by Sarah Maine
No, it was the drama of the earlier episode which had caught their imaginations, and which perhaps had ensured the legend’s survival. Sex, murder—and a reckoning, just as Declan had said.
“Is there anything Viking here?” Donald’s question brought her back to the task in hand.
“It’s all very interesting,” she said, and wondered what these children made of it all as they pored over their booty. She pointed to the chert blades. “Can you remember where you found these?” After some discussion they agreed that they had found them at the edge of the south bay, amongst the rocks just above the beach, near where she knew that Mesolithic shell middens had been found. “They’re the oldest things.”
“Viking?”
She shook her head. “Much earlier.”
“Caveman?”
“Sort of.”
“Cool!” Donald examined them again, but it was clearly Vikings they were after, so she retrieved the little pendant-like stone.
“That’s from Viking times. It’s a stone used for sharpening blades.” This time the chorus of “Cool!” carried conviction and they began arguing about who had found it and where, and then shot off saying they would go right now and look for more.
“You’ve redeemed yourself,” their father said, sitting back again as the door slammed. “A rabbit out of a hat. But how do you know?”
“By the type of rock, and the shape. And the wear.”
He nodded, apparently content with that explanation. “And why do you bother?” He smiled slightly at her expression. “With all of it, I mean. Digging things up?”
She was unprepared for that one. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
“And so yours is a profession for the curious, is it? How quaint.” His smile was mocking. Did he hope for a rise? “Why not just leave it all to disappear back into the sand and grass?”
“A sort of cultural compost?” she enquired, resolving to be unprovoked.
“Exactly.”
“So why let us excavate the mound? Why not just let the sea have it?”
“Fair point,” he acknowledged. “I suppose I was intrigued.”
“As in curious?”
He laughed. “And I thought something might be salvaged.”
“You did?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Who else d’you think reported it?”
That was a surprise. “I thought you weren’t keen for us to come?”
“Hector certainly wasn’t! But you were explaining your choice of career. Are you in it because you think we can learn from the past and avoid repeating the same mistakes?”
She wasn’t, actually, but last night she’d felt time shrink around her to a point where the past was almost tangible. She decided to toss the question back at him. “I take it you aren’t.”
He looked out of the window as if considering his response, then shook his head. “No. Not really. Every situation is unique, so there are no patterns to learn from.”
“In the broadest sense, surely—”
He shrugged. “The very broadest, perhaps. But in the detail it’s all down to individuals, and the choices they make.” Such as Odrhan’s decision to go down to meet the ship rather than hide, she thought fleetingly. “And people behave in unexpected ways.” He gestured to the little whetstone on the table. “So how does finding bits like that help?”
“We can build the big picture from all the little—”
“But you can’t get from there to the individuals, or their motivations.”
A man of fixed views, but this was an opportunity to get him on board. “Maybe here, at Ullaness, we will,” she replied, picking up the little stone again. “To some extent anyway.”
“How so?” he said, taking it back from her.
“Because of the stories that survive. That little stone might have belonged to one of Harald’s men. And that mound might be Harald’s burial place.”
“Hmmm.” He looked unconvinced “But you’ll never know who put him there, or whether the lovely Ulla was a convert or a whore. And that’s the interesting bit.” He laid the whetstone back beside the other finds on the table and looked across at her.
“We’ll do our best,” she replied, sensing it was probably time that she left, but as she began to gather herself he put out a hand.
“You were in the church when the boys found you.”
“Yes.”
“Is it in any way remarkable?” he asked. “Other than for the ghastly tomb of my forebears?”
“There’s a lot that could be done there . . .” she began.
“But you’ve no idea what your colleague might want to discuss?”
Were they back on this? “No.”
“As you said before,” he remarked, smiling a little as if he read her mind.
She stood up. “But one of those grave slabs is cracked, and the damage looks quite recent. Was that down to your nighthawks?”
“It was. Damn them.” He too rose.
“It’s a remarkable collection of stones, you know. Have they ever been properly recorded?”
“No idea,” he replied. “Probably not. Are you touting for more work as well?”
Goaded, she spoke without thinking. “And if I was, is it you or your brother who decides?”
“Hector, of course,” he said, but there was a glint of amusement in his eye. “And I guide his decision-making. I argued your case for you very hard.” She wasn’t convinced, but he had headed down the passageway to the back door. “And you’re away now, are you?” he asked, over his shoulder. “Back south.”
“I’m here another night.”
“So how will you spend the afternoon?”
“I’ll continue to explore, if that’s alright, and maybe go further along the shore.”
“Explore away while you can. There’s some bad weather on its way.” He watched as she pulled on her shoes and tied the laces. “Until the summer then, Libby Snow. And put some flesh on these characters for me.”
Chapter 5
Odrhan
The wounded man moaned softly.
Her name was Ulla, the woman said, and she watched Odrhan apply a poultice to his wounds, her face lit by the firelight.
She had bid the men bring the baskets into the shelter but there was no room for them. They would be safe outside, Odrhan told her. Few people came here.
They removed them again, all but one, forgotten in the shadows. It was only when Odrhan rose to fetch fresh water that he saw it. The fire’s flame caught the glint of metal, and the richness of a precious stone. He bent to look more closely and his heart stalled.
As a boy he had been schooled at the white monastery beside Lough Neagh, learning to love a life of contemplation and prayer, and he had stayed there, serving at the altar. And on that altar—
He reached into the basket and drew from it the jewelled chalice he had last seen raised in supplication, blood now roaring in his ears.
“Sweet Jesu. How came you by this, lady?”
Libby
Clouds were forming over the sea as Libby sat on the headland later that day, having eaten her sandwiches and explored the shell middens, and she watched the thin line of grey spread like an awning across the sky, and sensed the wind strengthening. She felt the first spots of rain, and they were falling fast by the time she reached the car. Please God it didn’t do this in June!
She stared through the rain-streaked windscreen as the scene in front of her grew wild. It was dramatic, almost menacing, how quickly the sky darkened. There was nothing for it but to return to the pub, read a book, and have an early night. Which would, in fact, be a luxury.
And later, as she lay in bed, book in hand, she listened to the storm raging outside. Rain was flung like gravel against the window and the ill-fitting frame rattled in the gusting wind. When was high tide? she wondered. It had been that fateful combination of tide and storm which had damaged the mound last time. She ought to have asked Rodri Sturrock if she could re-cover the exposed stones. Maybe
she should nip down in the morning and check that all was well, and then e-mail him when she got home and suggest some temporary form of consolidation. He seemed a quixotic character, but it was easier to ask now that she’d met him.
It was still blowing hard next morning when she parked in the same spot beside the church. Ahead of her the sea was turbulent, each wave crested by a mane of spray blown back, and the distant view formed a single dark wash of grey. At least the rain had eased a little and it would require only a quick dash into the dunes to see the state of things, and then she’d be away.
She had to push hard to open the car door and the wind slammed it shut behind her as the hood of her jacket was blown back. She ran, leaping the stream, and made for the dunes, reached the mound and saw at once that the waves, driven by the storm, had again found a channel to its base. The flattened wet sand reminded her of a child’s attempt to fill a sandcastle moat. Surely there were more stones now— She counted them: four, five, six . . . and then a seventh lying off-set, still half buried. There could be no doubt now that they’d been deliberately laid on a curve, and she felt a renewed buzz of excitement.
She went closer. The newly exposed stone, number six, was similar in shape and size to the others, another oval grey-white water-worn cobble. Stone seven, however, was smooth and dark, and of a fine-grained rock.
Except, she saw as she began clearing the sand away from it, it wasn’t a rock, it was dried and cracked leather. The toe of a shoe.
Odd boots or shoes frequently turned up along high-tide lines, lost overboard and carried for miles by current and tide, or left behind by forgetful paddlers. This must be one of those. She gave it a little tug but it stuck firm, so she cleared away more sand, wondering what held it there.
Then the sand fell away and she had her answer.
She straightened and stood looking down at it, not believing what she saw. A discoloured leg bone jutted incongruously out of the top of it— She bent to inspect more closely, her breath coming fast and shallow. It was a boot, not a shoe, an ankle boot, warped and misshapen, old but not ancient, and the bone was simply bone, without flesh or sinew. Dear God! But a matter for the police, not an archaeologist. Rapidly she scooped up handfuls of wet sand and plastered them over the exposed remains, hardly noticing that the rain had come on again hard, driven by the wind, and she was soon soaked, and shivering.
Once bone and boot were covered, she turned and ran for the car, got inside, and pulled out her mobile. No signal. She started the car, thinking rapidly. She could phone from Sturrock House, Rodri Sturrock needed to know anyway, unless he had already gone for the day, or maybe his wife would be there. It was still early, not yet nine—she might catch someone, unless out on the school run— She could always go back to the pub, they’d know who to ring. She reversed the car, the windscreen wipers on full but barely keeping up with the deluge, and the wheels spun as she accelerated forward, then gripped as they found gravel, and she drove fast up the track. Dear God— Somewhere she’d seen a turning which must be a drive leading up to Sturrock House, and she leaned forward to peer through the rain-drenched windscreen as the car bounced over the rough track. Just past that clump of gorse bushes, if she remembered correctly—and she swung the wheel hard to the left, into the drive, and straight into the grille of the oncoming Land Rover.
Everything went blank. The airbag inflated but she’d forgotten her seat belt and was thrown sideways, banging her head hard.
The next thing she was aware of was Rodri Sturrock wrenching the door open. “Of all the—! God, are you alright?”
“I think so—”
“She’s bleeding.”
Two small white faces had appeared beside his, and he turned them swiftly away. “No, you don’t. Get your stuff and run back to the house. Tell Alice she’ll have to take you in. And tell her to use the back road. Go on! Off with you—” He turned back to Libby, reaching over her to pull on the handbrake, then briefly examined her forehead. “Could have been worse. Sit tight a minute.”
Groggily she watched him go to the front and examine the damage, then return to the Land Rover. A moment later there was an awful wrenching sound as he reversed, and she felt her car strain forward, then release abruptly as the bumpers disengaged. He was right, it could have been worse, but sympathy looked as if it would be in short order.
“Alright?” he asked, opening the door a moment later, rain plastering his hair to his head. “Out you get then.” And he swept her out and into the passenger seat of the Land Rover, which he reversed speedily back up the drive and into the courtyard of Sturrock House. He came round and opened her door. “We’ll sort your car later. Come on, into the dry,” and with a hand under her elbow, he steered her into the house. The dog, released from the back of the Land Rover, followed them in.
“You’re drenched!” he remarked as he took her jacket, hanging it to drip in the passageway. “How did that happen? Go and sit over by the Aga.” She was shivering uncontrollably now and only vaguely aware of him moving around the kitchen as she huddled close to the warmth. Next minute an ice pack was pressed to her forehead and she yelped.
“You make your mark, Libby Snow. I’ll say that for you,” he said. “Hold it there, and drink that.” He slid a mug towards her. “You’re going to have a stunning black eye.” He disappeared but returned at once, and she felt a blanket being draped around her shoulders.
She took a sip. Tea, hot and sweet and strong. It was good. “Thank you,” she said. The fuzziness in her head was going but her voice sounded odd.
“D’you feel sick?” he asked, looking intently into her eyes. She shook her head, regretting it immediately, and he examined her forehead again. “It’s stopped bleeding. Vision alright?” She nodded more carefully, licked her dry lips, and took another sip, feeling the warmth reviving her. The shivering began to subside. “What on earth were you doing tearing round a blind corner like that? And no seat belt! A second later I’d have hit you full-on. I thought you’d gone back south.”
The question kick-started her brain and she took the pack off her head.
“Keep it on,” he said.
“We have to call the police.”
He shook his head. “They won’t be interested—”
“Not for the car. It’s the mound. There’s a body in it. I saw a boot, and a leg—”
He stared at her. It sounded ridiculous, of course; he must think her concussed and rambling. The tea, however, was working wonders. “The storm uncovered it. And it’s not old, not ancient, the boot I mean, but not new, there’s only bone, not flesh, and I covered it up again. With wet sand. I was coming to tell you, and use the phone.”
He continued to stare. “Say all that again, will you, but slowly.” She did. Then: “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.” And she started trembling again.
He put a hand to her arm and gripped it for a moment. “Alright, I believe you. But how do you know it’s not ancient?”
“The boot. Wrong sort.”
He got up and went to the window, where the rain had again abated. “I’ll go and take a look. But first—” He disappeared again, returning a moment later with a towel, and a baggy sweatshirt with matching purple leggings. “Dry your hair, and put these on. I’ll be right back.”
Unsympathetic, perhaps, but good on the practical side. She clutched the blanket, and drank the hot sweet tea, then carefully dried her hair, avoiding the lump which was rising on her forehead, before exchanging her wet clothes for the dry ones. They fitted well. But would their owner mind? She went over to the sink and squeezed the melted water out of the tea-towel, twisting the remaining ice into a corner, and held it to the bruise again. Breakfast dishes had been hastily abandoned, she saw, presumably when Rodri’s sons had brought their message, and the striped apron lay where it had been flung. But it had been Alice he’d referred to, not Mum.
She touched the side of the teapot. It was still warm, and she had just refilled her mug when a blast o
f cold announced Rodri’s return. He strode into the kitchen, followed by the dog, his face grim. “I’d hoped you were just concussed,” he said, making for the sink where he rinsed his hands, shaking them dry. Then he came and stood in front of her, peering at her head. “How’s the bang?”
“Fine. Did you cover it up again?”
He nodded, then went to set the kettle back on the Aga. “I brought your car up too. The bumper’s had it, and one of the headlights is smashed, but otherwise it’s not too bad.” He picked up her discarded towel and briskly dried his own hair.
“Thank you, but oughtn’t we—”
“The local garage is good, they’ll sort it.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will.” Puzzled now, she watched him as he brewed another pot of tea, his mind clearly working, his expression intense. He made no move towards the phone but filled two mugs, ladling sugar into both, and pushed one towards her.
This would not do. “I’ve got one,” she said, raising her mug to show him. “And hadn’t we better phone the police?”
He sipped at his tea, staring fixedly over the rim at nothing. “Aye, we will,” he said, but made no move.
“Shall I? As I found it—” She rose and pulled out her mobile.
He raised a hand, still not looking at her. “Just hang on a minute. Let me think.”
She sat again. If there had been flesh on those bones, she would now be suspicious, but what possible reason could there be for delay? Then he turned and fixed her with a sharp look. “They’ll wreck your site, you know.”
“I know.” She’d already thought of that, and the idea of the police hacking into the mound was sickening, but he was contemplating her in an oddly speculative way. Then abruptly he went across to the phone and tapped in a number.
“Fergus? Rodri Sturrock here . . . I’m fine, yes, well, sort of fine—” and he explained what had been found, concisely and to the point. “. . . yes. Her name’s Libby Snow. She’s still here. In my kitchen. No, she’s not going anywhere, her car’s had a bit of a mishap. . . . Yep, she’ll stay right here. And, Fergus? Will you do me a favour and not say anything to anyone just yet? Until you’ve seen it. Aye . . . No . . . That’s right, I don’t want that circus again. Good man.” He put the phone down and turned back to her. “Sorted.”
