River of Destiny (9 page)

‘Well, they were wrong.’ Zoë had been holding the wet main sheet so hard her knuckles were locked, her hands white, the skin of her fingers wrinkled. There had been no time to put on gloves. The cockpit was awash with water and she was soaked to the skin, aware of people standing on the seawall watching them as they passed the shingle banks at Bawdsey and threaded their way between the moorings at Felixstowe Ferry and the quiet wooded stretch of shore on the far side.

‘That’s something like it!’ Ken went on, his voice gaining in confidence again with every second. ‘Exciting. Listen
to those waves crashing over the shingle. I timed it a bit early, that’s all. We should have waited, but with the storm coming …’ His voice trailed away as he saw Zoë’s face. ‘Were you scared? There was no need. I was in control.’

‘Yes, I bloody was scared!’ she said with some force. ‘I was terrified. God, I hate this boat!’

‘My fault. I was an idiot,’ he conceded unexpectedly. He screwed up his eyes against the glare, passing the red marker buoy and heading up the channel. ‘You don’t really hate it. You know you don’t. I always forget you’re not as experienced as I am. But you are very good. You are learning.’ He grinned again.

It was dark before, under power and with the sails tightly furled, they nosed up to their mooring and made fast to the buoy. Zoë was still shaking with cold as she gathered their stuff together. The wind was still strong, the trees thrashing, the water choppy as Ken released the dinghy and pulled it alongside.

‘Can you find the torch?’ He was exhausted too, she could hear it in his voice as he lowered the first of their bags over the side. She passed the empty food basket across to him, then suddenly she froze. Over the noise of wind and water she could hear the sound of oars. ‘Ken!’ Not again. Please, let it not happen again.

He stopped scrabbling amongst their bags and looked up. ‘What?’

‘Listen.’

He couldn’t see her face but he could hear the tone of her voice. He straightened and stared out across the river. For a moment both of them were silent. The squeak and pull of the oars was close by; several oars; the sound of a sail flapping and the thud of metal on wood. Ken scrabbled for the switch on the torch and, turning it on, shone it out across the water. The powerful beam lit up the empty river. Carefully he swept it first one way and then the other. The sound had stopped. All they could hear as the wind died for a moment was the lapping of the waves against the side of the
Lady Grace
. ‘Where is it?’ he whispered.

‘There’s nothing there.’

‘There has to be.’ He swept the torch round again then he stood up. ‘Ahoy!’ he shouted. ‘Who is out there? You are too close to the shore.’

There was silence. No oars. No sail. She could feel the emptiness. Whatever, whoever had been there before, had gone. Zoë sat down on the thwart. ‘It’s a ghost ship.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he scoffed. ‘Or men from Mars. More likely someone bringing illegal immigrants up-river.’

‘No. It is a ghost ship. People have seen it before.’ She hadn’t told him about Leo’s story or the picture. What was the point? He wouldn’t have believed it last night any more than he believed it now.

The mare was very lame the next morning, her legs swollen her head hanging listlessly. She had ignored her feed. Dan ran a hand down her near fetlock and shook his head grimly. He doubted she would recover.

‘How is she, Daniel?’ The soft voice at his elbow made him jump. He stood up too quickly and put out a hand to reassure the horse, but it wasn’t necessary; the animal had hardly moved.

‘Likely she’ll have to be shot,’ he said harshly. ‘Whoever did this has a lot to answer for.’ He turned to face Lady Emily.

‘It was your fault, Daniel. You didn’t see the injuries when I brought her to you.’

He clenched his jaw, keeping his temper with difficulty. ‘No, my lady, you are right. I was very remiss.’

‘It’s a shame. She was a nice horse.’ Her voice was light and careless. ‘Do whatever has to be done.’ She turned and walked back towards the large barn doors which stood open to the sunlight. Outside, a sprightly breeze tossed wisps of hay around the yard. The working horses had gone out early into the fields and the yard was deserted save for the roan pony tied to a ring by the forge. ‘I will need help to mount, Daniel,’ she called over her shoulder.

He gritted his teeth. ‘Of course, my lady.’ He walked out after her. ‘You have a new horse, my lady. I haven’t seen her before.’ He waited as she gathered the reins.

‘I’m thinking of getting my husband to buy her for me. I would have asked your opinion, but I see now you know nothing of horses.’ She glanced at him, her mouth curved with disdain.

‘I am a smith, my lady, not a groom,’ he said calmly.

She smiled. ‘Of course. I must remember that.’

He stooped to take her foot in his hands and tossed her up into the saddle; this time she was wearing a habit of Lincoln green with a lace jabot. The horse braced itself and shook its head as she looked down at him. ‘Tell me, was that your wife who was here before?’

‘It was, my lady.’

‘She’s expecting your child.’

‘She is, my lady.’

She raised an eyebrow haughtily. ‘Then she should take care not to overexert herself. It would be sad if she were to lose her job in the dairy. She does work in the dairy, I assume?’

‘Yes, my lady, she does.’ Daniel stood away from the horse and folded his arms. He looked up and met her eye.

She smiled. ‘I will see you soon, Daniel.’ She tapped the horse with her whip and trotted past him, pulling the animal so close he had to leap back out of her way.

For several minutes he stood still, looking after her, a deep frown on his face, then he turned and walked out of the yard. He followed the path across the field towards the woods; there, out of sight of the barns, he stopped and leaned back against one of the tall ancient pines in the lee of the oak woods and, taking a deep breath to stop himself shaking with anger, let the soft scent of the needles envelop him. Below him the river, swollen with the tide, glittered like silver, criss-crossed with ripples in the sunlight.

‘Did you enjoy your bath?’ Ken looked up at Zoë as she walked into his study. He had been standing behind his desk contemplating the darkness outside.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She was wearing a towelling wrap and her hair was still wet, standing on end as she rubbed at it with a towel.

‘I am sorry if you were frightened, darling. There wasn’t any real danger, I knew what I was doing out there.’

‘Did you?’

The heaviness of her voice startled him. ‘You know I did.’ He sounded wounded. He turned his back on the window and looked at her. ‘What are we having for supper?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you feeling all right?’

It was a moment before she replied. ‘Tired.’

‘Shall I make you something?’ He put his head on one side and gave her a small hopeful smile. ‘To cheer you up? Boiled egg and soldiers?’

‘I’m not a child, Ken,’ she snapped.

For a moment she wondered if she was going to hit him but somehow she managed to restrain herself. ‘Sorry, I’m still feeling a bit frazzled,’ she went on at last. ‘An egg would be nice,’ and she headed back onto the landing. Below her in the shadows of the living room something moved and just for a second she thought she heard the chink of a horse’s harness and the scrape of a hoof on cobbles.

‘Ken!’ It was a whisper. ‘Ken, come out here.’

He didn’t hear her. Already he had become immersed in the screens on his desk. He had probably completely forgotten her. She stood leaning on the balcony’s wood and glass balustrade, looking down. There were horses down there, and with them a man; shadows, imprints in time. She could see them, sense them, hear them, then they were gone.

Edith threw down her spindle with a groan and walked across to the door of the cottage. She ought to be waiting on the Lady Hilda in the weaving house with the other women, but she had dawdled at home, hoping and praying that her husband might appear even if for only a short time. She had made him a new leather jerkin, stitched with waxed thread; it hung from a peg even now, catching her eye as it swung to and fro in the draught. She missed him desperately; his voice, his humour, his company, and above all his strong agile body in her bed. But he had decided suddenly, and as far as she could understand completely arbitrarily, that while he made a sword for the lord of their village he must abstain from his wife’s embraces and keep himself pure. Even thinking about it made her eyes fill with tears. As if she were impure. Something unclean. This was some heretical belief of the thegn’s. He had denounced the Christian beliefs of his family and his wife and begun praying to the gods of his forefathers.

As had Eric.

The knowledge had been there all along, buried deep inside her, and she had tried to ignore it, but why else had he turned away from her bed? Why did he make excuses not to go to church? Why had he agreed to make this sword a pagan sword; how else would he have known the spells and the charms to be recited over the blade as he forged it in the fire?

She sighed. The gods of their ancestors had been powerful gods. She found herself thinking suddenly about Frige, the goddess her great-grandmother had worshipped, the goddess who made marriages fruitful, whilst now, she bit her lip thoughtfully, though she prayed often and fervently to the Blessed Virgin, her own marriage to Eric was still childless.

‘Edith?’

Lost in her dreams she hadn’t seen the figure appear in the doorway. Eric stooped and came in, pushing the door closed behind him, shutting out the light. ‘Eric!’ She threw herself at him and for a moment they clung together. She nuzzled his neck, and pulled his face to hers, seeking his lips with something approaching hunger. ‘Have you finished the sword?’ she whispered. ‘Have you come home?’

For a moment longer he held her close against him then slowly he pushed her away. ‘I’m sorry. Not yet. But it won’t be long, sweetheart, I promise.’

Bereft, she stood for a moment, her eyes closed, fighting her tears, then she straightened her shoulders. ‘Why are you here then?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, then gave her a sheepish grin in the twilight shadow of the small house. ‘I thought you would be in the weaving house with Lady Hilda.’

‘Which is where I should be.’ She waited but he said nothing more. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then he turned to the door and lifted the latch. ‘It won’t be long, I promise, my darling.’ However long it took to engrave the magical runes, the special symbols, the words of power which would make this sword unique.

She watched as he strode away towards the edge of the village where the tithe barn hid his forge and workshop from her view, then she turned back to the fire. Overhead the drying herbs hanging from the ceiling rustled gently, disturbed by Eric’s passing.