Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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.
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