River of Destiny (26 page)

‘And the ship?’

‘The ship –’ he paused. ‘I reckon my theory about some kind of trick of the light is the right one.’

‘A back projection? And what was it in Victorian times when that farm worker guy drew the sketch?’

‘Maybe this person today knew about the farm worker guy.’

‘And before that?’

Ken shook his head.

‘And what about this blonde female in Leo’s house who foretells a death? And what about Rosemary alienating everyone for miles around? And what about you sleepwalking?’

‘Oh, that’s not fair. Don’t bring that up,’ he retorted. ‘It’s not my fault. None of this is my fault. Most of it is that bloody man Leo. Has it ever occurred to you that he is trying to scare us away? Scare you away, that is. The man is an antisocial freak. He hated it when we moved in here; he is probably the one who scared away the last owners. Him and that peculiar child of the Watts. My God, he is probably some kind of paedophile!’

Zoë stared at him. ‘How could you say such a thing! Even as a joke!’

‘I’m not joking. He can’t get a woman with all those scars, so he has turned to a child who doesn’t know any better –’

He stopped as Zoë dealt him a stinging slap across the face.

There was a long silence. Zoë turned and walked away, running up the staircase and into their bedroom where she slammed the door with every ounce of strength she could muster.

When she came downstairs a long time later there was no sign of Ken.

Emily was standing in her bedroom with tears pouring down her face. She was shaking like a leaf. Her dreams of pregnancy had ended with the arrival at last of the sudden and heavy blood flow which had driven her from her bed as the first light began to peep through the curtains. After several restless nights beside her Henry had taken to sleeping in his dressing room and he slept on, unaware of his wife’s despair, of her ringing the bell, the arrival of Molly and Mrs Field, of the bloodied sheets being stripped from the bed and taken away. When he finally awoke and was told what had happened by a sober-voiced Mr Beaton, he went to her room. She was lying on the fresh white sheets, her face almost as white as the linen beneath her, fast asleep. He stood looking down at her, his expression blank, his hopes of an heir yet again destroyed, then silently he turned away.

She found him later in the morning room. ‘Henry –’

He looked up at her from the letter he was writing. ‘Should you be up, my dear?’ His voice was level.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Indeed. So am I.’ He hadn’t risen to his feet as was his custom when she entered the room and she felt his rejection like a cold wall between them.

‘There will be other babies, Henry.’

‘As I understand it, there was no baby,’ he replied.

‘There was,’ she cried. ‘There was.’

He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you wish for me to send for the doctor, Emily? It may be that you will require a tonic of some sort.’

She shook her head. ‘There is no need.’ She took a few steps towards him and then stopped uncertainly. She was clutching a shawl tightly round her shoulders. ‘Mrs Field says we will be able to try again almost immediately, Henry,’ she said. ‘She has had children herself. She knows about these things.’

She saw him draw back slightly as though repulsed. ‘I am sure it will be better to allow you to recover, my dear.’ He stood up at last. ‘And now if you will excuse me, I have to go out.’ He picked up the letter he had been writing and folded it.

She stared at his back, recognising the implacable angle of his shoulders and after a moment she trailed back towards the door. ‘We will talk later, Henry,’ she said with as much spirit as she could muster.

He did not reply.

Zoë took herself to Sutton Hoo that afternoon. Pausing beside the kiosk at the entrance to the car park she scrabbled in her bag for a long-unused National Trust card and found it at last, handing it to the young man before parking. The sprawl of modern buildings took her aback; she wasn’t sure what she had expected, but not this. As she locked the car and headed for the museum she glanced round curiously. The place didn’t seem to be crowded, for which she was grateful. She was in no mood for other people at the moment.

Following the signposts she walked across grass lawns, through a small stretch of woodland towards a field where the famous burial mounds lay clustered above the river. They were smaller than she’d expected, and bare. Somehow she had pictured them surrounded by woodland; the woods were there as a backdrop running down to the river, but here the grassland was grazed by sheep. She walked slowly round the mounds, staring at them, feeling the strange atmosphere of the place, pleased there was nothing there to sensationalise or detract from their stark beauty. On the far side there was a discreet viewing platform, and only there was there a notice describing the various locations.

She moved on, feeling a slight prickle on her skin. This was a very special place, but was it making any sense of her mixed emotions about living here, as she had hoped? She wasn’t sure.

The track brought her back to the museum and she stood looking up at the entrance, over which hung a huge mask. No, it was a replica of a helmet. For a moment she stood still, gazing up at it, her heart thudding, then she went in.

In the centre of the exhibition hall was a full-scale replica of the famous ship burial, discovered under one of those mounds outside, first excavated just before the Second World War. It had, she gathered, been reconstructed in faithful and minute detail.

Picking up a spray of bay leaves from a container by the door to what looked like a broad-beamed, upturned boat, she ducked into a low doorway and stopped short in the almost-darkness of the intimate space in which she found herself. She was alone. The body of the warrior king lay at her feet, lit by candles – electric admittedly, but she was prepared to overlook that – the tiny glass flames so weak it took a moment for her eyes to accustom themselves to the flickering light. The king lay on his side beneath a rug. He was wearing a leather jerkin and sported a moustache and beard. His sword and helmet lay behind him, huge drinking horns at his feet.

She stood for a long time, looking at the tableau, taking it all in. There was a huge cauldron once suspended by elaborate chains, beautifully crafted buckets, drinking horns and cups, board games, a lyre with an exquisitely made beaver skin carrying case, and above all weapons, spears, an iron axe, a coat of mail, a shield and the splendid helmet, and by his hand his jewel-hilted sword, all replicas of the treasure they had found in the original burial site.

She was captivated by the atmosphere of the place. It was hushed, respectful, astonishingly moving. The bay leaves were there to leave as an offering. Gently she laid them down, reluctant to move on, aware that this was all pretend, but also aware of the power of the scene before her.

The silence was abruptly shattered as the curtain was pulled back and a group of school children suddenly appeared through the doorway. Her moment of isolation had passed. They pushed around her and the peace and atmosphere in the space had gone. She stooped to make her way out the way she had come and straightened, blinking in the brightness of the museum hall for a moment before starting to wander around the display cases around the edge of the room, stunned by the craftsmanship and beauty of the items which had been rescued from the excavations.

They still could not be sure who this was in the grave, but it seemed almost certain that he was the great East Anglian King Rædwald, who had died around AD 625. This was a man who straddled the pagan and early Christian worlds and who built his Anglo-Saxon kingdom into a rich and powerful entity which would last unchallenged until a hundred or so years later. Then the Viking raids, targeting the rich communities of the eastern seaboard from across the cold North Sea with slaughter, rape and pillage, began systematically to destroy their world.

Zoë stood in front of an image of the Anglo-Saxon burial ship as it would have been before it was dragged up through the woods from the river, with its long body, short mast and huge square sail. Was this the ghost ship which drifted up their stretch of the river, or was the ship, with its sinister cold menace, a Viking raider? She wasn’t sure how one could tell.

She crept into the dark of a viewing room and sat on a bench to watch a film loop about the Anglo-Saxon world. As the sonorous beauty of the Anglo-Saxon poetry and the eerie music of the lyre echoed round the room she found herself shivering. This all belonged to the world she now lived in; this past was the past of the coast they now called home, a past which resonated still in the cry of the wind and the wailing of the gulls.

It was some time before Emily called again for the cob and rode down towards the farm. No one came as she rode into the yard and she sat there on the horse for a long time waiting to be helped from her saddle. She did not want to have to shout for help and in the end she lifted her leg across the pummel alone and slid from the horse by herself. She tied it to one of the rings in the wall and walked towards the forge. Daniel was shaping a piece of metal, the furnace behind him roaring as Benjamin pumped the bellows. A heavy hammer in his hand, Daniel was striking sparks from the red-
hot metal, his face gleaming with sweat in the firelight. For a moment she stood in the doorway unnoticed, then Benjamin looked up. ‘Dan,’ he called. Daniel didn’t hear him. He stopped pumping. ‘Dan!’

At last Daniel stopped hammering and straightened. He picked up the metal with a pair of tongs and plunged it into the bucket beside the anvil. There was a loud hiss of steam. He laid down his tools and, following Benjamin’s pointing finger, he turned at last to the doorway.

If she saw the look of fury and impatience which crossed his face she ignored it. ‘Daniel, I need you to come and look at my horse.’

‘If it needs shoeing, perhaps you would leave it where it is, my lady,’ he said curtly. ‘I will look at it later.’

‘Now, Daniel!’ Her voice sharpened.

For a moment he held her gaze then he sighed. He rubbed his hands on his leather apron and strode towards the door, leaving the boy standing wide-eyed behind him.

She watched for several minutes as he examined the cob, running his hands down each leg in turn and lifting it to examine the shoes. When he had finished he straightened.

‘I need for us to resume our meetings,’ she said before he could say anything. ‘Tomorrow. At midday.’

‘I don’t think so, my lady.’ He walked round to the horse’s head and examined the bridle, checking the straps one by one.

‘You have to.’ Her voice rose slightly.

He looked at her across the back of the animal and held her gaze. ‘I said no, my lady. That is finished. What we had, what we did was wrong. I have promised Susan that it will not happen again.’

‘You told her?’ She glared at him, horrified.

‘I didn’t have to, my lady.’

‘What do you mean, you didn’t have to?’ Her face was white, her lips compressed.

‘Everybody knew what was happening.’

She shook her head. ‘No. You must have told someone. You fool!’