Читать книгу Dark Ages - John Pritchard - Страница 16

CHAPTER VIII

The Waste Down

1

She lingered for a long while in Edington church.

Weeks had passed. She’d nursed her sickly courage: felt it grow. But here, in the shadow of the Plain’s northern edge, she knew her nerve might fail her even now.

She’d got off the train at Westbury and walked – heading east out of town towards Bratton and White Horse Hill. The country road meandered round the foot of the scarp, with flat fields spread and drowsing to her left. The day had started sunnily enough; but now the wind had freshened, bringing clouds. Stray sheep across the field of blue at first; then slower, grazing groups with dirty fleeces. The warm air felt diluted as each shadow passed across. She had her sleeveless top and flowing skirt on. When the coolness started lingering, she slung her jacket loosely round her shoulders.

Not Lyn’s big comfy jacket, sad to say. This was an old denim one from home. She’d been back to see her parents; they were so pleased with her progress. Some doubts about the wisdom of what she’d wanted to do next – but her rising confidence had won them over. She’d bloomed in sunny Oxford; Lyn had fed her up a bit, and made her get her hair done. She liked the cut: it framed her pale complexion like a cowl. Her eyes seemed greener: fresh as spring. She’d left her shades behind.

It felt as if she’d been away from home for years, not two short weeks. She’d had to rediscover her own bedroom. Her books had still been there where she had left them. Old favourites like Rebecca and Jane Eyre, alongside Einstein’s Monsters and The Fate of the Earth. Stuff she’d read at school, as well. She’d fingered her way along the row: from Shakespeare to Milton and Paradise Lost.

Long is the road, and hard (she thought)

That out of Hell leads up to light …

Her mum had found her mulling that one over. Unable to contain herself, she’d hugged and kissed her daughter. ‘You’re looking so well, Fran. Pretty as a pixie – like I always used to say.’

‘Mum!’ she’d said, embarrassed and delighted. That was when she’d realized she was going to be all right.

Her confidence had faltered as she came to Bratton village, and reached the turning off that led to Imber. At this point it was nothing but a quiet country lane, curving off around the hill and out of sight. Yet it ended at that junction in the middle of the range. The fields in which the faceless man was searching.

Despite her resolve, she’d wavered at the prospect; stood staring up the lane – then walked on by. Oh, she was going back to Imber, right enough – and on to Larkhill range and Greenlands camp. This very afternoon. But not quite yet.

Edington was tiny; picture-pretty. She let its stillness soothe her. A glance at her watch gave her plenty of time. Lyn wasn’t expecting her back in Oxford until mid-evening. Exploring, in an aimless sort of way (distraction from the uplands right behind her), she found the church at the bottom of a lane. St Mary, St Katharine & All Saints. The place was surprisingly big – a priory church, built with medieval grandeur. Intrigued, she wandered down to take a look.

The interior was cool and dim; she kept her jacket slung around her shoulders. A woman was busy cleaning near the back. She looked up with a smile. Fran smiled shyly back, and hoped she wouldn’t want to talk.

The flagstones clicked beneath her boots as she slowly paced around. Down the high, vaulted nave, and back along the aisles. Stone figures lay on recessed slabs, disfigured by the years. She picked up a guide from the table by the door; flicked casually through it. The date of consecration was 1361. She felt a haunting sense of age – a link with the past. As if long-dead congregations might still linger here in spirit.

Those sleeping statues: all unknown. That faceless knight had come from Imber church. Was thought to be a Lord of Imber … She gave it a slightly wary glance; tried superimposing a fourteenth-century village on the ruined one today. The effect was disconcerting. She put the leaflet down again.

The sun emerged outside, spilling blocks of dusty light down through the windows: a sandstorm in suspended animation. Undaunted, the woman in the housecoat kept on polishing the woodwork. The sun went in again.

Fran sat herself in one of the pews, and waited while her instincts fought it out. She knew she couldn’t turn back now; but a part of her still dragged its feet, and looked for an excuse.

A gentle footfall in the aisle behind her. ‘Anything I can help with, dear?’ the woman asked.

Fran glanced back with a smile. ‘I’m all right, thanks. Just savouring the atmosphere.’

‘It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Very calming.’

Fran hesitated, hoping that she’d leave it at that. But the pause made her uncomfortable: aware that there was more she ought to say. The woman had a friendly face; it seemed unfair to turn her own away.

‘Do you get many visitors here?’

‘A few. There was someone here earlier, came for the quiet like you did. Young man; I think he was one of those travellers or some such. But he sat here for a long while.’

She nodded, half to herself; then smiled and moved away, clearly sensing that this visitor preferred to be alone. Fran glanced gratefully after her; then settled back again, and thought of Greenlands.

It had to be faced: got over with. Like a smear test, or a visit to the dentist. And once it was done, the way ahead would be clear for her and Craig.

She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered their first date: the terms that she’d laid down, across the table. Call me ‘honey’ and I’ll clobber you, all right?

‘Okay.’

Or ‘Sugar’ …

She’d been there for a drink, and that was all. Still wary; still confused. But as they’d talked, her sense of guilt had slowly started fading. She liked him – he was honest and direct (good-looking, too, she’d add, if she were honest). They’d agreed to meet again. And from such small beginnings …

‘Well, what do you make of this?’ the woman said.

She’d just unlocked the collection box to empty it, and was peering at a small coin in her palm. Fran could see from where she sat that it was badly discoloured; but a muted gleam of silver caught the light. Probably an old two-shilling piece – a change, at least, from bus tokens and coppers.

It was time to move on. She got to her feet.

The woman gave her a glance. ‘That young man must have left it, he put something in the box. It can’t be real, can it?’

Fran joined her on the way to the door, and saw for herself. The rough-edged coin was tarnished, almost black, but she could make out the small cross stamped into the metal. The woman turned it over, and they saw it had a bird on the back: one with a curved and cruel-looking beak. A circle of crude lettering surrounded it.

The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen anything like that before, I must say.’

Fran was picking out the letters, but they didn’t make a word. Hard enough to tell where the sequence began, apart from a cramped initial cross – and the bird’s malicious beak that broke the circle.

ANLAFCVNVNC

A scavenger’s beak, Fran thought – and frowned. A carrion bird. A raven.

2

Up on the hill, she turned around, and saw the country spread out like a quilt.

The patchwork was uneven, mixing greens and browns and yellows; its hedgerows like rough stitching in between. Isolated farms stood out in tiny detail. And over it all, the shadows of clouds came creeping: as shapeless as amoebas, vast and dim.

Wiltshire, stretching off into the distance. She’d originally thought of the Plain as flat, but here it rose much higher: thrust upward from the lowland like a cliff. Edington was down there, to the right: the church peeping out between trees. It looked like a toy village from up here.

She’d taken the footpath up Edington Hill. The way was steep and hollow, worn into the chalky ground. Clearing the trees on the lower slopes, it rose towards the crest – then skirted round it. She’d cut away, and climbed up to the top. The breeze grew fresher, plucking at her jacket; she shrugged into its sleeves. Her icon badge was pinned to the lapel.

Gazing out across the landscape, she remembered her walk with Dad the other week. Up the path behind the houses to the high ground overlooking Hathersage. They’d watched the evening settle on the village. The lights had come on one by one: a colony of fireflies waking up to greet the dusk. Dad had put his arm around her – drawn her close against his side. Content, she’d leaned her head against his shoulder.

‘You’re serious about him then: this lad?’

‘He’s really nice, Dad. You’d like him.’

They’d always been close: she didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking. He’d got his daughter back, to see her snatched away again. Every instinct said to hang on tight.

When he let go, she heard it in the wryness of his voice.

‘You’d best bring him up here, then. Let your mother have a look at him. And I can see what he thinks of Real Ale.’

Love you, Dad, she’d thought, and slid her arm across his back. Aloud she said: ‘He won’t drink pints, you know. Has to be the bottled stuff. And cold.’

He snorted. ‘Typical Yank, eh.’

‘That doesn’t bother you, does it?’ she’d asked, after a slightly anxious pause.

‘If he makes you happy, girl, he won’t bother me at all. Just don’t let him take you for a ride, all right?’

‘Dad. I’m twenty-three now.’

‘You’re still my daughter, Frannie. My little lass. That’s never going to change.’

She didn’t doubt it, either. Though they’d just been to see the local team, and Fran had shouted louder than the blokes, she was always going to be his little girl.

But even as they spoke, she’d felt the gloomy heights behind them: the tors like tumbled fortresses, and then the open moor. They were right out on the edge here, and dusk was coming quicker than a tide.

A wind had risen out of the distance. She’d felt it on her spine, and snuggled closer to Dad’s coat. But when she turned her head, she saw the yellow moon was up: its outline smudged and swollen, but the glow was like a lamp’s. The lantern of a friend, to light them home. The barren moor seemed thwarted – almost sullen.

The rustling breeze brought her back to the present. No wind from the back of beyond this time; just a whisper through the thistley grass. A snuffling round the dandelions and daisies. She breathed it in, and knew that she was ready.

Turning to come down off the crest – her face set firmly south, towards the range – she saw the black-clad figure in the hollow of the hill.

She ventured further down, and reached the track; then stopped again. The man was crouching on the slope a dozen yards below. He was head-down over something, unaware of her approach.

The falling contours made a basin here. The pathway curved around it, like a gouge along the rim. The ground was steep and strangely crimped: old terraces, she guessed. But grass this rough was just for grazing now. Tufty bushes sprouted up, like fungus on old bread.

The man had a tattered coat around his shoulders. Trailing in the dirt with the sleeves hanging loose, it gave him the look of a large, bedraggled bird. She thought of a rook in a fresh-ploughed field: rooting through the soil in search of grubs.

In the lee of the hill, the breeze had dropped completely. Fran stood there, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed on his back. Her confidence had come crashing down; the world was huge and hostile once again.

The man was wearing black, just like the figure in her dream. He had the same fair hair. She was suddenly sure that his unseen face was featureless: a hole. Empty – and about to turn towards her.

Cold beads of sweat popped out across her shoulders. She forced her gaze away, along the path. It led over the rise and out of sight. Or should she just go back around the hill? Retrace her steps to Westbury; pretend she’d never come.

She knew she couldn’t. It was clear as the air, and the sudden, splashing sunlight. If she ran away from this, her mind would never rest.

It wasn’t a dream – not this time. It might be a coincidence, of course …

Oh, yeah, she thought, with fatalistic scorn. Oh, sure.

Perhaps a premonition, then. Perhaps it was her fate, to meet this man. She’d never sniffed at things like that: second sight and such. But when she met him – what would happen then? The thought compressed her stomach. A chill of nausea rose towards her throat.

What was he doing? Writing with his finger in the dirt? Whatever, he was too engrossed to see her. She recalled what that woman had said in the church: about the man who’d visited before her. One of those travellers, she’d thought – and this man looked the part, at least. She tried to squeeze relief from the conclusion. A few diluted drops. They didn’t soothe the churning in her belly.

The air grew briefly darker as a cloud cruised overhead. She glanced up, feeling trapped, as if a lid had just come down upon the bowl. The man kept working, head still bowed. Still tracing random patterns through the short-cropped grass.

The trackside fence was there between them. Barbed wire and iron pickets brown with rust. But the strands were wide apart here, and almost before she’d realized it, she had ducked her head between them, climbing awkwardly through. Something snagged at her jacket, drew it tight – and lost its grip. Setting foot in the field, she straightened up, and pulled the denim round her. Though she’d barely closed the distance by a yard, the hunched man was immediately more relevant. More real.

She saw him sense her presence. His loose, unwary posture grew suddenly stiff – as if he’d turned to stone beneath his coat. Like an animal’s reaction: scenting danger. Adrenaline blazed through her, but she couldn’t back off now. Too late, and much too close. She was committed.

His head, still turned away, came slowly up. A faint breeze touched his short, fair hair. Fran felt a leaden pressure in her chest.

He twisted round, still crouching, like a statue coming suddenly to life. Full of her fears, Fran started back; then saw his face, and froze.

It was just a man, of course: as real as his rags. His face was lean, unsmiling; thinly bearded with a stubble that looked darker than his hair. A thirtyish face, with a calmness that transfixed her. Some of its lines looked capable of laughter; but there was hard, unflinching bleakness in the bones. Both aspects came together in his gaze: eyes that were clear and choirboy-blue – but cold. As chilly as a frosty morning sky.

He watched her for a moment, still hunkering down. Dismayed though she was, she glimpsed a flicker of reaction on his face. Then he dropped his gaze once more, and rubbed his index finger in the soil.

She breathed again … and felt a twinge of pique. Absurdly, after what she’d feared, the anticlimax threw her. As the seconds passed, and he continued to ignore her, she felt her courage gathering afresh. Taking a breath, she risked a slow step forward. He didn’t raise his head. But it was clear that he was watching from the corner of his eye.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. Her voice seemed very small amid the stillness.

‘Praying,’ he replied, not looking up. ‘I have many friends here.’ His tone was low and thoughtful, made rougher by an unfamiliar accent. No time to try and place it. Fran hesitated; looked around. There was nothing to see. Just the slope of a depression; a grassy bowl of leached, infertile soil. A cluster of cows were grazing at the bottom.

Perplexed, she edged in closer. He glanced at her sidelong; did that nonchalance seem forced? For a moment he stayed motionless, as if in meditation. Then, bending forward, he resumed his finger-writing. She saw a ring gleam dully on his dirt-discoloured skin.

Some sort of New Age priest, or what? The landscape was peppered with earthworks, after all. And him wearing black like that … The breeze caught the sleeves of his sombre coat, and stirred them like vestigial wings.

Rook, she thought again. Then: Raven. Remembering the coin in the Edington poor box. It had looked like an antique, from a museum or a dig. Was he the one who’d left it?

She came to a halt: unwilling to go nearer, or retreat. The turn of events had left her quite bewildered. Her mind, not sick at all, had shown her this – but making contact with the man had settled nothing. What was he but a traveller, chasing visions of his own? She felt herself deflating: the upsurge of excitement plunging headlong back to earth. She was opening her mouth in helpless protest when something in the short grass caught her eye.

Even from a yard away, she thought it was a stone. A piece of flint, half-sunk into the soil. Then the sunlight shifted – and like a double-image drawing, it was suddenly quite different. She realized she was looking at the fragment of a skull.

It had barely been unearthed; just one socket, with its cheekbone and the curve of the temple. The bone was brown and flaky like blistered paint. Fran stepped around it, staring – and saw another one. There, where the soil crumbled, as if a molehill had caved in. No feature was distinctive; but the brittle, bony texture was the same.

Her skin, still damp with sweat, grew prickly-cold. She gave the man a nervous glance – and saw that he was watching. There was distant, grim amusement on his face. Then he signed the ground again; and the grass began to stir.

Fran felt a rush of disbelief: a giddiness that said This isn’t true. The topsoil was decaying, breaking up before her eyes. A faint dust rose, and scattered on the breeze. The man had sat back on his bootheels, unperturbed. He gave her a fleeting glance, face solemn now. She saw a depthless satisfaction there.

The ribs came poking upward first: broken and bent, like trampled stalks. The sight was clear; her brain could not deny it. Then the jaw, still choked with dirt and full of rotten teeth. The sockets of the skull were blocked as well. They came up gazing blindly at the sky.

Fran’s own eyes were just as round. She’d heard of the grim harvest in the battlefields of France: bullets and bones working upward to the surface. But this was like a time-lapse film: that creeping process crammed into a minute.

The earth grew quiet again. The skeletal remains were still half-buried. The man reached down, and gently touched the skull: tracing the sign of a cross on its fragile forehead. Then he straightened up, and turned towards her.

Fran took a small step back, still fingering her mouth.

The shabby coat hung on him like a cloak, reaching down to his knees; a straggle of dark fur around the collar. His trousers and shirt were black as well; the latter a granddad-type, its buttons gone. It revealed a vee of wind-burned skin, stretched shiny by the collarbone beneath it. A cross on a thong hung round his neck; a leather pouch as well.

A part of her, trapped deep inside, was urging her to run. But she felt as if she’d waded into glue. He began to move again, and so did she – trying to match his steps and keep her distance. Step by step, avoiding bones, they turned around each other. A slow, unnerving ballet. Danse Macabre.

His eyes on hers, he gestured – and she heard a scrapy rustling sound behind her. She craned her head around, and almost squealed. The crown of a skull had pushed up through the soil, as if to block her way.

When she turned again, the man was very close. The look on his face seemed darker than his weathered, grimy skin.

‘These were my brothers once,’ he said. ‘They died their second death on Waste-Down. I come to set their souls to rest at last.’

He gazed at her in silence for a moment. From this close, only feet away, she thought that he seemed wary. Then, without warning, he spat into her face.

Fran stumbled back from that, as if he’d slapped her. Wide-eyed, she raised her fingers to her cheek. Anger sparked, but failed to ignite. Instead, she felt a stupefied despair.

He closed with her, grim-faced. She cowered back, still mired in glue: so shocked, she felt her balance start to go. Her arm flailed up; he caught and held it – grasped her slim wrist tight. Before she could get her free hand in, he was reaching for her face.

Don’t let him, God, she thought, too late. Rough skin and calloused leather touched the smoothness of her cheek. She tried to twist her head away, her mind a blur of panic. The dark thing on her face began to move, its fingers creeping … but gently, almost tentatively now. Gasping for breath, she realized he was wiping off his spit.

She gawped at him; he stared right back. Eyes lurking in the dark between his brow and slim, straight nose.

‘If the Virgin appeareth in a vision,’ he said, like someone quoting, ‘then spit thou in her face. Thou shalt presently know if she cometh from the Devil.’

He let go of her wrist, and fell to his knees, head bowed. ‘Forgive me.’

Fran stood there, swaying: staring down at the breeze in his hair. What? she thought, quite flabbergasted. What? And now the anger came, so that she very nearly hit him. The anger and the fright.

He rose to his feet again. They faced each other. Her cheek felt raw and tingling from his touch. But she didn’t, couldn’t, flinch away as he reached for her again – and took her Cross of Nails between his fingers. Heart pumping hard, she watched his face. There was a hint of wonder on it now.

‘You are she, then …’

The Virgin? Bloody Hell … ‘I’m not,’ Fran mumbled, shaking her head. ‘Of course I’m not …’

His hooded eyes came up. ‘I know. You are My Lady.’ His fingers left the silver cross, and moved to her lapel. Shuddering, she watched them trace the contours of her icon.

‘I have prayed to you long,’ he murmured. ‘For I knew that you would answer.’

Fran stared at him. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be. But neither could those skeletons have risen while she watched …

‘Lady … may I know your name?’ he asked.

She swallowed, once. ‘I’m Frances.’

Something flared in those pale eyes. He took a step away, and crossed himself. Then nodded with a sombre, slow acceptance.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You come from her? She has … forgiven me?’

Fran just nodded woodenly, not knowing what he meant.

‘I know it is a sign, that you are come to me like this. What befalls? You must tell me. You must remember who I am.’

‘I’ve … seen you in my dreams,’ she said.

He nodded heavily. ‘I pray I did not soil them. Our work was red and filthy, was it not? And now the call has come again, and we must answer.’ His tone was almost weary – yet resigned. Like a soldier sick of war, she thought. A prisoner of his duty.

Then he said: ‘Come with me.’

The whole world seemed to wait for her to answer. She was aware of every detail: the shifting clouds and shadows, and the breeze across the grass. Only the distant cattle stayed aloof.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

He gave his head the smallest shake. ‘You do not know me, Frances?’

‘Oh, please …’ she said. ‘I just don’t know your name.’

‘I am Athelgar,’ he said, ‘of Meone. Lord of the Ravens now.’

She remembered the testament at once – the will that Lyn had studied. Athelgar, eorl: a saint, or a magician. A man of high degree.

And here he stood before her now. She hadn’t any doubt that it was him.

He was on the move already, walking off across the field. But his eyes were still on her, his hand held out. Invitation, and entreaty. Fran teetered on the brink – and then stepped forward. With a sense of plummeting through space, she followed in his wake.

From the top of the rise, the chalky track led down towards the range. There were fields to either side of it; farm buildings up ahead. The vedette post lay beyond them, cutting off a country lane: looking like a toytown sentry-box, from this far out.

Athelgar strode forward; Fran hurried to catch up. She felt a crazy confidence, as if nothing else could matter in the world. Maybe madness felt like this. But now, at last, she knew that she was sane.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked the man beside her.

He gave her a searching glance, as if expecting her to know. ‘Here was that first battle when the Raven flew for us. And thus did Alfred hold the slaughter-field.’ Again his accent puzzled her; that gh had a harsh, Germanic sound.

He didn’t break his stride; the pale dirt crunched beneath their boots. She thought about those crumbled bones. ‘You fought here, then?’ she said.

A nod. ‘We came, and fought, and many of us died. I have not passed this way again since then.’

‘So, why come back?’

‘I seek to know the reason we are called. We slept amid the houses of the stars, and someone roused us. But the summoning was all awry.’

She stared at him, still stumbling to keep up.

He seemed to sense her bafflement; indulged it. ‘We are not many, now – but still enough to answer a petition. Yet no trysting-place was told this time. The Ravens have been scattered. I have wandered many months, and have not found them.’

They came to the farm, and crossed its stony yard. The sheds and silos looked deserted; but then a dog began to bark, a fierce and frantic sound. Fran’s stomach jumped instinctively, but the animal stayed out of sight. Athelgar seemed unperturbed; she sidled close, and stuck to him like glue. As they left the farm behind, she risked a glance. Still no sign of the dog; but its disembodied barks went on and on. The thing was afraid, she realized then. Was frightened of the presence on its ground.

She looked at Athelgar; but Athelgar was staring up the road. They’d joined the lane from Bratton here, just short of the vedette. The way ahead to Imber was wide open.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked again.

‘This is my pilgrimage,’ he said. ‘To all the fields of mystery and slaughter. If I pass this way again, I may be shown the road I need.’ He looked at her then: gazed right into her eyes. ‘And did I not find you, my Lady Frances?’

Before she could respond, he’d started walking. Fran lingered on the spot for just a moment; then scurried up behind him as he crossed onto the range.

The ground was waste, all right. Churned-up earth, and barren heath, and shrapnel-peppered trees. Hunks of rusty wreckage lay beside the narrow road. Here and there, across their path, the tanks had gouged out trails of their own. Athelgar’s gaze kept straying off along them. She wondered how she might explain: would giant armoured wagons fit the bill? Perhaps he thought they were the tracks of monsters.

A deathly silence hung across the land. They might have been the last two people living. Athelgar set the pace, and it was steady, unrelenting. Fran had to pant for breath before she got the question out.

‘You said you’d not been back since … Waste-Down?’ He nodded. ‘But listen. Four years ago, not far from here, I ran into some things that looked like men. They chased me – almost caught me.’ She shuddered at the memory; then gazed at him, wide-eyed. ‘I thought they were a … vision, like. But now I know they weren’t.’

He looked at her gravely. ‘Even one like you should not go down these roads alone. This is dead, forgotten ground. Wolves and warlocks may walk freely here.’

‘I had to come,’ she muttered.

‘I felt you near to me,’ he said. ‘That day at Heofonfeld.’

Heofonfeld, she thought. Then: Heaven’s Field. Despite herself, she grasped his coat and brought him to a standstill. ‘Who do you think I am?’

‘A lady of the Northern saints,’ he answered, vary calmly. ‘At Heofonfeld, I opened up my heart and felt your light. From that day on – through all the blood – I have blessed your memory. Yet I never knew the name you bore, till now.’

Fran recalled what she had felt: that weird euphoria. ‘When was this?’ she whispered.

‘The year nine hundred, four and thirty. When we brought the Scottish oath-breakers to heel.’

Fran just stared at him, open-mouthed. She loosened her grip; but he didn’t move until she’d dropped her hands completely.

‘Come,’ he said, and touched her arm. ‘We have many miles to go.’

They came down towards the junction where she’d dreamed of him before. The east-west road was empty, stretching out in both directions. Athelgar slowed his pace at last, scanning the barren slopes across the valley.

‘Know you of the dragons?’ he asked softly.

For a moment Fran was quite unnerved – then realized what he meant. She could picture them herself, as well: green monsters creeping west along the road. Clanking and roaring and coughing out fumes. She nodded once, unsmiling.

‘I came this far two days ago,’ he murmured, eyes still searching. ‘One was abroad: I watched it for a long while. Others I heard, which were prowling in the hills. And a thunder like the ending of the world …’

‘They’re … back in their lair today,’ Fran said: thinking of them in rows at the Warminster tank wash.

They reached the Imber road, and halted there. She glanced around at Athelgar, and saw he had a coin between his fingers. An ancient-looking silver piece – like the one back in the church. The silent pilgrim’s parting gift. Of course it had been him.

‘What say you, my Lady?’

‘Oh, call me Fran,’ she muttered.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes: as if the more familiar form had struck some deeper chord. Then he shrugged, and gestured with the coin. ‘Crowns or Crosses, then. The left hand, or the right …’ He flipped the coin up, caught it and displayed it on his palm. Fran stepped in close to see.

The design on this was different: just an Alpha in the middle. EADMUND REX the script around it said.

‘It comes down Crowns,’ said Athelgar, and closed his grimy fist around the coin.

They stepped onto the road, and started eastward away from the great bleakness of the Warminster downs. Even heading for the village, with its skull-eyed empty buildings, Fran felt a tiny flicker of relief.

They were just short of the village when Athelgar stopped – so abruptly that Fran went another yard before she realized. Looking back, she saw him tensing up.

She waited, frowning; suddenly uneasy. His dragons weren’t around today – so what had he sensed?

‘There are phantoms here,’ he said.

Fran turned again, and looked along the road. The first building was just visible: a hulk of crumbled brick, behind the trees. Out of Bounds, as she recalled. Too dangerous for soldiers.

‘This place is changed,’ said Athelgar.

She prudently retreated to his side. ‘You know it, then?’

‘Immerie … not so?’

She hesitated. ‘They call it Imber, now.’

‘What befell it?’

‘The soldiers came,’ she murmured flatly. ‘Nobody lives here now.’

‘There are phantoms in our way. I will not go there.’ He nodded to the grassland on the right, and crossed the road.

‘Hang on!’ Fran protested, as his meaning became clear. ‘We’re not allowed to leave the road …’ She tailed off then: who gave a shit for by-laws on a day like this? And as for safety reasons – the risk of unexploded shells – she felt beyond reality right now. Able to walk on water, or through minefields.

With a quick glance back the way they’d come, she followed where he led.

The range wardens were doubtless on patrol, but they saw no one as they skirted round the ruined village. Fran had the same giddy feeling she remembered from her first walk-on: stumbling through the wind-bent grass, across forbidden ground. And nobody could touch her – not while she was walking with the man of her dreams …

(or nightmares)

Looking down at Imber from the hill above it, she was glad they’d given it a miss. The place still held memories of Craig, of course, but not enough to lighten its grim silence. The few surviving buildings were outnumbered by mock houses: just blackened concrete shells beneath the church. Like a pile of broken skulls, she thought. The harvest of the killing fields around it.

The ruins slipped away, into a fold of the valley. By the time they joined the road again, only the church tower was visible. Athelgar stared back towards it.

‘How can there be a church without a flock?’ he asked.

Fran shrugged. ‘We had a war. Fifty years ago … They used it to train soldiers, and destroyed it. Then broke their word. They never gave it back.’

He frowned. ‘Small wonder that the place is not at peace. Were they hirelings from across the sea who did this?’

Fran gave a small, bitter smile. ‘No. They tried blaming the Americans … but it was British troops destroyed the place. On purpose. Their own people.’

‘The warriors of the King?’

She thought about it. ‘Yeah.’

He walked a little way along the road, then turned again. His face was difficult to read. Was it anger glinting in his eyes – or pain? ‘I came back with the hope the land had changed,’ he said. ‘At last.’

‘Oh no,’ said Fran, and shook her head. ‘It hasn’t changed at all.’

The road led south and west, across the uplands of the range. The clouds had massed above it, like great heaps of slate and slag; but a buttermilk sky still showed on the horizon.

Fran plodded onward, lost in thought: the ache of her feet was scarcely getting through. The road stretched out ahead of them – so long, and still no turning. The empty heath-land rustled in the wind, made bleaker by the shadows of the clouds.

Athelgar touched her shoulder, and she stopped. ‘See,’ he said. ‘That dragon is still hunting.’ His voice was low – but calm enough, considering.

She looked, and saw a helicopter, perhaps two miles away. A double-engined Chinook, quite familiar. She followed its course, and realized it was circling.

His touch became a grip. ‘We must find shelter.’

‘No, it’s all right. Um … It’s sort of a ship that flies. Those things going round, like windmill sails … they lift it through the air.’

He nodded gravely, staring at the thing. The chopper dipped into the valley, where its clatter was redoubled; then rose back into view again and curved towards the south. It felt like they were standing at the centre of its orbit. The clear sky silhouetted it; then murk became the backdrop once again. A crimson light was flashing, on and off.

Athelgar watched, fascinated. ‘It makes signals.’

‘Not to us.’

They tracked it over Imber Firs, where Cruise had lurked before; past Strip Wood, like a dark Mohican haircut on its hill; and finally it veered away, and faded in the grey haze to the north.

‘Men have grown wise,’ said Athelgar softly.

Fran let that pass without comment.

The end of the hike came suddenly, and caught her by surprise. The road began descending, turned a comer – and the Heytes-bury vedette was up ahead. The walk had been interminable, yet now it seemed cut short. Fran stopped beside the barrier; the dull green sentry hut was locked and empty. Beyond, the road ran down to meet a farmer’s sloping fields, and turned into another country lane.

As soon as she stopped moving, the weariness caught up. She felt her legs solidify like lead. She leaned against the grassy bank, and looked at Athelgar.

‘How far are you going?’

‘No further. I will turn again. No hand shall be against you from here on.’

She blinked at him; then looked back up the road. The thought of all that emptiness they’d come through … She swallowed, looked away again. Maybe not so empty, after all.

‘What about me?’ she murmured.

He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘The road is hard and grievous, Lady Frances; and many lifetimes longer than today’s.’

‘Meaning what?’ she asked. ‘That I should go home and forget it?’

He looked at her full on, and then spoke grimly. ‘You know the Ravens’ calling: death and terror. Our way is paved with corpses. It is no road for one like you to walk.’

Chastened, she moved back a step – but couldn’t keep from staring. ‘You think I can run into you, and then just walk away?’

‘Always shall we need your prayers. Watch over us in spirit. But with us, in the flesh, you may be harmed.’

But even as he spoke the words, his eyes were full of need – like somebody who’d had his fill of wandering alone. She stood there, gazing up at him, and felt a rush of feeling: delayed reaction, bursting through at last. Not disbelief, or even fear, but sheer exhilaration – the like of which she hadn’t felt since roaring down the highway after Cruise.

But even more exciting was the sense of being called. The heady thrill of Heaven’s Field. My Lady. Come with me.

She’d never felt so honoured – or protected. The violence that he’d talked about seemed mythic and unreal. Whatever journey he was on, it led to magic places. If the shadows were still out there, she could face them at his side.

She raised herself, and took hold of his coat. ‘I want to come.’

‘So let it be,’ he said after a pause. ‘There are things which I must seek amid the downland. Give me leave to see the way is clear, then come to me again.’

Swallowing, she eased away. ‘When?’

‘When the moon is round.’

Her heart was really thumping now. ‘And … where do I find you?’

‘There is a hamlet I have passed through, called Tils-Head. The downs are all around it. Seek me there.’

Fran nodded, knowing Tilshead well. She hadn’t a clue when the next full moon was. Perhaps Lyn had an almanac or something.

A silence fell between them, almost awkward. The parting of the ways, she thought – and felt it like a wrench.

‘Going to see me to the road?’ she asked.

He nodded, and they crossed the line together: followed the leafy lane towards the grumbling main road. The windswept downland fell behind, and neither of them looked back. Though every instinct warned her that she should.

3

‘I’m going to be quite late,’ she said to Lyn. ‘Expect me when you see me, I should think.’

‘Oh Fran … Are you all right?’

‘Yeah,’ Fran said, and realized she was grinning. Euphoria fizzed inside her, like she hadn’t felt for years. Top of the world – on tiptoe. Later would be time enough to think about the drop.

‘I’ve missed the bus from Heytesbury,’ she gushed, ‘that’s all. I’ll have to walk to Warminster, and catch the train from there.’

‘Is it far?’

‘Not very.’ Though the way her swollen feet felt now, she’d have a job to manage half a mile.

‘So how did it go?’ Lyn asked, still sounding anxious.

‘Really well. I think I’ve worked it out.’ She peered out through the glass of the telephone box. Across the busy A-road, at the mouth of the lane, his figure was just visible: still watching.

‘I’m so glad, Fran. I’ve been thinking about you lots today.’ Fran could hear the relief in her friend’s soft voice, and picture it on her face. Her love for Lyn just added to the inner glow she felt. But her stare remained fixed on the dark shape in the lane.

‘I’ll tell you more about it when I get back,’ she promised. Though not everything, of course. Least of all the part that would make Lyn think she’d flipped her lid completely.

She talked, and gazed at Athelgar – until he turned away. Back towards the range, and all its ghosts. With clouds now over everything, the evening had come early. The lane was full of shadows, and they sucked him in at once.