*
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asks Rafferty, his eyes wide. ‘You’ve been to see her, is that it – I’m supposed to be envious. Of you?’
He leans close to my face. Too close. All right, mate. ‘Because you’re coming back, you tosspot. I’ll be over there swimming in whatever marsh you drop us in. You get to come back here.’
Lightwood, smelling trouble, has raced over but I hold out a hand, keeping him back. Rafferty is staring at me like I’m some bug on his boot heel. My voice drops almost to a whisper. ‘And she might need you. She won’t admit it, of course. I reckon she’s confused – he’s her father and all, but the man’s a bleeding Nazi.’
I don’t tell him that the man is likely some mad Nazi scientist, that he should be arrested and questioned and executed. I only care about Anna being safe. And I’m a bigger fool than a room full of Arthur Lightwoods.
Rafferty stares at me for far too long. ‘Why?’ he finally says.
‘Just don’t tell her I told you. Deal?’
He pulls his head back, still looking hard at my face. ‘You’re a crap hero, Squire.’
‘You’re a crap human, Rafferty.’
He holds out a lordly hand and, God forgive me, I shake it.
Monday, 5 June 1943
The night is slow in coming, and double summertime gives us the light to sit by the river. We are told that despite the sudden nice weather, no one will be flying tomorrow. This only adds to the strange feeling I’ve had all day. None of our current aircraft are fighters – not a single Hurricane, Tempest, or Spit in the hangar. In fact, we only have wooden Trainers and taxis. Whenever deliveries resume, I do not look forward to inching across the sky in a Moth. But it will be many years, if ever, before I’ve earned the right to complain to Gower.
Down by the river we drink coffee and the other pilots laugh, enjoying the unexpected free evening. The days of rain release the smells of the countryside, the flowers, grass, trees. I am sitting still, watching the sky and the windblown clouds, wondering what is going to happen, as the last light goes from the sky.
My conversation with Will Esser chases through my mind. He is not an evil man, at any rate. I will not betray his secret, should he choose to stay, but I will not help him. He is still the enemy, no matter his promise that he means no harm to England, or any Englishman.
The sky is low tonight, Polaris almost touching the crown of the oak tree on the opposite bank. Canada jerks to her feet, knocking her teacup, spilling tea on to her trousers.
‘Canada—’
But she doesn’t even flinch. She is standing, staring.
Out of the shadows comes the prow of a boat. And another. And another.
And another.
It is a dream, a vision – like nothing I have ever seen. It seems never to end. Barges, fishing vessels, ferries, with camouflage webbing, guns bolted on, canons mounted. A massive, river-filling armada of boats, burdened with thousands upon thousands of soldiers, packed in like lambs. The moon glints off uniforms and helmets, the faces lean, painted dark, stern.
A noise shatters the silence. The loud, proud squeal of the bagpipes. I can see the man, in the prow of the boat, in battledress with a kilt, the bagpipes in his hands. I know the tune, too, somehow, from some faraway memory. Road to the Isles.
Our great hope, our dreaded fear, has come. The tune dies away as the lead boat vanishes downriver. The invasion is starting.
All night we sit by the water, stunned, as the endless boats pour ahead. The navy, army, Scots Guard, Free French, Canadians, Americans, Australians, New Zealanders. Some men sing Cockney songs, high and loud; other boats blast music from their loudspeakers as they pass. The Marseillaise. A-Hunting We Will Go. Timothy Squire’s face I do not see. He is there, among them. He is going. The docks, the preparation, the great secret.
This is why he was so urgent to meet, to finally tell me the truth.
Above, the sky suddenly throbs with engines. Nothing, not even the dark days of the Blitz, were like this. I squint into the night, Canada and the other pilots around me, all of us staring up, seeing the black shapes above, feeling a huge terrifying thrill. This is not possible. Spits, Hurricanes, but mainly bombers, heavy four-engine beasts crawling across the sky. Aircraft stretch for miles, disappearing out of sight. It must be everything we have that can fly.
It must be everything that we have. The sky, the river, the whole world seems fanning out, pouring south in endless numbers.
The only way it could ever work is if we throw everything at them – every plane, every tank, every soldier. And then we’re going to need some proper bloody luck.
Our invasion is beginning.
And we are being left behind.
Tuesday, 6 June 1944
The sun has just risen, but we are ready. We must join the invasion force. The word is six thousand boats, twelve thousand aircraft, fifty thousand vehicles, all making their way across the Channel. Every aircraft is needed, and every pilot here wants to help. But Gower’s frowning face tells us all what is to come.
Bella has her chin held high. ‘Don’t we need to be briefed and inoculated?’
‘No female pilots are allowed to cross the Channel.’
No one bothers to ask why. Bella drops her helmet on the ground and walks out. ‘I quit.’
In the silent wake of Bella’s departure no one breathes. We all stare at the abandoned helmet lying on its side.
‘I don’t want to be left behind,’ I say, stepping forward. My words seem to snap Gower back to life.
‘Left behind? What do you imagine we’ve been doing this past year? Ferrying Spitfires here, taking bombers there. You’re done your part, Cooper. You just didn’t know it at the time.’
That should be enough, I know. I see Canada bowing her head, and Minx turns to stare after Bella’s exit. It should be enough. But it isn’t.
*
Cecil must be up in the sky, heading over there. Cecil in the air, Timothy Squire across the water. I can’t think straight, mad thoughts rising up.
Amy Johnson and the officer. Did she somehow survive – is it even possible? No, she died, helpless with cold, dragged to the river’s depths along with the poor officer.
Timothy Squire doesn’t understand. He thought I would arrest Will Esser, or send him away – and make everything right. They are all trying to protect me. Cecil, Malcolm, Oakes, Joy – and Timothy Squire, who never could stop lying, even now. Father has been here all along, and he knew. Oh, Timothy Squire.
Maybe this is the end. Maybe the invasion will stop the war. And then what? Will they shut down the ATA? Will women still be able to fly?
What will I do?
These rockets – the V1s – are coming, the moment Hitler senses our troops have landed. Oh yes, he will have his vengeance weapons ready.
I look at the old wooden Moth. My battle is not out there. That much I have been told. We are not allowed to fight for the kingdom. But we can defend it; we must defend it.
For a moment I hear the legend again. If the ravens leave the Tower, the kingdom will fall. Well, the legend didn’t account for flying rockets. Britain needs all the guardians it can get.
Will Esser. Father. He helped develop the rockets. If I can get him to safety, I can find out all about these weapons, and I can find out how to stop them.
As I stare at the aircraft, I don’t think of any of them – guardians, protectors, friends – even Timothy Squire. I turn back to the base, the grey sunrise, the empty tarmac. No pilot, no aircraft approaches.
‘I am sorry,’ I say in a whisper.
Drawing a breath, I take swift steps towards the hangar and the waiting Moth.
THE END
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Acknowledgements
About John Owen Theobald
About The R
avenmaster Trilogy
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandparents, Jean McIntyre, who worked in the RCAF at a Commonwealth Air Training base in New Brunswick, Canada during World War Two, and John McIntyre, from Alloa, who worked for forty years at the Saint John shipyard.
Special thanks to the Arts Council England for their generous support for these novels and for funding the series of learning and literacy events, Beyond the Book: These Dark Wings at the Tower of London.
I am exceedingly grateful for the partnership of Megan Gooch and Ceri Fox at Historic Royal Palaces, who combine their expertise and determination with enthusiasm and good humour. Bridget Clifford at the Royal Armouries Museum has, as always, been so generous with her time and knowledge. My thanks also to Chris Skaife, the real Ravenmaster at the Tower of London, for sharing his knowledge of and passion for the ravens.
Thanks to the team at Head of Zeus, particularly to my publisher Nicholas Cheetham, for his feedback, insight, and patience, and to my editors Helen Gray and Madeleine O’Shea for their insight and efficiency.
To Bill and Jill, for their continued support and grace. To my parents, Greg and Bronwyn, for their endless encouragement and love.
I am indebted to the kids of the Shiranamikai karate club for inspiring the names (and some of the personalities) for the ravens.
A special thanks to my brothers, who’ve encouraged me since we were boys. To Andrew, who drew detailed maps in the front of my stories and helped to legitimize the whole enterprise; and to Simon, for being both my favourite character to portray and my most generous reader. I’d never have had the guts to do something like this if it hadn’t been for you two.
And to Jackie, my co-pilot, for everything.
About John Owen Theobald
Born and raised in Eastern Canada, John Owen Theobald moved to the UK to study the poetry of Keats, and in 2009 received a PhD from the University of St Andrews. He lives in London, England.
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First published in the UK in 2016 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © John Owen Theobald, 2016
The moral right of John Owen Theobald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Map and feather © Sarah Carter
ISBN (HB) 9781784974381
ISBN (E) 9781784974374
Jacket Photographs: Shutterstock.com
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What the Raven Brings Page 27
