Midnight is a Lonely Place (62 page)

She took it reluctantly. ‘I thought it had disappeared.’

A shadow on the sand, Nion waited, invisible. His torc, the torc Claudia had given to him, which he had flung as a gift to the gods lay, a twisted, corroded half moon of useless metal, in the hand of the living woman. He could feel himself drifting irresistibly towards them, the woman who held his torc and the man who loved her, the man who would give him strength
.

Behind them Greg paused on the edge of the beach. Idiots. Couldn’t they leave well alone? He clenched his fists. Didn’t they understand? This was where it had happened. The Roman woman, Claudia, and her lover. Her British lover. Dead. Together. He narrowed his eyes in the glare off the sea. Two men in love with one woman. A story as old as time itself.

He limped towards them slowly, and almost guiltily, Jon dropped Kate’s hand.

‘You realise that it was another man who came between them,’ Greg said, chattily, as he reached them. ‘Why else would Marcus want to kill his beautiful wife?’ He took the torc out of Kate’s hands and turned it round, staring down at it, picking off the sticky, clinging weed. ‘Why do you suppose we haven’t heard from him: the lover? Marcus did kill him as well, didn’t he?’ His eyes strayed from Kate’s face to Jon’s.

Behind them, shadows in the wind, Nion and Claudia drew closer. Soon they would be together.

‘Let’s go back, Greg.’ Kate stepped away from him towards the sea, feeling the wind pull her hair away from her face. ‘The grave itself has gone. There’s nothing to see.’

Greg was staring down at the torc in his hand, his grey-green eyes veiled. ‘They are here,’ he whispered. ‘Marcus is here and Claudia, and so is the other, the lover. I can feel them. They are trapped here on this beach together. An eternal triangle.’

‘Greg –’ Kate interrupted him uneasily. ‘Let’s go back.’

‘Why?’ There was open hostility in his gaze.

‘Because it’s late. Jon and I have to go. We have a long journey back to London.’

‘No.’ He turned away from them and stared out to sea. ‘No, I don’t think so. You don’t like London, remember?’

Jon frowned, eyeing the other man with caution. Surreptitiously he put his hand on Kate’s arm and pulled her away. ‘Let’s go,’ he whispered, his words almost lost in the rush of the sea. Nodding, she turned to follow him, but Greg had noticed. He swung round and his eyes were alight with anger. ‘No. You’re not going anywhere.’

He could feel Marcus so clearly now. Close. Pushing. Eager.

‘Don’t be stupid, Greg,’ Kate’s voice was sharp. ‘We are leaving. If you want to stay, that’s up to you.’ She began to walk inland, turning her back on the place where the excavation had been.

Behind them Greg was staring once more down at the torc. Suddenly his eyes were full of tears. He couldn’t fight it much longer. Marcus and Kate. He couldn’t cope with both. He stumbled after her. ‘You can’t go,’ he called. ‘I won’t let you. This was sent here to hold you – ’

Jon swung round. He released Kate’s arm abruptly, his anger bubbling to the surface at last. ‘That is enough, Greg! Kate has told you. She is going. You mean nothing to her.’ Angrily he snatched the torc from the other man’s hands. ‘This has caused enough trouble. Now it is going back where it belongs.’ Lifting his arm he flung the torc into the air. As it landed in the heaving greyness of the water, he felt anger sweeping over him uncontrolled.

Terrified, he tried to master it.

It was red, vicious. Blind.

Ecstatic.

He wrestled with it frantically, staggering back from the sea’s edge, clutching at his head, hearing nothing but the raging of the waves. He did not see Kate’s terror as the swirl of jasmine-scented dust settled over her.

‘Jon!’ He heard her voice distantly; it was frightened; screaming. ‘Greg! Do something! Marcus has got him! Help him! Greg, help him! Help me!’

‘No, not Marcus.’ Suddenly Greg was laughing. ‘Marcus is here. With me! Nion’s possessed him.’ The name had come to him so easily – the name his wife had screamed into a Beltane dawn. Nion the Druid.

The voices were growing fainter, the sound of the sea louder. Suddenly Greg was afraid. Marcus was there; Marcus was inside him. Turning, he ran towards the water. He could feel the waves icy against his ankles, taking away all the pain. The shock of the cold stunned him.

Fight. He had to fight. The water was deeper now, sucking round his knees. Cold. Clean. Powerful.

Fight. Fight the Roman.

Fight or die.

Where was Roger? He had promised. Dad, help me! Help me fight him. Dad, please. His voice rose in pain and fear and anger.

A wave slammed against his waist and the shock of it stopped him.

He turned and surveyed the beach.

* * *

Fight. Jon too was fighting, the battle in his head deafening.

Recite. Fill your head with something else. That’s what Anne had said. Don’t let him take hold. Recite …

Nion must have his revenge
.

Marcus is vanquished
.

Nion turned his hungry, angry eyes to look for the Roman who had
caused his death
…

Fight. Fight the anger in his head.

Recite.

Byron. She didn’t know it, but he had learned Byron for her sake. ‘Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground …’ Grope for the memory. Fill the mind. ‘All tragedies are finish’d by a death.’ Was that Byron too …? It didn’t matter.

Jon stumbled away from the sea, his hands clawing at his temples. Where was she? Where was Claudia? His love. He shook his head. Kate. Where was Kate –? There was no one there. They had gone. Nion was gaining strength. Marcus? Where was Marcus? Nion had to be rid of Marcus for ever.

Recite. It’s the only way. Blank the druid out. Don’t let him in. He’s not going to win.

Sobbing, he fell on his knees in the wet sand.

‘She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

She walks in beauty, like the night …’

He repeated the words again and again until he had no strength left and his voice faded in his throat.

Marcus could see them clearly now, through the eyes of the man, Greg. They were there, near him, reaching out to one another.

Nion and Claudia.

Jon and Kate.

Greg groaned as the icy water slapped around his thighs. His eyes weren’t working properly. Everything was blurred.

Jon and Kate.

Nion and Claudia.

Slowly he was beginning to understand. Marcus fed on hate and jealousy. Their strength, their love, those were the weapons he needed. Clenching his fists he took a step towards the sand. Then another.

Fight.

Fight the alien inside his head.

Fight him with love. Love that transcends time and space.

Nion and Claudia.

Jon and Kate.

Jon and Kate.

The rage was receding. Greg could feel the anger and hate inside him dwindling. He took another step towards the beach. Marcus was losing. Love would always win over hate.

In the end.

Painfully he shook his head. It was as though he were waking from some hideous nightmare. Far out at sea a stray beam of sunlight had broken through the clouds to touch the sea to silver. He stared at it mesmerised, then slowly and weakly, he began to wade back towards the shore. He had won. Marcus was going. He could feel him shrinking and weakening. He rubbed his eyes. The dream had left him now; it had gone, into the shadows of eternity with its pain.

Kate looked up at Greg as she cradled Jon’s head on her knee, her eyes full of tears. The sweet scent of jasmine was all around her.

The hands on his head were gentle. He could feel them clearly, soothing away the pain.

Her voice. It was her voice. She was there. She was with him.

Weeping, Nion the Druid rested his head in the soft blue folds of her gown, and felt himself at peace.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The name Nion is taken from the Celtic Tree Calendar
Beth – Luis – Nion (Birch, Rowan, Ash) depicted by
Robert Graves.

This book has many roots: the awe and fear in a little boy’s voice many years ago, as we stared together through the window into a midnight garden after a bad dream; a lonely visit to Sutton Hoo on a cold afternoon in winter when the wind screamed through the firs and down across the River Deben; a long, thoughtful visit to the twisted body of Lindow Man in the British Museum and the view from my study window out across fields where Trinovantes and Romans once walked on the edge of the saltings with, in the distance, the icy North Sea, are some of the strongest.

Preview

A lost child in the Welsh borders;
a violent attack in London;
an epic battle between the Celts and the Romans.

What can possibly link them?

Read on for an extract from
BARBARA ERSKINE’S

thrilling new novel,

The
Warrior’s Princess

Steph put the phone down and turned back into the kitchen where Kim was frying onions and tomatoes. She was frowning. ‘I’ve been trying all evening but there is still no reply from either phone.’

‘Perhaps she’s gone out.’ Kim threw some sliced zucchini into the heavy pan and added more oil. With her dark hair and eyes and her plump figure – a testament to her fondness for her own cooking – Kim looked every inch the Italian mamma in the making for all she had been born in Romford and attended the same college as Jess and Steph. ‘And she’s forgotten to take her mobile.’

‘That’s probably it. I’ve reported the line at Ty Bran. They checked. It is broken.’

‘Well, presumably someone will go and mend it.’ Kim reached for her wine glass and took a sip before turning her attention back to the sauce. ‘So, you can stop worrying, Steph. Jess is a big girl. She doesn’t need you checking up on her all the time. In fact you never have before, so why now?’

Steph shook her head wearily. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got a strange feeling, that’s all.’

‘What sort of strange feeling?’ Wooden spoon in hand, Kim paused in her stirring to gaze at her friend’s face. ‘You two aren’t twins, are you?’

‘You know we’re not!’

‘Then stop worrying. Go and see to our guests. Make sure everyone has got a drink. If you really want to know what is happening with Jess ask Carmella. She reads the cards. You’ll find a deck in Stefano’s old bureau.’

Steph wandered through the apartment towards the front door. From the grand reception room she could hear the sound of voices. Kim’s penchant for cooking frequently led to these impromptu parties where her guests marvelled at the talent of their English hostess who could cook Italian food better than any of them.

Steph resisted the urge to mention the cards, but as they sat in the
salotto
later savouring their
dolci
and coffee Kim brought the subject up again.

‘Steph needs some info about her sister, Carmella. Would you read the cards for her? Tell us what is happening over there in Wales?’ She levered herself out of the deep sofa and went to the bureau, rummaging around in the drawers.

There was a general murmur of interest from the other guests at the suggestion as she drew out the small box she had been looking for.

Carmella, a tall, elegant woman in her forties, held out her hand languidly and took the box. ‘I haven’t seen these since Stefano died. Do you remember how often we would read them?’ She smiled at Kim, raising one of her startlingly black, fly away eyebrows.

Kim nodded, suddenly wistful. ‘He loved to watch you do it, but he would never let you do a reading for him. Perhaps if you had – ’

‘No!’ Carmella started shuffling the deck. ‘No, don’t think of that. What was to be, was to be.’ She flicked her dark hair out of her eyes and leaned forward to take a puff from the cigarette lying in the onyx ashtray near her coffee cup. ‘Now, let me see what the cards have to say. This is about your sister, Steph?’

Steph nodded.

‘Tell me her name.’

‘Jess.’

‘And do you have anything of hers with you? Perhaps a letter? A piece of jewellery to make the connection.’

Steph thought for a moment. ‘I have a scarf of hers. I liked it so much she gave it to me.’

‘That is good. Get it.’

Steph watched amused as Carmella cut the pack and then laid out the cards on the coffee table. It was years since she had seen anyone read the tarot. Probably not since she had been a student and done it herself. Carmella did it with superb style, she had to give her that. She lay back in her chair and sipped her coffee, watching as Carmella turned up the first card, Jess’s scarf lying on her knee, a splash of emerald against the black of the woman’s skirt.