River of Destiny (51 page)

Mrs Davy shook her head. ‘Someone is bound to say something. How does Mr Henry think we are all going to keep silent?’

Beaton had told them all the night before in the servants’ hall, after the men had buried Daniel, and that officially at least Dan had killed himself. It was clear he did not believe it, and he did not expect them to either, and he had repeated Mr Henry’s instructions that his wife was not to be told anything.

‘She’s missing Molly already,’ Mrs Field went on. ‘I told her we would have to post an advertisement. She didn’t like that, I can tell you.’

‘No one round here would work for her ever again,’ Mrs Davy said, nodding. ‘Poor Susan. And poor, poor Daniel.’

They were silent for a full minute, then Mrs Davy turned back towards the range. ‘I’ll give her soup and a bit of bread for her luncheon. See how she likes that,’ she said viciously. ‘And I’ll spit in the soup!’

Mrs Field looked shocked but she said nothing. It was no more than the woman deserved.

Leo woke suddenly and stared round the cabin. He could see the reflections of the sunlit water dancing on the ceiling and hear the contented murmur of feeding birds on the mudflats outside. He stretched contentedly. He loved this moment in the day when he was down on the boat; it was utterly peaceful.

He glanced sideways and stretched out his hand. On the narrow bunk there had barely been room for the two of them, but that hardly mattered. By the time they had fallen asleep they were so closely entwined they had taken up no more space than one body on the mattress.

She was not there beside him. He sat up, looking round. The cabin door was shut and when he peered through the portholes he couldn’t see her. In a moment of sheer terror he was out of bed and pulling open the door. He stared round the cockpit. It was empty. He turned and peered forward over the cabin roof and at last he saw her, perched on the foredeck, sitting with her legs hanging over the side. Her hair was tousled in the wind and she was looking completely relaxed and happy, one arm linked loosely round the starboard shrouds. He relaxed. He watched her for several minutes, the sunlight playing over the planes of her face as she stared off into the distance, her hair a tangle of spun-gold threads, then he ducked into the cabin and rummaged for one of his sketchbooks. He wanted to capture her like that as she was, unself-conscious and free.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the ringing of a phone. She heard it too and glanced back. ‘Is that mine?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He cursed silently. ‘Shall I turn it off?’

But she had already scrambled to her feet and was coming back. She jumped down into the cockpit. Her feet were bare and her jeans rolled up almost to the knees. The early morning sunlight had reawakened her summer tan; he could see the tiny gold hairs on her legs. He found the sight unbearably erotic. ‘They’ll be worried. I ought to answer.’

The phone stopped ringing. She ducked into the cabin and found her bag on the floor with her jacket; rummaging for her mobile she peered at it. ‘It was Ken.’

‘So the ghost boat didn’t get him.’ Leo smiled, astonished at the pang of jealousy he felt.

‘Not unless that was a ghost ringing.’ She grinned. She pressed a button and waited for it to connect. ‘Ken? Where are you? Are you OK?’

Leo turned away with a sigh.

Picking up their mooring again beside the
Lady Grace
, Leo rowed Zoë ashore and then made his excuses. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her with the others, not now. He rowed back to the boat and picked up his sketchbook again.

The area in front of The Threshing Barn was busy. Zoë stared as she walked up across the grass. There must have been at least half a dozen cars parked on the gravel outside and it was thronged with people. ‘Oh, Rosemary!’ she muttered as she saw the day-sacks and the walking sticks. She headed towards her own front door, her head resolutely down and made it without being accosted by her neighbours.

‘So, you dark horse, where have you been?’ Amanda was in the kitchen.

‘Looking for Ken and John, as you well know.’ Zoë dropped her bag on the table.

‘All night?’ Amanda asked casually.

‘All night.’ Zoë smiled. ‘Ken phoned just now. He said he and John were in Woodbridge. I gather they are getting the ingredients for a barbecue.’

‘And they won’t be long.’ Amanda grinned. ‘If I were you, I’d go up and have a shower and try and wipe that smile off your face before they get back.’ As Zoë headed upstairs she called after her. ‘Where is Leo, by the way?’

‘On the boat. He didn’t feel like meeting everyone.’

Amanda nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. Go on up. We’ll talk when you are respectable.’ As Zoë ran upstairs she walked over to the window and stared out at the crowd of people outside the barn on the other side of the lawn. Life was obviously not dull in this part of the world.

Jade was sitting on her bed looking at the squat figure of the woman. She had washed it yet again and carefully dried it and sat it down in the middle of the piece of bubblewrap, then she had washed her own hands again, unable to suppress a shudder at the feel of the cold iron. It was evil, she was sure of it, very heavy for its size and very, very old.

She heard a shout in the distance and she slid off the bed to go and look out of the window. From her room you couldn’t see the front of the barn or the neighbours but she knew what it was. Mrs Formby and her walkers. She smiled. Jackson and Mike had gone out early and the field would be all ploughed up by now, and Mike’s mum was going to come down with some of her friends from the village to help see off these people. The Turtills were furious. Strangers had no right to come and try and change things. The village had been the same for hundreds of years. Everyone knew where things were and everyone liked Mike’s dad.

It didn’t occur to her that she too was a stranger. As was Leo. Her eyes narrowed as she suddenly thought about him and Zoë. But then her plans for Zoë were almost complete. She looked back towards the bed with an expression which would have shocked to the core any adult seeing it.

He had watched so carefully he knew exactly where to dig, and he had seen the men discard their spades. Perhaps they meant to return later to neaten the job they had done, to firm down the soil and to trim the edges of the mound. Whatever the reason he blessed them silently. Tearing off his tunic he threw it on the ground and lifted the first spade, thrusting it into the earth. He dug for a long time, burrowing sideways into the soft soil, throwing the earth over his shoulder, making no attempt to hide what he was doing. If he had time he would make good the grave later; he had respect for Lord Egbert, but not at the expense of Destiny Maker. The sandy earth collapsed and subsided as he dug on, but he ignored it, scraping it aside, throwing it behind him, digging on and on until he came at last to the first of the group of earthenware jars which had been left to refresh the dead man. He paused, leaning on his spade. He was already on the second; the first had snapped when he was halfway into the mound. He had no fear of Lord Egbert’s spirit, nor of the curses he had heard the sorcerer declaim on any who disturbed the grave. The magic of the sword, the magic of the smith who wrought the alchemy which turned ore to iron in the secret heart of the fire more than protected him.

To reach Lord Egbert he had to pass the man who had been laid at his feet. He stood looking down at Hrotgar impassively, taking in the sunken features, the rigid limbs, the wide eyes which no one had been able to close. There was no sign of the great bloody wound in his chest. All had been washed and cleaned and he had been dressed in his finest cloak. His gaze went back to the open eyes, covered in soil, the dirt on his hands; this man had been a Christian and he had been laid in the grave of a follower of Woden. He smiled grimly. Hrotgar was there to serve his lord. To serve his lord he had colluded in the making of a pagan sword. It was only right that his had been the blood to bathe the blade.

He wasn’t sure why he wanted it so badly. What was there left to live for? His lord and his wife were gone. Neither his village nor his family would ever have him back. In their eyes he was guilty of murder, however justified it may have been. But the sword would live on. He would see to that. In his hands it would live up to its name.

He threw a spadeful of earth onto Hrotgar’s face with a sardonic grin. Unshriven and in a state of mortal sin the man would go to Hell. Or, in the wake of his pagan lord perhaps he would go to the Otherworld of the Saxon gods and grovel before Woden himself. Wherever he went Eric hoped his immortal soul would suffer the agonies of the damned.

It took only a short time to dig his way into the mound to the place where Egbert lay, and there, beside him, lay Destiny Maker, already dulled by the weight of the earth. He pulled it from its scabbard with a smile and stroked the blade with the edge of his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. It was still as sharp as when it had left his workshop.

Laying it gently on the ground he picked up the spade and began to infill the earth once more. It took longer than he expected, but at last it was done and he had scraped the last traces of soil off the grass. No doubt in daylight it would be obvious what had happened but by then he would be long gone.

Suddenly exhausted he sat down there in the darkness and took the sword on his knee. He glanced up, seeking the moon, but the clouds had gathered and there was no trace of it. The darkness was absolute. With a heavy sigh of exhaustion he lay back on the ground and just for a moment closed his eyes.

It was the breath of ice-cold air which made him stir. He sat up suddenly, wondering what had awoken him. The night was still, but far away on the wind he could hear the beat of music coming from the mead hall where the villagers still drank to their lord’s memory. Standing up stiffly he turned and looked down towards the river.

A thick mist was drifting up through the trees towards him, wreathing round the branches, already licking at the newly settled earth of the mound in the centre of the field where he stood. He couldn’t see the water now; all was silent. He took a step away, the sword in his arms, suddenly alert. He could see movement down at the landing stage where the fishermen had left their boats to attend the funeral rites.

Another craft was nosing up-river, a large craft with a huge sail. Hesitating, he drew back and watched. It was far larger than any local fishing vessel or even one of the traders. He strained his eyes. As the mist thinned for a moment and the moon appeared he could see quite clearly. The sail was being lowered. The ship swarmed with men. He took a few steps closer and peered through the trees, trying to see more clearly in the moonlight. They had waited for darkness before they came ashore. He felt his blood run cold. He could see the glint of soft moonlight on armour, and on the great curved beak of a head at the prow of the ship. They were very quiet.

They were Danes.

‘Jesus Christ save us all,’ he murmured. He turned towards the village and looked up the hill where the sound of music still carried on the wind. The people up there had been his friends; amongst them were members of his family and Edith’s. Her sister, her mother. Gudrun. Lady Hilda. He had to warn them or they would all be massacred.

Hefting the heavy sword onto his shoulder he began to run, as silent as a shadow, up the field.