Tilda smiles. ‘Have you discovered something more about the woman in the grave? Or about the bracelet?’
‘Not yet, but now that you are here to help, I believe we will make progress.’
‘It would be really, really helpful if we could try to find some more answers about who is in that grave, and who the bracelet belonged to.’
‘Excellent!’ He snatches up his reading spectacles, fetches two schooners from the sideboard, and quickly pours two generous measures of treacly brown sherry. ‘Here we are, let this be our concession to the festive merriment. Your very good health!’ he declares, raising his glass.
Tilda gulps the sticky drink and follows Professor Williams to his desk. ‘I’ve brought this with me again.’ She takes the gold bracelet out of her pocket and puts it on the ever-present map. She is disconcerted to discover how much she hates being separated from it. ‘In case we want to check the design again,’ she tells the professor.
‘Splendid. Now, I did come across something the other day … where did I put it? Oh, and you might want to have a look at this.’ He hands her a book declaring itself to be The Anglo Saxon Chronicles. He talks on as he searches through a pile of papers and volumes stacked on the floor and reaching halfway up the overstuffed bookcase. ‘In there you’ll find one of the only mentions of the crannog as inhabited. I’ve marked the page … Ah, yes, and this might be useful…’
While he digs on, Tilda turns to the relevant entry. ‘This bit here? Yes, I see …“AD 917. This year was the innocent Abbot Egbert slain, before midsummer, on the sixteenth day before the calends of July. The same day was the feast of St. Ciricius the Martyr, with his companions. And within three nights sent Aethelflead an army into Wales, and stormed Breconmere; and there took the king’s wife with some four and thirty others.” Okay, Breconmere is one of the old names for Llangors Lake, Llyn Syfaddan being another…’
‘You’ve been doing your own research, I see. I am impressed.’
‘But can that next part be right? Did the Queen of Mercia really attack the crannog because of a murdered abbot?’
‘That is what is recorded. However, Queen Aethelflaed had been at odds with the Cymru, that’s the Welsh, of course, for many years. It may be she used the hapless priest’s killing as an excuse to cross the border.’
‘And thirty-four people, no, thirty-five, including the king’s wife…’
‘In reality more likely a princess,’ the professor puts in. ‘We know that the crannog was built for a Welsh prince, a gift from his father, who had a region of his own to the south to worry about. Eager to have his son settled somewhere, I should imagine. And married to someone politically helpful. In such unstable times any manner of alliance that could be formed was worth a try.’
‘So the princess and these few people from the actual crannog, they were taken prisoner. What happened to the others? To the rest of the villagers?’
‘We must assume they were killed in the attack. The settlement on the crannog was set alight, burnt down to the wooden piles and stone base that remain. I should imagine all the dwellings along the lakeside would have been put to the torch also. These raiding parties were not in the habit of leaving anything much aside from devastation in their wake.’
For a moment Tilda is assailed by images flashing through her mind of what such an attack must have been like. Women and children running. People taking to the fortified island for safety, only to find themselves trapped. So many people killed. In a few short minutes, everything gone. And what of the woman in the boat? What of this other version of herself? Had she been one of the survivors?
‘Professor, is there a list anywhere that tells us about those who were taken prisoner?’
‘Not that I have been able to find, though there are some new documents being archived at the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth even as we speak. The collection is being digitalized, so that at the click of a button one can be reading words written over a millennium ago. Astonishing. Truly astonishing.’
The professor pauses as the standard lamp beside him fizzes alarmingly.
No, not now. Steady. Let them work. All I have to do is let them work.
Tilda eyes the bracelet anxiously, wishing she could snatch it up and hold it close, but aware that to do so would look more than a little weird. The bulb in the lamp gives a fat popping sound and goes dark. The rest of the lights in the room, however, brighten once more and remain steady.
‘Now, this might be of interest to you.’ Professor Williams lifts up a dusty, leather-bound book and angles it so that the light from the window falls upon the page. ‘I’d quite forgotten I had this until the other day. Written by a fellow called Humphries. Goes on a bit, he was an expert on Ogam text. Not much survives, but he busied himself translating whatever he found. All sorts of snippets. He places this as dating around 914 AD, although I have to say that’s probably an educated guess. Ah, here, an entry in the monastic records of that time, curiously not in Latin, for reasons we may never discover. The writer is unknown, but he mentions a feast held by Prince Brynach “… on the crannog of Breconmere, and in attendance was the entirety of the village, for all were made welcome to celebrate their good fortune, and the guest who was honoured for her part in protecting the crannog was the Seer, Seren Arianaidd.” There, you see?’