* * * *
The skeleton was very small, no more than five feet long, and very slight. It looked like that of a teenage boy, or maybe a small woman. The bones were far too fine, and much too delicate and fragile, to be those of a grown man.
But, as Susannah saw at once, the grave goods that surrounded them were definitely a warrior’s or a king’s. Golden cups and drinking bowls, brooches and jewelled shoulder-clasps, all lay twinkling in the winter sun.
The diggers were beside themselves. Janet had to shout at them, to force them to slow down, to let Anna make drawings, to let Susannah take her photographs.
The Marbury Times photographer took reels and reels of film, obligingly shooting bones and soil and strata, as well as all the marvellous things that were now being uncovered, but not lifted. They didn’t dare lift anything, not today.
‘What’s that, then? That stick-shaped thing, is it a sceptre, do you reckon? A whetstone? What’s a whetstone?’ The reporter scribbled rapidly. ‘All that stuff just there, look – surely it can’t all be gold?’
‘I think it must be,’ Janet said, still looking dazed.
‘You need more security, darling,’ said the reporter, briskly. ‘Yeah, I know you’ve got night watchmen – what is it, a couple of ex-coppers and their dogs? But you need some heavies now. Men with truncheons, batons, maybe guns.’
‘You need barbed wire fencing,’ said the snapper. ‘You should ring Sir Alec, right away.’
Chapter 16
‘It’s absolutely staggering,’ said Susannah. ‘It’s wonderful, amazing. You really have to see it to believe it. Except that I have seen it, and I still can’t believe it, all the same!’
‘Your lady with the stick is in the Guardian this morning.’ Gavin had the paper all spread out across his desk, he’d been looking through Appointments when Susannah rang. ‘She’s a big celebrity.’
‘She deserves to be. I don’t understand it, I don’t think she understands it either, but she’s worked a miracle.’
‘But what exactly have you found? I couldn’t make much of what you said last night.’
‘I was too excited to explain. But have you seen the stuff from Sutton Hoo? It’s in the British Museum.’
‘I went there on a school trip, years ago. There was a rusty helmet, silver bowls, and I remember drawing this amazing golden buckle. I think it was a buckle, anyway.’
‘Yes, you’re right. Well, at Little Wellesley there isn’t so much stuff, but it’s all in wonderful condition. There’s lots of golden jewellery, all inlaid with garnets, blue enamel, millefiori, stuff like that. The craftsmanship’s amazing, and – ‘
‘But who is it?’ interrupted Gavin. ‘Who is in the grave?’
‘We don’t know,’ Susannah said. ‘So far, we’ve found nothing to identify the body.’
‘When did this person die?’
‘Janet thinks both burials must be late eighth century. Then, the people living here were called the Maransaete. But long before the Norman Conquest, they were wiped out by the Mercians, who said they were an ignorant, heathen race.’
‘So were they, then?’
‘Well, all the stuff we’ve found was made by master craftsmen. By people who were influenced by the goldsmiths on the Continent, but also had a style of their own. This lady must have been extremely special, to have had so much stuff.’
‘So it was a woman?’
‘Anna thinks so,’ said Susannah, ‘a woman or a boy.’
‘A boy king, perhaps, like Tutankhamun? But can’t you tell from looking at the bones?’
‘Anna hasn’t finished cleaning them. They’re very fragile, and lifting them is going to be quite awkward. But Janet says they’re probably a woman’s.’
‘Who must have been a queen?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘An ignorant, heathen queen?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, not heathen, anyway. Jan says she was probably a Christian.’
‘So she wouldn’t have needed all this clutter in the afterlife?’
‘No, they were her personal bits and pieces, they’d probably all been made for her, or given to her as gifts.’
‘You’re thinking of your poem,’ said Gavin.
‘Yes,’ agreed Susannah. ‘I didn’t want to prompt you.’
‘I’ll come over.’
‘When?’
‘Let me see - tomorrow evening any good for you?’
‘Fine, I’ll get some food in.’ But before he could get personal, Susannah changed the subject. ‘Gavin, what’s happening at work these days?’
‘They’ve changed their minds again. It seems I’m going to be an engineer. They’re sending me to the tractor factory in Daresbury – that’s near Wolverhampton. But that’s all right, I’ll be able to come to Marbury often.’
‘But how can you be an engineer? You don’t have any qualifications – ‘
‘They’ll let me go on day release to learn the basic stuff, but I’ll have to do a science degree in my spare time. It shouldn’t be too hard. I’d always meant to do three science A levels, but this girl I fancied was doing French and English.’
‘So you did them, too.’
‘Yeah, but my Dad was furious, so to shut the bugger up I did A level maths as well. Look, I’ll be in Marbury by seven tomorrow evening. Susie, before you go, there’s just one thing. I love you.’
‘I – ‘
But the words stuck in Susannah’s throat. ‘Gavin,’ she said, ‘I have to go. I’ll see you soon, okay?’
* * * *
The weather turned much colder now. The ground froze hard, and for a week they couldn’t dig at all. But then there was a thaw, and so they finally lifted both the skeletons, which were sent to Marbury Museum.
Anna got a temporary job investigating and recording them. She worked out that the man had been about thirty when he died. The woman had been much younger – perhaps not twenty, maybe not even that.
She’d met a violent end. An examination of her skull revealed a series of small fractures, running from the cranium to the jaw, all down the left hand side.
‘It looks like someone socked her with an Anglo-Saxon version of a baseball bat.’ Anna peeled off her latex gloves and dropped them in the bin. ‘I suppose Anglo-Saxons beat their wives?’
‘I’d say her old man whacked her, yeah,’ said Mike. ‘He gave her a good send-off, though.’
‘Well, I should think so,’ frowned Susannah.
‘I dare say her relations read the riot act,’ said Janet.
‘What happens to the bodies now?’ Susannah asked.
‘We get a licence to rebury them in consecrated ground,’ Anna explained.
‘It shouldn’t be problem,’ put in Mike. ‘There’s loads of space in Eddington churchyard, so they’ll probably end up there.’
* * * *
The treasure from the graves was taken straight to the museum for safekeeping and eventual conservation.
‘Sir Alec will clean up,’ said Mike. ‘Yeah, we did the work. But we’re just a bunch of diggers under contract, and the lucky bastard owns the land.’
‘But won’t he give the stuff to the museum?’ demanded Gavin. That Friday evening, he’d had a private viewing of the Wellesley Hoard, and now he was in the Lamb and Flag with Janet, Mike and Susannah. ‘I mean, he’ll have to, won’t he?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Janet shrugged. ‘If the coroner decides it’s his, Sir Alec can keep it, flog it, or even melt it down.’
‘Nobody could stop him?’
‘Nope,’ said Mike. ‘There is new legislation going through, but it’s not on the statute book as yet.’
‘I think that’s disgusting,’ said Susannah.
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll sell it to the museum.’ Janet collected up the empty glasses. ‘That’s what usually happens. Nobody keeps stuff like that at home.’
‘They can’t afford the insurance, for a start,’ continued Mike. ‘Yeah, the stuff belongs in a museum. The
n everyone can see it.’
‘It’s my shout, ‘said Gavin. ‘Same again, all round?’
‘He’s okay, that bloke of yours.’ Mike watched Gavin walk up to the bar. ‘When’s the wedding, then?’
Susannah reddened. ‘I don’t think Gavin wants to marry me,’ she murmured.
‘But Mike wants to marry Anna.’ Janet grinned. ‘He’s spending Christmas with Anna’s Mum and Dad, trying to convince them he’ll be a fantastic son-in-law and father of their grandchildren.’
‘Some hope,’ muttered Mike.
‘Just turn on the Celtic charm,’ said Janet. ‘Lay off the dope and fags, don’t get too drunk, and let’s all hope they go for poor but honest.’
‘What about you, Suke?’ asked Mike. ‘Where will you be going?’
‘Oh, I expect I’ll stay at the Dean’s House.’
‘Of course you won’t,’ said Gavin, as he came back with the beers. ‘You’re coming home with me.’
* * * *
‘Just as a friend,’ said Gavin, as he and Susannah walked across the Cathedral Close at midnight. ‘Don’t look so worried, I promise it won’t get heavy.’
Susannah bit her lip, said nothing.
It was already heavy, more than Gavin must know. She’d lost her heart before she’d realised it had been in danger, and for months she’d dreamed about him, in her dreams she’d even had his children…
Gavin wouldn’t listen to any arguments or protests. On Christmas Eve they drove to Berkshire in almost total silence. There was a blizzard in the Chilterns, so he concentrated on his driving, trying to stop Jemima skidding on the icy roads.
Susannah was wishing she had put her foot down, and refused to come. Gavin’s mother hadn’t looked like a fool, and would probably see through her at once.
But the house was full, so nobody cross-examined or inspected Gavin’s friend. Mrs Hunter did her best to make Susannah welcome, and even asked about the Saxon excavation. But soon her eyes glazed over, and Susannah could see she must be thinking about the turkey, and wondering if she’d made enough mince pies.
‘Why don’t you let me peel those potatoes?’ asked Susannah, when she went to the kitchen to get a drink and saw Mrs Hunter was exhausted.
‘I couldn’t possibly,’ said Gavin’s mother, who was busy making chestnut stuffing, sorting out a buffet supper and stirring hollandaise to coat a salmon. ‘Susannah, you’re our guest.’
‘But everyone else is busy, Gavin’s talking football with his father, and I’d like to help.’ Susannah tipped the bag into the sink. ‘Where do you keep the knives?’
‘You’re doing well,’ grinned Gavin, when he came into the kitchen later on. ‘Mum thinks you’re very sweet, so go on buttering her up. She usually hates my friends.’
The Hunters were a noisy lot. The adults shouted to be heard above the shrieks of children. The dogs barked for attention. The hi-fi thumped out heavy metal, for Gavin’s little brother was a fan.
On the afternoon of Boxing Day, they escaped from Pandemonium and walked along the lanes into the barren countryside. ‘My mother really likes you,’ Gavin said. ‘She thinks you’ll be the making of me.’
‘But we’re just supposed to be good friends!’
‘She came along the landing as I left your room this morning. Anyway, your bedroom’s next to theirs, and we must have made some noise last night.’
‘Oh.’ Susannah blushed. ‘Do you think she minds?’
‘God no, Mum’s a child of the Swinging Sixties, peace and love and all that rubbish, yeah?’ Gavin took Susannah’s hand and stroked it. His fingers found a cut across her palm. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I can’t remember.’ Susannah glanced down at the cut, which had scabbed over but still looked red and angry. ‘I caught it on some old barbed wire, I think. I’ve had a tetanus jab, don’t worry. You should see the other diggers’ hands.’
‘Sod the other diggers,’ said Gavin, frowning. ‘You get this cut checked out, okay?’
‘Gavin, it’s a little scratch!’ Susannah grinned at him. ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the house.’
* * * *
After the Christmas holiday, ten more diggers were recruited. The weather was dull but mild, and so the excavation continued at a cracking pace. But work on the development was indefinitely suspended.
‘Trent Weston’s threatened with liquidation, anyway,’ said Gavin. ‘My father says he wouldn’t be surprised if that site is never developed now.’
Four more graves were found, each containing the remains of one tall, well-made man. ‘But no more women?’ asked Susannah, who’d persuaded David to let her have a half day off, and had arrived on site one chilly January morning.
‘No, this was a cemetery for men. I think the girl was buried here because she was an honorary bloke.’ Janet glanced up at the goose-down sky. ‘Do you reckon it’s going to snow?’
‘Yes, I think it might. But haven’t we got more tents and stuff?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Janet grinned. ‘Nowadays, we have everything our little hearts desire. Decent equipment, petty cash for coffee, film and pencils, personal allowances for all. Sir Alec wants us to be happy little workers, find more treasure, and make him rich and famous.’
‘Do you think we will?’
‘I doubt it, but I haven’t told our benefactor that.’ Opening her notebook, Janet showed Susannah her sketch of what they’d found that week.
‘The graves are very broad and wide,’ she said. ‘They’re well spaced out, presumably so the mourners could stand around and do whatever they did on these occasions, without treading on each other’s toes.’
‘So all the funerals here were big events?’
‘I’m sure they must have been,’ said Janet. ‘The men were probably warriors killed in battle. They’re all big, strong blokes, with no clear signs of old age or disease. But they’ve all had broken bones at one time or another, skulls cracked open, heads smashed in.’
‘Ugh.’ Susannah shuddered. ‘There were no grave goods, then?’
‘Only a ring or two, a couple of pins, nothing remarkable. Swords, of course, were always much too valuable to bury, except in very special circumstances. Helmets, shields and stuff were handed down from fathers to their sons.’
Janet closed her notebook. ‘We’re opening another pit this morning, so you can record it if you like. How did you get on with Gavin’s lot?’
‘All right, I suppose.’
‘Remember I’m counting on an invitation, and so is everybody in the group.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Susannah told her, getting out her pen.
* * * *
Sir Alec Fletcher paid for experts to work at Marbury museum where they checked out the finds, which needed expert conservation.
Whatever the coroner eventually decided, Janet told Susannah, the museum would almost certainly be lent or even given the Saxon hoard, quite possibly for ever.
Local feeling was so strong and local people were so interested that it suited Sir Alec to play the public benefactor, and be seen smirking from the pages of the Marbury Times.
‘Of course, this is great publicity for him,’ said Mike, grinning sarcastically. ‘There’s an election round the corner, too...’
The lady’s silver pins and rings were all in fair condition, but tarnished and corroded, and so they needed expert conservation.
The gold, however, merely needed cleaning. After they’d been washed in soft, warm water, the armlets, neck-rings and the inlaid shoulder-clasps glowed as brightly as when they’d left the craftsmen’s hands, more than a thousand years ago.
‘They’re letting the Press go in next week,’ Janet told the diggers, on her return from going to the museum to see her boss and check on progress. ‘But before that, they’re going to have a party. Sir Alec is inviting everyone working on the site to a private viewing, with drinks and canapés, next weekend.’
‘That’s big of him,’ said Mike.
&nb
sp; ‘Well, we only found it,’ murmured Anna.
When they were at last allowed to see the Wellesley hoard, the dailies, weeklies, broadsheets and the tabloids all went mad. In this quiet after-Christmas season, the hoard made front page news.
Photographs of the golden jewellery shone from the covers of every magazine, including Treasure Hunter, the Magazine for the Metal Detecting Buff, to Janet’s consternation and dismay.
The identity of the Winter Queen, a name coined by one daily then taken up by all the rest, remained a mystery.
She’d been a Saxon Boudicca, said an expert in a Sunday paper. A Dark Age Joan of Arc. A woman who’d taken on the men, and won. No, she was Aethelflaed, the daughter of King Alfred, said an expert in the Sunday Times.
The treasure was worth a cool three million pounds, the papers said.
* * * *
Susannah hadn’t seen Julius for weeks, not since she and Gavin had had lunch with him in Oxford. She didn’t want to see him, anyway. So when, one sunny afternoon, he turned up at the site, she went on with the trowelling that she was doing for Mike, head down, eyes firmly fixed on the section.
But then he noticed her and came towards her, arms outstretched. She saw a gentle, frail old man in layers of scarves and overcoat, tottering across the mud and ruts.
She couldn’t help but smile.
‘My dear Susannah!’ Julius kissed her warmly on both cheeks, then clasped her to his bony frame. ‘So how are things with you?’
‘I’m fine.’ She pulled away and looked at him. He had been very handsome once, she realised, and he still knew how to charm. He was clever, too – he’d escaped from Germany late in 1939, one of the last to get away.
She shuddered.
‘My dear, there’s something wrong?’ he asked, concerned.
‘No, I’m just cold.’ She forced a smile. ‘Look, we have a canteen nowadays, in that portacabin over there. Shall we go and have a cup of coffee?’
‘A coffee would be splendid,’ he replied.
So they walked – or Susannah walked and Julius stumbled, leaning heavily upon her arm – across the mud and duckboards, to the makeshift café Sir Alec had provided.
Elegy for a Queen Page 16