Barbara Erskine - The Warrior’s Princess

BARBARA ERSKINE

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2008

Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2008

Map and chapter head illustrations © Andrew Ashton 2008

Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007174287

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007287208

Version: 2019-03-04

For Liz Graham and for Brian Taylor In memory of happy conversations much missed

Title Page Copyright Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Keep Reading Author's Note By the Same Author About the Author About the Publisher

In her dream Jess was standing on the track near the wood. In front of her the gnarled, ancient oaks and taller, stately ash stood in a solid silhouette against the moonlit sky. Behind her, her sister’s white-painted stone-built farmhouse lay sleeping in the warm silence of the summer night, bathed in moonlight, pots of lavender and rosemary mingling their sweet fragrance with that of the wild mountain thyme in the still air.

‘Where are you?’ The child’s voice was clear in the silence, coming from deep within the trees. ‘Are we still playing the game?’

In answer the leaves of the trees rustled in the gentle breeze.

‘Hello?’ Jess took a step towards the wood. From where she was standing she couldn’t see the track which led into its depths.

There was no reply.

Jess moved closer to the trees. ‘Are you there?’ A slight chill played across her skin and she felt herself shiver.

Behind her the house was silent. The windows dark. She had been aware, seconds before, that there were people there, asleep. Her sister. Her sister’s friends. Her own friends. Now she knew in the calm logic of her dream that the house was empty. The curtainless windows were blankly staring eyes and the hearth was cold.

‘Where are you?’ The child’s voice was closer now. She could hear the fear in it.

‘I’m here.’ Jess ran a few steps closer to the wood. ‘Follow my voice. I’m here. On the track!’

She could hear the wind in the valley now, its gentle murmur growing louder as the branches of the trees began to move. The sound was coming closer, the whisper turning into a roar. She could feel the cold on her face. Then in her hair. Across the broad valley moonshadows raced across the dark swell of the hills.

‘Come to me, sweetheart. You don’t want to be caught in the storm. You’ll be safe here with me. We’ll go and hide in the house!’ She was shouting now as loudly as she could, hurling the words towards the thrashing branches.

Then she saw her in the moonlight as the black clouds raced up the valley towards her. A girl with pale, flaxen hair, a long dress, colourless in the whirling shadows, her feet bare, her arms outstretched in desperation, her eyes huge in her frightened face.

‘Come on, sweetheart! I’m here!’ Jess was running towards her. She was only feet away now. In a second she would be able to reach the child, to draw her into her arms to safety.

The moon vanished for a second. When it reappeared the squall had passed. The night was silent. The girl was no longer there.

‘Jess?’ The voice behind her was her sister’s. ‘Jess! Come inside. You shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.’

In her sleep Jess turned over and reached for her pillow. Tears were trickling down her cheeks. Already the dream was gone.

1

The curtains were open. There were voices in her head. A lost child, crying; two children. Three …

For a while Jess lay completely still staring, puzzled, at the narrow beam of sunlight as it moved slowly across the painting on the wall. Her painting. Her picture of the woods behind her sister’s house with the leaves touched to fire by the first frosts of autumn. There were magentas there and crimsons she did not remember seeing before, though she herself had painted it. Extraordinary, beautiful details; nuances of shadow that without that spotlight she had never fully appreciated. Why? Why hadn’t she studied it properly like this before? Why had she not looked at it in its full glory?

And where were the children?

Moving her head to glance out of the window a dizzying wave of nausea overwhelmed her. She groaned, the picture and the dream forgotten. Outside the window she could hear the roar of traffic in the distance as it surged up towards the lights at the High Street crossroads, briefly stopped and surged on again. When she dared to open her eyes again the sunlight had moved on and the picture was once more in its accustomed shadow.

Raising herself with difficulty she squinted at her bedside clock. ‘Shit!’ It was midday. No wonder everything in the room looked different. With a groan she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her head spinning. How much had she had to drink the night before? Levering herself upright she caught sight of herself in the mirror and stared, appalled. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was straggly, her eyes, normally a clear blue-grey, were bloodshot and slightly swollen. Her gaze moved on down her body and she froze with horror. The pretty new blouse she had worn to the party was torn almost in two; her bra had been dragged down below her breasts; her skirt had been pulled up around her waist. Looking down at herself disbelievingly she ran a finger over the livid bruise on her thigh, the raw scratch across her belly. There were more bruises on her arms.