Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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Studying the word, she sensed the distant past draw nearer. The man she’d met would write the name like that. This was his dead language, still alive inside his head. Still roughening the form of modern English that he’d learned.
She was just about to close the book when her grazing eye was snagged by something else.
ræfen
She felt her heart leap up. Her mouth was powder-dry again, but the drink she’d set aside was quite forgotten. She focused on the sentence (elusive as a snake amid the brambles), and mouthed the alien words as she read through them.
Dar wæs se gudfana genumen de hi ræfen heton
Heart thudding, she turned back to the translation. It touched upon another, unnamed battle: still months before that victory of Alfred’s in the spring. The English were outnumbered, with their backs against the wall – yet suddenly the war was turned around. A force of the invaders had been set upon and killed.
And there was captured the banner which men call Raven
‘I never knew you were so interested,’ Lyn said brightly from the doorway.
Fran almost jumped; then glanced at her, and shrugged. ‘Something about the Plain, I think. It brings the past much closer … She hesitated. ‘Do you know what this bit means … about the banner called Raven?’
‘It was an emblem that the Vikings had; it led them into battle.’ Coming across, she leaned in close and nodded. ‘Yeah … It was one of the things that damaged their morale, the English capturing it. Hang on, there might be something in Brewer’s about it.’
She selected a fat paperback, and started leafing through it. The Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, according to the cover. Fran stood beside her, waiting; feeling hollow.
‘You can browse through this for hours,’ Lyn said; ‘dig up all sorts of gems. Raven, here we are … yes, look.’ She passed it across. Fran looked, and read.
The fatal raven, consecrated to Odin the Danish war-god, was the emblem of the Danish standard. This raven was said to be possessed of necromantic power. The standard was termed Landeyda (the desolation of the country) …
She pursed her lips and nodded once – as if to say, Well, fancy that – and handed back the book.
Lyn’s eyes strayed down towards her Cross of Nails. ‘Still wearing it, then?’ she asked, in a casual way that couldn’t hide her pleasure.
Fran glanced down, and touched the pendant; let it turn between her fingers. ‘A very special present,’ she said softly. ‘Thanks again.’
Lyn glowed at that. ‘You’re welcome.’ Replacing the book, she went off towards the kitchen. Fran stayed where she was, still worrying the pendant. To Athelgar, the thing had been a relic: the sign of a saint. Perhaps he even thought that she’d been martyred.
Nailed to a cross with those medieval spikes. She felt the notion tightening her stomach. To his mind, he was still alive, and she must be the ghost …
But Craig had seen it too, of course. She jumped at the distraction – fixed her memory on that. The first time that she’d slept with him; that posh country hotel. They’d helped undress each other (How do I look? her nervous mind kept asking); she’d left the cross around her neck till last. Drawing back – ‘Hang on,’ she husked – she’d fumbled for the clasp.
He touched her arm. ‘Why take that off?’
Fran hesitated, ashen-mouthed. ‘I … think I should.’
‘You think we’re doing something wrong?’ He searched her face with serious eyes. ‘If you do, we can stop right now.’
She’d stared at him, her hands behind her neck; her breasts unguarded. But Craig reached up to stroke her cheek instead.
‘You think this is a one-night stand?’ he asked.
Fran sighed, and swallowed. Shook her head.
‘We’ve waited long enough,’ he went on softly; fingering a strand of her dark hair. ‘I want to be a part of you, Frannie. I want to be a part of your life. Is that what you want too?’
Fran moistened her lips. ‘It’s like I want to climb inside you.’
‘So how can it be wrong?’ he asked her mildly.
She’d wrestled with her conscience for a silent moment longer; then let the clasp alone, and reached for him. And Craig had leaned forward to kiss the cross, where it nestled in her cleavage; a gesture full of reverence and awe. She’d hugged him to her, closed her eyes; and felt his loving mouth begin to rove …
‘You sure you don’t mind cooking supper?’ Lyn called from the kitchen.
Fran came to herself with a rueful little smile. ‘’Course I’m sure.’
‘Shall we have some wine with it?’
‘Why not?’ Fran said. Retrieving her glass, she wandered through; found Lyn comparing labels.
‘Any preference?’
Fran’s smile grew wider, mischievous. ‘What the hell, it all tastes the same, anyway.’
‘You are a philistine, Fran Bennett. I hope you know that.’ Lyn gave her a mock-snooty look, then glanced at the clock. ‘I’m just popping down to the corner shop; we’re getting short of milk.’
Fran finished her drink and rinsed the glass out; listening while the front door opened and shut. She waited for the fading sound of footsteps on the pavement – then wiped her hands and went quickly through the flat towards Lyn’s bedroom. She lingered on the threshold, almost guiltily; then darted in, and started looking round.
The room was neat, but comfortable and lived-in. A musky pot-pourri infused the air. She found the diary lying on the dressing table.
No way could Lyn have come back in; but Fran still glanced behind her before picking it up. The temptation to start reading came on strongly. Lyn’s private thoughts were hidden here. The secrets of her heart she hadn’t shared.
With an effort of will, she focused on the dates: ignored the tidy writing, till she reached today’s blank page. Then on, until she found it marked. The next full moon.
A woozy calm came over her, and muffled the slow drumbeat of her heart.
She could always stay up here, of course – in safe, secluded Oxford. Just wait, until the moon was on the wane. His influence would surely dwindle with it. He’d fade out of her life again, as quietly as he’d come.
She toyed with the temptation – then flicked it away. Its bright spark flared and died in smoke and ash. She really didn’t have a choice: the dream had told her that. She had to meet this ghost again – and somehow lay his troubled soul to rest. If she turned her back, and left the thing unfinished, she knew she wouldn’t rest herself; would still be sleepless twenty years from now.
Laying down the diary, she went back towards the kitchen. As if all that were not enough, she also had a casserole to cook.
2
‘Who was it, then?’ she asked Lyn after supper.
‘Who was who?’
‘That person on the phone.’
‘Oh,’ Lyn said, and shifted; then settled back and let her face light up. ‘That was Simon, actually.’
A pause. Fran prodded her. ‘Well, don’t go all coy on me. Who’s he?’
‘Someone I met at work. The temping side of things, I mean.’
Fran offered up a smile as bait for more. They were curled up on the sofa, feeling comfortable and full; a CD playing softly in the background.