‘Will you not reconsider, my lord? Could this not be an opportunity to demonstrate your mercy, your fairness, your kindness? Shall we not show the world that strength also lies in these things and that great men are not afraid to be thought of so?
She waited then, her breath held, not knowing if the king was ensorcelled, or if he was about to send her to the city gaol.
‘It is a show of greatness to be merciful…’ he said.
‘There is none greater.’
He nodded and then smiled. ‘Tell me, daughter of Llewellyn ap Iorath, what title would you have me give you?’
She stepped back, taking her position at the front of the crowd. She needed him to speak his words loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘By your grace, my liege, I would be known as Lady Rhiannon of the Black Valley.’
He got to his feet, took a stride forward and drew his sword.
‘Kneel, girl,’ he said.
Rhiannon did as she was told, bowing her head as she did so, hoping in her heart that her father would forgive her for swearing allegiance to his enemy. If her people were to have a future, this was the only way.
The king touched the sword on first her left shoulder, and then her right, and then placed the point of it beneath her chin, lifting her face to look at him while he announced in a bold voice, ‘Let it be known, this maid is to be afforded safe passage over all our lands. Her followers are our allies. She acts in my name in that domain that was her father’s and any who oppose her oppose me in the doing of it. Arise, Lady Rhiannon of the Black Valley!’
Rhiannon stood, hoping no-one could see how much she trembled. She noticed the solider release his gripon Owain, who stepped forward to be by her side, his chest puffed with pride. She smiled at the king then, nodding another bow.
‘I return to my homeland to spread word of your justice,’ she told him, stepping slowly back and turning to walk through the crowd. As she did so she noticed the expressions on the faces of the lords and ladies of the court. She saw them change from that tranquil state she had bestowed upon them with her enchantment, through something like an awakening, followed by a mild puzzlement. It would be wise, she knew, for her and her men to be far from the city before any of them began questioning what it was that had just taken place in the great hall of the palace of Kingsholm.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London, 2019
The Begovich warehouse that stood in an unfashionable part of London’s old docklands was as unremarkable as it was drab. There was nothing about its exterior to mark it out as extraordinary or important. As Dragana stepped out of the black Range Rover and entered the building she reminded herself of the necessity of such ugliness. Such anonymity. Of course, when her father had bought the building, over thirty years earlier, it had been considered a wise investment and a prestigious location for his import/export business. In the eighties, it had been no small achievement for an immigrant from what was then Yugoslavia to establish themselves in such a place on such a scale. Now the building served as a legitimate business to cover their more clandestine enterprises, as well as a vital base, secure and private, for Dragana’s own purposes.
The interior continued the impression that this was a functioning operation, in as much as there were crates and cases, marked with their point of origin which was invariably Belgrade. Further labelling suggested thecontents were traditional pickles and bottled sauces, cases of plum brandy, or crafts and artefacts to satisfy any homesick compatriots. Closer inspection, however, would reveal a patina of long-settled dust, cobwebs strung between many of the crates, and a general air of nothing having been disturbed for months if not years. Dragana strode past these familiar, unimportant objects and ran lightly up the stairs at the far end of the warehouse. These led to the glass fronted mezzanine office. The large interior window allowed the main part of the building to be observed from a lofty distance. The bullet-proof glass and double locked door provided a place of safety.
Inside, the heating was at an uncomfortable level, and a layer of cigarette smoke drifted across the room. Her father sat at the card table, chain smoking, a pot of strong coffee and a plate of sweetratlukbeside him, enjoying a game with Victor and Nenad. He looked up at her and smiled before returning his attention to the cards. She wondered briefly at what point his two bodyguards had become his two closest friends. It was they who spent the most time with him, and had done for years. Now that his mind was enfeebled, it was they who had the most patience with him. And possibly the most love. She shook off the thought. Any sentiment she had for her father had long ago been replaced witha sense of obligation and responsibility for him, little more. Of greater interest to her on this occasion were the two men who were her own aids and helpmates: her brothers. Yoksa, older than her by a year but without the wit to run the family firm, was as pale as he was thin, taking after his father. Brane had endured school with the nickname ofkit, which was Serbian for whale. Until the day he had used his great size with his more grizzly bear-like bad temper and broken a fellow student’s arms. Still he was conscious of his weight, and somehow it was even more noticeable when he stood as he did now, as if summoned by the headteacher. Dragana was expecting important news from them. She strode to the desk, setting her Gucci handbag down on the worn polished wood, standing with her arms folded, regarding her brothers with a questioning stare. She saw at once that the news was not going to please her. Their body language and downcast gazes spoke loudly about the lack of success of their given task. She felt her mood darken.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Yoksa found his voice. ‘Nothing. No sign. He never returned to his boat.’
‘We waited hours, kept a close watch…’ Brane’s words petered out as he glanced up to see his sister’s expression harden further.
She slammed her fist down onto the desk. ‘Jebiga, can I leave nothing to you? Must I do everything myself?’
‘We did what you asked, Dragica,’ Yoksa tried using her pet name but it cut no ice.
‘I told you to bring me Tudor! Is he here? Have I missed something? Do you, perhaps, have him hidden among theslivovitz?’
They both shook their heads.
At that moment, so engaged in his game he was unaware of the tension at the other side of the room, Nenad proudly declared his winning hand, slapping the cards down in front of the other players with a whoop of delight.
‘Ah, full house! My money, I think,’ he laughed loudly, scooping the cash on table towards him. Only then, in the painful silence that followed, did he sense the heightened atmosphere of the room. With genuine apprehension, he turned to look at Dragana, filled with fear at the way she was regarding him. ‘Izvinite, molim!’He begged her forgiveness, slipping into his native tongue instinctively, forgetting for the moment his boss’s insistence that they all speak English and so fuelling her irritation with him further. It was his misfortune to give Dragana a focus for her seething anger. In that instant, it was as if all the air had been suckedfrom the room. No-one moved. Nenad sat, still clutching a handful of money in a trembling hand as on the other side of the desk the young woman’s eyes bore into him. Her mouth became a taut, thin line and she reached out a hand as if to place it around his throat. Even though she did not touch him, he gasped, starting to choke. The temperature in the room rose sharply and there was a rank, bitter smell. The tobacco smoke was gone, to be replaced by something altogether more deadly and poisonous. The smoke pulsated and then turned towards Nenad as if following Dragana’s direction. The terrified man tried to scream but managed only a pitiful whimper. The veins at his temples bulged and his skin began to flake and peel as if burning.
Yoksa stepped forward. ‘Sister!’
She turned her eyes on him and he backed down at once, holding up his hands in submission.
Nenad clawed at his own throat, his life hanging on a thin thread that Dragana could sever any moment she chose.
