Saxon's Bane (13 page)

“I don’t blame you. What happened when you refused?”

“We had a row, and I didn’t go to his party, or sabbat as he insisted on calling it, but he found a substitute. Jake has never had a problem finding women. I told him if he ever did that again I’d chop off his balls.”

One of the pigeons strutted nonchalantly down the branch and flew off across the field. Its mate watched its departure without apparent concern.

“Ostara.” Fergus remembered Jake’s satiated smirk the morning after the equinox.

“Yeah. ‘Just a bit of fun’ he says, but he’s starting to take it very seriously. Especially since you arrived.”

Fergus straightened on the root, alarmed.

“’Fraid so. At Samhain he killed a stag, you see, some poor beast he’d caught after it’d been injured in the rut. The next day they dug up the Saxon with a stag tattoo on his face. When stories started to go round about the Saxon’s ghost being seen, Jake let rumours circulate that he was responsible, like he was some kind of warlock. Then you came back and told us that a stag caused your crash, so he’s strutting round the place saying that’s proof. You’re his, like, trophy.”

Fergus stared at the stream below them, his thoughts tumbling over themselves like water over pebbles. There was too much that he didn’t understand. Seeing the Saxon in the wreckage. Hearing the power of Eadlin’s chant. The memory of his fight back towards the light. A glimpse of pure harmony, in this place.

“Eadlin, I still believe that I’m only alive because you brought me back. Does Jake have power, in that sense?”

“You brought yourself back. I just helped a bit, and nah, no way does Jake have any special power. He doesn’t have the aptitude. Whatever skills I have are handed down through the generations. It takes years of study, practice, and sometimes a bit of self-denial, and I have no idea how to do the things he’s claiming to have done. I suppose Jake might have stumbled on something, but he sure as hell won’t know how to use it. Maybe that makes him dangerous.”

“Where’s all this going, Eadlin? What does Jake want to achieve?”

Eadlin shrugged. “Dunno. Jake needs to control people. I think the blood on the church is like a challenge. The frightening thing is, these days he believes in his own power, and he’s got enough ego for some people to follow him, ’specially the ones that are easily led like Hagman. But it feels like it’s more than Jake; there’s a tension building up all round us. It’s as if the village is sickening with something so you know it’s going to get worse even if right now there’s only a slight headache, like. Places like this,” she lifted her chin towards the source of the stream, “are the pulse of the land. You can feel its health. There’s a place up the valley from Allingley, around where your car crashed, a place that used to be as sacred as this. But now Jake uses it for his rituals and it feels sick, even mad.”

Eadlin hunched forward to squat by the stream, letting the water trickle over her fingers, with her body folded into a Z of riding boots and leg and torso, and her breasts pressed against the tops of her thighs.

“Thanks,” she said, turning her face to him and resting her cheek on her knees.

“What for?”

“Listening. For not laughing at all these silly ideas. For being around. It helps.”

A strand of copper hair had fallen forward across her face and Fergus reached forward to push it back behind her ear.

“Fergus, don’t. Don’t get too close, not in that way.”

“Why not? We get on well.”

“We get on too well, sometimes, but you don’t belong to this place. I’ll spend my life here, but one day soon you’ll go back to being a businessman or whatever it is that you do.”

“Maybe, but I like it here. Who knows what the future holds?”

“You’re like a kid that’s just been let out of school. You’ve barely been here a couple of weeks, and the weather’s been good. Try running a stables in winter when you’re sliding around in freezing mud earning the minimum wage for ten hours a day. Besides, our outlook on life is totally different.”

“In what way?”

“You’re used to having money. You need stuff like your flash car and those designer jeans you’re wearing.”

“Well, I used to earn a good income, so what?”

“People like you tend to want all kinds of things, maybe even think you have to have those things before you can enjoy life.”

Fergus shrugged. Eadlin’s comment was a bit stark, but not unfair.

“You think that you need all things to enjoy life. But I think you have been given life so that you can enjoy all things. It’s the opposite starting point.” Eadlin softened her words with a smile.

There was silence while Fergus absorbed what she’d said, a silence broken only by the distant scream of the kite.

“That sounds a bit profound for me, but even if you’re right it doesn’t stop us being friends while I am here.”

“Fergus, I hope we’ll be friends for a very long time, but I think we’re more likely to be friends for a long time if we’re not lovers for a short time. I know we flirt a bit, and that’s good for my ego, but I don’t want to lead you on.”

Fergus sighed. “It seems to be my luck to fall for untouchable women.”

“You haven’t fallen for me. You just fancy me, and you probably haven’t had sex for a very long time.”

Fergus looked away.

“... besides,” she continued, “for all you know, I might already be seeing someone!” Eadlin jumped to her feet and brushed her hands against her jodhpurs, suddenly energetic. “Come on, don’t look so glum.”

Eadlin pulled him to his feet and ran down the stream bank ahead of him, skipping lightly as if she had dropped a burden, and vaulted the fence into the field. Fergus followed more slowly, unbalanced on the uneven ground and grabbing at trees for support. When he caught up with her beside his horse, Eadlin put both hands on his shoulders and stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Friends, right?”

“Friends. But you’ll still have to help me up.” Fergus nodded sideways at the horse and she dropped into her knees-flexed, basket-of-hands posture to help him into the saddle. Eadlin grinned at him and lifted an eyebrow as she crouched.

“I love it when you do that.”

“Look, but don’t touch.” Eadlin vaulted him into the saddle and mounted her own chestnut.

“How do you like hacking out?” she asked.

“I could get a taste for this. Maybe with a horse that’s a bit more, er, lively?”

“Good. I think it’s time you tried Trooper, to give you the feel of something sharper. We’ll keep you in the school for a while, until I’m sure you can handle him.”

Fergus’s grin as they rode off was exuberant.

Several hundred yards away, in the trees above the far side of the valley, Jake Herne swore as he watched their departure through pocket binoculars. As they cantered out of the valley, he wheeled his horse with a vicious yank on the reins and trotted away in the opposite direction.

E
ASTER
T
UESDAY
. O
NE
month exactly since he first came to Allingley in search of Eadlin. No crutches today, no stick, just a walk like Quasimodo. Oh, and a few aches. Fergus decided to reward himself with a pub supper, and walked up the hill to the White Hart. His spirits lifted at the sight of Clare sitting on a bench near the church. She was staring over the green towards the Downs, with her head moving slowly as if she was scanning the landscape in search of a distant landmark.

She turned to look at him. For a moment her stare was blank, until she snapped into focus and smiled.

“Sorry, I was daydreaming. Yes, thanks.” Clare spoke as if her mind was still far away.

“Can I join you?” Fergus started to settle onto the seat, glad of the rest.

“What do you believe in, Fergus?”

Fergus paused in the act of sitting, surprised by the direct question.

“Why’s everyone asking that around here?”

Clare turned her head away to look into the distance, more as if she were looking through the landscape than at it. “Because I’ve only ever believed in things that can be tested, things that follow a proven, scientific principle. Anything else is a hypothesis or a fairy story.”

“Do I see the road to Damascus over there? What’s changing your mind?”

The corners of Clare’s mouth flickered briefly, showing more politeness than amusement as she took off her glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. For the first time, he noticed that she had flecks of green in her eyes. They gave her a faint air of mystery, of something hidden.

“These dreams. I’m trying to work out
why
I’m getting them.”

“A lot of people dream about their work. Maybe you’re getting too close to it. Do many archaeologists carry pieces of dead people around in their pockets?”

Clare lifted her arm and let it drop back on her knee, as if irritated by his comment. “These are more than dreams. The detail is unsettling. Either I’m going mad or...”

“Or?”

“Or I’m being shown something, ludicrous as that might be for an academic to say.” Clare pushed her glasses back onto her nose and stared at him, wide-eyed. He sensed her fear of ridicule. That gamine look was child-like and vulnerable, triggering an urge to help.

“And what are you being shown?” Fergus feared he was being sucked into a conversation he didn’t need. Tonight he wanted wine and laughter, not spooks and visions.

“So far it’s all logical. Archaeologically believable, that is.” Clare waved over her shoulder towards the church. “I see an early Saxon settlement based around a great thatched hall where the church now stands. There’s a defensive palisade around it stretching down to the bank of the Swanbourne, you see? And I could prove it. I bet if I dug a trench starting over there, I’d find a line of post holes marking the perimeter.”

“An excavation that no-one’s going to allow.” Fergus had followed her pointing finger, which swept through the churchyard and a cluster of cottages before returning across the green. “In any case, if that’s as logical as you say, it wouldn’t prove anything.”

Clare carried on as if he had not spoken. “No houses then, of course, and the valley was cleared for crops, so there was a clear view from here to where the Mill House now stands. No dam, though, just that spur of the hill.”

“This all sounds very detailed.”

“I told you, it feels frighteningly real. Real enough to remember the sound of rain striking metal helmets, and feel the weight of weapons.”

“Shit!”

“I must have excavated a dozen Saxon swords in my career. They used a distinctive, single-sided blade called a seax, see? That’s what gave them their name, Seaxons. Usually all that’s left is a rust stain in the soil, but now I’m dreaming of the weight of one in my hand. She fought, you see, our Olrun.”

“Clare, I really think you should talk…”

“I am. I’m talking to you. Do you know the sound of an arrow hitting someone’s face?” Clare spoke more quickly now, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “Sort of wet and hard at the same time, and it’s as real and shocking as watching someone shot over there, today.” She pointed towards the White Hart, where a tall, well-built man had just parked an old Land Rover. There was a flash of auburn hair from the passenger side as Eadlin got out and joined him. Fergus watched the pair go into the pub together.

“Why don’t we…”

“And in the dream it feels as if the Saxon, Aegl, is my lover...”

“I’m told necrophilia is dead boring.”

Clare’s shoulders sagged. “Ha bloody ha. Look, take me seriously will you? I need to talk to someone about it and it’s easier if you don’t laugh at me.”

“Sorry. It’s a bad habit of mine. I get flippant about things that make me nervous, like dead Saxons. And I’m not laughing at you.”

“Well, if this is making you nervous, think what it’s doing to me. Tell me I’m not going mad, Fergus.” Again that pleading look.

“I don’t think you’re mad. There’s something weird going on that neither of us understands. But don’t you think it would be better if you spoke to someone, um, professional about this?”

Clare shook her head emphatically. “That goes back to what I said at the beginning. If I’m not going loopy, I’m being shown something. If I see a doctor I’ll be off the project and onto Valium, and I’ve lost all chance of working this out. For me, the question is not what I’m being shown, but why. It’s just that I haven’t worked out the message yet. And I wish you could understand what it costs for an academic to admit even the possibility of something so unscientific.”

“It sounds like you need a drink.” Fergus’s eyes were still on the White Hart.

“Thanks. It might help me sleep.”

“If my sparkling conversation hasn’t had the same effect.”

“Sorry, I’m not much company at the moment.” Clare stood, and for a moment she seemed to be staring through the cottages on the opposite side of the green. “Last night…” She waved across the green.

“Last night what?”

“Nothing. I wanted to give you an idea of what it’s like to be inside someone else’s head. To think as they thought. When I’m in the dream, it’s real, every bloody moment. Then when I try and put it into words…” Her voice faded away. Fergus put his arm around her shoulder and hugged.

“Hey, I believe you. And I don’t think you’re mad, any more than I am. But maybe we’re both a bit screwed up.”

Clare’s eyes filled as they walked across the green, and she slipped her arm inside his elbow.

E
ADLIN HAD MANAGED
to find a table. She smiled at Fergus across the crowded bar and spoke sideways to her companion before waving them over. The man beside her was a big, broad-shouldered individual with a mop of sandy hair, and he stood as Clare approached rather like a tousled bear rearing up on its hind legs. Eadlin introduced him as Russell Dickens, and as Fergus completed the introductions Russell enfolded Clare’s hand in a great, oil-stained paw. Clare treated him to one of her pause-then-smile greetings, and Fergus could swear the man started to blush.

“Russell owns the Forge Garage on the green,” Eadlin explained as they sat. “We was just discussing the May Day celebrations in the village. Russell’s organising some of the events.”

“Eadlin provides the horses and the wagon for the May Queen, see?” Russell spoke to Clare rather than the group. His voice had the same rural burr as Eadlin, but he spoke more slowly, almost shyly, as if he considered all his words before assembling them as speech.

“Wonderful! A traditional May Day festival!” Clare’s stress had evaporated. “Some of those old customs go back centuries.”

“Oh, we just do the usual stuff. May Queen parade, morris dancers, that sort of thing, then a bonfire and fireworks in the evening. It’s a bit of fun for everyone. Plus there’s always been a Jack-in-the-Green, although the Vicar’s trying to stop that this year.”

“What’s a Jack-in-the-Green?” Clare’s question showed more than polite interest. Fergus wondered whether he was seeing professional enthusiasm, or flirtation, or a mood swing. He knew about mood swings.

“Just a tent of leaves with garlands and May blossom, a bit like a Christmas tree with a dancer inside. The Jack dances round making fun of everyone, with a couple of helpers in green costumes. Some young women get their asses pinched, begging your pardon, but it’s all pretty innocent. Anyway this year the Vicar’s set against it. Pagan symbolism, he calls it. P’raps he’s still upset about the blood on the church door.” It had taken Russell a long time to say that, and he paused to hide behind his tankard.

“Jake Herne is well pissed off,” Eadlin smiled and leaned forward, hugging herself, relishing the story, as if gossip like this was too good to wait for Russell’s measured delivery. “My ex,” she added, seeing Clare’s blank look. “His pub is called the Green Man, see, and for years he’s been the dancer in the Jack, so he’s taking it personally.”

Fergus lifted his pint. “Well, here’s to the Vicar. Sounds like he’s fighting back.”

“You’ve lost me.” Clare looked puzzled.

“We’re pretty sure that it was one of Jake’s group that daubed the church with blood,” Eadlin explained. “There are a few of them who are daft enough to do it.”

“This is starting to sound like tribal warfare.”

“That’s probably a good description.” As Eadlin spoke, Russell looked at her in a way that had more meaning than a casual glance. A warning, perhaps.

“I need another pint. Let me get a round in.” Russell interrupted the thread of the conversation and stood without waiting for a response.

“I’ll help you carry.” Clare followed him to the bar. Fergus and Eadlin watched them go, and then looked at each other. Eadlin lifted an eyebrow.

“Those two have hit it off.” Fergus surprised himself by feeling a twinge of jealousy.

“Nah. Half the men in the village have been lusting after Clare since the dig started. It’s the cute-little-girl-lost look; it makes them go all protective, like.”

Fergus could understand that. At the bar, Russell and Clare were deep in conversation, Russell leaning over to listen, while Clare placed her fingertips lightly on his hand to emphasise a point.

“And she’s enjoying the attention. But don’t worry,” Eadlin continued, “you’re safe.” She leaned back in her chair, eyeing the two at the bar, with a knowing smile on her face.

“Me? But Clare and I aren’t…”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Fergus watched Clare lift a drink in each hand and turn towards them. Sensing his scrutiny, she lifted her eyes from the brimming glasses and smiled at him. He’d forgotten that her smile could light up her face. Had he been missing something?

“Eadlin, thinking of Jake,” Fergus asked his question before the others could hear, “I’m still amazed that in the twenty-first century there are people who believe in this Satanic crap.”

“You don’t have to believe. You just go along for the fun, don’t you, Russ?” she called the question to the approaching pair.

“Go along where?”

“Jake’s parties.”

Russell narrowed his eyes at her as he sat, and she made an almost imperceptible nod of reassurance, an affirmation of trust.

“It sounds like you know something, Russ.” Clare grinned at him. Her question held a note of challenge.

“Well, sort of. Me and Jake used to be mates, see? He invited me to one of his parties, last year. Just the one, ’cause we sort of fell out after that. It was weird.” Russell shifted on his seat and toyed with his beer, making wet smears in the wood, while the others waited for him to build the words in his head. “I thought it was just going to be a Halloween party in the woods, with Jake providing the fancy dress. There weren’t many people there, maybe a dozen or so. I got the impression most of ’em had been before, and knew the ropes, like. It was almost like it was a club, and I was being tested.”

“Tested in what way?” Fergus was intrigued, but Russell didn’t answer his question directly.

“The fancy dress turned out to be cloaks and animal masks. Maybe it was the masks, or p’raps the mulled wine he was pouring was spiked. Both of those, most likely, knowing Jake. Anyway, people lost their inhibitions.” He glanced up at Clare from where he was staring into his beer. This time, the blush was unmistakable. “It was like you could hide behind the mask, pretend you was someone else. Things got a bit out of hand.”

“They know about the stag, Russ.”

“Right.” Fergus wondered if Russell’s relief hid more secrets than a sacrificed stag. “Well, I left soon after Jake hacked the head off this beast with that bloody great sword of his. It sort of sobered me up. All of a sudden it seemed like reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards wasn’t just a party trick.”

“I can see why he’s an ‘ex’.” Clare was round-eyed as she looked at Eadlin.

“He wasn’t always like that. A bit wild, maybe, but not cruel.”

“But I still don’t see the connection between a Halloween party,” Clare wondered, “and this tribal war with the church that you’re talking about.”

Russell inhaled a couple of times as if he was about to speak, or was wondering how to say something.

“Spit it out, Russ.” Eadlin put her hand on his arm and squeezed her encouragement.

“There are rumours that Jake’s going to try black magic against the church, to get back at the Vicar. Have a ceremony with a funny name. Not a sabbat, but an es… es...” he fumbled for the word.

“Esbat.” Eadlin’s eyes were hard. “It’s used for a ritual curse.”

“And the people in this club of his will go along with that?” Fergus thought the conversation was bizarre. “They actually believe he has some kind of power?”

“I don’t think they believe, not all of them.” Russell sighed and fiddled with his tankard. “Leastways, they didn’t at the beginning. For most of them it started as an excuse for that kind of party. There’s something about those masks and the drink and the chanting that makes it feel right to behave… differently.” He shuffled in his seat. “I know some of them. Now Jake’s calling it a coven, and I think they’re finding it’s hard to leave, like they’re bound together with their own sordid secrets. But Jake believes. Jake
really
believes. He’s convinced he’s got power, and the rest are beginning to wonder.

“I think some of them feel frightened as well as dirty, but they’re too scared to get out.”