River of Destiny (56 page)

‘It could be true, of course,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In all kinds of cultures they would use magic to protect the dead – either to discourage people from grave robbing, or to make sure the dead stayed dead and didn’t come back to haunt the living.’

‘Like poor Dan.’

He looked startled. ‘Ah, Dan, the ghost in your barn. You don’t really believe that, do you? Ouija boards?’

‘No,’ she heard the uncertainty in her own voice. ‘I don’t think so, but it was strange. It was so – definite. So real.’

‘Well, your so-called psychic friend has gone, so we’ll never know on that score.’ He paused. ‘We need someone who can read the runes.’

‘Are they clear enough to see?’ She came closer.

He looked up, reached across and kissed her. ‘You taste of sugar.’

‘Eat yours, then you will too.’

He reached into the bag and added a shower of sugar crystals to the mess of soil and rust on the newspaper in front of him.

‘There is a shop in Woodbridge which sells runes and things in little bags,’ she went on. ‘They would have a book.’

‘No need. I’ve got books on runes somewhere,’ he said. ‘I studied Anglo-Saxon at university. But it was a long time ago.’

She stared up at him again. ‘You are amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?’

He laughed. ‘Not a lot.’

‘Let’s rebury it, Leo.’ Suddenly her eyes were shining. ‘It would be the right thing to take it back, wouldn’t it? Please. Then it is up to the ancient gods, whoever they were. If the sword is ever found again someone else will decide its fate.’

‘If we got caught it would take an awful lot of explaining.’

She stood up and walked round the table to him, putting her arms round him. ‘No problem. We won’t get caught!’

In the field the burial mound of the Lord Egbert and his servant Hrotgar lay unnoticed by the passing Danish horde. Under the soil the death treasure lay untouched, but Destiny Maker, the best and greatest sword made by Eric the swordsmith, was not there.

After the ill-omened barbecue that afternoon John and Amanda had said they wanted to rest for a while, and as Zoë was asleep, Ken had walked up the fields away from the river. He needed to be alone. An awful lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours and his head was reeling. He walked for a long time, conscious that he was probably going round in circles, and found himself eventually in the spot where he had woken from his sleepwalking incident. He knew now it was a ruined church; he had traced his route on a local map. It was an Anglo-Saxon church and had been destroyed, so the legend went, during a Viking raid in the ninth century. It seemed odd that it had never been rebuilt, but then after the raid there was no village left any more.

He sat down on a low pile of flints, the remnant of an ancient wall, and heaved a long sigh. The idyll he and Zoë had promised themselves was over almost before it had begun. He knew it and so obviously did she. His first wave of fury at suspecting she was having an affair with the man next door had begun to subside. After all, if he was honest the passion between him and her was long gone; he had been selfish persuading her to come here, trying to bully her into sailing when he knew she was frightened of the water, forcing her to abandon her job and her friends and – he had to acknowledge that was a part of it – the chance of a family. And what had he done when he arrived? He had found himself a girlfriend in Woodbridge. He smiled at the thought. Zoë hadn’t any idea, of course, but subconsciously perhaps she had guessed. Otherwise why would she turn to that man – what was it Jackson called him, the freak? – to comfort herself?

Jackson.

His thoughts turned to Rosemary. Poor woman. He wondered if she would make it. What a can of worms he had moved them into. And it had all seemed so peaceful!

An hour later he had returned to the barn, seen no sign of any of the others, and tiptoed out to the garage. Collecting his car he headed off towards Woodbridge. Sylvia was home and he was in need of some TLC. The rest of them could go to hell. He would text Zoë later on the pretext that he was going to stay overnight in Ipswich and let her know he wasn’t coming home.

After the accident the police had secured the scene with blue and white tape which fluttered in the breeze, and returned later in the afternoon with a team of investigators to try to piece together what had happened. It seemed straightforward. Jackson Watts had taken the tractor without permission, having imbibed a good deal of lager, and had driven it deliberately at a bunch of walkers with a view to scaring them off Mr Turtill’s field. The witness statements were all fairly consistent. He had driven without due care and attention and in order to intimidate but in all probability he had not intended to cause injury or loss of life. He had steered away from the group of walkers at the last moment and in the normal course of events he would have missed them. The injuries to Mrs Formby were caused by the plough which had swung loose behind the tractor. Engineers were checking the hydraulics which lifted the blades out of the soil, but it seemed clear that it was the erratic driving and the incorrect use of the machine which had caused it to lurch in the way it did.

The photographer ducked under the tape, into the edge of the copse with his camera. He took pictures of the cut wire and the trampled nettles. It had to be remembered that these people were trespassing on private land. He leaned forward and took several more pictures, then he noticed the old spades. They looked as though they had been there a while. He leaned in and pulled one out of the brambles with a gloved hand. The rusty old blade was half buried and it tore up some grass with it, leaving a square of exposed soil. He leaned closer. A couple of twigs, bleached and stained, had emerged from the earth. And another. He caught his breath, and leaned down, gently filtering the soil with his fingers. They were ribs. He scraped a bit more of the soil and found several vertebrae. He worked his way upward slowly and there it was. A human skull. ‘No wonder it’s called Dead Man’s field,’ he muttered. He backed out of the undergrowth and looked round for his colleague. ‘Over here, mate. You are not going to believe this, but I’ve found a body.’

Zoë woke and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. She stretched luxuriously, then she remembered Leo. She put her hand out to his side of the bed but there was no one there. The sheet was cold.

‘Leo!’ She sat up in the dark.

‘It’s all right. I’m here.’

She could see him now, a silhouette against his bedroom window. He was staring out into the night.

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

He turned away from the window and, coming over to the bed, sat down beside her. Leaning down, he kissed her long and hard. She put her arms round his neck. ‘Come back to bed.’

‘In a minute.’ He stood up again. ‘Zoë, there is something I want to discuss with you.’

‘What?’ She felt herself tense with apprehension at the sudden change in his mood.

‘I’ve been planning a trip on
Curlew
, the last of the season.’

‘And?’ She felt suddenly cold.

‘And, I haven’t mentioned it because I didn’t know how my work was going to pan out – there is always an element of uncertainty when one is a freelance.’ He moved away from her, back to the window. ‘I have a couple of weeks coming up. I want to go, get away from all this, and I want you to come with me.’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘But I can’t!’

‘Because of Ken?’

‘Yes, of course because of Ken.’

There was a long silence in the room, then he laughed quietly. ‘Zoë, you are in my bed, in my bedroom. Ken is not really a factor in this, is he?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Do you want to come?’ he said at last.

‘You know I do.’

‘Even if it means sailing across the North Sea?’

‘In
Curlew
?’ It was a horrified whisper.

‘In
Curlew
. You could learn to be a pirate’s moll!’ He grinned. ‘Have you got a passport?’

‘Of course I have.’ Her brain was whirling. She pushed herself up against the pillows.

‘I’ll take you shopping in Holland; or we’ll jump on the train once we’re over there and go to Paris. Get you those gypsy clothes. Set the real Zoë free.’

‘Leo.’ She shook her head. ‘I would so love to. It sounds so exciting. Indiana Jones. Enid Blyton! But the truth is, I’m scared.’

‘No you’re not. You are a brave, gutsy lady. All you’ve been waiting for is someone to suggest it!’

‘But I hate sailing. You know I do.’

‘Not with me.’

‘With you it’s been in the river.’

‘And you’ve passed the test. Promotion. Leo’s sea school is next.’ He lifted the curtain and stared out again, then he turned back to her. ‘And I tell you what. If we decided to rebury the sword, that would be a test of our nerve and derring-do. How about that? Would that give you time to think? But it can’t be too long. The weather will change soon and then the chance will have gone.’

Behind him down on the river the mist was growing thicker. In the silence of the night as the tide rose, carrying the deep sea water up the channel once more, the shadow of the great long ship headed in across the bar on its journey towards death and destruction.

The bard was reciting a poem composed around the life of the Lord Egbert, gently stroking the strings of his lyre. The hall fell silent as the crowds listened with respect. In the two great hearths the fires crackled and smoked, and outside the wind strengthened. The guards, having thrown Eric, bound hand and foot, into the storehouse which served as a prison and fastened the door, came back to their posts. One of them, the elder, glanced out into the darkness with a tremor of unease. It was a dark night and set to be a stormy one, and there was an edge to the atmosphere out there which he disliked. He had heard Eric scream the word Viking. Like his colleague he had assumed the smith was trying to distract them. Vikings. Sea pirates. The word was guaranteed to instil terror in anyone who lived on the edge of the water.

The moonlight was patchy, clouds streaming across the sky. Surely no ship could come up-river in this weather? But then earlier the night had been still, the river shrouded in fog, fog which had dissipated at last with the first gentle breezes coming from the south-east. Restlessly he put his hand on his sword and loosened it in the scabbard. His companion was staring in through the door, straining to listen to the eulogy declaimed by the man standing on the dais in the distance, all his attention on the words and music, his back to the night.