Dark Ages

Lyn didn’t deign to rise to that. ‘… And AE had an A sound – like in cat.’

‘Athelgar…’ Fran murmured, trying it out. ‘So who was he?’

‘I don’t know. No one does. He died in Wessex, but he might have been in East Anglia at one time. Maybe he’s a saint I saw a painting of once. Then again, I dug up something about shine-craft – meaning phantom-art, or magic …’ Lyn shrugged. ‘According to the will, he was an eorl.’

‘Meaning an earl, presumably?’

‘No, not then. It was more of a warrior’s term.’ She gestured. ‘A man of high degree. A man of honour.’

‘Sounds just my type,’ murmured Fran with a mischievous smile, and pinched another biscuit.

3

Both of them had dreams that night, as the slow stars turned above the silent house.

Fran took ages getting off to sleep. The barrow-mounds of Greenham were still looming in her head. Rusty iron, and crumbling concrete; cavernous black gateways. The watch-tower like a giant alien robot in the midst.

The futon creaked beneath her as she turned, and turned again. A nauseous chill had wormed into her stomach. Those silos would stand open until doomsday; she’d felt the drip … drip … drip of their decay. But what might still be lurking in their shadows; in the labyrinth of tunnels underneath?

Something could have seen her from that long-deserted watchtower. Something could have crept out of its lair, and followed them. All the way back here, to sleeping Oxford.

Fear embraced her like a ghost; she wriggled to get free. The past was in the room with her – a shadow at the foot of the bed. The part she hadn’t shared with Lyn. The part she couldn’t bear to think about.

Her fingers found the cross around her neck. A Coventry cross, of silver nails: a Christmas present from Lyn. She turned and tweaked it, listening to the hush.

But even Lyn was sleeping, in her tidy bed next door. Fran could almost hear her gentle breathing. Like a soft, recorded message. Lyn’s not home right now. You’re on your own.

The house was quiet around her. The night outside was soundless – undisturbed. She pulled the pillow close, and closed her eyes. Her mind cast round for brighter thoughts, to keep the dark at bay.

Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams … ?

Wistfully she huddled up, and thought of Heaven’s Field. She’d been about thirteen when she had gone there with her parents – their final summer in Northumberland. The sky had been like heaven all right, above the gaunt black cross. She summoned back its pinkish glow – the tufts of golden cloud. There’d been a famous battle here, in Anglo-Saxon times. Northumbria freed from tyranny, and won back to the faith.

She’d wandered round the empty field, enchanted by the twilight. And over by the church, she’d had the strangest rush of feeling: a rich, exciting glow from deep inside. It was over in a moment, but had left her flushed and giddy. A sense of being needed – and adored.

Even then, she’d realized that it hadn’t been religious. The thrill was much too physical for that – tugging at the instincts that were stirred by boys and babies. She’d told Lyn so, years later, in an earnest heart-to-heart. It had felt more like the shadow of a lover; a presence in the marriage bed she hadn’t dreamed of yet. A closeness that was soul to soul, as well as skin to skin.

She’d hoped it was a foretaste of her knight in shining armour – something for the boys at school to match themselves against. But that was just an old, romantic notion; Craig was real.

And what she’d felt this afternoon was pretty much the same.

The sun was going down on Heaven’s Field. Bathing in the memory – its warmth, and rosy light – she let herself relax into oblivion.

By rights, she should have taken that bright image to her dreams. Yet what her mind threw up was something different. She found herself, in spirit, at an isolated junction, along a road she hadn’t walked for years. Not Heaven’s Field, but Salisbury Plain; a place where nothing moved. The bleak, deserted grassland of the Imber firing range.

Danger Area.

Nervously she looked around. Sullen hills rose up to left and right, cutting off the outside world. The public roads were miles away; no passer-by could see her. She was stuck here, in the middle, all alone.

The junction was smeared by tank-tracks, its approaches hedged with posts to shore it up. Set against the gloomy slopes, they made her think of First World War defences: the barbed wire stripped away to leave the pickets standing bare.

There were insects buzzing faintly in the grass – but the silence overwhelmed them. That huge, unnatural firing range silence: as pregnant with threat as the grey clouds overhead.

A wrecked tank sat atop the nearest hill: its turret painted orange, for the guns of other tanks to zero in on. She studied it uneasily; then looked away, along the eastbound road. Imber village lay in that direction – out of sight, but close enough to fill her with foreboding.

She glimpsed a moving figure then – away to the left, where the ground began to rise. It was casting round, as if in search of something. She saw that he was dressed in black. A long coat or a cloak flapped out around him.

The icy surge of panic should have shocked her awake. But something deep inside her was determined to hang on. Fascinated, petrified, she watched him scour the heath. He waded through the knee-high grass – then crouched to root around. His face was turned away from her. Despite the muffling garment, she could see his short fair hair.

He seemed to sense her presence, then – and swung around to look. He didn’t have a metal face. He had no face at all. There was just a patch of shadow, framed with gold. Fran recoiled in horror, still suspended in the dream. And then the mouthless figure spoke to her.

She didn’t understand a word – but recognized the voice. With a wail of fright, she came flailing to the surface, kicking back the duvet to sit upright on the bed. Her nightie and her briefs were damp; she was suddenly and wretchedly convinced she’d wet herself. Then realized it was only sticky sweat.

Oh God. She cupped her hands against her face.

It was the voice she’d heard in hospital; the harsh, corrupted language was the same. And so was its appealing tone: the note of desperation. She felt he’d meant to snatch at her, and drag her down with him.

But the room was silent now. She strained her ears against the hissing hush. It hadn’t really been the voice; just memory. An echo. Now that she had woken up, it wouldn’t come again. Not even if she waited until dawn.

Full of her fear, she hugged herself, and started counting minutes, one by one.

Lyn dreamed of Martin. He was waiting in the hall as she came downstairs. You look great, he said, and she could see how much he meant it in his face. The spiteful fights of growing-up were all forgotten now. Still fiddling with an earring, she let her smile grow wider. As she gave him a twirl to show off her dress, the house was spun away into oblivion.

She woke up awkwardly; her room felt unfamiliar and distorted in the dark. A piece of dream went scuttling away. Lyn recoiled, and shrank against the headboard. She felt a rush of dread from out of childhood – back in her old bedroom, with its imps and demons scurrying around. And the pale, grinning skeleton of Death behind the door.

Instinctively she turned her head – then sighed, and let her shoulders slump again. The door was safely closed, of course, her dressing gown a silky wraith against it. The demons melted back into the picture that they’d come from: the print in Daddy’s study that had scared her as a girl. Death of the Miser, by Hieronymus Bosch. It had figured in her nightmares more than once. But not for years …

Athelgar.

Sitting there, she realized where she’d seen the name before. She’d picked at it all evening, like a scab. Now, with the top knocked off at last, she was suddenly bled dry. She curled up, feeling miserable, and didn’t sleep again.

CHAPTER V

Heaven and Hell

1

Lyn had lent her a bathrobe, but Fran was dressed when she came on through for breakfast. Mucking in like a flatmate was all very well – but she still ventured round with a visitor’s reserve. Finding Lyn at the table in her dressing gown was vaguely embarrassing: like having her friend at some kind of disadvantage. But Lyn looked preoccupied, and pale: chewing mechanically on her toast. Her normally bright greeting was a wan, subdued hello. Being seen half-dressed was obviously the last thing on her mind.

Fran moved past her to the coffee pot and toaster, surreptitiously glancing at the tabletop. The paper was still folded; a couple of brown envelopes lay unopened. So what was up, she wondered?

Sitting down, she saw the shadows round Lyn’s eyes; the pinched look to her mouth. ‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.

Lyn shrugged, and shook her head. ‘Not really. Woke up about three, and couldn’t get off again. You know what it’s like.’

Fran knew, all right. She’d lain awake for ages, before snatching back a couple of hours’ sleep. She was just about to say so when Lyn breathed out and went on.

‘I was dreaming about Martin.’

There was a wistfulness in her voice that made Fran feel a little wary. She didn’t know much about Lyn’s brother; had only met him once, when he’d come visiting at Oxford. He had his sister’s dark, straight hair; her brown, expressive eyes. Caught unawares, his clean-cut face was serious, almost solemn. Then Lyn had introduced him, rather proudly, and he’d charmed her with a warm, engaging smile.

‘Oh,’ Fran said. Then: ‘What’s he doing now?’

A moment’s pause, Lyn staring at the table. Then she shook her head again. Said softly: ‘I don’t know.’

Fran put her coffee down, and waited.

‘He left home two years ago. Just chucked everything and went. I got a card from him at Christmas … but Mum and Dad heard nothing. Not a word. It worries them so much.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t know. He didn’t say. I couldn’t even read the bloody postmark.’

Fran bit her lip. ‘God, Lyn. I didn’t know.’ She felt a stab of guilt. ‘You don’t need my troubles on top of yours …’

Lyn waved that off. ‘Don’t worry. Please don’t think that. He’s twenty, he can look after himself …’ She ran her hand back through her hair. ‘We were happy at home, the two of us. Really happy. But it was getting so that he felt cooped up there – always under our parents’ feet. He mucked his A-Levels up, you see. He couldn’t get a job.’

‘I remember him visiting you,’ Fran said carefully. ‘You got on well together, didn’t you.’

‘I think about him every day. I mean, I don’t just sit there moping, but … he’ll get into my head at some point. Just for a minute, maybe; but he’s there.’

Fran thought of them together, in the Christ Church staircase. No shadows there, no worries; just a handsome teenage boy with his big sister. The thought of that lost happiness made her ache on Lyn’s behalf. And how must their parents feel?

Maybe just the same as hers had, when their daughter withdrew into a world of her own: slamming the gates behind her.

‘Anyway …’ Lyn sighed, ‘there’s no point brooding. He’ll get in touch when he’s good and ready.’ She straightened her back, and summoned up a smile. ‘What are your plans for today? You’re seeing Craig again?’

Fran nodded. ‘I’m meeting him for lunch; and then we’ll go … wherever.’

‘Remember what I said about bringing him back. He’s welcome. I’ll cook you dinner, if you like.’

‘That’s an idea. That would be great, actually. When would be a good time?’

‘Well … Not tonight, I want to stay late at the library. How about tomorrow? Ask him.’

‘I will,’ Fran murmured, ‘thanks.’ And even as she smiled, an idea slipped into her head. A sudden thought that left her short of breath. She could bring him home this afternoon, if Lyn was working late. She could shag him on the futon, and her friend would never know.

She glanced down quickly; raised her mug and drank. Surely her guilt was showing on her face. But if it was, Lyn clearly hadn’t noticed. She was opening the paper in a listless sort of way.

Fran let her gaze drift off around the kitchen: a show of calm disinterest while she weighed the options up. She couldn’t take advantage, not like that. But then again … where was the harm? It wasn’t as if she’d lied to Lyn. She could just neglect to mention that she’d brought Craig back for tea. And let him screw her.

The prospect was as thrilling as their very first weekend. He’d taken some leave, collected her at Oxford, and driven them out to that posh country hotel. This wasn’t the place to think of that (though she wanted to, right now). But her appetite was back, and undiminished. Her feelings had lain dormant, like a seed in frozen ground; but now, at last, the thaw was setting in.

Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

God, it was years since she’d sung that hymn. It made her think of Easter at Aldermaston. She felt a bit abashed about misusing it like that. But only a bit.

‘Any shopping you’d like some help with?’ she asked, as a salve for her conscience.

‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m going to take things easy this morning. You have a really good day.’

The churning in Fran’s belly quite belied her modest smile. I’m going to, she thought. She couldn’t wait.

2

When Fran had gone, Lyn dumped the breakfast dishes in the sink and let them soak. It normally went against the grain, to leave a chore for later; but this morning she just couldn’t be bothered. The apathy extended to her morning ablutions; she hadn’t had her shower yet, nor even cleaned her teeth. She was running on flat batteries – but going back to bed would do no good. It was more than simple lack of sleep that had left her feeling drained.

She walked through the flat, and found it looking duller. The carpet felt rough and fluffy under her bare feet. Bits of her thesis were still scattered round the living room. She went round picking them up, and took them over to the table.

Æthelgar. The name that had burned in her head last night seemed cold and lifeless now: like ashes in a grate. She gazed at the word with a vague sense of resentment – then dumped her notes on top, and crushed it flat.

She could remember the book quite clearly – tucked away at the end of a shelf. Myth and Magic in Medieval Europe. One of Daddy’s expensive books. One of the ones he’d told her not to touch.

She’d kept away at first, like a good little girl. But curiosity had got the better of her in the end. She could see herself now, nine or ten years old and sitting on the carpeted floorboards with an open book before her, the summer evening sunlight spread like syrup on the wall.

The first book was huge, too big for her to hold. Most of the pages were grey, and rough: a bit like paper towels. But some were smooth and shiny, with black and white photos – or paintings in glorious colour, like the sun breaking through clouds.

It was called The Flowering of the Middle Ages. She’d often seen Daddy browsing through it, sitting in his easy chair beside the window. There was a painting of a knight on the cover – a horseman with a dark, mysterious face. So this evening she’d come in, and hauled it down off its shelf, and slowly started leafing through the pages. The words were dull and difficult, but the pictures held her spellbound.

The second book had caught her eye as she’d put the first away. Magic was the word that had intrigued her. At her age, it meant mystery, romance – and something more: a cleverness she envied. She wasn’t quite sure what Medieval meant, but knew it was to do with the Middle Ages. ‘Evil’ was clearly a part of it, though. Perhaps it was because they’d been wickeder times …

She’d pulled the book out carefully. It was smaller than the other one, but thicker; it felt almost as heavy. Sitting herself down again, she started going through it. But this book, it turned out, was mostly words: page after page of them, densely packed. Only a handful of photos, and those were black and white. One shiny-looking page was folded over. She opened it out, and found the photo of an odd-looking drawing, covering both pages: a circle filled with scribbling and stars. She could see no pattern to them, but guessed they were arranged in constellations. Martin would know about those, of course. She wondered if he’d seen it.

The writing was difficult to read, like the place names on their shire-map in the hall. She looked for a caption. It was there at the foot of the facing page.

The enigmatic Malmesbury Star-Chart. Fourteenth century.

Enigmatic was a word she had recently learned. It meant ‘mysterious’, Mummy said. But surely the man who had written this book knew what constellations were. A map of the stars, with the names written in. So what made it mysterious?

Even as she frowned over the word, she felt a sort of shadow in the room. Not from the window, where the syrup of sunlight had turned into marmalade now. Nor from the open doorway, with the rattle of pans coming through it from downstairs. It came from the thought of the unknown in this picture. Something was here that even grown-ups didn’t understand. Something to do with magic, she supposed. If this had been a story, she would doubtless be the one to find its secret. But this was Daddy’s study, and she didn’t feel excited, but uneasy.

The enigmatic stars were like a hundred open eyes.

‘Lyn!’

She jumped, and twisted round: flushing with guilt as Daddy came in through the door. He crossed the room, snatched the book up from the carpet and folded the map away – so quickly that he creased it. Closing the book, he took it back to its shelf, while Lyn just sat and watched him, feeling very cold and small.

‘How many times?’ he snapped. ‘You’re not to touch these books. They’re very valuable, some of them, very expensive. I don’t want your sticky fingermarks all over them.’

Lyn felt her sobs come rising to the surface. She pinched her lips tight shut to keep them back, but they tried to get out through her eyes instead, and squeezed them full of tears.

‘Oh, don’t start crying,’ Daddy said, still looking tired and cross. But when Lyn couldn’t keep the flow in check, he sat down in his chair, and beckoned her over, and heaved her up to huddle on his knee.

‘Shh, now,’ he murmured, as she sniffled against his worn tweed jacket. ‘Shhh …’ He stroked her hair. ‘I’m sorry I was cross, all right? It’s just that I don’t like you looking at some of those books.’

‘I washed my hands,’ she whimpered. ‘Promise.’

‘It’s not just that. Shhh. Be a brave girl, now, and listen to me. Some of those books, you see, are about things you don’t need to know about, not yet. That one you were looking at … You know what magic is, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Well people used to believe there were different kinds of magic – good and bad magic. That book talks a lot about bad magic. You can read it when you’re older, but if you read it now you might get upset and have bad dreams. You don’t want to have bad dreams, now do you?’

Lyn shook her head in tearful mute agreement.

‘There’s a good girl …’ He fingered her fringe; then smiled at her. The fond, familiar smile she knew of old. ‘You really like reading, don’t you? Like to find things out. That’s good, Lyn. Very good. I shouldn’t blame you.’

‘Martin calls me Bookworm,’ she mumbled.

‘Never you mind what Martin says. You keep on reading. But remember that some things aren’t for you yet. Until I think you’re old enough, all right?’

She nodded again; then hesitated. ‘Daddy … will I need glasses?’

He gave a quizzical frown. ‘What makes you think you do?’

‘Martin says I’ll need glasses, ‘cos I read too much.’

‘Does he, indeed? Well I don’t need them, and look how much I’ve read. Don’t worry about your brother, he’s just a jealous little rascal.’ He jogged her on his knee. ‘What is he?’ She smiled tremulously. ‘A jealous little rascal.’

‘That’s more like it. Come on, now. Let’s see if Mummy wants some help with supper …’

Or something. He’d said something like that. It was curious how clearly she remembered. Most of the words had faded, but the pictures were still clear. Daddy’s hair had been mostly black – not silver-grey like now. And there she’d been, still small enough to sit on his knee. So different from her tall, slim self today.

Daddy’s grown-up daughter now; the clever girl he’d always been so proud of.

Lyn sat down on the sofa, and tucked her legs up under her. A dull weight of nostalgia filled her chest. She’d already written home this week – but when she got back tonight, she’d phone as well.

After more than a decade, she could still feel a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t made her promise not to read those books again – and so, one afternoon, she’d gone and done so.

It had taken her a while to work up the nerve. He’d told her not to do it, and by and large she did what she was told. But a strange, perverse attraction won her over in the end. The lure of the forbidden: sickly-sweet. An urge to peep at things that might upset her.

She remembered how her heart had thudded as she’d taken down the heavy book, and turned its dusty pages. The picture of the star-chart had stayed in her head; a shadow at the back of her mind. Enigmatic. Secret. Her lips felt as dry as the leaves of the book as she unfolded it again.

Memory had built it up; spread out, it looked much smaller. The words still made no sense. Not even the ones around the rim, which – though clearer – had been printed in some foreign-looking language.

She’d turned to the text: there had to be a reference in the chapter. Something to explain that troubling description. She’d found the passage, but could only remember fragments of it now. Fourteenth-century copy of an earlier work, now lost. The word had struck her, even as she kept on reading. With all these books around her, how could anything be lost? Surely it was hidden somewhere; forgotten, in an attic or a cellar. It bothered her to think that it had ceased to exist. If there hadn’t been a copy, all that work would just have vanished. As if it had never been.

The writing (she discovered) was Medieval Latin, with the constellations labelled in Old English. Hebrew characters as well. No wonder that she couldn’t understand it.

… Ursa Major is marked as ‘æelgar’ (a personal name), while ‘fluar’ (meaning unclear) denotes the constellation Draco …

There was more on the way the star-chart was set out; but though she strained her mind now, only those two names had stuck. She’d taken them phonetically back then: Edelgar, of course, not …

Athelgar.

She knew it was coincidence, the testament she’d found. So that was enigmatic, too. So what?

Fluthar was a nonsense-name. She couldn’t work it out. Scribal error, probably. The earlier work already being corrupted.

She lay there on the sofa, feeling listless. It must be the link with Martin that had got her down like this. Her jealous little rascal of a brother. She sniffed, and was surprised to find how close she was to tears.

She’d got what she deserved, that day; the thought was almost satisfying now. Growing bored with the so-called Magic book, she’d put it away, and returned to the big volume on the Middle Ages. One of the chapters was called King Death. Something had made her hesitate; and then she’d turned the page – and kept on turning.

Horrors swarmed towards her, almost boiling from the book. A painting from a manuscript showed knights being hacked to pieces, limb from limb. Statues carved on tombs were split and rotting, full of worms. A skeleton was riding down his victims, his eyeless horse as ghostly as an X-ray. And there he was, King Death himself: a gutted, grinning figure with a gold crown on his skull.