The Skull (5 page)

Thomas knew he had to get out. The heat was unbearable and the smoke was closing in around him. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. The bestiary, lying open on a desk on the far side of the room. It was the treasure of the monastery. The work of years – generations, even. A dragon's tail curled across the open page, and a huge eye glared out at him from behind rows of curved teeth.

He took a deep breath at the window and forced himself back into the room. His face stung with the heat, and he could barely see as he stumbled towards the flames. Reaching out, he grabbed the chain holding the book. It was almost too hot to touch, and as he raised his hammer and struck at it, he could see the fire spreading up the leg of the desk.

His first blow missed entirely, while his second only dented the metal chain. He could feel himself getting weaker with each passing second. The flames and the heat were relentless. His head swam as he aimed another strike, and another.

As he swung the hammer down for a final attempt, the chain snapped, and at the same moment, the dragon on the page burst into flames. Desperately, Thomas heaved at the chain, flinging the burning book towards the window. It arced through the air and out into the garden, still burning.

Thomas' lungs were bursting as he hauled himself to the window, on to the sill and out into the darkness. He landed hard on his hands and knees and gulped mouthfuls of air, coughing and choking and rubbing the smoke out of his eyes.

Slowly, he shook the dizziness from his head and scrambled to his feet. Beside him, the bestiary
was lying in the mud, burned almost to nothing. Its binding was charred. Its pages, thousands of hours of work, were nothing more than blackened scraps of ash. Thomas picked it up, but the binding disintegrated in his hands. There was nothing left to save. Instead, he turned to the other volumes piled beside the window – at least they were safe for now. He grabbed the three loose volumes, and ran with them back to the woods, throwing them into the cart.

The crowd of looters was beginning to thin out now, and the sky was starting to brighten. The king's hired thugs had managed to scare most of them off, and were wandering about in small groups, looking for anything left worth taking. Thomas knew he had to get going. He didn't have time to break the chains of all the books, and he would never be able to get the cabinet across to the woods unnoticed.

There was only one thing to be done. Creeping back to where the bookcase was lying in the grass, he wrapped his shirt around the chisel to deaden the sound and tapped as quietly as he could at the corners of the shelves, dislodging them from the cabinet one by one. Once they were all free, he grabbed the shelves two at a time and ran, dragging the books
behind him across the garden and into the woods. Twice he saw groups of the king's men rounding the corner of the burning building, and twice he dropped to the ground, lying unnoticed until they had passed. Eventually, he made it to the woods with all the books and loaded them into the cart.

The journey back to the tomb was quicker and easier. The horse was beginning to learn its way and trust him, and the sun was starting to rise. By the time it was fully light, Thomas had safely stowed all the books in the tomb.

He must have climbed into the back of the cart and fallen asleep in the hay, because the next thing he felt was his father's hand on his shoulder.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, still stinging from the smoke. His father's face was black, his clothes filthy and torn. He had a defeated look in his eyes.

‘It's lost,' he said, his voice cracking. ‘All of it gone, burned or stolen. Even the library… There's nothing left, son.'

‘Yes there is,' cried Thomas. He grabbed his father's arm, led him to the tomb and pointed through the hole where the sunlight shone down, illuminating the books piled on the floor.

His father stared in disbelief.

‘I couldn't save everything,' said Thomas. ‘But I tried. I really did try.'

Later, as they headed down towards the village, tired and hungry, Thomas' father drove the cart in silence. Thomas could see he was turning things over and over in his head. Finally, he spoke. ‘Our lives are going to be dangerous now. We can never tell anyone where the books are, but we have to use them… they have to be seen. To be read. To teach people. Otherwise they may as well have burned.'

The previous night had been the end of everything Thomas had ever known, but somehow this morning felt like a beginning. Yesterday the library was crumbling and doomed. Today there was a new library. A secret library in a tomb guarded by a monster. And Thomas Marchant and his family were its keepers.

William Marchant looked around the table at the faces flickering in the candlelight. Were they serious? Did they really still believe this stuff?

They weren't stupid. More than half of them could read, thanks to his secret library. And yet the head of every farming family in the village was sitting around the table, leaning in to hear what the old white witch had to say.

Juliana let her audience wait in silence for a long time before opening her bag and pulling out a fingersized wooden statue of a veiled goddess and placing it deliberately in the centre of the table. It made a loud hollow sound.

William opened his mouth, but quickly shut it
again as he caught a sideways look from his mother Elizabeth, sitting at the head of the table. She was reminding him that he had to be careful. He only had a place at the meeting because it was taking place at his home, and what he had to say was far too important to say badly.

He looked around at the faces, and his feelings softened a little. Juliana did know a fair bit, it was true, and she was harmless enough. She had earned respect in the village, despite her son's job. It was to her that everyone in the village went when they were sick, desperate, or when they feared for the future. Somehow she usually helped them to feel better.

Right now, the whole village was desperate and fearful. If the early seeds they had planted didn't grow fast and strong, there would be death from starvation in every house.

Perhaps it was not belief that made them listen to her, but lack of anything else in which to put their faith.

The little statue stood in the centre of the table while Juliana explained how the crops would return if only the Great Mother, the Goddess Freya or the Virgin Mary – she seemed to use the names interchangeably – blessed and looked over the crops.

Everyone stared in silence at the tiny figure, while Juliana described in detail how villages in northern France ensured their harvests by a ritual in which they took their goddess statue on a tour of the fields as they sowed them. They danced and sang for the wooden idol, and gave tribute. And in return, the goddess, by whatever name you called her, blessed the fields and the crops grew strong and tall.

In William's opinion, such superstition was ridiculous, but at the mention of northern France the assembled farmers looked at each other, nodding sagely. Everyone knew that the crops over the Channel were thriving, and everyone wondered why those few short miles of sea made such a difference.

Everyone also knew, although they were far too careful to mention it, that one among them was something of an expert on northern France. And everyone was looking at William now. He cleared his throat. The library and the monster were not his only secrets. It was well known, though rarely discussed, that Elizabeth was able to acquire foreign trinkets for the villagers, and that she would often pay over the odds for sacks of wool, which then strangely disappeared. The villagers assumed that her son somehow managed to evade the coastguard,
and make a small living selling smuggled wool to the French, but it was in nobody's best interest to know for certain where he went when he disappeared for days on end. And absolutely nobody knew what or whom he brought back when he returned.

He swallowed and started to speak. ‘The French crops don't grow because of magic and spells,' he said as levelly as he could. ‘They grow because of this.' He pulled out a small bag, and upended it on the middle of the table. A cascade of beans rattled out, surrounding the little statue and rolling into the curious hands of the villagers.

They were much darker and richer-looking than the seeds the farmers were used to planting, and William watched their brows wrinkle as they assessed them.

‘I was… um… given them by someone who visited France,' he continued, allowing himself a small smile at what everyone knew was a lie. ‘They're stronger than the seeds we use here, and they harvest earlier. They also improve the soil for next year's crops.'

He looked around the room, but nobody spoke. He could tell that he'd lost them. When harvests failed, it seemed most farmers could easily believe their crops had been sabotaged by evil spirits. Trying to persuade
them to accept that, in fact, they were planting the wrong kind of seeds seemed wholly impossible.

There was a long silence, and one by one the farmers shifted their gaze back from the seeds to the little statue. William looked at his mother, and she shrugged helplessly.

‘We should put our trust in the power of the Lady,' said Juliana. The others started to nod.

‘This? This is going to bless our crops?' The words burst out of William. He picked up the statue in his fingers. ‘This is going to save our village? This little charm is going to feed us?' He tossed it back onto the table, exasperated.

Juliana smiled. ‘It won't, of course. The boy's right.' She was in control now and she knew it. ‘With this we can bless but a few grains of seed. That's all.'

‘Then what exactly are you asking of us?' Elizabeth's tone was open and friendly, but her question was impossible to dodge.

‘We need a much older, more powerful Lady,' Juliana said. ‘In France they have a cart. They have used it for centuries. Inside is the image of the Lady and her tributes. They add a sheaf from the last harvest, flowers, some other magic tokens.' William rolled his eyes. ‘They take her from village to village
to bless the crops.' She looked around the room. ‘When have the French crops failed? Never!'

Juliana was looking only at William now. Her voice was softer. ‘If only there was someone who could trade with the French, purchase a loan of the cart and fetch it back here – just for a week, to bestow her blessings on our fields.'

Surely she was joking. William knew the farmers in France well enough, and there were at least a couple who might sneak the cart out for him and down to the shore if he could promise to get it back in a week or two, but it would take a hefty bribe. It would bankrupt the village – and for what?

William stood up. He had no more than opened his mouth to make it clear what he thought of the old woman's plan when the door banged open on its hinges and a young man in a green coat appeared in the doorway, cutlass drawn. William sat down immediately and sank back, out of the candlelight.

‘I visit you as a riding officer of His Majesty's Customs…' the young man began, addressing the room without looking at anyone in particular.

‘We know who you are, Mathew Allen,' said Elizabeth. ‘You search our house almost every week, and you always find nothing.'

The man waved his cutlass in a way that was probably supposed to be threatening. William would have laughed at him, but this was not a good time for the customs to call.

‘Well,' said Allen, ‘somebody is smuggling fleeces out of England. Somebody is selling brandy and tea.'

‘Oh, great crimes indeed,' said Elizabeth, smiling. William edged into the darkness towards the door.

‘And somebody is bringing French Jacobite traitors into England!'

‘Well, it's not me,' replied Elizabeth. ‘Please, feel free to look around.'

‘I will!' said Allen, poking the air with his cutlass.

‘Put it away, Mathew,' said Juliana curtly. He wheeled round.

‘Mother?' He sheathed his cutlass instantly. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘They were just seeking my advice on a farming matter,' she said. ‘Now do what you have to do and run along.'

‘Right,' said Allen. William took advantage of the distraction and slipped out of the room.

Behind him, he heard his mother say, ‘The only reason you bother us is because you're afraid to go
after the real smugglers. You know who they are, sure enough. What are they paying you?'

It was true. The organised smugglers basically ran the coastline and the law couldn't stop them. But they were dangerous people. Mathew Allen was obviously under pressure to show he was doing something, but if he tried to take them on, he'd probably wind up dead. So instead he turned up at William's house every other week on the off chance of catching them with a couple of sacks of wool.

William would have felt sorry for him on any other day. But not today. Today he just hoped his mother could buy him enough time to get the woman out of the coal shed and up the hill into the tomb.

He could hear Allen crashing about in the bedrooms upstairs as he ducked outside and into the garden. He beckoned the woman out and grabbed her hand, keeping her low as they skirted the edge of the garden and slipped out towards the woods.

Once they were safely under cover of the trees, he stopped and straightened up. In the moonlight, she had a slightly odd-looking face. Pale and sharp. Sculpted down into a slender neck.

He realised he still had hold of her hand, and let go abruptly.

‘They're searching the house,' he said. ‘We have to go now.'

‘Thank you. I know this is for you a risk,' she replied, softly.

This close to France, words and accents merged and mingled across the Channel, but her voice marked her out as having been on a much longer journey before she'd turned up on the Normandy coast, looking for safe passage to England.

‘Life in France is not easy if you carry new ideas,' she went on. ‘Perhaps it will be better here?'