Bright Hair About the Bone (2 page)

The service, held out-of-doors in the village square, was a triumph. How could it fail to overwhelm the congregation? The Lady had earned their deep love; the priest himself was visibly moved, his oratory unsurpassed. At the close, a cortège formed up, ready to make its way up the hill towards the burial place. Aeduan's rich baritone voice rang out over the valley, echoed by the mourners' traditional responses, lusty and tuneful. The six young men chosen to pull along the bier with its gold-inlaid wheels and lavish decorations took up the strain and heaved. On it had been placed a couch spread with rich fabrics and on this lay, open to view, the body of the Lady. Her feet in gold-embroidered slippers were just visible under the drape of her red silk gown. Her arms were heavy with gold bracelets and around her neck she wore a ceremonial gold necklace. They had placed a pillow under her head so that the sight of her pale beauty could bless them for the last time.

Many people lined the way to the burial place, calling out farewells and throwing flowers onto the bier. Aeduan, acknowledging their sorrow with graceful flourishes, reckoned that many in the crowd had travelled a considerable distance to say their farewell. The Lady's influence had spread far wider than this valley. Well, he would ensure that the pilgrims had tales to tell when they returned to their own hearths. A bit of theatre was always welcome on these occasions; the antics of the threshing-floor were always remembered and reported. As they passed the last cornfield he held up his hand and murmured a command over his shoulder to his assistant.

Puzzled—for this was not part of the ritual—Bran obeyed at once, and, selecting a knife from his belt, the young man grasped a handful of wheat by the stalks and sawed at them until the bunch came away in his hand. If he'd had warning of this he could have brought a sickle along, he thought resentfully. The priest took it from him and, with a conjurer's gestures, slipped the girdle from around his waist and wound it tightly around the stalks. The assistant was uneasy. What on earth was going on? Had old Aeduan been seduced by some esoteric eastern cult? Been spending too much time in Greece?

He watched, entranced like everyone else, as the priest addressed the crowd.

“You see me gather from the field, not the customary
last
bundle of wheat but the
first.
” He brandished it over his head for all to see. “It is unripe. The ears are slender and there is no sustenance in them. But, my friends, they are well formed and they are whole. With the waxing of the moon they will be ready. They will feed you and your children for the coming year. This is the parting gift of Our Lady.”

In the holy grove, Aeduan filled a beaker with water from the spring that jetted from the red rock-face and they started on the steep final ascent. He timed the last notes of his hymn exactly to the arrival at the cave in the hillside. The village women had done well. The entrance had been decorated with branches of greenery and white flowers to brighten the darkness. Above the mound a wraithlike crescent of a moon was starting its climb into the still-bright sky. Aeduan noted its position and the absence of clouds, with satisfaction.

The shadows had already gathered at the burial place and he was relieved to see that the Mayor had arranged for a chain of lads to hold up flares deep inside the cavern. The entrance faced the east. She would be laid to rest facing the rising sun.

With rehearsed ease, the hauling team took the couch reverently on their shoulders and carried it into the cave's wood-lined interior. In moments, the wheeled bier was dismantled and all its parts carried into the chamber. There it joined the arrangement of rich gifts already in place. Aeduan, his assistant, the twin daughters, Sirona leading the dog, along with representatives of the village, entered to perform or witness the last rites. While Aeduan sprinkled the corpse with water from the holy spring and sang a final hymn before the silver-gleaming image of the Goddess, Bran moved objects about here and there, finally nodding that he was satisfied.

Aeduan lingered, kneeling by the body for a few last moments. He contemplated the strong features, framed and softened by the cascade of pale hair and now, in the light of the last flare, gleaming with an illusion of youth restored. He mastered his startled reaction when, with a clink of gold bangles, her right hand fell from her bosom and swung limply in front of his face. No one heard his murmur. “Aurinia, Lady, forgive me my slow wits! One last time you show me the way.”

A further sign. His certainty was growing.

He tugged a bloodstone ring from her finger and returned the hand to its place across her breast.

Bran approached clutching a deep silver bowl. “Excuse me, sir…one more thing before we close down…The hound, sir. Shall I?”

“Ah, yes. Carry on, would you?”

At a nod, Sirona led the hound forward and commanded it to lie down at the feet of its dead mistress. Swiftly the assistant priest placed the bowl on the ground in front of it. Assuming that it was being offered water, the animal stretched its neck forward. Then, from behind, the young priest seized the dog's muzzle tightly in one hand, jerking it upwards. With the blade in his other hand, he cut the throat in one practised stroke. The blood spouted cleanly into the bowl.

Duty done, the party moved back onto the hillside path and the priest cast a measuring glance at the heavens, checking the height of the moon, now an emphatic horned presence poised over the mound. All was perfectly positioned.

In the view of the crowd below, Aeduan caught the small girl by the sleeve. She was already moving towards him and made no demur as he drew her forward a few paces, along the path to the summit. He knew that at the moment he offered her to her people she was colluding with him in the presentation and perfectly aware that those below were seeing her silhouetted against the darkening sky and crowned with a silver crescent. With slow ceremony, he took her hand and slipped the bloodstone ring onto her finger, then, bowing, held out the bunch of unripe wheat. She took it from him, steady and gracious, and held it before her with the pride and solemnity of a girl taking possession of her bridal flowers.

CHAPTER 1

Fontigny, Burgundy, 1926

T
he Englishman groped his way along the dark hallway and hesitated by the front door, listening to the nighttime sounds of the house. Nothing to be heard but the creaking of ancient timbers in the autumn wind gusting against the structure. Hand halfway to the key in its place in the massive lock, he stopped to check once again the contents of his pockets. All present and correct. The all-important postcard was readily to hand in the right pocket of his tweed overcoat. The letter in the left he took out and considered for a moment before stowing it away again.

“Can't imagine what you'll make of this, Johnny, old man,” he said to himself. “If it reaches you—well and good. Let's hope I'll have a chance to explain one day. Face-to-face. We'll sip a brandy in one of those sleep-inducing armchairs in your club and you can make fun of me. I'll be only too delighted! And if it doesn't get through…” He suppressed a bark of laughter. “…at least I'll have scared them shitless!”

He tugged a black felt fedora down snugly over his brow, concealing fair hair heavily streaked with silver. Amongst the dark denizens of Burgundy he'd stand out like a harbour-light if the full moon out there penetrated the rain clouds. He listened again to the heartbeat of the house: sleeping…sleeping…sleeping. Then he froze. His straining ears picked up a slight sound from above. The same sound, repeated, identified itself as no more than the familiar overture to the nightly basso profundo performance from old Capitaine Huleux on the floor above. Could the man's wife possibly sleep through that? Had any of the other sleepers in the house been disturbed? He waited. When he was confident that he was unobserved, he turned the key twice in the lock, glad that he'd taken the precaution of oiling it the previous day, and slipped out into a chilly Burgundy night.

An hour to go before dawn and the sky was still black. But at least the rain had stopped. He glanced to right and left down the deserted street, unable for a moment to move on.

“Brace up! You don't want me to call you a Cowardy Custard, do you?
” His nanny's voice sounded in his head, still sharp over the distance of half a century. Funny how the old girl still rallied round when he was in a tight spot.

He made his customary silent reply.
“Bugger off, Nanny!”

“Don't be a crybaby…Once begun is half done…”

He stepped into the street, cutting off the comforting clichés, and set off towards the centre of town, hugging the deeper shadows along his way. Every inch was familiar to him, every street gutter to be jumped, every jutting window box full of rusting geraniums to be eased around, every stretch of cobblestones slippery underfoot. As he approached the central square, he thought he could well have done without the vivid moonlight that lit up the scene in a glassy theatrical glow.

Agitated though he was, the artist in him lured him into pausing to admire the gleaming façades of the medieval houses lining the square, standing pale against a sky swept clear of the last remnants of tattered clouds fleeing the Mistral towards the south. Was this the last time he would hold his breath in wonder at the loveliness of this corner of France? Could be. Pity, that. He'd grown fond of it. In spite of the unpleasantness. His lips twisted in a humourless smile. He was being absurd. He was still alive in spite of everything, wasn't he? They'd let him go. For the moment.

His fault, of course. He'd been dealt a poor hand but he could have played it more carefully. His wretched temper had got the better of him again, and he'd been rash. Thrown down gauntlets, issued ultimatums. If he'd had his sabre on his hip, he'd have rattled it. He'd made it impossible for them to let him get away back to England with the knowledge he had. A man of his standing with friends in the government and the military would be listened to—in spite of the enormity of his discoveries. There'd be shocked disbelief, followed by concern for his sanity and perhaps even gentle ridicule, but he knew how to weather that. In the end, they'd hear what he had to say. Alarms would be sounded. The French ambassador would be called in to give an explanation. He smiled with grim satisfaction at the thought of the mayhem he would cause. But, just in case he didn't make it, he would ensure, at least, that England was alerted.

But was this still possible? A rush of doubt shook him. One by one his options had been closed down; there remained just this one last despairing throw of the dice. He ought not to involve her in this disgusting, dangerous business but, in the end, it had all come down to a few dreary words on an innocent-looking postcard. It would make its way, unsuspected, just one of the many cards put into the box by tourists near the abbey at weekends. He'd been careful enough to choose a photograph of the abbey ruins, and to send it to her at a Cambridge address unknown to them, he did believe. It ought to evade even their vigilance.

From the shelter of the doorway of the
boulangerie,
he located the Café de la Paix on the opposite side. Wrought-iron tables and chairs were still laid out on the pavement, pathetically promoting the illusion that summer was not over. The postbox stood next to the café, jauntily lit, eerily blue.

Resigned and steadier now that he was so near his goal, he felt in his pocket and grasped the postcard, concealing it in the palm of his hand.

“Quick's the word and Sharpe's the toffee!”
exhorted Nanny.

His mood changed to one of impatience. The Englishman was unused to creeping around the periphery of any scene or any battlefield; the frontal attack was his usual style. He squared his shoulders, stepped into the moonlight, and walked purposefully across the wet cobbles. A few feet from the letter box, however, he paused.

A sharp cry had rung out behind him. He gasped in dismay. The cry was taken up by others and echoed with harsh derision around the square above his head. Wretched jackdaws! He'd forgotten about
them.
For a moment, heads emerged aggressively from nesting holes in the decaying stonework. Wings flapped. Complaints were made at full raucous pitch and he stood exposed, hating his inconvenient hecklers.

They fell silent as abruptly as they had awakened and he dared to move forward.

And then he heard it: a shuffling sound from the alley beside the café, the dull clang of a foot hitting iron and a swallowed curse. His blood churned in his veins, triggering his body into familiar battle-ready reactions.

Overture and beginners.

He went smoothly into his rehearsed movements. Swiftly he covered the distance to the box and, breathing heavily, made play of leaning on it for support. Screening the narrow slot with his body, he slipped the postcard inside. His girl would understand. She'd understand and sound the charge.

Pantomime time. Turning and looking furtively about him, he took the letter from his left-hand pocket with a wide gesture, but, in doing so, dropped it clumsily to the ground, swearing loudly—but not too loudly—as he bent to retrieve it. The oblong of white paper reflected showily in the moonlight, scuttering along the pavement, carried by a complicitous gust of wind. It came to rest by a café table.

Confident English handwriting flowed in black ink across the envelope:
Brigadier-General John McAndrew, Directorate of Military Operations and Intelligence, The War Office, Whitehall, Londres, Angleterre.

The address was clearly visible a second before a black boot stamped down on it.

Running, crouched, towards it, he was still two or three yards distant when he was jerked upwards from behind by a silent presence. A sinewy hand stinking of horses and leather closed over his mouth. He fought back with an outburst of energy, welcoming the declaration of hostilities. Hand-to-hand combat. So that's how it would end! Well—he could oblige one more time! He kicked out violently at the shins of the man restraining him and relished the stable-yard oath he provoked. It took a second attacker, darting out from the shadows and dragging his feet from under him, to subdue the Englishman. Fingers yanked back his head exposing his throat. In the moment the point of a cold steel blade trailed over the skin seeking its target, his upturned eyes focused on the slender spire of the abbey outlined against the dark blue of the sky and he grimaced with satisfaction to see the precision with which the full moon dotted its
i.

“I told you this would end in tears!”
His nanny's voice was reproving. Regretful. Very close now.

His stretched senses became aware of the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness in the distance and, as the stiletto slid into his jugular, his last thought was
“Got you, you bastard!”