by Julia Hughes
‘Bates! For god’s sakes! Not the boy.’
Crombie tried to shield Wren with his body. Bates sneered.
‘In two seconds, you won’t be worrying about anything anymore.’
Wren broke in angrily. ‘Are you completely mad? He’s got a wife – a family …’ he gestured towards the tunnel. ‘A king’s ransom … you can buy your own island … please – his daughter’s getting married next month!’
‘Enough talk.’ Bates said stretching to angle the gun downwards.
The sun broke free from the clouds again, transforming him into a towering silhouette. Wren screamed and clutched at Crombie.
Rhyllann charged out of the sun, roaring – swinging Caliburn in a wide arc – the blade scythed upward– erupting through air and space. A startled Bates attempted to spin round, tottering on the cell edge, completely off balance now. The pistol fired, a bullet sang, and Wren screamed again, sprawling against Crombie. The earth shook as Bates toppled into the cell.
Rhyllann, murderous, sprung after him without pause. Crombie twisted, trying to throw off Wren, whose arm snaked around him.
‘Enough Rhyllann – Enough.’ Crombie bellowed.
Bates’s gun dropped to the ground, he scrambled to his knees, staring petrified at this avenging angel. Grasping him by the hair, Rhyllann lifted Caliburn aloft – an unholy joy flooding his soul. Crombie’s voice penetrated the battle fugue, he risked a quick glance, saw him propped against Wren, crouching at the side of the cell. Rhyllann looked down at Bates, his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. From the corner of his eye, Rhyllann saw Wren make a cutting gesture against his own throat. Kill. Crombie pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. He wouldn’t be in time to stop him.
‘Enough.’
Rhyllann couldn’t help himself, Caliburn sang to him, demanding blood. Slowly, deliberately, he swept the sword down, tearing through flesh, which parted against the blade, peeling open like rotten fruit. It felt good. He stood back to admire his work, and Bates slumped to the ground.
Rhyllann had no recollection of scrambling up the remaining cliff face, or circling round to attack Bates. He remembered every stroke he made with Caliburn though. He would never forget the feeling of invincibility, it was burned into his soul.
Wren held out his hands for Caliburn, his blue eyes impenetrable steel once more. Rhyllann surrendered it willingly. It belonged to him too. He thought Wren meant to clean it, but felt no surprise when he stroked the blade, dabbling his fingers in Bates’s blood. Then reached up to smear Rhyllann’s forehead.
Crombie finished binding Bates’s hands behind his back, then secured his ankles.
‘That little savage tried to kill me – you saw him Crombie – he’s the one you should be cuffing – Crombie!’
Crombie placed an oversized wellie on Bates’s rump, forcing him down.
‘You. Shut. Up.’
Bates turned his face to one side, spitting out dirt. The gash across his cheek resembled a sausage that had split its skin.
Crombie turned to the boys. Apart from blood smearing his face and hands, he was devoid of colour.
‘Rhyllann – we’ll take his jeep. You’ll have to operate the gears for me.’ He scrambled out of the cell as he spoke.
Pulling Wren with him, Rhyllann followed. Wren shrugged him off.
‘Brawd – come on – Crombie needs help. He’s bleeding all over the place.’
Wren stared at him motionless.
‘Please son.’ Crombie’s voice sounded less authoritive than usual.
Still Wren didn’t move.
‘Brawd – he’s already lost so much blood.’
A smile spread over Wren’s face. ‘Annie, leave here and we’ll never see that treasure again.’
Rhyllann felt confused. ‘What are you talking about? It's ours! We found it!’
The smile seemed pitying now. ‘It isn’t ours. It belonged to the King of England. It belongs to his heirs.’
Rhyllann looked to Crombie for confirmation. ‘Is that right? We won’t get a penny?’
Crombie spoke raggedly. ‘There’s documentation …. Proof …. the Princess of Wales ….her father’s treasure. …hoard … Not treasure trove.’ He looked haggard but managed a smile. ‘Maybe a finder’s reward.’ Crombie winced. ‘Son, I’m sorry – We need to go.’ He staggered towards the Police Jeep.
‘We’ll take him to hospital – then come back – move some of the treasure – the Queen wouldn’t mind – she’d be happy for us! If she knew what we went through!’
Wren shook his head. ‘Lizzie wouldn’t even notice if we pulled a couple of those chests to one side. I’m sure she wouldn’t begrudge us either. But the men in grey suits would.’
‘Who’s gonna tell ‘em? Not me. Not you.’ But in his heart Rhyllann knew he was fighting a losing battle.
‘Not me. Not you. Look behind you Annie. An honest man.’
Crombie was in Bates’s jeep now, turning the engine over. He managed to start it up – but he couldn’t manage both gear stick and steering wheel. He stared helplessly at the boys.
Rhyllann snapped. ‘Get up there now you little punk. He needs us.’
The sword flickered with languid energy, like a contented tiger as Wren backed towards the cavern’s entrance.
‘He needs you. But choose carefully. When you get back, I won’t be here.’ His eyes were unfathomable once more.
‘Stop talking crap. You want me to leave you here with six – no seven madmen?’ Two of whom were dead, three imprisoned. Leaving two cuffed and injured. Not counting the lookout, still unconscious under his jeep.
The amusement on Wren’s face confirmed he had read his mind again.
Lead weighing down his limbs, Rhyllann turned to heave himself from the pit. As he clambered to his feet, Wren called to him. Rhyllann turned, hoping against hope he’d changed his mind.
‘Hey Annie!’ The dorky smile lit up his face one last time. ‘You were fantastic. Thanks.’
Swiping burning tears from his eyes, Rhyllann tried to smile back, then stumbled away, this time without looking back.
Afterwards.
He pounded along the water’s edge yards from the restless Irish sea. Firm newly washed sand crunching under his trainers, his lungs effortlessly absorbed the ozone. Sometimes, most times, he would sit on an outcrop of rocks bordering the cove and stare across to Anglesey, lost in thought, before climbing the narrow path which led to the isolated house he called home. A counsellor recommended he put every thing down in writing. But running was better. Much better. The events of last summer scrolled film like – he could slow them down, examine them. Wonder if he could have done anything differently.
But today a parcel waited for him at the village post office. He recognised the post mark and was eager to get home and examine the contents. Only his closest friends and family knew of his existence here in this lonely little Welsh cranny. And Crombie. Who guarded his privacy fiercely. Crombie had proved his greatest ally against the interrogations and journalists waving cheque books, pulling in favour after favour, putting up a Berlin wall between Rhyllann and curious paparazzi.
His stepfather David actually arranged for interviews on day time TV. No doubt with visions of Rhyllann doing the chat show rounds, glossy magazines and maybe even some advertising. With himself as agent of course. Crombie nipped that in the bud. Mum sided with Crombie, and the ensuing row resulted in David leaving. Mum didn’t blame Rhyllann, of course she didn’t. But relations were strained.
Aunt Sarah blamed him though. She had sat opposite him in the farmhouse kitchen of his new home. It began quietly enough, but ended with her pulling out chunks of his hair and screaming. Either grief made her hysterical, or prison had changed her.
There was no reward. By the time Crombie recovered enough to confirm Rhyllann’s story, and the local police finally got their act together, all but three large chests had disappeared from the secret chamber. Rhyllann still didn’t know how Wren had man
aged it. A king’s ransom spirited away. Again.
He paused at the rock outcrop, hands gripping his knees, head slumped over to catch his breath, then took the remaining half a mile up the steep cliff path at a brisk jog. After a shower and change of clothes, he ran tap water into a glass, then sat down to open the package at the kitchen table where aunt Sarah had accused him of abandoning Wren.
The first thing that caught his eye was a stiff white envelope, embossed with the RAF logo. Scrawled in dark blue ink ‘Cadet Rhyllann Jones.’ Mystified, he opened it. Then unfolded a wad of papers. In the same hand, two lines were scrawled on headed paper, inviting him to enrol next year at the RAF’s flying school at Cranwell. Underneath this, six stapled pre-printed forms requesting personal information, previous experience, and why he thought he should be selected.
Someone had already filled this in. “Exceptional flying ability demonstrated under extreme conditions. Personal recommendation from the holder of a George Cross. Pre approved.”
The boxes for exam results had been scribbled over with a large N/A. Unexpectedly tears sprung to Rhyllann's eyes. With a trembling hand, he replaced the note and forms in the envelope and tucked it away in the drawer beneath the table. Knowing he would open it again at least hundred times until he was actually enrolled. Gran would be pleased. Surprisingly she didn’t blame Rhyllann. She made her thoughts about grown men encouraging scallywags to steal planes very clear. But it had been her who loosened aunt Sarah’s fists from Rhyllann’s hair, and stilled her screaming.
‘What was he supposed to do? Let the man bleed to death?’ No one knew better than gran the depths of Wren’s stubbornness. And then gran stated that if anyone was to blame, it was her two daughters for allowing her grandchildren to run wild. There was no comeback from that. Now Rhyllann actually looked forward to gran’s visits. Mum was campaigning again, somewhere in Africa this time. Aunt Sarah refused to communicate with anyone, apart from the prison service. She organised literacy programmes for prisoners. Gran tried living with him for almost three months. It had been a relief for both of them when she had broken down and admitted that the solitude was destroying her. She missed her bingo, popping next door for a gossip, and London buses.
Rhyllann felt he’d had enough excitement for a lifetime. He found the rural Welsh school to be stricter but fairer then the comprehensive in London. Social Services were content to merely monitor, so long as he behaved himself. With nothing else to do, he immersed himself into study and exercise. He thought he would probably achieve the grades he needed, even more so now that all pressure was off.
‘Thanks Crombie.’ He said outloud. When the phone rang five minutes later, he just knew who was calling. ‘Thanks Crombie – that’s the best news ever!’ He said.
‘What? You’re not seriously considering taking their offer?’
Rhyllann laughed. Crombie’s idea of a joke. ‘Flying school? Watch me bite their hands off! Thanks again. Dunno how you managed it but thank you.’
‘Oh that! I thought you meant the other thing.’ Crombie cleared his throat. ‘That’s okay son. I got talking at a memorial do back in November. Chatting to some big-wig in the RAF. Turned out to be a huge fan of Douglas Bader – apparently he had trouble with maths too. “Leave it to me old chap!” he said. So he came through did he?’
Rhyllann slid the drawer open to touch the envelope again.
‘He sure did. Thanks Crombie.’
‘It's okay son. You don’t need to keep thanking me, I only told him the truth. Said he’d be a bloody fool not to sign you up.’ Crombie's voice became indistinct as he covered the phone to answer a colleague. ‘No not yet. What’s the latest?’ Then more clearly: ‘Listen – I’ve gotta go – I’ll call you back in ten, fifteen minutes – will you be there? It’s important.’
Rhyllann answered, still preoccupied in rereading the letter. ‘Yeh, sure.’ He had all he ever wanted in his hands. Three of his best mates; Dan, Ben and Andrew planned to visit at Easter. Quad bikes, mountain climbing and barbies to look forward to. He had a life of freedom most teens could only dream about. And yet.
A Wolf fence spider scuttled across the kitchen floor tiles, comically long legged.
‘Look Annie, haven’t seen one of those in years.’ He said softly. Shaking himself mentally, he investigated the rest of the package. A glossy leaflet shook out, with an accompanying letter. From the Kernow Tourist board.
“Hi Rhy!” It boomed. “How cool is this? The hidden chamber finally gives up all its secrets after nearly 1000 years! WOW! We want you at the grand opening. Local and maybe even national media crews are expected to cover this exciting event. I’m delighted to offer you all travel expenses (up to forty pee a mile) plus a free life time pass to enter the chamber anytime! (Apart from peak season). Plus ten per cent off spending in the gift shop and cream tea rooms! (Certain items excluded). I sincerely hope you can make it – the party of the millennium – Wicked!”
Rhyllann cringed as he finished reading, then turned to the brochure, which contained colourful photographs of the cavern he saw so many times in dreams. Only so different. Dummies dressed in medieval costume posed dramatically. The chamber doors stood open, just one large chest on the floor, brimming with “treasure”. Rhyllann’s attention was drawn to the last photograph. A close up of the secret chamber. He stared fascinated: Taking up one side, was a pulley attached to an oversized dumb waiter affair. The blurb running alongside stated that the hoist was an original feature, praising the whole chamber as testimony to the quality and workmanship of the medieval Celt.
‘The little geek! So that’s how he managed it!’ Rhyllann wanted to smile, but his mouth turned the wrong shape. There were still so many questions and only one person held the answers.
The phone rang – Crombie again with his important news. ‘Son – I’m sorry – I’m leaving London now, but I wanted to speak with you before you heard it on the news.’ Rhyllann felt confused – heard what? The secret chamber was yesterday’s papers; a rainy day activity for bored holiday makers.
‘Rhyllann? Are you there? You’re not to worry – Cymru Police should be with you soon.’ Someone was hammering on the door already. Rhyllann got up to answer.
‘Yeah – I think they’re here now. What is it? What’s wrong?’
The solid oak door flew open, the phone dropped through his bloodless hands, clattering to the floor. Still Rhyllann stood open mouthed with astonishment. The blond hair formed a careless halo, azure eyes shone level with his. White teeth gleamed from a face tanned by a Mediterranean sun. Iridescent blue flashed and atoms collided as Caliburn once again scythed through the air.
‘Hi Annie. I’ve brought your sword. I thought you might need it.’
Rhyllann watched his own hand reach out as though magnetised, the need to hold Caliburn more urgent than the need to breathe. As his grip tightened around the hilt, the resonant vibrations running through the blade mingled with his own pulse, dwindling to a soft purr. From the floor, Crombie’s voice growled through the handset.
‘Rhyllann, promise me son, don’t do anything silly. It’s Tricia. Your mum. She’s been kidnapped. Rhyllann – is someone there with you? Rhyllann – talk to me!’
The End
Author’s Note:
In the eight hundred years since King John lost everything, the mud flats surrounding the River Wash have solidified. Certainly they're more accessible than the waters in which the Titanic was found. And a lot closer than the moon, where men have walked. A massive fortune is out there, still waiting to be discovered. Unless of course it was spirited away and secreted deep within a cavern, to be guarded by ancient mysteries.
A Raucous Time is the first of the Celtic Cousins' adventures, although A Ripple in Time found its way on to the virtual shelves of Amazon first. An Explosive Time is a faster moving action packed story in which Crombie takes centre stage, though those Celtic Cousins are still running rings around him.
A Ripple in Time:
&
nbsp; "One hundred years after she sank, the Titanic has a new love story."
Wren’s dream changed the course of history. To regain his world he must travel back one hundred years. This time, the “Angel of the Titanic” must ensure the ship of dreams fulfils her destiny. And he’s willing to sacrifice everything. Available now from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
An Explosive Time:
When the circus comes to town and an elephant’s abducted, Detective Crombie of the Met Police is dragged out of his little comfort zone. Then an alligator appears and life’s about to get even more hetic: London's biggest villain and the Mandarins of Whitehall are determined to stop Crombie exposing a sinister partnership - get ready for An Explosive Time. Contains adult humour and some strong language. Available now from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
If you belong to Amazon's Prime Memberships, you can borrow all three 'Celtic Cousins' Adventures' in the omnibus edition: Time After Time After Time.
And of course, you're always welcome to drop by the author's website any old time: WWW Julia Hughes
