Bright Hair About the Bone

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  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

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW OF TUG OF WAR

  ALSO BY BARBARA CLEVERLY

  COPYRIGHT

  This is for my son, Jesse, who found the name of a lost soldier in a Cambridge graveyard.

  PROLOGUE

  Burgundy, France.

  The priest smoothed down his white robe and prepared to make his entrance into the Village Hall. Fastidiously, he twitched into place his carefully chosen girdle—a narrow length of cloth sewn for him by the ladies of this village. They would recognise it and welcome the discreet compliment to them. The door swung open and he caught the buzz of many voices, a whiff of wood smoke, and the scent of home cooking. Bracing himself for the heat and hysteria generated by an overcrowded room full of emotional people, he turned, a few steps short of the door, and looked back over the countryside.

  He’d known better days for a funeral.

  The summer day was still flooding this side of the valley with mellow light, quite out of keeping with the solemn occasion that demanded his presence inside that dark beehive behind him. He stole a few moments, opening his senses to Nature, saying his own silent farewell to the lady he had loved, admired, and—on occasion—feared. It was unfitting that such a woman should be consigned to her grave, mourned by humankind, on a day when all of Nature was smiling and fertile.

  The priest was a country boy by birth; though schooling and theological college had taken him away from these hills for many years, he had never ceased to read the land with an experienced eye. And the scene he was now contemplating enchanted him. Had he ever seen orchards so heavy with fruit, meadows and pens so full of healthy young animals? The late afternoon sun was slanting over the cornfields, gilding them with an illusion of ripeness. He examined the stalk of wheat he’d plucked absentmindedly on his way through the village and was surprised to find he was still holding. Green and hard. Another week or so, he calculated, before they would hear the cry of “Harvest home!” along the valley.

  And yet, he would expect this farming community to be growing daily more active, more involved with the preparations for the heavy work and its reward—the week of feasting and celebrations, the highlight of the year. This ill-timed death must surely have broken the rhythm. The funeral and the following wake would take up three days, and then everyone would be back at work in the fields according to schedule, though no doubt with headaches all round if he correctly remembered the strength of the local beer. But once the carousing was over, it was the loss of confidence that this lady’s passing would impose on the local people that concerned him. Simple, superstitious, and trusting, they found themselves without warning prematurely bereft and he feared for them.

  “Oh, My Lady,” he muttered, “how long did I know you? Twenty years? And how often have I known you to mistime a single word or action? Never. How am I to make sense of this death—early and unseasonal?” He smiled sadly. How much more appropriate if she had died in November, at the beginning of their year. Earth to earth…From decay comes renewal…The seed is Goodness…the conception: Silence… In winter, the sermon would have come readily to his lips and the congregation would have understood and been reassured. The rhythm of the seasons would have been unbroken.

  But here he stood, as unready as the wheat in his hand, casting about for a message. He was certain that there would be purpose even in her dying, and if he could open his mind he would see it.

  And then he smiled. This forthcoming abundance was her gift and would be her memorial. Yes, that’s how he would present it in his oration…something on the lines of how fitting it was that her mortal remains should return to the womb of earth at the very moment when that which she had cared for was full of the promise of fecundity. And then he would send up a silent prayer that summer storms should not come along and ruin the harvest…making him look a fool.

  No one can be saved until she is born again… Yes, it would be wise to finish on a triumphant note: She is not dead but lives… But in whom? It would be up to him to discover. He would be watchful. Pose a few well-aimed questions. It was likely that she had handed down her gifts already.

  He turned and approached the door of the Hall, where a gaggle of children had been set to watch for his arrival. Ducking his head under the lintel, he entered and pulled himself back up to his impressive six feet four inches, standing, ceremonial staff in hand, scanning the crowded room with a searching eye. He noted, without surprise or offence, the subtle movement of the now silent crowd away from him. Who, of these countrymen and-women, would be comfortable to be caught standing close to a priest of his rank? The ones prepared to meet his gaze held it for a proud moment before looking deferentially away. A good sign. If all was to go well they would have to talk to him. He needed their information. Most of them, men and women, were clutching tankards of ale; a few more hours of steady drinking would loosen tongues.

  But his immediate need was to break through the barrier created by his awe-inspiring presence. He looked around for a child and chose, from among the reception committee by the door, the smallest one, inquisitive enough to be caught staring. He beckoned him forward. Bravely but slowly the child approached. “Take my staff, would you, young man?” the priest asked pleasantly. The child took it as though it might turn into a snake between his hands. He held its length awkwardly and failed to make an allowance for the weight of the carved head, overbalancing and scurrying to gain control. For a few agonised seconds he struggled with the implement, dragging it along the floor like a hobbyhorse, and, finally, was helped by an older girl who descended on him with all the clucking concern of a brown hen, to prop it up against the wall.

  The priest’s shout of indulgent laughter at the performance had its calculated effect: it was echoed instantly by the crowd. “You have learned a valuable lesson in life, young man,” said the priest to his red-faced helper. “In a tight spot, always enlist the aid of a big, capable girl.”

  The ice broken, a woman of the village approached, bringing him a drink. Not the mug of ale he yearned for, but a silver goblet filled with red wine. He thanked her warmly and, as she stood awaiting his response, he swirled the wine gently, admiring its rich colour and bouquet before tasting it. He sipped again, drawing out the moment, then sighed. “I believe this may be the best wine I have ever drunk! Italian? I would guess from Etruria, perhaps?”

  She giggled with pleasure, nodded, and hurried away.

  The
Mayor moved forward to greet him. “My Lord Aeduan, may I say how honoured we are that…er…your lordship should…”

  The priest turned toward him benignly and cut through his hesitations. “She was an incomparable lady and if I may mark her passing by my presence, then the honour is mine. I see you’ve got all the bigwigs of the diocese under your roof, and I passed hundreds of folk gathering in the square. The arrangements are all made, I trust?”

  “Certainly. The bier is prepared and will start on a signal. As you requested, our own village priest is here, ready to assist with the practicalities and accompany you on the journey to the grave. Bran!” The Mayor beckoned to a slender young man in linen robes, whose belt was heavily hung with ceremonial gear.

  Aeduan tried not to stare at his assistant, though the bleached hair, fashionably spiked upwards over his head, was clearly intended to mark him out for attention. He had all the charm of an albino hedgehog, Aeduan decided, amused, but he looked clever.

  “The equipment you called for is to hand, my lord,” Bran murmured in a quietly efficient tone. “Though there’ll be little enough for me to do, you’ll find, sir. She requested no animals at the burial. The last convention she’ll overturn? Of course…if you should wish to counter that order, sir…? I’m sure we could provide even at this late stage…No? Ah, well…the hearse will be drawn by six lads of the village…Oh, there is an exception…She asked particularly that her dog be allowed to accompany her. He’s over there.” He pointed towards a group of three young girls sitting together by the hearth. The two older ones, arms locked together for comfort, were whispering to each other, subdued; though heavy-eyed with grief, their blonde beauty drew everyone’s gaze. The youngest girl, barely ten, was small and dark and absorbed by her own thoughts. As he watched, she put out a hand to stroke the grey-coated hound lying across her feet. A handsome dog. What else? Aurinia had known her horses and her dogs. This one, alert and fierce-looking, was of a breed he’d admired across the sea in Britain. They could run down a deer and snap a bone with ease in their grinning jaws or, as now, play guardian to a child.

  “These are her daughters?”

  “As you say. The two fair girls, Beth and Saillie, are twins.”

  Silver Birch and White Willow. The names echoed their fair colouring and the slender grace of their limbs. Aeduan smiled his approval.

  “Orphans now, of course,” Bran confided. “Their father died in battle. That little spat with the Germans twelve years ago.”

  “I remember him. He was one of the bravest and best. But the third child? I have no recollection of her.”

  The assistant priest smiled dismissively. “The Lady’s sole mistake. After the death of her husband she took up with…showed favour to…a stranger, a foreigner. Charming fellow. He would turn up here every couple of years, selling things. Luxury end of the market.” He pointed to the wine cup Aeduan still held. “That was one of his. The red silk dress she’s chosen to be buried in…the amber necklace gracing the bosom of the Mayor’s wife…my own belt…he left many markers of his passage through the village!”

  “Including the third daughter?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not surprised you were unaware of her. She was not much paraded.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Sirona, sir.”

  “Sirona? The Star? How exotic! And what happened to the father to whom I take it she owes her intriguing dark looks?”

  “He was a traveller.” Bran shrugged a shoulder. “He travelled. He didn’t speak much of himself but we all guessed that he was from the south, beyond Marseille. Africa? Egypt, most likely, but we can only speculate.”

  “I should like to express my condolences to the girls.”

  “Of course, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

  Aeduan spoke soft, sad words to the fair daughters, causing a further flow of tears, and touched each one comfortingly on her bowed head. It didn’t escape his sharp eye that both girls cast swift glances under damp lashes at the gathering, seeking assurance that no one had failed to witness the honour being done them by the priest. At close quarters the pair were even more lovely than he had guessed. They had chosen to wear short dancing skirts and heavy belts from which dangled a single silver disc. Aeduan was impressed and reassured. With their looks, their parentage, and what he guessed to be their wealth, they would have no difficulty in marrying well. They must be very near the age of choosing and there were many young men present from all corners of the province, he noted, young men whose heads turned all too readily, drawn to the swing of a silver disc.

  As he approached the youngest, the dog at her feet growled a warning, abruptly cut off at a sharp command from the child. To all appearances unaware of the priest’s presence, this daughter remained, head bowed, staring into the hearth. The shapeless grey dress that reached down to her ankles was clearly chosen to deflect attention. Her sole ornament was a sprig of yew fastened to her shoulder with a simple pin. Yew. The tree that grew at the gateway to death. The symbol of rebirth and immortality. Now, who was this?

  “Sirona!”

  At the sound of her name, she looked up at him, unafraid, preoccupied. Through his surprise at what he saw when she did so, Aeduan struggled to maintain his expression of kindly concern. Under the thicket of springing black hair he had expected to find matching black eyes with perhaps an eastern cast, but these eyes were light grey: her mother’s eyes. The child even had the same disconcerting trick of regarding him in a slightly unfocused way, as though she were looking not at or past, but in some strange way, into him.

  With a certainty he could only wonder at, he reached on impulse for the wheat stalk he’d stuck in his belt and held it out to the child. She struggled to her feet and he saw with a pang of tenderness that she was indeed quite small. She could with ease have ridden on the tall shoulders of the hound which had risen with her and now stood flexed and ready for attack, held back only by the power of a slender right hand on the upstanding scruff of his neck. Aeduan thought the time had come to establish precedence: he murmured to the dog until it sank back with a muffled whimper onto its haunches.

  But the girl’s whole attention was on the stalk of wheat. She looked from it back to the priest, then put out a hand and took it from him, her face suddenly alight with a smile that he would have sworn was complimenting him on his perception.

  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 th
e 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.