The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine

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 back against the trunk, content to rest for a few minutes in the sunlight, suddenly aware that in the distance a dog was barking.

      The praefectus sent ten men out to the spot where Cerys and Eigon had been found. They spent a day searching the woods for the two children without success. Dogs were brought in and the whole area combed again; then Eigon was brought with her mother to the track near the tumbled byre. The child was crying as Cerys led her forward into the trees, followed by the legionaries. The men looked grave. They knew there was nowhere else to search. Every foxhole and badger sett, with all their miles of passages, the nant flowing over its rocky bed, the ditches and hollows under the roots of the trees had been scoured now by men or dogs. There was nowhere else to look. Before them the trees thrashed in yet another storm, leaves flying in a whirl into the mud, obscuring any tracks not already overlaid by the heavy tramp of the nailed sandals of the soldiers.

      ‘Just try, sweetheart. Did you run up or down the hill, can you remember? Did you cross the stream?’ Cerys held her daughter’s hand tightly, trying desperately not to show her fear.

      ‘We played a game. Hide and seek. I told them not to come out.’

      ‘That was right. That was what I told you to do.’ Cerys’s voice was shaking. ‘But now we need to call them.’

      Already it was growing dark again. The heavy sky hid any trace of the sunset as the rain clouds streamed in across the land from the west.

      Two of the men approached their officer and saluted. ‘We’re not going to find them, sir. We’ve been over every inch of ground. They must have wandered off or someone or something must have got them.’

      ‘No!’ Cerys’s wail of despair echoed through the trees. Dropping Eigon’s hand she grabbed the arm of the praefectus. ‘Please, you can’t stop looking. You can’t!’

      He looked down at her thoughtfully. The woman was right. It was not so much the plight of the children which motivated him, but the thought of what the commander would say if any of Caratacus’s family were mislaid. Hostages were vital at the best of times and these particular hostages, more vital than most. The bargaining power implicit in their capture was enormous. He turned to the men. ‘Widen the search. Continue through the night if necessary. Bring another fifty men.’

      Justinus personally escorted Cerys and her daughter back to the encampment and left them at the entrance to their tent. As Eigon disappeared inside, her tear-streaked face wan with exhaustion, the praefectus put a restraining hand on her mother’s arm.

      ‘Could you identify the men who assaulted you?’ he asked.

      Cerys shook her head. ‘I lost consciousness. I don’t remember –’

      ‘And the child?’

      Cerys shook her head miserably. ‘How can I even ask her?’

      ‘If you want them punished you will ask her.’ He looked down at her grimly. ‘Consider, madam, whether those same men could have found your son and your other daughter.’

      Cerys let out a small moan of distress. She turned back towards him but already he had saluted and turned away, tramping off through the mud into the darkness towards the long lines of tents. The guards at her own had already stepped forward, crossing their spears across the entrance to imprison her. Inside, in the gentle light of the single oil lamp on the empty clothes trunk which served as a table she could see the woman who had been assigned to wait on them gently rubbing Eigon’s hair with a towel.

      ‘Sweetheart!’ Waving the woman away, Cerys knelt in front of the child and took hold of her firmly by the arms. ‘I want you to tell me something. The man who hurt you so badly,’ she paused, staring into her daughter’s eyes, ‘would you know him again?’

      She saw the eyes widen, the terror at the violent return of the memory, a moment of total paralysis as the fear returned and then the slow reluctant nod.

      ‘How would you recognise him?’

      ‘He had eyes like a wolf; the colour of your sunshine beads.’

      Amber.

      ‘He had a tattoo high up on his arm. But not a beautiful pattern like our warriors. It was hard and rough. A picture of a Roman sword with writing on.’

      Sinking down on her knees Cerys breathed deeply, releasing the child and clenching her fists in the folds of her skirt until her knuckles were white. ‘Would you know him if you saw him?’

      The little girl nodded. ‘His face is a picture inside my head. And his arm too. I looked at it hard while he –’ there was a sudden painful pause. ‘While he was hurting me. I will never forget his arm …’

      ‘His arm!’ Jess’s eyes flew open. The arm, across her throat, pushing her back, holding her down on the bed, she could see it suddenly as clearly as she could see her own hand, clenched on her knees. And the arm though it was tanned, and covered in fine dark hairs, was without any doubt at all the arm of a white man. It was not Ash!

      She was still leaning against the tree. The sun was still shining. Above her the buzzard was calling, a lonely wild wail high amongst the clouds, and suddenly she was shaking violently. The bastard! He was holding her down on her bed. His face was there, above her, all she had to do was open her eyes to see his face. But she couldn’t see his face. The memory had gone.

      ‘Shit!’ She lowered her forehead onto her knees. Will. It had to have been Will.

      Raising her face to the sun, she stared out between the trees into the misty blue distances.

      She couldn’t bear it to be Will.

      But if not Will, who?

      Dan?

      It was a long time before she stood up and headed slowly back along the track towards home.

      She went straight to the telephone to call Dan. She could at least ask him if he had faked the wrecking of the dining room. As a joke as Rhodri had suggested. Some joke.

      The message light on the phone was flashing. It was Rhodri. ‘Jess? I’ve just noticed in the Radio Times, there is a play on Radio 4 tonight. About Cartimandua. Have you ever heard of her? Listen to it. I think it might interest you. Eight o’clock.’

      ‘No, I haven’t heard of her! Who the hell is Cartimandua!’ Jess murmured as she punched in Dan’s number. The phone rang and rang. Neither Dan nor his message service picked up and she hung up with a sigh.

      The house was very quiet, the quietness almost eerie as though someone was there, listening. She walked over to the door and peered out into the hall, then walked slowly through the house, holding her breath. There was no one there, no sign that anyone had been in while she was out.

      As the sun began to go down she bolted the front door, and removing Steph’s dried flowers, lit a fire of old apple logs in the living room. Making herself a supper of scrambled eggs on toast she sat on the floor in the long summer twilight to listen to the radio as she watched the flicker of flames on the old soot-stained stone of the fireplace.

      Cartimandua was, it appeared, an Iron Age, Celtic queen, a contemporary of Caratacus and of Boudica, but in contrast to her sister queen, she was an ally of Rome. Pushing aside her plate and picking up her glass of wine Jess leaned back against the sofa and listened enthralled as the play unfolded. Caradoc. The name echoed through the room as the evening faded into darkness round her. Caradoc was the name the Celts gave him. Caratacus was the Roman version. This was the man whose army had been defeated here in the valley below her sister’s house. And now she knew what had happened to him. He had fled after the battle, having no choice but to abandon his wife and children and make his way almost alone and badly wounded, into