They headed for the trees and had just about reached them when she stopped again and turned to look back towards the forge. ‘Did you hear that? There’s a car coming.’
Leo stopped and swung round. ‘Where?’
‘It’s going towards your house.’
‘Take no notice. Whoever it is, we don’t want to see them. We’ve got our mobiles, if it’s anything important we’ll hear about it soon enough.’
It had taken several trips to carry their supplies down to the Curlew and with each visit the mist had seemed lighter. All being well they planned to sail with the tide at midnight. ‘Why wait?’ Leo had said. ‘I don’t want to be here in the morning with Ken staring balefully over the hedge. Let’s disappear for a bit, give ourselves a chance. We needn’t go far yet. We can moor up somewhere and make final plans.’
He hadn’t mentioned the fog and neither had she. Each time she glanced down towards the water it was clearer. Please God it would go soon. To her surprise she felt a clutch of excitement in her stomach as she listened to him. And as they made their way down the path for the last time with the final load of belongings she felt nothing but an almost childish sense of anticipation.
The dinghy was bobbing in the water at the end of the landing stage. Leo squatted down and gently pulled in the painter. ‘Here, give me your things and I’ll put them in.’
Zoë was too out of breath to speak. Letting him help her into the little boat, she packed the bags and boxes around her, ignoring the slight slop of ice-cold water on the bottom boards as she sat still in the bow. The dinghy was already heavily laden and they were low in the water, but the night was very still. There was almost no wind and the river was still very misty.
Zoë looked round apprehensively. ‘You don’t think the ghost ship is lurking out here, do you?’ she whispered. ‘I can feel something odd about the river.’
Leo paused as he pushed the last bag under the thwart and looked at her. Then he shook his head. ‘The mist is clearing, Zoë. There is no ghost ship here. Not now.’ He squinted into the distance at the burgee at the masthead of the Curlew. It hung limply; there was no trace of wind. ‘And there certainly doesn’t seem to be anyone else around at the moment,’ he said half to himself. He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure we’re fine. I don’t think the ghosts are about. Not tonight.’
They drew alongside the Curlew almost soundlessly and Zoë scrambled aboard. Standing for a moment in the cockpit she looked out across the water.
OK.’ Leo climbed in behind her. ‘We’ll stow this stuff away and get ready. There’s plenty of time. You don’t want to change your mind?’
She looked at him and shook her head. ‘No. This is what I want. Aboard the lugger.’ If she was honest this was it; she didn’t want to go back. She gave one last glance over her shoulder then she followed him down into the cabin.
Behind them the blue smoke from a distant bonfire drifted up into the air and carried the smell of sweet autumn-burning leaves into the slowly coiling wreathes of mist above the river.
21
The blue smoke drifted on the wind and carried with it the displeasure of the gods.
The sorcerer, the Christians called him, the priest of the old gods, the wizard, the maker of charms, the eater of sins. Augury and magic were his trade. He should have known the destiny of the village, should have foretold the arrival of the great longship from the northern lands, the escalation of the threat from the hungry Danes. But Anlaf had seen nothing. The wyrd sisters had not thought fit to warn him of what was to come. Now, as he walked slowly across the fields he could smell death on the wind, the foul reek of burning houses and charred flesh. He could see in the distance the pall of smoke still hanging over what had once been a village full of laughter and songs and love.
Leaning more heavily on his staff with each step he took, he approached what had once been the great hall and at last stood still, looking round. A man and a woman stood nearby; he could hear her sobbing weakly, all strength gone. Had they somehow escaped into the fields at the first sign of trouble, or were they from a neighbouring village which had so far missed the attentions of the invader? He stepped forward slowly, scanning the debris in what had been a fine proud building. The smouldering thatch of reeds lay in clumps. Nearby he could see the burned remains of a man. He felt nausea rise in his throat at the sight and he turned away. What could he, alone, do to bury so many? Already the carrion eaters were gathering. Crows and kites, magpies, buzzards, circling overhead. By dark the foxes and wolves would be creeping out of the woods and forests, drawn by the smell of death on the wind.
Abruptly he turned and walked to the place where the church had stood. Built of flint and stone, it had fared better than the hall, but the roof had gone. He stood where the door had once been and looked in. The altar had been defiled and pulled down, the gold cross and the candlesticks, the sacred book which lived on the altar, paid for by the Lady Hilda, were gone. What, he wondered, had happened to her? Had she fled into the woods or had the men from the sea taken her and raped and murdered her?
He heard a sound behind him and spun round, his heart thudding. At first he thought there was no one there, then he saw her, almost as though thinking about her had conjured the woman from the shadows. Her face was drawn and white, streaked with smoke, her gown torn, her hair no longer covered by a veil, tangled and loose on her shoulders. He saw she had threads of grey amongst the gold. He expected her to turn on him, the man who should have warned them what was to come, but she merely shook her head, leaning for a moment on the tumbled flints of the wall. Before, he reminded himself, they had been enemies, Christian and pagan, fighting for the soul of her husband. Now they were survivors, lost in a ruined world. He stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Are you alone, lady?’
She stared at him without recognition, her eyes unfocused, the horrors of what she had seen still there, lurking in their depths. He waited for several heartbeats before at last her vision cleared and he saw her spirit return from wherever it was that it had fled, and knew that she had recognised him. ‘Your husband is three times blessed that he did not witness what we saw, Lady Hilda,’ he said gently.
She nodded.
He hesitated, then asked, ‘Your sons? Oswald?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Oswald dragged me away from the hall, he made me run to the woods with him and hide, then he left me. He said he was coming back to find the boys.’ He saw her eyes swim with tears. ‘I have been searching but there is no sign of them in there.’ She pointed to the smoking ruins of what had been her home. She looked round again and he saw the shiver of fear run through her body. She was searching the ruins for a sign of the helmets and shields of their despoilers. ‘Have they gone?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘They went back to the ship and sailed on the tide.’
‘Why us?’
‘We were unprotected.’ He waited for a moment, searching for the words, then made himself say them. ‘I failed to predict what was coming. I did not read the signs correctly. I failed you all.’
He too was near tears.
She reached out and touched his hand. It was a gesture of friendship, perhaps comfort. ‘No one could have read the plans of such evil men.’ She turned away from him and looked into the ruins of what had once been a beautiful little church. ‘They have left nothing,’ she murmured. ‘Even the holy cross and the psalter have gone.’
‘The holy cross was made of gold,’ he replied bitterly. ‘And no doubt they enjoyed burning your book of prayers.’
‘Will you help me look for my sons?’ she whispered after another pause.
They found Eric’s body near the entrance to the hall. He had died bravely; there were three enemy dead beside him, bearing the wounds of his sword. Hilda stood looking down at the body of her husband’s sword maker and she made the sign of the cross over him. ‘I’m not even sure he was a Christian,’ she murmured sadly. ‘But wherever he is, he deserves compassion. Hrotg
ar was an evil manipulative man and he murdered Eric’s wife. Eric more than made up for any sins he committed by trying to protect our hall.’
She stooped suddenly, and tried to drag something from beneath his body. Destiny Maker lay there, its beauty and strength masked by mud and blood. ‘The Vikings would have taken this if they had seen it.’ She passed it to her companion. ‘It is the most beautiful piece of workmanship. I don’t know how it came to leave my husband’s grave, but he would want it returned.’
Anlaf bowed and took it from her. He looked at it for a long time and nodded. ‘We will rebury it before we go.’
‘Go?’ She looked at him shocked. ‘I can’t go. This is my home. My children are here somewhere.’
He gave her a grave smile. ‘We have searched everywhere, Lady Hilda. We have found no trace of them. It is my belief that they escaped. I will take you to the ealdorman at Rendlesham, or, if you prefer, to the king, at Thetford. Your sons will find you if they have survived.’
She did not argue. Together they walked down the long field, the strips of land separated by balks of grass, through the burned village and towards the river and the sacred place which housed her husband’s body. There she sat on the ground wrapped in her cloak while the man she regarded as a sorcerer, finding the spades, two intact, one broken, dug down into the tumulus.
Time passed as the man went on with his grisly task. The day grew dull and then at last it began to grow dark. He dug on, sweat pouring from him. She dozed off, worn out by the horrors and exhaustions of the day, and woke again only when it was full dark. She did not stand up when he came to the bodies of the two men buried there. He glanced round and he saw her shake her head, her eyes filled with tears. Gently he bent and laid the sword back at its master’s side, still stained with their enemy’s blood, then he began the back-breaking job of once more filling in the soil and making the graves safe from predators and thieves. Only when the task was complete did she stand up, in the moonlight, and walk towards the grave. He moved away knowing that she wished to pray. Now was not the time for him to rant and rave and shout his own prayers and charms to the gods. His gods had returned with the invaders and he had been left bewildered by their fury.
Sylvia led Ken into her front room and closed the door behind them. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said.
She had thought about it long and hard since she had first seen the photos, wondering what to do, tossing her options into the air and waiting for them to fall around her ears.
She had seen them lying on her editor’s desk several days before while she was waiting for him to return to his chair after spending what seemed like hours with one of the other freelancers at the table on the other side of the office. She had moved forward to get a better look at the top picture and then with a gasp of recognition had reached down and picked them up. They showed a man and a woman in various stages of undress, slowly subsiding onto the grass and in the last two wrapped round each other naked. One or two showed the woman’s face and in the final one she looked at she saw the man and recognised him. It was Leo Logan. She shuffled back through the pictures. The woman was Zoë Lloyd, she was almost sure of it. She had only seen her that once, months ago at the sailing club.
‘Ah,’ the voice behind her made her jump. ‘I don’t suppose you know who those two are?’ Duncan Davies had returned to his desk without her noticing.
Wordlessly she nodded.
‘And do they have names?’
She looked up at him, numb with shock. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘I am reliably informed that a tall, spotty youth with red hair stuck them through our letterbox before legging it down the road. He obviously meant them to be published, and assumed, rashly as it happens, that we would recognise them.’
‘She,’ Sylvia pointed with a less than steady finger, ‘is my fella’s wife.’
‘Ah.’ Duncan sucked his cheeks in thoughtfully. ‘And the chap? Not your fella, I take it?’
‘Leo Logan. I’ve met him a few times. He sails.’
‘And are they famous? Celebrities? Worth being sued over?’
Sylvia shook her head. She needed to think about this. ‘Absolutely not. And they would sue you, believe me.’
‘I am not inclined to do anything with them. There was obviously malicious intent behind this. The kind donor has kept himself anonymous and we are a local paper, not a salacious red-top.’
He put his hand out for the pictures. ‘Bin, I think. The cheeky bugger even suggested that I might like to pay him for some even more revealing shots. He was naive enough to include an email address but I don’t suppose it’s in his real name.’
Sylvia put her hand behind her back. ‘Can I have them?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’
She gave him a complicit smile. ‘Not sure yet, to be honest, but I think their judicious use might resolve a few problems. An unhappy couple and a pair of lonely singles might be able to sort things out with a bit of persuasion.’
Duncan had shrugged. ‘As long as I don’t see you take them,’ he muttered, and turned away. When, moments later, he had retrieved a sheet of her copy from a file the photos had disappeared into her bag.
She looked at Ken now for several seconds, still uncertain. Supposing this went wrong? Supposing he was jealous and furious, and raced off home to retrieve his wife, his mind changed about leaving her? She had played this scene in her head a hundred times. ‘I know your wife doesn’t understand you. I know you said you would ask her for a divorce as soon as the moment is right.’ All the usual baloney. Except he had never said it. He had talked about Zoë and their life together and she had gathered that things were not right between them. Obviously not or he would hardly have jumped into her bed. But he had never mentioned divorce as being an option; nor had he suggested for a single second that he wanted to make his relationship with her permanent. They had had fun. They had confided in each other. They got on well. Was she about to blow everything out of the water?
She realised suddenly that he was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. She smiled at him and it dawned on her that she was drawing all the wrong conclusions. She would give them to him and let him decide.
‘I saw some rather unfortunate pictures on my editor’s desk. I persuaded him not to think about publishing them …’ That was not quite true, but near enough. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I should show you, Ken, but I think maybe you had better have them.’
If this didn’t seal the end of his relationship with his wife nothing would.
She handed him the envelope she had put them in and turned away to stare out of the window into her small back garden.
She turned back when the silence had drawn out just too long. He was standing, the pictures in his hand and his face was white. She couldn’t tell if it was with shock or anger. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have shown them to you.’
He shook his head. ‘No. You did the right thing. Thank you.’
He sat down abruptly and threw the photos down on the coffee table in front of him, then he put his head in his hands.
She sat down slowly in the chair by the fireplace and waited, leaning forward anxiously, watching him.
He looked up at last. ‘Who took these?’ he whispered.
‘They were dropped off anonymously at the paper. Someone said it was a spotty youth with red hair.’
He gave a humourless grin. ‘I’ll lay money on that being our ne’er-do-well young neighbour, Jackson.’
‘Jackson?’ she repeated. ‘Jackson Watts? The guy who nearly killed that woman with a tractor?’
He nodded slowly. ‘He lives near us. An odious youth. It is the sort of thing he might do. He seems to have a grudge against most of the world, from what I’ve heard.’ He touched the photo with a fingertip and she saw a moment of tenderness in his face. ‘I’ve never seen Zoë look like that,’ he said softly. ‘We’ve been married ten years and I have never seen her look so happy
.’
On the way to Sylvia’s he had done one last thing for Zoë. He had taken the figure he had found under their bed and he had thrown it far out into the river. The ripples had spread in slow concentric circles until they had been lost in the flooding tide.
Sylvia chewed her lip, watching him. She said nothing, hardly daring to breathe.
Eventually she stood up. ‘Shall we go sailing? she said brightly. At least it might distract him. ‘The tide will be just right. We’ll go in Sally Sue. She’s all ready to leave. I was planning on taking her up the coast for the weekend.’
‘And you have room for me?’
‘I’ll always have room for you, Ken.’ She grinned happily.
There were other survivors of the raid, those who had not been in the village on that night. One by one as the days went by they crept back and stood surveying the still-smoking ruins, the slaughtered corpses, already defiled by kites and crows and foxes. They saw the ruined church where the bodies of Edith and Father Wulfric, shrouded and prepared for burial, had been lying in the nave. Instead of a Christian funeral mass they had disappeared in a pagan pyre which lit up the countryside for miles around. The ruins had cooled to reveal jagged remnants of its stone walls like ruined teeth amongst the blackened fallen beams of the roof.
The hall was almost all gone. Everyone who had attended the Lord Egbert’s wake had gone with it. If any had escaped they had no means of telling. All that was left in the village were the mounds of blackened sedge and scorched wattle which had once been the cottages of the wheelwright, the carpenter, the potter, the men who worked the fields, and items that had been made of metal, things not worth stealing, pots and pans, bits of harness for the oxen and the horses. The animals had all been slaughtered or had scattered and disappeared. Eric’s anvil and his tools were lying in the ruins of his forge. The iron figurine which had been used as the murder weapon and had so cruelly killed his wife was lost, buried in the ashes. Part of the forge cottage had failed to catch completely, had scorched and smouldered and gone out. One of the storehouses nearby had all but escaped the flames. The survivors shook their heads and wept and prayed, and where they could they buried what remained of the dead.
River of Destiny Page 44