Saxon's Bane (19 page)

Opposite him Clare caressed the bark on the ancient yew, savouring its texture. Its once-mighty trunk had hollowed at its centre, growing outwards in an interwoven ring of lesser trunks, like a colony of offspring around its former girth. It formed the shape of a royal crown rooted into the leaf-mould of the forest, feathered with dark green leaf. Some of its remaining branches had bowed low towards the ground and were resting on timber supports guyed into position by the foresters, so that the tree looked like an elderly warrior asleep on his crutches.

“This must be unbelievably old,” Clare said reverently, tracing the folded bark. “It was almost certainly here when the Normans came. It was probably a sapling when the Saxons came. It might even date from around the time of Christ.”

“Can any tree be that old?”

“There’s a yew in Scotland that’s been dated to at least three thousand BC. I doubt if this is half that age, but it must be one of very few in England to have survived the Middle Ages. They cut them down for bow staves, you see.” Clare turned to look at him. “Don’t settle down yet, I want to show you something.” Reluctantly, Fergus let her pull him to his feet. She held his hand and led him round to the far side of the tree, to where the woven ring of trunks had left a lozenge-shaped gap into the hollow centre. The sides of the lozenge were polished by the passage of people through the ages.

“There’s a way inside, see?” Clare dropped on all fours and started to crawl slightly uphill, disappearing through the gap. Fergus followed behind her, with the aches in his legs becoming irrelevant as her crouch let her sweatshirt hang loose below her body, and his view stretched from waist to neck.

“What do you think?” As Clare pulled him upright inside the tree Fergus found himself within a gnarled circle of wood where strands of yew had twisted and fused to leave a void perhaps three metres across. Here and there were gaps like spy-holes but the ring was almost continuous until the trunks separated at around head height to spread their individual paths of greenery. The base of the circle was flat, higher than the surrounding forest floor, and covered with a deep litter of fallen leaves that rustled as they moved.

Fergus closed his eyes, feeling insignificant in the presence of immense age, and tried to listen to nature in the way that Eadlin had taught him.

“Is there any of that wine left?” Clare asked, tugging at his shirt, and Fergus’s eyes snapped open into the moment.

They made a nest with the blanket inside the tree, where Fergus worshipped at the altar of her body. When the need became too strong and their bodies blended, he looked down at her, searching Clare’s face as he savoured the miracle. Her gaze was over his shoulder, up into the crown of the yew, almost as if her mind had slipped away from their intimacy into some distant reality.

Afterwards they lay nested together like spoons, curled up on the rug with her back to his belly. Fergus let his fingers caress her body, savouring the dry silk of a lover’s skin, before he reached over and cupped her breast. He could hold it entirely within his hand, feeling it nuzzle at his palm like a tiny captive animal, exquisitely delicate and feminine.

Suddenly Fergus felt Clare tense, holding herself very still, and he froze with her as a mouse appeared from some crevice in the base of the tree. It moved slowly, one cautious step after another; their motionless forms apparently too vast for the beast’s comprehension. As it walked its spring-lean body balanced precariously on the dry leaves, with its nose and whiskers twitching at the unfamiliar smells. Fergus lifted his head slightly as it passed out of sight behind Clare’s shoulder, and suddenly recognising their presence, it was gone in a brown blur. Clare turned over to him, laughing.

“He looked so… pompous!”

The laughter made her breasts move and desire surged back so that they coupled a second time, with urgent hunger now, in a tumbling, laughing tangle where the giving is the taking and the taking is the giving. As they rocked together Clare made a small cry and Fergus held himself still within her, poised in the tender power of possession. He cradled her face between his palms until their eyes locked, and at that soul-to-soul moment they spilled together into a helpless time when it felt as if some other life had surged into creation between them. It was of them both and of itself, leaping joyously and independently so that for a brief while it owned its creators, leading them in the dance of utter union. Then, gradually, they became just two people again, with their loins fluttering together in gentle aftershocks like the rumbling echoes of fading thunder.

I
T WAS TWILIGHT
when they reached the edge of the woods, with the horizon still darkly clear against a fading sky, and the lights of the village standing out bright and warm in cottages that were already softening into shadows. Ahead of him, Clare jumped for a low branch and swung from it, giggling, until Fergus beat his chest, made gorilla noises, and slipped his hands inside her sweatshirt. He crushed her to him and lifted, but they collapsed into a laughing heap when his legs folded under their combined weight. Within a few breaths the giggles had quietened while they kissed as lovers kiss before Clare jumped to her feet, dancing backwards out of reach. Fergus lay there, watching her, filled with emotion but letting the exhaustion hold him to the ground. Clare was silhouetted against the last blush of the day, beneath a sky already speckled with the first stars, and he wondered if the world’s colours were truly richer tonight. He reached for his stick and hauled himself upright. The world was fresh and wonderful but his legs hurt like hell, and the path to the village green was stretching into the longest quarter mile of his life.

“Race you to the pub.” Clare still walked backwards, teasing him.

“First one there buys the drinks.”

“In that case, let me help you.” She moved alongside him and slipped an arm through his.

“If there ain’t a seat, I’ll lie on the floor.”

“I still need to fetch your car.”

“Leave it. I’ll cycle up there in the morning. Can’t manage the hill tonight.”

There was not only a seat; there was a table where Fergus could stretch his legs to his sighing content. He guessed he’d just walked four miles. Five weeks before, he’d bought this stick, thrown away his crutches, and sat at the same table talking to John Webster. Today there were smiles of recognition from around the bar, and moments later the black-skirted barmaid arrived with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Landlord says it’s on the house.” She nodded over her shoulder at a grinning host.

“Tony Foulkes was well loved round here,” the man called, dismissing their thanks.

“Local hero.” Clare poured and touched glasses.

“Let’s hope there isn’t a price to pay.” Fergus felt his euphoria deflate as he saw a hand-written notice on the doors into the function room saying ‘Choir Practice Cancelled’. Next to it, a printed sign announced ‘Function Room Reserved For Committee Meeting Tonite’.

The bar was filling up. A steady trickle of people walked through, some staying by the bar, others going straight into the function room. John Webster walked through and nodded towards their table. He managed the brief, flickering smile of someone whose mind is elsewhere, but did not speak. Cynthia the Soprano followed soon afterward, tick-tocking over the flagstones in gold shoes and black stockings like a walking ormolu clock. Her face wore the distant, dutiful pride of a Committee Member.

“How are the legs?” Under the table, Clare ran her hand down the inside of his thigh.

“Stiffening up.”

Clare laughed, then sat back and beckoned as Russell and Eadlin came in. Russell beamed at the sight of her.

“Good to see you.” There was a touch of shyness about his grin. “I thought all you university lot had finished today.”

“My mud monkeys have gone, but I’m staying on tonight.” Clare stood and kissed them both on the cheek while Fergus waved a tired greeting.

“Bring some glasses; the wine’s on the house.”

“Thanks, but I can’t stop.” Russell nodded towards the function room. “I’m on this Committee.”

“But I’m not.” Eadlin pulled up a chair as Russell left, and smiled at Clare in a knowing way. “Unless I’m intruding?”

Fergus looked at Clare, wondering what Eadlin had seen. That glow to her skin, that sparkle under lowered lashes, was it so obvious? The look the two women were giving each other spoke of a sisterhood to which men could never belong. Eadlin reached across the table and picked a flake of leaf out of Clare’s hair. Clare blushed as she shook her head in answer.

“Not at all.”

“So what’s this committee all about?” Fergus nodded towards the function room.

“The May Day Committee. The Vicar’s trying to persuade people to drop the Jack-in-the-Green this year. Too pagan, he says.”

“So why is this Jack-in-the-Green so bloody important?” Fergus was bewildered. “I mean, it’s just a bit of fancy dress, isn’t it?”

“It’s important because John Webster and Jake Herne have made it important, and neither of them want to back down.”

“Does that mean Jake Herne’s coming tonight?” Clare looked worried.

“Him? Nah, he’s not a Committee man, and there’d be a fight if he turned up in here. But at least two of his little group are in there. If it comes to a vote, it’ll be close.”

“Why’s that? Surely people will react to Tony’s death?

“Not everyone links the Jack-in-the-Green to Tony’s death, leastways not directly, and some of the people that do make the connection are scared. Jake’s friends have been dropping hints that anyone objecting too strongly might find a nithing pole in their front garden one morning. A lot of people believe Jake Herne has real power, now.”

“Do you think so, Eadlin?” Clare reached for Fergus’s hand as she spoke, gripping it too tightly for mere tenderness. The esbat and nithing pole seemed to have rattled her badly. Eadlin thought hard before answering.

“Nah.” Eadlin shook her head. “Jake knows some of the old words, but that ain’t enough. Like, I could learn to say the ‘Hail Mary’, but that wouldn’t make me a Catholic, let alone a Cardinal.”

“But what if he coloured the runes with blood?” Clare leaned forward, eyes wide behind her glasses.

“If that’s significant, it’s accidental. But Jake really believes he’s a force to be reckoned with, and I’m afraid John Webster’s chosen the wrong battleground.” Eadlin sipped her wine. “Like I said, people don’t link the Jack with the goat’s head. The Vicar might as well try and stop the kids dancing round the maypole. That ain’t Christian, neither, but all the mums and dads want to see their kids dressed up. May Day’s just a bit of fun, and the village will need a laugh after Tony Foulkes’ funeral next week. He was well liked.”

“I’ll come back for the funeral.” Clare was thoughtful for a moment, toying with her glass before speaking carefully into her wine. “I wonder what sort of funeral the Saxon might have expected, before the church arrived?”

Fergus could feel Clare’s leg against his, and gently increased the pressure against her thigh.

“I thought that was your speciality, you being an archaeologist, like.”

“We don’t know enough about Saxon rituals.” Clare returned the pressure. “They didn’t write much down.”

“So if you don’t know, what makes you think I might?”

“Clare’s got an idea,” Fergus spoke quietly, looking at Clare for a nod of permission. “She wondered about giving her Saxon a pagan funeral.”

“Seriously?” Eadlin sat back in surprise, and then clapped her hands with excitement. “Go, girl!”

“It’s only an idea. It seems so unfair to keep him like a specimen in a drawer, see, or worse still, in a museum case for ghoulish people to gawp at. If he was a relative, say, of yours, how would you bury him?”

“It depends on what sort of beliefs he had. I don’t know if what I believe is what he believed.”

“So what do you believe, then?”

Eadlin paused, closed her eyes and breathed as if she was inhaling the answer, with her palms turned upwards in her lap in a posture that was almost yogic. She opened her eyes and smiled as she found the words she needed.

“I believe we’re only truly fulfilled when body, mind, and spirit are in harmony.” Eadlin spoke in a soft, measured way with breaths between each phrase, an oasis of calm in the midst of the noisy bar. “When the body dies, the mind fades away with it, but the spirit is eternal. Christians think that the spirit keeps its individuality, but the Old Way teaches us that the spirit is absorbed back into a stream of life that connects all things. Sort of like raindrops, which are separate for a while but fall to earth and are absorbed. The water remains, but will never again group together into that particular raindrop.”

As she spoke there was a subtle radiance to her skin as if the life within her was illuminated by her convictions.

“So what about ghosts?” Clare asked. “Does that mean you don’t believe in all this talk about the Saxon?”

“I believe that there is something of ourselves that survives death for a while, like an echo, which stays separate until it’s absorbed back into the stream. Some people would call that a ghost. Maybe something stops them from joining the flow, like a really traumatic death, or p’raps they just don’t want to let go. Sometimes, though, I think they’re kept here by something outside of themselves.”

“Like a curse.” Clare was listening intently.

“Could be, but if the power of how to do that ever existed, I mean
really
do that as opposed to simply wishing evil on someone, then the knowledge has been lost.”

“So how would a pagan funeral work these days, then?” Fergus brought Eadlin back to the original question.

“Sadly, the law has very strict rules about how to dispose of bodies. We’d probably have a standard cremation then scatter the ashes with a small ceremony. Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“It doesn’t sound as if your rituals would be the same as the Saxons’, anyway.” There was disappointment in Clare’s voice. “They also believed in the individual surviving into an after-life. The warrior feasting in the halls of the gods, and all that.”

“Maybe the actual words aren’t as important as the honour we give to a dead person, or the blessing we wish on his spirit. Next week the Vicar will bury Tony Foulkes and I’ll go to the funeral, but no-one will see anything sacrilegious in that. It’s a way of showing respect for Tony and support for Julia.” Once again Fergus glimpsed wisdom in Eadlin’s eyes, something ageless behind the grey. “Maybe we all find what we believe in. I hope Tony has his eternity as Tony in a Christian heaven. When it’s my turn I’ll be content simply to be a part of a universal spirit.”

“A pulse in the eternal mind, no less.” Clare smiled to herself.

“Rupert Brooke!” Fergus exclaimed, his face lightening.

“You’ve lost me.” Eadlin looked from one to the other.

“‘Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given.’” Fergus was on a roll.

“Will one of you please explain what you’re talking about?”

“Rupert Brooke, First World War poet. I had to learn it at school,” said Fergus.

“Come on then.” Clare’s smile hardened into a challenge.

“And think, this heart, all evil shed away

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given...” He faltered
.

“Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day...” Clare prompted,

“And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.”

Fergus and Clare finished the last two lines in chorus, to laughing applause from Eadlin.

“You two are good together.” Eadlin looked over her shoulder as raised voices broke through the murmur of debate from the function room. “Sounds like the Vicar’s having a rough time.”

“… I believe a real and tangible evil has entered our community…” John Webster sounded cornered.

“… come on, Vicar, this is the twenty-first century.”

“… but the goat’s head in the churchyard...” Cynthia the Soprano’s voice lacked confidence.

“… is nothing to do with the Jack. We’ve always had a Jack.”

“There’s no need to shout.”

“… and no-one knows for sure who put it there, anyway…”

“… take a vote…”

John Webster’s face said it all when the meeting broke up. He and Cynthia walked through to the street door with tight-faced dignity, the first of the crowd that emerged into the bar. Russell just shrugged his shoulders as he joined them.

“Bunch of sheep.” His tone was contemptuous. “It was the God Squad – the Saint Michael’s crowd – versus the rest. Half of those were in a funk and the others just want a quiet life.”

“So you voted with the Vicar?” Clare sounded approving.

“Yeah, but not because I liked his argument. I just don’t like being threatened, especially by Jake Herne. And oh,” Russell changed the subject, “your car is going to take several days to fix. Need to order in the parts, see?”

If it wasn’t for the way Clare’s fingers were linked with his under the table, Fergus could have felt jealous about the spark between Clare and Russell. There was a touch of the ‘little girl and puppy dog’ about it, even if the puppy dog was more of a bashful manmountain. Within a minute Clare had asked Russell if he’d give her a lift up the road to fetch Fergus’s car, and Russell had accepted as if she’d thrown him a stick to chase.

“Don’t worry.” Eadlin interrupted Fergus’s thoughts as he watched Clare and Russell leave.

“You’re very relaxed about it.”

“Like I said once before, you’re safe. Leastways, you are from Russell. Sure, he’s sweet on her, but it’s a protective thing; he’s not chasing her. And you, my friend, are a lucky man. It should have happened weeks ago.”

“Are we that obvious?”

Eadlin picked up a flake of leaf from the table. “You’re shouting from the rooftops. But take care of her. I’ve got a nasty feeling that Jake’s planning revenge. He’ll hurt both of you if he can.”