‘You always were a stickler for the rules.’
‘Yeah, six years with the military will do that to people.’
‘Some people.’
‘Well, not Sergeant Plough-My-Own-Furrow-Tudor, obviously.’ She broke off to answer a question from a PC and sign a paper for forensics. She turned back to Tudor. ‘Again, same question, what are you doing here?’
‘Here in this building, or here in the middle of this carnage?’ He held out his gun and a signal from the DI brought a minion with an evidence bag running. He dropped in the weapon, experiencing a twinge of anxiety at having to be parted from it.
‘Still clever, I see,’ she said.
‘My employer has just bought one of the apartments here for his teenage son. I’m his security.’
‘Bet he loves that, poor kid. So, this anything to do with your job?’ She raised a neatly manicured hand to indicate the crime scene.
‘I was just in the wrong place at the right time.’
‘No change there then. OK, well, we get to have a nice little chat down at the station. Won’t that be fun? Jarvis!’ She barked at a passing subordinate.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Take Mr Tudor back to the Yard, would you? Find him a comfortable chair in one of our lovelier rooms, and a cup of our finest coffee. He might be there a while.’ She turned back to Tudor. ‘I can’t wait to hear your side of this,’ she said, and let slip a small smile, one that went back a few years. Plainly a little annoyed with herself for allowing this glimpse through the barrier of her rank, she put on a stern expression and marched off towards the forensics team without another word.
Tudor watched her go, wondering at the way the world had a habit of spinning like a roulette wheel, snatching you onto familiar numbers at the most unexpected of times.
CHAPTER THREE
The Black Mountains, Wales 1084
The bone jarring cold of the well-water shocked Gwen back to consciousness. As she splashed, gasping, righting herself to float on her back, she could hear sounds of the soldiers leaving the village. She knew they would go straight to her home, to her friends, to what remained of her family. The knife in her stomach caused her to cry out in pain. The well, with its slippery stone walls, its darkness, its deathly cold, deep water, seemed to her then to be her tomb. It was unimaginable that she could, even in good health, have climbed out from it. As she was, in pain, bleeding, weakened, she could barely keep herself afloat. She knew she must do something to staunch the flow of blood. She reached up and fumbled in the half light that fell from the distant well-top, feeling for the moss that she knew would choose to grow in such a place. At last she felt a patch of it, soft and plump, and tugged it free of the stone wall. With care, each movement causing more pain and threatening greater loss of blood, Gwen packed the moss tightly onto the point where theblade entered her flesh. She pushed her back against the unyielding stone, bracing herself, physically and mentally, for what was to come. After a moment’s hesitation, she plucked the knife from her stomach, immediately taking hold of it in her teeth to guard against a scream and keep it from being lost in the water. Now, with both hands free, she was able to pack the wound more carefully, undo the belt of her dress and retie it to hold the makeshift dressing in place. It took her two long minutes to recover from this agonising exertion, the blows to her head she had sustained during the fall beginning to make themselves felt, her temple throbbing and her vision starting to blur. Whilst she was no longer in danger of bleeding to death, she knew that to lose consciousness now would be to sink below the water, her partially numbed body inured to the chill of it, so that she would not wake a second time. She looked around for footholds in the stone, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. The surfaces looked impossibly smooth, the height of the wall daunting. A little to her right, an arm’s length above her head, she saw a small groove, an indentation between two of the ancient stones. She took the knife from between her teeth and swung her arm up towards it. She missed, by some distance. She tried again, grunting with the effort and wincing at the jolt of pain through her wounded stomach.Again, her reach fell short. Each stabbing attempt cost her dearly. She knew she had scant strength on which to draw; few remaining chances of success. Again she tried, and this time, the blade found its mark, biting into the dirt, piercing the rubble as she drove it into the narrow cleft. Gwen held on to the hilt with every scrap of strength she could summon. She hauled herself upwards, taking hold with both hands as soon as she was able, pushing with her feet as they scrabbled for purchase against the algae-slimed rocks. She managed to drag herself up, locating a toe-hold for one foot, pulling herself to the knife so that she was at last able to tuck the hilt under one arm. So braced, her back against the wall and some of her weight taken on her foot, she paused, resting, her breathing heavy. She was, at least, out of the bone-chilling water, but it was an empty victory. She knew for certain now that she did not have the strength to haul herself to freedom. It was too far. She was too weak. She closed her eyes and leaned her brow against her arm, close to despair. She thought of her father, his life given in defence of his home and family. She thought of her mother, her heart aching with the fear of what fate might have befallen her. It seemed so pointless, to die without having been able to help either of them. To slip away into thedarkness unable to stand with the villagers who had meant so much to her.
She was aware of herself fading, her eyes closing. It was then she saw, in a vision or a dream, she knew not which, the face of a stranger. He was older than any man she had ever seen, his skin brown and deeply lined, but his eyes were bright, his gaze strong as he held her in it. She tried to focus on him, to place him in her memory, to understand where it was he had come from. Why should someone unknown to her inhabit her failing mind? Why now? Although she was certain she had never met him, she felt a curious affinity. There was a comfort to be had in his presence; a sense of support, as if some of his strength could be gifted to her. She became aware that her eyes were in fact open, and the image of the stranger grew clearer, until she could see a whole figure before her, his feet just touching the surface of the water. While she watched he smiled, a warmth and sincerity creasing the corners of his eyes as he did so. He reached out a hand and she experienced his cool touch upon her forehead. And then, in a heartbeat, he was gone. She felt the loss of him keenly.
‘Oh, come back!’ she whispered. ‘Please…’
He did not reappear. Instead, she heard small sounds. Scraping noises. Metallic and discordant. Indistinct,but definite. Sounds to break the earlier wet silence of the well. A movement startled her. Looking up, she saw now that the bucket of the well had been removed and someone was being tied to the rope. The winch was turned and the figure slowly lowered towards her. It was only when he reached her that she recognised him.
‘Dafydd!’ she cried, relief almost robbing her of her voice.
‘Come, my lady. Let me tie the rope around you. There, have a care now.’
Once she was secured by the rope Dafydd whistled twice and someone at the top turned the handle of the winch. Slowly, painfully, Gwen was hoisted upwards. She emerged into the dwindling light of the day, faint and bewildered. Kind words were whispered in her ear as unknown helpers lifted her over the low wall of the well and untied the rope. She heard urgent instructions in hushed voices, and through her blurred vision she recognised Rufus.
‘Mother?’ she asked as they placed her gently on the back of a low wagon. ‘Where is my mother, Rufus?’
The slave called to her softly as the cart moved forwards. ‘Lie quiet, my lady,’ he told her. ‘I beg of you, save your strength.’
‘But… my mother..’
‘Hush child,’ said a voice beside her.
Gwen blinked at the tiny old woman who sat in a small heap upon a bundle of sacks.
‘Mamgi? Is it you?’
‘I am here, Lady Gwen. Sleep now. Sleep,cariad,’ she said, tucking a flour sack around the girl and taking hold of her hand.
The following days slipped by in a haze of pain and delirium as Gwen fought to recover from her wound. She was aware of little save the soothing murmur of grandmother Williams’ voice as she nursed her, the flickering flames of the smokey fire which warmed their tiny dwelling, and the torment of her own body. When eventually she came to her senses with any steadiness it was nighttime. The old woman was sitting close to the hearth, knitting by the light of the low flames. Gwen took in her surroundings. A tallow candle placed on a small table was the only other light source, so that her impressions of her new home were but shadows. The ceiling was low, the floor earth, the single window shuttered, the stout door closed. A pile of wood took up one corner of the room. There was a stewpot hanging on a chain to the side of the fire.Gwen’s bed was makeshift and hard, apparently constructed of flour sacks stuffed with straw, rough beneath her bare legs. She could taste dry spittle in her mouth and the woodsmoke caught in the back of her throat. Even with logs burning in the grate and with the added warmth of a sheepskin, she was chilled and shivering. She stirred, attempting to sit up a little. Mamgi was instantly alert.
