Time's Legacy (61 page)

He gave a sob. ‘No!’

‘Do it!’

Behind him she saw a man’s figure through the trees. Flavius turned and saw it too. ‘Father!’ It was a broken whisper and in it Abi knew his father had discovered what he had done to his brother. ‘I’m sorry.’

His movement was almost too quick to follow. He reversed the sword, gripped the hilt in both hands, and drove it with every last ounce of strength he possessed into his own stomach. For a moment he stood, his face wiped of expression, his eyes huge and glassy, then he fell forward onto the blade.

The wind had grown stronger. She could feel the rain, cold, on her face. The drumming had stopped and slowly she realised that Justin had taken her in his arms. ‘I killed him,’ she whispered. ‘I killed him.’

He shook his head. ‘He killed himself.’

‘You saw?’ She stared at him. She had begun to shiver violently.

‘I saw. It may have been your destiny to push him to do the decent thing, but if you hadn’t, then it would have been his own father.’ Justin released her for a moment, pulled off his jacket and wrapped it round her shoulders then he put his arm round her again. ‘Look.’ He pointed off into the trees.

In the distance she saw Romanus and Cynan standing side by side. The older man put his arm round the younger in a gesture mirroring their own. He raised his other hand in acknowledgement. Then they were gone.

‘They are at rest,’ Justin said quietly.

‘I can’t believe I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I urged a man to kill himself.’

‘You did what had to be done.’ Justin steered her back towards the garden. ‘You must not feel guilty. This was your destiny. Ask Ben. Or Greg. Or your bishop. You were the instrument of fate. There was unfinished business to be done and only you could sort it out. You have acted as a very special catalyst in all of this, Abi. You are a healer and a priest. You, of all the women who have owned that stone have been able to resolve the anguish of this story and you were brought here to this house to do it. It can’t have been coincidence that you were brought here.’

‘By a bishop from Priddy.’ She gave a watery smile.

He stopped again and released her. ‘Flavius thought you were Mora.’

‘I don’t know why. I don’t look like her. Do I?’ She glanced up at him.

‘Ah.’ He hesitated, then he said, ‘Do you know how your mother originally came to have the Serpent Stone?’

She nodded. ‘I told you. It was handed down through the family, daughter to daughter.’

‘For how long?’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘For two thousand years? You really believe that? I wonder how many generations that is.’

He gave a small shake of his head. ‘We must assume, I think, that Mora’s child was a girl.’

She looked at him in astonishment and he nodded. ‘I think you probably are her direct descendant. She was pregnant at the end.’

‘With Cynan’s child?’ She glanced back at the orchard.

He saw the intense anxiety in her eyes as she turned back to him. Slowly he put his arm round her again. ‘Who else’s would it have been?’

Epilogue

Kieran smiled at the woman he was sitting next to. She had shared her food with him and passed over a skin containing asses’ milk. They had been listening with crowds of other people to Jesus as he stood on the hillside, in the shade of the ancient olive trees. It had been months since Kier had left Britain. He had followed Flavius, making his long weary way to Rome, where Flavius had called in to see his parents, staying but a few days before resuming his journey across the Empire towards Galilee. At some point Flavius had doubled back and Kier had heard rumours that he had begun to retrace his steps towards his father’s house. He didn’t follow him. Somehow now, it didn’t matter.

Jesus had been talking for a long time and he was tired. Kier could see the weariness on his face, but also the gentleness as people queued to approach him, to ask for his blessing. ‘Are you going up to speak to him?’ The woman glanced across at him. She had brought her daughter, a child of about five who had a twisted leg. ‘Come with us. Help me carry her.’

They waited in line for a long time, but at last they shuffled closer until they were standing before him. Kier saw him smile at the woman, and put his hand on the child’s head. ‘She will be well. Put her down. Let her walk. Your child is very pretty.’

Kier realised suddenly that Jesus was looking at him; he assumed he was the girl’s father. ‘No. She’s not mine.’ He was so overawed he was stammering. ‘I’ve come from far away to see you. From Britain. Avalon.’

He saw Jesus’ eyes narrow in puzzlement. For a moment he hadn’t recognised the name. ‘Ynys yr Afalon,’ he repeated at last and he smiled. ‘You come from the druids. From Mora?’

Kieran hesitated, then he nodded.

‘Bless you.’ Jesus raised his hand and touched Kieran lightly on the shoulder. Behind him people were pushing closer, trying to attract his attention. For a few long seconds Kier held his gaze, then Jesus smiled again. ‘Time to go home, Kier,’ he said softly, ‘there are people waiting for you.’ Then he turned away and was swallowed in the crowd.

Author’s Note

I first heard about the coming of Jesus to Somerset from my father who was at prep school in Weston-super-Mare. He remembers it being talked about and accepted as part of the history of the West Country. The story always intrigued me, but I never quite came to grips with it until I got to know Glastonbury.

Through the last two millennia, probably for its entire existence, Glastonbury, by whatever name, has enchanted and captivated everyone who has been there and I was no exception. There is something very special about this place and I hope I have managed to convey something of that specialness and magic in this book. The town’s two greatest claims to fame are its association with King Arthur and the story of Jesus. (And, of course, a succeeding chapter about the return of Joseph after Jesus’ crucifixion). There has been almost too much information to use for research. I could have read for months and still not reached the end. The main books I have used I have listed in the bibliography on my website and of course I have used my own experiences and notes and photos and the information which has been so generously passed on by the many people I have spoken to while researching this story. One could study and dream in this fabulous landscape forever.

I would never have got to know Glastonbury and explored it so thoroughly without the help of my uncle Tony Rose and his wife, Daphne. Daphne, who has lived there for twenty-seven years, has been a mine of information and introduced me to so many people who have given their unstinting help. Foremost amongst these were Tim Hopkinson-Ball, an authority on the history of the town, and especially the abbey, (and who was noble enough on one occasion to climb the Tor with me) and Willa Sleath, a former Guardian and Trustee of the Chalice Well. I am also grateful to Frances Howard-Gordon who gave me a copy of her book,
Glastonbury Maker of Myths
and talked about the vibes!

The legend of Jesus and Joseph in the West Country captivates even those it doesn’t convince. To write about it and put it into a Church of England frame has proved a little daunting, but I would like to thank the various members of the church who have given me their advice and opinions (and yes, even one bishop). None of them had actually read the novel but I hope they find they can enjoy it. I found myself inclined within the text to write long treatises on church history and the Anglican hierarchy, most of which I then cut out! Any mistakes and idiosyncrasies are very much my own and for them I apologise. One person I would single out however for his help on the problems and vicissitudes of being a curate and on Jesus in a druid and pagan context is Mark Townsend who was very generous with his advice.

Once more I would like to thank my wonderful team at HarperCollins, who together with Susan Opie and Lucy Ferguson have done wonders yet again with the manuscript, and Alice Moss who arranges all the publicity. And thank you as ever to my wonderful agent Carole Blake who somehow makes it all possible and to AJ who thought of the title!

For further notes and information please see my website: www.barbara-erskine.com.

Chronology

Chronology of the story

Also by Barbara Erskine

LADY OF HAY KINGDOM OF SHADOWS

ENCOUNTERS
(Short Stories)

CHILD OF THE PHOENIX

MIDNIGHT IS A LONELY PLACE

HOUSE OF ECHOES

DISTANT VOICES
(Short Stories)

ON THE EDGE OF DARKNESS

WHISPERS IN THE SAND HIDING FROM THE LIGHT

SANDS OF TIME
(Short Stories)

DAUGHTERS OF FIRE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS

Copyright

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Published by
HarperCollinsPublishers
2010

FIRST EDITION

Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2010

Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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