‘She brought her horse to you and you told her there was nothing wrong with it.’
Daniel was speechless for a moment. ‘But there was nothing wrong, sir. She said the mare was lame.’
‘Because of your incompetent shoeing.’
‘There was nothing wrong with my shoeing, sir. Nor with the horse’s feet either. I checked carefully.’ He could feel the heat rising up his neck.
‘Are you calling my wife a liar?’ Henry Crosby’s voice dropped dangerously.
‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ Daniel looked down at his boots, biting his tongue.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crosby walked across to stand behind his desk. He leaned on it, his hands flat on the blotter, fixing Daniel with an angry glare. ‘Take the mare back with you and see to her. Make sure there are no more mistakes if you want to keep your job, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Daniel hesitated for a moment, then he turned away. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Outside the door he stood still for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper under control. Then he began to walk slowly down the passage. There was no one in the kitchen or the servants’ hall. He made his way out to the yard and round to the stable block where Bella was tied in her stall. He walked to her head, making crooning noises, and was surprised when she backed away from him, her eyes rolling. She was sweating profusely. Glancing down as he ran his hand down her shoulder, his eyes widened at what he saw and he swore viciously under his breath. Her front legs were a mass of cuts and bruises; blood was pooling on the straw.
It took him a long time to walk the mare down to the barnyard. She was very lame, and he would have preferred to leave her where she was, but a short consultation with Sam, the head groom, whom Dan had found in the harness room, convinced him otherwise. ‘She brought the mare home in that state,’ the older man said quietly. ‘Forbad me to touch the poor animal. Said she had been to you and you had said there was naught wrong and that she was to ride her home.’
Dan was too angry to speak for several seconds. ‘Then she told her husband?’
Sam nodded. ‘She called you all sorts, she did.’
‘That mare was fine when she brought her to me.’
‘I thought she probably was. What did you say to upset her ladyship then?’
Dan shook his head. ‘Lord knows.’
Sam gave him a quizzical stare. ‘Well, let’s hope the Lord will tell you because otherwise you are in big trouble, Daniel, my friend. You keep out of that woman’s way, that’s my advice to you.’
Dan put the mare in one of the line of loose boxes which had been built in one of the bays of the old barn. He washed and poulticed her legs, and Susan made her a bucket of bran mash. They both stood watching the horse listlessly sniff at the food. She didn’t touch it.
‘You’d best keep out of her ladyship’s sight,’ Susan said softly. She leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed over her belly. ‘That woman is trouble.’
‘But why?’
Susan gave a fond smile. ‘Because you are a handsome man and she expected you to show you like her.’
‘But I don’t like her.’
‘Oh, Dan, you duzzy old thing, don’t you see?’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘There’s a certain type of woman who wants every man she sees to fall at her feet.’
‘But I’m just the blacksmith.’
‘You’re a man!’
‘And if I laid a finger on her she would run screaming to her husband.’
‘Probably. That’s the way such folk are.’
‘And I love you, Mrs Smith. I’d never look at another woman.’
‘I know.’ Susan glanced over her shoulder into the shadows of the great barn and shivered. Several other horses stood quietly in their stalls, their great haunches shadowy in the fading light. There was no one else there, but somehow she had felt a breath of cold air touch her face.
There was a small stone church on the hill near the great hall of the thegn. The priest was a good man of some seventy summers; the people of the village liked him and so did the Lady Hilda. She was with him now, sitting on a stool in the cool shadows of the nave. ‘My husband is dying, father, we both know it,’ she said, speaking quietly even in the privacy of the empty building. ‘I need you to bring him the sacrament.’
‘I can’t do that, my lady.’ Father Wulfric shook his head sadly. ‘He has refused baptism yet again.’ He sighed. ‘His father was a good Christian and so is his brother, but the Lord Egbert is adamant in his apostasy. He cleaves to the old gods in his despair.’
‘My husband is a superstitious fool!’ she retorted with spirit. ‘He has found himself a sorcerer from the forest and reveres him as though he were a priest! The man gabbles spells and charms, and scatters runes like spring seed, and promises him a place at the side of Woden and Thunor. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘Egbert keeps on calling for the swordsmith. All that matters to him is that that wretched sword is finished before he dies.’
‘And his brother? What says he to that?’ Father Wulfric tightened his lips in disapproval. He was holding a small beautifully illuminated book of Gospels in his hand. It was the church’s most treasured possession, presented by Lord Egbert’s mother. Kissing it reverently he laid it on the altar.
‘He is preoccupied with raising men for the fyrd. King Edmund is calling warriors to his standard at Thetford. They are expecting more attacks from the Danish host.’
‘So we will soon be left unprotected.’ Father Wulfric turned back to her and sighed again.
She glanced at him, alarmed. ‘The Danes won’t come near us, surely? What would they want with a small settlement like ours?’
Father Wulfric didn’t answer for several breaths. They both knew what befell any settlement in the path of the Viking horde. ‘Please God they will not even know we are here,’ he said at last.
He stood and watched Lady Hilda walking slowly back towards the Hall, her blue cloak clutched closely round her against the sharp autumn wind. Her shoulders were slumped, her whole stance defeated. He shook his head sadly as he turned towards his own house, then he stopped. The swordsmith was standing watching him from the door of the smithy, his arms folded, his face thoughtful. For a moment Father Wulfric considered walking over to join him, but already the other man was turning away into the darkness of his workshop. The door slammed and the old priest heard the bar fall into its slot.
At first she thought Leo wasn’t going to ask her in, but after a moment’s hesitation he stood back and ushered her into a small cluttered living room. Zoë glanced at once towards the window. Yes, he too had the ubiquitous view of the river; his hedge had been trimmed low so he could just see the moorings below the trees. She could see his boat and the Lady Grace tugging gently at their buoys, swinging with the tide. The fire was unlit and she could see an old rubbed leather Gladstone bag on the floor just inside the door. ‘I am sorry. Were you just going out?’
‘I just came back.’ He folded his arms. ‘How can I help you?’ There was no smile to alleviate the slightly irritated tone and she felt an instant reciprocal bristling of irritation.
‘I have come at an inconvenient moment. I’ll come again when it is a better time.’
‘I doubt there will be a better time,’ he said. ‘Please, spit it out. Whatever you came to say was presumably important, or are you merely here to pass the time of day?’
She reined in a flash of temper. Had she given him a reason to be so rude? ‘I wanted to ask you about the ghosts, if you must know. The house is getting to me. But I will phone first next time and make an appointment.’
‘What makes you think I know anything about them, beyond the fact that they scared your predecessors away? At least, they scared her; he was an insensitive clod who wouldn’t have noticed if the entire angelic host had descended on his house.’
She found herself biting back a smile. ‘I wasn’t actually here to talk about the barn. Rosemary said you had a book wit
h a picture of the ship.’
He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment and she saw the tension in his jawline. It accentuated the scars slightly. ‘You’ve seen the ship?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. Twice.’
‘Ah.’
He continued to study her face for several seconds, then he turned towards the bookshelves which lined the wall opposite the window. In front of them there was a long shabby sofa, covered by an old tartan rug. The room was nice, Zoë decided in the silence that ensued. Scented with an all-pervasive smell of woodsmoke, it was furnished with some decent antiques, and some attractive paintings, both modern and old. It felt lived in and comfortable and far more homely than the huge space which they called the great room at home.
He stood in front of the shelves, his eyes ranging left to right; his books were not arranged in order then. She watched silently, folding her arms as she shifted her weight, aware that she was not going to be asked to sit down. ‘Here,’ he said at last. He pulled out a small volume with a rubbed red cloth cover. ‘It’s in here.’ He handed it to her. ‘I’m in no hurry to have it back, but look after it. I will want it eventually.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking it she moved towards the door. She reached out for the latch, then she turned. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘The ship? Yes.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Mean?’
‘Yes. Is it a sign of some sort?’
‘That one is barking mad, for instance?’
‘No, that there is something wrong. Is it a portent of evil?’
He smiled. ‘Who knows? Read the book.’ He moved towards her and reached past her for the door, pulling it open and waiting for her to leave. ‘Are you a religious woman, Zoë Lloyd?’ he said as she stepped out into the porch.
‘No.’
‘So evil is for you a philosophical concept rather than a religious one?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘And what you really meant to say is, is it a sign of bad luck? Impending doom.’
‘I meant what I said,’ she retorted coldly. ‘Thank you for the book. I shall take care of it.’
She was tempted to hurl it at him.
Back at home, she made her way through the kitchen into the living area which she and Ken had by common consent come to call the great room. It had seemed appropriate in every sense on the first day they moved in and the term had stuck. She went to stand by the huge window, staring out towards the river. It was deserted, the sunlight glittering on the water. From here all she could see of the two boats were their masts. She listened. The room was silent. There was no feeling today that there was anyone else there in the house with her.
Curling up in one of the chairs she had placed so that there was a clear view of the river, she looked down at the book in her hands and turned it over so she could read the title on the spine. Tales and Legends of Bygone Suffolk, collected and retold by Samuel Weston. The page she was looking for was marked by a discoloured cutting from a newspaper. She unfolded it carefully. Dated 1954, it related the sighting of a ghost ship in the river: The great sail was set and the ship seemed to move before a steady wind, but there was no wind. The vessel has been seen in the past and on this occasion its passing was witnessed by two fishermen lying below Kyson Point. The men watched as it came close and both described the air as growing icy cold. It passed them round the corner and when they scrambled ashore and ran to look from higher ground the ship had disappeared. There was no sign of life on board and no sound other than the usual lap of the river water. When asked, both men agreed it had been a frightening experience.
She refolded the cutting and tucked it into the back of the book, then she began to read the chapter. It more or less repeated the description of the fishermen, adding details of several more documented sightings in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. She turned the page and there it was, a woodcut said to be taken from the sketch made by one of the farm workers on the Timperton Hall estate. It showed the ship exactly as she had seen it, with a curved sail and on it the design which she had not been able to make out clearly in the mist but which the unnamed farmhand had shown as an animal head with a long ornate tongue protruding from its open mouth. She scrutinised it thoughtfully and decided it might be a boar or perhaps a dragon. He had also shown the animal on the prow of the ship, a kind of figurehead high above the level of the water. He was obviously a man of no little talent – the sketch was detailed and had a pleasing sense of perspective. There was no comment with it, though, no record of what the man had felt. She skipped through the succeeding pages, but there seemed to be no further reference to it. Resting the book on her knee, she stared out of the window again. The sun was lower in the sky now, and the river looked like a sheet of silver metal. There were no boats in sight, real or ghostly. She listened. The room was quiet. How strange to think that the man who had sketched the Viking ship had probably worked in this very barn, perhaps stood with a hay fork in his hand on this very spot where she was sitting. She shivered and glanced round in spite of herself. The roof of the room was lost in shadow without the lights on, the great beams slumbering, hinting at the ancient oaks from which they came.
The door to the kitchen opened revealing the light she had left on over the worktop. ‘Ken? You’re back! I didn’t hear the car.’ She turned to greet him. There was no reply. ‘Ken?’ She stood up uneasily. ‘Are you there?’
The house was silent. There were no sounds of anyone moving around in the kitchen. Putting down the book, she walked across to the door, aware that her mouth had gone dry. ‘Ken?’ She pushed the door back against the wall and stood staring round the room. ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded oddly flat; without resonance as though she was speaking in a padded recording studio. The sun shone obliquely in at the window; in minutes it would start to slide down below the fields on the opposite side of the river. She had to force herself to move forward towards the work island in the centre of the floor. ‘OK, enough is enough,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t like this. Who are you? What do you want?’ She clenched her fists, suddenly angry. ‘If you are not going to show yourself, I want you to just bugger off!’ She wasn’t sure if she was addressing the neighbours’ wayward children or some ghostly presence. Either way she acknowledged that she was scared.
Her heart was thudding in her chest. The feeling that there was someone listening intensified; behind her she heard something roll across the table and it fell to the floor with a rattle. She spun round and stared. A bent corroded nail lay beside the table leg. She stared at it and then looked up. Had it fallen from the ceiling? In here there were fewer beams, the ceiling between them smoothly plastered. There was nowhere it could have appeared from. Hesitantly she stooped and picked it up. It was rusty, squarish, with a small head, cold as it lay in her palm.
She dropped it hastily on the table. ‘Is that yours?’ she called. She was addressing the ghost. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
There was no reply.
Seconds later she heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel outside and, glancing through the window, she saw Ken’s car sweep round the side of the building.
She scooped up the nail and put it into a small bowl on the dresser; minutes later Ken had opened the door and walked in, bringing with him a blast of cold air. He piled some paper carriers on the worktop. ‘I missed the blasted post again! Here, do you want some sausages? From the farm shop. I thought it might be nice for supper.’ He pushed a packet towards her. ‘The forecast is good; shall we go out early tomorrow? See if we can get down the river and over the bar?’
‘Out to sea?’ Zoë picked up the sausages with a slight grimace and went over to the fridge.
He laughed. ‘Yes, out to sea, with waves.’ There was an edge of hardness to his voice.
‘Why not?’ She forced herself to look pleased. Even sailing seemed better suddenly than staying alone in the house with – her thought processes stalled. She thought of it – the
ghost, if there was a ghost – as him.
It occurred to her that Ken was watching her and she gave him a forced grin. ‘We could cook the sausages tonight to take with us tomorrow.’
He nodded. ‘That would be nice.’
‘OK. How early do you call early?’
He smiled, all charm now he had got his way. ‘We need to go out so that there is enough depth going over the bar.’
‘And come back when the tide turns?’
He nodded.
‘Great.’ She managed to sound enthusiastic. ‘I’ll make the picnic up tonight.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll just go and send out a couple of emails then I’ll wash up for supper.’
That’s me sorted for the evening; cook supper and pack the picnic. Zoë suppressed a surge of irritation. It wasn’t as if she had anything else pressing to do, or that she didn’t enjoy cooking.
Ken was heading for the door when she heard him give an exclamation of annoyance. He stooped. ‘Bloody nail on the floor! Look, I’ve scratched the boards.’ He threw something into the rubbish bin and walked out. It didn’t seem to occur to him to wonder where it had come from.
For a moment Zoë didn’t move. She stared at the bin then slowly moved towards it. She pushed open the lid and looked inside. There, at the bottom of the empty white rubbish bag, lay another rusty nail identical to the first.
She reached down and picked it out and put it with the first one in the bowl, then stood for several moments looking down at them before putting the bowl back on the very top shelf of the dresser.
Leo watched them leave next morning with a sardonic grin. Obviously they hadn’t listened to the forecast. Walking away from the window, a bowl of cereal in his hand, he went into his studio and stood looking at the work in progress. It was proceeding well and he had to admit, albeit grudgingly, he was pleased with himself. There was a rattling noise from the kitchen door.