Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

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First published in 2012

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Barbara Erskine 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Charles Smith/Corbis (heron); Duncan George/Getty Images (horizon); Guy Edwardes/Getty Images (trees); Jason Edwards/Getty Images (reeds); Shutterstock.com (branch)

Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2016 ISBN: 9780007455652

Version: 2017-09-07

Dedication

For Jon, who keeps the wheels on the wagon

Epigraph

… rich swords lay … eaten with rust, as they had lain buried in the bosom of the earth for a thousand years … the princes who placed their treasure there had pronounced a solemn curse on it which was to last until doomsday: that whoever rifled the place should be guilty of sin, shut up in dwelling-places of devils, bound in bonds of hell, and tormented with evil …

Beowulf

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Author’s Note

Keep Reading Barbara Erskine’s Novels

Keep Reading Sleeper’s Castle

About the Author

Also by Barbara Erskine

About the Publisher

In the age of the Anglo-Saxons it is the year AD 865

Prologue

The woman was watching, flattened against the wall of the house, her eye to a knothole. She hardly dared breathe as she watched the scene unfolding inside.

With the kiss of steam wreathing round the blade, her husband raised his hammer and struck sparks from the iron. The forge was hot from the blazing charcoal and sweat dripped into his eyes. Even she, his wife, could sense his power, sense the magic he was creating as he conjured the alchemy of metal and fire.

‘Is it ready?’ The thegn’s reeve, Hrotgar, stood in the doorway, his huge bulk blocking out the light.

‘Not until the gods say so,’ Eric said curtly.

‘The gods!’ Hrotgar echoed wryly. ‘Maybe the gods see no need to hurry, but everyone in this village sees clearly why Lord Egbert is so anxious for it.’

‘Tell him he’ll have to wait.’ Eric didn’t bother to look up. He could picture the shocked anger on the other man’s face. He bent back to his task, his tongue between his teeth, a soundless whistle drowned by the hiss of the fire. At his feet the flames reflected in the deep iron-bound yew-wood bucket of water. Like most of the tools in the forge he had made it himself. ‘You’re blocking my light,’ he yelled suddenly. ‘Get out of here. When it’s ready I’ll tell you.’

For a moment Hrotgar hesitated, then with an angry growl he stepped outside and disappeared. The forge was lit by torches thrust into brackets on the wall, by the red glow of the furnace, but even so, the sudden low shaft of sunlight through the doorway illuminated the dark corners and spun reflections off the blade. Eric gave a grunt of satisfaction. The magic was growing stronger.

‘Eric?’ The voice behind him was tentative. ‘It is true, you are making Lord Egbert angry with your delays.’

‘Go away, Edith!’ Eric spun round furiously. ‘Out! Now!’ Her very presence was weakening. He could sense the carefully built tension in the blade wavering. He could sense it in the air. Only warriors could come near the sword now, new born as it was, in its birthing pangs of fire and water. He muttered the sacred charms, feeling the vibrating waves of Wyrd settle. He wasn’t sure how he knew what to do but the smith’s magical art was in his blood, in the memory of his veins and bones, handed down to him by his father and his father’s father going back into the mists of time. Through that memory he knew the sorcerer was right. There was no place for a woman in the forge or in his bed while he was creating this particular weapon. He had called it Destiny Maker and it was his greatest challenge.

Outside, Hrotgar was standing staring down towards the river, shading his eyes with his hand against the glare of sunlight on the water. Behind him the villagers went about their business calmly stacking the storehouses against the coming winter.

‘Is the Lord Egbert improving?’ Edith had come up behind him silently, her shoes making no sound on the scatter of bright autumn leaves. For a moment he didn’t answer and she nodded sadly. ‘Will he live?’

His jaw tightened fractionally. ‘If it is God’s will.’

The thegn was a comparatively young man, strong, in his prime, but a month ago he had fallen ill and before the shocked eyes of his followers and his family he had begun to waste away, racked by fever and pain. Hrotgar glanced down at her. She was beautiful, the smith’s wife. Her long fair hair, plaited into a rope which hung to her slender waist, had broken free of its binding and blew in soft curls around her temples. He felt a quick surge of desire and sternly dismissed it. This was forbidden territory. He looked away, narrowing his eyes as she scanned the river. The sun was almost gone, the last dazzling rays turning the water red as blood. He shivered as the thought hung for a moment in his mind. Then his expression cleared. A fishing boat was rounding the bend, the slender prow breaking up the crimson ripples, turning the wavelets to gold. He smiled grimly as a breeze swept up the river and threw spray across the men bending to their nets, hauling them up on deck.

‘Try and make him hurry,’ he said at last. ‘The thegn wants, needs, that sword.’

‘You know I can’t go near him,’ she retorted. ‘It is forbidden.’

He looked at her quickly and then back at the river. ‘I know what is forbidden,’ he said quietly.

Neither spoke for a long time, both watching the fishermen with exaggerated concentration. At last she stepped away from him. ‘I have to go.’

‘To an empty house?’

‘To an empty house,’ she echoed.

He watched her as she retraced her steps across the hard-baked ground. In another day or so the rain would come. He could smell it in the air, and this place would become a quagmire. Further up the hill the thegn’s house and the great mead hall were on quick-draining soil on the edge of the heath. They would stay reasonably dry, at least for the time being. He sighed. For how long would it stay so quiet, so calm? As the thegn’s health failed so the restlessness had grown. The warriors were watching, waiting, his brother and his two sons keeping their counsel; the brother, Oswald, was hungry, the sons, Oswy and Alfred, too young yet to do more than hope and strut and dream. He glanced up at a flight of birds heading up from the river, arrow straight towards the thegn’s hall. Gulls. White winged. No sinister message there.

1

The river was thick with mist. It lay like a soft white muffler on the water between the trees, hiding the mud banks and the lower woods. Above, where the cluster of old barns stood on the edge of the fields, brilliant sunshine touched gold into the autumnal leaves, still holding some of the warmth of summer. Zoë Lloyd was standing at the kitchen sink of the oldest and to her mind the most beautiful of the three barn conversions, gazing out of the window down through the trees towards the river. She shivered. The room had grown suddenly cold in spite of the sunlight. A huge sail had appeared, hazy in the fog, sailing slowly up-river towards Woodbridge. It was curved, cross-rigged, straining before the wind, decorated with some sort of image; she couldn’t quite see it behind the trees. She watched it for several seconds. There was no wind, surely; it had to be moving under power. If she were outside she would probably be able to hear the steady purr of an engine. She gazed at the trees, which were motionless, and then back at the sail. The mist was thickening, wrapping itself ever more densely over the river. In a moment the vessel would be out of sight.

‘It’s there again. The Viking ship. Look, Ken,’ she said over her shoulder to her husband.

There was no reply and she turned with a sudden stab of panic. The kitchen was empty. But she had heard him seconds before, felt him, sensed him behind her, sitting at the table in the sunshine. She looked at the empty chair, the unopened newspaper and she groped with shaking hands for her phone. ‘Ken? Where are you?’

‘Still down here on the boat.’ The voice broke up with a crackle. ‘Did you want something special?’

‘No.’ For a moment she wondered if she were going mad. ‘Ken? Did you see it? The Viking ship going up-river. It must have gone right past you.’

‘I didn’t see anything. The fog is thick as porridge down here on the water!’

‘OK. Don’t worry. See you soon.’ She switched off the phone and slowly put it down. Of course he hadn’t seen anything. Out on their boat on the mooring, with his head no doubt down in the engine compartment as he tinkered with the motor, he wouldn’t have seen or heard the entire Seventh Fleet. Glancing out, she saw that the sail had gone. Rays of sunlight were slowly breaking up the mist. Her momentary panic was subsiding.

It was a couple of minutes later as she hung up the dish-cloth and turned to walk through into the high-beamed living space which formed the greater part of the building that she paused and looked back into the kitchen, which had been constructed in what had once been a side aisle of the barn. The house was empty. There was no one there. If Ken had not been sitting in the chair at the table behind her, who had?

It was barely three months since they had moved into the barn conversion overlooking the River Deben in Suffolk. Part of a group of medieval barns, theirs, somewhat prosaically known as The Old Barn, was the closest to the river. Below them the ground fell away steeply across mown lawns and through a narrow strip of woodland towards the water. Looking through the huge picture window to her left, Zoë watched as a small yacht appeared, moving steadily upstream towards Woodbridge, the morning sunlight reflecting through the trees onto the gently curved sails. The mist had lifted as suddenly as, in the evening, it would probably return. It was moments like this which reassured her that they had done the right thing in moving to the country. The view was utterly beautiful.

It had all happened in such a rush. They had been sitting late over dinner with some friends in London, just after Christmas, discussing their mutual plans for the summer. Both couples were childless and Zoë sometimes wondered if that wasn’t one of the main things that held them together. ‘We’re not having a holiday this year,’ John Danvers had announced. He and Ken had been at school together some twenty-five years earlier and there was still an edge of competitiveness between them which their respective wives alternately ignored and gently mocked. ‘We’re moving out of town. Can’t stand the pressure any more. And anyway, why not? What’s keeping us? With fast broadband we can work from anywhere. We’re going down to Sussex. Just think of it, Ken. Sailing every evening if we want to, no traffic jams, no rushing down at dawn on Saturdays and crawling back into town on Sunday evenings. Just fresh air all the time.’

Sussex. Chichester harbour, where both couples kept their boats, moored near Bosham. Looking at Ken’s face, Zoë had felt a sudden sick foreboding deep in her gut. Their base was London. She loved London, she adored their life there. She enjoyed her job. Although they had often sailed together as a foursome and Zoë did enjoy it on a relatively calm day when the others were there, sailing was not her thing.

Zoë’s relationship with her husband’s passion for sailing was complex and slightly ambiguous. She enjoyed being in the boat. She loved pottering about at the anchorage and often found herself wishing she had a suitable hobby, sketching perhaps, or bird watching, to employ her while Ken endlessly played with his boat’s engine or the rigging or the sails. Her enthusiasm dimmed somewhat, however, once they cast off the mooring and headed out into the open water. It had taken her a long time to realise it but finally on one of their voyages out of the harbour and into the choppy seas of the Solent she had forced herself to acknowledge the fact that she was scared. When the boat was gently heeling before the wind, with the ripple of water creaming under the bow, she was perfectly happy, but the moment something happened – the wind changed, the boom swung over, the sails momentarily thundered and snapped, the speed increased – she began to feel nervous. She didn’t like the unpredictability, the sudden veering, the water lapping dangerously close to the rail. And here, on the Deben, there was something else; for all its beauty and comparative calmness in good weather, the river under cloud and rain and mist had a thick opacity which frightened her; inexplicably it seemed deeper and more sinister and far more dangerous than the seas and harbours of the south.

Because of her discomfort it became the usual practice, more often than not, that Ken would sail on his own or with John, or occasionally with someone else as crew, while she and John’s wife, Amanda, would take the car and retreat to Chichester and the Sussex hinterland in the quest for antiques and picture galleries and soft country villages out of the reach of the stinging salt air of the coast. She had come to love Sussex, but not as a full-time home, centred on sailing, no.

There was no point in arguing. There never was. In the wake of Ken’s enthusiasm and determination she was swept away like some helpless duckling in the wake of a passing speedboat and he had convinced her that she too wanted more than anything to leave London with all its noise and pollution and crowds. It was not as though they hadn’t discussed it before. They had. And now, he insisted, was the time to invest in the country.

As it turned out, he agreed with her that they couldn’t go south. Not to the same place as John and Amanda. Of course not. That would be too obvious. Nevertheless, their flat was put up for sale, and within weeks was under offer and a decision was made on the strength of the property pages in a couple of Sunday papers. Suffolk was the county Ken favoured. Far enough away from London for the property to be good value, but not so far he couldn’t get on a train and be there in less than two hours. Beautiful, unspoiled, far less crowded than Sussex. It was worth some exploratory visits, he told her, nothing for certain, just look, just test the water, and she had agreed, had gone along with it. Why? Why had she given in so easily? It was only now, from time to time, that she asked herself this. Was it that she was too tired to argue, or was she also, at base, tired of London, and therefore, following the axiom of Samuel Johnson, tired of life? They had spent just four weekends house hunting, and viewed the barn conversion in March. He had fallen in love with it on that first viewing.

That had been her chance, the moment she could have said no. She hadn’t. Instead, she had felt two emotions, she realised later, one a faint stirring of excitement, the other a strange sense that some unavoidable fate was reeling them in. And there was another reason for coming to Suffolk, a reason Zoë barely acknowledged, wasn’t sure about, had never been able to prove. Anya. It would remove Ken from Anya’s orbit: ‘A wife always knows,’ Amanda had said to her once, when Zoë reluctantly had confided her suspicions.

‘But I don’t know, that’s the point,’ Zoë had replied, frustrated. ‘I don’t even know her name for sure. One of his colleagues mentioned someone called Anya once and I remember how shifty Ken looked and I wondered then. But apart from that he’s never given me any reason to suspect him. No lipstick on the collar, no panties in the glove box.’ She had shuddered. ‘No unexplained calls. It’s just a feeling.’

Amanda had frowned thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a dark horse, your husband. And very sexy.’

Zoë had glanced at her and smiled. ‘He is, isn’t he.’ But if he and Anya had been having an affair, he appeared to have turned his back on it without regret. Unless she had dumped him. Was that part of the reason for leaving so abruptly? Perhaps it was better not to know. The important thing was they would be starting afresh.

The sale was completed in May, clinched by the fact that a mooring on the river was part of the deal, and they moved in at the beginning of July. Ken’s job as an IT consultant could, like John’s, be done anywhere as long as there was good access to the Internet and to London if necessary. Zoë’s as an assistant in a Bond Street art gallery couldn’t; didn’t count, apparently. ‘You’ll find something to occupy you,’ Ken had said airily, giving her one of his bear hugs. ‘There are galleries and antique shops all over the place up here, you saw for yourself. Come on, sweetheart, you’re going to love it. It will be absolutely perfect. And when we’re settled in we’ll ask John and Amanda to come and stay.’

Was that it? Was that the reason for the entire move? To impress, even upstage, John and Amanda? Had she caved in and agreed to her whole life being turned upside down on a whim, to try to compete with their best friends? Drying her hands on a towel Zoë gave a deep sigh and turned back to the window. Of course she had. Did it even matter? Probably not.

The fact remained, though, that try as she might she had not settled in; the faint excitement had worn off, the feeling that some dire fate was winding them round with sticky threads had become stronger than ever. She still thought of the house as a barn, not a home.

It was an exquisite building, with huge, full-height living space, the massive beams cunningly spot-lit for full effect, and a large woodburner as the focal point of the room, as was of course the enormous window looking down towards the river. Above there was a broad galleried landing and off it two large bedrooms, also with incredible views. Ken’s office was at the back, at the end of a short passage off the landing, looking down over the fields, a quiet rural outlook which Zoë secretly feared would be unbearably lonely and bleak in the winter. The two other barns in the group were slightly to the side and back, out of her immediate sight from this window. The Threshing Barn was occupied by a retired couple, Stephen and Rosemary Formby, and The Summer Barn, so they had told her, was owned by a large and noisy family which appeared to use it as a holiday home and, as far as they could see so far, weren’t there all that often. From her kitchen window she could see part of the communal gardens and the river, always the river, tidal for its first dozen or so miles from the sea, quite narrow here just round the bend from the lovely old town of Woodbridge, where it broadened, then narrowed again as it changed character to meander through the gentle Suffolk countryside. From here they were looking across towards open country and off to the left of the barn towards a fourth house, The Old Forge, much smaller than the barns and the only building of the group with a large private garden which, from what she could see of it behind its neat hedges, was pretty and productive. She gathered it was occupied by a single man, another passionate sailor, so she had been told, but she had yet to set eyes on him. He was, according to her neighbour, Rosemary, her source of all information about the other occupants of the small select community, something of a recluse, which turned him into a mystery.

A loud knock made her jump.

‘Zoë, dear?’ Rosemary Formby put her head round the door. She was a small woman, somewhere in her late sixties, her iron-grey hair cut boyishly short, her face, devoid of make-

up and weather-beaten, highly coloured, which served to emphasise eyes which were a brilliant Siamese cat blue. ‘Steve and I are going into Woodbridge. I wondered if you needed anything?’ Coming in, she dropped her shoulder bag and car keys on the table in such a way that Zoë understood she was on the move and wouldn’t be stopping, something for which Zoë was secretly pleased. Their new neighbours were friendly and hospitable but perhaps a little too enthusiastic and in your face.

The woman glanced towards the window. ‘Is Ken down at the boat again?’

Zoë nodded. She had already put the memory of the mist and her strange attack of panic behind her. ‘He’s making the most of every moment of this glorious weather.’

‘Well,’ Rosemary was already scooping up bag and keys again, ‘don’t let him turn you into a sailing widow. There are enough of them round here already.’

Zoë shuddered. It was just an expression but nevertheless it was an unfortunate turn of phrase.

As Rosemary headed back to the door she paused. ‘I see Leo’s back.’

‘Leo?’

‘Our elusive neighbour.’ Rosemary inclined her head towards the window. She hesitated. ‘He can be a bit touchy, Zoë. Don’t go rushing in there. Fools and angels, you know.’ And she had gone.

Fools and angels? Zoë stared after her. Then she went to look out of the window again. Sure enough a thin stream of blue smoke was rising from the chimney of The Old Forge. Zoë loved a mystery and as this man was the nearest thing to it in her life at the moment he intrigued her. It was very hard to resist the urge to make a neighbourly call.

Leo Logan was standing in his garden staring down at the river. It was a view of which he never tired. Whatever the light, whatever the state of the tide, the water fascinated him. The sages knew. You can never step in the same river twice. The sunlight was catching the soft cinnamon-red bark of the pine trees, warming them, dancing on the trunks, painting them with ever-changing shadows. He heard the latch on the gate behind him and scowled. He had already guessed who it was. He had seen that they had moved in. He knew someone would eventually buy the place but it had been a blissful few months of peace while it was empty. He took a deep breath, nerving himself for what was to come, and turned round.

It was the woman. She was tall and slim with short wavy blonde hair, artfully streaked to look as though it was sun-bleached. Her eyes were intriguing. Amber. And nicely shaped. But her smile had frozen into place as he knew it would the moment she saw his face.

She swallowed and held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Zoë Lloyd. Your new neighbour. I just thought I would say hello.’

‘Hi, Zoë. Leo Logan.’ He grasped her hand momentarily then turned away to give her a moment to compose herself. ‘How do you like it here?’

‘I’m reserving judgement.’

Her answer surprised him. He had expected her to gush nervously and head for the gate. As it was she held her ground and even more astonishingly she confronted him at once. ‘What did you do to your face?’

‘Accident in a forge.’

‘God!’ She came to stand beside him, also looking down across the hedge towards the water. ‘What a bugger.’

‘An irony, isn’t it, considering I’m now living in one!’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘And before you ask, I do not wear a mask like the Phantom of the Opera. One day I will probably have plastic surgery but at the moment I can’t afford it and the insurance money, if there is any, will probably not come through until I am in my dotage and no longer care. I try and present my best side to strangers. You took me by surprise.’

She smiled. ‘I am sorry. Given the option I nearly always manage to do the wrong thing.’

‘How refreshing.’ He folded his arms. ‘So, is there a Mr Lloyd? Lots of little Lloyds? Dogs? Cats? Horses? Boats?’

‘Hasn’t Rosemary given you our life history yet?’

He shook his head. ‘Rosemary and I are not bosom friends. As it happens, I have been away for a while, but also, I value my privacy.’

‘I see. And I have barged in, I’m sorry. I’ll go.’ She turned away, rebuffed. ‘For the record,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘there is a Mr Lloyd and a boat. The other things, no.’ Her voice sounded, even to her ears, strangely bleak as she said it.

She half expected him to call her back as she headed towards the gate, but he said nothing. A quick glance as she unlatched it revealed a resolutely uncompromising back view, taut shoulders beneath the denim shirt, an air of concentration as he studied the river.

Fools and angels indeed.

Pushing open the kitchen door she came to an abrupt standstill, staring round. ‘Ken? Are you there?’

Again she was aware of the eerie sensation that there was someone around, someone who had just that second left the room. ‘Ken?’ She knew it couldn’t be him. Once he was down on the boat he would be there until lunchtime if not later. She glanced at her mobile, still lying where she had left it on the antique pine table, and shook her head. She was not going to call him again.

‘Zoë?’ The voice from the doorway behind her made her spin round. It was Leo. He had followed her across the grass. ‘Sorry. I was rude. Can’t help myself. It wasn’t intentional. Peace offering?’ He held out a wooden trug. In it was a selection of vegetables and on top a spray of golden chrysanthemums. He put it on the table and glanced round. ‘This has the potential to be a nice place. I’m glad you’ve got rid of the chichi blinds.’

She smiled, looking round, seeing the kitchen through his eyes. It had been well designed and expensively fitted, a country house kitchen with soft lavender-blue walls, a cream Aga, a refectory table and old chairs which she had found only weeks before in a shop in Long Melford. ‘There weren’t any blinds when we arrived. They must have gone with the previous owner. They didn’t stay here long, did they?’ Without her realising it there was a touch of anxiety in her voice.

‘No, thank God.’ He began to unpack the trug, scattering earth across the table. ‘I’ll take this back, if you don’t mind. There is one thing I will mention while I’m here. You need to kill those damn security lights. They illuminate the whole area like a football stadium when they come on. They destroy the view of the night sky for everyone for miles around. Do that and I would be eternally grateful.’

Zoë was taken aback by his vehemence. She had barely noticed the lights; all the barns had them. When she had, it was to enjoy the shadowed views they cast across the lawns. She decided it was better to ignore the comment for now, say nothing and respond later if he brought it up again.

‘This stuff is very welcome,’ she said. ‘Ken isn’t a gardener. It was one of the attractions of this place, that most of the gardens are communal and are mown by someone else.’

‘And you?’ He scanned her face enquiringly. ‘Don’t you garden either?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve never thought about it. We lived in London before.’ She was watching his hands. They were strong and well formed; his nails were filthy.

‘So why on earth have you come here?’

‘Ken wanted to live in the country, and he adored the idea of having a mooring for the boat at the bottom of the garden.’ She didn’t realise that she hadn’t included herself in this statement; that she was distancing herself from the decision.

‘And he couldn’t find a mooring nearer London? What does he do?’

‘IT consultancy.’

‘And you?’

‘Nothing at the moment.’

‘A lady who lunches, eh?’ Was there a touch of scorn in his voice?

The colour flared into her face. ‘No,’ she said defensively. ‘Hardly. I don’t know anyone round here to have lunch with. And anyway, I shall be looking for a job.’

‘Which would be?’

‘I worked in an art gallery.’

‘I’ll bet it was a posh one. Bond Street?’ There was no touch of humour in his voice.

She didn’t dare look at his face. ‘Yes, if you must know.’

His laugh was soft and, she realised, sympathetic. ‘Some friends of mine have an antique shop in Woodbridge. I can ask them if you like. They might know of something which would suit you.’

‘That would be great.’ She risked another glance at him. The scars, now she knew they were there, weren’t so bad. There was an area of red, puckered skin and tight silvery marks from his temple down across his left cheek almost to his chin. His eyes, she realised, were blue, not the bright almost harsh blue of Rosemary’s, but a deep misty colour. ‘Leo –’ She paused for a second, then took the plunge. ‘Our other neighbours. In The Summer Barn. Do you know them?’

‘Indeed.’

‘They don’t seem to be here much.’

‘No, thank God!’

‘What happens in the summer?’

‘Usually they go to Marbella or somewhere like that. Suffolk is too quiet.’ Leo gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Don’t worry. We don’t have to contend with that. And if they come down for Christmas at least they keep the doors shut.’

‘Is it possible,’ again a moment’s silence, ‘is it possible that one of the children might come in here, and somehow hide, move things around?’

He smiled. The scars affected his smile, gave a strangely quirky twist to his mouth. ‘Anything is possible with them. But I think it unlikely. They live somewhere down near Basildon and the kids seem to think coming up here is the next best thing to parental-inspired torture. The youngest, Jade, is almost bearable, she’s about eleven, but she would be at school. And there would be all hell to pay if she wasn’t, so we can rule her out. One thing Sharon and Jeff are fanatical about is that the girl should get her education. The boys are, I fear, beyond hope.’ He put the empty trug down by the door. ‘I take it you have had the feeling there has been someone in the house?’

She nodded. ‘Stupid. It’s just taking time to get used to the place. It’s so big after the flat and it’s so quiet here.’

He glanced round. ‘There’s no need to be worried about it. This place has always had a strong feeling that there are things going on. Not the kids next door, not real people. Just echoes.’

For a moment she said nothing. ‘Is that why the people before us left?’ She walked over to the window, fighting the tightening in her chest. He was going to tell her it was haunted. That was all she needed. ‘It’s a new conversion,’ she went on. ‘Hardly anyone has lived here. No one has died here, have they? It can’t be ghosts.’

He frowned. ‘This building is hundreds of years old. Surely you realise that.’

‘But it’s a barn. Nobody lived here,’ she repeated firmly.

‘No. Nobody lived here.’ Whatever he had been going to say, he changed his mind. ‘Don’t worry about it. These old buildings creak and groan with every change of wind or temperature. You’ll get used to it. In the end you won’t hear it any more, or if you do you will feel it’s like a conversation. My place is the same. I can tell what the weather is like and which way the wind is blowing just by which beam creaks in the morning when I wake up.’

She smiled. ‘That sounds positively friendly.’

‘It is.’

‘I’ll keep the security lights in mind,’ she said as he stooped and picked up his trug.

‘Do that. They desecrate the night.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Right. I must go. You must introduce me to Mr Lloyd one of these days.’ And he had gone.

Zoë clenched her fists. There was no ghost. There could not be a ghost. Just a creaky house with a past as a farm building. She could live with that.

2

The huge barn doors were open to the afternoon sunlight. Several chickens were scratching at the dusty cobbles. They scattered at the approach of the horse.

‘Daniel!’ The woman leading the elegant mare towards him across the yard was slim and beautifully dressed in a burgundy riding habit with a black hat adorned with a veil. The horse was lame.

‘My lady!’ Releasing the pump handle with a start, Dan Smith straightened abruptly, letting the water sluice off his broad shoulders as he tossed his hair back out of his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my lady! I didn’t hear you coming.’ He groped for his shirt, forcing it on over his wet skin.

Emily Crosby smiled. She let her eyes linger a few seconds more on his body as he wrestled with the damp material before turning to the horse beside her. It stood dejected, its head hanging almost to the ground. Her gloved hand touched the animal’s neck. ‘My mare has cast a shoe and it was easier to bring her straight here than walk her back to the Hall.’

Dan hesitated, then he approached the horse, running an expert hand down its leg and lifting it to inspect the hoof. ‘Where was your groom, my lady? Surely Sam or Zeph or one of the stable boys could have brought the horse in.’

‘I was riding alone.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘I am sure there is no harm done. She just needs a new shoe.’

He glanced over his shoulder towards the forge. The fire had died down and his tools were stowed away for the night. ‘If you’ll leave her here, my lady, I will shoe her in the morning and bring her up to the Hall for you.’

‘I don’t think that’s good enough, Daniel.’ Her face set in a petulant scowl. ‘How do you expect me to get back?’

He eyed the side saddle and her long-skirted habit. ‘Walk, why don’t you?’ The words hovered on his lips, but he bit them back. ‘I can put your saddle on the squire’s cob. He’s here in the yard.’

Emily stared round, her grey eyes widening. ‘The squire is here?’

‘No, my lady. His horse.’ Daniel suppressed a smile. He pushed his wet hair back from his eyes. ‘No one has come down to collect him from the Hall stables yet. It will only take me a minute to put the saddle over for you.’

‘Very well.’ She handed him the rein. ‘Be quick. I need to get back in time for dinner.’

Dan walked the mare across the yard and tied her bridle to a ring in the wall. It took him seconds to release the girth and hump the heavy saddle onto his shoulder.

The squire’s cob was not happy. It tossed its head angrily as he reached under its belly to cinch the first buckle tight. ‘It doesn’t fit him. It will rub. You will have to ride slowly, my lady.’

‘You can lead me. I can’t ride this great brute without an escort.’ She eyed the horse with disfavour. She watched for a moment as he led it towards the mounting block. ‘I can’t get on it on my own, Daniel,’ she said sharply. ‘You will have to lift me.’ The veil of her hat blew for a moment across her eyes as she looked round at him, her gloves and whip in one hand, the train of her habit in the other. Dan sighed.

‘She didn’t weigh much more than a child,’ he said later to his wife, Susan, when at last he was back home in the cottage behind the forge. ‘And she behaves like a child at that. One toy broken, so she needs must have another. That poor mare was drenched with sweat. It took me hours to rub her down and bed her for the night. And she’s that jumpy. I doubt I’ll get near her in the morning to shoe her.’

Susan was standing over the small black iron range, stirring rabbit stew. She straightened, her hands to her back. ‘She’s a spoiled madam. Just because she’s an earl’s daughter! She runs the squire ragged, so they say.’

‘They?’ Dan grinned. ‘You mean that blowbroth sister of yours?’

Susan laughed. Her sister Molly was lady’s maid at the Hall and there wasn’t much gossip around up there that hadn’t reached the home farm within the hour. She blew a strand of hair away from her face and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I felt the baby move again today.’

He grinned. ‘That’s good.’

‘It was my turn on the churn. Betsy says it’s good luck to feel the baby move in the dairy. Means he’ll grow strong and tall.’

Dan nodded. ‘As long as you don’t exert yourself too much.’

‘It’s my job, Daniel! If I can’t work in the dairy what will I do?’ She turned to the dresser and, picking up a jug of cider, poured him some. ‘You drink that down you and I’ll fetch you some more to have with your dinner. It won’t be long till it’s ready.’ She set down the jug again and stood watching him as he pulled up a stool and sat down at the table. ‘Where had she been, do you know?’

‘Lady Emily?’ He shook his head morosely. ‘She just said she was riding alone. And I know for a fact the squire has said she should always have a groom with her, or one of the men. She’s fallen off that mare more than once.’

‘But she was all right when you took her back?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Why are you asking about her, Susan?’

His wife looked smug. ‘Just something Molly said. About her ladyship being sick in the mornings.’

‘You mean she’s expecting?’ Daniel frowned.

‘Maybe. And if so,’ Susan picked up a cloth to pad her hands against the heat of the pan, ‘whose is it, that’s the question.’ She glanced at him coquettishly.

Dan frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be spreading gossip like that, Susan. And nor should Molly. She’d be sent off if anyone heard she’d been talking about the folk at the Hall.’ He stood up and reached for the cider flagon from the dresser. ‘No.’ He held up his hand as his wife opened her mouth to continue. ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear any more.’

He didn’t want even to think about the squire’s new wife. There had been something deeply unsettling in the way Emily Crosby had looked at him as he had stooped to take her foot in his cupped hands and tossed her up onto the squire’s bay cob, and the way she had trailed her fingers across his shoulder and, just for a fraction of a second, across his cheek as she reached down for the rein.

He shod the mare next morning with no trouble, and sent her up to the Hall with one of the farm boys. There was no sign of her ladyship and no word from Molly. Dan straightened his back for a moment, his hands deep in the pocket of his heavy leather apron, eyeing the pair of Suffolk punches awaiting his attention in the yard as two of the men manoeuvred a heavy wagon out of one of the barns. Behind him the boy, Benjamin, was renewing his efforts with the huge pair of bellows. Dan glanced once down at the river where a heavy barge was making its way slowly on the top of the tide towards Woodbridge, then he turned again into the forge and after a moment’s consideration chose a new shoe from the pile in the corner.

Ken Lloyd was sitting in the cockpit of the Lady Grace, a can of lager in one hand and an oily cloth in the other. He had spent all morning working on the engine. He threw down the cloth, wiped his hands on the knees of his overalls and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Over his head the halyards were tapping against the mast; he could feel the pull of the tide jerking the boat gently at her mooring. He glanced down at his mobile, lying on the seat. It was switched off. If Zoë wanted anything she could come down and call from the landing stage or get in the car and go into town herself. He looked lazily across at the neighbouring boat. It had sailed in earlier while he was distracted by the engine and he had paid little attention as its skipper had turned into wind, neatly picked up the mooring, then climbed down into the dinghy and rowed towards the shore. He had vaguely noted a tall, dark-haired man, seen the sail bag tossed onto the boards of the small boat, then seen him tie up at the landing stage and stride up through the woods towards the barns. He studied the boat now. Curlew. He saw the name on her stern as she swung to the mooring. A neat, seaworthy little craft with tan sails and, as far as he could see, no engine at all.

Losing interest he scanned the far bank. Slowly the tide was beginning to cover the saltmarsh on the edge of the river. He could see a family walking down the path in the distance, two dogs running ahead of them. It would be perfect for sailing soon. If he could persuade Zoë to come with him they could take the Lady down-river, maybe stop for a bite of lunch at a pub. With a satisfied grin he leaned across and picking up the mobile he switched it on and pressed speed dial.

There was no reply.

Emily Crosby was sitting in the library, writing a letter. Or at least she was seated at a table in front of the window, a pen in her hand, but her eyes were fixed on the distant farm buildings beyond the park and the pasture, where the land sloped down towards the river. The group of old barns clustered in a slight hollow of the gentle hillside where oak and birch woodlands, interspersed here and there with great forest pines, lined the river bank. She could see the blue smoke rising from the chimney of the forge and she smiled. She couldn’t get the image of Daniel Smith out of her head.

She had been transfixed by the beauty of his body, clad only in his leather-patched trousers as he washed at the pump yesterday, the rippling muscles, the tanned skin which betrayed the fact that he was often outside without his shirt and jerkin. She smiled to herself at the memory of his embarrassment at the sight of her as he pulled his shirt from where he had thrown it across the shafts of one of the farm wagons and dragged it on over his head. She could feel her body reacting at the memory and unconsciously her hand strayed to her bodice, stroking the swell of her breasts through the fine muslin of her gown.

‘Emily?’ The door opened and Henry Crosby walked in. He paused for a moment, a slight man, in his early forties, his face pale, his hair already thinning at his temples, and looked at the table, frowning. ‘Who are you writing to?’

She grimaced. ‘Mama. Except I haven’t started yet. It is such a lovely morning and I was staring out across the fields. Look at the colour of the trees, Henry. They are like fire in the sunshine.’

She turned back towards the desk, as he walked across the room towards her. She could smell the pomade he wore on his hair, and the less pleasant mustiness of his shirt. He paused behind her and she could sense him looking down over her shoulder. She had written, ‘Dear Mama, How are you?’ That was all. It seemed to satisfy him, however. ‘How are you feeling, Emily?’ he enquired after a few moments’ silence. ‘Beaton said you were unwell yesterday.’

Her fingers tightened on her pen. She did not look at him. Was it impossible to keep anything to oneself in this damnable house? Molly had seen her vomiting, carried away the chamber pot, and of course she had to have told Mrs Field, the housekeeper, who had wasted no time in telling Beaton, the butler, who had probably relayed it round the village. By now the news had probably reached Ipswich via the carrier and by tomorrow it would be in London. ‘I am well enough today, thank you, Henry. I think I must have eaten something disagreeable. Mrs Davy’s oyster pie has made me sick before.’

‘So, you’re not –’ He paused, unable to proceed or hide the disappointment in his tone.

‘No, I’m not, Henry. I’m sorry.’

He reached out and almost timidly touched her shoulder. ‘So am I,’ he said.

She tensed. There was something in his tone which was unsettling. She turned and looked up at him. ‘It will happen, Henry.’

He nodded. ‘Do you think,’ again he paused, ‘do you think you ride too much, my dear?’

‘Ride too much?’ She pushed her chair back abruptly and stood up. Standing as they were, side by side, she was a good two inches taller than he. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, maybe it is bad for you to go thundering around the countryside every day the way you do. And yet again yesterday you went out unescorted in spite of my express instructions –’

‘Instructions!’ she echoed, her voice rising. ‘You do not instruct me what I may and may not do, Henry.’

‘But I am your husband, Emily. It is my duty to look after you and make sure you are not too headstrong. Your father said you needed a firm hand.’ He looked unhappy as he stared past her, unable to meet her eye.

‘My father may have used a firm hand,’ she retorted. ‘You may not. If I wish to ride alone, I shall.’ She threw down her pen and swept past him towards the door. ‘In fact I shall go and ride this morning.’

‘But my dear –’ he protested.

She did not choose to hear him. Pulling open the library door she swept out into the hall.

‘– we have company for luncheon,’ he went on softly, his voice lost in the empty room. He moved closer to the window and stood staring out. The tide was high. In spite of the sunlight up here illuminating the fields and woods, a hazy mist was forming over the water and he could see what looked uncommonly like a Viking longship forging slowly through it, heading up-river towards Woodbridge. He frowned for a moment, puzzled and strangely uneasy as he studied the single short mast, the broad curved sail, the banks of oars, then he smiled, nodding, pleased at the distraction. It must be some new vessel belonging to one of his neighbours. He stared at it until the fog closed in and swallowed the image as though it had never been.

‘Where the hell were you?’ Ken strode into the kitchen and confronted Zoë as she put the last of Leo’s vegetables into the bottom of the fridge.

‘I walked over to see our new neighbour. He came back this morning.’

Ken swung to stare out of the window, following her pointing finger. ‘The Old Forge?’

She nodded. ‘Nice man. He gave me those flowers from his garden.’ She pointed to the vase on the centre of the table.

‘I wanted us to go sailing.’ Ken had already lost interest.

‘We still can. It will only take me a minute to change.’ She manfully ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach. It had developed into a quiet day with mellow sunlight playing on the water. It would be lovely on the boat.

‘It’s too late now.’

‘Why?’

‘If you’d come when I rang we would have had time to get down-river and back.’ Ken was a small wiry man, still handsome, with sandy hair and grey-green eyes. His face, cheeks windblown and threaded with small red veins, was a picture of discontent.

‘We still have.’ Zoë watched as he washed his oily hands at the sink. ‘Give me two minutes, then I’ll throw a baguette and some brie and salad into a basket and we can be down on the boat in less than half an hour and have a picnic.’ She was already opening the door of the fridge, taking out the cheese. She changed the subject, her voice deliberately casual, trying to diffuse his irritation. ‘Did you see the Viking ship go up-river? It was incredibly beautiful. With a huge billowing sail. They must be having some sort of regatta in Woodbridge.’

‘If they are I haven’t heard about it.’ He was drying his hands now. He was going to let her persuade him but he was going to make her work at it. ‘You can’t have seen a boat go up-river though. There isn’t enough water for anything with any draught to it. The tide has only just turned.’

She didn’t argue. Having thrown the picnic together, she ran upstairs to grab a jacket and pull on her sailing shoes.

It was lovely on the river, she had to admit it. The gentle breeze was against them and Ken didn’t bother to raise the sails as the engine purred smoothly into action and they made their way slowly down the main fairway, past the saltings, past deserted anchored yachts, past the crowds on the terrace outside the pub at Waldringfield, the tables shaded by blue and white umbrellas, then on down round the bend.

‘What was he like?’ Ken said at last. He was sitting back, his arm over the tiller, squinting at the glare on the water.

‘Who?’

‘Our neighbour.’ He glanced at her.

‘Nice enough. A bit prickly to start with.’ She described him.

‘I remember Steve telling me about him. He was messing about with some sort of metal working and he wasn’t wearing a face guard. Something exploded.’ Ken leaned forward and helped himself to another crusty sandwich. Zoë had made a pile of them in the cabin as they’d headed down-river.

‘Rosemary didn’t say.’

‘Stupid woman.’ It seemed a general comment rather than a criticism of her capacity to gossip. ‘You know what she’s doing?’ He threw a piece of crust overboard. ‘She’s involved with some group of walkers, taking on the local farmer about rights of way. Steve says it’s a nightmare. He loves walking but it’s anything for a quiet life with him; she’s the one. She wants the path to take some short cut across a field and all the locals are up in arms. Stupid woman!’ He repeated the phrase with some gusto. ‘If you’re going for a walk from nowhere to nowhere, for the sake of just going for a walk, why would you want to take a short cut, for heaven’s sake?’ He narrowed his eyes, adjusting the course slightly to pass another boat coming upstream under sail.

‘She strikes me as being a bit of an obsessive,’ Zoë said. She climbed out of the cabin and sat down opposite him.

‘Typical childless woman!’ Ken snorted. ‘Needs something to keep her occupied.’

‘Does that go for me too, then?’ Zoë didn’t look at him. ‘My need for a job to keep me occupied.’

Ken looked startled. For a moment he didn’t reply. ‘We agreed we didn’t want kids, Zoë,’ he said at last, his tone heavy with reproach. ‘It was a joint decision.’

‘Was it?’

He didn’t reply.

The water slid by gently, smoothly, an opaque green-brown beneath the blue of the sky. The saltmarsh at this stage of the tide was indented with narrow creeks and channels in the mud. On the bank opposite she could see the trees coming down to the water’s edge, the leaves beginning to turn to red and gold. Seagulls were diving into the tide edge, their screaming the only interruption to the peace save for the gentle ringing of the wind in the halyards and stays. She squinted up at the burgee flying at the top of the mast. In a moment of devotion when they were first married she had made it for Ken, stitching the little flag with her own hands. He threw another piece of crust overboard and Zoë saw with some alarm that something invisible seized it almost at once and dragged it down beneath the water. A stronger gust of wind sent ripples all around them and she shivered.

‘My lady, your husband said one of us should go with you.’ Pip, the boy who had saddled Bella for her, did his best. ‘What if you should fall?’

‘I won’t fall.’ She gathered the reins and gestured at him to help her mount.

The boy shrugged. It wasn’t his job to argue with her ladyship. He watched as she settled into the saddle, let go of the rein and leaned back against the wall, whistling, as she trotted through the arch and out onto the long drive which led down to the main gates of the estate. Halfway down she took the broad fork in the track which led towards the home farm.

The barnyard was empty as she rode in and reined the mare to a standstill. She stood for a moment staring round. Wisps of hay blew round the horse’s hooves. From somewhere she could hear the contented grunting of pigs and the sharp grate of a hoof on cobbles but there was no sign of anyone there. The working horses were out in the fields with the men, bringing in cartloads of turnips to store for the winter. The dairy was neat and scrubbed, the huge pans of cream covered by muslin cloths, the churns waiting for the evening milking. Her gaze turned thoughtfully to the forge. There was no smoke coming from the chimney but the door was open and she heard sounds coming from inside. Clicking her tongue she urged the mare into a walk.

‘Is anyone there?’ she called.

Dan appeared after a few moments. He had taken off his heavy apron, but his sleeves were rolled to the elbow. ‘My lady?’

‘There is something wrong with the shoe you put on,’ she called down. ‘I’d like you to look at it.’

She saw his eyebrow move and smiled to herself. So, she had insulted his workmanship. Good. That would put him on his metal. ‘Help me down, Daniel.’

He stepped forward and after a moment’s hesitation he held up his arms. She lifted her leg clear of the pummel and slid towards him, trusting him to catch her. Just for a moment she felt his strong hands on her waist and smelled his sweat as she fell towards him, then he released her and took a step backwards. ‘I’ll look at the horse, my lady.’

He seemed angry as he led the mare to the wall and tied the rein. Then he bent, running his strong hand down the animal’s foreleg. Emily smiled to herself. ‘Could it be loose, do you think?’

‘No. It’s fine and solid.’

‘How strange. Perhaps it is one of the others.’

‘I don’t think so, my lady. I checked them all this morning. They were all right and she was sound.’

‘How odd.’ She stepped closer to him. ‘Could she be going lame, do you think?’

‘Dan!’ The voice came from close behind them. Lady Emily straightened and took a step back. Susan’s face was white as she stared at them. ‘I am sorry, my lady, I didn’t know you were here.’

Dan winked at her, his hand gently stroking the horse’s nose. ‘Lady Emily is having trouble with Bella’s feet, Susan. I was just taking a look for her.’

‘Indeed.’ Susan gave Lady Emily a cold smile. ‘Please don’t let me interrupt, my lady. I can wait.’

Emily stared at her, her eyes hard as flint, then she nodded. ‘I was wrong. I must have imagined it. If Daniel says the horse is all right, then of course it must be. Perhaps, if he could just help me up,’ she turned and smiled at him, ‘then I can be on my way. I am already late for luncheon.’

‘Dan!’ Susan caught at his hand as Bella turned out of the yard and disappeared with her rider. ‘You have to be careful. You know what she’s like.’ She looked up at him pleadingly, aware as never before of the contrast between her swollen body, her greasy hair covered by a stitched cap, and her rough strong hands, and the beautiful slim creature who had ridden out of the yard with her chestnut curls and elegant features beneath the riding hat and veil.

Dan laughed and threw his arms round her, planting a kiss on the end of her nose. ‘Don’t you fret, missus,’ he said with a grin. ‘She’s doesn’t hold a candle to my Susan. Silly primping female who can’t control a horse properly and can’t even get herself with child.’

‘Maybe it’s the squire’s at fault.’ Susan followed him into the forge. ‘It took long enough for him to get Mistress Elizabeth with child. And then for it to kill her in the birthing, poor soul, and the baby dead too.’ They were both silent for a moment. The squire’s first wife had been highly popular in the village and on the farm. It was barely two years since they had all followed her coffin to the church, and only four months after that, to the shock of everyone for miles around, Henry Crosby had brought home a new wife after marrying her in London. Susan put down her basket. In it her husband’s lunch of bread and cheese was wrapped in a chequered cloth; with it were a couple of new season’s apples and a flagon of cider. He drew the cork with his teeth and took a swig. ‘That is good, Susan. Thank you.’

Outside on the river the mist was drifting slowly in with the tide. Barely visible in the shadows beneath the trees the square sail of the Viking ship hung swollen with an imperceptible breeze.

It was nearly dark when they tied up at last at the mooring below the barns and began to tidy the boat. They had sailed for a while in the end, so the sails had to be neatly furled and covered, the cabin left immaculate, the basket, empty now of food, lowered into the dinghy. The tide had turned again, exposing pebbles and green weed and dark shining mud at the edge of the water. The wind had dropped. Already the mist was coming back.

‘Hurry, Ken. Let’s get home.’ Zoë was conscious suddenly that her skin had started to prickle. She glanced round uncomfortably, aware of a chill off the water which hadn’t been there before, and the incredible loneliness of the silence around them as the night drew in. She watched in an agony of impatience as, remembering a book he wanted to take back with him, Ken ducked once more into the cabin and began to search through a locker.

‘I’ll only have to come back tomorrow if I don’t find the wretched thing now,’ he retorted as she protested. ‘It’ll get damp.’ He was rummaging amongst a heap of papers and charts and magazines. ‘I should clear all this out before winter. Zoë?’ He turned. She was still in the cockpit staring into the mist.

‘There is someone out there,’ she said as he climbed the steps out of the cabin and joined her. He was feeling in his pocket for the key to the doors.

‘Someone going up to the town quay.’ He frowned, trying another pocket. ‘They’ll have to hurry. The water is dropping fast.’

‘Listen.’ Zoë held up her hand. ‘You can hear the boat.’ Instead of being reassuring the sound was somehow disturbing.

Ken paused. She was right. He could hear the rush of the tide against a bow, the creak of rigging. It sounded very close. The sudden thunder of canvas made them both reach for the rail, staring out into the mist. It had thickened until it was a dense wall hanging round them. ‘That was close; too close.’ Ken’s voice was indignant. ‘Are they crazy, sailing at that speed when the visibility is so low? They’ve broached, by the sound of it. Where the hell are they? I can’t see anything.’

Nearby Leo’s boat was a faint shadow against the whiteness of the mist. Groping in the bag lying on the bottom boards ready to be thrown down into the dinghy with the basket, Ken found the torch and switched it on, shining it out across the water. All it showed was white swirling fog.

‘Listen,’ Zoë was whispering. ‘Oars.’

The creak of wood on metal was unmistakable.

‘Ahoy!’ Ken shouted out across the water. ‘You’re too close to the bank! You’ll run aground.’ His voice was swallowed and dulled by the fog. They looked at each other. The sound of the oars had stopped. There was nothing to hear at all now save for the gentle gurgle of ripples against the hull of the Lady Grace. A breath of wind stirred the mist for a moment, lifting it, showing the river, empty of movement.

‘Where are they?’ Zoë gave an uncomfortable little laugh. ‘Did we imagine it?’ She waited for Ken to laugh too. He didn’t. He was still staring across the water. He had pulled the key to the cabin door out of his pocket and was standing holding it as if mesmerised. Zoë glanced down at the small dinghy, tugging at its painter alongside, suddenly terrified at the thought of climbing down into it and setting off across the narrow strip of water towards the landing stage. Only half an hour before there had appeared to be plenty of light to see what they were doing as they picked up the mooring; now they were enveloped in mist, and total darkness had crept up the river. She felt frightened and vulnerable and alone.

Ken had switched off the torch. ‘We had better save the battery,’ he said softly. She could hear the tension in his voice; he was feeling it as well. He put the key in the lock and turned it, then he moved towards the stern and reached for the painter. The rope was covered in droplets of moisture. ‘Ready?’ He sounded uncertain.

‘Perhaps they got stuck on a mud bank?’ she murmured.

‘Must have.’ He managed to smile but his attempt at a jovial tone didn’t quite come off. ‘Come on. Let’s go home.’ He pulled the dinghy alongside and held it steady for her. She climbed down and sat in the stern, glancing over her shoulder into the dark. The water gleamed dully only inches from her, gently moving as if it were breathing. Already the reeds were poking above the water. Somewhere close by there was a splash. The dinghy bobbed up and down as Ken let himself down into it and sat carefully amidships, reaching for the oars. ‘Only a minute or two and we will be there.’

He pulled strongly, spinning the small craft round and headed for the little jetty. Zoë was clutching the torch, still switched off. She could just see the short wooden landing stage jutting out into the river in the faint reflected light off the water. Her sense of panic was increasing at every stroke of the oars. She fixed her eyes on Ken’s face. He could see behind them. He was watching, staring out into the darkness.

‘Slow now,’ she murmured. ‘We’re nearly there. OK, ship your oars.’ She had the painter in her hand. As they came alongside she reached out for the wet weed-covered wood of the jetty and pulled them towards it, slipping the rope around one of the stanchions with a sigh of relief. ‘Made it.’

Ken sat still. His eyes were still fixed on the river. ‘They are still there. I saw a glimpse of the sail.’

‘I don’t care. Let’s get out of here.’ She heaved the basket and bag up onto the boards of the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. What are you waiting for?’

‘The sail was still up. Filled with wind.’ There wasn’t a breath of wind now, the mist hanging round them in damp folds.

She shook her head. ‘It must be the re-enactors. Perhaps they are filming or something. Perhaps it is a pretend sail. They are probably motoring.’

‘Can you hear a motor?’

She shook her head. Unsteadily climbing to her feet in the small boat she hauled herself up and scrambled onto the landing stage. ‘Come on, Ken. Get out of the boat. I want to go home.’

He turned, following her, checking the dinghy was firmly tied up and heading for the path up through the trees. ‘Where’s the torch?’

‘Here. I’ve got it. I just don’t want to put it on.’ She was still whispering.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘In case they see us.’

For a moment he stopped, staring after her, then he turned and surveyed the river. He could see nothing in the mist and all was silence.

Leo could see the moorings from the window of his living room. He had watched his new neighbours make a neat job of picking up the buoy and stowing sail in the dusk. She was an attractive woman, Zoë. Her husband was older, competent, an experienced sailor, by the look of it. Leo turned his attention to his own boat, the Curlew, lying some twenty-four boat lengths further up-river. She was swinging easily to the mooring, neat, poised, as always reminding him of an animal, asleep, but ready for instant wakefulness.

Behind him a door banged in the small house. He ignored it. The Old Forge was full of strange noises, as he had told Zoë. Creaking beams, rattling windows, they were to be expected. But the other sounds: the echo of a woman crying, the screams which might just be an owl, though he never heard them outside, those were less predictable, less easy to ignore. Unsettling, he acknowledged wryly, but not frightening, not yet. He jumped as the phone rang close beside him and smiled bitterly. A cause for far more terror, the unexpected ringing of the phone.

It took twenty minutes to pack a bag, lock up and head out in his old Saab, up the mile-long communal drive to the narrow country road. If he was lucky he could catch the fast train from Ipswich with time to spare.

3

‘What does Leo do for a living, do you know?’

Rosemary had cornered Zoë in the garden next morning and reluctantly Zoë had allowed herself to be talked into going next door for a coffee. The Threshing Barn was slightly larger than theirs, and stood at a rough right angle to it. The buildings had been erected centuries apart and with no regard to the congruity of the group. The largest of the three, The Summer Barn, belonging to Sharon and Jeff Watts, formed the third side of the inverted C. That too was medieval, though not much of the original building had survived and it had retained fewer barn-like characteristics in its layout. The shutters were closed and it looked faintly bedraggled. Following Zoë’s gaze Rosemary sniffed. ‘They will be up for half-term, like as not.’ She reached down a biscuit tin from the cupboard.

Each building had a small enclosed back garden, barely more than a terrace, and a front area, slightly larger and more informal. The Watts’s was gravelled and bare, Rosemary and Stephen’s was of neatly mown grass with a narrow flowerbed and a low hedge around it, and Zoë and Ken’s was paved. Lately Zoë had begun to think in terms of terracotta pots and flowing pink and grey foliage. Gardening had never been her thing, but she had begun to dream of something pretty to set off the starkness of the renovated barn behind it. Only The Old Forge had a proper garden, partly enclosed by an ancient wall and partly with a hedge. That area, according to the ever-helpful Rosemary, was where the horses had waited for their turn to be shod, tied to iron rings which were still there in the wall.

‘As for Leo, I’ve never asked him what he does now and he’s never volunteered so I haven’t a clue. Nothing much, as far as I can see. Obviously he was once a blacksmith of some kind. I expect someone paid him millions in compensation for those awful scars. If I were him I would have sued the socks off them.’ She shuddered ostentatiously.

Zoë felt a twinge of distaste at the woman’s lack of charity. Hadn’t he said he was still waiting for an insurance payout? She changed the subject quickly. ‘Is he married?’ Leo intrigued her.

Rosemary glanced sharply at her. ‘Not that I’ve heard. He never seems to have any visitors at all.’ She was laying a tray with a neat lace cloth and silver sugar bowl. ‘He sails,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘As do the Watts. Theirs is the bright red boat.’ She sniffed. ‘Typical!’ There was another pause as she stood staring at the kettle, as though trying to will it to boil more quickly. ‘They will take it away soon. I think it gets hauled out of the water over in one of the marinas. It is a hideous thing. No sails. Just a great big noisy engine.’

Zoë hid a smile. She agreed with Rosemary there. She didn’t like noisy motor boats either. She hadn’t noticed a large red boat down at the moorings, so perhaps it had already been hauled out for the winter. The only other boat riding on the tide at the moorings this morning was the small brown sailing boat she had noticed the day before, which presumably was Leo’s.

‘Someone told me you’re a keen walker,’ she said as the silence drew out between them and threatened to become awkward.

Rosemary nodded vigorously. ‘You must come and join us, dear. It’s a wonderful way to meet people and to get to know the countryside.’

‘Maybe.’ Zoë shook her head enthusiastically, belying the hesitation implied in the word. She couldn’t think of anything worse than going for prearranged walks with a group of people she didn’t know, like small children two by two following their teacher round the pavements of London. She had seen groups of walkers like that round Woodbridge and as far as she could see they never seemed to be enjoying themselves. ‘I like exploring on my own, if I’m honest, and I love running.’ Not that she had done a lot of running since they had moved, which was odd as there was so much beautiful country to run in, but she wasn’t going to admit that to Rosemary.

She followed her hostess into a room which Rosemary called the snug. It was anything but, in Zoë’s eyes, but it had the benefit of a view across country towards the distant woods. Beyond she could see the roofs and upper storey of neighbouring Timperton Hall, beautiful on the hilltop in the emerging sunlight. Their barns had been part of the home farm when the Timperton estate still existed.

Glancing round as she sat down, she noted the beams overhead, not so large as theirs or so gracefully arched, but still beautiful. ‘Does your barn make a lot of noise in the wind?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Creaks and groans?’

Rosemary shook her head. ‘Not really.’ She passed Zoë a cup and then stared at her anxiously. ‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re hearing things over there already.’

Zoë felt a cold draught whisper across her shoulder blades. ‘I know our predecessors heard strange noises. Leo told me.’

‘Sarah was a bit of a silly woman,’ Rosemary sniffed again – it was her version of a punctuation mark, Zoë realised – ‘but I have to say she did have a point. It’s because your place is so old – much older than either of the other buildings. I think someone told me it was fifteenth century or something like that. It is bound to move. You take no notice, dear. I’m sure you are a sensible person. She was hysterical, that one. Completely unstable. I’m surprised they stayed as long as they did.’

‘You never heard anything?’

‘Good Lord, no. And if I thought there were any ghosts here I would soon have them chased out. They are nonsense anyway. People with too much imagination see ghosts.’

Zoë stifled a smile. Privately she doubted if any ghost would have the courage to shack up with Rosemary.

‘What about ghost ships?’

The question was out of her mouth almost before she had thought of it.

‘Ah.’ Rosemary hesitated and then topped up Zoë’s cup. She hadn’t taken a sip yet, and the unnecessary gesture made the liquid slop over into the saucer. Rosemary didn’t look up and Zoë realised suddenly that her hand had started to shake. She put down the pot and finally glanced up with a hesitant smile. ‘I don’t believe it, of course, but there are plenty of people round here who would tell you about it.’

‘A ghost ship?’

Rosemary nodded.

‘A Viking ship?’ It was a whisper.

Rosemary’s eyes widened. ‘You haven’t seen it?’

‘I’ve seen a Viking ship. Twice. Yesterday morning, I could see it through the window. Then last night when we came back from sailing, we heard it. Ken saw it through the

mist, or at least he saw something.’ She paused for several seconds. Rosemary said nothing. ‘I thought maybe it was people coming for a regatta or something – re-enactors, you know …’ Zoë’s voice trailed away.

Rosemary was staring at her, her blue eyes intent on her neighbour’s face, concentrating as though trying to decide whether or not to believe her. She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen it. Nor has Steve. There’s an old legend about it. Pete, the man who comes to mow our grass, told us about it. You should ask him. Loads of people have seen it over the years.’

Zoë stared down at her cup. The coffee in the saucer looked disgusting; there were several drops on the table as well, a splatter trail leading to Rosemary, who had her hand still on the handle of the coffee pot. Neither woman said anything for several seconds, then Rosemary released the pot and stood up, and went back into the kitchen with Zoë’s cup. She poured the contents down the sink, hunted for a cloth to wipe the table and returned with a clean cup and saucer.

‘It’s all superstitious nonsense, of course,’ she said at last. ‘The river can be quite sinister sometimes in the dark and when it’s foggy like it has been these last few nights.’ She poured the coffee once more, this time with a steady hand, and then put the pot down with a sharp bang. ‘What did you see?’

‘A sail. A huge sail, bellied out in the wind, though there was no wind. We went out under power. There wasn’t enough to sail.’

Rosemary sat forward, her eyes still fixed on Zoë’s face. ‘Leo has a book which has a picture of the sail. It is some old book about Suffolk he found. You should ask him to show you.’

Zoë nodded. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to see it.

‘It was a sketch made by one of the farmhands who worked here, in these barns in Victorian times. Very rough, but it showed the pattern on the sail. He saw it a hundred or so years ago, but Noddy Pelham at the golf club told us lots of people have seen it over the years. He reckons that to see it is a portent of doom.’ She laughed and then covered her mouth with her hand, looking stricken. ‘Not that I believe any of it. Steve says it’s probably the shadows of the pine trees falling on the mist. Or a mirage, like in the desert, reflecting sailboats out at sea somewhere.’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

Zoë nodded. ‘I think Steve is probably right. But it did feel,’ she hunted for the right word and found one which was totally inadequate for the weird, panicky sensation she had felt, ‘odd.’ She thought back suddenly to the night before, the creak and squeak of the oars, the sense of a huge vessel so close to them that even Ken was frightened for a moment, and she felt once more the prickle of fear across her shoulder blades. ‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ she went on weakly. ‘But a bit intriguing. As long as the guys on the boat don’t come ashore.’

Both women laughed a little uncomfortably and both almost involuntarily glanced towards the window. There was no view of the river from here. All they could see was the spread of the lawns, some distant trees and a hedge beyond which the fields rose gently up towards the crest of the hill where the eighteenth-century Hall, now converted into flats, sat in elegant repose in the sunlight.

Mr Henry Crosby sent for Daniel the following morning. ‘My wife has complained that you were insolent to her,’ he said. They were standing in the study at the Hall. Dan had his cap twisted between his hands.

‘I’m sorry to hear her ladyship had reason for complaint, Mr Crosby.’ Daniel felt a surge of anger which he was careful to hide. ‘If I gave offence it was unintentional, sir. Did she say in what way I was insolent?’

‘She brought her horse to you and you told her there was nothing wrong with it.’

Daniel was speechless for a moment. ‘But there was nothing wrong, sir. She said the mare was lame.’

‘Because of your incompetent shoeing.’

‘There was nothing wrong with my shoeing, sir. Nor with the horse’s feet either. I checked carefully.’ He could feel the heat rising up his neck.

‘Are you calling my wife a liar?’ Henry Crosby’s voice dropped dangerously.

‘No, sir. Of course not, sir.’ Daniel looked down at his boots, biting his tongue.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crosby walked across to stand behind his desk. He leaned on it, his hands flat on the blotter, fixing Daniel with an angry glare. ‘Take the mare back with you and see to her. Make sure there are no more mistakes if you want to keep your job, is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Daniel hesitated for a moment, then he turned away. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Outside the door he stood still for a moment and closed his eyes, trying to keep his temper under control. Then he began to walk slowly down the passage. There was no one in the kitchen or the servants’ hall. He made his way out to the yard and round to the stable block where Bella was tied in her stall. He walked to her head, making crooning noises, and was surprised when she backed away from him, her eyes rolling. She was sweating profusely. Glancing down as he ran his hand down her shoulder, his eyes widened at what he saw and he swore viciously under his breath. Her front legs were a mass of cuts and bruises; blood was pooling on the straw.

It took him a long time to walk the mare down to the barnyard. She was very lame, and he would have preferred to leave her where she was, but a short consultation with Sam, the head groom, whom Dan had found in the harness room, convinced him otherwise. ‘She brought the mare home in that state,’ the older man said quietly. ‘Forbad me to touch the poor animal. Said she had been to you and you had said there was naught wrong and that she was to ride her home.’

Dan was too angry to speak for several seconds. ‘Then she told her husband?’

Sam nodded. ‘She called you all sorts, she did.’

‘That mare was fine when she brought her to me.’

‘I thought she probably was. What did you say to upset her ladyship then?’

Dan shook his head. ‘Lord knows.’

Sam gave him a quizzical stare. ‘Well, let’s hope the Lord will tell you because otherwise you are in big trouble, Daniel, my friend. You keep out of that woman’s way, that’s my advice to you.’

Dan put the mare in one of the line of loose boxes which had been built in one of the bays of the old barn. He washed and poulticed her legs, and Susan made her a bucket of bran mash. They both stood watching the horse listlessly sniff at the food. She didn’t touch it.

‘You’d best keep out of her ladyship’s sight,’ Susan said softly. She leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed over her belly. ‘That woman is trouble.’

‘But why?’

Susan gave a fond smile. ‘Because you are a handsome man and she expected you to show you like her.’

‘But I don’t like her.’

‘Oh, Dan, you duzzy old thing, don’t you see?’ She reached up and ruffled his hair. ‘There’s a certain type of woman who wants every man she sees to fall at her feet.’

‘But I’m just the blacksmith.’

‘You’re a man!’

‘And if I laid a finger on her she would run screaming to her husband.’

‘Probably. That’s the way such folk are.’

‘And I love you, Mrs Smith. I’d never look at another woman.’

‘I know.’ Susan glanced over her shoulder into the shadows of the great barn and shivered. Several other horses stood quietly in their stalls, their great haunches shadowy in the fading light. There was no one else there, but somehow she had felt a breath of cold air touch her face.

There was a small stone church on the hill near the great hall of the thegn. The priest was a good man of some seventy summers; the people of the village liked him and so did the Lady Hilda. She was with him now, sitting on a stool in the cool shadows of the nave. ‘My husband is dying, father, we both know it,’ she said, speaking quietly even in the privacy of the empty building. ‘I need you to bring him the sacrament.’

‘I can’t do that, my lady.’ Father Wulfric shook his head sadly. ‘He has refused baptism yet again.’ He sighed. ‘His father was a good Christian and so is his brother, but the Lord Egbert is adamant in his apostasy. He cleaves to the old gods in his despair.’

‘My husband is a superstitious fool!’ she retorted with spirit. ‘He has found himself a sorcerer from the forest and reveres him as though he were a priest! The man gabbles spells and charms, and scatters runes like spring seed, and promises him a place at the side of Woden and Thunor. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘Egbert keeps on calling for the swordsmith. All that matters to him is that that wretched sword is finished before he dies.’

‘And his brother? What says he to that?’ Father Wulfric tightened his lips in disapproval. He was holding a small beautifully illuminated book of Gospels in his hand. It was the church’s most treasured possession, presented by Lord Egbert’s mother. Kissing it reverently he laid it on the altar.

‘He is preoccupied with raising men for the fyrd. King Edmund is calling warriors to his standard at Thetford. They are expecting more attacks from the Danish host.’

‘So we will soon be left unprotected.’ Father Wulfric turned back to her and sighed again.

She glanced at him, alarmed. ‘The Danes won’t come near us, surely? What would they want with a small settlement like ours?’

Father Wulfric didn’t answer for several breaths. They both knew what befell any settlement in the path of the Viking horde. ‘Please God they will not even know we are here,’ he said at last.

He stood and watched Lady Hilda walking slowly back towards the Hall, her blue cloak clutched closely round her against the sharp autumn wind. Her shoulders were slumped, her whole stance defeated. He shook his head sadly as he turned towards his own house, then he stopped. The swordsmith was standing watching him from the door of the smithy, his arms folded, his face thoughtful. For a moment Father Wulfric considered walking over to join him, but already the other man was turning away into the darkness of his workshop. The door slammed and the old priest heard the bar fall into its slot.

At first she thought Leo wasn’t going to ask her in, but after a moment’s hesitation he stood back and ushered her into a small cluttered living room. Zoë glanced at once towards the window. Yes, he too had the ubiquitous view of the river; his hedge had been trimmed low so he could just see the moorings below the trees. She could see his boat and the Lady Grace tugging gently at their buoys, swinging with the tide. The fire was unlit and she could see an old rubbed leather Gladstone bag on the floor just inside the door. ‘I am sorry. Were you just going out?’

‘I just came back.’ He folded his arms. ‘How can I help you?’ There was no smile to alleviate the slightly irritated tone and she felt an instant reciprocal bristling of irritation.

‘I have come at an inconvenient moment. I’ll come again when it is a better time.’

‘I doubt there will be a better time,’ he said. ‘Please, spit it out. Whatever you came to say was presumably important, or are you merely here to pass the time of day?’

She reined in a flash of temper. Had she given him a reason to be so rude? ‘I wanted to ask you about the ghosts, if you must know. The house is getting to me. But I will phone first next time and make an appointment.’

‘What makes you think I know anything about them, beyond the fact that they scared your predecessors away? At least, they scared her; he was an insensitive clod who wouldn’t have noticed if the entire angelic host had descended on his house.’

She found herself biting back a smile. ‘I wasn’t actually here to talk about the barn. Rosemary said you had a book with a picture of the ship.’

He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment and she saw the tension in his jawline. It accentuated the scars slightly. ‘You’ve seen the ship?’

She nodded. ‘I think so. Twice.’

‘Ah.’

He continued to study her face for several seconds, then he turned towards the bookshelves which lined the wall opposite the window. In front of them there was a long shabby sofa, covered by an old tartan rug. The room was nice, Zoë decided in the silence that ensued. Scented with an all-pervasive smell of woodsmoke, it was furnished with some decent antiques, and some attractive paintings, both modern and old. It felt lived in and comfortable and far more homely than the huge space which they called the great room at home.

He stood in front of the shelves, his eyes ranging left to right; his books were not arranged in order then. She watched silently, folding her arms as she shifted her weight, aware that she was not going to be asked to sit down. ‘Here,’ he said at last. He pulled out a small volume with a rubbed red cloth cover. ‘It’s in here.’ He handed it to her. ‘I’m in no hurry to have it back, but look after it. I will want it eventually.’

‘Thank you.’ Taking it she moved towards the door. She reached out for the latch, then she turned. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘The ship? Yes.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Mean?’

‘Yes. Is it a sign of some sort?’

‘That one is barking mad, for instance?’

‘No, that there is something wrong. Is it a portent of evil?’

He smiled. ‘Who knows? Read the book.’ He moved towards her and reached past her for the door, pulling it open and waiting for her to leave. ‘Are you a religious woman, Zoë Lloyd?’ he said as she stepped out into the porch.

‘No.’

‘So evil is for you a philosophical concept rather than a religious one?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘And what you really meant to say is, is it a sign of bad luck? Impending doom.’

‘I meant what I said,’ she retorted coldly. ‘Thank you for the book. I shall take care of it.’

She was tempted to hurl it at him.

Back at home, she made her way through the kitchen into the living area which she and Ken had by common consent come to call the great room. It had seemed appropriate in every sense on the first day they moved in and the term had stuck. She went to stand by the huge window, staring out towards the river. It was deserted, the sunlight glittering on the water. From here all she could see of the two boats were their masts. She listened. The room was silent. There was no feeling today that there was anyone else there in the house with her.

Curling up in one of the chairs she had placed so that there was a clear view of the river, she looked down at the book in her hands and turned it over so she could read the title on the spine. Tales and Legends of Bygone Suffolk, collected and retold by Samuel Weston. The page she was looking for was marked by a discoloured cutting from a newspaper. She unfolded it carefully. Dated 1954, it related the sighting of a ghost ship in the river: The great sail was set and the ship seemed to move before a steady wind, but there was no wind. The vessel has been seen in the past and on this occasion its passing was witnessed by two fishermen lying below Kyson Point. The men watched as it came close and both described the air as growing icy cold. It passed them round the corner and when they scrambled ashore and ran to look from higher ground the ship had disappeared. There was no sign of life on board and no sound other than the usual lap of the river water. When asked, both men agreed it had been a frightening experience.

She refolded the cutting and tucked it into the back of the book, then she began to read the chapter. It more or less repeated the description of the fishermen, adding details of several more documented sightings in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. She turned the page and there it was, a woodcut said to be taken from the sketch made by one of the farm workers on the Timperton Hall estate. It showed the ship exactly as she had seen it, with a curved sail and on it the design which she had not been able to make out clearly in the mist but which the unnamed farmhand had shown as an animal head with a long ornate tongue protruding from its open mouth. She scrutinised it thoughtfully and decided it might be a boar or perhaps a dragon. He had also shown the animal on the prow of the ship, a kind of figurehead high above the level of the water. He was obviously a man of no little talent – the sketch was detailed and had a pleasing sense of perspective. There was no comment with it, though, no record of what the man had felt. She skipped through the succeeding pages, but there seemed to be no further reference to it. Resting the book on her knee, she stared out of the window again. The sun was lower in the sky now, and the river looked like a sheet of silver metal. There were no boats in sight, real or ghostly. She listened. The room was quiet. How strange to think that the man who had sketched the Viking ship had probably worked in this very barn, perhaps stood with a hay fork in his hand on this very spot where she was sitting. She shivered and glanced round in spite of herself. The roof of the room was lost in shadow without the lights on, the great beams slumbering, hinting at the ancient oaks from which they came.

The door to the kitchen opened revealing the light she had left on over the worktop. ‘Ken? You’re back! I didn’t hear the car.’ She turned to greet him. There was no reply. ‘Ken?’ She stood up uneasily. ‘Are you there?’

The house was silent. There were no sounds of anyone moving around in the kitchen. Putting down the book, she walked across to the door, aware that her mouth had gone dry. ‘Ken?’ She pushed the door back against the wall and stood staring round the room. ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded oddly flat; without resonance as though she was speaking in a padded recording studio. The sun shone obliquely in at the window; in minutes it would start to slide down below the fields on the opposite side of the river. She had to force herself to move forward towards the work island in the centre of the floor. ‘OK, enough is enough,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t like this. Who are you? What do you want?’ She clenched her fists, suddenly angry. ‘If you are not going to show yourself, I want you to just bugger off!’ She wasn’t sure if she was addressing the neighbours’ wayward children or some ghostly presence. Either way she acknowledged that she was scared.

Her heart was thudding in her chest. The feeling that there was someone listening intensified; behind her she heard something roll across the table and it fell to the floor with a rattle. She spun round and stared. A bent corroded nail lay beside the table leg. She stared at it and then looked up. Had it fallen from the ceiling? In here there were fewer beams, the ceiling between them smoothly plastered. There was nowhere it could have appeared from. Hesitantly she stooped and picked it up. It was rusty, squarish, with a small head, cold as it lay in her palm.

She dropped it hastily on the table. ‘Is that yours?’ she called. She was addressing the ghost. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

There was no reply.

Seconds later she heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel outside and, glancing through the window, she saw Ken’s car sweep round the side of the building.

She scooped up the nail and put it into a small bowl on the dresser; minutes later Ken had opened the door and walked in, bringing with him a blast of cold air. He piled some paper carriers on the worktop. ‘I missed the blasted post again! Here, do you want some sausages? From the farm shop. I thought it might be nice for supper.’ He pushed a packet towards her. ‘The forecast is good; shall we go out early tomorrow? See if we can get down the river and over the bar?’

‘Out to sea?’ Zoë picked up the sausages with a slight grimace and went over to the fridge.

He laughed. ‘Yes, out to sea, with waves.’ There was an edge of hardness to his voice.

‘Why not?’ She forced herself to look pleased. Even sailing seemed better suddenly than staying alone in the house with – her thought processes stalled. She thought of it – the ghost, if there was a ghost – as him.

It occurred to her that Ken was watching her and she gave him a forced grin. ‘We could cook the sausages tonight to take with us tomorrow.’

He nodded. ‘That would be nice.’

‘OK. How early do you call early?’

He smiled, all charm now he had got his way. ‘We need to go out so that there is enough depth going over the bar.’

‘And come back when the tide turns?’

He nodded.

‘Great.’ She managed to sound enthusiastic. ‘I’ll make the picnic up tonight.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll just go and send out a couple of emails then I’ll wash up for supper.’

That’s me sorted for the evening; cook supper and pack the picnic. Zoë suppressed a surge of irritation. It wasn’t as if she had anything else pressing to do, or that she didn’t enjoy cooking.

Ken was heading for the door when she heard him give an exclamation of annoyance. He stooped. ‘Bloody nail on the floor! Look, I’ve scratched the boards.’ He threw something into the rubbish bin and walked out. It didn’t seem to occur to him to wonder where it had come from.

For a moment Zoë didn’t move. She stared at the bin then slowly moved towards it. She pushed open the lid and looked inside. There, at the bottom of the empty white rubbish bag, lay another rusty nail identical to the first.

She reached down and picked it out and put it with the first one in the bowl, then stood for several moments looking down at them before putting the bowl back on the very top shelf of the dresser.

Leo watched them leave next morning with a sardonic grin. Obviously they hadn’t listened to the forecast. Walking away from the window, a bowl of cereal in his hand, he went into his studio and stood looking at the work in progress. It was proceeding well and he had to admit, albeit grudgingly, he was pleased with himself. There was a rattling noise from the kitchen door.

‘Come in!’ he called. ‘I saw you there.’

The door opened and a face peered in. ‘Hi, Leo.’

‘When did you come down?’ He hadn’t looked round.

‘Yesterday.’ The face was heavily freckled beneath a thatch of fiercely red hair. ‘Mum drove me and the boys down. It’s half-term, in case you didn’t know.’

‘I didn’t.’ It meant the Watts family, occupants of The Summer Barn, would put an end to the reasonably civilised peace of the area for at least a week. He sighed.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Working.’

‘Boring.’

‘No. Exciting. As you would know if your father had anything like a decent work ethic.’ He often wondered where the family got their not inconsiderable pots of money from. Better not to know, maybe.

‘What’s an ethic?’

The child moved into the room and stood staring down at Leo’s work. She had a can of Coke in one hand and a wire led from some hidden pocket to the small earphones which dangled round her neck. Otherwise her wardrobe consisted of shabby jeans and a Simpsons T-shirt, probably a castoff from one of her brothers. It seemed inadequate for the chill of the morning but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Drop a millilitre of that stuff anywhere in this house and you are toast,’ he said equably.

‘You’re more likely to spill that stuff you’re eating. What is it? It looks gross.’

‘Muesli.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Bit like an ethic.’ He turned to face her. ‘Have you come for a reason or are you just here to annoy me?’

She shrugged. ‘Bored.’

‘Is your mother not taking you shopping?’

‘There’s no decent shops.’

‘Ah. I see the problem.’ He didn’t bother to ask what decent shops consisted of in her opinion.

‘And your brothers won’t play with you?’

She stared at him. ‘Play?’ She seemed shocked at the word.

‘I know. I am sorry. It’s not a concept you are acquainted with. What are they doing? Should I be barring the windows and calling the police?’

She giggled. ‘Probly.’

He frowned. ‘Jade, do me a favour, love. Tell those vile pigs who are your siblings to keep away from the new people in The Old Barn. OK? They are nice people and we don’t want them being chased away like the last lot.’

She grinned. ‘That was good. They was real scared!’

‘Jade!’

‘I know.’ She sat down on the couch and took a swig from her can. ‘This is shabby. My mum thinks you must be very poor.’ She was fingering the torn throw which covered the worst holes and frayed edges in the upholstery.

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Your mum is a wise woman. But fortunately I don’t mind being either poor or shabby.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got a boat, though. Can I come out on her?’

‘Have you learned to swim?’

She shook her head.

‘Then you know what the answer is.’

‘My dad says sailors never learned to swim ’cos if the boat sank, then they drowned quickly and there wasn’t time to get eaten by sharks.’

Leo nodded, trying to hide a smile. ‘Sounds good logic to me. OK, if I go out I will take you, but only if one of your parents signs something to say I have their permission to drown their child. And I want no brothers.’

‘Nor do I.’ She beamed at him. ‘Can we go today?’

‘No. The wind is going to get too strong.’

‘They’ve gone.’ She nodded vaguely behind her. Leo took her to mean Zoë and Ken.

‘I know. But I think they are experienced sailors. You are not.’ He folded his arms. ‘Right; this visit is concluded. Can you go home, please, Jade. I am busy.’

‘OK.’ She stood up, seemingly happy with the cursory dismissal. ‘Can we go tomorrow then?’

‘We’ll see! Out!’ He jerked his thumb towards the door.

He watched her as she wandered back through his garden, through the gate, leaving it wide open, and up the grass towards The Summer Barn. He couldn’t see it from here, but he could imagine the scene. From peaceful emptiness it would have changed to noisy chaos. The huge people carrier would be parked as closely as possible to the front door, which would be open. Noise, lurchers and general mess would have spread exponentially across the front garden and into the communal grounds, and his peace would be shattered for the next however many days they stayed. He gave a wry grin. He liked Jade, and her parents were decent enough, if congenitally noisy and untidy, but her brothers were the pits! He gave a deep sigh. The first thing he had to do was go out and close his gate against those damn dogs.

Rosemary was standing in the field below the barns, a carefully folded Ordnance Survey map in her hand, turning it round first one way then the other, her eyes narrowed against the wind. It was cold and her hands were turning blue but she had forgotten her gloves. She looked round again, carefully noting the lie of the land. There was no footpath marked, but there had been one on the old map she was looking at this morning in the library. The field lay diagonally to the river; almost at its centre there was a roughly circular area of scrub, which was fenced off from the rest of the field with rusting barbed wire. On the map the footpath would have gone through the middle of this patch, followed on down the slight hill and debouched onto the lane below the hedge. When you thought about it, it was the logical place for a path to go, otherwise it was necessary to veer left up quite a steep slope towards the gate in the top corner of the field and then walk down the far side of the hedge to join the lane several hundred yards further on. She reached into her pocket for her notebook and folded it open, fighting the increasing wind as the pages flapped wildly for a moment until she smoothed them flat. She drew a quick sketch and began carefully to pace the line of a possible path down towards the scrub. When she reached the barbed wire she paused, staring into the undergrowth. Why had it been fenced off? Squinting, she tried to see if there was a pond or feed bins or maybe a sign that there were pheasant-rearing cages in there. That was always reckoned to be a good enough reason for farmers to close off access. There was nothing that she could see, just a substantial mound of earth, brambles, nettles and several small skimpy trees. She began to circle the wire, sure there would be some means of access on the far side. There wasn’t. After getting badly scratched by brambles and mauled by the wire she gave up and stood, frustrated, staring down towards the river. The wind was rising. She could hear it roaring through the trees and, out of sight, on the moorings she could hear the clap of metal halyards against a metal mast. Briefly she wondered if Zoë and Ken had come back yet. She had seen them walking across the grass early this morning laden with a sail bag and basket, and each with a serviceable-looking day sack on their back.

Turning with her back to the water, she stared up the line of the missing path and saw through her whipping hair that someone was approaching her down the field. It was the farmer, Bill Turtill. She had always found him polite and, if not overfriendly, at least approachable, and she walked towards him with a smile. ‘Bill, how are you?’

‘All right, Mrs Formby. And yourself?’

‘I am well, thank you. Cold in this wind.’ She gave a theatrical shiver to illustrate the point.

‘I’ll be ploughing this field in the next week or two,’ he said after a moment. ‘You would find it easier walking if you stayed on the footpaths.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Her smile froze on her lips. ‘I was just wondering, Bill, why the footpath doesn’t come straight down across the field any more. You do know that it used to come across here?’

He shook his head. ‘The footpath follows the hedge up to the lane.’

‘It does now, yes. But originally it came directly across the field.’

‘I don’t think so. Not in my time or my father’s. It is clearly way-marked, Mrs Formby, and on all the maps, as I’m sure you’ve seen.’ He looked pointedly at her Ordnance Survey map.

She sighed. There was always trouble when anyone suggested to these yokels that a right of way needed to be reinstated. Still, there was no point in putting his back up prematurely. She smiled again. ‘I’m sure you’re right, it just seems strange when it is such an obvious route. Well, never mind. Once you have ploughed the field it will be impassable anyway.’ She sighed as she shoved the map into the pocket of her jacket and tightened her scarf. ‘It was nice to see you, Bill. Do give my love to Penny.’

She set off up the field with the wind behind her, conscious of his eyes on her back as she walked, determined not to hurry or divert from her route. It took her once more up to the wired-off area and once more she paused to gaze into the undergrowth. After a moment she walked on, skirting it as before. Why had he left that area of scrub in the field? It was a complete waste of space, not something the average man of the soil, who round here would plough up every extra centimetre if given the chance, would tolerate for a moment, in her experience. The mound of earth in the centre could easily be bulldozed. She huddled more deeply into her jacket. There were several things to find out before she took her findings to Arthur, who chaired the local walking group’s committee. She considered talking to Leo. He had taken an interest in local history since he had arrived, but then again he had told her that she and her walking group were a load of interfering bored trouble-makers. She hadn’t spoken to him since, and he had never apologised; so not the man to turn to for information. She had to find someone else to ask. But research was what she was good at and confronting Bill Turtill would, she suddenly decided, be an enjoyable experience. It might make him a bit less cocky. She shivered, for real this time, imagining his eyes, still cold and antagonistic, watching her as she made her way across his field.

4

‘Oh my God, we’ve hit something!’ Zoë heard her voice screaming above the roar of the waves and the wind.

‘Don’t panic.’ Ken was fighting the tiller with all his strength. ‘We touched the shingle bank for a moment, that’s all.’ His words were carried away on the wind. ‘Come on, you stupid woman, use some strength. If we tear the bottom out of the boat, it will be your fault! Hold on!’

Desperately Zoë hung on to the slippery rope in her hand, aware of the tightly reefed sail, the proximity of the beach as they turned into the river, feeling the enormous strength of the wind, fighting it, terrified that at any moment she would lose her grip. Ken was swearing at the helm. She couldn’t hear the words, but as she glanced across at him she saw the gleeful exhilaration in his face, the bulging muscles in his neck and arms. He was putting every ounce of strength he had into the battle, and he was enjoying it.

Then suddenly the boat came round a few degrees and the power of the sail slackened. ‘Yes!’ Ken let out an exultant yell. ‘That’s it. We’re in. We’ve done it, we’ve crossed the bar. That’s fine. Let the sheet out a bit. There, what did I tell you?’ With uncanny suddenness the water calmed and the boat righted herself, heading meekly into the river mouth. ‘Phew!’ He smiled again and she heard a note of relief in his voice in spite of his glee. ‘I was a bit worried there. I don’t know where that squall came from. I’m sure they forecast good weather for today.’

‘Well, they were wrong.’ Zoë had been holding the wet main sheet so hard her knuckles were locked, her hands white, the skin of her fingers wrinkled. There had been no time to put on gloves. The cockpit was awash with water and she was soaked to the skin, aware of people standing on the seawall watching them as they passed the shingle banks at Bawdsey and threaded their way between the moorings at Felixstowe Ferry and the quiet wooded stretch of shore on the far side.

‘That’s something like it!’ Ken went on, his voice gaining in confidence again with every second. ‘Exciting. Listen

to those waves crashing over the shingle. I timed it a bit early, that’s all. We should have waited, but with the storm coming …’ His voice trailed away as he saw Zoë’s face. ‘Were you scared? There was no need. I was in control.’

‘Yes, I bloody was scared!’ she said with some force. ‘I was terrified. God, I hate this boat!’

‘My fault. I was an idiot,’ he conceded unexpectedly. He screwed up his eyes against the glare, passing the red marker buoy and heading up the channel. ‘You don’t really hate it. You know you don’t. I always forget you’re not as experienced as I am. But you are very good. You are learning.’ He grinned again.

It was dark before, under power and with the sails tightly furled, they nosed up to their mooring and made fast to the buoy. Zoë was still shaking with cold as she gathered their stuff together. The wind was still strong, the trees thrashing, the water choppy as Ken released the dinghy and pulled it alongside.

‘Can you find the torch?’ He was exhausted too, she could hear it in his voice as he lowered the first of their bags over the side. She passed the empty food basket across to him, then suddenly she froze. Over the noise of wind and water she could hear the sound of oars. ‘Ken!’ Not again. Please, let it not happen again.

He stopped scrabbling amongst their bags and looked up. ‘What?’

‘Listen.’

He couldn’t see her face but he could hear the tone of her voice. He straightened and stared out across the river. For a moment both of them were silent. The squeak and pull of the oars was close by; several oars; the sound of a sail flapping and the thud of metal on wood. Ken scrabbled for the switch on the torch and, turning it on, shone it out across the water. The powerful beam lit up the empty river. Carefully he swept it first one way and then the other. The sound had stopped. All they could hear as the wind died for a moment was the lapping of the waves against the side of the Lady Grace. ‘Where is it?’ he whispered.

‘There’s nothing there.’

‘There has to be.’ He swept the torch round again then he stood up. ‘Ahoy!’ he shouted. ‘Who is out there? You are too close to the shore.’

There was silence. No oars. No sail. She could feel the emptiness. Whatever, whoever had been there before, had gone. Zoë sat down on the thwart. ‘It’s a ghost ship.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he scoffed. ‘Or men from Mars. More likely someone bringing illegal immigrants up-river.’

‘No. It is a ghost ship. People have seen it before.’ She hadn’t told him about Leo’s story or the picture. What was the point? He wouldn’t have believed it last night any more than he believed it now.

The mare was very lame the next morning, her legs swollen her head hanging listlessly. She had ignored her feed. Dan ran a hand down her near fetlock and shook his head grimly. He doubted she would recover.

‘How is she, Daniel?’ The soft voice at his elbow made him jump. He stood up too quickly and put out a hand to reassure the horse, but it wasn’t necessary; the animal had hardly moved.

‘Likely she’ll have to be shot,’ he said harshly. ‘Whoever did this has a lot to answer for.’ He turned to face Lady Emily.

‘It was your fault, Daniel. You didn’t see the injuries when I brought her to you.’

He clenched his jaw, keeping his temper with difficulty. ‘No, my lady, you are right. I was very remiss.’

‘It’s a shame. She was a nice horse.’ Her voice was light and careless. ‘Do whatever has to be done.’ She turned and walked back towards the large barn doors which stood open to the sunlight. Outside, a sprightly breeze tossed wisps of hay around the yard. The working horses had gone out early into the fields and the yard was deserted save for the roan pony tied to a ring by the forge. ‘I will need help to mount, Daniel,’ she called over her shoulder.

He gritted his teeth. ‘Of course, my lady.’ He walked out after her. ‘You have a new horse, my lady. I haven’t seen her before.’ He waited as she gathered the reins.

‘I’m thinking of getting my husband to buy her for me. I would have asked your opinion, but I see now you know nothing of horses.’ She glanced at him, her mouth curved with disdain.

‘I am a smith, my lady, not a groom,’ he said calmly.

She smiled. ‘Of course. I must remember that.’

He stooped to take her foot in his hands and tossed her up into the saddle; this time she was wearing a habit of Lincoln green with a lace jabot. The horse braced itself and shook its head as she looked down at him. ‘Tell me, was that your wife who was here before?’

‘It was, my lady.’

‘She’s expecting your child.’

‘She is, my lady.’

She raised an eyebrow haughtily. ‘Then she should take care not to overexert herself. It would be sad if she were to lose her job in the dairy. She does work in the dairy, I assume?’

‘Yes, my lady, she does.’ Daniel stood away from the horse and folded his arms. He looked up and met her eye.

She smiled. ‘I will see you soon, Daniel.’ She tapped the horse with her whip and trotted past him, pulling the animal so close he had to leap back out of her way.

For several minutes he stood still, looking after her, a deep frown on his face, then he turned and walked out of the yard. He followed the path across the field towards the woods; there, out of sight of the barns, he stopped and leaned back against one of the tall ancient pines in the lee of the oak woods and, taking a deep breath to stop himself shaking with anger, let the soft scent of the needles envelop him. Below him the river, swollen with the tide, glittered like silver, criss-crossed with ripples in the sunlight.

‘Did you enjoy your bath?’ Ken looked up at Zoë as she walked into his study. He had been standing behind his desk contemplating the darkness outside.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She was wearing a towelling wrap and her hair was still wet, standing on end as she rubbed at it with a towel.

‘I am sorry if you were frightened, darling. There wasn’t any real danger, I knew what I was doing out there.’

‘Did you?’

The heaviness of her voice startled him. ‘You know I did.’ He sounded wounded. He turned his back on the window and looked at her. ‘What are we having for supper?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you feeling all right?’

It was a moment before she replied. ‘Tired.’

‘Shall I make you something?’ He put his head on one side and gave her a small hopeful smile. ‘To cheer you up? Boiled egg and soldiers?’

‘I’m not a child, Ken,’ she snapped.

For a moment she wondered if she was going to hit him but somehow she managed to restrain herself. ‘Sorry, I’m still feeling a bit frazzled,’ she went on at last. ‘An egg would be nice,’ and she headed back onto the landing. Below her in the shadows of the living room something moved and just for a second she thought she heard the chink of a horse’s harness and the scrape of a hoof on cobbles.

‘Ken!’ It was a whisper. ‘Ken, come out here.’

He didn’t hear her. Already he had become immersed in the screens on his desk. He had probably completely forgotten her. She stood leaning on the balcony’s wood and glass balustrade, looking down. There were horses down there, and with them a man; shadows, imprints in time. She could see them, sense them, hear them, then they were gone.

Edith threw down her spindle with a groan and walked across to the door of the cottage. She ought to be waiting on the Lady Hilda in the weaving house with the other women, but she had dawdled at home, hoping and praying that her husband might appear even if for only a short time. She had made him a new leather jerkin, stitched with waxed thread; it hung from a peg even now, catching her eye as it swung to and fro in the draught. She missed him desperately; his voice, his humour, his company, and above all his strong agile body in her bed. But he had decided suddenly, and as far as she could understand completely arbitrarily, that while he made a sword for the lord of their village he must abstain from his wife’s embraces and keep himself pure. Even thinking about it made her eyes fill with tears. As if she were impure. Something unclean. This was some heretical belief of the thegn’s. He had denounced the Christian beliefs of his family and his wife and begun praying to the gods of his forefathers.

As had Eric.

The knowledge had been there all along, buried deep inside her, and she had tried to ignore it, but why else had he turned away from her bed? Why did he make excuses not to go to church? Why had he agreed to make this sword a pagan sword; how else would he have known the spells and the charms to be recited over the blade as he forged it in the fire?

She sighed. The gods of their ancestors had been powerful gods. She found herself thinking suddenly about Frige, the goddess her great-grandmother had worshipped, the goddess who made marriages fruitful, whilst now, she bit her lip thoughtfully, though she prayed often and fervently to the Blessed Virgin, her own marriage to Eric was still childless.

‘Edith?’

Lost in her dreams she hadn’t seen the figure appear in the doorway. Eric stooped and came in, pushing the door closed behind him, shutting out the light. ‘Eric!’ She threw herself at him and for a moment they clung together. She nuzzled his neck, and pulled his face to hers, seeking his lips with something approaching hunger. ‘Have you finished the sword?’ she whispered. ‘Have you come home?’

For a moment longer he held her close against him then slowly he pushed her away. ‘I’m sorry. Not yet. But it won’t be long, sweetheart, I promise.’

Bereft, she stood for a moment, her eyes closed, fighting her tears, then she straightened her shoulders. ‘Why are you here then?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, then gave her a sheepish grin in the twilight shadow of the small house. ‘I thought you would be in the weaving house with Lady Hilda.’

‘Which is where I should be.’ She waited but he said nothing more. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then he turned to the door and lifted the latch. ‘It won’t be long, I promise, my darling.’ However long it took to engrave the magical runes, the special symbols, the words of power which would make this sword unique.

She watched as he strode away towards the edge of the village where the tithe barn hid his forge and workshop from her view, then she turned back to the fire. Overhead the drying herbs hanging from the ceiling rustled gently, disturbed by Eric’s passing.

‘I’m sorry. I was rude again, wasn’t I?’ Leo was standing on the back doorstep. He was empty-handed this time, his hair blowing in the stiff breeze, dressed in a heavy blue Guernsey and faded jeans. ‘Can I apologise?’

Zoë stood back and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Five minutes. It’s my turn to be busy. I am just going into Woodbridge.’ Now that she was used to the scars on his face she could see what a good-looking man he must have been. She led the way into the kitchen where her handbag and shopping basket were sitting side by side on the worktop with her car keys.

He grimaced. ‘Bad timing. My trademark. Just like you.’ He followed her in and stood by the table. ‘I just thought a word might be timely about our mutual neighbours. I dare say you’ve noticed that they are here for half-term.’

‘I noticed but I haven’t spoken to them yet.’

‘The youngest kid, Jade, she’s a good mate of mine. Something she said rang alarm bells. I think there might after all be a plan to try and scare you both. Playing ghosts. Weird noises in the night, you know the sort of thing. They are a malicious bunch and their idea of a joke might not be yours. Or mine, for that matter.’

‘So the whole ghost thing is a scam?’ She heard her voice rise at the tightness in her throat. She exhaled sharply. ‘It’s all a joke?’

‘Not all of it, no,’ he said quietly. He glanced at her face then looked away again. ‘Sorry. But as they are here, and they appear to be in malicious mode, you might be in for an escalation of events for a few days.’

‘They weren’t here, though, when the noises started, were they?’ Her moment of relief disappeared as soon as it had come.

‘No they weren’t.’

‘So all the door banging was real.’

‘Might have been the wind.’

‘And last night,’ she was silent for a moment, trying to make up her mind whether to tell him or not, ‘we came back tired after the most god-awful sail I have ever had and I was upstairs, looking down over the balcony and I thought I saw, heard, horses, quietly munching their hay, scraping their hooves. Maybe I didn’t actually see or hear them. I just sort of sensed it.’ She shook her head, embarrassed, sorry she had mentioned it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I expect I was hallucinating. I was so tired.’

‘I’m not laughing. I am sure horses have lived in here on and off over the centuries. Buildings hold memories. You were tired; your mind was relaxed, open.’ He hitched up to sit on the corner of the work station, one leg swinging. ‘So, what was so awful about the sail? I got the impression you were seasoned mariners.’

‘Ken is. He loved it. We were out in the sea, it was a bit rough, I suppose, and he decided to come back and we touched the bottom and suddenly I realised I was scared. Really scared, more scared than I have ever been in my life.’ She put her hands to her face for a moment.

‘We all get scared from time to time.’ He spoke with an unexpected gentleness. ‘That’s what gives the adrenaline.’

She shook her head violently. ‘No. Not like this. It is supposed to be fun. And yes, exciting, but not so deeply, deeply frightening.’ She looked at him for a second and then shook her head again.

‘Why did you let him drag you up here if you hate it?’ he asked after a moment. ‘The move wasn’t for your benefit at all, was it?’

There was a long pause. ‘I don’t hate it. I thought it would work. It was a challenge.’ She held his gaze defiantly.

‘And sailing, is that a challenge too?’

She walked across to the window and stared out. ‘I can’t live my whole life afraid.’

‘It strikes me that you would be afraid of very little,’ he said thoughtfully.

She grimaced. ‘But then you don’t know me very well. Perhaps afraid is the wrong word. In a rut, then. London was comfortable and safe.’

‘And sailing isn’t safe.’

‘We sailed before.’ She hunched her shoulders defiantly. ‘It was fine. It is fine.’

In the distance the river water was dull, sluggish, creeping in, creeping up between the banks. She could feel the cold tiptoe across her shoulders and deliberately fought the reflexive shiver. The kitchen was warm.

‘It was partly because of his enthusiasm that we came here, of course it was. Our life together has always been like that. He’s the match, and I smoulder into flame.’ She broke off and it was a moment before she laughed. ‘But this time the flame hasn’t caught. Or not the way I expected. I thought I would like it here. I did – do – love it here. But something is wrong.’ Why was she confiding in him like this?

‘Does Ken know how you feel about all this?’ he said after a long pause. He had been watching her while she spoke.

She nodded.

How could she explain the complexity of their relationship? It was Ken’s enthusiasm, his drive, his passion which attracted her, his wiry single-mindedness. But it was that same single-mindedness which excluded her, blanked the parts of her personality which did not fit his template. Once she had thought she could change him, but the change, if there was to be change, would have to be hers, and that admission, that she had judged him wrongly, and that she must change herself or be for ever sidelined had been too hard to make.

‘You love the river,’ she said, turning back to face Leo.

‘Yes.’

‘And you love sailing.’

He nodded.

‘Are you never afraid?’

‘Everyone is afraid sometimes, Zoë.’

‘Yes, but in Ken’s case he’s hooked on the adrenaline. He’s competitive. He is always testing himself against something. Fear excites him.’

He made no comment and she turned back to the window. ‘Ironically it was the river that drew me to this house. It fascinates me. But now we are here for some strange reason it –’ she hunted for the right word – ‘it repels me as well. I find it as sinister as it is beautiful.’

‘I saw you sketching it.’

She glanced at him, startled. ‘When?’

‘You were down on the boat.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t draw. I can’t do anything. I was trying to find something to occupy me while he tinkers with the boat. Sketching will not be it.’

‘I’m sure you will find something.’ He grinned. ‘Do you have to go down on the boat to keep him company?’

‘I don’t think he even notices I’m there half the time.’

‘There you are then. You need a land-based hobby.’

‘I jog, but that is hardly a hobby. Not for me, anyway. I need to sort out my life, my relationship, my whole raison d’être.’ She shrugged. ‘No. Forget I said that. That is part of something I have to sort with Ken.’

He gave a half-nod. ‘Fair enough. It’s forgotten.’ He stood up. ‘My five minutes is up. Just keep a wary eye out for the kids from hell, OK?’

She gave a faint smile. ‘So, apart from your mate, Jade, how many did you say there are?’

‘Three boys. Darren, Jamie and Jackson. Jackson doesn’t feature much, thank goodness,’ he grinned. ‘He’s left school and is for all I know collecting ASBOs; I doubt he has any other qualifications. Which is a shame. Jeff and Sharon are decent people, chaotic and noisy and sometimes irritating to a grumpy codger like me, but still salt of the earth.’

Zoë put her head on one side. ‘In my experience when people are described as salt of the earth it usually means they are just the opposite.’

‘Then your experience is unfortunate. I meant it.’ His voice had hardened.

‘Sorry.’ She felt a surge of irritation at the rebuke. ‘So, the two I have to watch out for are Darren and Jamie.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘Just being neighbourly.’ He headed towards the door.

She stayed where she was, watching as he walked past the window and across the grass towards his house.

‘Was that our new neighbour?’ Ken had appeared in the doorway and she turned with a start.

‘Why didn’t you come and say hello?’

‘He seemed to be in a hurry. What a dreadful state his face is in. Why on earth doesn’t he get it fixed?’

‘Money.’ She reached for her car keys off the counter. ‘I was going to pick up some stuff in Woodbridge. Do you want to come?’

He shook his head. ‘I thought I would go down to the Lady for an hour or two. Unless you want me for anything else?’

‘No.’ She managed to restrain the sigh. ‘Do you want lunch later or shall I leave you to do your own thing when you come in?’

‘Why not do that? I lose track of time a bit down there.’ He gave her his boyish smile.

She smiled back. Don’t you just, she thought.

She hadn’t planned on visiting the library after the supermarket but suddenly it seemed a good idea. She found her way to the local history section and located one book which looked as if it might enlighten her about the area. She thumbed through the index, looking for Timperton Hall, smiling as she rooted around in her bag for a pen and paper. Did people, she wondered, always start a ghost hunt like this?

In the event there wasn’t much information to be had. The Hall had Tudor origins but had burned down and been rebuilt in the late seventeenth century by the Crosby family, who had lived there for nearly two hundred years. Nearby was the home farm. There was no village as such, apart from the site of an early church which had long since disappeared. That suggested that at some point there had been at least some sort of hamlet in the area. Now there was nothing to suggest that – apart from the barns, which clearly had been part of the estate – there had ever been any kind of settlement on the edge of the river nearby. The nearest church now was St Edmund’s at Hanley Heath, two miles away, and it was there, apparently, that the last members of the Crosby family, which died out in 1873, were buried.

Zoë leaned back thoughtfully against the bookshelves. A small country estate with no particular history. A microcosm of English history. She smiled. Rosemary had made friends with someone who lived in the Hall and had offered to take her up there. It would be nice to go inside, but she suspected that, as had happened with the barns, most traces of its previous history would have been eradicated by the developers. How sad.

She glanced down at a map of the estate at the end of the book, which showed the cluster of barns, the tracks through the woods, an old landing stage, several small houses, which she hadn’t noticed and were probably long gone, and found herself wondering whether she would ever begin to feel at home there.

Putting down roots was a mysterious business which had never happened to her. Her parents had moved often when she was a child and she felt that at base she had never really called anywhere home. She stared unseeing at the map. She had gone from boarding school to Durham University to read English and had then found a job in London where she had shared various flats with a motley selection of people until she and Ken had married ten years before. They had moved twice, both times within a fairly small area, always aware that they would move again. This launch into the country was a change of pattern, an uneasy step, as she had told Leo, out of her comfort zone. Once she had got used to the idea it had seemed exciting and a bit zany. Her friends thought they were stark staring mad, and she had laughed at them, jeering at their lack of sense of adventure, but now she was beginning to realise they were right. She and Ken didn’t fit. No one in the barn complex fitted. They weren’t local. They didn’t belong. They had all been plonked as though from outer space into a pretty piece of countryside and the safety net had been whisked away. And the real locals, the real inhabitants, be they alive or long dead, resented them. Especially the long dead. She looked up, mulling over the disturbing thought. They were still there, still doing their thing as though nothing had changed. And they resented the newcomers bitterly.

‘Excuse me, we’re closing in five minutes.’ The librarian was standing beside her with an apologetic smile. Deep in her reverie Zoë hadn’t noticed her.

She glanced at her watch. ‘I was dreaming. I had no idea I had been here so long.’ Flustered, she pushed the book back onto its space and tucked her notes into her bag then she went to find a coffee shop. She already had a favourite. Surely that meant something.

Lesley Inworth had the ground-floor flat on the right-hand side of the front door of Timperton Hall. She led Zoë and Rosemary into the sitting room and gestured round. ‘Isn’t it a lovely room? I think it’s the nicest in the house. We have this marvellous view down across the river in the distance. The rest of the flat is small. It’s been divided so everybody gets one or two nice rooms and then one or two of the smaller ones at the back. My bedroom was the squire’s study. The stables have been turned into another flat at the back and there are two more upstairs.’ She was a wispy woman, thin and wiry, in her late forties, widowed, according to Rosemary, who had given Zoë a quick update on her background as they walked up the hill, with two daughters who both lived in London. Her passion was gardening and she was employed by the residents’ committee to supervise the grounds and to look after the Victorian gardens, which had miraculously survived and which were very beautiful.

Zoë had been wrong about the Hall losing its character. It had been converted with great care to conserve its architecture and make use of its features. They sat down round the fire, which burned in a beautiful Regency fireplace, while Lesley poured coffee and produced some homemade cake.

‘The history of the house was very sad at the end,’ she said in answer to Zoë’s query. ‘The Crosby family had lived here for generations, then the last squire had no children so the estate passed to some distant cousin who never actually came here. Then his son was killed in the First World War and there was no one else. It was sold up. I expect that happened to so many families.’

‘And after that it was converted into flats?’

Lesley shook her head. ‘It was sold to the farm. Bill Turtill’s dad or granddad. It is an extraordinary turnaround of fate. The Turtills were farm managers to the estate in the nineteenth century, but somehow they ended up buying the farm and a lot of the land, then in the fifties they bought the Hall and the rest of the estate for a song. They showed themselves to be pretty astute. They resold the Hall and kept the land and the barns; then much later they sold the barns for development. They had trouble getting planning permission because they were so old and listed but they managed it in the end.’

‘And so, here we all are.’ Rosemary beamed at them both. ‘And it’s Bill I need to talk to again about the footpaths. He has closed one of them off; changed its route completely.’

Lesley gave her a close look. ‘I hardly think the route matters in the great scheme of things. As long as people can still walk the fields.’

‘Ah, but there you are wrong.’ Rosemary set down her cup purposefully and sat forward on the edge of her chair. ‘These are ancient highways, rights of way. They have to be protected.’

Lesley sighed. ‘My dear, that path you keep going on about, across Dead Man’s Field, it doesn’t exist. I have looked at all sorts of maps and plans. It’s just not there. And there is a lovely walk along a pretty lane down the edge of the field.’ She glanced at Zoë. ‘Has Rosemary signed you up to her footpath mafia yet?’

Zoë shook her head, embarrassed. ‘No, not me. I jog. I don’t like walking. At least not with lots of people.’

‘No more do I.’ Lesley gave a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Ghastly thought! I am sorry, Rosemary dear, but you know it’s true. I’ve seen them. Your friends don’t look at the country-side, they are not interested in flowers or birds or even the views of the river. They won’t let anyone take a dog with them, for heaven’s sake! All they want to do is criticise, compare it to some approximation of a town park, measure that the grass is the right length and if the poor farmers haven’t cut it, they want to know why not; as though these guys haven’t got better things to do. Bill should put a socking great bull in that field. That’s what I say!’

Zoë hid a smile. ‘Why is it called Dead Man’s Field? That sounds a bit spooky.’

‘And rightly so. There is a tumulus in the field. Now that is on a lot of the maps, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Rosemary, though you’ve chosen to ignore it. The field has long had a reputation for being haunted. Another reason the locals wouldn’t walk there if you paid them and why there wouldn’t be a footpath across it. Why is it, Rosemary, it is always newcomers who stir these things up? Why don’t you ask the locals if there was ever a path there? And listen to their answers.’

‘Because the locals aren’t interested.’ Rosemary sniffed. ‘They don’t care about the countryside half the time.’ She wasn’t going to admit that she had at the beginning overlooked the fact that the silly little pile of earth she had contemplated bulldozing was a tumulus. Most of the maps didn’t show it any more anyway. ‘All they are interested in is if they can stuff the latest plasma telly into their front rooms.’

‘Oh, my dear, that is so wrong.’ Lesley shook her head. ‘Read the history, the proper history of the estate, not your little maps which were probably drawn up by retired clergy-men in the thirties who never set foot in the fields themselves.’ She was looking agitated. ‘I’ve read a lot about this area; it’s my job as part of restoring the gardens.’

‘Well, the farm was never part of the gardens,’ Rosemary said stiffly. ‘The local people wanted access to the river. It is the obvious route if you look at the maps.’

‘The local people have the lane, Rosemary. That is why it is there. That is where it goes. To the river.’

‘They’ll thank me in the end.’ Rosemary helped herself to a piece of cake. ‘They don’t know anything about rights of way and they are too lazy to bother, but they will use the path once it’s there, you’ll see.’

Zoë stared at her. ‘That sounds awfully snobby and patronising, Rosemary, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are there any farm workers’ cottages belonging to the estate?’ She changed the subject hastily, looking at Lesley. ‘I was looking at a map in the library and it didn’t seem to show any that are still there.’

‘No. There aren’t any left now.’ Lesley stood up and reached for the coffee pot. Tight-lipped, she topped up Rosemary’s cup and then Zoë’s. ‘The Old Forge next to you is the only one left, as far as I know. I am sure there were cottages; there must have been on the estate, when the farm was in its heyday, but I expect they collapsed over the years. They were probably fairly basic, and once the family had gone who would care? They were not part of a village, after all. Bill might know.’ She glanced at Rosemary. ‘Come on, don’t sulk, old thing. Hurry up and drink that and we’ll show Zoë round the gardens.’

Straightening up for a few moments to rest his back after bending over the engine housing, Ken saw Steve Formby strolling down the path towards him. He groaned inwardly, but managed a cheery wave. ‘The girls have gone up to the Hall for coffee, I gather,’ he called.

Steve nodded. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the landing stage and sat with his legs dangling over the water. ‘It is so lovely here,’ he said. ‘Peaceful.’

Ken contemplated a response and decided to say nothing. He was not a fan of Steve’s wife. She was noisy and bossy and far too aggressive for his liking. He leaned back against the cabin door. ‘I hear the Watts family are down. We haven’t met them yet.’

Steve blew gustily through pursed lips. ‘I wouldn’t bother. They are a nightmare.’

‘Noisy?’ There had been a never-ending blast of sound from The Summer Barn this morning. Music, shouting and revving engines, to say nothing of dogs barking.

‘Noisy,’ Steve confirmed. ‘The blessing is that they don’t stay long. The kids will have to go back to school at some point.’

Both men were silent for a while. Ken reached for an oily rag and began slowly to wipe his fingers on it. ‘Odd thing happened the other night when we came home after dark,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Did Zoë mention it to Rosemary? Strange noises out here on the river.’

Steve laughed. ‘Yes, she told me. I’ve never heard them.’

‘But you know about them.’

‘Load of crap, in my view.’ Steve was rhythmically kicking the seaweed-covered post beneath him ‘Sound carries over water, we all know that. There was probably someone messing round upstream somewhere. They could have been a long way away so you wouldn’t have been able to see them.’

Ken grinned ‘You’re right. That could well have been it. Or I did wonder if it could have been smugglers bringing contraband up-river, drugs or illegal immigrants. It was a bit odd.’

‘The little woman scared?’ Steve laughed again.

‘Something like that.’

‘I reckon you’re more likely to be right than the girls’ theory that it is a ghostly visitor.’ With another snort of laughter Steve drummed a further tattoo with his heels on the wooden piles beneath him. ‘Don’t let her talk to Leo about it,’ he went on. ‘He’s a bit fey, in my opinion. Probably something to do with that ghastly accident the poor chap had. He reckons it is a Viking longship.’

Ken nodded sagely. ‘I haven’t met him yet. He always pops in when I’m not there.’ He sensed rather than saw Steve glance at him sharply.

‘I wouldn’t worry.’ Steve thought for a minute. ‘I doubt if he’s a lady’s man. Not looking like that. He would stir up compassion in a stone wall, but I don’t get the feeling he’s a danger to our women.’ Ken refrained from pointing out that Steve’s wife was a weather-beaten battle-axe, while his was still young and attractive. It seemed unnecessarily unkind.

‘He’s not gay?’

‘No. In fact I think he’s married. But separated. Our cleaning lady, Annie, mentioned it; said she walked out on him after the accident. What a bitch.’

Ken noticed Steve pat his pockets speculatively for the third time and he gave a knowing grin. ‘Am I right in thinking you’ve given up smoking?’

Steve nodded. ‘Can’t get used to not having any on me.’

‘Would you like to come aboard for a lager? Then you can tell me about this Viking ship.’

Ten minutes later the men were seated in the cockpit of the Lady Grace. ‘You know we’re only a few miles from Sutton Hoo, the Anglo-Saxon site where they found the great ship burial,’ Steve said as he made himself comfortable and pulled the tab on the can.

‘We haven’t been there yet.’ Ken leaned back into the corner and rested his arm companionably over the tiller. ‘Is it worth seeing?’

‘I enjoyed it. There is a museum and a café and a shop, and then you walk out to these burial mounds. Nothing much to see there, just grass, and nice walks overlooking the river, a bit like this actually, but round where they found the ship it all feels a bit special, even I have to admit that.’

‘And this ship is the same as the one Zoë and Leo are talking about?’

Steve frowned. ‘I assume so. Is Viking the same as Anglo-Saxon?’ Both men shook their heads. ‘History is not my thing,’ Ken said after a moment. His attention was caught by a movement over Steve’s shoulder. Out in the river a cormorant flew low over the water, its dark iridescent wings and sharp head and beak a black arrow against the green of the rising tide.

5

Eric shaded his eyes from the glare with a raised hand and watched as the bird skimmed low over the river. It came to rest on a tree stump and shook its wings, almost at once staring around at the water, ready to dive if it spotted a fish. He gave a grim smile. Observant bird. Cunning. Not missing a thing. He hooked his thumbs into his broad leather belt, feeling the cold working its way into his bones. He had spent too long indoors, too long with the furnace and hammer. Not enough time with his wife.

‘Is the sword ready?’

The voice behind him was persistent, always there.

‘I will tell you when it is ready!’ he yelled, and he spun round furiously, his fist raised. There was no one there. He stared left and right incredulously. There was no one in sight; the village was deserted, the women indoors at the loom or spinning, the men out in the fields making all ready before the first of the autumn storms.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and turned back to the river. He was imagining things again.

Beware of elf-shot. He heard his mother’s voice in his head and smiled fondly.

What would the priest say to her warnings; unexplained illness and injuries caused by insidious small arrows fired by unseen spirits? Oh, Wulfric believed in the spirits too. They all believed in the spirits, but he would have a different weapon against them. Cross yourself, man. Ward off the evil eye. Guard your woman with Christian prayers. Eric shook his head slowly. No, he had tried Christian prayers. They did not work; they did not bring him fine sons. Working for a man who had turned back to the old ways and the old gods had made him realise their potency. And yet. He closed his eyes for a moment. Whose voice was it he thought he had heard? Hrotgar, the thegn’s reeve. The man was a devout Christian like the Lady Hilda. As was his own wife, Edith. He sighed. He was spending too long on the sword; there were other things to make, other people waiting, including a weapon for the ealdorman at Rendlesham, who was a kinsman of King Edmund, but this sword was special; it was his masterpiece; it would be carried into war against the Viking host, if not by Lord Egbert, then by his successor, and it would bring safety and blessing and renown to their village.

His eyes narrowed as he saw a movement in the distance; beyond the palisade someone was walking across the beaten earth, heading up towards the hall; a man, and there, in front, he could see the soft green of his wife’s tunic and cloak. He saw Edith hesitate and he saw her turn to wait for the second figure. The two converged, their shadows merging in the bright sunlight. He clenched his fists as he watched. They had stopped walking. They were talking. They were standing very close staring into each other’s faces and then as he stood helplessly, the length of a field away, he saw them turn from the path and disappear between the houses. His cry of anguish echoed out across the cold water. At the sound the cormorant stretched out its wings and launched itself upriver and out of sight.

He was spending too much time with Bella. Dan was well aware of it, but he blamed himself for the horse’s state, and she was responding. She greeted him now with a soft whinny of recognition when he approached her stall, and she had begun to eat. The swelling was going down on her legs, but nothing could be done about the terrible scars which remained as ugly gashes over her fetlocks. How had the woman done it, he wondered, and how could she, how could anyone, have brought themselves to injure such a gentle, willing creature?

The barns were full of grain and hay and straw against the long winter, the stalls for the horses empty now except for Bella’s as the animals were out working on the farm, bringing in heavy wagons of turnips, tumbrils full of cider apples, collecting the last of the potatoes for the clamps in the yard. Dan was busy in the forge. As farrier and blacksmith to the estate he was in constant demand, shoeing all the horses on the farm and up at the Hall, and making a constant stream of iron goods; at present he was forging sets of gate hinges and railings for the park. He rubbed Bella’s nose. ‘I must get on, my lovely,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back to see you later.’ He froze as he heard the tap of heels in the doorway.

‘Daniel!’

He hadn’t seen Emily Crosby for several days and the sound of her voice filled him with resentment. He saw the mare’s ears flatten against her head and he held his breath. Did the woman know he was there? Silently he tiptoed out of the stall, instinctively knowing she mustn’t catch him near the horse. Keeping to the shadows of a pile of straw bales he edged his way towards a side door.

‘Daniel!’ The voice was closer now, sharp. She was walking towards Bella’s stall, the heels of her riding boots noisy on the cobbles. ‘Drat it! Where is the man?’

He did not want her near Bella; he had to distract her. Ducking round the far side of the bales, he walked towards her as though he had just come in from the yard. ‘My lady? Were you looking for me?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? I was calling your name.’ Her tone was sarcastic. She was as usual dressed for riding. ‘I need you to check my horse.’

‘Of course, my lady.’ Meekly he followed her outside. The roan pony was tied up near the forge, tossing her head up and down irritably. Something was obviously distressing her. It took him only minutes to find the burrs beneath the saddlecloth. ‘That must have been vexing her badly, my lady,’ he said as he extracted them. ‘It would be very sore. They are a bother at this time of year. I’ve found them under the harness of the working horses as well. Shall I help you into the saddle, my lady?’ He knew very well she had put them there herself; no one saddling the horse could have failed to see them.

‘If you please, Daniel.’ She narrowed her eyes at him like a cat, holding out her hand. As he stooped to take her foot she put her arm round his neck. ‘You could lift me off my feet so easily, Daniel, a great strong man like you,’ she murmured. She turned towards him. ‘You find me attractive, don’t you, Daniel?’ Her voice was low and seductive. ‘You would like to kiss me, I’ll be bound!’

He took a step back, repelled. ‘No, my lady. I know my place.’

‘But your place is to do as I tell you, Daniel.’ She moved closer to him. ‘I trust your wife is not going to make a habit of appearing suddenly. She might find it hard to understand how tempted you are by my beauty.’

‘Dan, where are you, my friend?’ The voice came so suddenly from the far side of the yard that for a moment neither of them moved. Not Susan. It was a man’s voice. Leaping backwards, Daniel looked round and saw to his immense relief the sight of Jem, one of the horseboys with two of the Suffolks. He was riding astride one and leading the other, the harness hitched on both of them. ‘We’re done for the day so I brought these two back, Dan,’ he called. He seemed to notice Lady Emily for the first time. ‘My lady!’ The young man touched his forelock as he drew to a halt in the yard and slid off the great horse.

Daniel saw the flash of fury in her eyes as she turned back to her own mount. He stooped again for her foot and threw her none too gently into the saddle. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?’

For a moment she stared down at him. ‘There is, Daniel, and you would do well to remember it. You were shirking your duties. If I find you avoiding me in future you might well find yourself in need of a job.’ She paused. ‘It wouldn’t do to be put off, would it now, Daniel, and you and your wife with a baby on the way?’ She brought her whip down on the pony’s rump, sitting the saddle remarkably well as it gave a small buck of resentment.

‘Phew!’ Jem winked at him as she rode out of the yard. ‘George and me, we reckoned you needed rescuing. George saw her heading down here from the Hall.’ The head horseman had appeared behind them leading three more of the working horses into the yard.

Dan grinned. ‘Pity the squire can’t rein her in.’

‘You don’t fancy yourself fathering the heir then?’ Jem guffawed.

‘No, I don’t!’ Dan threw a mock punch at him, then he sobered, all humour gone. ‘It’s no joke, though. She’s threatening to have me and Susan thrown off.’

‘You’ll have to do what you’re told then, boy!’ Jem clicked his tongue at the horses and walked them over towards the water trough to drink. ‘I wonder where you’ll get the strength.’ He was still grinning as he dodged out of reach a second time.

‘A word to the wise.’ Leo saw Zoë walking towards the landing stage and hurried down the path to catch up with her. ‘Our friend Rosemary has upset Bill Turtill in a big way.’

Zoë put down her basket, pleased to see him. In spite of his occasional brusqueness he was, she realised, one of the few people in her new life who interested her and whose company she enjoyed. He kept her on her toes. ‘Who is Bill Turtill?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I do know, he’s our neighbouring farmer, right?’

‘Right.’ Leo nodded. ‘She’s had a go at him about the footpath.’

‘But surely everyone knew she was going to do that.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not even sure where this path is supposed to be.’

‘It’s over there.’ He turned and pointed. ‘You can see where it would go from here. There’s a ten-acre field on the slope going down towards the river; in the centre there is a copse with a tumulus in it and she wants the path to go right through the copse and presumably over the tumulus.’

‘Dead Man’s Field,’ she said thoughtfully

‘Ah, you’ve been doing your homework.’ He gave her an approving grin.

‘Lesley Inworth told us.’

‘Nice woman. Knows her stuff.’

She nodded, pleased he was confiding in her. ‘Why is it that Rosemary is so keen on this? It seems so obsessive.’

‘Why indeed. Bill was nearly apoplectic. He says the fact that there is an earthwork there proves there has never been a path there, and she told him there was, because she had seen it on some hand-drawn map in a little booklet she bought in Woodbridge about nice walks and she didn’t care about the earthwork; she said it isn’t marked on most maps, and that anyway highways and byways take precedence.’

‘Highways?’

He laughed. ‘The woman is mad. Please, have a word with her if you’ve any influence. I haven’t. She’s no time for me, but I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It could escalate and we are a very small community and we do want to stay friends with Bill. He’s a nice guy.’

‘But surely you’ve told him we have nothing to do with her.’

‘We all live at the barns, Zoë. In his eyes that makes us all part of the same gang. His dad may have sold off the barns and probably made a packet on the development, but that doesn’t stop Bill, and everyone else in Hanley for that matter, from resenting us. You must have noticed. You and I and your husband are townies. We don’t fit. However friendly they are, we will never be part of the community. Not really. And this sort of nonsense will make them close ranks. He thinks we are all in it. Especially you.’ He glanced at her. ‘He heard that you and Rosemary went up to see Lesley at the Hall.’

‘Yes, we did. And we did mention the path – or Rosemary did, but I didn’t say anything to support her.’

‘Well, Lesley must have said something to him to give him the impression that you did.’

Zoë looked round with an air of bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I really don’t support her. I’ve made it clear to her I don’t want to join her walks.’ She sighed then frowned as she saw Ken emerging from the shadows of the trees. As he strode towards them she sensed Leo withdrawing into himself. She put her hand on his arm before he had a chance to turn away. ‘You haven’t met my husband, Leo. Wait. Let me introduce you.’

The two men shook hands. She could see Ken giving Leo’s face a quick glance then turning away, pretending not to have noticed. ‘You’ve met Bill Turtill, haven’t you, Ken? What was he like?’ she said after moment’s awkward silence.

‘He seemed a decent enough bloke. Why?’

Her explanation elicited a snort of derision. ‘I hope he takes no notice of that woman. She’s a complete pain. Always round our house!’

Zoë hid a smile. ‘Not always, Ken,’ she said gently. ‘But more than I would like, I must admit. Please, Leo, if you see Bill again can you tell him we have nothing to do with her paths?’

‘Weird guy,’ Ken said after a few seconds as they watched Leo retrace his steps across the grass. ‘Not very sociable, is he?’

‘I don’t think he likes people looking at his face.’

‘I didn’t.’ Ken was indignant. ‘I came to find you. I was getting hungry.’

They spent the afternoon on the boat and, without actually saying so, made sure they packed up to return to the house before it grew dark.

Hurrying up the path between the pines they came to a halt at the edge of the communal lawn. Someone had set up a huge gas-fired barbecue on the grass with, round it, two or three tables surrounded by chairs. ‘Oh God! Our neighbours are going to have a party,’ Zoë whispered.

Ken grimaced. ‘I hope they don’t invite us.’

They did. Barely had they walked in through the door of The Old Barn when a large florid woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt embellished with the words Daddy’s girl across a bust which must have been heading towards size twenty, hurried after them. She introduced herself as Sharon Watts ‘just like EastEnders,’ she added so automatically that Zoë realised she must always say it, assuming everyone would know who she meant. ‘You must come,’ Sharon went on. ‘We’ve asked Rosie and Steve and old ugly mug from The Old Forge. They are all coming. A barn get-together for half-term. Don’t worry about booze. We’ve got enough. Just bring yourselves!’

‘Christ!’ Ken murmured once she had gone. ‘What have we done, moving here? We don’t seem to have a single normal neighbour.’

Zoë shook her head, suppressing a smile. ‘We’ll have to go.’

‘Can’t I have flu?’

‘No you can’t. She saw you. Besides, it would be good to meet them all. Better the devil you know, and all that.’

‘Did I hear right – she called Leo an ugly mug?’

‘Vile woman.’ Zoë shook her head. ‘I think he’s quite attractive once you get used to his face.’

‘Have you seen the ghosts yet?’ Jamie Watts was a redhead like his sister; whereas in her it contributed to her gamine attractiveness, in him, combined with a receding chin and a thick crop of acne it looked thoroughly unwholesome. He sneered at Zoë as he swigged from a bottle of lager.

‘I have.’ She smiled at him with an attempt at graciousness. ‘I gather you are quite the expert on our ghosts.’

He looked taken aback for a moment, unsure how to take her remark. ‘They’re scary,’ he said after a pause.

‘They are,’ she agreed. ‘So, tell me, don’t you have ghosts in your house? I would have thought all these barns would be haunted. They are prime examples of paranormal habitat.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’

‘No. Are you?’ She held his gaze, fending off an inquisitive lurcher looking for titbits.

They were interrupted by Leo, who had arrived carrying a bottle of wine which he gave to Sharon. In exchange he was handed a glass of Pimm’s, containing more fruit than seemed possible. ‘So, young Jamie, how are you? Any GCSEs under your belt yet?’

The boy flushed. ‘No. I take them next year.’

‘Your mother will be proud of you.’ Leo spoke deadpan though Zoë presumed there was some kind of subtext there. She wondered how old Jamie was. Sixteen, she would have thought, though perhaps more. She saw a flash of something like hatred cross the boy’s face and winced for Leo. She wondered why he had come.

The party, once it got going, was passable. Jeff seemed a master of his barbecue and turned out a succession of wonderfully grilled meats and sausages, much coveted by the two slavering dogs, while Sharon had made several mouth-watering salads, which, Zoë noticed, her children appeared to boycott, preferring their ketchup and mayonnaise unadulterated. As far as she could see, Sharon and Jeff were going out of their way to be nice; the two boys the opposite. The girl sat close to Leo but said little. Of the eldest boy, Jackson, there was no sign at all.

By the end of the evening Zoë was convinced they were in for trouble. As they wandered back across the cold, dew-soaked grass under a hazy moon she said as much to Ken. Leo was walking with them. ‘I think you’re right. The little buggers will be planning something. They were doing their best to put the wind up you.’

Ken snorted. ‘We’ll be ready for them.’

Leo gave him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t underestimate them. They may look thick. They are actually quite bright, as I know to my cost.’

‘Besides which,’ Zoë added, ‘some of the ghosts are real, aren’t they?’

Both men looked at her.

Leo said nothing.

Ken gave a muffled snort.

The blade was finished. He gave it a final loving polish and laid it down on the rests. Now for the hilt. Normally he sent his blades away to be finished at a workshop in the next village, but this one was different. This one was imbued with magic, carved with sacred runes and intricate designs, the hilt inset with jewels, every stage fabricated by himself alone. Even the scabbard he planned to make himself.

He glanced up from the work table. Was that a footstep outside? He threw a cloth over the table, hiding the blade from view, and walked over to stand listening behind the door. He could hear nothing but the whine of the wind in the crannies of the workshop, the rustle as the ash bed stirred in the furnace. Grabbing the latch he pulled the door open and looked round. It was growing dark; the sun had set stormily into a bank of black cloud. He could hear the trees thrashing down in the woods. He took a step outside and looked round again. The village seemed deserted. He could see no one but there was someone there, he could sense it. He stared round again, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stir. ‘Hello?’ His voice was lost in the sound of the wind. ‘Who’s there?’ There was no reply.

He retreated into the workshop and pulled the door closed, barring it against the night, then he lit another lantern and, pulling off the cloth, drew a stool up to the table. Even in the poor light he could make a start.

In their house in the village his wife, Edith, was listening to the same wind. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her shoulders. She should be up at the hall even now. All the women would be there, her neighbours, her sister, her cousins, her friends, joining in the evening’s entertainment. They had been there from early morning, cooking then eventually serving the food, clearing the tables and benches, and by now settling down to listen to the singers and the travelling bard who had arrived in the village just that day. Any newcomer was an excitement, a treat not to be missed. Lord Egbert would not be there; he was still confined to his sickbed, but his brother, Oswald, led the men now. He would lift the great drinking horn to give the toast and invite the scop to recite, and lead the singers far into the night. At his side, his brother’s reeve, Hrotgar – the man who had told Eric that his lord had need of a very special sword, the man who had threatened Eric if it were not finished on time, the man whose eyes followed her as she walked to the spring, or to the bake house, or the workshop or to and from the hall – would be waiting and watching every person in the hall.

She sighed. She had not joined the others because she had been feeling sick again this morning. It had taken her a long time to rise from her bed. She stood looking down at the hearth thoughtfully and on impulse stooped to pick up one of the statues of the goddess Frige Eric had made for the Lady Hilda. Pagan. And powerful. She bit her lip, then slowly leaned down and let it fall back in the basket. Could it be that after all this time she was pregnant? She rested her hand lightly on her flat belly, trying to remember when she had last bled. Surely, two full moons had passed.

There it was again, the sound of scratching at the door. She moved across the floor, straining her ears. Behind her an extra gust of wind sent sparks and ashes blowing across the room from the fire and she turned, stamping them out, clutching her cloak to her. There were shutters over the windows and the door was firmly barred. She was safe, but she couldn’t help the tremors of fear which were running up and down her spine. Someone was out there, she knew it.

‘Eric?’ It was a whisper. ‘Is that you?’

He wouldn’t be able to hear her against the storm and she didn’t dare call out loud. Whoever it was knew she was in there. They would be able to see the light from her candles through the chinks in the shutters, but if she made no sound, then maybe they would go away.

The scratching sound came again, louder this time, then a soft knock. Three times in rapid succession, softly, near the bottom of the door. It was their secret sign. With a whimper of relief she grappled with the bar and lifted it from its socket, pulling the door open, filling the room with the scent of the river and dust and pine needles and a fresh blast of wind to stir the fire. It wasn’t Eric. Hrotgar stepped inside, wrestled the door shut and slammed the bar back in place. All but one of the candles had blown out and the room was nearly dark.

‘Get out!’ she cried. ‘How did you know our knock?’

He gave a low laugh. ‘I have heard him do it often enough. It is hardly secret. The whole village knows.’

‘I don’t want you here.’

‘Oh, but you do. I’ve seen you watch me, lust after me. I’ve heard no complaints when I have come to visit you and keep you company.’ He made no move towards her now that he was inside. He folded his arms, staring at her, shadowed as she was in the small room. ‘Your husband is in the service of Lord Egbert. While he slaves over this precious sword it is for me to make sure that his wife is content.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, backing away from him. She placed herself behind the table and leaned forward, her arms braced. ‘You get out of here, Hrotgar. I need no visits from you. I have never needed visits from you. I am a faithful wife.’

‘You are an obedient wife.’ He smiled at her. ‘One he can be proud of. But, you see, he needs to know that you are not missing him. He needs to know that he has as much time as he needs. If he hurries in his work because he worries about you, then all is lost.’

‘But he told me the Lord Egbert needs him to hurry.’

‘The Lord Egbert has all the time in the world, my dear.’ He paused.

‘What do you mean?’ She was studying his face, trying to understand his expression. ‘Is something wrong? Is he worse?’

‘Your husband needs a hair from your head to put in with the molten metal of the sword.’ He spoke slowly, almost dreamily, ignoring her questions. ‘Unbind your hair, Edith.’

She shook her head. ‘If he needed something from me he would come home and tell me.’

‘But he cannot come home. That is part of the magic.’

‘No. This is all wrong. It makes no sense. The sword is nearly finished.’

‘Magic is not bound by reason, my dear. Nor is it to be spoken of. He trusted me with the message and me alone as go-between, between him and the Lord Egbert.’

She hesitated. ‘And you have given me the message.’

‘So you need to unbind your hair.’

She was watching his face in the half-light of the single candle flame and she saw him run his tongue across his lips, a quick feral movement which frightened her even more than his words had done. She could feel the deep frozen terror of the rabbit confronted by a weasel. ‘If my hair is needed Eric can take a strand with his own hands,’ she said at last.

‘It is Eric who has demanded it. At the forge. And he has forbidden you to set foot there. It is for me to take it to him.’

She shook her head uncomfortably. ‘Then I will pull one out myself, and tie it to the doorpost of the forge and he can come out and pick it up when I have gone.’

‘That is foolish. And not what he asked.’ He was getting angry now. He took a step towards her. ‘Unbind your hair, woman.’

‘Edith!’ The sudden call at the door was accompanied by the thudding of a fist on the thick wood. ‘What are you doing in there? Why have you barred the door?’ The latch rattled up and down. ‘Edith?’ It was a woman’s voice.

‘Open it.’ Edith whispered. ‘Open it now.’

Hrotgar looked taken aback. With a scowl he turned on his heel and walked towards it, pulling the bar free and throwing it on the ground, then pulling open the door to let the fresh air and wind sweep in. ‘Come in, goodwife. What is all the noise about?’ he growled. ‘What I discuss with the smith’s woman is nothing to do with anyone else.’ He swept past her out into the darkness.

Edith’s neighbour, Gudrun, the wheelwright’s wife, stood staring after him, then she ducked in through the doorway and pushed the door shut behind her. ‘What was he doing here, with the door barred?’ she said suspiciously. ‘I don’t trust that man.’

‘No more do I.’ Suddenly Edith was shivering. She moved closer to the fire. ‘He came with a message from my husband.’

Gudrun bustled about lighting the lanterns and the candle which stood on the table. ‘Why aren’t you up at the hall?’

‘I didn’t feel well.’

‘And he came to find out why?’

Edith shook her head. ‘No.’ But of course he had noticed her absence. Why else had he come here?

‘So, what is wrong with you? You’re not breeding at last?’

Edith gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not sure. I wondered if it was possible. I feel sick. But perhaps it is just that my head hurts. I have been working on Eric’s jerkin after the light has gone for too many evenings. I just wanted to sit quietly and rest my eyes. There will be noise and celebration enough when he has finished the sword and we take it up to the hall for the Lord Edbert.’

Gudrun was looking at her closely. She gave a knowing smile. ‘I think there will be reason for noise and celebration in this house if I read your signs right, neighbour mine.’ She smiled. ‘But we’ll say nothing yet. Not till you are sure. Eric will be so pleased. As for the celebrations up at the hall, I doubt if that day will happen.’ She shook her head.

‘Why? It will be the best sword he ever made!’ Edith bridled with indignation.

‘No, no, I’m not doubting his skill, it is the Lord Egbert I’m thinking of.’ The older woman sighed sadly. ‘He hasn’t been seen for weeks now and rumours fly round the hall that he is dying, if he isn’t dead already. His sons and his brother wrangle and fight like dogs over a bone, and the warriors are taking sides ready to jump this way or that. They say the ealdorman will ride over from Rendlesham and the king’s reeve might come himself. Lady Hilda is white as a sheet and looks exhausted, and that man,’ she ducked her head towards the door, ‘is in the thick of all the gossip.’

‘And I have been missing it all.’ Edith grimaced.

‘Do you know how long it will be before the sword is finished?’ Gudrun pulled up a stool and sat down close to the fire, holding her hands out to the embers.

Edith gave a wry smile. ‘He wouldn’t tell me, even if I had seen him,’ she said.

Gudrun looked up at her, then back towards the fire. A log slipped and a flame lit up the lazy spiral of smoke rising towards the blackened underside of the thatch, before making its way out into the night. ‘I know he’s been home. I saw him.’

‘Then you should mind your spying eyes, madam,’ Edith scolded good-humouredly. ‘He didn’t come, you understand, and anyone who says different is a liar. He told me nothing anyway.’

‘And the message Hrotgar brought?’

‘Is not your business.’ Edith shook her head with mock exasperation. ‘Fetch that jug of ale from the sideboard, and we’ll have a sup to wet our whistles. I’m feeling better, thanks to you.’

It was a great deal later that Edith, wrapped in a dark cloak, let herself out into the night. Gudrun had long gone and the village was silent. She crept towards the forge, stopping dead for a moment as a dog barked from somewhere behind the church, then she moved on. Under the hood of her cloak her hair was loose.

The forge was in darkness, the smokeholes cold. She paused, wondering what to do, then she crept closer. Eric often slept there; he had been doing so for the last month or more. Even the thought of him so close, lying, perhaps naked, wrapped in one of the furs she had seen stacked in the corner of the workshop, made her body tense with longing. She waited, her ear to the oak door slats, listening. There was no sound from inside. Cautiously she put her hand to the latch and silently began to slide it up. The hinges creaked and she stopped, her heart thudding, gazing round in the darkness. It wasn’t her husband she feared, it was the other man, the lord’s reeve, with his lustful eyes and his leering face and his power to intercede between Eric and the warriors for whom he worked.

The door wasn’t barred. After another protesting squeak it eased open and she peered in. ‘Eric?’ she whispered. She could smell the charcoal, the leather, the very scent of the iron, the oil with which he worked and then, suddenly she could smell him, his skin, the rough smokiness of his hair. ‘Where are you?’

‘I thought I forbade you to come here, Edith.’ She still couldn’t see him, but his voice was close. She imagined him waiting, poised to see who was trying to gain entry to the forge in the dark of the night, and for a moment she pictured the knife he probably held in his hand. The thought frightened her even as it gave her a strange frisson of excitement.

‘Hrotgar came to the house; he said you needed a hair from my head for your sword magic,’ she whispered. She was still poised on the threshold, knowing better than to try to set foot over it without invitation. ‘I wouldn’t give it to him. He frightens me. But if it’s what you need you can have every hair on my head.’ She pushed back the hood and shook her head gently, feeling the weight of her long hair on her shoulders, wondering if he could see her against the starlight.

She heard a smothered groan. ‘Edith! Sweet wife, but I miss you!’

‘Then why do you stay away from me?’

‘I have to. You know I have to. Lord Egbert directed every stage in the making of this sword according to the ancient rule. I knew nothing about when it was first spoken of, but he was right. It was a true memory of past traditions. I sensed that here.’ He thumped his chest with his fist. ‘Something which should never be forgotten. It is too important. And part of that tradition is that I forbid you my bed until it is finished.’

She narrowed her eyes, trying to see him, overwhelmed with a sudden suspicion. ‘Was it Lord Egbert himself who told you all this, or his reeve?’

The silence which greeted her question might have been answer enough, but suddenly he was at her side. ‘It was Hrotgar. You are right. I never discussed this with the thegn himself. He has been too ill for too long. All I was told has come from his reeve. But it was right, Edith –’

‘And did you ask for a hair from my head?’

‘No.’

There was a long silence.

‘It may be that the magic is real, Eric. I wouldn’t want to profane your work, but outside under the stars, can there be weakness for the sword in that?’

He was so close to her now she could see his bulk. But still he hadn’t touched her.

‘The blade is finished,’ he said huskily. ‘It needs no hair from anyone’s head. It is tempered and polished and gleams like silver. It is the best I have ever made, ready for the king’s service against the enemy host. All it needs is the crosspiece and hilt.’ He glanced behind him at the work table where the beginnings of the hilt lay beneath a linen cloth.

‘Then can we celebrate together?’ At last she reached out towards him, touching him lightly on the chest. He was fully clothed, but she felt the spark between them.

‘Not here, but you’re right; I think we can celebrate under the stars.’ She heard the smile without being able to see it.

Still in total darkness he took her hand and they tiptoed away from the forge towards the woods which bordered the river. He put his arm round her and pulled her close and at last, as she looked up at him, he paused to stoop over her and kiss her long and hard.

In the shadows nearby the small movement behind the house of the harness maker showed that they were being observed and in the woods an owl cried warning.

6

‘Ken.’ Zoë’s whisper sounded loud in the silence of the darkened bedroom. She had been awake for hours listening to the owls in the wood. ‘Listen. There’s someone downstairs.’

For a moment Ken lay, paralysed with sleep, then slowly he opened his eyes and she felt his body tense beside hers in the big bed. ‘What did you hear?’ He sat up.

‘I’m not sure. Footsteps? The creak of floorboards?’

‘We locked the doors. I double-checked. Is it those bastard kids next door?’ He was pulling on his dressing gown.

‘It might be.’ She slid out of bed too. ‘There! Listen!’

There was a definite sound from downstairs, a creak and then a long dragging noise as though someone was moving a piece of furniture. ‘It might be burglars,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful.’

‘Get your phone. Be ready to call the police if necessary.’ He had his slippers on now and was heading for the door. Pulling it open, he reached out to the wall and flicked the bank of switches there, flooding the landing, the staircase and the huge room below with light. Nothing happened. There was total silence.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Come out. There is no point in hiding, you’re on CCTV.’

Silence. Zoë had followed him onto the landing, the phone in her hand. She leaned over the rail and stared down into the brightly lit room below. ‘The chairs have moved,’ she whispered. ‘Look.’ The semicircle of comfortable armchairs, which were placed to take advantage of the view from the great window overlooking the river, were now sitting in a straight line.

‘OK, you stupid kids. You’ve had your fun. That is enough!’ Ken roared. He headed for the staircase. ‘We are calling the police!’

Zoë looked at him. ‘For real?’ she whispered. He shook his head and put his finger to his lips. ‘Wait. Let’s see where they are,’ he whispered back. ‘I don’t want to make trouble with the neighbours if we can sort this.’ He began to walk down the stairs.

She followed him, staring nervously round the room. She had no sense that there was anyone there. It was almost starkly empty.

They found nothing. The doors were locked, the security lights outside didn’t seem to have been triggered, the kitchen was exactly as they had left it when they came in from the barbecue.

‘I love this window in the daytime,’ Zoë said quietly when at last Ken had repositioned the chairs and they were both standing near it, looking round, ‘but it makes one feel so exposed at night. Anyone could be out there in the dark watching us now, at this very moment.’

‘And enjoying every minute of it. We’ll have to get curtains or blinds,’ he agreed. He walked over to the window and stared out. All he could see was his own reflection. ‘They could have keys, of course. It’s quite possible. Why don’t you have a quiet word with Sharon tomorrow? It’s less threatening if you do it.’ He had rammed his hands down into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘I don’t think they’ve done any damage, but that’s not to say that they might not. The fun of merely rearranging the furniture might pall quite quickly.’

Zoë lay awake for a long time, listening. Beside her, Ken was breathing deeply and steadily, his head buried in a pillow, but beyond the distant hoot of an owl from the trees on the far side of the lawns she heard nothing. Slowly the darkness of the room began to lessen. She could see the square outline of the window, then the mirror, then slowly the other details of the room began to appear. Eventually she gave up trying to sleep. She crept out of bed and, quietly dragging on her bathrobe, she let herself out onto the landing. They had left the lights on and she peered over the banisters at the room below. The chairs were as they had left them, the room quiet as the cold light of dawn filtered through the huge window. She tiptoed down the stairs and stood for a moment frowning. It was very cold.

In the kitchen the back door was wide open; on the work surface in the centre of the room lay three rusty nails.

‘Horseshoe.’ Leo looked at them for only a second. ‘Quite old. Maybe fifty, hundred years. Where were they?’

He led her into his kitchen and reached for the kettle with a huge yawn.

‘On the worktop. With the kitchen door open.’

‘And you think the kids put them there?’

She gave him a long thoughtful look, then she shook her head. ‘No. I think they moved the furniture around, but I don’t think they brought the nails. It’s not the first time we’ve found nails like this and last time there wasn’t anyone there. There couldn’t have been.’

‘Ah.’ He was dressed, in jeans and shirt with an old torn fleece over it; he was unshaven and his face looked crumpled and sleepy. She wondered if that was how he dressed for bed. She couldn’t quite imagine him in pyjamas and smart dressing gown like her husband, and suddenly she found herself visualising him with no shirt at all.

‘What?’ He was watching her.

She felt herself blush. ‘Sorry. Lack of sleep is catching up with me. I’m not going to let this rattle me, Leo. I’m just not sure what to do. Do you think I should go and speak to Sharon? Ken thinks I should.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll go off like a demented firecracker and tear the kids to shreds, which will make them ten times worse, in my experience.’ He paused for a moment and she saw a strange expression flit across his face. A mixture of pain and wry amusement. It wasn’t the first time he had hinted that they had at some time made his life a misery as well as that of their predecessors. ‘Leave it, is my advice. Don’t do anything or say anything. Just wait and see what happens. They are only down here for ten days at most. Keep quiet, watch and listen. If nothing happens they will be disappointed. They will want to know why. They will wonder if you noticed what they did.’

‘And they will come back.’ Zoë scowled.

‘Well, the key thing is easily solved. A good old-fashioned bolt on the inside of your doors. Get Ken to fix them, quietly. Today.’

She nodded. ‘Good advice. Is that what you did?’

He nodded. ‘I have an ally. Young Jade is a good kid. She’s afraid of nothing and will make some man the most terrifying wife one day.’ He reached for a jar of instant coffee and made them each a mug full. He added neither milk nor sugar as he handed one to Zoë.

‘And if it still happens, even with a bolt?’

‘Ah, then,’ he smiled, ‘then you have a problem.’ There was a long pause as they both stared out of the window. A great spotted woodpecker was clinging to a container of peanuts a few feet from the front of the house. ‘Did you tell your husband you don’t want to go sailing again?’ he asked. He was still studying the bird.

‘Not yet.’ She had wrapped her hands around the mug. The instant coffee, strong and thick, smelled disgusting.

‘Are you going to?’

‘I was rather hoping the season would end and the boat get put away before I had to say anything, then I can get round to it slowly over the winter months.’

‘Isn’t it a bit unfair not to tell him straight away? You have come down here under false pretences.’

‘I have not!’ She turned to face him, indignant.

‘Didn’t you tell me that you moved here to be near the sailing?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And sailing is his whole life outside work.’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And you hate sailing and you haven’t told him.’

‘I don’t hate it.’

‘That’s not what you said before.’

‘I like it in the river where it’s calm. I was frightened before, but that might not happen again.’ She was beginning to resent his persistence.

‘Believe me, it will.’

‘I am getting to love this place, I am pleased to be out of London, I genuinely am. You leave me to decide when I speak to Ken, Leo, please.’ She spoke so sharply he moved back a step.

‘Sorry.’

‘These nails,’ she pointed to his draining board where they lay in the saucer amongst some biscuit crumbs, ‘are they rare?’

‘No. If you take a metal detector you will find them all over the fields. And this was the forge. I expect the generations of chaps who worked here were both the estate blacksmith and the farrier; they would probably have made them.’

‘And Sharon’s boys could have collected them?’

‘Easily.’

‘So they aren’t necessarily some sort of supernatural thing that has appeared out of thin air.’

‘Quite possibly not. Chuck that down the sink if you don’t like it.’ He had noticed her only half-concealed grimace of distaste at the coffee.

‘Sorry.’ She tipped it away. ‘Too early in the morning for black coffee for me.’

‘You should have said. I do have milk.’

‘That’s OK, I’m sure you do.’ She gathered up the nails and held them in the palm of her hand. ‘I’m glad to hear they are quite ordinary. I felt there was something a bit spooky about them before. Cold and otherworldly.’

He laughed.

‘Did you make things like this?’

‘No.’ He looked faintly amused. ‘I wasn’t a farrier.’

‘And a farrier is …?’

‘Someone who shoes horses.’

‘I thought that was a blacksmith.’

‘Sometimes it’s the same thing, it was in the past, but not me. I did fancy wrought-iron gates, things like that.’

‘But you don’t any more.’

‘No.’

‘So what do you do now, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘A bit of this and that.’ He folded his arms.

‘But you aren’t going to tell me?’ She felt strangely hurt.

‘You wouldn’t be interested if I tried.’

She inclined her head in defeat. ‘OK.’ She wasn’t going to let him see that she cared.

‘And now you’re going to run back to the barn to have a boiled egg with hubby.’

‘I am?’

‘You are. I’m busy. I don’t get up this early for the state of my health. I have to go out for the day.’

‘I’m sorry. You should have said.’ She slipped the nails into her pocket and turned towards the door.

‘Stay safe, Zoë,’ he called after her, but he was already walking through into the other half of the house and she didn’t hear him.

He held the horseshoe nails between his lips as he hauled the hoof of the heavy horse off the ground and positioned it between his knees. The animal blew through its nose and shook its head up and down, but it stood placidly, balancing on three legs with ease as he set the new shoe in place. He could sense her watching him, had been conscious of her ever since she had appeared at the door of the smithy with her high-crowned hat and veil, and the slender whip provocatively tapping against her thigh. He removed the shoe, pushed it back in the fire, waited for it to glow red before hitting it several times with the hammer, then he plunged it into the bucket of water and waited for the rush of steam to disperse before he fitted it again to the horse’s hoof. This time he was happy with the snugness and set one of the nails in the first hole, ready to hammer it home.

‘And will you polish her ladyship’s nails as well?’ The voice was coldly amused as he set the foot down and watched the great Suffolk horse stamp on it experimentally.

He smiled. ‘She’d like me to. I sometimes give them a wisp of oil and a quick go with a rag.’

‘And how is Bella?’ Emily’s voice took on a hardness he didn’t like.

‘She does well enough.’ The horse was still lame. Secretly he doubted she would ever be fit to work again.

It was as if she read his thoughts. ‘If the animal will not recover have her destroyed. It is not worth keeping her.’

He could feel her eyes on his face; they were bright with triumph. He forced himself to remain impassive as he turned back to the great horse beside him and slapped it on the rump. ‘That’s your decision to make, my lady, but I wouldn’t give up yet. It would be a waste of a fine animal. Mr Crosby paid a lot for her, I believe.’

Subtle, but he saw her eyes narrow slightly.

‘I will allow her a few more days. Have the boy take that great brute away. I need to talk to you.’

He turned away, hoping to hide his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Ben,’ he called. ‘Take him back to his stall.’

The boy, who had been strenuously pumping the bellows, had slipped outside as Emily appeared. ‘He’s needed back out in the field, Dan.’ Ben took the horse’s bridle and turned him, leading him out towards the gate. ‘Jem’s waiting for him. There’s work to do yet up at Coppins Wood.’

Dan stood and watched them go, then he turned back to Lady Emily. ‘So, what else can I do for you, my lady?’

She reached out and took his wrist, and holding him at arm’s length led him into the forge. There she pushed the door closed with her shoulder and stood, her back against it, looking at him. It was dark after the sunlight outdoors, but he could read the look in her eyes even through her veil. ‘My lady –’

‘Don’t speak, Daniel. Don’t say anything. I don’t need you for your conversation.’ She pulled off her hat and threw it down in the corner, then she began to pull open the buttons on her riding jacket. ‘Don’t just stand there, man, help me!’

He hesitated, half wanting to turn away and run, half fascinated by the sight of her body, emerging from the stiff fabric of her habit. Under it she wore a tightly laced corset out of which her bosom, white and full, rose with a voluptuousness her clothes had hidden. She pulled off her skirt and was left standing in her corset and boots. He closed his eyes for a moment, praying, knowing he was not going to be able to resist. She paused in her disrobing to look at him. ‘For pity’s sake, man, what is the matter with you?’ She moved forward and took hold of his belt, wrenching the buckle open, revealing all too easily the fact that he was finally and massively aroused.

Dragging him into the corner where there were some old sacks folded on some hay bales, she pulled him against her with a gasp of excitement. He thrust at her again and again, his lust goaded by his self-loathing and shame into a frenzy of angry violence. It was a long time before he fell back on the cobbled floor, panting, leaving her lying spread-eagled on the sacks, her hair tangled, her nails broken where they had raked the flesh of his back, both of them exhausted.

He sat up at last and crawled over to where his shirt and trousers lay in a tangled heap. Pulling them on, he climbed to his feet, amazed to find he was shaking. She smiled up at him, dazed. ‘You had better help me dress.’

When at last he dragged open the door and looked out the yard was deserted. He walked over to her waiting horse and stood for a moment stroking the animal’s nose until she appeared at the door of the forge, fully clothed and, at least at a first glance, neat and well groomed. She began to walk towards him. Only her high colour showed that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. He threw her up into the saddle and stood looking up at her for a moment. She stared down, her face once more the cold arrogant mask of earlier in the day. ‘Remember, Daniel. This is between us. One word and your wife hears of your betrayal.’ She raised the whip and in spite of himself he ducked. She smiled. ‘No, Daniel, not for you, not this time.’ Bringing the crop down smartly on the horse’s rump, she turned out of the yard and put the animal up the track towards the Hall at a canter.

‘No. I don’t want to sail. Not today.’ Zoë was sitting in the cockpit of the boat, sketching the river bank. She had made a complete mess of the drawing and tore it out of the sketchbook angrily, screwing it up and tucking it into the sail bag lying at her feet.

Ken was squatting on the foredeck, coiling down some ropes into neat perfect circles. He had looked up suddenly and pointed out that the tide was perfect and it was a glorious day with a brisk wind. He looked taken aback. ‘Why on earth not?’

‘Because I told you last time I didn’t like it. I was terrified. We nearly sank!’

‘Oh, what rubbish! It was the most glorious day.’ He looked genuinely bewildered. ‘Oh, come on, Zoë, you’ve always loved sailing.’

‘No.’ She put down her pencil and pad and stood up, feeling the boat move restlessly under her feet. ‘I haven’t loved it. I have enjoyed it from time to time when it was calm, and I love it like this, on the mooring, sketching or reading my book, but I do not like it when it is rough, and when the wind is tearing out my hair, when my ears ache and I’ve got salt in my eyes and my hands are numb and wrinkled with the sea water and my clothes are sticky and you are screaming orders at me which I can’t hear because of the wind and I am expecting to die at any moment. I don’t find that exciting! I don’t find it a challenge!’

‘But Zo –’

‘No. If you want to sail, fine. Go without me on your own, or find someone to crew with you. What about Leo? Or Steve or Jeff?’

He had dropped the length of rope and was making his way back along the side deck. Jumping lightly into the cockpit he sat down. ‘I thought you loved it here.’

‘I do love it here. I love everything about it. Just not the possibility of drowning. For goodness’ sake, Ken, it is almost the end of the season anyway.’

‘Would you come if we just motor?’

‘Maybe. But not today. I’ve got a headache and I can’t bear the stink of fumes from the engine.’ She stood up. ‘Look, Ken, I’m sorry, I really am. I should have said it before, but I have never been so frightened. Row me ashore now, and then go on your own. You often went by yourself when we sailed in Sussex.’

He looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t like being on my own.’

‘Then you’ll have to find someone else to sail with. It would be much more fun for you. You could find someone who is experienced and knows this river and the bar and the sea outside, and you could go off for real adventures.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘Please, don’t be angry.’

‘I’m not angry.’ He was, though. She could see by the white patches under his cheekbones as he clenched his jaw.

He rowed her towards the landing stage, held the boat steady while she climbed up, and had already pushed off back towards the boat as she reached the top of the short ladder and stood for a moment looking back at him. As he rowed he was facing her, but he looked over his shoulder towards the Lady Grace until he had come alongside and climbed up into the boat again. Once there he disappeared down the companionway into the cabin. Zoë gave a deep sigh and turned to make her way back to the house.

‘I take it that was your defining moment?’ Leo was standing on the river bank in the shadow of the trees. She jumped at the sound of his voice, then shook her head sadly. ‘You were right. I should have told him years ago.’

‘What did he say?’ He leaned back against the trunk of one of the pines; she could see the feathery shadows from the branches playing across his face.

‘Nothing much. He was pretty upset.’

‘That’s tough. Maybe I’ll offer to sail with him some time. Do you think he would like that?’

‘I’m sure he would.’

They walked together up the track and over the lawn towards the houses. Where the path divided, right to Leo’s and left to Zoë and Ken’s, she paused. Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. ‘Do you want to come up for a drink or something?’

He hesitated. ‘Do you think that is a good idea?’ He held her gaze.

‘Why not?’ She looked away.

He shrugged. ‘OK, I’d like to.’

‘If Ken comes after me you can suggest sailing with him. I’m sure he would be pleased.’

They were halfway across the lawn when Leo stopped suddenly. ‘Did you leave your front door open?’

‘What? No.’ She followed his pointing finger. ‘Oh God!’

‘Wait.’ As they walked into the hall he put his hand on her arm to hold her back. ‘Is there anyone there?’ His voice was surprisingly powerful in the silent house. They waited.

There was no reply.

Zoë pushed past him and stood in the doorway to the large living room, peering in. The armchairs were back in a straight line.

‘Someone has been in and rearranged the furniture.’

‘You’d better check if there is anything missing.’

She glanced round. ‘There are things down here a burglar would have taken – sound system, TV. I don’t think anything has been touched. The kids wouldn’t steal, would they? Wait here and I’ll check upstairs.’

She ran up to their bedroom and stared round. On the dressing table lay the gold chain and pendant which she had been wearing the night before. On Ken’s cabinet there was a wad of notes he had taken out of his wallet to pay for fuel for the boat and for some reason put down before transferring it to his pocket. She shook her head. Anyone who had come to raid the house would have taken it. She ran back downstairs.

‘I don’t think there is anything missing.’

‘Look.’ He had moved across to the coffee table and bent to pick something up. A handful of horseshoe nails, lying a-

midst a scattering of rust and dirt.

Zoë stared down at his palm. ‘You still think it’s the kids?’

‘Hmm.’ He was still looking down at his hand. He sniffed the nails cautiously then dropped them back on the table. ‘Did you mention putting bolts on the doors to Ken?’

‘Yes. He thinks it’s a good idea. He hasn’t got round to it yet. And perhaps we should change the locks as well.’

‘Leave me to talk to Jeff. I think I will bypass Sharon – she’s too volatile – but he might have an idea of what the boys are up to.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t let this scare you. No harm has been done and nothing is missing. It’s a prank, that’s all.’

‘And if it isn’t the kids?’

‘It is.’ He walked towards the window. ‘Do you want a hand with putting the chairs back? You had them in a sort of semi-circle, didn’t you?’ He moved across and heaved one of the chairs into place. Under it there were half a dozen more nails. For a moment neither of them moved.

‘I wonder where they’re getting them,’ Zoë said hoarsely.

‘Metal detector. Or they might have just found a stash of them around the grounds somewhere. Unlikely, though. They have been used. If they were new I would say someone has found a pot of them lying around – though that would most likely have been at my place as that was the forge.’

‘How long was it a forge, do you know?’

He shook his head. ‘No idea. The forge and the smith’s cottage have been converted into one dwelling now, of course, but I sense the forge itself is far older. On an old estate, it is probably as old as the estate itself. It’s in an ideal position for the farm and not too far from the Hall and the stables up there.’

‘Did you buy it because it was an old forge?’

‘No. In fact that almost put me off.’ He grabbed the next chair and swung it into position.

‘No nails.’

‘There can’t be an infinite supply of them.’ The last chair back in place, he straightened and headed for the door. ‘I’ll pop over to the Watts’s now, I think, and see if Jeff would be up for wandering over to my place for a bevvy. Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t come.’

‘Why?’ she said indignantly. ‘It is my house that has the problem.’

‘Exactly. I don’t want to put him on the back foot. Leave it to me, OK? I’ll let you know what happens.’

‘What is it, Dan?’ Susan was standing watching him. She had been stirring the pan on the stove and he hadn’t noticed her stop and straighten her back, letting the spoon drip on the floor for a moment while she studied him as he sat at the table staring straight ahead of him at the wall.

He jumped. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, what is wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘Just tired, I reckon. One of the Suffolks came down today for a new shoe and I pulled my back a bit.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll have to watch it; I must be getting old.’ He forced a smile as he looked up at her.

She wasn’t fooled. ‘I’ve never known a horse get the better of you, Daniel Smith, not once in all our years together. Are you sure that’s it?’

‘Of course that’s it, woman!’ He pushed back the chair and stood up angrily, swearing as a twinge of pain hit him afresh.

She turned back to the pan and stood with her back to him. ‘If you say so,’ she murmured.

He went over to her and put his arms round her. ‘Sorry, Mrs Smith! You’re right, it never happened before. It’s a frightening moment, like a cold wind down one’s neck. Father Time is watching me.’

She reached up and gave him a kiss on the lips. ‘Father Time will have to fight me for you, Dan,’ she smiled. ‘And this little one too.’ She patted her belly. ‘Now you sit down and get some broth inside you.’

Going back to the stove, she reached for the bowls, trying hard to push down her increasing sense of unease. Normally when he came in from the horses he went into the back yard to the pump and swilled the cold clean water over his head before he came in for his meal; this time he had already done it at the pump in the yard, and even the wetness of his hair and the smell of carbolic from the soap they kept in a box near the pump for when they needed to scrub up before performing surgery on one of the horses, couldn’t hide the smell of scent – exotic, foreign, musky – the smell she associated with Lady Emily, clinging to his hair, his skin, even his hands.

She set the bowl in front of him and pushed the bread board over. ‘I’ll get cheese and ham from the pantry.’

He didn’t react. Once more he was in a world of his own. She walked across to the pantry door and went in. Only there, in the privacy of her own cold, well-stocked shelves, did she let her tears fall where he couldn’t see her.

‘Susan?’ He had followed her at last. ‘What is it? Are you in pain?’

She shook her head, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Then, my love, tell me. What is it?’ She heard the fear in his voice.

‘You think I can’t smell her on you, Dan?’ She turned at last to face him, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘She’s been all over you!’

He didn’t even try to deny it. He stood there in front of her, paralysed.

She waited for him to say something, but he just shook his head. He backed out of the small room and headed for the door, grabbing his coat and striding out without a backward glance. His food lay untouched on the table.

She lay awake a long time that night, conscious every second of the empty half of the bed beside her. She had been too proud to go after him, or ask any of the men if they had seen him. Before she went to bed she had heard the horses come in late from the field, going straight into the old barn to their stalls next to the lame mare, Bella. She pictured them reaching up to tug at the hay racks and searching the mangers for chaff and oats. Once she thought she heard one of the men calling Dan’s name, but maybe it had been her imagination. The yard grew quiet and dark, and at last she had gone up the narrow box staircase to their bedroom. Tired of watching the lazy shadows licking across the rafters of their bedroom ceiling she put out the lamp at last and lay under the covers shivering until at last she dozed off, her hand on the swell of her stomach where she felt, as she lay there alone, the comforting, fluttering signs of the new life inside her. He never came.

‘You think it was my kids?’ Jeff was leaning on the garden wall next to Leo, a glass of Adnams in his hand. Both men were pleasantly mellow.

‘Yup. It would be just like them.’ Leo was laughing. ‘Go on, deny it.’

‘Well. I can and I can’t.’ Jeff took another deep swig of beer. ‘On the one hand it would be just like the boys, you’re right. Right buggers, both of them, but on the other hand, if it happened today they weren’t here.’

Leo felt a sudden shiver of unease. ‘What do you mean, they weren’t here. Where were they?’

‘They went off last night after the barbecue with a mate who lives in Leiston. I made sure he was sober, then we slung them into his van. They’ll all have a lot more fun together than they would loitering round here, and I know they got there because their mother phoned this morning. Sharon doesn’t seem to appreciate what a couple of losers we’ve spawned.’

Leo looked pained. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, but I do, mate. I’m sure they’ll be decent enough young men one day, but just now I’ve had it with both of them.’ He took another lingering sip and sighed with pleasure. ‘I love all my kids, Leo, but really they can be a right pain most of the time. You haven’t got kids, have you?’

Leo hesitated, then shook his head.

‘Lucky man.’ Jeff paused. ‘Look at Rosemary and Steve. I don’t think that woman has spoken to her daughter in twenty years.’

‘I didn’t know she had a daughter.’

‘Oh, yes, and grandkids. Sharon wormed the story out of her. She has never seen her own grandchildren! Can you credit that? Her daughter loathes her so much they won’t even ring her.’

Leo raised an eyebrow. ‘She is not exactly the cuddly nan one might wish for.’

Jeff gave a snort of laughter. ‘Good point.’ He took another sip of ale.

‘Which leaves us with the puzzle,’ Leo steered the conversation onto safer ground, ‘of who broke into The Old Barn and tried to scare Zoë and Ken by rearranging their furniture.’

Both men were silent for a while, contemplating the view.

‘Have you seen the ghost ship?’ Leo asked after several minutes.

‘Excuse me?’ Jeff looked at him, shook his head, and buried his face once more in his glass. ‘Did you say, ghost ship?’

‘A Viking longship which every so often drifts up-river here. Loads of people claim to have seen it over the years.’

‘Including you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Zoë and Ken?’

‘Yes.’

Jeff put his empty glass down on the wall. ‘Have you ever thought, mate, that it might be something in the water, or ergot in the bread, or something?’

Leo laughed out loud. He picked up the glasses and headed for the kitchen. ‘Hang on while I get us a refill.’ He reappeared moments later with both glasses filled to overflowing. ‘You don’t ever get ghosts in The Summer Barn, then?’

Jeff laughed. ‘My kids would scare termites. You think ghosts would stand a chance?’

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

‘Too bloody right it’s a no.’

‘And you haven’t seen anything like this lying round your house?’ He reached into his pocket and produced half a dozen of the twisted misshapen nails.

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