Candlenight

the lane to the Tafarn.

What she was remembering was Martin Coulson, the curate, who had fallen and smashed his head on the tomb of Sir Robert Meredydd. And this had happened in broad daylight.

The image came to her of Berry Morelli face-down on the stone-flagged floor, unmoving, a river of dark blood flowing down the aisle. She began to run.

By the time she reached the door of the pub, the perspiration was out around her eyes; she felt clammy, wanting to shed her hat and her raincoat.

But she remembered how Owain Glyndwr, it was said, could bring about rapid changes in the weather to confound his enemies. Even Shakespeare's satire seemed to reflect this. Bethan, having studied Henry IV at college, knew all Glendower's overblown speeches, heard them echoing as she ran.

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent him

Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

So Bethan took off nothing.

From the Tafarn's ill-lit interior came sounds of merriment. Guto's voice, and the rest were English accents.

Inside the doorway she almost bumped into a stooping figure emerging from the gents' lavatory.

'Bethan! Where the hell have you been? You look all of a tizz.'

'Oh. Dai.' It came out as a long sigh.

'You look as if you need a drink, girl. Come and—'

'No. no. no.' Bethan wiped sweat from her eyes, smearing what remained of her make-up. 'You must help me, Dai. First, you have to get all those people out of there,'

'Oh hell.' Dai Death looked exasperated. 'This is what Aled was saying before he stopped talking altogether.

Everybody's gone mad tonight. Anyway, they won't go. The road is blocked at the Pont end and God knows what it's like over the Nearly Mountains. The council's out with the snow-ploughs and they're waiting for some clearance from—'

'Dai, get them out. I do not care how. Tell Guto—'

'They're all bloody pissed, girl! They don't care whether they get home or not.'

'God,' Bethan was almost frantic. 'Then can you and Idwal get up to the church and help Berry?'

'Why, what's he doing?'

Bethan wiped her eyes again and clasped her hands in front of her, squeezing the fingers. And told him very slowly and very precisely that Berry Morelli was trying to break into a tomb which was believed to contain the mortal remains of Owain Glyndwr.

Dai looked sorrowful. She did not think he believed what she had said, only that she was insane.

'My job, Bethan' he said, 'is to put them in, not get them out.'

'I wish this was all a joke, Dai. I really wish it was a joke.'

Dai put a calming hand on her shoulder. 'All right. All right. I will go. I'll bring Idwal. A good chapel boy. We'll both go. All right?'

Bethan nodded, sagging in the doorway. The heat was awful.

Aled washed glasses and watched the English drink.

The General Secretary of Plaid Cymru appeared at the bar. 'Did they say when the ploughs would be through?'

Aled shook his head.

'Where's Emlyn gone. The driver? He said he was going to see some friends, but he hasn't come back. We need a good driver now, more than ever, for these chaps.'

Aled shook his head, rinsed a glass, held it up in the candlelight, stood it on a shelf behind him.

'Any use, do you think, if I talk to the police?'

Aled made no reply. His hands moved mechanically, rinsing the glasses, holding them to the weak light, putting each one carefully on the shelf.

'I can't understand it. Why is the weather so bad in Pontmeurig when here it's so incredibly mild? I've never known anything like this… Oh. sorry, am I in your way?'

Charlie Firth had appeared unsteadily at his shoulder holding the plate which had held the cold meat pie he'd shared with Ray Wheeler. The plate slithered from his fingers onto the slop-mat on the bartop.

'I feel sick,' Charlie said.

He said it loudly enough to turn heads. Ray Wheeler's head anyway. And Guto's. Miranda's head was still on Guto's shoulder, shifting occasionally in sleep.

'The way I see it,' Charlie said, 'it was either that Welsh whisky or the meat pie. I'm betting on the pie.'

Aled washed another glass, rinsed it, held it to the candle.

'You listening to me, Alec?'

Aled turned his back on Charlie Firth and put the glass on the shelf behind him.

'You tried to poison me once. I said it'd never happen again.'

'What are you talking about?' Alun said.

'You tried to poison me,' Charlie Firth said, stabbing Alun in the chest with a rigid forefinger. 'You're Welsh, aren't you?'

'And you, I'm afraid, are legless, my friend,' Alun said jovially. 'Go and sit down. We'll get you back soon, don't worry.'

'Come on mate,' Ray Wheeler said. 'I had half that pie, and I don't feel sick.'

Aled washed another glass, impassive.

Charlie reached across the bar, snatched it from his hand and hurled it at the nearest wall. Nobody saw it connect; the light was too weak.

Aled said nothing but walked out through the door to the kitchen.

'That's it then.' Guto hauled Miranda to her feet in the manner of a man well used to removing comatose companions from bars. 'This looks like another of those scenes I need to avoid.'

'Don't know what's come over him.' Bill Sykes said. He'd removed his overcoat and his jacket, was sitting in shirt sleeves and a paisley waistcoat. Nobody had commented on the disappearance of Shirley Gillies and young Gary.

'The Welsh,' Charlie Firth's face was swollen with contempt, as if he were accumulating a mouthful of spit.

Behind him, Guto eased Miranda into the doorway, half-dragging her; she was dead weight. He motioned with his head to Alun, who mouthed. 'We can't leave them here.'

'We bloody can,' Guto shouted.

'Where have you gone, Alec, you little Welsh twat?' Charlie Firth was roaring.

Alun dodged behind him to the door, shouting to Ray and Bill. 'We'll find Emlyn for you. The driver. Send him back.'

Outside, he found Guto on the bench to the left of the porch, with Miranda in his arms. 'Come on, come on,' Guto was whispering urgently.

'Yes, yes, I'm here,' Alun said, searching his pockets for the Land-Rover keys. And then he realised Guto was talking to Miranda, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, blue snowlight washing over her classically English autocratic face.

Guto stared up at him, panic in his eyes. 'Alun, I–I can't bloody wake her, can I?'

Chapter LXX

The white moon, sickle-sharp, overhung the glade. The fat trees crouched, entangling their aged, twisted branches like the antlers of stags.