by Marie Laval
‘There were runestones scattered on my grandfather’s land and neighbouring farms. I used to copy the inscriptions in a notebook and my grandfather helped me make sense of some of them.’
‘What was he like, your grandfather?’
He stared at the fire. ‘He was quiet, reserved, hard-working. My father and he weren’t close, probably because they were so different. My father wanted to conquer the world. My grandfather was content with his farm.’
‘Yet you said you used to spend your holidays there, so your father must have wanted you to get to know him.’
‘True, but when I was thirteen he decided I should attend summer school and focus on exams. I often wondered if he was afraid I was growing too fond of life on the farm.’
‘Would you have liked to become a farmer?’
The idea of Marc managing a farm would have seemed ludicrous only a week before. Now she looked at his rugged profile sculpted against the light of the fire, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his T-shirt and his strong hands, and she wasn’t so sure.
He turned to her. ‘I don’t know. Probably not. My grandfather wasn’t just a farmer. He was also a self-taught scholar, and with him I learnt a lot about the Norse people, their history and culture. He used to read to me in the evenings – poetry, mythological tales or the sagas.’
He smiled. ‘I have to confess that more often than not, he would send me to sleep, especially after I’d been playing in the sand dunes all day.’
He pointed to the papers on her lap and narrowed his eyes as he focused on the signs. ‘If I’m not mistaken, these are runes from the Elder Futhark alphabet. McBride probably told you that there were twenty-four of them, and that each one had a name with a specific meaning, chosen to represent the sound of the rune itself. Let me see … This one, for example,’ he pointed to a sign shaped like a giant X, ‘sounds like a “g” and meant “gift”. And that one, from what I can remember, is “m” for “man”, and these funny lozenge shapes represent the sound “n” and the god “Ingwaz”.
He paused and read the manuscript more closely. ‘It looks like McBride translated most of the inscriptions already, like this one about “a mighty warrior who travelled to foreign lands, bringing fame and fortune to his family.” There were similar stones on my grandfather’s farm that commemorated kinsmen who had travelled to faraway lands.’
He looked at the papers again. ‘Here McBride has translated another inscription, this time about a warrior called Kolli who too died on foreign land. This is intriguing. It says that after Kolli fell on the battlefield his soul came back to his homeland in the shape of a great raven.’
He frowned and added in a thoughtful voice, ‘So it seems we’re back to ravens.’
‘Wait a minute. You just reminded me of something I’ve read.’ Rosalie flicked through the bundle of pages on her knees. ‘There’s something else about souls here. Listen. “Is Harald’s soul wandering? He is the raven at Isobel’s side.”’
‘Let me see.’ He narrowed his eyes to read the document. ‘This is nonsense, of course. There is no Isobel, no ghostly raven, and Harald’s soul is certainly not flying around Raventhorn like a bird of ill omen.’
She bit her lower lip, unwilling to remind him about the legend that said that men who saw Isobel several times ended up drowning in the loch, and how close he had come to doing just that himself tonight. Instead she gathered the papers and piled them up on the sofa.
‘I’m sure Geoff will explain everything when he feels better.’
‘We’ll have a lot more to discuss than ravens, runestones or Harald’s wandering soul, believe me,’ he said.
She forced a smile. ‘Yes, I suppose you will. Although you may not think much about Geoff’s research, many of his academic contacts agree about Harald being the bearer of precious gifts to the royal wedding. There is an account of him travelling from Orkney with a silver chest containing presents.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Including the famous Raven Banner, I suppose?’
She nodded. ‘At least that’s what Geoff believes. You know how important raven banners were, don’t you?’
‘Viking warlords believed they had magic powers and brought luck in battle.’
‘That’s right. A very old poem claimed that the banner was woven from men’s entrails by Valkyries using a loom made of dead warriors’ body parts.’
She pulled a face. ‘Another, less gruesome, story stated that it was made of pure white silk and a raven would appear on it during the battle and flap its wings to announce victory, but if it stayed still it meant that the army would be defeated. The most famous warlords had one. King Harald Hadrada had one, as did Sigurd the Stout, who was the first earl of Orkney. According to the sagas, it was Sigurd’s own mother, a sorceress, who had made it. When she gave it to him she claimed it would bring victory to the man riding behind it but death to the man carrying it.’
‘Yes, I know the story. He had to carry it into battle one day and got himself killed.’ Marc smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you knew so much about this.’
‘That’s because I grew up with Geoff’s stories.’
‘Why does he believe Harald had a raven banner?’
She leafed through the pile of documents and pulled a photo out. ‘Because of this.’
‘It looks like an ancient burial mound.’
‘It’s Maeshowe, on Orkney, on what used to be Harald’s land. It is a Neolithic tomb but it was broken into by various groups of Norse or Viking groups in later times and some of them left graffiti in rune – very interesting graffiti as far as Geoff is concerned, even if they have been the cause of heated arguments with his academic friends over the past few years.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘In what way?’
‘The rune graffiti indicate that Maeshowe was broken into several times, the first time to be used as a burial chamber for a Viking warlord in the early days of Norse settlement in Orkney. One inscription is about a “fated banner” – another word for a raven banner – that was found there, a treasure, and right next to it are carvings of ravens very similar to a shield believed to have belonged to Harald. We actually have the shield in the tower upstairs. Geoff thinks the treasure was removed by ancestors of Harald’s and that he was taking it, or what was left of it, as a mark of respect and allegiance.’
‘Hmm. I can understand why he would take precious objects but an old banner …’
‘That one was special. Some of the graffiti at Maeshowe were carved by the sons of King Ragnar Lodbrok. Geoff believes that the banner belonged to him.’
This time Marc laughed. ‘Wait a minute. Are you talking about the King Ragnar? The very same who killed an enormous serpent to rescue a fair maiden, raided England and France and in the end was thrown into a pit of snakes? He was a legend, a mythical figure, not a real man.’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘Not at all. Geoff believes he was based on a real character, who also had a raven banner. In fact, according to Geoff and a few of his contacts, Ragnar’s nickname, which is usually translated as “hairy breeches” because of the shaggy coat he put on to fight the serpent, can also be interpreted as “fated banner”.’
‘Like the inscription in the burial chamber … So McBride thinks that Harald had in his possession the banner of legendary King Ragnar?’
She nodded. ‘And he believes that Harald’s honour, and the fate of his very bloodline, was linked to the preservation of the raven banner.’
‘So that when he lost the banner, he was cursed and lost his honour.’
‘Yes,’ Rosalie agreed. ‘That’s it, exactly. Geoff is convinced that Harald and his men managed to hide the chest before they were attacked by the Armitage clan. It is clear from Geoff’s notes …’ she gestured towards the paper on which Geoff had scribbled ‘… that he believes Harald is under some kind of curse, or spell, until he can retrieve the banner.’
A sudden gust of wind down the chimney made the flames hiss and rise high. They both
turned to look at it. Rosalie shivered as a fanciful thought crossed her mind. Was that Isobel’s way of letting them know she was right?
‘A nice fantasy,’ Marc snapped, his face stony and his eyes dark as slate. ‘I wish McBride put as much energy and imagination into the management of Raventhorn. I don’t know why we’re wasting time discussing this fairy tale when we only have a few hours left together.’
Tomorrow he would leave and she would be alone. Even though her chest tightened, she managed to keep her voice calm and detached.
‘How long will you be away for?’
‘A week, maybe more. I’ll take the opportunity of being in London to sort out some urgent business. I may even make a quick trip to Paris.’
She smiled, bravely.
He looked at her. ‘You must be careful while I’m away. There may not have been any more prank calls this past week or so, but I still don’t want you to drive at night or take any new customers. I don’t think you should be alone at Raventhorn either. Perhaps you could ask Alice to stay here with you in the evenings.’
He was right. It would be far too sad and lonely for her to be alone here at Raventhorn. ‘I’ll ask Alice if to come over.’
‘Good.’
‘You be careful too,’ she said then. ‘I really don’t like the idea of you flying, especially in this weather.’
He smiled. ‘It’s strange, that phobia of yours, and completely irrational. Flying is very safe, a lot safer than driving.’
‘That’s what people say, but I can’t imagine myself on an aeroplane, ever.’ She shuddered. ‘In fact, I often have this nightmare where I’m on a plane. Suddenly it starts shaking and making a terrible noise, and it dives through the clouds towards the ground and everybody starts screaming and—’
He stood up. ‘Shh … Don’t think about it. It’s only a dream. I have taken lots of planes and nothing like that has ever happened. Now, it’s time I took you up on your challenge.’
She didn’t need to ask what he meant. The smouldering look in his eyes was enough for her to understand. She swallowed hard. ‘Now? Here?’
‘That’s right.’ He took her hands and pulled her to her feet, then bent down to nuzzle the side of her neck whilst tugging at the belt of her robe. The silky fabric slipped off her shoulders and fell to her feet like a peach cloud. She now stood naked in front of him.
‘If there are any ghosts lurking around,’ he said in a hoarse voice as he trailed kisses along her throat, ‘I suggest they return to their broom cupboard, their tower or wherever they usually hide right now.’
Chapter Nineteen
She shouldn’t be feeling this good on less than three hours sleep.
Heaving a contented sigh, she snuggled closer to Marc. It had been late, very late, when they had made it back upstairs, stumbled into bed and fallen asleep. Her body might be a little sore and her head foggy, but it felt like she was floating on a heavenly cloud, and it was all thanks to the man next to her.
‘What time is it?’ Marc’s voice was rough and sleepy.
She craned her neck to read the alarm clock dial on the bedside table. ‘Just after seven. I must call Fiona. She’s on the early shift at the switchboard today.’
‘Don’t forget to tell her you’re driving me to the airport,’ he said, bursting her lovely, warm and dreamy bubble.
‘Oh … yes, of course.’
He pulled her on top of him and fastened his arms around her waist. His hands stroked her back. His chin, rough with stubble, rubbed against the top of her head. She listened to his strong and steady heartbeat. Never had she felt so whole, so protected, so loved, even if that was just an illusion.
‘I’m going to miss driving your cab and listening to your customers. I’m even going to miss listening to you singing to your Happy Baby Radio.’
She curled her fist and gave his chest a pretend punch. ‘Liar! You don’t like chatting to people, you don’t like smelly toddlers. You find pushing a supermarket trolley a waste of time, and you hate my Happy Baby Radio – that’s what you said the day you arrived.’
His arms tightened around her waist and he kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Maybe I was wrong. You enlightened me, in more ways than one. Not to mention saved my life last night, and for that I’ll be forever grateful.’
Her throat tightened. It wasn’t his gratitude she wanted. It was his love. ‘Well, then, I must call Fiona or she’ll worry.’
‘And we wouldn’t want to worry Frosty Fiona, would we?’
He let go of her and she scrambled to her feet to retrieve her robe and cover up quickly. She felt keenly aware of her body’s imperfections this morning.
‘She’s not that bad,’ she objected as she made her way towards the en suite. ‘She can be a little grumpy from time to time, but deep down she really is a very nice girl and a very talented artist. She designs the menus and posters for Alice’s café and a few other businesses. She actually came up with the logo for Love Taxis. I’m sure she’ll have lots of great ideas for the new minibus company. I can’t wait to tell her and Fergus the good news.’
‘No. I don’t want you to say anything to anyone.’ His voice snapped, cool and sharp.
She turned round, surprised. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I’d rather have my business plan worked out and the funding in place before you involve other people.’
She shrugged. ‘All right. I won’t say a word, if that’s what you want.’
He pulled the sheets down, got up and walked towards her, gloriously naked. Holding her breath, she took a step back.
‘Monsieur Petersen,’ she said, forcing a note of playfulness in to her voice even though her chest was so tight it hurt, ‘you might deny that Isobel’s magic bed has anything to do with it but I think it has worked wonders for your … hmm … stamina.’
He came closer. And closer. Her back pushed against the door to the shower room but it wasn’t the feel of the cold wood against her skin that made her shiver. It was the hot and dangerous glow in Marc’s eyes.
‘I think I should put that bed’s magic powers to the test one last time, don’t you?’ He slipped one hand under her hair to the back of her neck, the other around her waist to draw her to him and bent down. Her heart sang a happy tune and she couldn’t help smiling as his lips touched hers. He may not love her but right now, he wanted her, and she would have to be happy with that.
A few hours later, she was negotiating the busy Inverness traffic through a blur of tears. Marc had left. Dressed in the crisp white shirt and the navy suit and coat he’d worn the day he’d arrived, he had once again looked cool and businesslike – a far cry from the passionate man who had driven her cab, and shared a game of cards or dominos with her elderly customers. From the man who had made love to her time and time again.
His last words at the airport resonated inside her. ‘Call the police immediately if you’re worried about anything. Then call me.’ He had slipped a business card into her hand. ‘I can’t remember where I left my new mobile last night, so you’ll have to try the numbers to the London office. There’s no point ringing my flat, I’m never there.’
He had made her promise again to ask Alice to come over to Raventhorn in the evenings, and in return she had urged him to be careful on the plane.
‘I have no need to be careful. I’m not doing anything but sitting down and reading my reports. It’s the pilot who’ll do all the work and I trust him to do a good job,’ he had answered with a brief smile.
She almost retorted that she’d never trust any pilot enough to climb into a plane, but remembered just in time that Marc’s father had died in a helicopter crash only a few weeks before, and bit the words back.
So she had rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in the fresh sharp citrus fragrance of his aftershave and his own, deeper scent, as if to imprint them into her memory.
‘I’ll be back in a few days,’ he had said as he put his hands on either side of her face and pulled her gently to him b
efore giving her a long, searing kiss that left her breathless. And then he had got out of the cab and disappeared through the terminal’s sliding doors.
She took advantage of stopping at a red traffic light to dab her wet cheeks with a soggy tissue.
The radio crackled. ‘Hi, Roz, I’ve just taken over from Fiona. She told me Petersen’s left for London. Is that right?’
She grabbed hold of the mike. ‘Hmm, yes. He had to go to a funeral.’
‘So he won’t be away too long?’
‘A few days.’ She sniffed back the tears.
‘Are you all right, lass?’ asked Fergus.
‘Of course, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, it’s just that the man hasn’t left your side for over two weeks now. I reckon you may feel a wee bit lonely without him. Anyhow,’ he carried on quickly, ‘I have a few bookings. I’ve checked the numbers. They’re all legit.’
‘Go on. Give me the details.’ At least work would stop her from feeling sorry for herself.
Fergus listed names, times and pick up locations.
She was busy the rest of the day and by the time she dropped her last client at Aviemore train station, it was well after seven and she was starving. She drove up Irlwick’s main street, found a parking space and climbed out of the cab. She hadn’t had time to phone Alice and ask her for a bed for a few nights, but the café was open until eight most evenings, and her friend rarely had visitors to her flat, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
She licked her lips in anticipation of a cup of sweet, hot and milky tea, a bowl of soup and a chocolate brownie, and couldn’t repress a moan of disappointment when she arrived in front of the café and saw it shut and the blinds drawn. Worse still, the windows of Alice’s first floor flat were dark too. Rosalie buzzed the intercom and stomped her feet on the pavement to stave off the cold. There was no answer.
Her boots made slurping sounds in the wet snow as she walked back to the cab. That would teach her to take people for granted. She should have phoned ahead instead of turning up unannounced. Now it seemed she would have to stay at Raventhorn on her own after all, and for the first time the prospect depressed her.