‘And I have been missing it all.’ Edith grimaced.
‘Do you know how long it will be before the sword is finished?’ Gudrun pulled up a stool and sat down close to the fire, holding her hands out to the embers.
Edith gave a wry smile. ‘He wouldn’t tell me, even if I had seen him,’ she said.
Gudrun looked up at her, then back towards the fire. A log slipped and a flame lit up the lazy spiral of smoke rising towards the blackened underside of the thatch, before making its way out into the night. ‘I know he’s been home. I saw him.’
‘Then you should mind your spying eyes, madam,’ Edith scolded good-humouredly. ‘He didn’t come, you understand, and anyone who says different is a liar. He told me nothing anyway.’
‘And the message Hrotgar brought?’
‘Is not your business.’ Edith shook her head with mock exasperation. ‘Fetch that jug of ale from the sideboard, and we’ll have a sup to wet our whistles. I’m feeling better, thanks to you.’
It was a great deal later that Edith, wrapped in a dark cloak, let herself out into the night. Gudrun had long gone and the village was silent. She crept towards the forge, stopping dead for a moment as a dog barked from somewhere behind the church, then she moved on. Under the hood of her cloak her hair was loose.
The forge was in darkness, the smokeholes cold. She paused, wondering what to do, then she crept closer. Eric often slept there; he had been doing so for the last month or more. Even the thought of him so close, lying, perhaps naked, wrapped in one of the furs she had seen stacked in the corner of the workshop, made her body tense with longing. She waited, her ear to the oak door slats, listening. There was no sound from inside. Cautiously she put her hand to the latch and silently began to slide it up. The hinges creaked and she stopped, her heart thudding, gazing round in the darkness. It wasn’t her husband she feared, it was the other man, the lord’s reeve, with his lustful eyes and his leering face and his power to intercede between Eric and the warriors for whom he worked.
The door wasn’t barred. After another protesting squeak it eased open and she peered in. ‘Eric?’ she whispered. She could smell the charcoal, the leather, the very scent of the iron, the oil with which he worked and then, suddenly she could smell him, his skin, the rough smokiness of his hair. ‘Where are you?’
‘I thought I forbade you to come here, Edith.’ She still couldn’t see him, but his voice was close. She imagined him waiting, poised to see who was trying to gain entry to the forge in the dark of the night, and for a moment she pictured the knife he probably held in his hand. The thought frightened her even as it gave her a strange frisson of excitement.
‘Hrotgar came to the house; he said you needed a hair from my head for your sword magic,’ she whispered. She was still poised on the threshold, knowing better than to try to set foot over it without invitation. ‘I wouldn’t give it to him. He frightens me. But if it’s what you need you can have every hair on my head.’ She pushed back the hood and shook her head gently, feeling the weight of her long hair on her shoulders, wondering if he could see her against the starlight.
She heard a smothered groan. ‘Edith! Sweet wife, but I miss you!’
‘Then why do you stay away from me?’
‘I have to. You know I have to. Lord Egbert directed every stage in the making of this sword according to the ancient rule. I knew nothing about when it was first spoken of, but he was right. It was a true memory of past traditions. I sensed that here.’ He thumped his chest with his fist. ‘Something which should never be forgotten. It is too important. And part of that tradition is that I forbid you my bed until it is finished.’
She narrowed her eyes, trying to see him, overwhelmed with a sudden suspicion. ‘Was it Lord Egbert himself who told you all this, or his reeve?’
The silence which greeted her question might have been answer enough, but suddenly he was at her side. ‘It was Hrotgar. You are right. I never discussed this with the thegn himself. He has been too ill for too long. All I was told has come from his reeve. But it was right, Edith –’
‘And did you ask for a hair from my head?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence.
‘It may be that the magic is real, Eric. I wouldn’t want to profane your work, but outside under the stars, can there be weakness for the sword in that?’
He was so close to her now she could see his bulk. But still he hadn’t touched her.
‘The blade is finished,’ he said huskily. ‘It needs no hair from anyone’s head. It is tempered and polished and gleams like silver. It is the best I have ever made, ready for the king’s service against the enemy host. All it needs is the crosspiece and hilt.’ He glanced behind him at the work table where the beginnings of the hilt lay beneath a linen cloth.
‘Then can we celebrate together?’ At last she reached out towards him, touching him lightly on the chest. He was fully clothed, but she felt the spark between them.
‘Not here, but you’re right; I think we can celebrate under the stars.’ She heard the smile without being able to see it.
Still in total darkness he took her hand and they tiptoed away from the forge towards the woods which bordered the river. He put his arm round her and pulled her close and at last, as she looked up at him, he paused to stoop over her and kiss her long and hard.
In the shadows nearby the small movement behind the house of the harness maker showed that they were being observed and in the woods an owl cried warning.
6
‘Ken.’ Zoë’s whisper sounded loud in the silence of the darkened bedroom. She had been awake for hours listening to the owls in the wood. ‘Listen. There’s someone downstairs.’
For a moment Ken lay, paralysed with sleep, then slowly he opened his eyes and she felt his body tense beside hers in the big bed. ‘What did you hear?’ He sat up.
‘I’m not sure. Footsteps? The creak of floorboards?’
‘We locked the doors. I double-checked. Is it those bastard kids next door?’ He was pulling on his dressing gown.
‘It might be.’ She slid out of bed too. ‘There! Listen!’
There was a definite sound from downstairs, a creak and then a long dragging noise as though someone was moving a piece of furniture. ‘It might be burglars,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful.’
‘Get your phone. Be ready to call the police if necessary.’ He had his slippers on now and was heading for the door. Pulling it open, he reached out to the wall and flicked the bank of switches there, flooding the landing, the staircase and the huge room below with light. Nothing happened. There was total silence.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Come out. There is no point in hiding, you’re on CCTV.’
Silence. Zoë had followed him onto the landing, the phone in her hand. She leaned over the rail and stared down into the brightly lit room below. ‘The chairs have moved,’ she whispered. ‘Look.’ The semicircle of comfortable armchairs, which were placed to take advantage of the view from the great window overlooking the river, were now sitting in a straight line.
‘OK, you stupid kids. You’ve had your fun. That is enough!’ Ken roared. He headed for the staircase. ‘We are calling the police!’
Zoë looked at him. ‘For real?’ she whispered. He shook his head and put his finger to his lips. ‘Wait. Let’s see where they are,’ he whispered back. ‘I don’t want to make trouble with the neighbours if we can sort this.’ He began to walk down the stairs.
She followed him, staring nervously round the room. She had no sense that there was anyone there. It was almost starkly empty.
They found nothing. The doors were locked, the security lights outside didn’t seem to have been triggered, the kitchen was exactly as they had left it when they came in from the barbecue.
‘I love this window in the daytime,’ Zoë said quietly when at last Ken had repositioned the chairs and they were both standing near it, looking round, ‘but it makes one feel so e
xposed at night. Anyone could be out there in the dark watching us now, at this very moment.’
‘And enjoying every minute of it. We’ll have to get curtains or blinds,’ he agreed. He walked over to the window and stared out. All he could see was his own reflection. ‘They could have keys, of course. It’s quite possible. Why don’t you have a quiet word with Sharon tomorrow? It’s less threatening if you do it.’ He had rammed his hands down into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘I don’t think they’ve done any damage, but that’s not to say that they might not. The fun of merely rearranging the furniture might pall quite quickly.’
Zoë lay awake for a long time, listening. Beside her, Ken was breathing deeply and steadily, his head buried in a pillow, but beyond the distant hoot of an owl from the trees on the far side of the lawns she heard nothing. Slowly the darkness of the room began to lessen. She could see the square outline of the window, then the mirror, then slowly the other details of the room began to appear. Eventually she gave up trying to sleep. She crept out of bed and, quietly dragging on her bathrobe, she let herself out onto the landing. They had left the lights on and she peered over the banisters at the room below. The chairs were as they had left them, the room quiet as the cold light of dawn filtered through the huge window. She tiptoed down the stairs and stood for a moment frowning. It was very cold.
In the kitchen the back door was wide open; on the work surface in the centre of the room lay three rusty nails.
‘Horseshoe.’ Leo looked at them for only a second. ‘Quite old. Maybe fifty, hundred years. Where were they?’
He led her into his kitchen and reached for the kettle with a huge yawn.
‘On the worktop. With the kitchen door open.’
‘And you think the kids put them there?’
She gave him a long thoughtful look, then she shook her head. ‘No. I think they moved the furniture around, but I don’t think they brought the nails. It’s not the first time we’ve found nails like this and last time there wasn’t anyone there. There couldn’t have been.’
‘Ah.’ He was dressed, in jeans and shirt with an old torn fleece over it; he was unshaven and his face looked crumpled and sleepy. She wondered if that was how he dressed for bed. She couldn’t quite imagine him in pyjamas and smart dressing gown like her husband, and suddenly she found herself visualising him with no shirt at all.
‘What?’ He was watching her.
She felt herself blush. ‘Sorry. Lack of sleep is catching up with me. I’m not going to let this rattle me, Leo. I’m just not sure what to do. Do you think I should go and speak to Sharon? Ken thinks I should.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll go off like a demented firecracker and tear the kids to shreds, which will make them ten times worse, in my experience.’ He paused for a moment and she saw a strange expression flit across his face. A mixture of pain and wry amusement. It wasn’t the first time he had hinted that they had at some time made his life a misery as well as that of their predecessors. ‘Leave it, is my advice. Don’t do anything or say anything. Just wait and see what happens. They are only down here for ten days at most. Keep quiet, watch and listen. If nothing happens they will be disappointed. They will want to know why. They will wonder if you noticed what they did.’
‘And they will come back.’ Zoë scowled.
‘Well, the key thing is easily solved. A good old-fashioned bolt on the inside of your doors. Get Ken to fix them, quietly. Today.’
She nodded. ‘Good advice. Is that what you did?’
He nodded. ‘I have an ally. Young Jade is a good kid. She’s afraid of nothing and will make some man the most terrifying wife one day.’ He reached for a jar of instant coffee and made them each a mug full. He added neither milk nor sugar as he handed one to Zoë.
‘And if it still happens, even with a bolt?’
‘Ah, then,’ he smiled, ‘then you have a problem.’ There was a long pause as they both stared out of the window. A great spotted woodpecker was clinging to a container of peanuts a few feet from the front of the house. ‘Did you tell your husband you don’t want to go sailing again?’ he asked. He was still studying the bird.
‘Not yet.’ She had wrapped her hands around the mug. The instant coffee, strong and thick, smelled disgusting.
‘Are you going to?’
‘I was rather hoping the season would end and the boat get put away before I had to say anything, then I can get round to it slowly over the winter months.’
‘Isn’t it a bit unfair not to tell him straight away? You have come down here under false pretences.’
‘I have not!’ She turned to face him, indignant.
‘Didn’t you tell me that you moved here to be near the sailing?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And sailing is his whole life outside work.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And you hate sailing and you haven’t told him.’
‘I don’t hate it.’
‘That’s not what you said before.’
‘I like it in the river where it’s calm. I was frightened before, but that might not happen again.’ She was beginning to resent his persistence.
‘Believe me, it will.’
‘I am getting to love this place, I am pleased to be out of London, I genuinely am. You leave me to decide when I speak to Ken, Leo, please.’ She spoke so sharply he moved back a step.
‘Sorry.’
‘These nails,’ she pointed to his draining board where they lay in the saucer amongst some biscuit crumbs, ‘are they rare?’
‘No. If you take a metal detector you will find them all over the fields. And this was the forge. I expect the generations of chaps who worked here were both the estate blacksmith and the farrier; they would probably have made them.’
‘And Sharon’s boys could have collected them?’
‘Easily.’
‘So they aren’t necessarily some sort of supernatural thing that has appeared out of thin air.’
‘Quite possibly not. Chuck that down the sink if you don’t like it.’ He had noticed her only half-concealed grimace of distaste at the coffee.
‘Sorry.’ She tipped it away. ‘Too early in the morning for black coffee for me.’
‘You should have said. I do have milk.’
‘That’s OK, I’m sure you do.’ She gathered up the nails and held them in the palm of her hand. ‘I’m glad to hear they are quite ordinary. I felt there was something a bit spooky about them before. Cold and otherworldly.’
He laughed.
‘Did you make things like this?’
‘No.’ He looked faintly amused. ‘I wasn’t a farrier.’
‘And a farrier is …?’
‘Someone who shoes horses.’
‘I thought that was a blacksmith.’
‘Sometimes it’s the same thing, it was in the past, but not me. I did fancy wrought-iron gates, things like that.’
‘But you don’t any more.’
‘No.’
‘So what do you do now, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘A bit of this and that.’ He folded his arms.
‘But you aren’t going to tell me?’ She felt strangely hurt.
‘You wouldn’t be interested if I tried.’
She inclined her head in defeat. ‘OK.’ She wasn’t going to let him see that she cared.
‘And now you’re going to run back to the barn to have a boiled egg with hubby.’
‘I am?’
‘You are. I’m busy. I don’t get up this early for the state of my health. I have to go out for the day.’
‘I’m sorry. You should have said.’ She slipped the nails into her pocket and turned towards the door.
‘Stay safe, Zoë,’ he called after her, but he was already walking through into the other half of the house and she didn’t hear him.
He held the horseshoe nails between his lips as he hauled the hoof of the heavy horse off the ground and positioned it between his knees. T
he animal blew through its nose and shook its head up and down, but it stood placidly, balancing on three legs with ease as he set the new shoe in place. He could sense her watching him, had been conscious of her ever since she had appeared at the door of the smithy with her high-crowned hat and veil, and the slender whip provocatively tapping against her thigh. He removed the shoe, pushed it back in the fire, waited for it to glow red before hitting it several times with the hammer, then he plunged it into the bucket of water and waited for the rush of steam to disperse before he fitted it again to the horse’s hoof. This time he was happy with the snugness and set one of the nails in the first hole, ready to hammer it home.
‘And will you polish her ladyship’s nails as well?’ The voice was coldly amused as he set the foot down and watched the great Suffolk horse stamp on it experimentally.
He smiled. ‘She’d like me to. I sometimes give them a wisp of oil and a quick go with a rag.’
‘And how is Bella?’ Emily’s voice took on a hardness he didn’t like.
‘She does well enough.’ The horse was still lame. Secretly he doubted she would ever be fit to work again.
It was as if she read his thoughts. ‘If the animal will not recover have her destroyed. It is not worth keeping her.’
He could feel her eyes on his face; they were bright with triumph. He forced himself to remain impassive as he turned back to the great horse beside him and slapped it on the rump. ‘That’s your decision to make, my lady, but I wouldn’t give up yet. It would be a waste of a fine animal. Mr Crosby paid a lot for her, I believe.’
Subtle, but he saw her eyes narrow slightly.
‘I will allow her a few more days. Have the boy take that great brute away. I need to talk to you.’
He turned away, hoping to hide his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Ben,’ he called. ‘Take him back to his stall.’
The boy, who had been strenuously pumping the bellows, had slipped outside as Emily appeared. ‘He’s needed back out in the field, Dan.’ Ben took the horse’s bridle and turned him, leading him out towards the gate. ‘Jem’s waiting for him. There’s work to do yet up at Coppins Wood.’