Zoë put down her basket, pleased to see him. In spite of his occasional brusqueness he was, she realised, one of the few people in her new life who interested her and whose company she enjoyed. He kept her on her toes. ‘Who is Bill Turtill?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I do know, he’s our neighbouring farmer, right?’
‘Right.’ Leo nodded. ‘She’s had a go at him about the footpath.’
‘But surely everyone knew she was going to do that.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not even sure where this path is supposed to be.’
‘It’s over there.’ He turned and pointed. ‘You can see where it would go from here. There’s a ten-acre field on the slope going down towards the river; in the centre there is a copse with a tumulus in it and she wants the path to go right through the copse and presumably over the tumulus.’
‘Dead Man’s Field,’ she said thoughtfully
‘Ah, you’ve been doing your homework.’ He gave her an approving grin.
‘Lesley Inworth told us.’
‘Nice woman. Knows her stuff.’
She nodded, pleased he was confiding in her. ‘Why is it that Rosemary is so keen on this? It seems so obsessive.’
‘Why indeed. Bill was nearly apoplectic. He says the fact that there is an earthwork there proves there has never been a path there, and she told him there was, because she had seen it on some hand-drawn map in a little booklet she bought in Woodbridge about nice walks and she didn’t care about the earthwork; she said it isn’t marked on most maps, and that anyway highways and byways take precedence.’
‘Highways?’
He laughed. ‘The woman is mad. Please, have a word with her if you’ve any influence. I haven’t. She’s no time for me, but I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It could escalate and we are a very small community and we do want to stay friends with Bill. He’s a nice guy.’
‘But surely you’ve told him we have nothing to do with her.’
‘We all live at the barns, Zoë. In his eyes that makes us all part of the same gang. His dad may have sold off the barns and probably made a packet on the development, but that doesn’t stop Bill, and everyone else in Hanley for that matter, from resenting us. You must have noticed. You and I and your husband are townies. We don’t fit. However friendly they are, we will never be part of the community. Not really. And this sort of nonsense will make them close ranks. He thinks we are all in it. Especially you.’ He glanced at her. ‘He heard that you and Rosemary went up to see Lesley at the Hall.’
‘Yes, we did. And we did mention the path – or Rosemary did, but I didn’t say anything to support her.’
‘Well, Lesley must have said something to him to give him the impression that you did.’
Zoë looked round with an air of bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I really don’t support her. I’ve made it clear to her I don’t want to join her walks.’ She sighed then frowned as she saw Ken emerging from the shadows of the trees. As he strode towards them she sensed Leo withdrawing into himself. She put her hand on his arm before he had a chance to turn away. ‘You haven’t met my husband, Leo. Wait. Let me introduce you.’
The two men shook hands. She could see Ken giving Leo’s face a quick glance then turning away, pretending not to have noticed. ‘You’ve met Bill Turtill, haven’t you, Ken? What was he like?’ she said after moment’s awkward silence.
‘He seemed a decent enough bloke. Why?’
Her explanation elicited a snort of derision. ‘I hope he takes no notice of that woman. She’s a complete pain. Always round our house!’
Zoë hid a smile. ‘Not always, Ken,’ she said gently. ‘But more than I would like, I must admit. Please, Leo, if you see Bill again can you tell him we have nothing to do with her paths?’
‘Weird guy,’ Ken said after a few seconds as they watched Leo retrace his steps across the grass. ‘Not very sociable, is he?’
‘I don’t think he likes people looking at his face.’
‘I didn’t.’ Ken was indignant. ‘I came to find you. I was getting hungry.’
They spent the afternoon on the boat and, without actually saying so, made sure they packed up to return to the house before it grew dark.
Hurrying up the path between the pines they came to a halt at the edge of the communal lawn. Someone had set up a huge gas-fired barbecue on the grass with, round it, two or three tables surrounded by chairs. ‘Oh God! Our neighbours are going to have a party,’ Zoë whispered.
Ken grimaced. ‘I hope they don’t invite us.’
They did. Barely had they walked in through the door of The Old Barn when a large florid woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt embellished with the words Daddy’s girl across a bust which must have been heading towards size twenty, hurried after them. She introduced herself as Sharon Watts ‘just like EastEnders,’ she added so automatically that Zoë realised she must always say it, assuming everyone would know who she meant. ‘You must come,’ Sharon went on. ‘We’ve asked Rosie and Steve and old ugly mug from The Old Forge. They are all coming. A barn get-together for half-term. Don’t worry about booze. We’ve got enough. Just bring yourselves!’
‘Christ!’ Ken murmured once she had gone. ‘What have we done, moving here? We don’t seem to have a single normal neighbour.’
Zoë shook her head, suppressing a smile. ‘We’ll have to go.’
‘Can’t I have flu?’
‘No you can’t. She saw you. Besides, it would be good to meet them all. Better the devil you know, and all that.’
‘Did I hear right – she called Leo an ugly mug?’
‘Vile woman.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I think he’s quite attractive once you get used to his face.’
‘Have you seen the ghosts yet?’ Jamie Watts was a redhead like his sister; whereas in her it contributed to her gamine attractiveness, in him, combined with a receding chin and a thick crop of acne it looked thoroughly unwholesome. He sneered at Zoë as he swigged from a bottle of lager.
‘I have.’ She smiled at him with an attempt at graciousness. ‘I gather you are quite the expert on our ghosts.’
He looked taken aback for a moment, unsure how to take her remark. ‘They’re scary,’ he said after a pause.
‘They are,’ she agreed. ‘So, tell me, don’t you have ghosts in your house? I would have thought all these barns would be haunted. They are prime examples of paranormal habitat.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’
‘No. Are you?’ She held his gaze, fending off an inquisitive lurcher looking for titbits.
They were interrupted by Leo, who had arrived carrying a bottle of wine which he gave to Sharon. In exchange he was handed a glass of Pimm’s, containing more fruit than seemed possible. ‘So, young Jamie, how are you? Any GCSEs under your belt yet?’
The boy flushed. ‘No. I take them next year.’
‘Your mother will be proud of you.’ Leo spoke deadpan though Zoë presumed there was some kind of subtext there. She wondered how old Jamie was. Sixteen, she would have thought, though perhaps more. She saw a flash of something like hatred cross the boy’s face and winced for Leo. She wondered why he had come.
The party, once it got going, was passable. Jeff seemed a master of his barbecue and turned out a succession of wonderfully grilled meats and sausages, much coveted by the two slavering dogs, while Sharon had made several mouth-watering salads, which, Zoë noticed, her children appeared to boycott, preferring their ketchup and mayonnaise unadulterated. As far as she could see, Sharon and Jeff were going out of their way to be nice; the two boys the opposite. The girl sat close to Leo but said little. Of the eldest boy, Jackson, there was no sign at all.
By the end of the evening Zoë was convinced they were in for trouble. As they wandered back across the cold, dew-soaked grass under a hazy moon she said as much to Ken. Leo was walking with them. ‘I think you’re right. The little buggers will be planning something. They were doing their best to put the wind up you.’
Ken snort
ed. ‘We’ll be ready for them.’
Leo gave him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t underestimate them. They may look thick. They are actually quite bright, as I know to my cost.’
‘Besides which,’ Zoë added, ‘some of the ghosts are real, aren’t they?’
Both men looked at her.
Leo said nothing.
Ken gave a muffled snort.
The blade was finished. He gave it a final loving polish and laid it down on the rests. Now for the hilt. Normally he sent his blades away to be finished at a workshop in the next village, but this one was different. This one was imbued with magic, carved with sacred runes and intricate designs, the hilt inset with jewels, every stage fabricated by himself alone. Even the scabbard he planned to make himself.
He glanced up from the work table. Was that a footstep outside? He threw a cloth over the table, hiding the blade from view, and walked over to stand listening behind the door. He could hear nothing but the whine of the wind in the crannies of the workshop, the rustle as the ash bed stirred in the furnace. Grabbing the latch he pulled the door open and looked round. It was growing dark; the sun had set stormily into a bank of black cloud. He could hear the trees thrashing down in the woods. He took a step outside and looked round again. The village seemed deserted. He could see no one but there was someone there, he could sense it. He stared round again, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stir. ‘Hello?’ His voice was lost in the sound of the wind. ‘Who’s there?’ There was no reply.
He retreated into the workshop and pulled the door closed, barring it against the night, then he lit another lantern and, pulling off the cloth, drew a stool up to the table. Even in the poor light he could make a start.
In their house in the village his wife, Edith, was listening to the same wind. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her shoulders. She should be up at the hall even now. All the women would be there, her neighbours, her sister, her cousins, her friends, joining in the evening’s entertainment. They had been there from early morning, cooking then eventually serving the food, clearing the tables and benches, and by now settling down to listen to the singers and the travelling bard who had arrived in the village just that day. Any newcomer was an excitement, a treat not to be missed. Lord Egbert would not be there; he was still confined to his sickbed, but his brother, Oswald, led the men now. He would lift the great drinking horn to give the toast and invite the scop to recite, and lead the singers far into the night. At his side, his brother’s reeve, Hrotgar – the man who had told Eric that his lord had need of a very special sword, the man who had threatened Eric if it were not finished on time, the man whose eyes followed her as she walked to the spring, or to the bake house, or the workshop or to and from the hall – would be waiting and watching every person in the hall.
She sighed. She had not joined the others because she had been feeling sick again this morning. It had taken her a long time to rise from her bed. She stood looking down at the hearth thoughtfully and on impulse stooped to pick up one of the statues of the goddess Frige Eric had made for the Lady Hilda. Pagan. And powerful. She bit her lip, then slowly leaned down and let it fall back in the basket. Could it be that after all this time she was pregnant? She rested her hand lightly on her flat belly, trying to remember when she had last bled. Surely, two full moons had passed.
There it was again, the sound of scratching at the door. She moved across the floor, straining her ears. Behind her an extra gust of wind sent sparks and ashes blowing across the room from the fire and she turned, stamping them out, clutching her cloak to her. There were shutters over the windows and the door was firmly barred. She was safe, but she couldn’t help the tremors of fear which were running up and down her spine. Someone was out there, she knew it.
‘Eric?’ It was a whisper. ‘Is that you?’
He wouldn’t be able to hear her against the storm and she didn’t dare call out loud. Whoever it was knew she was in there. They would be able to see the light from her candles through the chinks in the shutters, but if she made no sound, then maybe they would go away.
The scratching sound came again, louder this time, then a soft knock. Three times in rapid succession, softly, near the bottom of the door. It was their secret sign. With a whimper of relief she grappled with the bar and lifted it from its socket, pulling the door open, filling the room with the scent of the river and dust and pine needles and a fresh blast of wind to stir the fire. It wasn’t Eric. Hrotgar stepped inside, wrestled the door shut and slammed the bar back in place. All but one of the candles had blown out and the room was nearly dark.
‘Get out!’ she cried. ‘How did you know our knock?’
He gave a low laugh. ‘I have heard him do it often enough. It is hardly secret. The whole village knows.’
‘I don’t want you here.’
‘Oh, but you do. I’ve seen you watch me, lust after me. I’ve heard no complaints when I have come to visit you and keep you company.’ He made no move towards her now that he was inside. He folded his arms, staring at her, shadowed as she was in the small room. ‘Your husband is in the service of Lord Egbert. While he slaves over this precious sword it is for me to make sure that his wife is content.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, backing away from him. She placed herself behind the table and leaned forward, her arms braced. ‘You get out of here, Hrotgar. I need no visits from you. I have never needed visits from you. I am a faithful wife.’
‘You are an obedient wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘One he can be proud of. But, you see, he needs to know that you are not missing him. He needs to know that he has as much time as he needs. If he hurries in his work because he worries about you, then all is lost.’
‘But he told me the Lord Egbert needs him to hurry.’
‘The Lord Egbert has all the time in the world, my dear.’ He paused.
‘What do you mean?’ She was studying his face, trying to understand his expression. ‘Is something wrong? Is he worse?’
‘Your husband needs a hair from your head to put in with the molten metal of the sword.’ He spoke slowly, almost dreamily, ignoring her questions. ‘Unbind your hair, Edith.’
She shook her head. ‘If he needed something from me he would come home and tell me.’
‘But he cannot come home. That is part of the magic.’
‘No. This is all wrong. It makes no sense. The sword is nearly finished.’
‘Magic is not bound by reason, my dear. Nor is it to be spoken of. He trusted me with the message and me alone as go-between, between him and the Lord Egbert.’
She hesitated. ‘And you have given me the message.’
‘So you need to unbind your hair.’
She was watching his face in the half-light of the single candle flame and she saw him run his tongue across his lips, a quick feral movement which frightened her even more than his words had done. She could feel the deep frozen terror of the rabbit confronted by a weasel. ‘If my hair is needed Eric can take a strand with his own hands,’ she said at last.
‘It is Eric who has demanded it. At the forge. And he has forbidden you to set foot there. It is for me to take it to him.’
She shook her head uncomfortably. ‘Then I will pull one out myself, and tie it to the doorpost of the forge and he can come out and pick it up when I have gone.’
‘That is foolish. And not what he asked.’ He was getting angry now. He took a step towards her. ‘Unbind your hair, woman.’
‘Edith!’ The sudden call at the door was accompanied by the thudding of a fist on the thick wood. ‘What are you doing in there? Why have you barred the door?’ The latch rattled up and down. ‘Edith?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Open it.’ Edith whispered. ‘Open it now.’
Hrotgar looked taken aback. With a scowl he turned on his heel and walked towards it, pulling the bar free and throwing it on the ground, then pulling open the door to let the fresh air and wind sweep in. ‘Come in, goodwife. What is all the noise about?’ he gr
owled. ‘What I discuss with the smith’s woman is nothing to do with anyone else.’ He swept past her out into the darkness.
Edith’s neighbour, Gudrun, the wheelwright’s wife, stood staring after him, then she ducked in through the doorway and pushed the door shut behind her. ‘What was he doing here, with the door barred?’ she said suspiciously. ‘I don’t trust that man.’
‘No more do I.’ Suddenly Edith was shivering. She moved closer to the fire. ‘He came with a message from my husband.’
Gudrun bustled about lighting the lanterns and the candle which stood on the table. ‘Why aren’t you up at the hall?’
‘I didn’t feel well.’
‘And he came to find out why?’
Edith shook her head. ‘No.’ But of course he had noticed her absence. Why else had he come here?
‘So, what is wrong with you? You’re not breeding at last?’
Edith gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not sure. I wondered if it was possible. I feel sick. But perhaps it is just that my head hurts. I have been working on Eric’s jerkin after the light has gone for too many evenings. I just wanted to sit quietly and rest my eyes. There will be noise and celebration enough when he has finished the sword and we take it up to the hall for the Lord Edbert.’
Gudrun was looking at her closely. She gave a knowing smile. ‘I think there will be reason for noise and celebration in this house if I read your signs right, neighbour mine.’ She smiled. ‘But we’ll say nothing yet. Not till you are sure. Eric will be so pleased. As for the celebrations up at the hall, I doubt if that day will happen.’ She shook her head.
‘Why? It will be the best sword he ever made!’ Edith bridled with indignation.
‘No, no, I’m not doubting his skill, it is the Lord Egbert I’m thinking of.’ The older woman sighed sadly. ‘He hasn’t been seen for weeks now and rumours fly round the hall that he is dying, if he isn’t dead already. His sons and his brother wrangle and fight like dogs over a bone, and the warriors are taking sides ready to jump this way or that. They say the ealdorman will ride over from Rendlesham and the king’s reeve might come himself. Lady Hilda is white as a sheet and looks exhausted, and that man,’ she ducked her head towards the door, ‘is in the thick of all the gossip.’