Elegy for a Queen

by Margaret James

  Along the whole length of the trench, whoops of jubilation filled the air. Even the workmen driving piles into the land-fill stopped to listen, then came running over.

  Nobody had told her to stop digging, so Susannah trowelled on, revealing the surface of a flat grey stone, and realising only another human being could have put it there...

  ‘For God’s sake, moron!’ Snatching Susannah’s trowel, Janet glared round to make sure no one else was digging, either. ‘Anna, fetch my cameras. Suke, out of the trench.’

  Janet took her photographs, then knelt down to shave a smear of clay from the grey slab at which Susannah had been hacking.

  ‘Right, then,’ Janet said. ‘We need lots of photographs and drawings, and no one’s to remove another speck of earth until we’ve taken all the levels.

  ‘Anna, you do the photographs. Colour today, as well as black and white. Mike, Katie and Peter, get on with the recording. Suke, you won’t be any use, so go and put the kettle on.’

  ‘You found your buried treasure, love?’ asked a workman in a yellow helmet.

  ‘Let’s ‘ave a butcher’s ‘ook,’ added a labourer, stepping over the first tape at the north edge of the grid.

  ‘Get off my site!!’ cried Janet, and ran along the trench to head them off. ‘We’ve found some bits of masonry,’ she told them, as she propelled them off her territory. ‘No gold or silver, just some stones.’

  As Susannah boiled the kettle on the grime-encrusted stove in Mike’s old transit van, Janet came and stuck her head inside. ‘Make a few cheese rolls as well,’ she said. But then she smiled her most engaging smile. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sukey? Only you’re not experienced enough to be much use today.’

  When all the recording had been done, the photographs taken and the drawings made, the light was fading. The diggers crowded into the portacabin.

  ‘How old is it?’ Susannah asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Janet.

  ‘I’d say it was Roman,’ suggested Peter. ‘The mortar’s Roman, anyway – full of those little tile flecks, did you notice?’

  ‘Roman, with Norman stuff on top?’ asked Katie.

  ‘Well, the lower levels are definitely Roman.’ Mike lit a Marlboro. ‘But the higher courses aren’t the sort of thing I’ve seen on any Norman building.’

  ‘Suke, tell them about the stuff you found in the library,’ said Janet.’

  Susannah explained about the documents. ‘So if Earl Cenwulf did get buried here at Wellesley,’ she said, ‘perhaps we’ve found the church?’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Anna, beaming.

  ‘I think we’re jumping to conclusions,’ growled Mike.

  ‘We’ll find out more tomorrow.’ Janet drained her coffee. ‘Okay, guys – tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Suke, you get here when you can, and bring some doughnuts, eh?’

  * * * *

  When Susannah turned up at eleven the following morning, a lot more of the wall had been uncovered.

  ‘It’s second or third century,’ said Mike, as he took the cigarettes she’d brought him. ‘No later, anyway.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘This temple, villa – whatever we’ve got here – was built to last, by people who thought this province would belong to Rome for ever. Even the stones that wouldn’t have shown are worked. I mean, they’re cut and finished by a mason.

  ‘But if you come further down the trench, you can see some rougher work, which I would say is Saxon. The mortar’s muddy grey, not flecked with tile, as it would be if it were Roman. I’d guess this was a Saxon structure, raised on some convenient Roman footings.’

  ‘A stone-built church, then?’ asked Susannah.

  ‘More likely wood and stone. Of course, the wood has rotted.’ Mike lit a Marlboro. ‘So you can see why we keep detailed records – anything not properly logged is lost. Look out, here comes trouble.’

  ‘Watch it, ginger skiver. Hello, Suke!’ grinned Janet. ‘You brought the doughnuts? Great. Hey, isn’t this fantastic? We’re on to something really special here. Where’s the coffee, then? We’re almost out.’

  ‘I bought a couple of giant tins, from Marbury Cash and Carry. Mrs Harley at the Dean’s House let me have her card.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Janet. ‘Going to stay a while?’

  ‘Yes, if that’s all right with you? David’s gone to Dereham Place, so he won’t know I’m playing truant.’

  * * * *

  ‘How did you hurt your hand?’ asked David, at the library the following morning.

  ‘I cut it on some rubble.’ Susannah grinned at him. ‘I’ll keep it covered. I won’t bleed on the books.’

  ‘You’ve had a tetanus injection?’

  ‘I’m going for one next Friday.’

  Later on that morning, Gavin rang. ‘I’m going to be in Wolverhampton on the twenty-first,’ he said. ‘I’m on the team that’s doing a general audit at a factory there. Shall I call in and see you?’

  ‘Oh – yes, please do.’ Susannah said, and suddenly found her heart was pounding and her throat was dry. ‘If you come to Marbury one evening, I – I’ll give you dinner.’

  ‘Great,’ said Gavin, sounding pleased. ‘So how’s it going?’

  ‘I’m still working at the library, and I’m helping with the excavation.’

  ‘So it did get started, then. What have you found?’

  ‘Just some walls and stuff. Gavin, do you want to stay the night in Marbury?. There are a couple of guest rooms at the house, so I could ask if one is free.’

  ‘Er – no, don’t do that,’ said Gavin. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  * * * *

  Gavin stood and stared out of the window, angry with himself and with Susannah, because for one fantastic moment he’d thought she was coming on to him.

  From the Fraser Redman tower block, he could see for miles across the City. Now he considered opening a casement, stepping out on to a ledge, and letting himself float down on to the pavement, far below. If you’re in love, you float on air. It was a well-known fact.

  God, he didn’t want to feel like this! There were plenty of other attractive women, after all. He wanted his car back, too. It was inconvenient – not to say expensive – having to use the tube. But once he got Jemima back, he’d have no excuse to see Susannah.

  This lunch time, he decided, he’d go to the pub with Jack and the boys from Sales. He needed to put a fair few pints away.

  * * * *

  The minster clock was striking two when the front door of the library slammed, shaking the whole building, and Janet stormed into the office.

  ‘Jan?’ Susannah frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, Suke, it’s terrible!’ wailed Janet. ‘They’ve told us to get out!’

  ‘They’ve what?’ Susannah stared, astonished. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and make you some coffee.’

  ‘Got any gin?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no.’

  ‘I’ll bet this inebriate pansy has some hidden away.’ Janet glared at David.

  ‘Leave Dave alone,’ Susannah said, ‘and tell us what’s going on.’

  ‘Christ, they’re utter bastards.’ Janet produced a letter. ‘A messenger brought me this at one o’clock today.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘They know we’ve made discoveries that might be of value. But they wish to inform me that changes in their schedule must be made.

  ‘They want to lay the car park Tuesday week. They’ve closed the excavation site. We’ll be allowed back in on Monday morning, under supervision, to collect our things.’

  ‘Have you rung Gordon Clark?’ Susannah asked.

  ‘Of course I have,’ growled Janet, ‘but the bastard won’t come to the phone.’

  ‘We’ll go and see him, then.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let us in.’ Janet screwed the letter into a ball, then lobbed it at the bin.

  ‘I know, we could stage a sit-in,’ said Susannah.
/>   ‘They’d only call the police. I can’t afford to be arrested, I need to find another job. We can’t do anything, and they know it.’ Janet pointed to the Henry Codex lying on Susannah’s desk. ‘How are you getting on with all that stuff?’

  ‘I’m ploughing through it slowly. I’ve got some other things to show you, too. I’ll go and get my file.’

  Susannah ran upstairs. A minute later, she came down empty-handed. ‘I always leave my notes up there,’ she frowned. ‘David, have you got my yellow folder?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said David. ‘What was in it? ‘

  ‘Photocopies and notes on all the documents we’ve found.’

  ‘How very odd,’ said David. ‘Perhaps I ought to have a word with Francis. Just recently, we’ve had all sorts of people in and out – the men who fitted the humidifiers, and those chaps who did the plastering. Perhaps we need some more security.’

  ‘A few armed guards?’ suggested Janet. ‘Two or three Alsatians? The vetting of all staff by MI5? Suke, your don’t need your notes, you’ve got the stuff itself in front of you. What does it say?’

  Chapter 7

  ‘I think the scribe who wrote this out was copying several documents at once, and got them all mixed up,’ Susannah said.

  ‘But what’s the gist of it?’ asked Janet.

  ‘In 824 or 825 AD, the People of the Forest were attacked by Mercia, although they seem to have got on with the Mercians until then.’ Susannah shrugged. ‘The Maransaete weren’t a wealthy tribe, but they were famous for their skill in working metal. The scribe says that a broadsword made by Aelle, King Edgar Aldred’s smith, was worth five hundred mancuses of gold.’

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it sounds a lot. In Wessex, during Alfred’s reign, you could buy an ox for only one.’

  ‘So why did the Mercians attack them?’

  ‘Mercia was always waging wars, and war’s an expensive hobby, so the kings of Mercia must have been always strapped for cash. Perhaps they demanded tribute from the People of the Forest, in exchange for being left alone.’

  ‘The Maransaete paid?’

  ‘Yes, I expect they did.’

  ‘But then the demands became extortionate?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Susannah. ‘So the king – whose smiths made brilliant swords, remember – said he’d had enough. He wouldn’t pay the Mercians any more.’

  ‘The People of the Forest were attacked.’

  ‘Their king and his sons were killed.’

  ‘Leaving just one daughter, Aelwyn – who became their queen?’

  ‘Yes, possibly,’ said Susannah. ‘But rulers were elected in Anglo-Saxon England. Why would the thanes have voted for a woman?’

  ‘Perhaps they thought she’d do a decent job?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Susannah. ‘That’s where the other manuscript comes in. The queen that’s mentioned there seems to have seen off the enemy.’

  ‘Do you think she actually fought them, then?’ demanded Janet. ‘Did she wear armour, did she have a sword, like Joan of Arc?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Susannah. ‘When King Alfred’s daughter Aethelflaed married a Mercian nobleman, she became the Lady of the Mercians, and seems to have been involved in lots of military campaigns. We don’t know if she actually fought herself.’

  ‘But she might have done,’ said Janet. ‘Well, what happened next?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Susannah. ‘This document in the Henry Codex can only be a fragment.’

  ‘When you get going on the catalogues, you might turn up the rest of it.’

  ‘We might. But anyway, I shan’t give up. That first document we found, which said the queen had won a battle, talks about a nobleman called Cenred who has a servant, Ceada. This text from the Henry Codex says – where is it? –

  ‘The Maransaete took few prisoners. Like wolves coming down upon a sleeping fold, the warriors made great slaughter. In battle, Lord Raedwald was a fist of God, while Earl Cenred and his freedman Ceada fought like lions. But in times of peace, Earl Cenred was the mildest and most virtuous of princes, the gentlest of masters, and the very best of men.

  ‘Cenred, Ceada, Raedwald.’ Susannah tapped her pencil on her teeth. ‘Three ordinary Anglo-Saxon names, as common then as James or John today. But in both the documents, all three occur together. Ceada is Cenred’s freedman, or his servant, in each one. Coincidence?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘But it’s most unlikely.’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ nodded Janet. ‘I reckon you’re on to something there.’

  ‘What’s the time?’ demanded David, suddenly.

  ‘Three-ish,’ said Janet. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve got a visitor coming this afternoon. A chap called Julius Greenwood. He’s a world authority on Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, and he wants to look at some of ours.’

  ‘Julius Greenwood?’ Susannah thought she’d heard the name before, but couldn’t remember when or where.

  ‘He knows our friend George Fenton,’ went on David, ‘but he’s from Oxford, he’s a fellow of All Souls. George has been telling him about our finds, and so he ‘s coming over to see them for himself. He’ll be here about four, I think he said.’

  ‘I’ll clear off, then,’ said Janet. ‘I know I make the place untidy.’

  ‘You said it, sweetheart,’ murmured David.

  ‘See you, Suke.’ Janet picked up her jacket. ‘In the Lamb tonight? Well, guys – have fun with the professor.’

  * * * *

  Professor Julius Greenwood arrived at the Abbot’s Library at four o’clock precisely, in a big, black car driven by a man in chauffeur’s uniform, who parked on double yellow lines outside.

  A tall, gaunt, elderly gentleman, he wore a cloak of fine black worsted, silk bow tie, and broad-brimmed hat. He swept this off to reveal a copious mane of iron-grey hair.

  After introductions, he sat down in David’s chair and smiled at Susannah. ‘My dear young lady,’ he began, in a strong German accent, ‘I’ve heard great things of you! I hope you’re going to tell me about all these exciting discoveries you have made?’

  Susannah told him what they’d found. ‘Now may I see the documents?’ he asked.

  David spread them out in front of him.

  ‘Always there are connections,’ Julius Greenwood murmured, as he scanned the manuscripts. ‘Nothing ever exists in isolation. Now this section here, for example – where the fellow tells us that Christ and his angels slept. Well, Dr Linton?’

  ‘What about it?’ David frowned.

  ‘Dr Linton, a scholar like you should have the Chronicle at his fingertips!’ Julius Greenwood smiled up at Susannah. ‘You tell him, child.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor Greenwood. I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Then for both of you, here is a task!’ cried Julius Greenwood. ‘Read one version of the Chronicle from start to finish, in Anglo-Saxon, preferably.’ He glanced towards Susannah’s desk. ‘I observe you have the Everyman translation. May I see it?’

  Feeling like a conjurer’s assistant, Susannah handed him the book. Julius Greenwood didn’t open it, but passed it on to David, who received it like communion from a priest.

  ‘We are in 1137,’ Professor Greenwood said. ‘England is in the grip of civil war, Stephen the king is weak and powerless, and his barons torture, burn and plunder at their pleasure. Times are so hard and life so difficult for the common man that the chronicler tells us Christ and his saints slept.’

  ‘So he does,’ said David. ‘So the chronicler might have known our text?’

  ‘That’s possible.’ Julius looked up at Susannah. ‘My dear young lady, what do you have to say?’

  ‘Or it might have been a sort of proverb?

  ‘Maybe.’ Julius Greenwood stroked his chin. ‘So you have seen it many times before?’

  ‘Er – no. The chronicler might have known our text.’ Susannah felt a prickle of excitement. ‘I’ll read
right through the Chronicle,’ she said, ‘then I’ll go over all our documents. There might be something else – ‘

  ‘Indeed there might,’ said Julius, calmly. ‘Dr Linton, I came to see the treasures of this place…’

  * * * *

  Susannah spent the evening in the Lamb with Janet and the other diggers, wishing an awful death on Gordon Clark.

  ‘You girls could offer him your lovely bodies,’ suggested Mike. ‘Then he might change his mind.’

  ‘Why can’t we get an injunction?’ asked Susannah. ‘He’s destroying an ancient monument, isn’t he? Surely there must be laws?’

  ‘Oh, there are,’ said Mike. ‘But we can’t afford a bloody lawyer. Problem, eh?’

  ‘Suke, you’re looking tired,’ said Janet, as she brought another round of drinks back to the table. ‘David must be working you too hard.’

  ‘I’m just not sleeping very well.’ Susannah yawned, and managed a faint smile.

  But she was dreading going to bed tonight. As soon as she closed her eyes, she knew she’d see them, hear their screams. She’d smell the smoke and feel the heat of the flames, and there’d be nothing she could do to help. They’d still be burned alive.

  These days, she dreamed of Gavin Hunter, too. But she dreamed of Gavin wounded, blood-stained, his left arm hanging useless by his side, his dark hair slick with blood. Worse than that, she often dreamed they were embracing, kissing…

  She decided to get very drunk tonight.

  Chapter 8

  Susannah spent Monday morning in the book stacks, looking for information about the People of the Forest.

  When had all these documents been bound, she wondered. Who had done the work? Probably local tradesmen. Some time in the past, the Parker family had scooped up everything their ancestor had managed to spirit out of the minster’s library, and had it bound in manageable volumes, with no thought given to content, let alone to continuity.

  ‘Do you think it’s worth looking?’ she asked David, who’d come upstairs to see what she was doing.

  ‘It’s worth finding what we have up here.’ David grimaced at Susannah’s filthy hands. ‘My predecessor was a charming chap, but he was no scholar. He couldn’t tell Anglo-Saxon from Chinese. As for those old catalogues – ‘