Susannah leafed through all the stuff. There were some letters dating from the eighteenth century, a Victorian album – and a very much older page of manuscript, which might have been torn out of a codex.
One more of the first Francis Parker’s brands saved from the burning, rescued from the wicked bonfires of the Reformation? If so, Mrs Trueman would get a nice surprise. The library would give her a few hundred pounds for that.
There were whispers, rustlings, tappings coming from the gallery upstairs. Beorn and all the others must be playing hide and seek. Or, as Gavin would have said, the timber frame of the old place was creaking in the wind.
Gavin – no, she mustn’t think of him.
As Susannah smoothed the grubby vellum, her heart began to beat a little faster and her pulse began to race. Something about it looked very familiar. She soon realised why. The script was clear and elegant, and she’d seen it before.
She went across to the filing cabinet and took out the folder that contained her copy of The Lady and the Counsellor, the manuscript from the Bodleian that Julius had shown her weeks ago. She laid the documents side by side.
Both were copies of Saxon texts, and both were written in the same neat, careful, monkish hand.
There was more rustling upstairs. Then there were swishing sounds, as if rough woollen robes were brushing against the bare stone walls. Flat-footed sandalled feet came pattering down the spiral stairs.
‘Ceola? Aescwin?’ Susannah felt them crowding round her, poring over the stained and tattered vellum on her desk. She heard them whispering to each other, and murmuring urgently. A magnet seemed to draw her eyes along the lines of text, and down the scuffed, grey page.
‘All right, all right, I’m doing my best,’ she said. ‘I think it’s just a part of a gospel, possibly St Luke’s. But listen, I’m really grateful to you all. Thank you for helping me.’
She was still sitting at her desk, still reading, when David came back from an auction at a local dealer’s, and asked why she was working in the dark.
Chapter 23
David switched on a lamp, then had a look at what had been in Mrs Trueman’s parcel. ‘This isn’t very well preserved,’ he said, picking up the single sheet of vellum in a white-gloved hand.
He shook his head and sighed. ‘When I think of all the stuff people tore up or burned during the blasted Dissolution, I just want to howl! Why do we remember Henry Tudor as a decent sort of chap?’
‘He didn’t put up with being messing about,’ replied Susannah. ‘Henry decided what he wanted, gave the orders, got the whole thing sorted. Then he blamed someone else if it went wrong. The English always like the man in charge to be decisive.’
‘Even if he’s a cruel, rapacious swine?’
‘The English love a cruel, rapacious swine.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. That might explain the dubious appeal of our government today.’ David sat down beside Susannah. ‘Well, come on, then. Tell me what it says.’
‘This first bit is the last few lines of something from St Luke, and then there are some prayers. Lord, we have sinned grievously, our hearts are black as darkness, cleanse us, Lord – that sort of thing.’
‘But that’s not all?’
‘No, there’s plenty more.’ Susannah beamed at him. ‘This next part must have been added later, just to fill up the page. It’s notes and jottings, really. Anyway – the lady was wise beyond her tender years, and women’s tricks and fancies did not beguile her days. Instead, she walked among the hearth companions, and she saw into the hearts of men. I can’t read the next bit.’
‘Thanks to the muck and dirt and rats and mice – and what’s this, chicken shit?’
‘Perhaps, but all this next part’s clean, and I can read it easily. The lady stood before them in her war gear. Her helmet was boar-crested, bright and burnished. Her chainmail, cunningly fashioned by the craftiest of smiths, stole light from the fire and shone. The lady’s eyes were on them, and none dared look away. She smiled, and each man knew his worth.’
‘Some said she was inspired by God, and truly I have heard she was a saint. I think that word is saint, at any rate.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said David. ‘Early Christianity encouraged holy war.’
‘That was one of its attractions for the Anglo-Saxons, I suppose? They loved a punch up, and if God was on their side, so much the better?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said David. ‘What comes next?’
‘The host that came against the queen was slain, and she thanked God for her great victory. She summoned all her women, and they took off their war gear, and sent for women’s clothes. Victory-blest, the lady led her followers to the mead-hall, and there was great rejoicing.’
The phone rang then, pealing in the darkness of Dora’s little office. David went to answer it. ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said, his blue eyes bright and dancing, although there was a tremor in his voice. ‘F-francis wants to see me.’
‘You get off then,’ said Susannah, for it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get away.
‘Lock up properly, won’t you?’ David buttoned himself into his coat and wound his scarf around his neck. ‘Set the alarms and lock the windows, right?’
‘Yes, don’t worry, off you go. ‘ Susannah smiled. ‘Good night.’
She turned back to the text, and saw the next bit was in verse.
She took the far-famed warrior to one side
She said, you have great anger in your heart
You wish to protect your lady.
But God alone decides who lives, who dies
The traitor sold his soul for gold
We are in great danger and our foes are fierce as wolves
But with the help of God and of our blessed patron saints
We shall again defeat this host.
Beloved, my best of friends, keep faith with me.
Susannah frowned. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d suddenly thought of Gavin. There was someone else who had great anger in his heart, and he had wanted to protect his lady.
In letting Gavin go, she knew she’d made a huge mistake, and what she really wanted now – apart from to have Gavin there and for everything to be all right again – was to have a good, cathartic cry.
Instead, she blinked and rubbed her eyes, then went on with her work. Spotting and foxing made the text extremely hard to read. She had to skip a bit. She persevered, but when she finally realised what the next part said, she almost wished she hadn’t bothered.
The queen had many dreadful wounds, she read. One arm hung broken by a shield thrust, so her sword no longer bit the foe. Blood poured from her side, for here an enemy spear had pierced her flesh.
Susannah shuddered. She didn’t really want to read the rest, which she guessed would go into all the horrid details of the lady’s suffering, and – most probably – the lady’s death.
But then, she shook herself and carried on. As Gavin had said, what did it bloody matter? The Lady of the Maransaete had been dead and buried for at least a thousand years.
The Maran thanes fought bravely, she translated. They cut down all their enemies just as the scythe cuts down the standing corn. They made their lady smile. A joyful gladness filled her heart.
But then, her war-mood changed. Although her wounds were terrible, and she was growing weary, she grasped her sword again in her left hand. In her fury, she left the protection of her hearth companions. She found the hateful traitor and she called him to account. He turned his blade upon her but, more horrible than this, King Beornwulf himself attacked her now. The flat of his sword fell on her, broke her jaw.
Susannah stared down at the sheet of vellum. Although the text was legible, there was no way she could read it, for tears had filled her eyes. She let them roll unheeded down her face, and splash on to her desk.
She cried until she had no tears left. But although she now felt tired and drained, she also felt at peace. She went to cloakroom, washed her face, then read t
he rest of the document with ease.
It was fairly obvious what had happened. In the spring of 825 or possibly 826, the Maransaete were attacked by Beornwulf, King of Mercia. At first, they’d seen their enemies off, and the queen rewarded all her thanes with land and gold.
But someone had been slighted, or thought he had been wronged, so he’d gone over to the other side. Earl Raedwald – for somehow Susannah knew it had been somebody called Raedwald, although she had no idea how she knew – had betrayed his lady.
So the Mercians came back again. The queen put on her war gear, and led her army out to meet the foe.
Susannah closed her eyes, imagined it. Aelwyn was Lady of the Maransaete so, as tribal etiquette demanded, she had to lead her army into battle. But the sovereign’s life was very precious, and it was the duty of her household thanes to keep her safe, protecting her with their own bodies, risking their own lives. It would have been a terrible disgrace for any hearth companion to survive the killing of the queen.
But instead of letting them protect her, Aelwyn had left her hearth companions on the battle field, and gone to seek her enemy alone.
She had been so little, thought Susannah. Raedwald and Beornwulf, on the other hand, had probably been giants among men. So had Aelwyn’s other, loyal thanes. If she had only stayed with them, with the people who had sworn to guard her with their lives, she might not have died.
‘Why did you do it?’ Susannah asked, aloud. ‘What did you need to prove?’
But she knew the answer. The lady had been wronged. She had a score to settle, and she had to settle it herself. But she had been a fool. She’d thrown her life away. So, instead of saving it, she had condemned her tribe.
Susannah sighed, then glanced towards the staircase. The murmurings and rustlings were audible again, and disembodied voices were whispering in her ears.
‘All right,’ she cried, ‘stop nagging me, I’ll do it!’ She seized a sheet of blank white paper, then began to write.
Chapter 24
Gavin sat at his cluttered desk, stabbing at his calculator, plotting figures on a progress chart, glad to have a boring job to occupy his mind.
The letter sat there, mocking him. It had come this morning, and he’d thrown it straight into the bin. But then, before he’d left for work, he’d fished it out again. Now it lay on his desk, unopened, like an unexploded bomb.
It was coffee time, and everyone in the office Gavin shared with half a dozen other trainee engineers had gone into the corridor, to gossip round the drinks machines or have a furtive fag. Gavin saw his fingers edge towards the tea-stained, grubby envelope. He watched them open it, and then take out the single sheet inside.
It would be the usual kind of thing, the sort of slush he’d sometimes got from other girls who’d dumped him, then later changed their minds.
Or, much more embarrassing, from girls he’d sort of dumped, from girls who’d bored him stupid, from girls for whom he’d been too cowardly to spell it out, because they always argued, or – much worse – they cried.
Well, Susannah needn’t think that he’d come crawling back. Who needed all that grief? He wasn’t into masochism, there were other women, and when he was feeling better he would find another girl. When his heart had mended, he’d be back in circulation, and no one would ever hurt him as Susannah had again.
‘Dear Gavin,’ wrote Susannah, ‘I hope you’re well and getting to grips with the new job. I can’t imagine you working in an office. I think of you as a student, I suppose, in jeans and trainers, and that seriously tragic orange vest.’
Yeah, thought Gavin ruefully, that vest had been a style disaster. He wouldn’t wear it now.
‘I’m sorry I was so horrible to you. I’ve no excuse except that I was tired that weekend. I didn’t mean half of what I said that Saturday afternoon, and I hope you’ve forgotten all of it.’
Gavin frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected, for as far as grovelling and self-abasement went, he’d recently heard better from his flatmates when they’d pinched his cornflakes, and let a drunken mate borrow his bed.
Perhaps Susannah meant to save the heavy stuff for last, as girls so often did. But it turned out she didn’t, for the rest was about that Greenwood creep.
‘I’m worried about Julius,’ she said. ‘He’s been gone for more than three weeks now. We haven’t known each other long, but I think he’s fond of me, and I can’t believe he’d leave the country, or whatever, and not let me know.
‘Gavin, I know you think he’s weird. All the same, I think we ought to talk to him – both of us, I mean. But first we have to find him.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing right now, so rather than suggest we meet on a particular day, I’ll wait for you to phone me.
‘All my love, Susannah.’
He turned the paper over. But there was no wheedling little postscript, no drawing of a teddy bear or flower or smiley face, no silly, girly rubbish of any kind.
I’ll wait for you to phone me. Gavin scowled. She could wait forever. He screwed the letter into a ball, and then he lobbed it at the bin. He went back to his chart.
But thirty seconds later, he was on the phone.
* * * *
Susannah must have been lurking by the telephone, he decided, because she answered on the second ring. ‘Hello, Gavin.’ She sounded breathless. ‘How are you? All right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Two can play at this game, Gavin thought bitterly. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘So what’s all this crap about that stupid Greenwood sod?’
‘I just think we should see him.’ Then Susannah began to ramble on about Julius being a very frail old man, somebody she liked a lot, and –
‘Go to the police, then,’ Gavin interrupted. ‘Or the Salvation Army, they deal with missing persons.’
‘Gavin, I couldn’t go to the police!’ Susannah sounded horrified. ‘What if he had something to do with the treasure going missing?’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear you’re finally coming round to that.’ Gavin felt a sort of satisfaction. ‘I’m sure the fuzz would love to hear what happened last December, and how you’ve been since then. We know that old bugger poisoned you – ‘
‘Gavin, we don’t know that!’
‘We don’t know if the sun will rise tomorrow,’ muttered Gavin. ‘But I’d bet on it.’
‘Gavin, please! We need to sort this out, that’s why I’m asking you – ‘
‘Yeah, okay, all right.’ To his surprise, Gavin heard himself agree to help her look for bloody Julius Greenwood. ‘What do you want me to do, then? Come and meet you in Oxford?’
‘I’m sure he’s not in Oxford. But could you come to Marbury this weekend?’
‘I suppose I might.’ God, he thought, Susannah was so transparent! She was really desperate to see him, he could hear it in her voice, but she would sooner die than tell him so. ‘Why don’t you ask Sir Alec to help you?’
‘I don’t trust Sir Alec.’
‘Why, what’s he done to you? Or are we talking good old female intuition here?’
‘Try not to be so patronising, Gavin. When can you come to Marbury?’
‘On Friday evening,’ Gavin heard himself reply.
‘W-will you stay at my place? You could have the guest room.’
‘Perhaps I’d better stay in a hotel.’ Gavin had victory in his sights, and very nice it looked. ‘I’ll book the Copper Beech. I’ll put it on expenses.’
‘As you wish,’ agreed Susannah meekly. But then, before he could hang up on her, she hung up on him.
Gavin tapped a biro on his teeth. Susannah was probably right not to trust Alec Fletcher. You only had to look at him to see he was a shifty little bastard. Recently, all sorts of rumours had been going round about his various business ventures, and it was a miracle that he remained in office. If half the stories Gavin had heard were true, the bugger ought to be in Wormwood Scrubs.
As for finding J
ulius – Gavin didn’t give a monkey’s fuck about Professor Greenwood, but he would have liked to hold him down and make him say what he had given Susannah that afternoon. It was no thanks to Julius that Gavin still had balls.
* * * *
Gavin aimed to arrive in Marbury early Friday evening. He had a company car again, but this had come in a job lot from some other firm’s redundant fleet, and it had ninety thousand on the clock.
What a difference half a year had made! When he’d joined Fraser Redman last September, conspicuous consumption had been what it was all about. But last week, a circular came round telling office staff to save their staples by recycling paper clips.
Gavin parked his rust heap in the forecourt of the Copper Beech, then took his bag inside. ‘Mr Hunter, yes?’ The smartly-dressed receptionist smiled brightly. Her lipstick was too red, too glossy, and there was too much blusher on her cheeks. ‘I’ll take you up myself.’
She took him to a room made for seduction. He had booked a standard – for, in spite of what he’d told Susannah, he could hardly put this on expenses, Accounts would never swallow that. But this room was the height of luxury, with a marble bathroom and a dressing room attached.
The king size bed was swagged with chintzy billows, the mini-bar was vastly overstocked, and porn was no doubt free on the enormous black TV.
‘I didn’t book the honeymoon suite,’ said Gavin. ‘I don’t want deluxe accommodation. My company won’t wear that.’
‘We don’t have a honeymoon suite, and this is just superior, not deluxe.’ The woman’s shoulder brushed his upper arm. ‘We’re never very busy at weekends, so we often upgrade Friday guests. There’s no extra charge, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So just enjoy.’ The girl smiled winsomely. ‘Do you know Marbury?’
‘Yeah, I do – a bit.’ Gavin smiled, but then he turned away. The girl was pretty, she was signalling available, she’d put him in this hideous room ideal for heavy-duty shagging, but he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it.
When at last she’d gone, he sat down on the edge of the huge bed and groaned out loud. What a miserable bastard he’d become! He’d been offered it on a plate, and until six months ago he’d have needed no encouragement, let alone the come-on of a cut price luxury suite.
Elegy for a Queen Page 23
