Raven's Hoard

by Gill Jepson

  GILL JEPSON

  OUT OF

  TIME II

  Raven’s Hoard

  GILL JEPSON

  OUT OF

  TIME II

  Raven’s Hoard

  Copyright © 2012 Gill Jepson

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1780887 876

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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

  Typeset in 11pt Palatino by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Mum who always believed in me

  and in memory of CS

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Afterword

  CHAPTER 1

  THE DIG

  It was five-thirty in the morning and Nate had been awake for hours. It was the final straw. The tent was not only letting in copious amounts of rain, but the field was disappearing under a flood of gurgling mud and water, taking his tent with it. He was being swallowed alive by the field. Perhaps it was punishment for digging in it all summer. He sighed heavily as he rooted in the bottom of his haversack for his mobile phone. He dialled quickly and waited for the response.

  “Yeah! It’s me… I can’t stay any longer, I’m drowning…”

  Twenty minutes later he met her at the gate, bedraggled and frozen to the bones, with only his bag. He left the tent to its own fate and he didn’t look back to see if it was still above water. As he got into the car, Chris appeared from the battered old caravan and waved.

  “You off then?” he enquired.

  “Yes, I’m frozen and I need a bath…” He looked down guiltily, as though he was deserting a sinking ship.

  “You should’ve come and knocked at the caravan, I’d have taken pity on you… we don’t expect you to drown for us, y’know!”

  Nate’s mum laughed. “I expect he was too proud to ask…”

  “Or too daft!” exclaimed the grizzled old archaeologist, shaking his head.

  Nate wished his Mum wouldn’t be so friendly. He was easily embarrassed, he didn’t want Chris to think he was still a kid; after all it was nearly three years since he’d joined the dig and he was fifteen now. He remembered that day well.

  He’d seen a notice in the local paper, inviting people to visit the dig at the Water Mill, and Mum had agreed to take him. She knew he was interested in archaeology and to be truthful, so was she. So they drove down the lanes to the little village of Gleaston. It was a scary journey as usual, with Mum in the driving seat. She wasn’t used to the narrow farm track and the secondhand car she drove was much too big for her. This led to some erratic manoeuvring and at times they veered into the hedgerows a little too closely.

  They finally screeched into the gravel car park, drawing to a very abrupt, yet lucky halt at the edge of the river running along its perimeter. He got out quickly, trying not to look at the shocked people they had passed in the car park as they skidded through. She got out, seemingly oblivious to her unpredictable parking methods.

  They walked over to the old Water Mill, joining the small crowd forming by the huge wheel. It was slowly turning and creaking, mesmerising everyone who was watching it. The sky was heavy with leaden, grey clouds; oppressive as only a thundery British summer could be. Their attention was distracted from the weather by the appearance of a wiry, middle-aged man, dressed in an old-fashioned trench coat, with a cape affair around his shoulders. If the coat wasn’t strange enough, it was accompanied by a pair of khaki shorts and boots. He sported a drooping white moustache and his hair was sparse and prematurely white. Nate wondered how old he really was, because his face was not old, despite the white hair.

  “I’m Chris Salter and for my sins I’m the archaeologist in charge of this dig. I hope you’re prepared to get wet and muddy… and I hope you’ve brought your money with you… because we need it!” He shot a quick grin at them and turned on his heels and began pacing towards the field.

  The tour had been interesting and it all looked very exciting. There were tents and a caravan circling a mess tent and benches. A St George’s flag flapping in the breeze made the camp resemble a medieval camp at Agincourt. Chris was a real character, he called a spade a spade… he was incredibly blunt. He was an enigma, eccentric even. Immediately Nate was drawn to him, recognising similar qualities in himself. He hoped to be able to speak to him and ask if he wanted any volunteers, but felt too shy.

  Mum saved the day by virtually telling his life story.

  “He’s always had a passion for archaeology ever since he saw ‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.’ On and on she went.

  He wriggled with embarrassment, but noticed that although Chris was nodding in the right places, he was not completely listening to Mum.

  Chris watched Nate’s reactions closely, and suddenly turned away from his Mum and barked, “So, young man, are you telling me you want to become part of my dig?” He looked straight at him with his piercing blue eyes, seeming to search his soul for the answer. Mum took the hint and shut up at last.

  “Why… yes, if that’s ok.”

  Chris studied him. The rain had started falling heavily and bounced off the canvas of the tent. It felt as if time had stopped.

  “Well, as a rule, I don’t have children on my digs, but so long as you promise you can be sensible and do as you’re told, we could give it a go. You can come tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  “Brilliant! Thanks… I’ll be here!” exclaimed Nate.

  “Bring your lunch and waterproofs and be prepared for some hard graft… you seem to have something about you… we’ll see anyway.”

  That was how it happened. How he became involved with the dig, with Chris and with the mission.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE FIND

  Nate didn’t return to the dig for a few days. He really couldn’t face the thought of trying to salvage his tent and belongings in this rain and wind. When he did go back at the weekend, he rode down on his bike. It was still breezy, but blue skies were chasing away the dark rain clouds. He reached the dig field by eleven and Chris and the others were already about their business. As he propped his bike up against the field gate, he could see them all waving and pointing.
He drew nearer and prepared himself for a barrage of insults and jeers because he had left during the storm.

  “Did he melt in that rain then?”

  “Bless him, he’s back… hope he’s got an umbrella!”

  He shrugged off the hail of good-natured insults and teasing. Chris strolled over and greeted him.

  “Glad to see you back… hoped it hadn’t put you off. I’m afraid it’s an occupational hazard… rain, mud, more rain and trench foot!” He grinned and turned away, beckoning him to follow.

  They walked to a far corner of the field where another digger was working in a narrow trench which had been put in already and a few meagre finds were in the seed tray beside it.

  “You can work here today, I need Darren on the other side of the leet,” he said.

  The leet was a man-made branch of the river, which actually forced water in the opposite direction to the real watercourse, down to the Water Mill. It provided an obvious boundary for the archaeologists to use to partition the field into sections.

  Nate got down to business quickly, using a piece of old tarpaulin as a kneeler. He picked up the small trowel that Darren had abandoned and began painstakingly scraping the surface of the exposed ground. Each time he hit a stone or rock he picked it up and examined it closely to see if it was a find or not. The sun grew hotter and soon he was sweating. He wiped his forehead and began to realise why all archaeologists seemed to wear eccentric head gear, from Indiana Jones to Phil Harding from Time Team. Whatever the weather, a hat was a definite requirement. He must get one soon, somehow a baseball cap didn’t seem right.

  He had been working for an hour, his neck and shoulders were aching and his knees were stiff and numb from kneeling. All he had turned up were a few teeth, probably from an animal, and a couple of pieces of orange-coloured pottery, which he could now identify as medieval. In fact it was nothing very exciting or remarkable. He straightened his back and stretched his neck and looked across the field towards the tents. Chris called across the field, “Tea up!”

  Everyone was moving towards the mess tent for lunch. Paul, another young digger, shouted over to him to join them. With relief he stood up and stretched again and walked over the wooden bridge to the other side of the field. He stopped to wash the dirt from his hands in the fast-running stream and wiped them down the sides of his jeans to dry them. When he reached the trestle-tables, roughly set for lunch, he nodded to the others who were already sitting down ready to eat.

  It was a good lunch today, thick vegetable soup, brim full of whole new potatoes, with huge hunks of fresh bread. Something about being out in a field made your appetite keener and made the food tastier and more filling. It was all washed down with steaming mugs of tea. Feeling as full as a drum, Nate sat in the tatty old armchair and sat back, listening to the conversation around the table.

  Very soon the conversation came round to local tales and stories, some of them very tall. Chris always had lots of tales to tell. There were stories about the caves at Scales, where the remains of ancient dwellers had been found, alongside their discarded flint tools. They were regaled with tales of invaders and battles, the monks at Furness Abbey, marauding Scots and Henry Vlll’s destruction of the abbey. He had so much knowledge and Nate tried hard to remember everything he told them. Nate hoped that one day the tales would be useful to him, when he became a famous archaeologist! He would never guess just how useful they would be… and how much he would depend upon them in time.

  The next day a visitors’ tour arrived promptly at one. The group was a mixed bag of people, from young to old, and one could only guess why many of them were here. Some seemed more interested in visiting the mill and having a coffee than tramping round the field. However, one man stood out. He was taller than the rest and stood quietly at the back. Chris obviously knew him, as he grunted a greeting to him. The man nodded in acknowledgement and smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. There was apparently no love lost between the two.

  They wandered across the field and the visitors were herded around like errant sheep by Nate at the back, ensuring that they did not stray too far, or disturb any of the diggers too much. However, the slick gentleman followed him closely. As the tour came to an end, two elderly ladies engaged Chris in deep and lengthy conversation. He kept a weather eye on Nate and the man turned to face him.

  “So, you have an interest in archaeology, young man?” he asked.

  Nate shrugged. Pretty obvious that – he wouldn’t be here, would he, if he wasn’t?

  “You will learn nothing here, you know. This old fool is out of his depth!” he stated baldly.

  Nate was taken aback. How dare he?

  “You would learn far more with me. I have a very important dig at Aldingham, in a field near the dairy farm. We have professionals on tap, funding from the University and weekly work experience. Our finds are amazing and we can promise you an exciting experience.”

  He smiled and preened himself. He made Nate feel uncomfortable and mad at the same time.

  “I’m fine, thanks!” retorted Nate.

  The man’s manner changed. His steely eyes bored into him and he sneered, an unpleasant and sinister glare distorting his face.

  “You are a fool!” His face contorted with anger.

  “Whoa! What’s your problem, mate?” said Darren the digger, as he ran over to intervene.

  The man turned his cold gaze on him.

  “You are a fool too! You have had the same offer and yet you choose to remain with this old charlatan!” he spat.

  “I don’t know about that! But I know who I prefer to work with!”

  “And I don’t appreciate being called a charlatan Silas Dixon!” interjected Chris, who had finally extricated himself from the two ladies.

  “Salter! You are a bumbling old fool and have no right to seek the treasures – they are ours and we will be the ones to find them.”

  With that, he turned on his heels and left.

  “Nasty piece of work!” hissed Darren.

  “Hmm! A troubled soul to be sure!” added Chris. “But he has no more chance of finding treasure than you do of reaching the moon!”

  Nate had not realised that such rivalry existed in archaeology and it kind of amused him; cool, it was just like when Indiana and the French archaeologist were pitted against each other in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”.

  They went back to camp and started making tea. Everyone relaxed and as they shared food and stories a lull fell over the gathering. Later that evening Chris drew out an object from his caravan and walked across to Nate. In his hand he carried a battered old fedora – just like the one that Indiana Jones had worn. Darren guffawed with laughter as Chris unceremoniously dropped it on to Nate’s head. He adjusted it, thrilled to receive it, even if it was a bit grubby and worn.

  “I thought you deserved this after today! Call it a badge of honour, and it gives you excellent protection from the sun. Everyone knows all diggers have a special hat!” he grinned, as though he had known what Nate had been thinking earlier.

  CHAPTER 3

  SMUGGLERS INN 1750

  The night was bleak and cold. Rain drove across the sands and stung Tom full in the face like needles. He kicked his horse’s flanks to encourage him on through the storm and the great black beast champed at the bit and snorted in protest. He knew he had to keep going, everything depended on it, especially Dolly’s safe keeping.

  He had to reach the Concle Inn at all costs – now they knew the cache was discovered, they would be making their way back to the inn to demand answers. He had been stupid to jeopardise Dolly and her father, just to take the smugglers red-handed. He might have known that the risks were too high! The weather worked against him; wind and rain seared his face and tore at his cloak, which flew out behind him like a ship’s tarpaulin. Ice-cold rain pricked his eyes, forcing them shut; he brushed his face with the back of his hand and focused on the lane ahead. His horse snorted, panting noisily, and Tom could feel him straining as
he urged him on into the night.

  The village was in darkness, with a slight glimmer of light escaping from one of the fisherman’s cottages. Horse and rider splashed through the mud, becoming one, with but a single purpose. The waves roared and leapt over the edge of the road, clutching with watery claws at the travellers as they hurtled past. The Concle Inn came into view, crouching like a brooding animal on the edge of the shoreline, challenging him to enter.

  The inn was shrouded in darkness, no sounds escaping from within. Tom leapt from his horse and tethered her behind the barn. He sank back into the shadows and watched the doorway. The rain swept across the yard in sheets and the wooden sign creaked and rattled, the hinges straining. Tom pulled down his hat and wrapped his cloak tightly around him; he ducked down low, running quickly across the courtyard to the inn wall. Tom’s heart was pounding like a mighty hammer as he shrank against the wall below the window. He could make out gruff voices through the pane and his heart jumped into his mouth when he heard a cry. They had Dolly!

  Dolly sat bolt upright on the small stool before the fire, facing the angry men. Voices were raised and she looked them in the eye defiantly despite their anger. Her father looked on nervously, eyes darting from Dolly to her furious inquisitors.

  “What did ye see, girl? We must know!” cried the man with the heavy jowls and lank hair. Gabriel Swarbrick was well known to her, both as a local fisherman and notorious troublemaker. He scowled threateningly.

  “I don’t know what you mean!” she replied bravely, her thin voice betraying her fear.

  “For God’s sake, child, answer,” her father pleaded.

  Dolly remained silent.

  Swarbrick lurched towards her, grabbing her slim shoulders and shaking her like a rag doll. She rocked on the wooden stool, almost falling. His face contorted with fury and became crimson. His fury was short – lived as he was suddenly winded and knocked nearly senseless to the slate floor. Tom rained blows upon Gabriel with a fury he had never felt before. Swarbrick’s companions, stunned at first, leapt to his aid and dragged the lad away. When he got his breath back Swarbrick screamed, “Get them into the pit! We’ll deal with them later!” He wiped his bloody mouth roughly with the back of his hand. “Make haste! We have the tide to catch or we’ll lose our chance!”