a bag from his tunic and dropped it to the ground.
âOne little pathetic victory for you. Enjoy it while you can,
Merry Owen
, because I'll be out here. I'll be watching and waiting and I promise you, I'll make you more than pay for this.'
Merry made the arrow twitch. Parks dodged, turned and sprinted off into the deep of the forest.