River of Destiny (5 page)

‘My lady, your husband said one of us should go with you.’ Pip, the boy who had saddled Bella for her, did his best. ‘What if you should fall?’

‘I won’t fall.’ She gathered the reins and gestured at him to help her mount.

The boy shrugged. It wasn’t his job to argue with her ladyship. He watched as she settled into the saddle, let go of the rein and leaned back against the wall, whistling, as she trotted through the arch and out onto the long drive which led down to the main gates of the estate. Halfway down she took the broad fork in the track which led towards the home farm.

The barnyard was empty as she rode in and reined the mare to a standstill. She stood for a moment staring round. Wisps of hay blew round the horse’s hooves. From somewhere she could hear the contented grunting of pigs and the sharp grate of a hoof on cobbles but there was no sign of anyone there. The working horses were out in the fields with the men, bringing in cartloads of turnips to store for the winter. The dairy was neat and scrubbed, the huge pans of cream covered by muslin cloths, the churns waiting for the evening milking. Her gaze turned thoughtfully to the forge. There was no smoke coming from the chimney but the door was open and she heard sounds coming from inside. Clicking her tongue she urged the mare into a walk.

‘Is anyone there?’ she called.

Dan appeared after a few moments. He had taken off his heavy apron, but his sleeves were rolled to the elbow. ‘My lady?’

‘There is something wrong with the shoe you put on,’ she called down. ‘I’d like you to look at it.’

She saw his eyebrow move and smiled to herself. So, she had insulted his workmanship. Good. That would put him on his metal. ‘Help me down, Daniel.’

He stepped forward and after a moment’s hesitation he held up his arms. She lifted her leg clear of the pummel and slid towards him, trusting him to catch her. Just for a moment she felt his strong hands on her waist and smelled his sweat as she fell towards him, then he released her and took a step backwards. ‘I’ll look at the horse, my lady.’

He seemed angry as he led the mare to the wall and tied the rein. Then he bent, running his strong hand down the animal’s foreleg. Emily smiled to herself. ‘Could it be loose, do you think?’

‘No. It’s fine and solid.’

‘How strange. Perhaps it is one of the others.’

‘I don’t think so, my lady. I checked them all this morning. They were all right and she was sound.’

‘How odd.’ She stepped closer to him. ‘Could she be going lame, do you think?’

‘Dan!’ The voice came from close behind them. Lady Emily straightened and took a step back. Susan’s face was white as she stared at them. ‘I am sorry, my lady, I didn’t know you were here.’

Dan winked at her, his hand gently stroking the horse’s nose. ‘Lady Emily is having trouble with Bella’s feet, Susan. I was just taking a look for her.’

‘Indeed.’ Susan gave Lady Emily a cold smile. ‘Please don’t let me interrupt, my lady. I can wait.’

Emily stared at her, her eyes hard as flint, then she nodded. ‘I was wrong. I must have imagined it. If Daniel says the horse is all right, then of course it must be. Perhaps, if he could just help me up,’ she turned and smiled at him, ‘then I can be on my way. I am already late for luncheon.’

‘Dan!’ Susan caught at his hand as Bella turned out of the yard and disappeared with her rider. ‘You have to be careful. You know what she’s like.’ She looked up at him pleadingly, aware as never before of the contrast between her swollen body, her greasy hair covered by a stitched cap, and her rough strong hands, and the beautiful slim creature who had ridden out of the yard with her chestnut curls and elegant features beneath the riding hat and veil.

Dan laughed and threw his arms round her, planting a kiss on the end of her nose. ‘Don’t you fret, missus,’ he said with a grin. ‘She’s doesn’t hold a candle to my Susan. Silly primping female who can’t control a horse properly and can’t even get herself with child.’

‘Maybe it’s the squire’s at fault.’ Susan followed him into the forge. ‘It took long enough for him to get Mistress Elizabeth with child. And then for it to kill her in the birthing, poor soul, and the baby dead too.’ They were both silent for a moment. The squire’s first wife had been highly popular in the village and on the farm. It was barely two years since they had all followed her coffin to the church, and only four months after that, to the shock of everyone for miles around, Henry Crosby had brought home a new wife after marrying her in London. Susan put down her basket. In it her husband’s lunch of bread and cheese was wrapped in a chequered cloth; with it were a couple of new season’s apples and a flagon of cider. He drew the cork with his teeth and took a swig. ‘That is good, Susan. Thank you.’

Outside on the river the mist was drifting slowly in with the tide. Barely visible in the shadows beneath the trees the square sail of the Viking ship hung swollen with an imperceptible breeze.

It was nearly dark when they tied up at last at the mooring below the barns and began to tidy the boat. They had sailed for a while in the end, so the sails had to be neatly furled and covered, the cabin left immaculate, the basket, empty now of food, lowered into the dinghy. The tide had turned again, exposing pebbles and green weed and dark shining mud at the edge of the water. The wind had dropped. Already the mist was coming back.

‘Hurry, Ken. Let’s get home.’ Zoë was conscious suddenly that her skin had started to prickle. She glanced round uncomfortably, aware of a chill off the water which hadn’t been there before, and the incredible loneliness of the silence around them as the night drew in. She watched in an agony of impatience as, remembering a book he wanted to take back with him, Ken ducked once more into the cabin and began to search through a locker.

‘I’ll only have to come back tomorrow if I don’t find the wretched thing now,’ he retorted as she protested. ‘It’ll get damp.’ He was rummaging amongst a heap of papers and charts and magazines. ‘I should clear all this out before winter. Zoë?’ He turned. She was still in the cockpit staring into the mist.

‘There is someone out there,’ she said as he climbed the steps out of the cabin and joined her. He was feeling in his pocket for the key to the doors.

‘Someone going up to the town quay.’ He frowned, trying another pocket. ‘They’ll have to hurry. The water is dropping fast.’

‘Listen.’ Zoë held up her hand. ‘You can hear the boat.’ Instead of being reassuring the sound was somehow disturbing.

Ken paused. She was right. He could hear the rush of the tide against a bow, the creak of rigging. It sounded very close. The sudden thunder of canvas made them both reach for the rail, staring out into the mist. It had thickened until it was a dense wall hanging round them. ‘That was close; too close.’ Ken’s voice was indignant. ‘Are they crazy, sailing at that speed when the visibility is so low? They’ve broached, by the sound of it. Where the hell are they? I can’t see anything.’

Nearby Leo’s boat was a faint shadow against the whiteness of the mist. Groping in the bag lying on the bottom boards ready to be thrown down into the dinghy with the basket, Ken found the torch and switched it on, shining it out across the water. All it showed was white swirling fog.

‘Listen,’ Zoë was whispering. ‘Oars.’

The creak of wood on metal was unmistakable.

‘Ahoy!’ Ken shouted out across the water. ‘You’re too close to the bank! You’ll run aground.’ His voice was swallowed and dulled by the fog. They looked at each other. The sound of the oars had stopped. There was nothing to hear at all now save for the gentle gurgle of ripples against the hull of the
Lady Grace
. A breath of wind stirred the mist for a moment, lifting it, showing the river, empty of movement.

‘Where are they?’ Zoë gave an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘Did we imagine it?’ She waited for Ken to laugh too. He didn’t. He was still staring across the water. He had pulled the key to the cabin door out of his pocket and was standing holding it as if mesmerised. Zoë glanced down at the small dinghy, tugging at its painter alongside, suddenly terrified at the thought of climbing down into it and setting off across the narrow strip of water towards the landing stage. Only half an hour before there had appeared to be plenty of light to see what they were doing as they picked up the mooring; now they were enveloped in mist, and total darkness had crept up the river. She felt frightened and vulnerable and alone.

Ken had switched off the torch. ‘We had better save the battery,’ he said softly. She could hear the tension in his voice; he was feeling it as well. He put the key in the lock and turned it, then he moved towards the stern and reached for the painter. The rope was covered in droplets of moisture. ‘Ready?’ He sounded uncertain.

‘Perhaps they got stuck on a mud bank?’ she murmured.

‘Must have.’ He managed to smile but his attempt at a jovial tone didn’t quite come off. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’ He pulled the dinghy alongside and held it steady for her. She climbed down and sat in the stern, glancing over her shoulder into the dark. The water gleamed dully only inches from her, gently moving as if it were breathing. Already the reeds were poking above the water. Somewhere close by there was a splash. The dinghy bobbed up and down as Ken let himself down into it and sat carefully amidships, reaching for the oars. ‘Only a minute or two and we will be there.’

He pulled strongly, spinning the small craft round and headed for the little jetty. Zoë was clutching the torch, still switched off. She could just see the short wooden landing stage jutting out into the river in the faint reflected light off the water. Her sense of panic was increasing at every stroke of the oars. She fixed her eyes on Ken’s face. He could see behind them. He was watching, staring out into the darkness.

‘Slow now,’ she murmured. ‘We’re nearly there. OK, ship your oars.’ She had the painter in her hand. As they came alongside she reached out for the wet weed-covered wood of the jetty and pulled them towards it, slipping the rope around one of the stanchions with a sigh of relief. ‘Made it.’

Ken sat still. His eyes were still fixed on the river. ‘They are still there. I saw a glimpse of the sail.’

‘I don’t care. Let’s get out of here.’ She heaved the basket and bag up onto the boards of the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. What are you waiting for?’

‘The sail was still up. Filled with wind.’ There wasn’t a breath of wind now, the mist hanging round them in damp folds.

She shook her head. ‘It must be the re-enactors. Perhaps they are filming or something. Perhaps it is a pretend sail. They are probably motoring.’

‘Can you hear a motor?’

She shook her head. Unsteadily climbing to her feet in the small boat she hauled herself up and scrambled onto the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. Get out of the boat. I want to go home.’

He turned, following her, checking the dinghy was firmly tied up and heading for the path up through the trees. ‘Where’s the torch?’

‘Here. I’ve got it. I just don’t want to put it on.’ She was still whispering.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘In case they see us.’

For a moment he stopped, staring after her, then he turned and surveyed the river. He could see nothing in the mist and all was silence.

Leo could see the moorings from the window of his living room. He had watched his new neighbours make a neat job of picking up the buoy and stowing sail in the dusk. She was an attractive woman, Zoë. Her husband was older, competent, an experienced sailor, by the look of it. Leo turned his attention to his own boat, the
Curlew
, lying some twenty-four boat lengths further up-river. She was swinging easily to the mooring, neat, poised, as always reminding him of an animal, asleep, but ready for instant wakefulness.

Behind him a door banged in the small house. He ignored it. The Old Forge was full of strange noises, as he had told Zoë. Creaking beams, rattling windows, they were to be expected. But the other sounds: the echo of a woman crying, the screams which might just be an owl, though he never heard them outside, those were less predictable, less easy to ignore. Unsettling, he acknowledged wryly, but not frightening, not yet. He jumped as the phone rang close beside him and smiled bitterly. A cause for far more terror, the unexpected ringing of the phone.

It took twenty minutes to pack a bag, lock up and head out in his old Saab, up the mile-long communal drive to the narrow country road. If he was lucky he could catch the fast train from Ipswich with time to spare.