Alfie, however, was nervous. This trip to York had been the Lord Chamberlain’s idea.
“We can’t just sit back and wait for this band of Viking brigands to strike again!” LC had said earlier, gazing at the ops table in the Keep, deep in thought. “We must take the battle to them.”
Reports of possible supernatural activity had trickled in from Burgh Keepers all over the country and there was one good lead: the York burgh had come back with a faint reading at the edge of the Humber estuary where the Rivers Ouse and Trent ran into the North Sea. It could just mean that Guthrum’s longship had passed that way as it travelled south from Lindisfarne. Or it could mean that the Vikings had put ashore and gone to ground, lying low somewhere inland.
“The City of York was founded by the Vikings. They used it as a base from which to launch their invasion against Alfred the Great all those years ago,” LC said.
By now Alfie was used to hearing tales of his namesake’s glorious reign – the first and greatest British monarch. Personally, Alfie thought he’d settle for getting into the top forty.
“If the raid at Lindisfarne is anything to go by,” continued LC, “then these undead monsters have long memories; they might be drawn to familiar surroundings. York is as good a place as any to start a Viking hunt.”
The plan was to use the cover of a royal visit to the city to see if they could flush them out. Alfie was going to open a new exhibit at the Jorvik Viking Centre, the popular attraction where hordes of tourists every year got a taste of what it was like to live in a Viking settlement a thousand years ago. For once, Alfie had congratulated LC on his sense of humour, though the old man swore it was a coincidence. Meanwhile, Hayley would get out and about in the city with a portable sortilegic meter and see if she could pick up any supernatural readings. At first, the Lord Chamberlain had been against her going on the trip at all. He didn’t see any reason to risk her being spotted by the authorities. But seeing how fed up Hayley was, Alfie had insisted she come along; a break from the Keep would do her good.
Prime Minister Thorn had said she was delighted to hear that the young king had taken up her suggestion to get out there into the country and meet his subjects. Although the second she had put down the phone to the palace, she’d quipped to one of her advisors, “Be a nice change for him to see what it’s like to work for a living.”
On the train, Brian opened the long leather case at his feet and checked its contents. Nestled in the silk-lined interior was the Shroud Tunic, along with a selection of the regalia – the Great Sword of State, the sceptres and spurs. Alfie was already wearing the Ring of Command.
“Now, remember, boss, when we get there, it’s business as usual. Shake a few hands, bit of small talk. But if anything does kick off Viking-wise, then we have everything we need right here.”
Satisfied, Brian closed the case and handed it over to two Yeoman Warders, who were dressed in dark suits that looked a size too small for them.
“Oh, and if it’s not too much bother,” continued Brian, “try to look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
Alfie sighed. “I’ll do my best.”
As the train pulled into York station, Hayley leant across, straightened Alfie’s tie and punched him on the arm. “Good luck. Don’t mess up too much.”
“Thanks. You too.” Alfie laughed. Then, imitating Brian’s gruff voice, he added, “You ain’t here, remember.”
Hayley flashed her first genuine smile of the day.
A welcoming party of dignitaries was waiting at the station to greet the king. Alfie worked his way down the line, mustering a few polite words for each one. Judging by the lobster-pink colour of some of their bald heads, they’d been waiting in the sun for a while. It still seemed weird to him that anyone would want to meet him in person. What were they expecting? He was just a fourteen-year-old boy. But as LC always reminded him, “It is not you they have come to see, Majesty. It is the Crown.” And no, he didn’t mean that Alfie was expected to stroll about wearing a crown (which was a relief – those things weigh a ton). He meant the institution of the monarchy; Alfie himself wasn’t important, it was what he represented that mattered. Alfie couldn’t decide whether that was a compliment or not, but it sort of helped him understand why these people four times his age were so interested in clapping eyes on him.
Hayley, meanwhile, pulled up her hood and slipped off the rear carriage, unnoticed. She darted past the station entrance and hopped on to a waiting bus. The doors closed with a hiss and the bus moved forward, but suddenly lurched to a halt again as two police motorbikes swerved in front of it. Hayley’s heart raced – had she been rumbled already? But then a fleet of black cars rushed out of the station car park ahead of them, and the police riders moved off. They had just been waiting for the royal visitor to depart. The old woman sitting next to Hayley tutted.
“Flippin’ ’eck, why should we wait for the likes of him? Lad don’t do ’owt for us!” she grumbled in a thick Yorkshire accent.
Hayley smiled to herself; she’d tease Alfie about that one later. The bus set off, carrying them over a bridge into the half-timbered heart of old York. She could see the grand towers of the cathedral York Minster ahead as they passed by the medieval walls that still ringed much of the city centre. Minutes later Hayley stepped off the bus and checked her watch. She was under strict instructions to carry out her recce and be back on the train in two hours, or she risked being left behind. That wouldn’t be a disaster, but this was the first solo field operation she had been entrusted with, and she wanted to show she could be relied on.
Making sure that she wasn’t being watched, Hayley felt inside her hoodie pocket for the little brass box she was carrying. Brian had given her the mobile sortilegic meter on the train and told her to practise using it without looking, so that she wouldn’t have to walk around with it in plain sight. It was much lighter and more compact than the ones stationed at each of the burghs. Brian had showed her how to flip the box open, exposing the delicate filament.
“The insides are fragile,” he’d said. “Another good reason to keep it in your pocket.”
“How does it work?” Hayley had asked.
Brian had shrugged. “Above my pay grade. Some sort of ancient magic thingamajig, I expect.”
“Useful. Thanks.”
Brian had scowled and continued. “The alarm’s been muted, but it’ll vibrate like the clappers if it picks up supernatural activity. These mobile jobs have a much shorter range. So you’ll need to get quite close before it clocks anything. Best keep sharp.”
The last thing the bodyguard had told her was to stick to the oldest parts of the city. LC’s theory was that Guthrum and his undead men would feel most comfortable near familiar surroundings, so the older the better. Scanning the cobbled streets around her, Hayley figured that wouldn’t be too hard; she’d never seen so many ancient buildings in one place. She flipped the box open inside her pocket, being careful not to touch the filament. The brass under her fingers seemed to warm up a little as the meter went to work.
A tour guide in a fluorescent yellow jacket, brandishing a closed golfing umbrella in the air, bustled past Hayley, followed by a gaggle of camera-wielding tourists. Stopping at the bottom of the steps that led up on to the old city wall, the guide turned to address her group in a shrill voice.
“The so-called Roman walls which surround York were actually mainly built by the Danes after they occupied the city in the year 867. So those Viking scoundrels weren’t all bad!”
The tour guide snorted at her own joke. I bet she wouldn’t say that if she met a real one, thought Hayley, falling in at the back as they headed off along the wall’s walkway. She knew she probably wouldn’t find anything, but the change of scene was doing her good – she was going to enjoy this, her first real-life monster hunt.
Alfie, meanwhile, was not having half as much fun. He was face-to-face with an ugly, snarling Viking. Luckily it was only a waxwork figure inside the replica Viking-age village at
the Jorvik Centre. He was being shown round by the head curator, a bubbly lady wearing her best lilac pashmina and bright red lipstick that didn’t match. They had stopped by a pretend blacksmith’s, where the Viking model was waiting for his axe to be sharpened. She had just told Alfie at length how every part of the exhibit was the result of extensive research by a team of archaeologists, and was now staring at him with a rather overexcited smile. Brian arched an eyebrow at Alfie. Apparently he was expected to say something intelligent about what he’d just been told. He wracked his brain, but it was difficult to think, what with the pungent smell that seemed to fill the windowless room.
“Where are his horns then?” Alfie asked. “You know, on his helmet. Are they being sharpened too?”
The curator winced.
“Actually real Vikings did not have horns on their helmets, Your Majesty. That’s just, er, in the movies.”
Brian chuckled, then coughed to cover it up. Alfie could have kicked himself. He should have remembered Vikings didn’t have horns on their helmets seeing as he’d met a bunch of them only the other night. They walked on through the village exhibit, passing actors dressed as peasants doing their best to carry on with their medieval chores and pretend they hadn’t noticed the royal visitor.
“We like to think we give our visitors a real flavour of what life under the Vikings was like,” continued the curator. “Even down to the authentic smells.”
“Oh, that’s deliberate, is it?” said Alfie. “I thought there was a problem with the loos.” Awkward laughter rippled through the party. “Although real Vikings smell a bit fishier, if you ask me… Er, that is, I imagine they did. Probably. How would I know, right?” Alfie could feel his face going red.
“Yes, well, we’re so honoured that you came, Your Majesty,” stuttered the curator. “Especially after the dreadful floods last year.”
“I don’t expect they minded though,” laughed Alfie, nodding at a couple of actors dressed as Vikings. “Like a bit of water, don’t they?”
The curator’s face fell. “The flood damage was terrible. We were closed for six months.”
Alfie gulped and shot a glance at Brian that seemed to say, Help! Get me out of here!
Meanwhile, Hayley was in real trouble.
“Hey, you’re not part of my group!” the guide shouted, pushing her way through the startled tourists as she made a beeline for the shifty-looking girl loitering at the back. Hayley gripped on to the sortilegic meter inside her pocket and ran down the nearest set of steps leading off the high city walls.
“Sorry!” she called back. “Great tour, though!”
Hayley didn’t stop running till she’d passed beneath a low archway and found herself on a narrow, cobbled street. A plaque outside a quaint butcher’s shop told her that this was the Shambles, a street so old it was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086. With its Tudor houses and overhanging timber beams, it certainly didn’t look to have changed much since medieval times. The only thing that looked modern about it was the throng of tourists from all corners of the world shuffling along its uneven pavements. As Hayley reached the end of the little street, she could see the royal convoy parked outside the Jorvik Centre at the end of the road. Hayley wondered how Alfie was getting on and wished she had something more exciting than a run-in with an irate tour guide to tell him about on the journey home.
Buzz.
Hayley stopped walking. Was that her phone? Or— BUZZ! She shot both hands into her pocket and gripped the meter. It was still, but she was sure she’d felt it move. She turned around on the spot, trying to find whatever might have sparked the meter into life. The faintest flutter passed under her fingers and she froze again. Ahead of her was the dark mouth of a tiny passageway between two shops. She stepped towards it and the meter buzzed ever so slightly once more. Steeling herself, Hayley squeezed into the passageway. The gap between the buildings was so narrow that little light reached the ground and she had to sidle along, her back against one wall, hands locked around the box in her pocket. A little further along, Hayley was relieved as the passage opened out into a small courtyard filled with old wooden crates and leaking bin bags. The meter hadn’t vibrated again. It must have been a false alarm, some trace speck of supernatural matter left in the walls of the ancient city.
Disappointed, she closed the meter box and turned back, but from nowhere a giant of a man loomed over her! Hayley just had time to clock the shaggy beard, fur-lined armour and wide sword in his hands before her instincts kicked in. She jammed one leg in front of the Viking’s and yanked on his sword arm, using his own weight to topple him over on to his face. The brute’s outraged grunt of pain was drowned out by the yells of two more shaggy-haired figures who came tearing out of a dark corner towards her. Hayley grabbed a broken plank hanging from a nearby crate and cracked it into her first attacker’s shins, sending him flying. The last man grabbed her sleeve, but she pulled the hoodie over her head and twisted out of it, then delivered a sharp jab to his throat with the heel of her hand, sending him crumpling to the ground next to his friends. Pulse racing, Hayley spun round, checking if there were any more, but that seemed to be the lot. She was proud of herself – that would teach them to mess with Hayley Hicks, Keeper of the King’s Arrows!
“I THINK SHE BROKE MY NOSE, STANLEY! IT REALLY HURTS!” yelled one of the figures writhing in pain on the ground.
One of the others was holding his shins and crying. The third was looking aghast at the pieces of a crushed mobile phone cradled in his hands.
Hayley didn’t know that much about Vikings, but she was pretty sure they weren’t cry-babies. Nor did she think they had mobiles, and she seriously doubted there were many called “Stanley”. Hayley caught her breath and focused properly on the courtyard. In the corner where her “attackers” had been lurking, Tupperware boxes had fallen to the floor, scattering ham sandwiches and cheese-and-onion crisps. And now she looked back at the men who were lying in a heap at her feet, she could see that their “armour” was clearly fake and their swords were wooden.
“Who are you?” she asked, fearing she already knew the answer.
“We’re ACTORS!” barked one of the two not called Stanley. “We work at the Jorvik Centre! What did you think we were, Vikings?!”
One-hundred-and-thirty miles south, in another city of medieval spires, rain was falling from billowing, putrid purple-black clouds that had gathered with alarming speed. Like York, Cambridge had been an important trading post for the Viking invaders hundreds of years ago. Like York, it was still popular with tourists who flocked to see the grand, ancient buildings of the world-famous university. But unlike York, Cambridge was about to find itself under attack.
Students hurried to park bicycles outside colleges and libraries as they fled the ferocious downpour. Tour parties grappled against the rising wind to unfold matching waterproof ponchos. Young couples who had thought this was a good day for a punt on the river struggled to control their boats, buffeted by the suddenly choppy waters.
The first scream came from a young woman who spotted the dark shadow of the Viking longship’s prow break the surface of the water behind her boyfriend, who abandoned their boat (and her) and swam for it. Thunder bellowed and lightning crackled as Guthrum’s rotting boots hit the mud. At first people stared, not comprehending what they were seeing. But as the Viking warlord raised his axe and roared his battle cry, green algae dripping from his tangled beard, they understood. Something foul and dead and evil had come to Cambridge. It was time to run.
Deep below the Tower of London, alarm bells were ringing. The Lord Chamberlain hurried to the ops table.
“Cambridge, sir!” Yeoman Box yelled.
On the east side of the map the city’s burgh light was flashing. LC saw that his theory about the Vikings sticking to places they remembered had been right. He’d just picked the wrong city. He turned to the Chief Yeoman Warder, his face lined with worry. “Where is His Majesty?”
In the Jorvik museum, Bria
n held his finger to his earpiece, his stony face giving away nothing about the urgent message he was receiving from the Keep. Calmly he approached the curator, who was showing Alfie a wall of pictures drawn by young visitors to the centre.
“His Majesty would like to use the facilities,” said Brian.
Alfie was confused. He hadn’t said anything about needing the loo. “Would I?”
Brian’s look told him he should agree.
“Um, yeah, better safe than, er, sorry,” said Alfie. “Lead on!”
The curator smiled uncertainly. “Of course,” she said.
“Last stall on the left,” whispered Brian as he escorted Alfie to the toilets and stood guard outside.
The toilets were empty and spotlessly clean. Someone had even put out a pile of fresh towels in case their royal visitor preferred them to the hand dryers. Pots of lavender were strategically placed on every surface. Unsure what to expect, Alfie eased open the door to the furthest stall and peeked inside. The leather regalia trunk was propped up on the toilet. A note taped to it read: Fly to Cambridge. W knows the way. Good luck. A smiley face had been added beneath, which Alfie thought was a nice touch. He rubbed his chin. Suddenly listening to the curator’s small talk didn’t seem such a bad way to spend the day.
“Oh, well,” he said to himself, opening the box and pulling out the Shroud Tunic. “Duty calls.”
Getting out of the toilet window wearing his full Defender armour proved quite a squeeze. Note to self: windows first, armour second, thought Alfie as he tumbled on to the gravel path outside. Luckily no one was around. No doubt Brian had seen to it that this particular exit was kept well clear of prying eyes. Alfie thought, Spurs, and Wyvern materialized beneath him and whinnied.
Dark Age Page 7
