Once they’d cleared it, they picked up pace again, weaving in and out of the trees. At last, just when George had given up hope of ever seeing proper daylight again, the woods thinned and gave out on to a ridge of open ground. A tree-covered slope fell away to their right with glimpses of the river below. Ahead of them, halfway up the ridge, stood an old brick hut with a rusty corrugated iron roof. Beyond it, in the distance, was a large grey-white building, its windows framed by clumps of greenery.
Kitty nodded at it. ‘That is where the lady who owns the land the mounds are on lives.’
‘Mounds?’ George frowned. ‘You mean there’s more than one of them?’
Kitty shot him a mysterious look. ‘You will see soon enough. But we must be careful. We are not really supposed to be here. If they catch us, they will report us to the police.’
George’s breath caught in his throat. The coppers! That was the last thing he needed. ‘Maybe we should—’
But she was already hurrying up the slope. Reluctantly, he set off after her. Once they’d passed the hut, she slanted off to the left, giving the house a wide berth until they’d put it safely behind them. Then, arcing back round, she headed straight again, making for a clump of trees and bushes at the top of the ridge.
George puffed out a breath and called after her, ‘How much further?’
‘Not far. Another five minutes.’
The sky darkened as they reached the trees and a breeze got up, rippling through the leaves. Spud gave a low whine and dropped to the ground.
‘It’s all right, boy. It’s just a bit of wind.’ George gave his muzzle a quick stroke. But as they pushed their way in amongst the tangle of twigs and branches, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy too.
When they reached the open again, Kitty jerked to a stop and let out a breath. ‘We are here.’
George pulled up alongside her, bringing Spud to heel.
They were standing on the edge of a field – but a field like no other he’d seen before. Rising up in front of them were a collection of large grassy mounds, their tops covered in fronds of dense green bracken. As a sudden gust of wind combed through the bracken, the mounds seemed to shiver as if something lurking beneath had woken and was beginning to stir.
George’s skin prickled.
‘It is marvellous, no?’ Kitty spun round, face beaming.
He blinked and gave a quick shrug. ‘They look like a bunch of overgrown molehills to me.’
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘You should not say that, George Penny. It is disrespectful.’
‘Why?’
‘Because this is a burial place.’
‘But I thought your granddad said they didn’t find any bones when they dug up the ship?’
She frowned. ‘That is true, but Opa says the soil might have eaten them away. Besides, they found traces of bodies in two of the other mounds.’
In spite of himself, George felt his eyebrows rise. ‘So were there ships in them too?’
‘They found some iron nails in the second mound they dug, but nothing like what they discovered in the main mound.’
‘Where is it then?’
‘Over there.’
George shaded his eyes and peered at where Kitty was pointing. Halfway along the field, someone had cut what looked like a massive trench into the ground, piling up steep banks of sandy soil on either side of it. He pulled a face. ‘Looks like a bomb’s hit it.’
Kitty jutted out her chin. ‘The dig was closed down before Opa and the others had the chance to bury it again. All they could do to protect it was cover it with a layer of bracken. Anyway’ – she gave a sniff – ‘you do not seem to be very interested, so . . .’
George felt his cheeks redden again. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’d like to take a closer look, honest.’
She wavered, then, with another quick sniff, she stalked off towards the trench. He set off after her, tugging Spud behind.
As they reached the trench, he gave a low whistle. There was enough space to fit two London buses into it, nose to tail with room to spare. He drew up alongside her and stared across it, trying to imagine a dirty great ship being sunk down inside.
‘So how did those Anglo–Saxons, or whatever you call ’em, get it up here, then?’
Kitty arched her eyebrows. ‘They pulled it up from the river, of course.’
‘The river? But that’s way back down there.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
‘They used tree trunks as rollers, and dragged the ship over them. That is what they think, anyway.’ She pressed her lips together in a know-it-all sort of way.
George puffed out a breath. ‘Sounds like bloomin’ hard work. Why not just dig an ordinary man-sized hole and stick the king in that?’
‘Because he was the king. Besides, he needed his ship to get to the afterlife.’
‘The afterlife?’ George rolled his eyes. What was she on about?
She let out a sigh. ‘The place where the king’s soul could live on after he had died. Like Heaven, except they did not call it that. It is why they buried him with his treasure and all those other things. So he could take them with him.’
George’s chest knotted as a fresh memory of his parents slid up inside him. Mum and Dad’s only real treasure had been their rings and they’d left those behind. But now the rings were gone too, and Charlie with them. And then another thought curled into his head. If Charlie was dead and they couldn’t find his body, how would he ever get to the afterlife? A sudden chill breeze lifted George’s hair. He started. What was he doing, thinking such things? He glanced about him, shivering. He should never have let Kitty bring him here.
Spud pressed himself against George’s shins and gave another whimper. George ruffled a hand through his fur and shot a look up at the sky. The white fluffy clouds from earlier had gone, replaced now by a lowering blanket of grey. The breeze had strengthened too and was tugging hard at their clothes and hair. As a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, the wind grew more powerful, whirling pieces of bracken up out of the trench and above their heads.
Kitty clutched George’s arm. ‘What is happening?’
‘Some kind of storm, from the looks of it. Best take cover.’ He pushed her towards the trees, dragging Spud behind him.
They were nearly there when a flash of white light ricocheted around them. Spud gave a piercing yelp and leapt backwards, tearing the lead from George’s hand. Before he got the chance to grab hold of it, he whipped round and streaked away across the mound field, faster than a bullet from a gun.
‘Come here, boy!’ George made to go after him, but Kitty yanked him into the shelter of the trees.
‘No! It is too dangerous.’
‘I have to. He’s my friend.’ He twisted free and dashed out into the open again. Cupping his hands round his mouth, he yelled Spud’s name. But the wind spun his voice round and blew it back at him. Where had he gone? He scanned about him, but there was no sign. He put his head down and set off in between the mounds.
As he threaded his way round them, another lightning bolt ripped through the sky, and for a moment he could have sworn the mounds were moving again; rippling and sliding like the back of some giant underground snake. He blinked and shook his head. A trick of the light. It must be . . .
He pushed on, but as he rounded the next mound, the wind slammed against him, lifting him off his feet and throwing him to the ground. He lay there for a moment, all the breath knocked out of him. Then, as he hauled himself up on to his hands and knees, a small black shape hurled itself across the gap between the two furthest mounds.
He got to his feet and ploughed after it, but Spud – if it was Spud – bolted off in the opposite direction, heading for the shelter of a large windswept tree.
George held his breath and battled towards it. As he drew closer, it loomed over him, its spiky-leaved branches snatching at the air like the tongues of a thousand darting snakes. He peered beneath them, into the damp, mossy
blackness beyond.
‘Spud? Are you in there, boy?’
Silence apart from the creak of storm-tossed boughs and the roar of the wind at his back.
His chest tightened. If he lost Spud too, he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He sucked in a breath and stumbled forwards. As he entered the woody darkness, the noise from the storm faded. The only sound now was the pounding thud of his heart in his ears. He blinked against the shadows and stuck his hands out in front of him, feeling his way through the thick, dank air.
And then he saw it: a tall dark figure standing next to the tree’s gnarled trunk.
He froze. ‘Who’s there?’
The figure lifted its head slowly and drew in a long, rattling breath. For a moment George thought it was going to speak. But when it breathed out, it was a feeling – not words – that spilt from its lips. A feeling deep, dark and full of fury, like a hundred thunderstorms rolled into one. What you felt when someone took something precious from you; something you’d give your life to get back.
A tide of ice-cold panic surged through George. He turned to run, but his boots were stuck fast by the tree roots. He tried desperately to yank them free, but it was no use; they wouldn’t budge.
And now the figure was on the move, walking towards him, step by measured step. And though its face was hidden in shadow, George could feel the white-hot anger of its gaze.
In desperation, he bent down and tore at his bootlaces, but the knots grew tighter still.
He cast around him looking for something to defend himself with, but there was nothing. Only a few twigs and a scattering of needle-like leaves.
He lifted up and turned to face it, curling his fingers into fists. ‘Keep away from me!’
The figure took another ratchety breath and jerked to a stop. It shot out its right hand and pointed at him, a flash of gold glinting on its outstretched finger.
George’s heart shrank up inside him. ‘Who are you? What d’you want?’
But still the figure gave no reply.
A loud craak echoed behind him. He twisted round. A great black bird was sitting on a nearby branch, head cocked, eyes bright and unblinking. George clenched his jaw and spun round to face the figure again. But whoever – or whatever – it was, it had gone.
The bird gave another harsh croak and dropped to the ground. It hopped towards George, wings outstretched.
‘Get out of here!’ He made to shoo it away, but the bird stood its ground. Then, with a rustle of black feathers, it lifted up into the gloom and was gone.
A sudden finger of light poked through the thick net of branches above him. As he blinked and looked about him, an excited bark rang out away to his right. He turned just in time to see a bundle of black fur springing towards him.
Relief washed through him. ‘Spud! I thought I’d lost you!’ He crouched down and hugged him tight, blotting out all thoughts of what had gone before.
‘Come on, boy. Let’s go and find Kitty.’ He was about to jump up again when he remembered the tree roots. He shot a nervous glance at his boots, but they seemed somehow to have freed themselves. Heaving a sigh, he got to his feet and scrambled towards the daylight, Spud nipping at his heels.
As he burst out into the open, he squinted against the sudden brightness. The storm had passed. Except for a few spiked leaves scattered across the ground, there was no sign it had ever happened. He gulped in a draught of grass-sweet air.
A figure in a blue and white checked dress came running towards them. ‘George! Where have you been?’
‘I-I don’t know. I went to look for Spud and—’
Kitty skidded to a halt and gave a delighted cry as Spud leapt up and licked her on the cheek. ‘I am glad you are both safe.’ She ruffled the dog’s ears and flashed George a smile, then frowned. ‘You look like you have seen a ghost.’
He glanced behind him. A sharp breeze rippled through the tree’s dark leaves, making them whisper and rustle like birds’ wings. And then it was still.
He shivered and drew a quick breath. ‘I . . . I’m fine.’
Kitty shot him a puzzled look.
‘Honest.’
‘All right, if you are sure. Listen!’ She gripped his sleeve. ‘I have found something!’
‘What?’
She led him round to the other side of the tree and pointed to the ground.
He frowned. ‘What am I s’posed to be looking at?’
She squatted and traced the shape of a small square hole in the space between two tree roots. ‘Someone has been digging here. In other places too.’ She tipped her head at the piles of sandy soil dotted in front of them.
‘It’s probably just some animal. A rabbit, or one of them moles.’
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘An animal does not use a spade.’ She ran her fingers along the set of neat slice marks that formed the sides of the hole.
‘Your granddad and the other archaeologists, then?’
‘Yes, but it has been freshly dug.’ Kitty scooped up some of the soil and let it trickle through her hands. ‘Feel this.’ She pulled him down beside her and pressed his hand into the earth at the bottom of the hole.
His fingers brushed against a set of shallow dips and ridges. ‘So what?’
‘Something was buried here. Whoever made this hole found it and dug it up.’
An image of the poacher slid up inside George’s head. He sank back on his heels, his frown deepening.
‘What is wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Tell me. Please!’
He hesitated, then took a deep breath and told her about what he’d seen as he and Spud were making their getaway yesterday afternoon from Bill Jarvis’s farm. When he got to the bit about the mysterious object inside the poacher’s sack, Kitty gasped and clutched his arm.
‘He’s a treasure thief, I am sure of it!’ She jumped to her feet. ‘We must go back and tell Opa so he can report it to the police.’
George snorted and stood up. ‘The coppers ain’t going to be bothered about some old poacher digging up a bit of metal in a field. They’ve got more important things to worry about.’
Kitty wrinkled her forehead. ‘You are right.’ She turned away, then twisted back again, eyes shining. ‘There is only one thing left to do. We must investigate ourselves!’
‘What?’
‘You saw where this poacher left the track?’
‘Yes, but—’
She shot him a sly look. ‘You are not scared of him, are you, Saint George?’
He drew himself up to his full height and thrust his arms across his chest. ‘Don’t call me that, and no I ain’t!’
‘Come on, then! What are you waiting for?’ Before he could stop her, she snatched up the end of Spud’s lead, then turned and hurried off towards the trees.
As they made their way down to the road again, thoughts of what had happened beneath the tree crowded back into George’s head. He’d imagined it. He must’ve done. It’d been dark in there and he’d been worked up too, what with Charlie going missing and all that talk of dead people and the like. Or maybe he’d had another of his turns? What about last night in the museum? Had that been one too? He shivered. If that’s what they were, it meant they were getting worse. Much worse. He sucked in a breath. One thing was for sure though. The bird was real – he had the feather to prove it.
‘George?’
‘Wha-what?’ He blinked and looked up.
Kitty had pulled up a few yards ahead and was staring back at him with wide eyes. ‘I think there is someone in the pillbox.’
‘It’s all right. I told you before. They’re not going to bother with the likes of us.’
But he was wrong. As they approached the bridge, a man in a baggy Home Guard uniform stepped out from behind the pillbox, rifle raised.
‘Halt!’
Kitty gave a small cry. Dropping Spud’s lead, she jerked up her hands.
The guard slid down the bank
and marched towards them. He came to a stop in front of them and jabbed the gun at George’s chest, motioning him to raise his hands.
Spud slunk in front of him, ears flattened, teeth bared.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. He swung the gun down and trained it on the dog, finger stroking the trigger.
George glared at him. ‘Hey! What d’you think you’re doing, mister?’ He bent and yanked Spud behind him.
‘Wait!’ Another guard had appeared out of nowhere. He looked older than the first one and wore a corporal’s stripe on his left sleeve. He pushed his companion’s gun muzzle to one side and signalled to him to pull back.
The first guard gave a grunt, then turned on his heel, climbed up the bank and disappeared back inside the pillbox.
The corporal fixed them with a hard stare, then with a clipped ‘Go!’ he waved them away with the back of his hand.
George was about to say something when Kitty grabbed him by the arm. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She scooped up Spud’s lead and tugged the pair of them after her.
When George turned and looked back a few moments later, the guard had gone. He frowned. ‘They were a bit heavy-handed, weren’t they?’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps they have not finished their training? They forgot to ask for our identity cards too.’
‘You’re right. Looks like that first one got issued with the wrong uniform. Did you see how baggy his trousers were? And what about those scrapes that corporal had on his knuckles? A right pair of bruisers, if you ask me.’
Kitty pulled a face. ‘Bruisers?’
He sighed. ‘It don’t matter. Come on, let’s get going.’
But instead of making for the river path, Kitty took the road ahead.
George called after her. ‘Are you sure you’re going the right way?’
‘I think so, yes. This road leads back to the town. From what you have said, the road to your farm should join up with it before we get there.’
He caught her up, frowning. ‘It ain’t my farm.’
Kitty flushed. ‘No. Sorry.’
They carried on in silence for a bit, George’s head filling with fresh worries about Charlie and what he had seen beneath the tree.
Buried Crown Page 10
