Finding Camlann (25 page)

‘The Llewellyn family farm, amongst others, would have disappeared under the flood,’ Bowen says, as if reciting some dry historical detail. ‘The British planners were cautious at first in allowing the true scale of their plans to become known, having seen for themselves the damaging effects of the local resistance at Tryweryn. But there were some who were aware of it, including your father.’

Julia feels a creeping nausea now. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Yes, I first met Dai many years ago, and I was very sorry to hear the news of his untimely death. We had a good deal in common, your father and I, though it may surprise you to hear it. He was in his time a mentor to the young firebrands of Plaid Cymru, as was I to the members of Tân y Ddraig. Together, we meant to find a way to stop the construction of the dam.’

These words are left hanging in the air as Julia drives on past the entrance to Brynafon House and across the Tan House bridge to the southern edge of Rhayader, trying very hard to resist the logic of what Bowen has just told her. If his intention is to implicate her father as an accomplice in the crime that caused the death of Gwyn Edwards and the appalling injuries to Stephen Barnabas, it is more than can be believed. She speaks to him quietly now. ‘You still haven’t quite answered my question, Professor. I need to know what really happened at the engineering works, and whether my father was involved.’

Bowen takes his glasses off, recommences the polishing process. ‘I will say only this. Dai Llewellyn was an honourable man and a true Welsh patriot, which of course you know better than any of us.’

Julia feels a kind of hatred now for Caradoc Bowen and his seemingly limitless powers of manipulation. If she could, she would stop the car and push him out into the rain. Hugh’s role, at least, is now painfully clear to her. All along, he {ll ld, shehas told her as much of the truth as he could. He had no part in the violence, but he was forced to watch as Bowen conspired with her father. All his aloofness, his evasiveness on this question, this has been meant only to shield her from what he believed was the terrible secret of Dai’s role in the bombing plot. Or to protect her father: this is the thought that comes to her now with the force of certainty. Hugh has acted not so much to spare her own feelings as from his sense of allegiance to Dai Llewellyn.

‘Come and meet us tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, if you care to join our expedition,’ the professor says, just as they are passing by the old grey clock tower in the centre of Rhayader. ‘Perhaps in the end we may all find the answers we have been looking for.’

Someone has opened the front door of the Black Lion pub, sending a pool of welcoming light into the mid-afternoon gloom. Julia recognises the familiar figure of Gareth Williams, the long-standing proprietor and an old friend of her father’s, who throws her a curious glance while he waits there respectfully for Caradoc Bowen to make his way inside through the pouring rain.

As she drives slowly away in the direction of Dyffryn Farm, her anger at Bowen is tempered by a sadness that winds itself quietly around her like a shroud. It is a sadness for her father, whose memory she will treasure always, no matter what mistakes he may have made in his past; a sadness for Hugh and all his misguided loyalty; and a sadness for Donald Gladstone, for the chance not taken at Trevethey Mill.

WALKING INTO THE
darkened, smoke-filled interior of the Black Lion Inn after a long, solitary walk through the streets of Rhayader, Donald cannot fail to notice a distinct lull in the conversation, an indiscreet turning of heads, as his alien presence is registered by the locals. It is a discomfort that is familiar enough from his days at Bangor: he learned early on that there are places in Wales where an Englishman feels his nationality clinging to him like some terrible affliction. As he approaches the bar, two of the older men, pints in hand, show him the same baleful stare, then switch casually into Welsh to continue their conversation. The dark-haired barmaid, grave and self-contained, glances coolly in his direction before returning her attention to the row of unfilled glasses in front of her.

He takes in his surroundings at a glance, the plain wooden benches and tables populated by a dozen or so Saturday evening patrons, the smoke-yellowed walls, a neglected dart board, a cigarette machine and flashing jukebox in the far corner. There is a narrow Victorian fireplace, unlit, with brass firedogs and cold ash in the grate. On the wall above is the room’s only unusual decoration, a varnished wooden frame displaying a row of skulls arranged face outwards in order of size: a shrew or mouse at the left-hand edge, then emaciated visages of squirrel, cat, dog, goat, cow, and finally the sweeping face-bones of a horse.

Approaching him now is a small man of about sixty with lively brown eyes in a round face, his nose reddened by drink. ‘Dr. Gladstone, I presume? I am Gareth Williams, the owner of the Black Lion. It is my pleasure to welcome you to our modest establishment.’ His rapid sing-song voice recalls the mining towns of South Wales, Gwilym Morgan in
How Green Was My Valley
. As he speaks, the left-hand side of his face is lifted up in a curious lopsided smile. ‘I must say, you do look the part. A medical man, is it? I saw you examining my collection up there on the wall.’

‘I { A medic019;m an archaeologist,’ Donald says. ‘Human bones are more in my line, though I do come across the other kinds from time to time.’

‘Ah yes,
homo sapiens
—that’s where my collection has fallen sadly short.’ Williams laughs, an infectious, high-pitched sound. ‘Now then, will we pour you a drink, or just leave you standing here like a lonely English statue?’

‘A pint of bitter, thank you. Has Professor Bowen arrived yet, by the way?’ As Donald says this, he is aware of a new pair of eyes on him, a younger man at the far end of the bar.

‘Yes indeed, he came in late this afternoon. He said he was feeling unwell, went straight upstairs. I thought to myself, there’s a fine start to his visit.’ Again the shrill, almost feverish laugh. ‘Here’s your room key now, number four, top of the stairs, then at the end on the left. Olwen, let’s have a pint for Dr. Gladstone. On the house please, love.’

With this, Gareth Williams sidles away, leaving Donald to wait as the solemn barmaid, unmollified by her boss’s familiarity, pulls him a pint of thin factory-brewed ale.

‘Your first time in Rhayader, is it?’ This comes from the man at the end of the bar. He is perhaps Donald’s age, leanly built, with short dark hair flecked prematurely with grey, features firmly set into lines of worry or introspection. His dark-blue farmer’s overalls are stained with mud.

‘I’ve driven through a couple of times before,’ Donald says, reluctant to commit himself to a conversation.

‘And I’ve been here my whole life.’ A handshake is offered, firm, measuring his grip in return. ‘Ralph Barnabas. This Professor Bowen you mentioned, would he be a friend of yours?’

Donald can hardly deny the already admitted connection. ‘Not exactly. We’re working together on an archaeological project.’

Barnabas strikes a match, brings it up to the remnant of a hand-rolled cigarette, eyes narrowing as he inhales, then blows a stream of smoke out to one side. ‘Here in Rhayader?’ There is a note of disbelief in his voice.

‘Up in the mountains. We’re looking for a late medieval battle-site that has been lost to the historical record.’ It is a calculated risk, a touch of condescension, not too much.

Another long pull on the cigarette, which is soon reduced to a small glowing nub. ‘I’m wondering whether you might have been here with the professor when he last came to Rhayader?’

This feels like dangerous ground, but something in Ralph Barnabas’s line of attack makes Donald want to see where the conversation might lead. He has not forgotten about the explosion at the engineer’s office, the rumour that Bowen’s militant students were behind it. ‘I’ve only known Caradoc Bowen for a few weeks,’ he says.

‘But I assume you knew about him before that, what he did in the past?’

The chess game continues, thinking two moves ahead. ‘I read a book of his a long time ago. I have a copy with me, if you’d like to see it.’ Donald reaches into his bag, takes out the familiar slim blue volume:
Notes on the Welsh Rising
by C. H. R. Bowen. ‘It’s a history of the rebellion led by Owain Glyn D
ŵ
r in the early fifteenth century. This has been Bowen’s particular area of resea {arely fifteenrch.’

Gareth Williams comes up next to them, a greasy cloth in his hand. ‘Not quite your cup of tea, is it, Ralph, all this rising up against the English?’

Barnabas drains the last of his beer, gives Williams a look that borders on disgust. ‘Good luck to you,’ he says, nodding in Donald’s direction, then strides out of the pub without a backward glance.

After he has gone, Gareth Williams lays a familiar hand on Donald’s arm. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Ralph doesn’t like me very much. He wouldn’t normally be seen dead drinking here, but he was hoping to catch sight of Caradoc Bowen.’

‘Why should he care?’

‘There’s a long story.’

‘I’d like to hear it.’

Williams gestures peremptorily at the barmaid. ‘Olwen, a refill for our guest, please.’ She draws another pint, pushes it back along the bar, and Williams leads the way to a table in the far corner, draws up a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs and gestures for Donald to sit. ‘Now then, perhaps you knew they were once planning to put a dam across the Cwmhir valley, just out there to the north-east of town, to collect drinking water for the city of Birmingham. Some people thought it wasn’t worth drowning a piece of Wales for that, so they decided to make a bit of noise to try and stop it.’

‘I heard about that, the bombing at the engineering works. It all seems a long way in the past.’

‘That’s not what Ralph would say. It was his best friend who was killed, and his father, the vicar of St. Clement’s, who had his legs blown off. Just after his mam died, too.’ By now, Gareth Williams is leaning in close, speaking in a low conspiratorial voice. There is a stale smell on his breath. ‘It was officially called an accident, the Reverend Barnabas made sure of that.’

‘I’m not quite sure I follow you.’

‘He saw who did it, you see. At least, that’s what he said when he first woke up in hospital, though he wouldn’t let on who it was. Ralph was standing there at his bedside when he said it. But Stephen Barnabas is a headstrong man. He told the inquiry something different, claimed he hadn’t seen anyone after all, said it was down to his delirious state of mind after the accident. Now, if you’re thinking that’s maybe a little too convenient, you’d be quite right, but in the end they had to believe the sworn testimony of a man of the church.’

‘He could have been telling the truth,’ Donald says. ‘I’m not sure why he would choose to lie about a thing like that.’

‘Well, as to his reasons for it, you can decide for yourself, because he’s never going to tell you in this life. There was nobody in the whole of Radnorshire who wanted the dam, except perhaps Dafydd Ellis who was going to get rich from it, but after that there wasn’t much agreement on what to do about it. A great sharp wedge was being driven through the town, the militants against the pacifists, and Stephen Barnabas made it his duty to stop that if he could.’

Donald says nothing for a moment, picks up his beer glass and examines the contents. ‘So where does Bowen come into the story?’

‘He was here with us at the Black Lion. We’ve always had a great respect for Professor Caradoc Bowen in this establishment.’

‘That doesn’t quite answer the question, though.’

The familiar hand is back on Donald’s forearm. ‘Let me put it to you this way,’ Williams says. ‘I am sorry for what happened to Gwyn Edwards and Stephen Barnabas, and I’m not the one to say it was a sacrifice worth making, though some might be entitled to that opinion.’

Donald pulls his arm away, keeps a tight hold on his patience as he contemplates this strange and almost recklessly plain-speaking man. He is aware that he is being goaded, provoked into some statement he might regret. ‘Why should you think it was the bombing that halted the building of the dam?’ he says. ‘It didn’t stop them at Tryweryn.’

The half-sneering smile returns to Gareth Williams’ face. ‘You are quite correct, Dr. Gladstone,’ he says, the melody gone from his voice. ‘The bombing at Tryweryn did not stop them drowning the valley, and with it the ancient village of Capel Celyn. Perhaps that is why some bold Welshmen decided it must never happen again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some things I need to take care of.’ With this he goes on his way, humming a sombre evening tune. He disappears through a door at the back, leaving Donald to hope fervently that he will not return.

By ten o’clock, the bar is almost empty, the regulars having mostly finished up and shambled off for home. With nobody left to serve, the barmaid is perfunctorily washing glasses and setting them out to dry. ‘Were you expecting someone?’ she says, with a knowing look and a surprising hint of sympathy in her voice.