Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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visiting you,’ Fran said carefully. ‘You got on well together, didn’t you.’
‘I think about him every day. I mean, I don’t just sit there moping, but … he’ll get into my head at some point. Just for a minute, maybe; but he’s there.’
Fran thought of them together, in the Christ Church staircase. No shadows there, no worries; just a handsome teenage boy with his big sister. The thought of that lost happiness made her ache on Lyn’s behalf. And how must their parents feel?
Maybe just the same as hers had, when their daughter withdrew into a world of her own: slamming the gates behind her.
‘Anyway …’ Lyn sighed, ‘there’s no point brooding. He’ll get in touch when he’s good and ready.’ She straightened her back, and summoned up a smile. ‘What are your plans for today? You’re seeing Craig again?’
Fran nodded. ‘I’m meeting him for lunch; and then we’ll go … wherever.’
‘Remember what I said about bringing him back. He’s welcome. I’ll cook you dinner, if you like.’
‘That’s an idea. That would be great, actually. When would be a good time?’
‘Well … Not tonight, I want to stay late at the library. How about tomorrow? Ask him.’
‘I will,’ Fran murmured, ‘thanks.’ And even as she smiled, an idea slipped into her head. A sudden thought that left her short of breath. She could bring him home this afternoon, if Lyn was working late. She could shag him on the futon, and her friend would never know.
She glanced down quickly; raised her mug and drank. Surely her guilt was showing on her face. But if it was, Lyn clearly hadn’t noticed. She was opening the paper in a listless sort of way.
Fran let her gaze drift off around the kitchen: a show of calm disinterest while she weighed the options up. She couldn’t take advantage, not like that. But then again … where was the harm? It wasn’t as if she’d lied to Lyn. She could just neglect to mention that she’d brought Craig back for tea. And let him screw her.
The prospect was as thrilling as their very first weekend. He’d taken some leave, collected her at Oxford, and driven them out to that posh country hotel. This wasn’t the place to think of that (though she wanted to, right now). But her appetite was back, and undiminished. Her feelings had lain dormant, like a seed in frozen ground; but now, at last, the thaw was setting in.
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
God, it was years since she’d sung that hymn. It made her think of Easter at Aldermaston. She felt a bit abashed about misusing it like that. But only a bit.
‘Any shopping you’d like some help with?’ she asked, as a salve for her conscience.
‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m going to take things easy this morning. You have a really good day.’
The churning in Fran’s belly quite belied her modest smile. I’m going to, she thought. She couldn’t wait.
2
When Fran had gone, Lyn dumped the breakfast dishes in the sink and let them soak. It normally went against the grain, to leave a chore for later; but this morning she just couldn’t be bothered. The apathy extended to her morning ablutions; she hadn’t had her shower yet, nor even cleaned her teeth. She was running on flat batteries – but going back to bed would do no good. It was more than simple lack of sleep that had left her feeling drained.
She walked through the flat, and found it looking duller. The carpet felt rough and fluffy under her bare feet. Bits of her thesis were still scattered round the living room. She went round picking them up, and took them over to the table.
Æthelgar. The name that had burned in her head last night seemed cold and lifeless now: like ashes in a grate. She gazed at the word with a vague sense of resentment – then dumped her notes on top, and crushed it flat.
She could remember the book quite clearly – tucked away at the end of a shelf. Myth and Magic in Medieval Europe. One of Daddy’s expensive books. One of the ones he’d told her not to touch.
She’d kept away at first, like a good little girl. But curiosity had got the better of her in the end. She could see herself now, nine or ten years old and sitting on the carpeted floorboards with an open book before her, the summer evening sunlight spread like syrup on the wall.
The first book was huge, too big for her to hold. Most of the pages were grey, and rough: a bit like paper towels. But some were smooth and shiny, with black and white photos – or paintings in glorious colour, like the sun breaking through clouds.
It was called The Flowering of the Middle Ages. She’d often seen Daddy browsing through it, sitting in his easy chair beside the window. There was a painting of a knight on the cover – a horseman with a dark, mysterious face. So this evening she’d come in, and hauled it down off its shelf, and slowly started leafing through the pages. The words were dull and difficult, but the pictures held her spellbound.
The second book had caught her eye as she’d put the first away. Magic was the word that had intrigued her. At her age, it meant mystery, romance – and something more: a cleverness she envied. She wasn’t quite sure what Medieval meant, but knew it was to do with the Middle Ages. ‘Evil’ was clearly a part of it, though. Perhaps it was because they’d been wickeder times …
She’d pulled the book out carefully. It was smaller than the other one, but thicker; it felt almost as heavy. Sitting herself down again, she started going through it. But this book, it turned out, was mostly words: page after page of them, densely packed. Only a handful of photos, and those were black and white. One shiny-looking page was folded over. She opened it out, and found the photo of an odd-looking drawing, covering both pages: a circle filled with scribbling and stars. She could see no pattern to them, but guessed they were arranged in constellations. Martin would know about those, of course. She wondered if he’d seen it.
The writing was difficult to read, like the place names on their shire-map in the hall. She looked for a caption. It was there at the foot of the facing page.
The enigmatic Malmesbury Star-Chart. Fourteenth century.
Enigmatic was a word she had recently learned. It meant ‘mysterious’, Mummy said. But surely the man who had written this book knew what constellations were. A map of the stars, with the names written in. So what made it mysterious?
Even as she frowned over the word, she felt a sort of shadow in the room. Not from the window, where the syrup of sunlight had turned into marmalade now. Nor from the open doorway, with the rattle of pans coming through it from downstairs. It came from the thought of the unknown in this picture. Something was here that even grown-ups didn’t understand. Something to do with magic, she supposed. If this had been a story, she would doubtless be the one to find its secret. But this was Daddy’s study, and she didn’t feel excited, but uneasy.
The enigmatic stars were like a hundred open eyes.
‘Lyn!’
She jumped, and twisted round: flushing with guilt as Daddy came in through the door. He crossed the room, snatched the book up from the carpet and folded the map away – so quickly that he creased it. Closing the book, he took it back to its shelf, while Lyn just sat and watched him, feeling very cold and small.
‘How many times?’ he snapped. ‘You’re not to touch these books. They’re very valuable, some of them, very expensive. I don’t want your sticky fingermarks all over them.’
Lyn felt her sobs come rising to the surface. She pinched her lips tight shut to keep them back, but they tried to get out through her eyes instead, and squeezed them full of tears.
‘Oh, don’t start crying,’ Daddy said, still looking tired and cross. But when Lyn couldn’t keep the flow in check, he sat down in his chair, and beckoned her over, and