The Heirs of Owain Glyndwr by Peter Murphy Page B

that,’ she said.
    He laid her back down on the bed. Harri was sleeping peacefully in his bed in the small bedroom across the hall. The door was open and the sound of his gentle breathing floated into the room. She looked incredibly beautiful to him in her simple white night dress, and her hair had that wayward look it had when she had just woken up, which could drive him mad.
    â€˜I didn’t understand how strongly Caradog felt about Tryweryn,’ he said. ‘He only told me recently.’
    A sadness crossed her face.
    â€˜Yes. It was my grandparents’ generation, and those who came before. Well, you’ve met Uncle Stan and Aunt Jenny.’
    â€˜Yes, but I never understood how personal it all was, all the time we were going to the demonstrations, all those years when we were fighting to stop them flooding the valley.’
    She nodded.
    â€˜It was very hard. We tried not to make it be about us, we tried to keep it political, to oppose them as a matter of principle. But that was very hard to do. It changed Caradog, I think. It’s strange how things like that can change you even when it doesn’t affect you directly.’
    â€˜It’s the idea that your family was violated,’ Trevor suggested.
    â€˜It’s the sense of being powerless,’ she replied.
    â€˜What would you think?’ he asked, ‘if I took the two of them away for a day or two of drinking and general trouble-making, get them away from this obsession with the Investiture?’
    She laughed.
    â€˜That might be a good idea. Did you have anywhere in mind?’
    â€˜I thought we might take the ferry over to Ireland,’ he replied.
    â€˜You should be able to find some trouble to make there,’ she said, with a smile.
    She turned on to her side and settled, to go back to sleep.
    â€˜Will you bring Harri to the shop tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘I miss you both during the day.’

17
    Friday 4 April 1969
    Seán raised his glass as a toast.
    â€˜So, welcome to West Belfast, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. We want you to feel at home. We are going to chat for a while before we talk business. I think that’s the accepted way of discourse in civilised societies, isn’t it? Certainly in Ireland, and Klaus, I know that’s true where you come from also.’
    â€˜We are a very polite people in Germany,’ Klaus said. He was a tall, thin man wearing a black and white checked shirt and blue jeans. He wore thick black-framed glasses and his long black hair was swept back. He fidgeted constantly, twirling a lock of his hair between his fingers.
    â€˜Klaus knows the likes of Mr Baader and Miss Meinhof, you see,’ Seán continued, ‘so he has clearly mixed in the best of circles. We are among friends here, so there’s no reason to be nervous about us, no reason not to say whatever you wish. Nothing gets back to the Royal Ulster Constabulary from the Ring of Kerry, I assure you. But we do like to know who we are dealing with before we go into too much detail. You were very hospitable towards us when we were with you in Wales, Caradog, and I appreciate that very much. But you’ve brought two friends with you now.’
    The Ring of Kerry was a dingy pub in a side-street off the Falls Road. Miniature Republican flags decorated the bar. Hanging proudly on the walls were photographs of St Patrick’s Day parades of years gone by and, in pride of place, behind the bar, a photograph of the landlord as a younger man shaking hands with Éamon de Valera outside Leinster House in Dublin. At 8 o’clock in the evening, the bar was crowded and boisterous, the air thick with tobacco smoke. It already seemed an age since they had left Caernarfon to board the overnight ferry from Holyhead to Dublin. They had little more than two hours of snatched sleep before they disembarked into the fresh early morning air. There followed the almost 100-mile