The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine

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СКАЧАТЬ memory. She wandered on into the large old-fashioned kitchen which was unnaturally tidy, overlooking the courtyard, and then through the passage with its small pointed windows, built to blend with the medieval lines of the lovely old byre which Steph had converted as her studio. Standing in the doorway she looked round at the unused materials on their shelves, the newly made pots carefully packed in boxes, the craftsman pieces which Steph sold through galleries in Radnor and Hereford and Hay, the piles of broken crocks. She hated the studio like this. Empty, like the house, the kiln cold, the soul somehow gone out of the place without her sister there. She stood for several moments, listening to the distant songs of the birds and she shivered. Walking back into the passage she turned the key in the lock and leaving the studio to its own devices she went back into the kitchen.

      Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come after all, with Steph not being here.

      Why hadn’t Steph said at once, come with me. Come to Rome. Come to the sunshine. Jess glared at the plants crowded onto the windowsill behind the sink. ‘It’s all your fault,’ she said out loud. ‘I’m plant sitting and it’s not what I had in mind at all!’

      She frowned. What she had in mind was to paint. To forget London and what had happened to her there. To look forward and not back. The thought cheered her. Suddenly she could hardly wait to open her sketchbook, to feel again the reassuring grip of a pen or brush in her hand. She wanted to capture everything. Trees. The silhouette of the hills. The warm soft outlines of the stone walls; the colours of the flowers, the incredible structure of the petals of the orchid on the kitchen windowsill. It was going to be OK.

      That night her dream returned. She was standing outside the front door, staring across the yard towards the open gate and the wood behind it. The branches of the trees were moving uneasily and she could sense a storm drifting along the broad river valley below the fields. The voice when it came was thin and wavering.

      Can we stop playing this game now. I’m frightened.

      It was coming from somewhere in the wood, almost drowned out by the sound of raindrops pattering down onto the leaves.

      ‘Where are you?’ Jess ran towards the gate. ‘Come in. It’s going to pour. Come here, sweetheart. You’ll be safe here.’

      The rain was growing heavier. She could feel it soaking into her jacket, drenching her hair. Her fingers were slippery on the top of the gate as she peered into the darkness. ‘Where are you?’

      A flash of lightning lit up the track and in the distance she caught sight of the child, her pale hair hanging in ropes across her shoulders, her little face pleading as the darkness closed in once more.

      ‘Wait. I’m coming! Wait there.’ Jess started to run down the track, her feet slipping in the mud as the first crash of thunder echoed around the hills.

      With a start her eyes opened and she lay looking up at the ceiling. For a second the dream lingered, then it was gone as she became aware of the drumming of rain on the slates above her head and on the flagstones in the courtyard outside the window. The rain was real. As was the thunder. As another rumble echoed round the house she sat up and reached for the light switch.

      In the kitchen she found herself staring out of the window into the darkness. There had been a child in her dream. A lost child. She shivered. It would be awful to be outside on a night like this. She was about to reach for the kettle when she heard a crash from behind the door which led into the passage to Steph’s studio. With a shiver she hugged her bathrobe round her. She ought to go and see what it was. Perhaps a tile had been dislodged by the wind or the rain or a window had blown open. If she left it something might be damaged. Her sudden fear was irrational. That was London fear. She was safe here. There was no one threatening her in this cosy haven. There was nothing to be afraid of except possibly her sister’s wrath if some precious piece of work got broken. Making her way to the door she paused, her hand on the latch, her ear pressed to the wooden panels. The rain was rattling on the roof, splattering out of a gutter somewhere onto the stones below in the yard. Slowly she reached for the key and turned it. It was several seconds before she could make herself pull open the door. The passage was in darkness. She could feel a damp chilly draught on her face. Somewhere a window must have blown open. Taking a deep breath she ran the few steps along the passage to the studio door, unlocked it and groped for the light switches. The sudden flood of cold light from high in the old beams revealed at once a box of finished figures which had been packed ready for delivery, lying on the floor. The box had splintered and broken open and the figures inside were smashed into a thousand pieces.

      ‘No!’

      Jess ran to them and crouching down, touched the shards of delicate broken pottery with gentle fingers. She looked up, gazing round. No windows seemed to be open. The studio was ice cold but there was no draught now, nothing which could have knocked the box off the table where it had been standing. Biting her lip sadly she stood up. Perhaps an animal had got into the studio. A cat or a bird. She stared round again, more carefully this time, listening, but the sound of the rain drowned out any other noises there might be. She could feel herself growing more and more nervous as she forced herself to walk slowly round the entire building, staring onto the shelves, peering into the shadows behind the kiln, trying the outside door into the yard to make sure it was securely bolted, standing on tiptoe to scan the higher shelves of tins and bottles, running her finger over the pale terracotta clay dust on the table. There was no one there. No sign of any intruder. Nothing else seemed to have been disturbed. Pausing at last she turned full circle, staring round one last time. Outside the windows the lightning flickered. The rain was easing off. Conscious suddenly of the absolute silence in the studio she hastened over to the door, gave one last look round, flicked off the lights and pulling the door closed behind her, locked it.

      Back in the warmth of the kitchen she found she was shivering violently. Pulling down the bright flowered blinds, she blocked out the blackness of the night behind the windows. She was reaching for the kettle when a voice whispered from right behind her,

       Can we stop playing now?

      Jess froze. The voice from her dream was in the room with her.

      It’s cold and wet out here. Let me in.

      No, she wasn’t in the room. She was outside the door. Jess ran to the door into the yard and put her hand on the bolt, then she hesitated. ‘Hello?’ she called. She listened. There was no reply. ‘Are you there?’ Slowly she turned the key. There was no chain on the door like the one she had in London. Steph would have laughed at such an idea out here in her country idyll. Nerving herself with a deep breath Jess pulled the door open a crack and peered out. The night was still wet and full of wind and rain. She could hear the thrash of tree branches, the slap of leaves against a wall, the drip of water into an overflowing butt. Groping on the wall near her she reached for the switch to the outside light. The courtyard was deserted, the windscreen of her car plastered with ash leaves torn from the trees on the track, a puddle reflecting the light shattered by raindrops. A broken slate lay on the ground near the door. She looked round, scanning the darkness for several seconds. There was no one out there. How could there be? Slamming the door shut again quickly she locked it once more, hugging her robe around her against the cold. The child had been part of her dream, nothing more.

      Back upstairs in her room she climbed into bed leaving the light on, and lay miserably back on the pillows. She had never felt more alone. It seemed like hours before her eyes closed and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep. In seconds she had plunged back into the dream.

      ‘Hurry, children!’ Eigon, the eldest daughter of King Caradoc, could hear the panic in her mother’s voice. It terrified her. Her mother was never frightened; Cerys was a courageous, calm, beautiful woman, idolised by her husband and her three children, СКАЧАТЬ