Saxon's Bane (24 page)

“You alright?”

Fergus reassured her with an air punch and another whoop while wet grass saturated his clothes. Eadlin slid from her saddle, holding out a hand to pull him up.

“Stand up gently in case there’s any damage.”

On his feet Fergus held on to Trooper’s stirrup leather for a moment while they both panted, breathless, sandwiched between the heaving flanks of their horses into a hidden world that was only themselves, surrounded by the earthy stink of horse sweat.

“You’re an idiot!” Eadlin’s eyes sparkled with laughter, her face glowing with exertion. Fergus could never remember feeling so intensely alive. It was the most natural thing in the world for their faces to edge closer, mouths parting, until her hands came up in between them and pushed him away.

“Mustn’t.” She didn’t sound convincing.

“Sorry.” Neither did he. Eadlin pushed him on the chest again, quite firmly, but without anger.

“The rules haven’t changed, and I’m nobody’s substitute!”

“Sorry,” Fergus said again, almost meaning it this time. A kiss would have been natural in a moment of sheer, exuberant joy. Now he was starting to feel like a naughty child.

“Don’t spoil things. Clare deserves better than that. Now let’s get you back in the saddle, and you look where you’re going.” Eadlin spoke without rancour as she formed her basket of hands for him. Fergus accepted the help even though he felt he could leap into the saddle in a single bound.

Eadlin was right, of course. It was the
and
ness of things that confused him. For a moment his feelings for Clare had felt completely compatible with Eadlin’s earthy sexuality. As Eadlin led the way into the woods Fergus admired her rump nestling into the saddle, and still he did not find the attraction inconsistent. The adrenaline of the gallop was still pumping in his veins, sharpening the moment as their horses walked through the cathedral-column trunks of a stand of beeches. Around them blackbirds had started their evening songs and a rich, liquid chorus came at them in overlapping waves like an echoing harmony of nature’s choir. Eadlin stood in the stirrups, turning back to him.

“If you’re staying in Allingley, does it mean that you’re going to stay on at the stables?”

Fergus guessed that Eadlin had switched to practicalities to break the mood.

“I will for now, if I may, but you’re probably right about not spending my life shovelling horse poo. I’d like riding to feature in whatever life I do build, though. What we’ve just done was wonderful.” Eadlin lifted an eyebrow at him. “The gallop, I mean.” Fergus swallowed, realising he was digging himself in deeper. “One day I’d like to be good enough to compete. On horseback it doesn’t matter that I can’t run properly. I can be as good as the next rider if I try hard enough and have the right animal.”

“You two would make a good competition partnership.” Eadlin nodded at Trooper, who was blowing hard but still breaking into periodic jogs with excitement. The implied offer was humbling but before Fergus could respond, Eadlin reined in at the junction of two paths, waving her riding crop at the track ahead. Fergus recognised the spot from his walk with Clare on the day they had become lovers.

“Allingley’s just over the next hill, but we’ll turn off here. Let me introduce you to a king.”

“A king? I’m not dressed for royalty!”

“Come and see.”

Eadlin led the way uphill and halted in front of the ancient yew tree. “Meet King Arthur!”

“Oh, the tree.” Fergus had a sense of anti-climax. “Why ‘King Arthur’?”

“The Victorians called it that. Someone had an idea that it dated from around the time of King Arthur, so that was the name they gave it. To the village folk it has always been the Sweethearts’ Yew.” Eadlin dismounted, but Fergus stayed in the saddle, uncomfortable to be in this spot with her. The almost-kiss after the gallop had been a moment of wild joy, in Eadlin’s domain of horses. In this spot he finally felt guilty, and watched Eadlin as if she was trespassing as she led her horse towards the far side of the tree. Bizarre that it should have a name like that.

“There’s a way in round here. It looks like a woman’s…” Eadlin blushed slightly before she disappeared from view. Out of sight, she found a polite description. “Girlie bits.” Fergus remembered the lozenge-shaped gap between the folded trunks. Her voice now came disembodied from behind its bulk. “There was a healing rite, once,” it sounded as if the ‘once’ was an afterthought, “which had sick people passing head-first from inside to the outside. Yews have always been associated with rebirth.”

“Perhaps you should bring Clare here.”

“The patient needs to believe in the tree. Come and have a look.”

“King Arthur and I have already met.” He would not enter the tree with Eadlin, whatever healing she was offering.

“Oh.” Eadlin sounded disappointed. “It’s also been used as a tryst by village couples for centuries.” She emerged from behind the tree, still leading her horse, but her smile faded as she looked at him, trying to interpret the expression on his face.

“I guess I already graduated.”

At that Eadlin laughed, as if life was bubbling through her body, and swung herself back into the saddle.

“Well maybe you really are becoming one of us.”

O
N THE EVE
of May Day the sun settled towards the horizon through scattered cloud, promising the kind of sunset that would inspire onlookers to give the Almighty a round of applause. Fergus sat at one of the tables in front of the farmhouse, with the peak of a baseball cap tilted against the glare, enjoying a glass of Eadlin’s home-made wine. It tasted of flowers and herbs, as different from the shop-bought variety as her tea, and he could feel the oily warmth of its alcohol suffuse his body. Fergus slouched in a chair with his feet up on a bench, wondering what preparations Clare might be making for the theft of the Saxon’s body.

Eadlin hadn’t mentioned his indiscretion after the gallop, but the ambiguity still lurked in Fergus’s mind, disturbingly warm as he sipped her wine and enjoyed her unspeaking companionship. You needed to be good friends to be comfortably silent with someone. Perhaps he was becoming more horse-like. Horses graze together, tuned to each other, but need no more affirmation than presence.

Eadlin had covered a table with scraps of greenery, and sat binding flowers and leaves into posies for May Day. She sang quietly to herself, one of the old songs that have more rhythm than tune, the kind of song whose words are soon lost but leave a lasting scent of ancient earth. She crafted each nosegay with care, placing a spray of delicate white flowers on a bed of oak and ash leaves, and laying out pieces of bark with which to bind them. Fergus watched, intrigued, as Eadlin opened a bottle of dark ink and started to paint a sign on a scrap of bark with a fine, pencil brush. Her song acquired the intensity of a chant, and he stared, mesmerised, as her brush made the symbol of the Thorn rune that Clare had drawn for him in the White Hart.

“What are you doing?” Fergus pulled his feet off the bench and sat upright, focused on what was taking shape under her hands.

“Making posies for tomorrow.” Eadlin smiled at him innocently, wrinkling the freckles over her nose. “Oak, ash, and thorn for May Day. The flowers are May blossom. Some people call it hawthorn or whitethorn.”

“But the sign…” Fergus waved at the bark, trying to remember Clare’s description of the Thorn rune. Something about strength, or was it male sexuality?

“That’s from me. It’s a kind of protection.” Eadlin rolled the bark around the nosegay so that the rune was hidden, and tied it with a red thread. “Wear it for me?” She held the finished posy out to him, looking directly into his eyes. The intensity of her look required that Fergus lean forward to take it, but he felt uncomfortable and held the flowers between them as if the gift was not yet accepted.

“Thanks, but I’m not one for buttonholes, really.” Fergus hoped he didn’t sound ungracious. In the back of his mind was his lingering guilt at the attempted kiss. He wasn’t sure that he should be taking flowers from Eadlin.

“Please. We’re all going to wear one.” Eadlin waved at the other bundles.

“All?”

“I’m making one for Clare, as well as for Russell and me. Think of it as a lucky charm. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Ah yes, of course, Clare’s stealing the body.”

“Nah. I mean tomorrow is Beltane. If Jake’s going to make a move, it will be tomorrow.”

“Beltane?”

“The spring festival. It’s half way between the equinox and the summer solstice. It’s always been a feast day, when country folk pray for fertility for the crops they’ve sown. Mostly it’s a good excuse for a party, a happy time. It sort of helped the Old Way that the day was taken over by the socialists and called May Day, or Worker’s Day, or whatever, because the authorities stopped asking why we wanted a bonfire.”

“So why would Beltane be so important to Jake?” Fergus still held the posy limply between them.

“If you worship the Horned God, then Beltane is a fire festival, one of the great sabbats of the year. It’s a time when the shadow world is closest to the living world, like it is at Halloween. If Jake wanted to make a point to his gang, then Beltane is the time to do it.”

“And this bunch of flowers will help?” Fergus hoped his scepticism didn’t show too much.

“Please. If you still have any connection to the shadow world, Beltane is also when you’re most vulnerable.” The fervour of Eadlin’s plea made Fergus relent. He passed her his baseball cap.

“OK. Why don’t you sew it to that?”

“Tomorrow,” Eadlin said, as she threaded a needle with the same scarlet thread, “we’ll shut at lunchtime so everyone can go to the festival. I need to go earlier with the draught horses so that they can decorate the wagon, but please come in with the stable girls, not on your own. Russell and I will watch your back, but make sure you stay in the crowds.”

Fergus was only half listening. Watching her sew that ridiculous bunch of foliage to his cap reminded him of the stories of knights of old, whose ladies stitched their favours to their champions’ helmets. Except, of course, Eadlin was not his lady, even though the
and
ness still confused him. As she tugged at the thread she seemed strong, alluring, unattainable, and
different
, centred in a world he would never fully understand.

“E
ADLIN SAYS IT’LL
keep us safe.” Russell held the posy between them like a lovelorn suitor.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Russ, I’m an academic! That’s pure superstition.” Clare had waved the flowers away before she heard the tetchiness in her own voice.

“I thought superstition was partly why we’re here. Give him a pagan funeral, and all that.”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Sorry, Russ. Bit short of sleep. You wear it for me, if you want.”

Russell lifted the lapel of his overalls and showed her his own posy hidden underneath.

“Maybe later, then. I don’t want to attract attention on campus. Anyway, it’s time for you to hide.” Clare lifted the tailgate of her Volvo estate as if she was inviting a dog to jump in after a walk. Was she really doing this? So much subterfuge, meeting at a remote woodland car park, just to let Russell leave his own car and hide in her boot without attracting notice. It was unreal. Clare threw a rug over Russell and the large, pine blanket box that Eadlin had provided from the farmhouse. Already they were acting like a pair of criminals.

Clare’s mouth felt dry as she drove onto the campus and parked beside a back door to her block. She stood by her car, scanning the windows around her. Laboratories, offices, lecture rooms, all empty. No security cameras. She could still back out, apologise to Russell, and say it was all a mistake. In the morning light the nightmares felt less real. Reality was a pedestal ashtray outside the faculty door, awash with dirty water and floating cigarette butts. Clare tested the door and her movement disturbed some pigeons on an overhead ledge. A feather floated down, pearl grey, the colour of the dawn when the swans came for Olrun. Was the dream a sign of madness? Or was madness the way she left the locked door and walked round to the main entrance, leaving Russell shut in her car?

“Morning, Tom.” The security guard looked up in surprise and softened at the sight of her. Dear old Tom. He was like an elderly, family friend who wished he was thirty years younger and single, and Tom always wanted to talk. Yes, she was very dedicated to be in so early, and on a Bank Holiday. No, no-one else was around, not even a research student. And yes, she was fine, Tom, really, just a bit tired. Clare could see herself in the mirrored surface behind the reception desk. God, she looked awful. Pale face, eyes smudged dark, hair going lank. The only fresh thing about her was the loose, man’s shirt stuffed into her jeans. By the doors into the passage Clare turned and waved, just to make sure Tom had stayed behind the desk. He could be too friendly, sometimes. Tom beamed back at her, pleased by her gesture.

Clare stopped beside the door to smokers’ corner, breathing deeply, scanning the frame for any trace of an alarm system. None. With the sense that she was pushing her career out over a void, she pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, pressed the emergency exit bar, and let Russell into the building. He also wore gloves. Criminality starts here.

“You OK, Clare?” Russell pulled the door shut behind him, carrying the blanket box. Clare nodded, not quite able to believe that the moment was happening.

“Let’s get you out of the corridor.” She pulled out her keys and led the way to the laboratory, locking the lab door behind them.

“Hey, my friend.” Clare’s voice was tender as she pulled off the baize cover and opened Aegl’s case, ignoring the sounds of disgust from Russell.

“Do you need a hand?” His tone begged her to say no. Clare shook her head. This was a service she wanted to perform for Aegl herself.

So light. There was no substance left to him. Clare lifted Aegl’s body in her arms, supporting the neck and head the way a mother might cradle a child, inhaling the smell of old leather and mushrooms. So dry, so rigid. Clare gasped as both legs separated and fell back into his case with a noise like falling books.

“I’m so sorry.” She spoke to Aegl, distress prickling her eyes. This was far, far worse than breaking ancient pottery. This was wounding a friend.

“Get on with it, Clare.” Russell spoke in the strangled tones of someone trying not to vomit.

She laid Aegl’s head and torso tenderly in the nest of wood shavings that Eadlin had prepared in the blanket box, and touched his face. The skin beneath the beard had the hard coolness of the laboratory work surface.

“Someone’s coming. Move.” Russell pushed her aside and dumped the legs into the box without ceremony. Clare started to arrange them into a dignified position, but the skeletal arm was almost thrown on top and she glared up at Russell, eyes flashing her anger. Aegl deserved better. Only when Russell put his finger across his lips did reality hit her.

Footsteps were clicking their way down the corridor in a slow, measured tread, and Clare knelt on the floor of her own laboratory, surrounded by scattered wood shavings and the evidence of her crime. She stared at the frosted glass panel in the door, incapable of movement, with the panic rising like bile in her throat. It was Russell who had to throw the baize cover back over the trolley and push it into its corner, but the outline of a figure beyond the glass galvanised her into sliding across the floor until her back was against the wall. Russell had hefted the blanket box and was trying to stand in a corner in so that his shape would not be visible through the door. They both held their breath while the handle rattled.

Tom, on his rounds. Just don’t try and unlock the door, Tom. When the footsteps moved on, Clare almost wept with relief. Russell exhaled, placed the blanket box on the floor so gently that even Clare did not hear a sound, and started to screw down the lid. Clare restored the lab to its normal appearance, hoping that it would be days before anyone noticed Aegl’s absence, then pulled a perspex box out of a drawer, and emptied the contents into a manila envelope.

“Olrun,” Clare explained as she stuffed the envelope in her jeans pocket. Russell looked blank. “His wife. Now let’s get you both into the car.”

Five minutes later Clare walked alone through reception, clammy-skinned and sick with apprehension, carrying a large roll of paper and a box of drawing materials. Tom smiled his affection. “Are you starting an art class, Doctor Harvey?”

“Have you ever been brass rubbing, Tom?” Tom shook his head. “Well I’ve found an old stone with strange carvings on it, and I’m going to take a rubbing. Watch.” Clare put a coin on the counter, unrolled a corner of paper over it, and rubbed the paper lightly with a ball of dark wax. A perfect image of the coin appeared on the paper.

“Cor, that’s clever.”

“And with luck it will pick up the carvings on the stone so I don’t have to bring the whole thing back here.”

“You sure you’re all right, miss? You look proper poorly.”

“Been working too hard. Bye, Tom!”

In the eyes of an ageing security guard, Clare had arrived alone, and left alone with nothing larger than a roll of paper. Aegl slipped from academia as unobtrusively as a stag crossing a forest clearing.

In the woodland car park she let Russell out of the boot, and stared at the blanket box.

“I’ve blown it, Russ.”

“Nah, no-one saw.”

“My career. They’ll know it was me.”

“No, they won’t.” The encouragement sounded limp. “Anyway, there’s no going back now.” The lost look in Clare’s eyes made him give her an awkward hug, until she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek in thanks. Russell blushed as he turned towards his car.

“Best you follow me to Allingley.”

Allingley was alive with preparations as they drove through the village an hour later. A maypole had been erected in the centre of the green, where teachers from the primary school were arranging coloured ribbons ready for the dancing. Near Russell’s Forge Garage, two of Eadlin’s horses stood harnessed to an old farm cart, tossing their beribboned heads at the flies, and surrounded by a crowd of children. A working party of parents was tying freshly-cut whitethorn boughs into a hoop behind the carriage seat, and decorating a throne for the Queen of the May on the bed of the cart. As Clare and Russell drove past the green, Eadlin handed the reins of her horses to a parent and followed the cars into the garage’s servicing bay.

“Hello gorgeous!” Russell pulled the doors closed behind them and gave Eadlin a surreptitious squeeze. “You look stunning!” Eadlin was dressed for her carriage-driving role in polished riding boots, skin-tight white jodhpurs, ruffed shirt and a tricorn hat.

“Success?” Eadlin asked, as she disengaged from Russell. “Hey, come on girl,” something in Clare’s eyes made Eadlin fold her into a hug, “we’ll sort this out together, tonight.”

“I know it’s the right thing to do. I just hope it doesn’t cost me my job,” Clare mumbled into Eadlin’s shoulder. She stood back after the embrace. “Love the costume. You make me feel quite dowdy.”

“Fancy dress is not obligatory. Here.” She took her own whitethorn posy from her hat and pinned it to Clare’s shirt. Behind her, Russell spread his hands and shrugged.

“Can we put Aegl somewhere safe, until tonight?”

“Use my office, if you like.” Russell nodded towards a booth in a corner of the service bay. “I can set the alarm.”

Clare insisted on carrying the blanket box herself, cradling it like a parent with a child’s coffin. After Russell had locked up she stood staring at the door until Eadlin touched her arm and she started.

“Sorry, I was dreaming. I brought Olrun as well.” Clare patted her pockets. “I’d like to bury them together.”

“Olrun? Oh, she’s…” Eadlin’s voice faded away in puzzlement. “You’re going to have to take me through this later, step by step. Maybe it didn’t all sink in, like, the first time. Right now it’s chaos outside, and any minute there’ll be a squeal when one of my horses steps on a child. Hey, if you want a laugh, take a look in the yard of the Green Man,” Eadlin called as she pulled open the door. Clare decided not to tell her about Russell’s large, dirty hand-print now decorating one cheek of her jodhpurs. “Jake’s in a foul temper, trying to find a way of strapping himself into his Jack-in-theGreen costume without hurting his hand!” She giggled as she left, leaving Clare looking thoughtfully after her.

“What’s on your mind, Clare?”

“How long before the parade starts?”

“Ages yet. Why?”

“If Jake Herne’s busy here, the rune stone will be quiet.” Clare’s faced creased into her first real smile of the day.