Merry was dragged by the gushing current through the tunnel. This way, the river ran terrifyingly fast. There was no need to fight, to stroke your way desperately to the other side. You just had to ride it, avoid smashing into the roof or the walls. One hand reaching forward, the other hand protecting her head, Merry raced along. Seconds later, the river spat her out, up into the cave, pulled her through the waterfall, delivered her into the shallows.
She sucked in air, walked on trembling legs up on to the bank.
Was she home? Was this the twenty-first century or some other time?
Then, above the roar of the waterfall, she heard a howl behind her.
She turned to see the huge wolfhound, half drowned but still snarling, vibrating with bloodlust, standing just feet away. Merry could see him gather himself, about to leap She pulled her knife from its strap, unsheathed it, gripped the blade in her fingers and threw.
The knife sailed through the air and embedded itself in the wolfhound’s chest. With a hideous howl, the beast fell to the ground, lashing back and forth. Merry waited until it stopped moving; then she reached out, pulled her knife from its body.
Her fingers were slippery with blood. She studied the moonlit darkness, waiting to see if more wolfhounds emerged. None did. They must have drowned, or managed to stay on the other side. She rubbed her hand on her tunic, shoved the knife back into its strap around her thigh.
A sudden whinny pierced the air. Merry burst out laughing. Joy and a wild relief surged through her. She’d know that call anywhere.
Jacintha!
She was home.
Merry rushed through the trees to where Jacintha was tethered. The mare snorted at her, as if to say, Where the hell have you been? She stroked her knuckles up and down her forehead, just as the mare liked. Merry wondered how long she’d been away. She rummaged in her pack, pulled out her phone. It still had a slight charge. She checked the time. Midnight. It had been only half a day, a few hours of the night, but it felt so much longer. She quickly changed into her own clothes, squashed Mair’s woollen ones into her backpack. Then she untethered Jacintha, vaulted up on her back and set off for home.
She crossed the common lands, glancing right and left, but nobody was around. No one to witness the Welsh Mountain pony with her black-clad rider moving silently through the night. They passed like ghosts through the darkness.
As she crossed on to her own lands, Merry gazed across the valley at the Black Castle looming through the moonlight. She shuddered. Just hours ago. Five hundred years ago.
She felt a wave of dizziness so intense she nearly fell off. Grasping Jacintha’s mane, she walked her to the field near the barn where the rest of the herd grazed. She slipped from her pony’s back, put her arms around Jacintha’s neck and, for a minute, just held on. Then, worrying about what on earth she’d say to her parents if they were still up, she headed for the farmhouse.
She saw with relief that there were no lights on. Her parents had probably gone to bed early, assumed she’d gone out on one of her many long expeditions on Jacintha. They had reluctantly allowed her the same freedoms as before, though she knew they worried. She blew out a breath and let herself in.
She tiptoed up the stairs, past her parents’ bedroom. She could hear the soft sounds of their breathing. She peered through the open door into Gawain’s bedroom. He lay sleeping on his back, arms thrown out. She felt a stab of emotion, thought of her ancestor. He was long-since dead, but had he lived? Had he survived the day and night that she had just lived through?
Exhausted, she headed on into her own room. Closed the door softly. Cold, still trembling with the shock and terror of it all, Merry undressed and pulled on pyjamas. She paused just long enough to drain the water from the glass on her bedside table and remove her eye patch; then she got into bed and pulled the covers over her head like she was hiding from the world.
She was home.
She’d escaped the sixteenth century.
On her finger the golden ring gleamed.
An unbreakable link to the past.