Raven's Hoard

by Gill Jepson

  The two burly men lifted the young pair off their feet as easily as if they were bags of straw. Their protests were muffled by grubby large hands over their mouths and their struggles were in vain. Dolly’s father, John, reached helplessly for his young daughter, but to no avail. Swarbrick hit him full in the face, sending him flying across the slate flags. “That’s a taster of what you’ll get if you let her and that Preventive man go while we are away!”

  With that he followed the others through the trapdoor near the fireplace. The pit had been hewn from the rock and formed a cavern of surprising proportions. Dolly and Tom knew of its existence but had never seen it before. The cave was used for cock-fighting, where local smugglers and pirates gambled their ill-gotten gains. The bloody evidence of the cruel sport could be seen, russet stains daubing the gravel floor. Empty rum bottles lay abandoned around the edge and kegs and barrels were stacked at the back of the room.

  The two young people resisted their captor’s attempt to tie them, but the wiry youth called Charnley drew a filleting knife from his belt and pointed it menacingly at Dolly’s throat. He did not need to speak, the message was clear. They were bound together with rope and abandoned in the dark as the last chink of light was extinguished as the trapdoor was closed shut. Silence enveloped them like a heavy cloak. The silence was broken by small sobs from Dolly. Tom felt helpless. He tried to move his arms but the rope bonds tightened and prevented him. They took in their surroundings, seeing dark shapes and a slim shaft of pale light from the trapdoor above as their eyes grew used to the dark.

  “I’m sorry, Dolly. I should have waited ’til they had gone, but I couldn’t watch them harm you,” whispered Tom.

  “It i’nt your fault Tom… if anyone’s to blame, ’tis me dad fer lettin’ ’em use the inn,” she sniffed. “What can we do to get out?”

  He wriggled and shuffled in answer. This only served to upset her further and she began crying. They fell silent. Suddenly Tom shifted his position and cried out.

  “Right! Try and shuffle over to the corner.”

  Dolly tried to twist around so she could see what the corner had to offer.

  “Come on… shuffle over!” insisted Tom.

  The two pushed and slid over the rough floor. It was uncomfortable and surprisingly hard work, but they managed to reach their target.

  “Now, we need to turn round the other way,” Tom instructed.

  The pair twisted round. Dolly heard a clink. Tom had moved them to where two bottles had been discarded. He manoeuvred his hands until he could grip one of the bottles.

  “Now, keep still while I try and break this. If you move you’ll cut yourself.”

  Dolly held her breath and tightened all her muscles to prevent her moving. The first attempt failed, merely sending the bottle spinning away. On the second attempt, the bottle hit a sharp stone and cracked. With a little more pressure it broke in half, splinters of glass pricking the side of Tom’s hand.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed. “That hurt but at least ’tis broken and sharp.”

  Dolly relaxed and leaned against his back, supporting him as he sawed the broken glass across the rope bindings.

  It was hot and slow progress, but finally the rope frayed enough for Tom to snap the bindings.

  The pair moved apart, stretching and rubbing their wrists. Tom undid the rope around his ankles, jumped up and untied Dolly too.

  “So, what dost thou suggest now?” Dolly asked. “How do we get out of here?”

  “I know not. I will try the trapdoor,” he answered.

  He pushed and rattled the door, but it was locked tight. The cellar was difficult to negotiate and they bumped into casks and objects as they moved. They explored the outer perimeter of the cavernous room, feeling their way with their hands. Tom stumbled as his hands reached into a recess in the rocks. At the back of the recess was a groove. Tom felt up and down the slot until he found a metal ring at the base.

  “What is it? What have you found?” asked Dolly excitedly.

  “’Tis a ring, I think I can pull it!”

  He knelt and gripped the ring and pulled with all his might. Nothing happened. This time instead of pulling, he tried to lift it. Again, nothing changed. With renewed vigour he heaved the ring as hard as he could. His effort stole his balance and he fell forward, pushing the ring back into the groove. A loud click snapped the silence. The pair listened. A low growling came from behind the wall and slowly it rolled backwards, grinding to a halt only a metre or so behind the room they were in. A light breeze flickered from behind the wall, encouraging them to go on. Tom grabbed Dolly’s hand and pulled her through the gap. They slipped around the false wall and as they stepped on to the floor behind, a board released the lever which had first opened it, closing firmly.

  “I pray we can get out of here,” whispered Dolly.

  “The door must lead somewhere,” answered Tom.

  Dolly kept her doubts to herself and hoped that he was right. They stumbled along the narrow passage, feeling their way and following the increasingly stronger breeze.

  The tunnel seemed clearer as they progressed, shapes becoming more visible. Suddenly, as they reached a bend, a gust of rain-filled wind took their breath away. They could see an opening. More than that, they could hear the sea. They quickened their pace and a pale light from outside traced the outline of the exit. It was concealed with overgrown vegetation and rocks, not easily visible from outside.

  “We must be careful now… we don’t know who’s about,” whispered Tom urgently.

  Dolly nodded in acknowledgement. They dropped down, bending low to crawl through the hole. The ground rose as they scrambled out, the wind whipping their hair and clothes viciously. The rain stung like nettles and Dolly was soon shivering in the cold. Tom took off his cloak and wrapped it round her thin shoulders. They had emerged above the Conkin Bank, presently covered by a wild and raging sea. They looked around, checking they were still alone, and with a single will ran across the muddy banking and through the windswept trees into the fields. They ran as fast as they could over the rough ground. They found themselves on the path to St Michael’s church. The weather worked against them, wind blasting and buffeting them like sails on a ship, rain pelting them with an icy assault. As they stumbled on, Tom’s feet became heavier and heavier with the mud. He slowed to a halt, his boots sinking into a slick of sodden clay. The two wobbled as they pulled their feet free of the gluey mire. Dolly quivered and slowly slid backwards, falling into the bog.

  “Urgh! It’s filthy! I am drenched.”

  “Come!” cried Tom, “thou must get up!”

  He dragged her to her feet and the mud slurped as her heavy skirts separated from the mess. They trudged on, aiming for the silhouette of the church in the distance. Light was breaking weakly in the east, lightening the billowing black clouds. They knew they must reach safety before dawn, before they could be seen, before their captors knew they were missing. The pathway wound its way past the graveyard and on to the cart track towards Roose village. Their destination lay some miles beyond this, in the hamlet of Leece. They were exhausted but could not slacken their pace for fear of discovery. Finally they reached the edge of the village, running faster as they reached their target. They hammered at the low wooden door of the cottage.

  No light came from within, all was silent.

  “We must go in!” insisted Tom.

  They pushed open the door and closed it behind them heavily. They had reached their haven.

  CHAPTER 4

  JEFFREY

  It was the summer holidays again and time to go down to the dig. Nate was made up! He loved the camaraderie and sense of purpose he got from being part of the dig. It was the time he always felt best about himself. They were going to be busy because they were exploring a fresh piece of ground nearer to the castle – or what was left of it. He loved Gleaston castle. It was everything it should be, crumbling, imposing, mysterious. The farm was built amongst it and from its stones, but t
here was still an impressive keep and extensive curtain wall. It was the second castle built by the Le Fleming family and had been built in the thirteenth century. They outgrew the first one at Aldingham.

  That one fascinated Nate too. He loved its conical mound or motte as it was called. He admired the viewpoint it had overlooking Morecambe Bay and the way that it still dominated the landscape. He could spot hints of earthworks and archaeology visible on the field surface and was pleased that there was still a farm below it even after all the centuries that had passed. Mote Farm was a splendid late medieval farm with the remnants of a moat. He knew one day he wanted to explore it all and make some sense of what he could see.

  He stood for a time by the gate into the dig field, gazing at the encampment. His reverie was disturbed by the growling of a motorbike coming up behind him. A helmeted and goggled figure drew into the gateway and turned off the engine. He climbed from his steed like an erstwhile knight. Nate grinned. The rider removed the old-fashioned helmet and goggles revealing Chris’s weather-worn features. He nodded in acknowledgement and turned to the stationary bike, removing a wooden box from the carrier at the back. Without a word he walked towards the gate and opened it. The two of them walked towards the camp, silently.

  Chris dropped the box on to the trestle-table. Nate wondered what was in it, but didn’t like to ask. Very soon he was kneeling in a muddy trench, scraping the topsoil away carefully, hoping to reveal an amazing new treasure. Hours passed and his knees ached, his wrist cramped and became stiff where he had held the trowel in the same position. His meagre finds were visible in the seed tray and to him did not seem impressive. There were a couple of animal teeth, a scattering of flint chippings and two small pieces of red medieval pottery.

  They were similar to everyone else’s, so he felt reassured. After the banquet that was their evening meal they began exchanging stories. As usual Nate did more listening than talking. Soon, the subject turned to the box which Chris had placed on the table earlier. The suspense built as he lifted off the lid and with a flourish pulled out a human skull, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a top hat.

  “Wow!” gasped Nate. “Where’s that from?”

  “Or more appropriately, who’s it from?” chuckled Chris. “It’s extremely old… and I like to call him… Jeffrey!”

  “Where did it come from then?” asked Darren, the oldest of the diggers.

  Well… there’s a tale.” He sighed and looked closely at the skull.

  “Well? Go on then!” demanded Darren.

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you – am I? I need to be sure I can trust you!” He fixed him with a steely glare.

  Darren and the others laughed uneasily. Chris was often abrasive and it was difficult to know when he was being serious. He turned to Nate and suddenly threw the skull to him. Luckily he caught it nimbly, thanking his lucky stars for his rugby training.

  “What do you make of that then, lad?” he growled.

  Still shocked at having a skull thrown at him, he raised his eyebrows. He held it in his hands and looked closely at it.

  “Ha, alas poor Yoric – eh, Nate?” guffawed Darren.

  “Leave the lad alone!” Chris barked.

  Feeling hot under the collar, Nate looked again at this remnant of humanity and found himself wondering who he might have been. He was drawn to the shape of the head, followed the contours with his fingers, and peered at the teeth. He stopped and took a breath. On the left side of the skull, from the orbit of the eye to the top of the jaw bone, was a split or groove. He rotated it slowly and discovered another split at the base of the skull as though a piece had been splintered from it. He ran his finger along the ragged edge, debating whether to speak.

  “Well? What do you see?” asked Chris.

  “Er… there’s like a split… here.” He indicated the cheekbone. “Then there’s a chunk broken off at the back – like it’s all jagged… and look – there’s a hole on the temple as well!”

  “And what does that mean?” quizzed Chris further.

  Nate shrugged. “Erm… I think… I think that this man has been battered with something?”

  “Yes, I concur with that. What type of battery and what sort of weapon do you think?”

  “I think some sort of axe or sword? Or maybe both? Summat with a sharp edge anyway!” offered Nate.

  “Well done!” Chris turned to the others and grinned. “Good observation skills for a young ’un! He has been slashed from the front by a blade, stabbed in the temple with a sharp object – maybe an axe or mace handle, and finally the injury at the back could… could indicate he has been beheaded!”

  “But who is it?” pressed Nate.

  “Ah well, that may be something we can’t establish… at the moment!”

  Without any further discussion, Chris seized the skull and replaced it into the box, closing the lid firmly. Everyone knew that the conversation was at an end.

  As Nate lay in his tent that night, staring at the stars through the gap he had left open, he went over the day’s events in his head. He was intrigued to discover who the skull belonged to and how and why he had died. He couldn’t help thinking that Chris knew more than he was letting on. Where on earth had he found it? Surely not near the castle, they would have noticed. Where could it have come from? After all, Chris rode up with it on his motorbike, so he had brought it from somewhere.

  His dreaming was broken by the sound of scuffling outside. He froze momentarily, listening, ears pricked like a dog. Another sound echoed across the field. Someone had knocked over a metal bucket which was next to the caravan. He breathed a sigh of relief. It must be Chris up and about. He glanced at his mobile phone to check the time. It was 4.15 am. Too early for Chris to be up then! Further noises came from near the van. This time he sat bolt upright. His breath was short and rapid. He clambered out of his sleeping bag and scrambled to the opening of the tent. Carefully he peeled back the flap and looked through.

  A shadowy figure stood in the doorway of the caravan. He moved into the van. Without a second thought, Nate leapt out of his tent and raced towards the caravan, shouting at the top of his voice.

  The figure jumped and turned. Nate couldn’t make out who it was, but his reaction confirmed that whoever it was, he should not be there. He jumped from the van, rocking it as he did so, and landed on the grass, momentarily losing his footing. He ran away from Nate, who was in hot pursuit. By this time Chris had emerged from the van and the other diggers had begun to appear from tents along the field like moles, feeling their way in the dark. Torch beams swung round the field like searchlights, illuminating bushes and objects which looked unearthly in the dark.

  The man had disappeared over the gate in the confusion and a car engine roared into life and vanished down the narrow lane beyond the mill. Lamps were lit all round the camp and everyone was huddling round the caravan. Chris stood on the top step of the caravan. He looked older than usual and weary. His white hair stood in tufts on his head giving him the appearance of an exotic bird of prey. He looked around the gathered diggers, as if he was silently taking a roll call. Everyone was there.

  “What happened? What did he want?” clamoured Mel, one of the young volunteers.

  “Money – they’d be after money…” cried Paul.

  “Or they might think we had treasure – digs down south are always being raided for gold and stuff!” suggested Darren.

  “Why would they think we had gold or treasure?” countered Mel scornfully, ruffling her short dark hair.

  “Somebody may believe we have found something valuable! But not necessarily gold or money,” explained Chris plainly. “Maybe someone has been talking about our finds!”

  “Oh yeah! Like Nate’s boar’s teeth or those flints? Maybe it’s that archaeologist over at Aldingham – he’s always seemed a bit shifty to me,” laughed Darren.

  “Well, someone means business! Someone found us interesting and someone believes we have found something!”

&n
bsp; He looked directly at Nate. His blue eyes seemed to be telling him something.

  Something, which would need to be spoken of in time.

  It did not take long for the time to be right. Towards the end of the dig Chris beckoned Nate to come over to him. They sat at the mess table, facing each other. Chris stared intently at Nate, his crinkly blue eyes full of unspoken words. Nate would normally have felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny, but he merely relaxed and looked straight into Chris’s clear blue eyes. He found melancholy there which he could not quite fathom. Tranquillity had surrounded them, bathing them in a still peace. Time almost stood still and the diggers in the field became insignificant, and all that could be heard was the constant burble of the stream, running on eternally.

  “You have a task to fulfil,” said Chris plainly.

  Nate’s face crumpled with confusion, unsure of what Chris meant.

  “You must save an important, sacred treasure. It’s imperative that you find it. I can help, but I won’t be here for…” His voice trailed off ominously.

  Nate wracked his brains to understand what treasure he could possibly be referring to. Even Chris wouldn’t call the few finds of flint, pottery and bone that they had found treasure.

  Chris reached beneath the table and placed the battered finds box containing Jeffrey on to the table in front of Nate. He opened it and lifted out the skull, holding it in front of him.

  “These are the remains of Oswald, King of the Northumbrians. He was slaughtered by the heathen King Penda and his parts spread across the four kingdoms of the north. A raven stole away his sacred arm and where it fell a holy spring grew. His sacred bones and the sword which killed this saintly warrior were saved by his brother and rested safely for many a year at the abbey of Bardney. The heathen Northmen overran Bardney and the relics were ransacked. A red – haired devil found the sword that took brave Oswald’s head from his shoulders; he fled with his spoils and the sword was lost. Oswald’s bones were taken to abbeys far and wide; but his skull rested secretly at Furness Abbey until the great dissolution. It is believed that the skull lay in St Cuthbert’s tomb at Durham, carried there during the great progress of that saint’s body, but it was instead left at Furness for safe keeping.” He spoke strangely and sombrely.