Dark Ages. John Pritchard
Читать онлайн книгу.
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