River of Destiny

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘And after that it was converted into flats?’

  Lesley shook her head. ‘It was sold to the farm. Bill Turtill’s dad or granddad. It is an extraordinary turnaround of fate. The Turtills were farm managers to the estate in the nineteenth century, but somehow they ended up buying the farm and a lot of the land, then in the fifties they bought the Hall and the rest of the estate for a song. They showed themselves to be pretty astute. They resold the Hall and kept the land and the barns; then much later they sold the barns for development. They had trouble getting planning permission because they were so old and listed but they managed it in the end.’

  ‘And so, here we all are.’ Rosemary beamed at them both. ‘And it’s Bill I need to talk to again about the footpaths. He has closed one of them off; changed its route completely.’

  Lesley gave her a close look. ‘I hardly think the route matters in the great scheme of things. As long as people can still walk the fields.’

  ‘Ah, but there you are wrong.’ Rosemary set down her cup purposefully and sat forward on the edge of her chair. ‘These are ancient highways, rights of way. They have to be protected.’

  Lesley sighed. ‘My dear, that path you keep going on about, across Dead Man’s Field, it doesn’t exist. I have looked at all sorts of maps and plans. It’s just not there. And there is a lovely walk along a pretty lane down the edge of the field.’ She glanced at Zoë. ‘Has Rosemary signed you up to her footpath mafia yet?’

  Zoë shook her head, embarrassed. ‘No, not me. I jog. I don’t like walking. At least not with lots of people.’

  ‘No more do I.’ Lesley gave a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Ghastly thought! I am sorry, Rosemary dear, but you know it’s true. I’ve seen them. Your friends don’t look at the country-side, they are not interested in flowers or birds or even the views of the river. They won’t let anyone take a dog with them, for heaven’s sake! All they want to do is criticise, compare it to some approximation of a town park, measure that the grass is the right length and if the poor farmers haven’t cut it, they want to know why not; as though these guys haven’t got better things to do. Bill should put a socking great bull in that field. That’s what I say!’

  Zoë hid a smile. ‘Why is it called Dead Man’s Field? That sounds a bit spooky.’

  ‘And rightly so. There is a tumulus in the field. Now that is on a lot of the maps, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Rosemary, though you’ve chosen to ignore it. The field has long had a reputation for being haunted. Another reason the locals wouldn’t walk there if you paid them and why there wouldn’t be a footpath across it. Why is it, Rosemary, it is always newcomers who stir these things up? Why don’t you ask the locals if there was ever a path there? And listen to their answers.’

  ‘Because the locals aren’t interested.’ Rosemary sniffed. ‘They don’t care about the countryside half the time.’ She wasn’t going to admit that she had at the beginning overlooked the fact that the silly little pile of earth she had contemplated bulldozing was a tumulus. Most of the maps didn’t show it any more anyway. ‘All they are interested in is if they can stuff the latest plasma telly into their front rooms.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, that is so wrong.’ Lesley shook her head. ‘Read the history, the proper history of the estate, not your little maps which were probably drawn up by retired clergy-men in the thirties who never set foot in the fields themselves.’ She was looking agitated. ‘I’ve read a lot about this area; it’s my job as part of restoring the gardens.’

  ‘Well, the farm was never part of the gardens,’ Rosemary said stiffly. ‘The local people wanted access to the river. It is the obvious route if you look at the maps.’

  ‘The local people have the lane, Rosemary. That is why it is there. That is where it goes. To the river.’

  ‘They’ll thank me in the end.’ Rosemary helped herself to a piece of cake. ‘They don’t know anything about rights of way and they are too lazy to bother, but they will use the path once it’s there, you’ll see.’

  Zoë stared at her. ‘That sounds awfully snobby and patronising, Rosemary, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are there any farm workers’ cottages belonging to the estate?’ She changed the subject hastily, looking at Lesley. ‘I was looking at a map in the library and it didn’t seem to show any that are still there.’

  ‘No. There aren’t any left now.’ Lesley stood up and reached for the coffee pot. Tight-lipped, she topped up Rosemary’s cup and then Zoë’s. ‘The Old Forge next to you is the only one left, as far as I know. I am sure there were cottages; there must have been on the estate, when the farm was in its heyday, but I expect they collapsed over the years. They were probably fairly basic, and once the family had gone who would care? They were not part of a village, after all. Bill might know.’ She glanced at Rosemary. ‘Come on, don’t sulk, old thing. Hurry up and drink that and we’ll show Zoë round the gardens.’

  Straightening up for a few moments to rest his back after bending over the engine housing, Ken saw Steve Formby strolling down the path towards him. He groaned inwardly, but managed a cheery wave. ‘The girls have gone up to the Hall for coffee, I gather,’ he called.

  Steve nodded. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the landing stage and sat with his legs dangling over the water. ‘It is so lovely here,’ he said. ‘Peaceful.’

  Ken contemplated a response and decided to say nothing. He was not a fan of Steve’s wife. She was noisy and bossy and far too aggressive for his liking. He leaned back against the cabin door. ‘I hear the Watts family are down. We haven’t met them yet.’

  Steve blew gustily through pursed lips. ‘I wouldn’t bother. They are a nightmare.’

  ‘Noisy?’ There had been a never-ending blast of sound from The Summer Barn this morning. Music, shouting and revving engines, to say nothing of dogs barking.

  ‘Noisy,’ Steve confirmed. ‘The blessing is that they don’t stay long. The kids will have to go back to school at some point.’

  Both men were silent for a while. Ken reached for an oily rag and began slowly to wipe his fingers on it. ‘Odd thing happened the other night when we came home after dark,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Did Zoë mention it to Rosemary? Strange noises out here on the river.’

  Steve laughed. ‘Yes, she told me. I’ve never heard them.’

  ‘But you know about them.’

  ‘Load of crap, in my view.’ Steve was rhythmically kicking the seaweed-covered post beneath him ‘Sound carries over water, we all know that. There was probably someone messing round upstream somewhere. They could have been a long way away so you wouldn’t have been able to see them.’

  Ken grinned ‘You’re right. That could well have been it. Or I did wonder if it could have been smugglers bringing contraband up-river, drugs or illegal immigrants. It was a bit odd.’

  ‘The little woman scared?’ Steve laughed again.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I reckon you’re more likely to be right than the girls’ theory that it is a ghostly visitor.’ With another snort of laughter Steve drummed a further tattoo with his heels on the wooden piles beneath him. ‘Don’t let her talk to Leo about it,’ he went on. ‘He’s a bit fey, in my opinion. Probably something to do with that ghastly accident the poor chap had. He reckons it is a Viking longship.’

  Ken nodded sagely. ‘I haven’t met him yet. He always pops in when I’m not there.’ He sensed rather than saw Steve glance at him sharply.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Steve thought for a minute. ‘I doubt if he’s a lady’s man. Not looking like that. He would stir up compassion in a stone wall, but I don’t get the feeling he’s a danger to our women.’ Ken refrained from pointing out that Steve’s wife was a weather-beaten battle-axe, while his was still young and attractive. It seemed unnecessarily unkind.

  ‘He’s not gay?’

  ‘No. In fact I think he’s married. But separated. Our cleaning lady, Annie, mentioned it; said she walked out on him after the accident. What a bitch.’
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  Ken noticed Steve pat his pockets speculatively for the third time and he gave a knowing grin. ‘Am I right in thinking you’ve given up smoking?’

  Steve nodded. ‘Can’t get used to not having any on me.’

  ‘Would you like to come aboard for a lager? Then you can tell me about this Viking ship.’

  Ten minutes later the men were seated in the cockpit of the Lady Grace. ‘You know we’re only a few miles from Sutton Hoo, the Anglo-Saxon site where they found the great ship burial,’ Steve said as he made himself comfortable and pulled the tab on the can.

  ‘We haven’t been there yet.’ Ken leaned back into the corner and rested his arm companionably over the tiller. ‘Is it worth seeing?’

  ‘I enjoyed it. There is a museum and a café and a shop, and then you walk out to these burial mounds. Nothing much to see there, just grass, and nice walks overlooking the river, a bit like this actually, but round where they found the ship it all feels a bit special, even I have to admit that.’

  ‘And this ship is the same as the one Zoë and Leo are talking about?’

  Steve frowned. ‘I assume so. Is Viking the same as Anglo-Saxon?’ Both men shook their heads. ‘History is not my thing,’ Ken said after a moment. His attention was caught by a movement over Steve’s shoulder. Out in the river a cormorant flew low over the water, its dark iridescent wings and sharp head and beak a black arrow against the green of the rising tide.

  5

  Eric shaded his eyes from the glare with a raised hand and watched as the bird skimmed low over the river. It came to rest on a tree stump and shook its wings, almost at once staring around at the water, ready to dive if it spotted a fish. He gave a grim smile. Observant bird. Cunning. Not missing a thing. He hooked his thumbs into his broad leather belt, feeling the cold working its way into his bones. He had spent too long indoors, too long with the furnace and hammer. Not enough time with his wife.

  ‘Is the sword ready?’

  The voice behind him was persistent, always there.

  ‘I will tell you when it is ready!’ he yelled, and he spun round furiously, his fist raised. There was no one there. He stared left and right incredulously. There was no one in sight; the village was deserted, the women indoors at the loom or spinning, the men out in the fields making all ready before the first of the autumn storms.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself and turned back to the river. He was imagining things again.

  Beware of elf-shot. He heard his mother’s voice in his head and smiled fondly.

  What would the priest say to her warnings; unexplained illness and injuries caused by insidious small arrows fired by unseen spirits? Oh, Wulfric believed in the spirits too. They all believed in the spirits, but he would have a different weapon against them. Cross yourself, man. Ward off the evil eye. Guard your woman with Christian prayers. Eric shook his head slowly. No, he had tried Christian prayers. They did not work; they did not bring him fine sons. Working for a man who had turned back to the old ways and the old gods had made him realise their potency. And yet. He closed his eyes for a moment. Whose voice was it he thought he had heard? Hrotgar, the thegn’s reeve. The man was a devout Christian like the Lady Hilda. As was his own wife, Edith. He sighed. He was spending too long on the sword; there were other things to make, other people waiting, including a weapon for the ealdorman at Rendlesham, who was a kinsman of King Edmund, but this sword was special; it was his masterpiece; it would be carried into war against the Viking host, if not by Lord Egbert, then by his successor, and it would bring safety and blessing and renown to their village.

  His eyes narrowed as he saw a movement in the distance; beyond the palisade someone was walking across the beaten earth, heading up towards the hall; a man, and there, in front, he could see the soft green of his wife’s tunic and cloak. He saw Edith hesitate and he saw her turn to wait for the second figure. The two converged, their shadows merging in the bright sunlight. He clenched his fists as he watched. They had stopped walking. They were talking. They were standing very close staring into each other’s faces and then as he stood helplessly, the length of a field away, he saw them turn from the path and disappear between the houses. His cry of anguish echoed out across the cold water. At the sound the cormorant stretched out its wings and launched itself upriver and out of sight.

  He was spending too much time with Bella. Dan was well aware of it, but he blamed himself for the horse’s state, and she was responding. She greeted him now with a soft whinny of recognition when he approached her stall, and she had begun to eat. The swelling was going down on her legs, but nothing could be done about the terrible scars which remained as ugly gashes over her fetlocks. How had the woman done it, he wondered, and how could she, how could anyone, have brought themselves to injure such a gentle, willing creature?

  The barns were full of grain and hay and straw against the long winter, the stalls for the horses empty now except for Bella’s as the animals were out working on the farm, bringing in heavy wagons of turnips, tumbrils full of cider apples, collecting the last of the potatoes for the clamps in the yard. Dan was busy in the forge. As farrier and blacksmith to the estate he was in constant demand, shoeing all the horses on the farm and up at the Hall, and making a constant stream of iron goods; at present he was forging sets of gate hinges and railings for the park. He rubbed Bella’s nose. ‘I must get on, my lovely,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back to see you later.’ He froze as he heard the tap of heels in the doorway.

  ‘Daniel!’

  He hadn’t seen Emily Crosby for several days and the sound of her voice filled him with resentment. He saw the mare’s ears flatten against her head and he held his breath. Did the woman know he was there? Silently he tiptoed out of the stall, instinctively knowing she mustn’t catch him near the horse. Keeping to the shadows of a pile of straw bales he edged his way towards a side door.

  ‘Daniel!’ The voice was closer now, sharp. She was walking towards Bella’s stall, the heels of her riding boots noisy on the cobbles. ‘Drat it! Where is the man?’

  He did not want her near Bella; he had to distract her. Ducking round the far side of the bales, he walked towards her as though he had just come in from the yard. ‘My lady? Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I was calling your name.’ Her tone was sarcastic. She was as usual dressed for riding. ‘I need you to check my horse.’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ Meekly he followed her outside. The roan pony was tied up near the forge, tossing her head up and down irritably. Something was obviously distressing her. It took him only minutes to find the burrs beneath the saddlecloth. ‘That must have been vexing her badly, my lady,’ he said as he extracted them. ‘It would be very sore. They are a bother at this time of year. I’ve found them under the harness of the working horses as well. Shall I help you into the saddle, my lady?’ He knew very well she had put them there herself; no one saddling the horse could have failed to see them.

  ‘If you please, Daniel.’ She narrowed her eyes at him like a cat, holding out her hand. As he stooped to take her foot she put her arm round his neck. ‘You could lift me off my feet so easily, Daniel, a great strong man like you,’ she murmured. She turned towards him. ‘You find me attractive, don’t you, Daniel?’ Her voice was low and seductive. ‘You would like to kiss me, I’ll be bound!’

  He took a step back, repelled. ‘No, my lady. I know my place.’

  ‘But your place is to do as I tell you, Daniel.’ She moved closer to him. ‘I trust your wife is not going to make a habit of appearing suddenly. She might find it hard to understand how tempted you are by my beauty.’

  ‘Dan, where are you, my friend?’ The voice came so suddenly from the far side of the yard that for a moment neither of them moved. Not Susan. It was a man’s voice. Leaping backwards, Daniel looked round and saw to his immense relief the sight of Jem, one of the horseboys with two of the Suffolks. He was riding astride one and leading the other, the harness hitched on both
of them. ‘We’re done for the day so I brought these two back, Dan,’ he called. He seemed to notice Lady Emily for the first time. ‘My lady!’ The young man touched his forelock as he drew to a halt in the yard and slid off the great horse.

  Daniel saw the flash of fury in her eyes as she turned back to her own mount. He stooped again for her foot and threw her none too gently into the saddle. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?’

  For a moment she stared down at him. ‘There is, Daniel, and you would do well to remember it. You were shirking your duties. If I find you avoiding me in future you might well find yourself in need of a job.’ She paused. ‘It wouldn’t do to be put off, would it now, Daniel, and you and your wife with a baby on the way?’ She brought her whip down on the pony’s rump, sitting the saddle remarkably well as it gave a small buck of resentment.

  ‘Phew!’ Jem winked at him as she rode out of the yard. ‘George and me, we reckoned you needed rescuing. George saw her heading down here from the Hall.’ The head horseman had appeared behind them leading three more of the working horses into the yard.

  Dan grinned. ‘Pity the squire can’t rein her in.’

  ‘You don’t fancy yourself fathering the heir then?’ Jem guffawed.

  ‘No, I don’t!’ Dan threw a mock punch at him, then he sobered, all humour gone. ‘It’s no joke, though. She’s threatening to have me and Susan thrown off.’

  ‘You’ll have to do what you’re told then, boy!’ Jem clicked his tongue at the horses and walked them over towards the water trough to drink. ‘I wonder where you’ll get the strength.’ He was still grinning as he dodged out of reach a second time.

  ‘A word to the wise.’ Leo saw Zoë walking towards the landing stage and hurried down the path to catch up with her. ‘Our friend Rosemary has upset Bill Turtill in a big way.’