Spring Tide

Book 1: Venerables and McBride

by Iris Collier

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Peaceful and isolated, and for part of each day cut off from the Northumbrian mainland by the tides, Lindisfarne seems untouched by the 20th century. But when the body of barmaid Ginny Adams, raped and battered, is discovered in a shallow grave, it is clear that evil has come to Holy Island.

Release date: May 7, 2015

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

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‘Deliver us, O Lord, from the fury of the Norsemen.’

Eighth century prayer

The old man was dying. He was slipping away from them just as the ebbing tide slipped away from the island. Cerdic noticed the change. The laboured breathing was giving way to rapid, shallow intakes of breath, like a rabbit when the dogs are after it, and it was near the limits of its strength. Death was no stranger to Cerdic. Despite his youth—he was only seventeen—working with Edwin the Infirmarer had frequently brought him face to face with the gentle foe, a foe which most people welcomed. Just as Aeldred was doing now, though it was a pity it should come at such an untimely moment.

Cerdic, crouched at the bottom of the cart next to the old man, glanced up at the solid back of Edwin. Perched up on the driver’s seat, he seemed impervious to the gusting wind and the approaching storm. A streak of lightning zig-zagged across the sky; from somewhere out to sea, thunder growled. Then the first drops of rain began to fall in huge splodges, and Cerdic leaned forward and drew the blanket up to the old man’s chin.

Should he warn Edwin? Was there any need? Edwin knew the old man was approaching the end. That was why they’d delayed leaving the island until the last minute, after the others had gone. And they’d only just made it. The tide had come surging in over the causeway, swirling round the legs of the horse, and they’d had to make a dash for it over the last few yards. But they were safe now. Looking back towards the east, he saw the crimson stain on the sky. He saw the pall of smoke like a storm cloud. He saw the tongue of fire shoot up into the sky like a portent, and he grieved for the islanders and his beloved Abbey which had been his home for seven years now. The heathen from the lands in the east were in possession. But not for long. The blessed Cuthbert wouldn’t desert them. And here, in St Oswald’s land, they were safe: until the tide went out.

Aeldred opened his eyes and looked up at Cerdic, his clawed hands moving restlessly over the blanket. He tried to speak, but Death was making it difficult. So Cerdic wriggled forward on his knees, and put his face near the old man’s lips.

‘What is it, Father?’

‘The holy thing. Is it still here?’ The voice was faint: Cerdic bent nearer the shrivelled mouth.

‘Yes, Father. Wrapped up, as you instructed, in the altar cloth. Be at peace.’

‘Put it with me in my grave.’

‘Don’t talk of death, Father. We’re safe now. We’re over the causeway; and the tide’s in. We’ll soon be in Oswald’s town. You’ll be able to rest there. The heathen can’t follow us, they’re stranded.’

Aeldred’s thin face creased in agitation. The hands, like an eagle’s talons, plucked nervously at the woollen blanket.

‘Stranded, you say? Stranded in St Cuthbert’s holy Abbey? May God have mercy on us.’

‘Amen to that, Father. But don’t speak. Save your strength until we can get to Oswald’s town. We can get you a stimulant at the apothecary’s.’

The old man turned his head away. Cerdic caught a glimpse of an eyelid, flickering rapidly like a moth’s wing, and then he knew that Aeldred wasn’t going to reach Oswald’s town.

He rose unsteadily to his feet as more lightning flashed overhead. The thunder was louder now, with only a brief pause between each crash. The gods of the heathen had come across the sea in the long boats; Thor was here in triumph. But for the moment, they were safe. The blessed Cuthbert had not let them down; the tide was high tonight. A spring tide. Yet Aeldred could not die like this, out in the storm, in an open cart. Cerdic reached out and thumped Edwin’s back.

‘Edwin, it’s come. Aeldred is leaving us. You must stop.’

Edwin knew his assistant. He was a calm youth, not given to hysterics. In time he’d make as good an infirmarer as himself. He reined in the horse, and the cart came to a halt on the sandy road.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, without looking round.

‘Yes, I’m sure. It’s time for the holy oils, before it’s too late. Look, straight ahead, there’s the chapel.’

Ahead of them was the tiny stone edifice which Cuthbert had built with the help of the monks of Lindisfarne, in order to provide refreshment for pilgrims on their way to Bamburgh, Oswald’s town. Edwin grunted a reply, and urged the horse forward. It was raining steadily now, heavy, dark drops, as if the sky were bleeding. Cerdic bent down to tuck the blanket more firmly round Aeldred, and saw that there was fear now in the old man’s eyes. He was trying to fight, but Death was winning.

For a moment, Cerdic thought Aeldred was frightened of what lay ahead, and he was surprised. How could the old man fear Death? How many times had they talked about it, and how many times had Aeldred said that, when his time came, he would welcome it as a kind and gentle friend? Cerdic felt a sudden surge of compassion. After all, Aeldred was only human. It was natural, when one’s time came, to feel fear.

‘Don’t be afraid, Aeldred. God will ease you gently out of this world. You will soon be with blessed Cuthbert, Oswald, and all the Saints. Come, be at rest. We’re going to stop soon, and we’ll move you out of this storm into a dry place—Cuthbert’s very own chapel.’

To his surprise, Aeldred became more agitated. He plucked at the blanket with a force that made his whole body tremble. Then, as Cerdic tried to rearrange the cover, he pushed back his hand impatiently, and pointed to the bag tied round his waist.

‘The oil.’ The voice was very faint now: just a faint whisper, like the rustle of the wind in the trees. Then Cerdic understood. How stupid he’d been. Everyone wanted the last sacrament at such a time. He nodded reassuringly at Aeldred.

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten. Here, let me take the jar now.’

He reached into the pocket and took out the tiny phial of holy oil which Aeldred, in his capacity as Sacristan of Lindisfarne, had brought back from a visit to Rome ten years ago. Now he held it up in front of the old man’s face and watched the fear disperse, to be replaced by peace. Peace and joyful acquiescence.

The cart had come to a stop outside the chapel. Edwin climbed down stiffly; he was approaching his seventieth year, and the rough jolting of the cart hadn’t helped the stiffness in his legs. He went round to the back of the cart, and with Cerdic’s help lifted Aeldred on his straw mattress out of the cart, and brought him into the chapel. There, they laid him carefully down on the stone slabs of the tiny nave. The sanctuary lamp had been extinguished on the altar, the monks had taken the sacrament with them. But God was there. It was still a holy place.

A flash of lightning revealed the wall fresco which the monks had painted over a century ago, showing Christ surrounded by his saints in heaven. Cerdic, through force of habit, genuflected towards the group. Then Edwin tapped him on the arm and indicated that he was to kneel beside the old man, whose breathing was now so slight that it hardly raised the linen shirt which covered his chest. Edwin took the phial of holy oil and began to intone the prayers for the dying. He was a taciturn man, a modest man, aware of the limitations of his knowledge as Infirmarer, but now his voice gathered strength in the certainty of his faith, and the chapel resounded with the ancient words of the sacrament.

‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis …’ The familiar words floated upwards. There was no incense, no candles, but the scent of centuries of incense was all around them, and light was provided by the vivid streaks of lightning. Cerdic reached out and felt Aeldred’s hands. They were as cold as marble. The old man was going fast.

Giving Cerdic the phial to hold, Edwin tipped a little into his left hand, and dipped the index finger of his right hand into the little pool of oil. Then he began to intone the words of the Last Sacrament.

‘Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam …’ And calling on the blessed Virgin Mary he made the sign of the cross on the old man’s eyes, lips and nose, and anointed him with the oil.

Aeldred looked at them: a look of love and gratitude which brought to life, for the last time, the bright, Anglo-Saxon blue of his eyes. Then came a sigh, and the spirit left him.

A great peace descended on the chapel. The noise of the storm receded, and for several minutes Edwin and Cerdic remained on their knees beside the old Sacristan. Suddenly, Aeldred gripped hold of Cerdic’s shoulder and got to his feet.

‘Come, Cerdic. We must bury brother Aeldred before the Norsemen get here.’

They lifted Aeldred and carried him out into the wind and the rain, over to a place near a bramble bush. Cerdic ran to fetch the spade which Aeldred had—inexplicably at the time—insisted they bring with them from the Abbey and, together, they dug a deep grave in the peaty soil. They wrapped the old man in the heavy altar cloth which had also accompanied them on their journey and, reverently, laid the great cross of Lindisfarne on his body. A sudden flash of lightning lit up the gold and the precious stones which formed Christ’s halo as the two monks stared down into the hole.

‘Look after our cross, Aeldred, as you’ve looked after it all these years. We’ll come back for it when times are less troubled, and put it back where it belongs. God keep you safe.’

Together they filled in the grave, and arranged the bramble tree’s trailing branches over the moist earth. No one would know it was there. The rain would soon wash away all traces of their digging, and the old man and his precious burden would be safe from the ravages of the heathens.

Then Edwin said the prayers for the dead over the grave. The rain had stopped, and the moon sailed out from behind the storm clouds. Cerdic looked around. It seemed peaceful now, almost as if Thor had left them, and all was well with the world. But the sky to the east was still tinted with a scarlet light which wasn’t the dawn, and the tide would soon recede, and the heathen would cross to the mainland. They were on their way.

An hour later, Oswald’s castle was in sight, looming ahead of them like a beacon of hope. Perched on its ancient rock, it looked impregnable, a refuge in a hostile world. But something had happened. Something so terrible that Edwin reined in the horse and he and Cerdic stared ahead to where an ominous and familiar stain flooded the sky. Oswald’s city was on fire. And that meant only one thing: the Norsemen had landed further up the coast, as well as on Holy Island. Cerdic and Edwin were trapped; they were travelling straight into the hands of the enemy.

The light in the sky ahead of them began to shine brighter and great tongues of fire leapt into the sky behind the castle. Cerdic, cursed with a wild imagination, could almost hear the crackle of burning timber, smell the acrid smoke of smouldering houses. He glanced towards the sand dunes and the distant sea.

‘We can’t go on,’ he whispered to Edwin. ‘We’ll have to go inland, towards Durham. We’ll be safe there.’

‘Perhaps. But not tonight. The horse is tired, and we can’t attempt the moors in the dark. We’ll try and find shelter.’

As he spoke the horse’s haunches suddenly trembled violently and his ears flattened back into his mane. Edwin tried to restrain him, but the beast was terrified. He reared up, struggling frantically to get away from the cart.

Two men appeared out of the sand dunes. Edwin and Cerdic had never seen a Viking, but their lives had been haunted by descriptions of these ferocious men and their exploits by people who had suffered from their visitations. And now they were confronted by two of them, dressed in full battle regalia, their faces almost covered by iron helmets, their hands clutching the mighty battle axes of Thor.

The two men came towards the cart. Cerdic caught a glimpse of yellow hair cascading over the shoulders of one man and looked into the pitiless blue eyes of the other. He saw the iron hammers of Thor which hung down over their breastplates, and knew that they would soon join Aeldred in Paradise.

One of the men lifted his axe. Cerdic heard Edwin shout, ‘Jesus have mercy on us!’ Then the axe fell, and Edwin’s head was split open like one of the pig’s heads in the kitchen of the Abbey. Cerdic cried out in terror as the axe descended for the second time. It was the last sound he ever made.

The two warriors pulled the men down onto the track and dragged them out of the way into the sand dunes. Then one of the Vikings caught hold of the reins of the terrified horse and led him towards the burning town. For the Vikings it was all part of a day’s work. The horse would be useful; the cart even more so. And the monks? Servants of a God no one believed in, a feeble God who only wanted mercy. A God who was quite helpless in the presence of Mighty Thor, who demanded blood and human sacrifice, and who had led them to this fertile land. Still, one of the Vikings said to the other, this God of the Christians had expensive tastes. He might not expect human sacrifices, but he liked gold and silver ornaments and elaborately decorated manuscripts. Enough wealth to keep them all in luxury for the rest of their lives. A pity, really, Thor was so bloodthirsty. But then the Christians were so weak that all this wealth was theirs for the taking. What was the use of expecting monks to defend the holy places? All they could do was chant prayers.

And write the manuscripts, said the other Viking. You had to admit they were clever. Clever, but quite useless when it came to a fight.

Saturday 20th May 1995

She stared down at the objects on the sand: tiny, white, glistening things. Fronds of a jelly-fish? Too big. Condoms? Too small. Fingers? Surely not.

She kicked away some of the sand. They were fingers. And they were attached to a hand. A girl’s hand. She could see the nail varnish: a delicate spot of blood on the tip of each finger.

Anna felt her heart give a sudden jerk. She felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach, and she took a deep breath and looked away across the sand dunes so securely fixed in their place by the rough clumps of marram grass. It was so quiet: just the sucking sound of the waves as the tide receded. She glanced up at the pair of black-backed gulls wheeling and dipping on their thermal. They’d followed her along the coast, hoping, she supposed, for some titbit or other. And they were still watching her.

She should never have come here, she thought. She should have left the boat on its mooring, walked back to the pub where she’d left her car, and driven home. But the day had been so wonderful, the sky so clear after the storms of the previous week. And she’d had a bit of time to spare, as the sea still covered the causeway. Had she stuck to her original plan and gone to look at the nesting fulmars up on the castle walls, instead of taking a walk along the shore towards the hide, she wouldn’t have seen these—things. She shouldn’t have looked down on the sand for fossils, either. That had been a big mistake. Now she would have to do something. She couldn’t just ignore these tiny fingers with their pathetic blobs of nail varnish.

Reluctantly, she picked up a piece of driftwood and gently scraped away some of the sand around the fingers. She didn’t have to dig deep. More of the hand appeared, attached to an arm, white and matchstick-thin. Then the edge of a blue skirt. Suddenly, she couldn’t take any more, not on her own. She felt light-headed, and her sight was beginning to blur. She stuck the piece of wood in the sand to mark the place. How stupid you are, she thought. You can’t faint now! You’re used to dead bodies. They’re an occupational hazard. Only yesterday, you uncovered a pile of bones underneath the floor of the chapel. Human bones, too. So why is a recent burial more alarming than a pile of bones that have been there for ten centuries or more?

The faintness passed and she grew calmer. Yes, she said, answering her own question, it was worse. This girl was of her own time, and about her own age, judging by the shape of the body she could just see through the covering of sand. She was a real person. She probably had a loving family. The others were just a heap of old bones.

She couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. She had to get help. Someone might know who the girl was; she could be one of the islanders, or a tourist. Poor soul! To have been dumped so unceremoniously, in a shallow grave roughly scooped out of the sand. It was pitiful, undignified. And now to be exposed to the world’s scrutiny! Had there not been an exceptionally high tide that day—a spring tide, they called it—she would have lain there, quietly dissolving away into the sand, and no one would ever have known. But the sea had reached her and uncovered her, and now she would be lifted out, examined in a forensic laboratory, and, assuming she hadn’t died a natural death, her killer hunted and punished. It would be a long time before she could rest in peace.

She set off along the shore back towards the castle. There was no one around; all the tourists had scuttled back to the mainland when the tide began to cover the causeway. It would be another hour before anyone could get across. She ran lightly over the short turf, past a flock of sheep who raised their heads momentarily to give her a cursory glance, until she reached the pub, and the telephone.

* * *

Bob Doyle flipped open the packet of Marlboros. Empty. He looked at his glass. Empty, too. Damn, he thought. Twenty cigarettes already, and it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. But if he was to get going on the article he’d need another packet, and a third whisky would ease him gently into that opening paragraph. He glanced across at Jerry who was talking, as usual, to Clinker. Jerry knew the sign and came over.

‘Same again, sir?’

‘Thanks. And don’t “sir” me. I’ll be around for a bit, so you’d better call me Bob.’

‘And whisky’s your poison?’

‘Most times. And I don’t mix it with Drambuie like the landlord does.’

‘So you’ve noticed? Josh gives the drink a fancy name. Makes him think he’s invented a new cocktail. Rusty Nails we call it.’

‘There’s nothing new about it. We call it rot-gut down south. Help yourself to a drink, if you’ve a mind to.’

‘Thanks. Later on, perhaps. I’m not much of a drinker, myself. You know what they say, it heightens the desire but inhibits the performance.’

Bob laughed. ‘I’d forgotten you’re a literary man. Perhaps you’d write this bloody article for me. I can’t get going. There’s something about this place that defeats me. I didn’t have this problem with Iona. That copy’s all ready upstairs, with some nice arty photographs of the sun setting over the Western Isles. But this place? Nothing. Perhaps it’s lost its soul. The true island seems to have disappeared under a mountain of pseudo-mystics and twentieth-century Vikings, not to mention the weirdos who’ve installed themselves this morning in that broken-down hut not fit for pigs to live in, down on the shore. Who the devil are they, and where do they come from?’

‘Weirdos, you call them?’ Jerry laughed. ‘Nothing weird about wanting to dodge your responsibilities, let us poor bloody tax-payers foot the bill. I expect they’ve drifted down from Newcastle. They do it all the time when the weather warms up. Collect their Social from Berwick and spend it on booze and drugs. They always go away when the weather starts cooling down. Josh is a bit fed-up, though. He wants that cottage to do up for summer letting. Old Coleman’s got a nephew somewhere, and Josh is trying to trace him. Apparently, they’ve offered to pay for their board and lodging while he finds out who owns it, so he can’t call them squatters, but he doesn’t want to take their money either because then they’ll start calling themselves tenants. So he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and he hates that.’

‘One of the girl’s not bad looking,’ said Bob, finishing his drink. ‘The blonde one, I mean. A bit scrawny, needs feeding up.’

‘Yes, the blonde’s a bit of all right. Doesn’t believe in knickers, I’d say. No bra either.’

‘So you’ve already noticed, you old goat. You didn’t waste much time, did you?’

Jerry smiled mysteriously. He enjoyed his reputation of being a ladies’ man.

‘I don’t miss much. I’ve got X-ray eyes; didn’t you know?’

‘So that’s what’s wrong with them! I thought it was a local characteristic. Now who the hell’s this?’

They glanced across at the door which, as usual, needed a hard shove before it lurched open. Bob, about to embark on his twenty-first cigarette of the day, put down his lighter. He saw a tall girl, slim, striking, with a plait of yellow hair down to her waist, a tanned complexion, and bright, English-blue eyes. He took in the shorts, the trainers, the long-sleeved, practical shirt.

‘Hallo. The Vikings are back. What are you looking for, the rape or the pillage?’ She glared at him, but Bob was unstoppable.

‘What’s up? Here, take a mouthful of this. You look a bit agitated. Is Hengist after you? Relax. He’s not as bad as he looks.’

‘Shut up, will you?’ said the girl furiously. ‘I’m called Anna. Anna Fitzgerald.’ She turned to Jerry. ‘There’s a body out there in the sand,’ she said urgently. ‘At least, I think it’s a body. Part of one, maybe. The tide’s uncovered it. Could someone come and have a look?’ There was silence until Bob, annoyed by the curt dismissal, plunged in again.

‘A body? What’s all the fuss? The place is heaving with bodies, I didn’t think they’d upset you of all people. You’re one of the archaeologists over in Thorpe Dalby, right? Falconer’s dig. I’ve been there once or twice and saw you in the distance carrying a bucket of something. I thought bodies would be right up your street.’

‘Don’t be so bloody crass! Someone’s out there on the dunes. Someone wearing a blue shirt. A girl. God knows how long she’s been there. Is anyone coming? Or do I just leave her there for the gulls to peck at?’ She looked so distressed that Jerry felt concerned for her, although he didn’t believe a word she said.

‘We’ll all come, my lass. Clinker too. He knows the seashore like no one else. Why don’t you stay here, Bob? You’re in no fit state to traipse over the sand dunes.’

‘And miss all the fun? Of course I’m coming. There’s a story here, even if it does turn out to be just one of the Vikings’ little jokes. We had enough of them last week,’ he said, turning to Anna, trying to regain her attention. ‘A whole society of them came to re-enact the Viking invasion. Brought their own “bodies” with them, I expect. Most of the locals gave them a wide berth.’

‘Look, this isn’t a joke. Just keep out of it, if you can’t talk sense, and let the others come and see. We ought to get on to the police straight away. They’ll soon be able to get across from the mainland.’

‘They’ll come now if they have to,’ said Clinker. ‘They’ll get out a helicopter if someone really has been murdered. But we’d better take a look at this body first before we call them over. Bob could be right, it could be one of the Viking’s leftovers. They were up to something down there on the dunes. No point in calling the cops to take a look at a dummy.’

Bob looked at Clinker gratefully, welcoming his support. He liked this quiet, reasonable man. He’d lived on the island for years now, so Josh had told him, and seemed almost to symbolize its enduring nature. It was right that he should take the lead.

Clinker, armed with a spade which he got from round the back of the pub, led the procession down to the shore; Bob finished his drink, and followed, leaving his cigarettes behind. When they got to the grave, Clinker smoothed away the sand. Gradually, two hands appeared, attached to two arms. A torso. Two legs, two feet in sandals and, finally, a face. Then Jerry went white, and turned away.

‘Christ Almighty,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s Ginny! I thought she’d gone to Durham. We wondered why she didn’t come home last night. Lynda thought she’d found some friends and settled down to a night out and left it too late to get back here. We’re used to people not coming back because of the tide. Oh, the poor kid. Look, her skirt’s torn. Some bugger’s got her. Quick, phone Berwick. Back to the pub. Better not touch her, Clinker.’

Bob, suddenly stone-cold sober, turned quickly to Anna.

‘It’s Ginny Adams. The barmaid at the Bell. I’ve been staying there for a bit. She took a trip to Durham yesterday, it was her day off. Lynda drove her to Thorpe to pick up the coach. They left early because the coach left at half past eight. Poor girl! So quiet, too, like a little mouse. She didn’t seem the type to work in a pub, but she did well, so I’ve been told. Josh was worried about her last night. She wasn’t one to go off looking for the bright lights. She liked the atmosphere of the island, I suppose. She liked Jerry, I know. And Lynda and Josh. It was as if she was one of the family. She was a nice lass, went to church. I wonder what sort of bastard did it?’

‘You don’t think it could have been one of the locals? Here, on the island?’

‘God knows. There’s all sorts around at the moment. It could just as well have been a tourist. Come on, I’ll take you home. You’ve had a nasty shock.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not sure if the causeway’s open yet.’

‘Then come back to the pub. Jerry’ll find you something to eat.’ He wanted to be kind, wanted to redeem himself, and besides the girl looked all-in.

‘How did you get her. . .