Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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at a time.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘The Randolph.’
‘Expensive tastes.’
Fran grinned. Well he’s American, isn’t he?’
‘Help yourself to bikkies. They’re in the front room, on the table.’
Fran wandered through. The biscuit jar was doubling as paperweight for some of Lyn’s notes. ‘How’s the thesis coming, then?’ she called.
‘Slowly. Too easy to get distracted – not by you, don’t worry, I need the break.’ Lyn joined her, took a biscuit of her own. ‘I was reading someone’s will today, and it sent my mind off at a tangent. I just keep wondering who he was.’
‘Why, did he leave you anything?’
‘Hardly, since he died about a thousand years ago.’
‘Well, you’ve made a start, at least,’ Fran told her drily.
Lyn pulled a rueful face. ‘That’s just his name. I doodled that.’
Fran craned her head. ‘So how do you say that, then?’
‘Athelgar. The TH sound was written like a D, it’s called an Eth…’
‘Lithp’d a lot, the Anglo-Saxons, did they?’
Lyn didn’t deign to rise to that. ‘… And AE had an A sound – like in cat.’
‘Athelgar…’ Fran murmured, trying it out. ‘So who was he?’
‘I don’t know. No one does. He died in Wessex, but he might have been in East Anglia at one time. Maybe he’s a saint I saw a painting of once. Then again, I dug up something about shine-craft – meaning phantom-art, or magic …’ Lyn shrugged. ‘According to the will, he was an eorl.’
‘Meaning an earl, presumably?’
‘No, not then. It was more of a warrior’s term.’ She gestured. ‘A man of high degree. A man of honour.’
‘Sounds just my type,’ murmured Fran with a mischievous smile, and pinched another biscuit.
3
Both of them had dreams that night, as the slow stars turned above the silent house.
Fran took ages getting off to sleep. The barrow-mounds of Greenham were still looming in her head. Rusty iron, and crumbling concrete; cavernous black gateways. The watch-tower like a giant alien robot in the midst.
The futon creaked beneath her as she turned, and turned again. A nauseous chill had wormed into her stomach. Those silos would stand open until doomsday; she’d felt the drip … drip … drip of their decay. But what might still be lurking in their shadows; in the labyrinth of tunnels underneath?
Something could have seen her from that long-deserted watchtower. Something could have crept out of its lair, and followed them. All the way back here, to sleeping Oxford.
Fear embraced her like a ghost; she wriggled to get free. The past was in the room with her – a shadow at the foot of the bed. The part she hadn’t shared with Lyn. The part she couldn’t bear to think about.
Her fingers found the cross around her neck. A Coventry cross, of silver nails: a Christmas present from Lyn. She turned and tweaked it, listening to the hush.
But even Lyn was sleeping, in her tidy bed next door. Fran could almost hear her gentle breathing. Like a soft, recorded message. Lyn’s not home right now. You’re on your own.
The house was quiet around her. The night outside was soundless – undisturbed. She pulled the pillow close, and closed her eyes. Her mind cast round for brighter thoughts, to keep the dark at bay.
Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams … ?
Wistfully she huddled up, and thought of Heaven’s Field. She’d been about thirteen when she had gone there with her parents – their final summer in Northumberland. The sky had been like heaven all right, above the gaunt black cross. She summoned back its pinkish glow – the tufts of golden cloud. There’d been a famous battle here, in Anglo-Saxon times. Northumbria freed from tyranny, and won back to the faith.
She’d wandered round the empty field, enchanted by the twilight. And over by the church, she’d had the strangest rush of feeling: a rich, exciting glow from deep inside. It was over in a moment, but had left her flushed and giddy. A sense of being needed – and adored.
Even then, she’d realized that it hadn’t been religious. The thrill was much too physical for that – tugging at the instincts that were stirred by boys and babies. She’d told Lyn so, years later, in an earnest heart-to-heart. It had felt more like the shadow of a lover; a presence in the marriage bed she hadn’t dreamed of yet. A closeness that was soul to soul, as well as skin to skin.
She’d hoped it was a foretaste of her knight in shining armour – something for the boys at school to match themselves against. But that was just an old, romantic notion; Craig was real.
And what she’d felt this afternoon was pretty much the same.
The sun was going down on Heaven’s Field. Bathing in the memory – its warmth, and rosy light – she let herself relax into oblivion.
By rights, she should have taken that bright image to her dreams. Yet what her mind threw up was something different. She found herself, in spirit, at an isolated junction, along a road she hadn’t walked for years. Not Heaven’s Field, but Salisbury Plain; a place where nothing moved. The bleak, deserted grassland of the Imber firing range.
Danger Area.
Nervously she looked around. Sullen hills rose up to left and right, cutting off the outside world. The public roads were miles away; no passer-by could see her. She was stuck here, in the middle, all alone.
The junction was smeared by tank-tracks, its approaches hedged with posts to shore it up. Set against the gloomy slopes, they made her think of First World War defences: the barbed wire stripped away to leave the pickets standing bare.
There were insects buzzing faintly in the grass – but the silence overwhelmed them. That huge, unnatural firing range silence: as pregnant with threat as the grey clouds overhead.
A wrecked tank sat atop the nearest hill: its turret painted orange, for the guns of other tanks to zero in on. She studied it uneasily; then looked away, along the eastbound road. Imber village lay in that direction – out of sight, but close enough to fill her with foreboding.
She glimpsed a moving figure then – away to the left, where the ground began to rise. It was casting round, as if in search of something. She saw that he was dressed in black. A long coat or a cloak flapped out around him.
The icy surge of panic should have shocked her awake. But something deep inside her was determined to hang on. Fascinated, petrified, she watched him scour the heath. He waded through the knee-high grass – then crouched to root around. His face was turned away from her. Despite the muffling garment, she could see his short fair hair.
He seemed to sense her presence, then – and swung around to look. He didn’t have a metal face. He had no face at all. There was just a patch of shadow, framed with gold. Fran recoiled in horror, still suspended in the dream. And then the mouthless figure spoke to her.
She didn’t understand a word – but recognized the voice. With a wail of fright, she came flailing to the surface, kicking back the duvet to sit upright on the bed. Her nightie and her briefs were damp; she was suddenly and wretchedly convinced she’d wet herself. Then realized it was only sticky sweat.
Oh God. She cupped her hands against her face.
It was the voice she’d heard in hospital; the harsh, corrupted language was the same. And so was its appealing tone: the note of desperation. She felt he’d meant