He gestures out to sea.
“We have historical precedent that says it could lead to disaster.”
Rachel waves a hand.
“Excuse me, Reverend, but what do you mean by that?”
Heads turn, and she gets a definite sense that she's said the wrong thing. The priest gives her a kindly smile, but his message is clear.
“Miss Rubin, since you're a journalist, I suggest that you do your own research on this matter. Just don't do it here! Our people don't like to talk about these things to outsiders.”
Okay, I get the message.
She and Carl walk back to the Green Man.
“Look,” he says. “Why don't you go and see what you can find out at the library in Ipswich? I'll hang around here, chat with the troops, and see if I can find out more about Bryce.”
“Sounds like a plan! We can meet up later this evening.”
***
At Captain Walker's makeshift HQ, Private Dawson is struggling with a radio set, all too aware that his commanding officer is standing over him.
“Come on, man, we can't rely on a bloody village telephone box forever! We're not Boy Scouts!”
“Sorry sir. I don't know what it is, but I keep getting the same interference on all the regular frequencies.”
“Here, let me listen.”
The captain reaches down and takes the radio headphones. For a few moments, he stands frowning, trying to make out what he's hearing.
“Is that German, sir?” asks Dawson.
“I've no idea.”
Walker takes off the headphones, ponders for a moment.
“Look, Private, it's probably best to say nothing about this. Atmospheric interference, that sort of thing. But don't mention – whatever those voices were. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep trying to get through to regional command, all right?”
Walker leaves the radio room, and Dawson returns to his task. The voices give him the creeps, with their menacing tone, words hovering on the edge of meaning. And he hasn't even mentioned the other thing – the woman's voice that cuts in sometimes.
“Steal what?” he mutters to himself. “And who the hell is he, anyway?”
***
It's mid-afternoon when Rachel drives to Ipswich to do some research at the library, leaving Carl to 'sniff around the Royal Engineers', as he put it. Anyway, getting away from Duncaster for a few hours might not be a bad idea in itself. It could give her some perspective.
The library is a large, suffocating building populated by small, stuffy people who shush at her when she asks the assistant for help. Fortunately, the latter is a friendly young woman who quickly grasps what Rachel wants and takes her to the reference section. Soon, Rachel's immersed in local history and the folklore of East Anglia.
After half an hour or so, she's made some random notes, but there's so much material here and very little about Duncaster. Her concentration keeps eluding her because someone else is lurking nearby, making distracting noises. She hears footsteps, a slight rustle of clothing, and then the sound of a book being taken off a shelf. She looks across the room, but can't see anyone.
She returns to the dusty volumes, wishing for some kind of expert help. The filing system baffles her, assuming there is one. She suspects that the arrangement of the books is based more on whim than reason.
“Pardon me.”
The words are spoken in a rasping, dry voice. She looks up to see a man standing at the entrance to her bay.
“Oh, hi. Can I help you?” she asks.
The man is standing just outside the patch of light from the window. She can just make out the vague oval face above dark garments. White hair falls over a high, old-fashioned collar. The figure raises its arm and points to its right, back towards the entrance.
“Is the library closing already?” she asks, dismayed.
No way am I leaving! I've found nothing useful yet.
Again, the man doesn't speak, but instead turns and vanishes in the direction he pointed to.
Wow, sometimes this whole reserved Englishman thing is just downright creepy.
She gets up and walks around the bookshelves to her left, expecting to see the black-clad individual ahead of her. But there's nobody there. The library seems deserted. She takes a few more steps, looks into the next bay. It's empty, but she notices something odd. One of the books is protruding a few inches off a shelf. A sixth sense tells her to investigate, and she steps towards it and takes down the bulky volume. It's so heavy she almost drops it. It's also falling apart – as she places it clumsily onto the desk, a few pages escape and fall to the floor.
Rachel bends down to pick them up and scans them. She stops to look more closely when a few lines catch her eye. There's something familiar about them.
The king who waits in darkness
He does not sleep alone
Mark well, all men who trespass
To lay hands on the crown
It's obviously another verse from the old folk ballad the priest had quoted.
That's a lousy rhyme, but that's folk songs for you. And it's very specific about the crown being bad news. Touch it, and you're in trouble.
She sits down and spreads out five loose pages, all of which concern the history and folklore of the Suffolk coast. Much of what she reads confirms what Reverend Black's told her. But there's more, including a long-standing legend about the disaster that reduced Duncaster from a thriving port to a tiny village. That story is related to the darker side of the legend; one that says the grave was protected by three guardians or sentries. There is, inevitably, a verse about them, too,
Those watchers more than mortal
The men of knife and sword
The Sentinels of Redwald
Who swore to guard their lord
She moves on to another page. This is taken from the middle of a chapter, and she opens the huge book to replace the page. The chapter is entitled 'The Great Inundation'. She starts making notes as she paddles through a swamp of ripe Victorian prose.
While all authorities accept that in 1243 AD Duncaster was overwhelmed by the sea during a flood-tide, accounts vary as to what led to the failure of the town's sea defenses. Medieval accounts inevitably refer to divine wrath and point to the greed, dishonesty, and debauched lifestyles of the inhabitants.
Modern historians point to the inevitability of disaster, as the coast encroached on the coast around the town, thus making it ever more dependent on imperfect harbor walls. We do have what reasons to be a contemporary narrative of the tragedy, recorded by a monk of Norwich who visited the scene shortly after.
However, the fantastical embroidery of this tale reveals as much about the grotesque superstitions of our ancestors as it does about the real events of that fateful night…
***
William Warenne hurried through the moonlit streets, cursing his ill-luck. He'd thought that becoming a leading burgess of a thriving port would bring him some extra wealth, some social standing, and thus perhaps a better chance with Big Allysoun, the widow who owned the Greene Man. Instead, he found himself running around like a headless chicken most days, trying to stop his fellow townsfolk from behaving like idiots.
Tonight was an excellent case in point. He had barely undressed for bed when the bells had started ringing. First it was Saint Mark's, down by the sea-wall, then Saint Mark's nestling under the cliffs. By the time he'd put his clothes on, and found his shoes, Saint Michael's had started its loud chimes from the cliff-top across the great natural harbor.
William rushed down Water Street, heading for the watch-towers. It was of course possible that there had been a breach in the dam that protected the town from the ever-hungry sea. But it was unlikely to be a major affair. More probably, it was simply a case of a few high waves.
Full moons were annoying and it made him wonder if there wasn't something in astrology. He looked up at the great round face of the moon and swore at it. He stepped in so
mething unpleasantly soft, skidded a yard or so on the wet cobblestones, and cursed again.
The alarm bells were rousing the town. He could hear householders stirring, the sharp words of wives berating husbands, and the cries of excited children. Even the piercing squeal of domestic pigs as their cautious owners tried to urge the animals upstairs. Most folk would be sure it was another false alarm, he knew, but few would want to gamble on it. Every citizen of Duncaster was well aware that their town could be under several feet of water by sunrise.
William turned another corner of the winding way and suddenly found the way blocked. A group of people rushed out of the murk, running fast, and one struck him square in the face. Winded, and thrown off balance, he sat down heavily in the middle of the street.
A young man – not the one who'd collided with him – turned and helped William to his feet.
“Are you all right, good sir?”
He recognized the voice as the apprentice to a barrel maker, but couldn't recall the lad's name.
“In the name of God, what is this?”
“Good sir, they're saying it's the end of the world! That it is Noah's Flood come again, to drown us for all our sins!”
Now almost recovered, William slapped the youth on the side of his head.
“Don't talk daft, lad! We've had floods before, we'll have them again. Get back home, and see to your poor sainted mother.”
For a moment, the boy hesitated, but then panic reasserted itself and he ran off without another word.
“Bloody fool! The whole town's full of bloody fools,” muttered William to himself as he went on at a more cautious pace. He was almost within sight of the watch-towers now, his view of the sea-wall still blocked by the tall, close-packed houses that leaned inward and almost met above his head.
Then he stopped, head on one side. He could just make out, beneath the clangor of the bells, something else. It was the sound of a violent altercation, and he recognized at least one of the voices involved.
He made his way to the town square where stood the mayor's residence. A small crowd had gathered around three men, two of whom were berating the third. They were not quite at the daggers-drawn stage, not yet.
“What is this, good people?” shouted William. “Have you nothing better to do than bicker like apprentice boys at a fair?”
The mayor and the county sheriff turned to face him. He could see their frightened, angry faces in the dim light from nearby windows. The third man, he didn't know, but judging by his garb, was perhaps a scholar or merchant.
Sheriff Guy de Vere, a gaunt old campaigner, gestured at the stranger.
“This fool has put us all in mortal peril, Will! He's broken the old covenant.”
“Aye,” added the mayor. “He was caught trying to take ship for London. His life is forfeit!”
There were scattered cries of agreement from the small crowd. William could see that they were frightened and angry, and such a mob might do anything.
“What do you mean?” demanded William. He turned to the sheriff. “What is his crime? Is it so heinous that it cannot wait until after high tide?”
“Good sir, I pray!” the stranger broke in. His accent was unfamiliar to William.
“Let me go in peace and I will make no complaint when I return to London. I can see that you have a cooler head than these rural villains!”
The sheriff drew his dagger then, but William put a restraining hand on his friend's arm before asking, “What offense have you committed, fellow? Speak to the point, man! Time is wasting!”
“I have the king's own warrant to search for treasure,” said the stranger. William noticed a trace of accent – Gascon or perhaps Flemish? Then he realized what the word 'treasure' implied.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, man, say you haven't -”
Before he could finish, the foreigner had swept back his cloak to reveal something that gleamed richly in the poor light. There was a gasp as the onlookers drew back, partly in reverence for the crown, but also for fear it might touch them.
All knew the legend. To lay hands on the crown was death.
“I have a right to a share of all treasure found!” shouted the stranger. “None shall deprive me of what is mine by the law!”
“You dug it up,” said William in disbelief, in a voice too low to be heard above the now frantic ringing.
“No, it's not possible!” he cried. “What of the Sentinels? Do they slumber?”
The stranger raised his voice, trying to play to the crowd but straining to be heard above the bells, “By my great magical arts, I defeated the old ones, the guardians who watch! You have nothing to fear; the curse is lifted!”
Instead of admiration, there was a chorus of angry, frightened shouts.
“You bloody fool!” shouted William. “Your magic might have let you unearth it, but they won't let you take it away! You could have doomed us all!” William turned away from the little drama as Guy de Vere lunged at the stranger. Bloodshed mattered little at this stage. William started to run to landward, skidding and falling twice, each time rising again without a thought for his bruises.
He was at least half a mile from safety, and years of good living meant he was not a fast runner. As he neared his own house, William wondered if he would have time to rescue his books, his ermine robe, and his holy relic – a toenail of Saint Aloysius. Not that the latter seemed to be of much use, he reflected.
“The boats! The boats!”
“Our Blessed Lady, spare us!”
“For Christ's sake, launch the boats!”
Cries of panic were going up on all sides. At the same time, there was a new sound in William's ears, a persistent noise that rivaled that of the bells. Or had one of the churches stopped ringing? Saint Mark's, perhaps?
Then he recognized the sound that was growing louder by the second. It was the roaring of untamed water surging through narrow streets. William risked a look over his shoulder and was so appalled that he crashed into a parked wagon.
The wall of foam that swept towards him was no ordinary flood. Right before it overwhelmed him, William realized that the tidal surge had not merely over-topped the sea-wall but smashed it down. He felt a pang of regret at the death of his fine, if somewhat greedy and foolish, town. Then, in the split-second after the flood picked him up, but just before it flung him savagely against the side of his own warehouse, he found a little sorrow for himself.
Up on the cliffs, folk who lived in the newest-built houses of Duncaster, had assembled at the tolling of the bells, expecting to witness, at most, some minor flooding. Instead, they saw their town destroyed, and heard the pitiful cries of friends and relatives succumbing to the merciless sea. Here and there a boat was launched, only to be dashed against a building or capsized by the turbulent waves.
None could forget that terrible night, and in due course a monkish scribe would write an account of it for generations to come. The meticulous monk spoke to the handful of survivors, and to the other cliff-top witnesses. He duly recorded that the bells, of at least one submerged church, were heard ringing some hours after the disaster, perhaps due to the movements of the flood-tide. Thus, was born the legend of the ghostly bells. But there was another tale that he did not set down, as it had too much paganism about it for a man of God.
More than one of those who stood on the cliff-top on that dreadful night, claimed that they had seen men – or forms very like men – in the wild waters, beings who seemed unaffected by the turbulence of the sea. And one went so far as to claim that one of these figures was holding up high a crown that shone with a golden light, far brighter than the full moon.
“And what became of this wondrous crown?” asked the monk, trying not to scoff at rustic superstition.
“The Sentinels put it back where it belonged,” came the reply.
***
… And no matter how much the worthy friar questioned the townsfolk, he could get no more helpful answers than that.
Rachel's insti
nct for a good story – albeit one way outside her normal field – is roused by the mish-mash of 'evidence' about the medieval disaster. But what she lacks amongst all these legends are hard facts, something that might link the so-called 'Sentinels' with more modern events. Dusty old books are fine in their way, but there's a different kind of printed matter that might tell her more.
Rachel starts to replace the other stray pages in the book, then changes her mind and folds them carefully away in her purse. It's a minor theft, after all, and she can always mail them to the library when all this is over.
She hurries back to the main desk to ask the assistant about the newspaper archives.
The friendly young woman leads her via dimly-lit corridors to another part of the complex building.
Remembering the man who ushered her out, Rachel asks, “By the way, who's the old guy with the long white hair?”
The assistant looks baffled, then smiles, but doesn't answer.
“The one with the bad throat, wearing the suit out of the Ark?”
The assistant laughs out loud, startling Rachel.
“Oh, you don't catch me out with that one! Have you been talking to Mike or one of the others? Always trying to put the wind up me, they are.”
Rachel's puzzlement shows so clearly that the young woman becomes serious and lowers her voice.
“You mean you really did see him? Lots of people say they've seen old Bertie, of course. But I never thought dead people came back to haunt the place where they worked. I mean, would you?”
Rachel feels a chill wash over her.
“You're telling me I saw a ghost?”
Opening a door into a room lined with yet more shelves, the girl says, “Well, maybe. They say he was the first ever librarian, back in the old days. He's supposed to have dropped dead at his desk, and folks say he pops in now and again to make sure everything's in order. He even helps people find books they need! That's the story, anyhow, but I've never seen him. Now, here we are.”
Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1) Page 9
