had risen over the marshes. ‘Petra is so ill. And she needs Yeshua. He could cure her, couldn’t he? His God is so powerful.’
Mora looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And your uncle? Is he still there?’
The boy nodded miserably, unable to tell a direct lie. He looked away from her. ‘He won’t be there when we get there. He said he was going out. He will be out all day. I can go ahead to make sure. Please, Mora. She was crying all night. It was awful, Mama and Sorcha took turns to sit with her, but we could all hear her.’
Mora looked past him out of the door. The sun was shining but the wind was bringing with it a wrack of stormy cloud. She was torn between the suspicion that Flavius would be there somewhere waiting, and her desire to help Petra. That the girl was in intolerable pain she knew was true. With the wind in this direction it was always worse and she doubted if Petra would be able to bear the long winter of cold and damp. Yeshua was her only hope. And yet to visit Petra’s house would put him in immediate danger. She brought her attention back to the boy’s face. He was watching her in an agony of doubt, twisting his fingers together in the folds of his woollen tunic. She noted the serviceable knife in his belt. A man’s knife. But he was still in so many ways a boy.
She made up her mind suddenly. ‘I will talk to Yeshua,’ she said. ‘I will see if he thinks it would be safe to come.’
Watching him closely she saw the sudden shift of his eyes, the tightening of his knuckles. ‘Romanus,’ she said quietly, ‘I know you love Petra. I know you would do anything to help her. But to trap Yeshua would be so wrong. Petra would not want that.’
‘My uncle said he was going to be away today,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘I am sure it will be safe. You – he – wouldn’t have to stay long.’
‘Very well. Go and wait by your canoe. I will speak to Yeshua and I will collect my medicines and bring the extra strong doses for her.’
She had told her father and Cynan about the Roman and his ambush up in the hills and both men had frowned in consternation. ‘You must not go onto the mainland alone with Yeshua again,’ her father had said sternly. ‘Take Cynan with you and some of the young druids. I want no violence, but their presence would probably be enough to protect you. Invoke the gods to wrap you with concealing mists so the man becomes lost. If he should wander into the mere, so much the better.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Don’t be led astray by Yeshua, Mora. Strange forces surround him. His god is very strong but so are his enemies.’
Yeshua was standing by the spring. Mora made her way along the track, feeling the wind drag at her hair, pulling the cloak back from her shoulders as she walked. The sacred yew trees were whispering to one another, the rattle and hiss of their agitated branches drowning the gentle bubbling of the waters. She stood there in silence, waiting for him to look up at her, aware of his thin shoulders in the woollen robe of a druid, his bent head, his neck so vulnerable beneath his blowing hair.
When he spoke it was without taking his eyes from the waters in front of him. ‘We are to go and see Petra?’
She felt herself tense. ‘You have seen it in the spring?’
He nodded.
‘And do you see if we are being tricked?’
He nodded again. ‘Don’t blame the boy. He is torn. His loyalties are pulled every way by the scheming of this man. But I want to go and see this child. It is not right that she should be left to suffer because we are afraid.’
‘We should take Cynan and some of the others with us,’ she said reluctantly. ‘My father is not happy for us to go across alone any more.’
Yeshua shook his head. ‘I don’t want druids to be involved in this. Rome fears and resents them. In Gaul they are proscribed. I don’t wish to bring trouble to people who have been my hosts and my teachers and whose way is peace. Don’t worry. My father will protect us.’
‘Your father?’ She raised an eyebrow. Then she understood. She could never get used to the familiar way he sometimes spoke of his god. ‘Even if we go alone, it won’t do any harm for us to protect ourselves as well,’ she put in sharply. ‘At least we know what to expect.’
He turned to face her, smiling. ‘You make a formidable bodyguard, my Mora. With you beside me, how can we fail?’
She met his eye and for a moment they stood looking at each other. She reached out and put her hand on his chest. ‘I can’t bear it that you will be going soon.’
Gently he put his arms round her. ‘I shall remember you always, you know that.’
‘Couldn’t I come with you?’ She reached up to kiss him and for a second they stayed, lost in each other’s arms.
Then he pushed her away. ‘You know that’s not possible. What I have to do, I have to do alone. You have a duty here, Mora. It is your home and your destiny just as my destiny lies far away in Galilee. We have to do as God directs. Besides you have a good man here in Cynan. He loves you. He would die for you.’ For a moment he stood looking down at her, then he turned to the track. ‘Come, let us go and find young Romanus. You have your bag of herbs?’
Blinded by sudden tears she couldn’t move for a moment. He glanced back and held out his hand. ‘Be brave, my Mora. You are a strong woman. Think now about Petra and how we can help her.’
15
The hotel in Sadler Street still had a vacancy and Kier found himself in the same twin bedroom, looking out towards the towers of Wells Cathedral. The room was very quiet. He looked round with satisfaction, dumping his bag down on the bed nearest the window. Perfect timing. He would go to Evensong, then have a meal in a local pub.
The next morning he drove back to Woodley and parked several hundred yards away from the house in a lay-by on the road where it ran straight and flat across the drained fields with their deep rhynes, symmetrical ditches punctuated by pollarded willows, the route of the causeway between the Isle of Avalon and the mainland. He was heading for the hill upon which the little church was built. He had seen Abi from across the field, threading her way down through the orchard then climbing the steep track on the far side. He watched her pause in the churchyard, then let herself in, leaving the door open behind her. The bright sunlight and fresh cold wind had swirled in with her, tugging at her jacket and tangling her hair. He frowned. She seemed to wear her hair loose all the time now. It seemed too young and frivolous, to him. And wild. Not at all suitable for a woman of the cloth. She was wearing a bright skirt, too. He could see it blowing round her legs. He walked slowly towards the church, following a footpath along the field edge. When it got to the hedge around the churchyard he found a stile and climbed over. Sheltered by yews and ancient oaks the churchyard was an island in the wide flat landscape. From here he could see the other conical hills, once islands in the wetlands, rising up in the distance. Behind him the Mendips rose as a phalanx to the north-east. It was a starkly dramatic landscape.
He walked quietly towards the church door, still uncertain what he was going to say to her and paused in the porch to listen. No sound came from inside the church. Cautiously he stepped towards the inner door and peered round it. She was sitting, staring at the altar. She looked as though she was praying. He watched her for a few moments, his eyes lingering over the beam of sunlight which illuminated her wild halo of hair and brought out the soft greens and browns of her jacket, the swirling patterns of her skirt. He could see her profile, the long straight nose, the high cheekbones and the strong, determined mouth. He smiled and stepped back, tiptoeing outside once more, unwilling to interrupt her, hearing the murmur of her voice. He paused and almost turned back, but that was wrong. If she chose to speak out loud to the Almighty then who was he to interrupt. This was why she was here. To pray and meditate. To clear her conscience with God. He stood for a few minutes in the windy churchyard, watching the four ancient yew trees sway and dance in a stately quadrille, then he turned and made his way back towards the stile. He was halfway there when he stopped and looked back.
Then he began to retrace his steps.
Abi could see her now. She was still hazy and somehow hesitant but the expression in her eyes was clear. It was pleading, desperate. ‘Mora, speak to me. I can see you. What can I do to help?’ She spoke clearly but she didn’t dare move. Behind her the heavy door swung open in the wind, scraping on the ancient paving stones. She
