River of Destiny (57 page)

In the darkness of his prison Eric was fighting his bonds furiously, working his hands loose as he wriggled towards the wall, searching for something sharp to help him saw through the ropes. They had tied him hurriedly and carelessly. The end of the knot worked free and he felt it loosen. With a grunt of satisfaction he struggled some more and at last his hands were free. He bent to untie his ankles, then he set to, to force open the door. It was taking too long. He groaned with impatience. Any moment the invaders would be on them, and everyone was unprepared. He could hear the music, the sudden cheering from the hall. They hadn’t understood his warning.

He launched himself at the door afresh, frantically throwing himself against it. It hadn’t been built as a prison; it was a storehouse. Eventually the hinges gave with a splintering sound, tearing away from the doorframe. The men on guard at the door could not have failed to hear the crash of the door falling, but it was too late.

The attack was swift and deadly. Below the hall on the flank of the low hillside the invaders streamed through the village with yells of fury, naked swords in their hands, ransacking the cottages as they went. Between one moment and next, or so it seemed, the night was lit with fire as thatched roofs were put to the torch, flames and sparks roaring up into the night sky.

As the smell of burning reached upwards and stained the clouds red, the men turned away from the looted, ruined cottages and began to stream up the hill towards the mead hall. Beneath their helmets their faces were wild and contorted, the pupils of their eyes pinpoints against the blaze. Eric had heard descriptions of attacks like this, men with their wits crazed, berserker, the scop had called it, mad with battle rage in the service of their god, Odin, oblivious to pain, without fear, bent only on joining their god in Valhalla.

He stared round frantically and to his amazement he saw Destiny Maker lying on the ground where it had fallen from his hand, the blade reflecting the deep scarlet of the flames which lit the night. Stooping, he picked it up, the glittering hilt solid in his hand, and he turned to face the enemy.

He had an instant to tighten his grip on Destiny Maker and raise it above his head as the vanguard of the Danish horde reached him and the roar of battle broke about his ears. He was without armour, he had no shield, but his fury and despair were for a while more than a match for the men who attacked him.

The two men at the doors of the mead hall died instantly but their killers turned to find Eric behind them. Both fell, their last sight the flames reflected in the flailing blade. Exhausted, blinded by sweat, Eric turned and found himself face to face with a huge man, moustached, helmeted, dressed in heavy armour, a shield on his arm. The man raised his sword and Eric took the chance, pushing his own blade into the vulnerable spot under the man’s armpit. The giant gave a groan and staggered, then he fell.

Outnumbered and overwhelmed at last Eric, for all his bravery, stood no chance. He fell, a curtain of blood veiling his eyes, and collapsed on the ground only a few feet from the door of the hall. The howling mob of invaders had closed on the building, barricading the doors shut. Inside the music and cheers had long ago turned to screams. As the building was set alight and those inside realised there would be no escape, those screams grew ever more desperate but Eric did not hear them. He was dead.

Emily was finding it harder and harder to sleep. Each morning she rose before it grew light and sat, wrapped in a thick shawl, in a chair facing the window watching the sunrise. Only when she had heard the servants stirring in the house below did she creep back to bed and pretend to be asleep, and when whichever housemaid had been allocated to her that day knocked on the door and came in to light the fire, she lay with her eyes closed until the girl had finished and crept out again.

Finally she wrote to her father, begging him to send a carriage for her, telling him that Henry had been called away and she was alone and unhappy. She left the letter on the salver in the hall; later that day it had gone. She hoped that someone had taken it to the post.

There was still no word from Henry. The funeral had taken place. The whole household had gone to it except for her. They returned, sad, dressed in black, and did not speak to her; she didn’t ask about it.

Three days later she rose early as was her custom, but this time she dressed. She went slowly down the broad flight of stairs wearing her outdoor boots, her coat, her hat and she set off down the drive in the almost-light of a cold dawn. It took her half an hour to walk down to the farmyard. There was no one about, which seemed strange. Surely the men should be at work by now? She frowned. She could hear the restless stirrings in the henhouse, the contented snorts of pigs from the sties behind the summer barn, and somewhere a robin was singing its sad thready song into the dawn. She walked across to the forge and pushed open the door. It was cold, the floor swept clean, the tools hung in neat rows on the wall, the firebed empty.

‘Dan?’ she whispered.

There was no reply.

She walked out and went round to the cottage. She didn’t try the door. The place was obviously empty, the curtains closed, the chimney cold. She supposed that Fred Turtill would hire a new smith soon and the man would move his family into the forge. She shivered and suddenly she stopped. Was that a face at one of the windows? A young woman, with long blonde hair fastened in a thick heavy plait which swung forward over her shoulder. Emily stared at her for several seconds and then the woman had gone. She stood rooted to the spot staring at the window but there was no one there. The cottage was empty. It was her imagination.

She walked slowly across the yard to the old barn and, with difficulty pushing open one of the tall heavy doors, she peered inside. The huge space was full of shadows. She gazed round. Half the barn was stacked now with sacks of stored barley and wheat; there were machines parked in there too, a thresher, a plough, a harrow, scythes, rakes, a dray. Why was there no one about? The horses were there in the line of stalls, the shires, the cart horses, the Suffolks. The animals stirred uneasily as she appeared and she saw their ears flick back towards her momentarily before they returned to pulling at the hay in the racks. They were uninterested in her arrival, waiting for George and the men, waiting for the day’s work to begin. Poor Bella had spent her last days in one of those stalls. She sighed. If she had only left the horse here; ignored it; ignored him.

She walked right into the barn and stood looking round uneasily. She would be the first to acknowledge that she wasn’t usually a sensitive woman, but in here she could feel something, a frisson of fear, an echo of violence. Was it in here he had died? One of the horses let out a piercing whinny and stamped its hoof, and she jumped, her heart thudding with fright. Defiantly she took a couple of steps forward, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the horse. She could hear the sparrows twittering outside now, pecking in the chaff which was blowing round the yard. She took another step and an owl launched itself silently from a high rafter and flew towards the door past her. She could feel her mouth growing dry. It was as if the whole building was trying to scare her away. She took another step forward and then froze. From somewhere nearby she could hear a baby crying.

She clenched her fists. She was not going to run away. There were babies aplenty on the estate, surely there were. This was not Susan’s baby. It couldn’t have been Susan’s baby; she had heard that it had not drawn breath. Looking round wildly she waited to hear the cry again, but there was complete silence in the barn. Even the horses had for a moment stopped their restless movements and appeared to be listening too.

‘Dan?’ Her sudden desperate cry echoed up into the roof space. ‘Dan, I’m sorry.’

There was no answer.

Sharon Watts walked ahead of her husband into The Summer Barn and threw her shoulder bag down onto the long settee, then she turned to face her eldest son, who had followed them inside. Behind him Darren and Jamie appeared, looking unexpectedly chastened and in total silence. Their parents had been to collect Jackson from the police station where he had spent the night.

‘This does it, Jackson. We are taking you home and you are never, ever, coming down to this godforsaken place again. You put it on the market tomorrow, Jeff, do you hear me?’ Sharon spun round and strode across to the bar. Helping herself to a hefty slug of neat vodka she stood for a moment swilling it round in her mouth. ‘Arrested! Charged with causing grievous bodily harm and God knows what! Attempted murder probably, of that poor woman next door! And then on top of everything, you have to accuse that decent man across there, who has taken more trouble with Jade than you ever did, of being a paedo! I just don’t believe it. What did you think that would achieve? It was hardly going to divert attention from what you’d done.’

They had spent two hours in the police station at the end of which they had agreed to guarantee bail for their eldest son, and persuaded him to admit there was no truth in his charge against Leo.

It was only now that Sharon thought to look round the house. ‘So where is she?’ She walked across to the bottom of the stairs and looking up, shrieked at the top of her voice, ‘Jade?’

There was no answer. She ran up the stairs and disappeared along the landing while the four men of her family stood in silence looking at each other. Darren and Jamie caught each other’s eyes and sniggered; their father gave them a look which silenced them totally.

It was several minutes before Sharon reappeared followed by a bleary-eyed Jade. ‘She was still asleep.’ She turned on Jackson. ‘On top of everything else I gather you’ve been leaving your baby sister alone in this house.’

‘No. That’s the point!’ Jackson defended himself at last. ‘She is always out. Round at The Old Forge.’ He glared at Jade.

‘Well, I’m not now,’ she retorted. ‘I am never going there again.’

‘Why?’ Sharon looked at her suspiciously.

‘You tell Ma,’ Jackson put in. ‘Tell her what happened. That filthy bastard touched you up, didn’t he? No one believed me when I told the police.’

Jade paused. A calculating look crossed her face. She was thinking of Zoë and the tender glance Leo had given her. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. She wasn’t sure why Jackson was making the accusation, but suddenly it opened all kinds of possibilities for revenge. ‘That’s right. I thought I could trust him but I couldn’t. He wanted me to go into his bedroom.’ She looked down primly. ‘I wouldn’t; I knew what he wanted.’

Sharon said nothing. She was scanning her daughter’s face suspiciously. ‘Are you prepared to swear that on your grandmother’s grave?’

Jade blanched. ‘He’s always been very nice to me,’ she protested. ‘Too nice. He fancies me rotten.’

‘You lying little brat!’ Jamie put in. ‘Leo’s a decent guy and you have pursued him without stopping ever since we bought this house, hasn’t she, Dal?’ He looked at his brother with such ferocity that Darren could only nod support. ‘He was kind to you because he was sorry for you. He’d never fancy you in a million years. And I happen to know he’s got a wife and kids, so there.’

‘He hasn’t!’ Jade went white to the gills.

‘He has. And he thinks you’re a damn nuisance.’

‘How do you know all this, Jamie?’ his father asked suddenly.

Jamie went red. ‘I was listening outside the door one day when Jade was in there. Like Jacko, I was a bit worried about him. He’s an old guy and he’s definitely weird, but he’s no paedo. He was nice to her and gave her some juice and tried to persuade her to go and she wouldn’t and he was pretty fed up about it. Then after she had gone at last, there was a phone call and I heard him talking to this woman and he asked her if she wanted a divorce and he told her he still loved her and he talked about his kids. There is no way he would ever, ever fancy Jade. She’s just a kid and a pain in the arse at that.’

Jade went scarlet. With a small yelp of distress she turned and fled up the stairs. The house shook as her bedroom door slammed.