‘We’ll have it fixed in a jiffy,’ said Genista.
‘Young Bry could pop across to the church and see if you dropped it over there, Genny,’ suggested Ivy.
Bryony stared at her mother. ‘Dropped what?’
Genista pulled a face. ‘One of those diamond earrings your granddad got me for Christmas last year.’
‘Why on earth would you be dropping diamonds in the church on a weekday?’
‘I was getting some spiritual guidance from Reverend Adrian,’ said Genista primly.
‘You mean you were chatting up the vicar!’
Genista’s eyes blazed. She shouted, ‘Now look here, my girl! Your granddad will be as sick as a parrot if he finds out I’ve lost it after what he paid for it.’
‘That he most surely will be,’ agreed Ivy. ‘You’d better get cracking, Bry, and get over there before he gets back.’
Bryony remained firmly fixed to the wall, ignoring her grandmother. ‘Mother dear, your earring is miniscule and the church is huge. There’s no way I’m crawling around in there, not even for you.’
Genista shoved the umbrella into her unwilling hands and opened the front door. ‘You don’t have to crawl! Just go and look!’
‘I’m not going!’ insisted Bryony. ‘I’m not poking around the stupid church. And what if Mister Yawnabore’s over there? I don’t want any of his spiritual guidance, thank you very much!’
Her mother pushed her out in the rain. ‘It won’t take you five minutes, you ungrateful little madam! It’ll be somewhere around the front two rows if it’s there at all! So do it!’
Bryony stamped along the road fuming. She stuffed the umbrella in the rack in the porch and yanked open the church door. It slammed heavily behind her with an ominous boom that echoed up into the gloomy space soaring over her head. The coins in the collection box rattled and the notice propped up behind it fell on the floor. Someone had sketched a cartoon angel giving his phone to a beggar. The caption read: He who gives to the poor will lack nothing, but he who closes his eyes to them receives many curses.
Bryony stepped over it. ‘No one’s that poor these days!’ She walked up the aisle, imagining herself in a white dress glittering with pearls and diamonds. I’m not getting married in a pokey office like my hopeless mother!
Her heel slipped on a worn brass plate marking where the Pring family were interred in their vault directly in front of the chancel steps. The names were faint and in a barely decipherable script. A second plate let into the floor beside it was more recent. Bryony recognised the name at the bottom of the list.
Lady Mathilda Pring. That must have been old Skinflint’s mother. She wasn’t so bad, according to my gran. But him! She scowled at the name two places above it. It was that Sir Saxon who was the devil worshipper, and his wife. I bet it was his fault Tom Poore disappeared. I’m surprised people like that are allowed to be buried in the church.
She didn’t bother to look for the lost earring. Outside, the rain had stopped and a space was opening in the sky, rolling back the clouds to let the late afternoon sun make a passing appearance over the village, before a second weather front swallowed it up. All the stained glass windows on the west side of the church immediately lit up, splashing jewelled patches of light on the flagstones, one after the other along the length of the aisle.
The altar was flooded with golden light beaming from the sections of yellow glass set in the shape of a lamp in the hand of a chubby infant, and in the rays emanating from the halo around his head. He stood on a green hill, surrounded by lambs and watched over by a bright-haired angel brandishing a flaming sword. Beneath them an inscribed ribbon declared: I have made you a light for the Gentiles that you may bring salvation to the ends of the earth.
Spellbound, Bryony walked over the final resting place of the Pring family and went up the steps, gazing at the brilliant window. She was busy taking pictures when she heard footsteps behind her. She backed away from the window, blushing horribly and stuffing her phone into her coat pocket.
‘I see you have come at exactly the right time to see the sun light up the altar,’ said Reverend Adrian quietly, bowing to the crucified image on the screen behind the cloth-covered table.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be up here.’
‘Why not?’ he asked mildly. ‘The light in the window is much too beautiful to miss.’ He smiled. ‘I hope you got some good pictures.’
She nodded. ‘I did.’
His freshly laundered neck collar looked like a ring of white light against the stark black cassock, that smelled of fabric softener. Bryony’s eyes strayed down to where the toes of his boots showed under the hem. He’s been out in the rain and his shoes aren’t even wet, she thought, amazed.
In that rare moment of inspiration she forgot he was boring. He seemed very tall, very clean and lordly. He spoke softly in a pleasing baritone. ‘It’s a pity that so few of the services coincide with this moment at any time of the year. Perhaps I should note it in the parish magazine, to encourage those who are not comfortable with the formalities of our regular worship.’
‘They are a bit long,’ she agreed, acutely aware of the fact that she was still wearing her school uniform.
The priest looked down at her. She must take after her father, he thought abstractly, seeing little resemblance to Genista in the face staring up at him, except perhaps for a certain stubborn lift in the angle of the chin.
‘Was last Sunday difficult for you?’ he asked kindly.
Bryony looked shamefaced. ‘It was my first time.’ She didn’t know what else to say and he seemed to be waiting for her to elaborate. ‘I could help give out the magazine if you like,’ she said desperately. ‘I go all over the place with Granddad. We could get loads of copies in the jeep. We could deliver them for you.’
‘That’s very kind. Why don’t you both come to the parish helpers meeting and we will see what can be arranged?’
She gulped. There was no imagining Percy sat in the village hall taking tea and scones with old Ma Renfrew and that weird Fig Petter. She said quickly, ‘Granddad might be busy, but I’ll come.’ She pointed to the words on the window. ‘Does salvation mean you can save people from something horrible happening to them?’
‘Yes, it can mean that.’
‘Like how? Would I have to pray about it?’
‘Prayer is generally considered the most effective method for defining a positive desire for the greater good.’
‘But how would I know if it worked?’
Adrian suppressed a smile. ‘Well, an opportunity may arise to help someone out of a difficult situation, or there may be a time when a word in the right person’s ear will be enough to make a difference in the life of another.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘You can start by setting a good example in the way you behave yourself.’
She looked doubtful. ‘Do you mean by helping people?’
‘That’s a good way to begin,’ he said quietly. ‘ You could try to perform one selfless and compassionate act every day, be it a thought or a deed. When you blunder, be genuinely sorry for your mistake and don’t hesitate to apologise. We are all potentially the child holding the lamp.’
‘Do we all have an angel too?’
‘Yes, I believe we do. The one on the window is the Archangel Michael. He is the protector whose sword cuts away the ties that bind us to our old, negative thought and behaviour patterns as we try to do better in our lives.’
‘Does he protect me too?’
‘Without fail.’
‘How would I know?’
‘You must pray.’
Bryony felt herself beginning to blush again and looked away. Reverend Adrian took a discreet step backwards and bowed once more to the altar.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he said, smiling.
She found herself left alone in the church and expected to pray. What a nightmare! She glanced nervously over her shoulder, wonde
ring if the vicar was outside listening at the door as she backed into the nearest pew and got down on her knees. I’d better look like I’m doing it in case there’s a spy hole where he checks up on the sinners. But what am I supposed to pray for? she wondered. What do I want that Granddad can’t get me?
The answer, when it came, was obvious. She gazed raptly at the infant with the lamp and pressed her palms together, repeating her prayer three times to make sure she had been heard.
‘Please God, keep Caz safe from the devil-worshippers and make him want to marry me. Please keep him safe and make him want to marry me. Please save him and make him marry me.’
The rough weave on the cushion imprinted itself on her knees, but no bolt from the blue rocked the church, no winged angel with a flaming sword appeared before her. The light faded from the altar and she stood up uncertainly. I must have got it wrong.
Then she remembered how the Sunday prayers had ended. She knelt down again, this time fixing her attention exclusively on the yellow-haired archangel and adding a codicil for good measure. ‘But if he doesn’t inherit the manor and turns out to be a creep after all, please send me someone much better looking, with loads more money and who all the girls will fancy, but he’ll only ever be interested in me. Amen.’
When she went outside the rain had returned. The street lamps flickered and began to glow. Simon turned on the light over the sign of the white horse in front of the pub. The dull, grey drizzle looked as though it was set in for the night.
CHAPTER 51
Alan searched through the racks of shelves in the archive room, checking the reference numbers listed on the front of each of the security boxes, while Caz lounged in a chair with his feet on the big circular table under the spotlight in the centre of the room. He was carving up a cake in the tin on his lap, using his Guardians’ knife to slice the sections into bite-sized pieces. Blue sat beside him, licking up the crumbs.
Caz had decided it was worth being a Guardian now that the last mysterious corners of their amazing underground enclave were no longer out of bounds to him. The extent of the archive collection was amazing. It would take months to go through it all. But the contents of the bookcases and cabinets in the study were still off limits. According to Daisy, the study had always been the Masters’ private domain and even the Guardians were rarely invited to share its secrets, no matter how long it had been since they had sworn the oath.
Alan called out, ‘Try ARM1ST1000SHLD.’
Caz leaned forward and typed the reference on the keyboard. The image of a large, leather-bound book appeared on the big screen on the opposite wall. He flicked through the pictures of hand-drawn and meticulously painted shields on cream-coloured vellum. Technical diagrams and notes indicating how each shield may have been constructed were included on every page.
‘Who did this Al?’ he asked.
Alan came back to the table and sat down. ‘It was put together in the early days when the first Guardians started on the research. They favoured the old style when they were making up some of these illustrated books for the archives.’
Caz zoomed in on one of the images. A tiny J rune had been drawn at the foot of one of the metal struts on a red-painted shield.
‘Was it the old man?’ he asked surprised.
Alan shook his head. ‘No, it’s too early for him.’ He studied the fine, copper plate script. ‘Whoever it was knew a lot about how shields handle in a battle situation, that’s for sure.’
‘But a shield is primarily a foot-fighter’s weapon,’ said Caz, with his mouth full. ‘Mounted, you’re as good as your horse plus you’ve got the advantage of speed and weight.’
‘It depends what’s coming at you. A shield’s best against arrows.’
‘But it won’t cover the horse. I think I’d be hindered more than helped by a shield in a melée.’
‘But if the horse goes down, you’re on foot and then a shield could come in handy.’
‘As long as you’re riding with a saddle to hang it on in the first place.’
The argument had been going backwards and forwards between them all day, starting when they were working together in the coppices in the morning and continuing when the rain drove them back to the armoury in the early afternoon. Alan skewered a piece of cake on the end of a screwdriver.
‘So strap it on your back,’ he suggested. ‘Supposing you lost the spear, what’s your back-up weapon?’
‘A sword is the obvious choice but then you’ve got to carry it. The spear is a big weapon. I need plenty of manoeuvring space.’
‘Could you fight with the spear and a sword at the same time in the situation you might find yourself in, come Hag Night?’
Caz shrugged. ‘I could, but would I want to? I suppose I have always had an element of blind faith in what the spear can do for me and what I can do with it, as long as I’m good enough to use it.’
Alan shook his head, not convinced. ‘I still say you need a back-up weapon. One vital cut in a close-up situation might be the saving of you, the spear and the pretty lady.’
‘Then I don’t think a sword is the answer. It would be too cumbersome.’
‘So make it shorter. What about a seaxe, a fighting knife with a longer blade? That would be more versatile and you could easily carry it, either on your belt or strapped to a shield on your back.’
Caz laughed. ‘You’re really set on this shield thing, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t reckon you should go without.’ Alan continued flicking through the images on the screen.
‘Stop on that one!’ Caz zoomed on a picture of a large shield with a big iron boss in the middle and bound with a narrow metal rim.
‘That would be pretty big and heavy if you’re bothered about taking anything cumbersome,’ said Alan doubtfully.
‘So make it smaller.’
‘How small?’
‘About two-thirds the usual size, more like a buckler. That way it can have a big iron rim wrapped all round the edge and it’ll be much more of a serious weapon, the type of thing you really wouldn’t want smacked around your head or shoved in your teeth. The seaxe could be slipped into a scabbard fixed on the back.’
Alan grinned. ‘That’s more like it.’ He studied the screen. ‘A lot of these shields were made with planks of wood, but one good hit on a joint would split the whole thing apart. A good ply made out of single sheets of wood bonded together will be much stronger and you can make it any shape you want. It might take longer to put together but it would be worth the effort.’
‘Okay, I’ll leave making the shield to you, but I want to paint it and I want to do the seaxe.’
‘We do one each and try them out. Better still, we’ll make three. The Master won’t carry a shield and one of these big knives might do him a good turn come Hag Night.’ Alan pressed another key. The printer turned on in the hallway. ‘I’ll take a couple of copies of this shield stuff home with me. They’ll come in handy while I’m sorting it out.’
‘But there’s always the same question of how the metal will survive the transition,’ Caz reminded him. ‘The old man’s sword came back okay, but do you remember what happened to my army knife?’
The congealed lump of steel and plastic was on permanent display in the exhibition room.
‘That knife was just a rough bit of old alloy,’ said Alan dismissively. ‘I doubt whether any of our modern stainless steel would come through intact. The Master’s old sword was made up of rods of the best quality iron, beaten and folded together time and again until it was as near perfect as those first Guardians could get it. They knew their craft, there’s no doubting.’
‘So do you think the spear is some pure kind of iron?’
‘How can we know when we can’t test it? What kind of metal is it that can be left roasting in the fire all night and stays stone cold? It gets wet and it never rusts. You’re out with it every night throwing it into everything you can target and it never needs sharpening.’ Alan scratched his head, perplex
ed. ‘We can’t chip it or grind it, or even get it to take a mark. And how do you explain the weight of the thing? Nothing about that weapon makes any sense by our reckoning.’
Caz gave the last morsel of cake to Blue. He licked the blade of the knife and in a lightning move had thrust it to within an inch of Alan’s left eye. The rune inscribed on the blade shone uppermost. He smiled. ‘But there is one thing we do know about the spear that we could reproduce. It bears the mark of one of the Runes of the Deathless. We could beat this rune into every fold of hot metal every step of the way when we make the seaxes.’ He sheathed the knife.
‘We could,’ Alan agreed. ‘We could start by marking it on every bit of iron we’re going to use and do the same thing with the tools while we’re about it.’
Caz stood up. ‘Let’s do it tonight!’
Alan looked doubtful. ‘Some of the old Japanese craftsmen took a full year working a blade. We’ve got six weeks. It’s a lot of work.’
‘Then we’ve got to get me out of school. Talk to the Bank about getting me a tutor.’
‘And what’s your mother going to have to say about that?’
‘It’s something else I’ve got to work on.’
A buzzer sounded and the red light over the door flashed several times. Blue stood up, wagging his tail.
‘Looks like we’re wanted up top for supper,’ said Alan. He closed the window on the screen and shut down the computer. ‘We might as well put it all to bed down here if you’re set on firing up the old forge before we’ve had time to give it proper thought.’
Caz was adamant. ‘I promise you, we’ll think about it better as we work. You do the security and I’ll finish packing up.’
An orange warning light was flashing on the console when Alan checked the security room.
‘Now there’s an oversight,’ he reproached himself. ‘Those lights must have been left on in there these past two days. That’s what comes of having too much going on in my head at any one time.’ Belatedly he remembered the report he was supposed to have sent to London. ‘That can wait too.’
He motioned Blue to heel and unlocked a small panel, touching a series of numbers on the flat screen behind it.
Second Night Page 23
