The moonlight was patchy, clouds streaming across the sky. Surely no ship could come up-river in this weather? But then earlier the night had been still, the river shrouded in fog, fog which had dissipated at last with the first gentle breezes coming from the south-east. Restlessly he put his hand on his sword and loosened it in the scabbard. His companion was staring in through the door, straining to listen to the eulogy declaimed by the man standing on the dais in the distance, all his attention on the words and music, his back to the night.
In the darkness of his prison Eric was fighting his bonds furiously, working his hands loose as he wriggled towards the wall, searching for something sharp to help him saw through the ropes. They had tied him hurriedly and carelessly. The end of the knot worked free and he felt it loosen. With a grunt of satisfaction he struggled some more and at last his hands were free. He bent to untie his ankles, then he set to, to force open the door. It was taking too long. He groaned with impatience. Any moment the invaders would be on them, and everyone was unprepared. He could hear the music, the sudden cheering from the hall. They hadn’t understood his warning.
He launched himself at the door afresh, frantically throwing himself against it. It hadn’t been built as a prison; it was a storehouse. Eventually the hinges gave with a splintering sound, tearing away from the doorframe. The men on guard at the door could not have failed to hear the crash of the door falling, but it was too late.
The attack was swift and deadly. Below the hall on the flank of the low hillside the invaders streamed through the village with yells of fury, naked swords in their hands, ransacking the cottages as they went. Between one moment and next, or so it seemed, the night was lit with fire as thatched roofs were put to the torch, flames and sparks roaring up into the night sky.
As the smell of burning reached upwards and stained the clouds red, the men turned away from the looted, ruined cottages and began to stream up the hill towards the mead hall. Beneath their helmets their faces were wild and contorted, the pupils of their eyes pinpoints against the blaze. Eric had heard descriptions of attacks like this, men with their wits crazed, berserker, the scop had called it, mad with battle rage in the service of their god, Odin, oblivious to pain, without fear, bent only on joining their god in Valhalla.
He stared round frantically and to his amazement he saw Destiny Maker lying on the ground where it had fallen from his hand, the blade reflecting the deep scarlet of the flames which lit the night. Stooping, he picked it up, the glittering hilt solid in his hand, and he turned to face the enemy.
He had an instant to tighten his grip on Destiny Maker and raise it above his head as the vanguard of the Danish horde reached him and the roar of battle broke about his ears. He was without armour, he had no shield, but his fury and despair were for a while more than a match for the men who attacked him.
The two men at the doors of the mead hall died instantly but their killers turned to find Eric behind them. Both fell, their last sight the flames reflected in the flailing blade. Exhausted, blinded by sweat, Eric turned and found himself face to face with a huge man, moustached, helmeted, dressed in heavy armour, a shield on his arm. The man raised his sword and Eric took the chance, pushing his own blade into the vulnerable spot under the man’s armpit. The giant gave a groan and staggered, then he fell.
Outnumbered and overwhelmed at last Eric, for all his bravery, stood no chance. He fell, a curtain of blood veiling his eyes, and collapsed on the ground only a few feet from the door of the hall. The howling mob of invaders had closed on the building, barricading the doors shut. Inside the music and cheers had long ago turned to screams. As the building was set alight and those inside realised there would be no escape, those screams grew ever more desperate but Eric did not hear them. He was dead.
Emily was finding it harder and harder to sleep. Each morning she rose before it grew light and sat, wrapped in a thick shawl, in a chair facing the window watching the sunrise. Only when she had heard the servants stirring in the house below did she creep back to bed and pretend to be asleep, and when whichever housemaid had been allocated to her that day knocked on the door and came in to light the fire, she lay with her eyes closed until the girl had finished and crept out again.
Finally she wrote to her father, begging him to send a carriage for her, telling him that Henry had been called away and she was alone and unhappy. She left the letter on the salver in the hall; later that day it had gone. She hoped that someone had taken it to the post.
There was still no word from Henry. The funeral had taken place. The whole household had gone to it except for her. They returned, sad, dressed in black, and did not speak to her; she didn’t ask about it.
Three days later she rose early as was her custom, but this time she dressed. She went slowly down the broad flight of stairs wearing her outdoor boots, her coat, her hat and she set off down the drive in the almost-light of a cold dawn. It took her half an hour to walk down to the farmyard. There was no one about, which seemed strange. Surely the men should be at work by now? She frowned. She could hear the restless stirrings in the henhouse, the contented snorts of pigs from the sties behind the summer barn, and somewhere a robin was singing its sad thready song into the dawn. She walked across to the forge and pushed open the door. It was cold, the floor swept clean, the tools hung in neat rows on the wall, the firebed empty.
‘Dan?’ she whispered.
There was no reply.
She walked out and went round to the cottage. She didn’t try the door. The place was obviously empty, the curtains closed, the chimney cold. She supposed that Fred Turtill would hire a new smith soon and the man would move his family into the forge. She shivered and suddenly she stopped. Was that a face at one of the windows? A young woman, with long blonde hair fastened in a thick heavy plait which swung forward over her shoulder. Emily stared at her for several seconds and then the woman had gone. She stood rooted to the spot staring at the window but there was no one there. The cottage was empty. It was her imagination.
She walked slowly across the yard to the old barn and, with difficulty pushing open one of the tall heavy doors, she peered inside. The huge space was full of shadows. She gazed round. Half the barn was stacked now with sacks of stored barley and wheat; there were machines parked in there too, a thresher, a plough, a harrow, scythes, rakes, a dray. Why was there no one about? The horses were there in the line of stalls, the shires, the cart horses, the Suffolks. The animals stirred uneasily as she appeared and she saw their ears flick back towards her momentarily before they returned to pulling at the hay in the racks. They were uninterested in her arrival, waiting for George and the men, waiting for the day’s work to begin. Poor Bella had spent her last days in one of those stalls. She sighed. If she had only left the horse here; ignored it; ignored him.
She walked right into the barn and stood looking round uneasily. She would be the first to acknowledge that she wasn’t usually a sensitive woman, but in here she could feel something, a frisson of fear, an echo of violence. Was it in here he had died? One of the horses let out a piercing whinny and stamped its hoof, and she jumped, her heart thudding with fright. Defiantly she took a couple of steps forward, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the horse. She could hear the sparrows twittering outside now, pecking in the chaff which was blowing round the yard. She took another step and an owl launched itself silently from a high rafter and flew towards the door past her. She could feel her mouth growing dry. It was as if the whole building was trying to scare her away. She took another step forward and then froze. From somewhere nearby she could hear a baby crying.
She clenched her fists. She was not going to run away. There were babies aplenty on the estate, surely there were. This was not Susan’s baby. It couldn’t have been Susan’s baby; she had heard that it had not drawn breath. Looking round wildly she waited to hear the cry again, but there was complete silence in the barn. Even the horses had for a moment stopped their restless movements and appeared to be listening too.
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‘Dan?’ Her sudden desperate cry echoed up into the roof space. ‘Dan, I’m sorry.’
There was no answer.
Sharon Watts walked ahead of her husband into The Summer Barn and threw her shoulder bag down onto the long settee, then she turned to face her eldest son, who had followed them inside. Behind him Darren and Jamie appeared, looking unexpectedly chastened and in total silence. Their parents had been to collect Jackson from the police station where he had spent the night.
‘This does it, Jackson. We are taking you home and you are never, ever, coming down to this godforsaken place again. You put it on the market tomorrow, Jeff, do you hear me?’ Sharon spun round and strode across to the bar. Helping herself to a hefty slug of neat vodka she stood for a moment swilling it round in her mouth. ‘Arrested! Charged with causing grievous bodily harm and God knows what! Attempted murder probably, of that poor woman next door! And then on top of everything, you have to accuse that decent man across there, who has taken more trouble with Jade than you ever did, of being a paedo! I just don’t believe it. What did you think that would achieve? It was hardly going to divert attention from what you’d done.’
They had spent two hours in the police station at the end of which they had agreed to guarantee bail for their eldest son, and persuaded him to admit there was no truth in his charge against Leo.
It was only now that Sharon thought to look round the house. ‘So where is she?’ She walked across to the bottom of the stairs and looking up, shrieked at the top of her voice, ‘Jade?’
There was no answer. She ran up the stairs and disappeared along the landing while the four men of her family stood in silence looking at each other. Darren and Jamie caught each other’s eyes and sniggered; their father gave them a look which silenced them totally.
It was several minutes before Sharon reappeared followed by a bleary-eyed Jade. ‘She was still asleep.’ She turned on Jackson. ‘On top of everything else I gather you’ve been leaving your baby sister alone in this house.’
‘No. That’s the point!’ Jackson defended himself at last. ‘She is always out. Round at The Old Forge.’ He glared at Jade.
‘Well, I’m not now,’ she retorted. ‘I am never going there again.’
‘Why?’ Sharon looked at her suspiciously.
‘You tell Ma,’ Jackson put in. ‘Tell her what happened. That filthy bastard touched you up, didn’t he? No one believed me when I told the police.’
Jade paused. A calculating look crossed her face. She was thinking of Zoë and the tender glance Leo had given her. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. She wasn’t sure why Jackson was making the accusation, but suddenly it opened all kinds of possibilities for revenge. ‘That’s right. I thought I could trust him but I couldn’t. He wanted me to go into his bedroom.’ She looked down primly. ‘I wouldn’t; I knew what he wanted.’
Sharon said nothing. She was scanning her daughter’s face suspiciously. ‘Are you prepared to swear that on your grandmother’s grave?’
Jade blanched. ‘He’s always been very nice to me,’ she protested. ‘Too nice. He fancies me rotten.’
‘You lying little brat!’ Jamie put in. ‘Leo’s a decent guy and you have pursued him without stopping ever since we bought this house, hasn’t she, Dal?’ He looked at his brother with such ferocity that Darren could only nod support. ‘He was kind to you because he was sorry for you. He’d never fancy you in a million years. And I happen to know he’s got a wife and kids, so there.’
‘He hasn’t!’ Jade went white to the gills.
‘He has. And he thinks you’re a damn nuisance.’
‘How do you know all this, Jamie?’ his father asked suddenly.
Jamie went red. ‘I was listening outside the door one day when Jade was in there. Like Jacko, I was a bit worried about him. He’s an old guy and he’s definitely weird, but he’s no paedo. He was nice to her and gave her some juice and tried to persuade her to go and she wouldn’t and he was pretty fed up about it. Then after she had gone at last, there was a phone call and I heard him talking to this woman and he asked her if she wanted a divorce and he told her he still loved her and he talked about his kids. There is no way he would ever, ever fancy Jade. She’s just a kid and a pain in the arse at that.’
Jade went scarlet. With a small yelp of distress she turned and fled up the stairs. The house shook as her bedroom door slammed.
‘Poor kid,’ Jeff said quietly. ‘It will be a long time before she forgives you that one, son.’ He glared at the boy.
‘Right, that’s it, we are going home. Now,’ Sharon said with a groan. ‘This minute. Pack the car. I’ve had enough.’
‘But, Mum,’ Jackson protested.
‘But Mum nothing!’ Sharon shouted at him. ‘We gave an undertaking to the police, if you remember, to take you home and keep you there.’
Upstairs Jade had buried her face in her pillow.
When the sobs had subsided at last she lay still, exhausted, and it was then she remembered her curse. She sat up, sniffing, and her face broke into a slow smile. Zoë was going to get pregnant by her horrible husband. She was going to get fat and ugly and puke all the time and Leo would hate her. He wouldn’t even want to look at her and then she was going to die while she was having the baby. It was all part of her magic spell, and her spells at school had never failed.
Well, not really, so there was no reason to think this one would. It had started when someone called her a witch. ‘I’ll show you, you cow,’ she had screamed back in fury. Later that day the girl had slipped and broken her ankle in the playground. Jade’s reputation was made.
When he returned the next morning Ken sat for several long minutes in the car, his eyes closed, then at last he climbed out, the newspaper in his hand. He had seen the Watts’s car outside their house and decided not to go over. What was there to say?
The story had made all the nationals. Most of them had covered what had happened in great detail, spread over two pages. According to the ones he had seen, Rosemary was in hospital in a coma and they were waiting to decide whether or not to operate. They said Jackson had been arrested and charged, but they didn’t say with what. There was a photo of the tractor and the offending plough and another of a police car. He gave a grim smile. Sylvia was a stringer for the local weekly. Her story would contain far more than this one, thanks to him. He hoped no one would guess where she had got her facts.
The morning was cold, blowy, with a heavy cloud cover as he walked from the garage towards the barn. He and Sylvia had talked long and seriously the night before, after which, decisions if not made, then at least mooted, he had spent the night with her. Now he was not feeling so certain about anything. After all, he hadn’t known her all that long and he had felt this strange euphoria before when he had started a new relationship. Never make promises, surely he should know that by now.
He stood outside the door, rattling the keys in his fist, putting off the moment. Behind him the whole place had a deserted feel. He glanced at his watch. It was after ten. Usually there were people about by now, especially at a weekend. But of course there was no one to be about. Steve would be in hospital with Rosemary; and as for the Watts, their car was outside but their front door was tightly shut.
He glanced over his shoulder. The Old Forge looked locked up and deserted as well. He walked into the kitchen and glanced round. The whole place was silent. Throwing down the paper, he rested his hand briefly on the kettle. Cold. Then he saw the note on the worktop. It was from Amanda to Zoë. He read it and felt a pang of guilt. So, the Danvers had left, presumably the day before, and he hadn’t been there to say goodbye. He hadn’t even realised that they had gone. He had noticed that their car was no longer parked against the wall in the garage yard but he had thought nothing of it, expecting to see it somewhere near the front door.
‘Zoë?’ he called. He walked through to the great room and looked round. From the chill in the air he could feel the woodburner was out. The place felt u
nsettled, unhappy.
He ran up the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door into their bedroom. It too was deserted.
Her car had still been there in the garage, so she must be around. He walked over to the bed and stood looking down at it, guessing sourly that it had not been slept in last night. After all, he had messaged her, told her he wouldn’t be coming back. With Amanda and John gone what had there been to keep her here, with lover boy right there on the doorstep? Suddenly that cryptic PS in Amanda’s note made sense. She had gone with Leo.
He glanced round again, then, without quite knowing why, he bent and glanced underneath the bed. There was something there, pushed in near the skirting board. He climbed stiffly down onto his knees and reached in to pull it out. It was small and metallic and very heavy. Retrieving it he stood up and gazed at it in puzzlement. It was a round lump of iron, roughly shaped into the torso of a woman with huge breasts and buttocks. He shuddered. What on earth was such a grotesque thing doing under their bed?
He put the figurine down on Zoë’s bedside table and went into the bathroom. Her toothbrush and make up were gone. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and began a more serious search of the room. He was right. She had taken her handbag, her running shoes, a few clothes and, as far as he could see, her sailing gear.
For a moment his rage and jealousy were overwhelming; it was a while before he realised the irony of it all. He had come home to tell her he had found someone else. Whether or not he stayed with Sylvia would remain to be seen; what was certain was that he wanted a divorce and if he was honest with himself he had wanted one for some time. Perhaps even before they had moved. Perhaps the move had been a way of putting off the moment when he would have to decide, a chance to give them both a last crack at the marriage. But it hadn’t worked. If anything it had emphasised the differences between them. So why did he mind so much that she had made the same decision? He should be pleased. It would make life so much easier.
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