River of Destiny (35 page)

The cars for all four properties were garaged in a range of converted cart sheds some fifty yards up the drive. There was space for at least ten cars; Rosemary and Steve’s blue Nissan Micra, and Jackson’s black Corsa were there, as was Zoë’s small silver Audi and Leo’s ancient Land Rover, but there were several empty spaces. Zoë was about to climb into her car when Leo appeared round the corner of the garages. He had his own car key in his hand. He glanced round. ‘Ken?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘He went out early.’

‘I need to talk to you.’ He ducked into the shadows. ‘We have a problem. Jade saw us on the boat.’

‘Oh God!’ She threw her bag onto the passenger seat of the Audi and leaned on the car drumming her fingers on the roof. She was thinking hard. ‘Did she see us doing anything incriminating?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she’s going to tell?’

‘She’s considering her options.’

‘Shit!’

‘As you say.’

‘What do we do?’

‘I shall try and head her off at the pass. But meanwhile we need to deny everything and get our story straight. Yes, you did come on the boat with me. No we didn’t do anything we need be ashamed off. She misconstrued the situation, that’s all. Will Ken believe that?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She sighed.

‘Where is he today?’

‘Ipswich. He won’t be back till late.’ She no longer believed in the business contact in Ipswich, but she found she didn’t mind. Leo was grinning suddenly and she felt her heart begin to thump with excitement.

‘Feel like an assignation? Then we can get our story straight at the same time,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘For some insane reason I seem unable to resist your invitation.’

‘Ditto. I will meet you in an hour at the car park in Woodbridge. Give me five minutes to get away now in case she’s watching.’ He opened the door of the Land Rover and hauled himself in. Raising his hand he drove off in a cloud of blue smoke. Zoë glanced round warily. Was someone watching – Jade? Jackson? The whole place seemed deserted.

The turning area in front of the garages was still cobbled. She walked out, feeling her shoes slipping uncomfortably on the stones, and turned round in a full circle, scanning every bay of the cart shed, every shadowed corner. A spray of sow-thistle nodded against the wall, the seed heads white and fluffy, the flowers a vivid yellow against the old red stone.

There was no one there. When she climbed into the car ten minutes later and drove slowly out onto the driveway through the fields she was fairly certain no one had been watching.

‘Have you ever made a sword?’ Lying in Leo’s arms, Zoë was staring at the clouds racing overhead.

‘Why do you ask?’ He glanced across at her.

‘I don’t know. I just wondered.’

He grimaced. ‘I have, as it happens. Or at least, I helped someone make one, a long time ago. He was an Anglo-Saxon re-enactor, and he was determined to do everything accurately so he brought me the instructions and we made the thing together. It was a fabulous object.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘I don’t know. As far as I recall he used it in battle – a mock battle, but I suppose the sword wouldn’t have known that. It held up. It was a good sword. That was shortly before …’ His voice trailed away.

‘Shortly before?’

‘Shortly before my accident. My forge was closed. I lost touch with my customers. I moved away.’

‘And now?’ She rolled towards him.

‘Now?’

‘What do you do now? And don’t say, “this and that”.’

She punched him on the shoulder.

He smiled, throwing his arm across his eyes. ‘This and that just about covers it. I illustrate books. I draw things.’

‘Things?’

‘Things.’ He rolled out of reach and climbed to his feet, reaching for his sweater. ‘People contact me. Sometimes publishers; sometimes authors. I work freelance.’

‘It sounds interesting.’

‘It is, I never know what I’ll be doing next.’ He shrugged and grabbing his jacket he pulled it on as he walked away from her.

She dressed quickly. It was cold once she was sitting up. The wind which had seemed negligible when she was lying down pressed tightly against his hot skin was stronger now and there was a breath of autumn to it which had not been there earlier. She pulled on her sweater and then reached for her scarf. The sun went in, and black cloud shadows were racing across the grass throwing jagged templates of the ruined walls at her feet.

Staring up, they both saw a large bird fly overhead. It circled once above them then angled off towards the west.

Outside the wall, hidden in the thicket of brambles, Jackson Watts smiled grimly to himself. He slid his camera into the canvas bag on his shoulder and quietly began to make his way out of the undergrowth, retracing his steps across the scrub and woodland to the lay-by where he had left his car half a mile down the lane. By the time Zoë reached home his Corsa, with its alloy go-faster wheels and souped-up engine, was back in its place; she had no reason to think it had gone out at all.

Leo did not come home until much later that evening, long after Zoë and Ken were poring over a sample book of curtain materials. Ken had borrowed a ladder from Steve and nailed an old bedspread across the large barn window. It gave them at least an illusion of privacy and could be caught back with a tie. Ken had brought home some samples and a pile of catalogues from his visit to Woodbridge. He was feeling quietly satisfied that he had remembered, and from Steve and Rosemary he had obtained the name of a woman who would make their curtains for them. She had performed the same task for The Threshing Barn. ‘These huge windows are fabulous in the daytime,’ Rosemary had agreed with a rueful nod, ‘but in the winter when it is dark outside, I don’t like it at all. I don’t blame you for feeling a bit vulnerable. We put something up in the first month.’

Ken glanced at Zoë as she flipped through the samples. She had caught the sun during the afternoon; there was a glow to her complexion he hadn’t noticed there for a long time, even after they had been sailing. She was still a good-looking woman, his wife. She felt his eyes on her and glanced up. A quick flash of anxiety seemed to cross her face, then she had looked away again. She pushed away the samples. ‘I want something absolutely plain. These patterns wouldn’t suit the room at all. We have to keep the utilitarian austerity of the place.’

She was of course right. He had always admired her taste, her judgments were usually spot on. ‘What colour, do you reckon?’

There was no answer. ‘Zoë?’

She was staring past him into the depths of the room. All the colour had leached from her face. For a moment he found he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to see whatever it was she was looking at. Slowly he turned his head.

It was still dark when Hrotgar burst into the cottage, a flaming brand in his hand to light his way. He held it up and surveyed the single room. ‘Where is it?’ he shouted. ‘Edith! Where is Eric? Where is the sword?’

She had finally fallen asleep after lying for hours listening to the call of an owl quartering the woods behind the forge and she was genuinely frightened and confused as she swam up from the depths of her dream. She grabbed the bed covers and held them against her as she sat up, staring at the angry man who stood in the middle of the room, the wild shadows dancing round him.

‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know where he is. What has happened?’

Hrotgar moved towards her. ‘Don’t pretend!’ he shouted. ‘Eric has stolen back the sword. I know it was him. Who else would dare?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ she repeated. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t come back last night. He was up at the hall.’

‘And so were you,’ Hrotgar shouted. He came very close, thrusting his face into hers, the flaming brand held dangerously close to the roof thatch. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t hear him. He was angry. He confronted the sorcerer. The man has cast the runes. He said it was taken by Eric and he said the sword was here.’

She looked at him, terrified. ‘It’s not here. It can’t be here. I don’t know where it is, I swear it by Our Lady’s mantle.’ She shrank back in the bed. ‘Please, leave.’

‘Don’t you understand?’ He turned and hurled the brand into the hearth where it smouldered for a few seconds and then died. The roomom was suddenly almost dark. He turned back and grabbed her arm. ‘He’s a dead man. What he has done is sacrilege. He has taken grave goods already sworn to the gods!’ He paused, seemingly in despair, and she saw him shaking his head, his profile dark against the dim glow from the embers. ‘There is nothing to be done then. I am too late. It will be up to others to find him. Of course, that means,’ he was suddenly breathing heavily, his words catching in his throat, ‘that you can at last be mine.’ He stepped towards her and before she could dodge away from him he thrust her back on the bed, throwing his weight down on top of her, stifling her scream with his hand. In the hearth the brand ignited an unburned section of dry apple branch and the room was suddenly lit by the flickering flames, which cast shadows over the walls and filled the air with sweet smoky perfume.

By the river Eric had thrust the sword, wrapped in a heavy piece of sacking, into a hole in the bank. He dragged a handful of undergrowth over it and wedged moss and weed into the gaps. Satisfied it couldn’t be seen, he glanced round yet again to make sure he had not been overlooked, then he crept away towards the village. He passed his cottage and for a moment he paused. Surely he had closed the door behind him? He looked at it puzzled, then he shook his head slowly. All was quiet. For now he had other places to be. He needed to find the Lord Egbert’s brother and consult him on what was to be done and he must go to the church and speak to Father Wulfric. Surely the Christian God had magic enough to defeat this Saxon sorcerer and negate his curses. He glanced up as a bird flew overhead in the dark, and as he heard its lonely piping call he crossed himself, something he had not done for a long time. It was an omen. Almost, he stopped; almost, he diverted back to his cottage and the forge, but the call of his duty to the family of Lord Egbert was strong and with an effort of will he forced himself to walk on up the track towards the mead hall and the thegn’s house.

As soon as they were in full sight, he stopped. The great doors at the end of the hall were open and he could see the light from a hundred torches pouring out into the darkness. Men and women were running around and he could hear the shouting from where he was. There was no shelter on the track. He glanced round, then he loped sideways in the shadows towards one of the great oak trees standing on the edge of the small field. He took cover behind it then peered out again, narrowing his eyes against the flare of lights, trying to make out what was happening. Had they discovered the loss of the sword already? He measured the distance from his hiding place to the next tree and, ducking away from the cover, sprinted towards it. He could hear the shouting more clearly now, but still he couldn’t make out the words. He glanced behind him towards the village but the cottages there were all in darkness. Most of the people were up at the hall. Far away in the south-east a pale line of light was appearing on the horizon. Soon it would be dawn.

Sam was standing in Henry Crosby’s office, twisting his cap between his fingers. He had never seen the squire looking so angry or so ill.

‘I understand you let Zeph go. May I ask why?’

Sam’s face darkened. ‘I have on several occasions found him less than satisfactory; then I had reason to suspect him of an act of downright vicious cruelty to one of the horses. I will not tolerate such behaviour in my stable.’

‘We are talking about my wife’s mare, Bella,’ Henry said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I had understood that he was careless rather than deliberately cruel.’

‘Is that what Lady Emily said, sir?’

Something about the way Sam said the words made Henry pause. ‘That is what my wife told me.’

Sam kept his face impassive. ‘With all due respect, sir, she was not there. She did not see the mare.’