The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine

followed her into the dining room and stood beside her, staring down at her sketchbook. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Neither did we. None of it happened. The pictures weren’t spoiled. The glass wasn’t broken. The wine bottles are full. Dan wasn’t cut.’ She glanced at Rhodri sideways. He was frowning as he looked down at the sketchbook. Almost nervously he reached out and turned the page. ‘This is some kind of joke, yes?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘That boyfriend of yours –’

      ‘Not my boyfriend. A colleague.’

      ‘Well, your colleague. He was trying to scare you, wasn’t he? Thought if you were frightened enough you would jump into bed with him.’

      ‘No!’ Jess turned on him furiously. ‘That is complete crap!’

      ‘So, you’re telling me he doesn’t fancy you?’ He favoured her with a look which made her feel first hot then cold as her mouth dropped open with indignation.

      ‘No, he doesn’t. At least …’ She paused. ‘No, of course he doesn’t. He’s a married man!’

      ‘Since when has that stopped people? Two of you here alone, no one for miles. Pretty house, lots of wine, no one here to interrupt, till I blunder in! You both made it pretty clear you did not want company.’

      ‘No, Rhodri. You’ve got it all wrong.’ She stared down at the sketchbook again. ‘How could anyone fake all that?’

      ‘Easy. Another sketchbook – so badly damaged you couldn’t tell. Lots of glass and spilled wine which could be cleaned up in the night. No real cut on his hand, just Kensington Gore.’

      ‘Kensington Gore?’ Jess was staring at him, bewildered.

      ‘Fake blood, darling!’

      Her mouth dropped open. ‘No. You’re wrong,’ she repeated angrily. ‘Quite wrong!’

      ‘Am I? Maybe.’ He smiled. ‘Blame my profession. I have a taste for melodrama. But I’m a damn good judge of character. I wouldn’t trust that guy further than I could throw him.’

      ‘He’s my friend.’ She drew herself upright. ‘You have no business to say things like that!’

      ‘OK!’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Forget I said anything. The great thing is that no harm was done and if you gave in to his comforting advances, then I apologise.’

      ‘He didn’t make any advances!’ Jess broke off abruptly. Suddenly she was remembering Dan’s ambiguous goodnight, the way he had stepped forward to kiss her, the bedroom door latch, the creak on the landing. She shivered. No. That was rubbish. Dan didn’t fancy her. He never had.

      Seeing Rhodri’s raised eyebrow she went on, ‘Whatever else he might have done he couldn’t have faked my sketchbook. That was ruined last night. You saw it. It was covered in blood. It’s the same book.’

      He shrugged. ‘Then I can’t explain how he did it. The man’s a miracle worker!’

      She glared at him, shaking her head. ‘There is another possibility,’ she said tentatively. ‘Do you know if this house is haunted?’

      Rhodri roared with laughter. ‘Ah, so it was the ghost!’

      ‘Maybe.’

      When she didn’t smile he sobered rapidly. He studied her face, his head on one side. ‘Your sister thinks it is. She told my mother about it.’

      ‘What did she say?’

      ‘There’s a child here. A naughty child. She breaks things in the studio.’

      Jess felt her stomach lurch. For a moment she said nothing.

      Rhodri looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I think that is a cue for a drink if ever there was one.’

      Jess watched as he vanished into the kitchen and with a confidence born of long association reached down two glasses from the cupboard, found a corkscrew and set about opening his bottle. He returned and handed her a glass. ‘This whole valley is haunted. I was brought up with the legends of these hills. Down there,’ he gestured towards the window, ‘in the valley bottom where the river runs, is the site of an ancient battle, so the story goes. And up on the hill behind us, there is an Iron Age fort. The place is full of ghosts of fallen warriors and anguished gods. Stories like that are told over centuries and improve with the telling, but there must be some truth behind them. Round here they claim it is the location of the last stand of Caratacus against the Romans. He was the Welsh hero who rallied the tribes.’

      ‘And the child in this house was his daughter,’ Jess said, half to herself.

      Rhodri looked sceptical. ‘That’s a huge deduction! But come to think of it, why not.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘It would be surprising if there weren’t ghosts round here. The Welsh borders are full of them. A thousand battles, two thousand years of strife. Mist and magic round every corner. It is a blessed place.’ He grinned.

      Jess found herself smiling back almost against her will. When he wasn’t being aggressive he had a nice face. ‘Unless you happen to be living on top of a hot spot!’

      ‘Nicely put. You know what this house is called. Ty Bran. That means, Ravens House. And down there they call it the Valley of Ravens. It fits the story. Ravens come to a battlefield to pick the bodies of the dead clean. The battle goddess, is a raven goddess.’

      Jess shivered. ‘It’s hardly surprising memories of something like that haunt a place.’

      He hesitated. ‘Well, don’t let it put you off. It’s all in the past.’

      ‘Is it, though?’ She smiled sadly.

      ‘Yes.’ He looked at her with a frown. ‘Yes, it is.’ He drained his glass and put it down. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. My agent is coming over. He won’t stay long though. He doesn’t like to be out of the metropolis after dark! The ghosts are too much for him as well. Ring me if it all gets too much for you, girl, and I’ll take you down to the pub later. Distract you with a bevvy and a meal.’ He headed for the door. ‘Believe me, you’re better on your own up here. That chap was no good for you.’

      She opened her mouth to argue but he was already halfway across the yard and climbing back into his car.

      ‘Cheeky bastard!’ she muttered as he began to back out of the gate. But for some reason he had made her feel better.

       6

      That afternoon she walked up the track and into the wood, splashing through glittering puddles, listening to the chatter of the leaves in the light wind, feeling the dappled sunlight on her face. The track wound its way upwards through stands of ash and oak, every now and then coming near enough to the edge of the trees for her to be able to rest and gaze across the broad river valley towards the north. From here she could just see the river, a strip of glittering blue, fringed with willows, winding its way across the water meadows. In the distance she could hear sheep calling, and the wild yelping cry of a buzzard, soaring out across the hills. It was blessedly peaceful and very hard to imagine a battle taking place anywhere nearby.

      She was out of breath by the time she reached a stand of older trees, ancient lichen-covered oaks, near the top of the hill, and beside them a venerable yew. Falling away to the south the ground was steep, almost terraced, with knotted roots and tangled brambles hugging the contours down towards a rocky stream far below. As she stood trying to regain her breath she saw a fox, trotting across a clearing only metres away from her. Intent on its own affairs it never saw her, vanishing almost at once into a thicket.

      Sitting down on a mossy log at the foot of one of the trees she leaned