LITMIR.BIZ

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wrestled with her conscience for a silent moment longer; then let the clasp alone, and reached for him. And Craig had leaned forward to kiss the cross, where it nestled in her cleavage; a gesture full of reverence and awe. She’d hugged him to her, closed her eyes; and felt his loving mouth begin to rove …

      ‘You sure you don’t mind cooking supper?’ Lyn called from the kitchen.

      Fran came to herself with a rueful little smile. ‘’Course I’m sure.’

      ‘Shall we have some wine with it?’

      ‘Why not?’ Fran said. Retrieving her glass, she wandered through; found Lyn comparing labels.

      ‘Any preference?’

      Fran’s smile grew wider, mischievous. ‘What the hell, it all tastes the same, anyway.’

      ‘You are a philistine, Fran Bennett. I hope you know that.’ Lyn gave her a mock-snooty look, then glanced at the clock. ‘I’m just popping down to the corner shop; we’re getting short of milk.’

      Fran finished her drink and rinsed the glass out; listening while the front door opened and shut. She waited for the fading sound of footsteps on the pavement – then wiped her hands and went quickly through the flat towards Lyn’s bedroom. She lingered on the threshold, almost guiltily; then darted in, and started looking round.

      The room was neat, but comfortable and lived-in. A musky pot-pourri infused the air. She found the diary lying on the dressing table.

      No way could Lyn have come back in; but Fran still glanced behind her before picking it up. The temptation to start reading came on strongly. Lyn’s private thoughts were hidden here. The secrets of her heart she hadn’t shared.

      With an effort of will, she focused on the dates: ignored the tidy writing, till she reached today’s blank page. Then on, until she found it marked. The next full moon.

      A woozy calm came over her, and muffled the slow drumbeat of her heart.

      She could always stay up here, of course – in safe, secluded Oxford. Just wait, until the moon was on the wane. His influence would surely dwindle with it. He’d fade out of her life again, as quietly as he’d come.

      She toyed with the temptation – then flicked it away. Its bright spark flared and died in smoke and ash. She really didn’t have a choice: the dream had told her that. She had to meet this ghost again – and somehow lay his troubled soul to rest. If she turned her back, and left the thing unfinished, she knew she wouldn’t rest herself; would still be sleepless twenty years from now.

      Laying down the diary, she went back towards the kitchen. As if all that were not enough, she also had a casserole to cook.

      2

      ‘Who was it, then?’ she asked Lyn after supper.

      ‘Who was who?’

      ‘That person on the phone.’

      ‘Oh,’ Lyn said, and shifted; then settled back and let her face light up. ‘That was Simon, actually.’

      A pause. Fran prodded her. ‘Well, don’t go all coy on me. Who’s he?’

      ‘Someone I met at work. The temping side of things, I mean.’

      Fran offered up a smile as bait for more. They were curled up on the sofa, feeling comfortable and full; a CD playing softly in the background.

      ‘He’s nice,’ Lyn went on dreamily; ‘quite shy.’ That conspiratorial grin again. ‘He still calls me Lynette.’

      ‘And a very nice name it is, too. Shame to shorten it, really.’

      ‘He thought I was French, first off!’

      ‘Well, you look French. Sort of.’

      Lyn tittered. ‘You know my middle name’s Isabella? Well, my Dad chose that, after Princess Isabelle, who was married to Edward II. They called her the She-Wolf of France.’

      Fran shrugged. ‘Well, my middle name’s Elizabeth because my Mum was really into Pride & Prejudice and stuff.’ Leaning back, she looked at Lyn again. ‘You think it’s getting serious?’

      Lyn smiled again, with lowered eyes. ‘It might be.’

      Now that they were discussing it, the jealousy was gone. Just as her decision to return to the Plain had brought an inner peace, so acceptance of Lyn’s separate life had left her satisfied. She felt a glow of pleasure for her friend.

      3

      Lyn had more work to do that evening. She was still slogging away in the glow of her desk lamp when Fran came back from the bathroom to say good night.

      ‘Don’t work too late.’

      ‘I won’t,’ Lyn smiled, and nodded at the jar at her elbow. ‘There aren’t many biscuits left.’

      Fran grinned at that, and gently closed the door. Lyn heard her moving round, then settle down. The flat grew quiet again: a cosy, womb-like hush beyond the lamplight.

      She usually worked best in an environment like this; but tonight her mind felt fidgety – distracted. Instead of ploughing a proper furrow through some untranslated texts, she knew that she was grazing: wasting time on fallow land. There was nothing that she needed from the Chronicle right now. But Fran had picked it up today, and now Lyn found she couldn’t put it down.

      The text was full of haunting gaps: so much had been forgotten. AD 904. The moon darkened. That was all. Whatever else had happened had been literally eclipsed. They must have thought their world was going to end.

      Her eyes flicked to the Riddle, as if seeking reassurance.

      It was pinned there on the wall, so she could see it while she worked. It had lived above her desk in Christ Church, too. A teasing gift from Martin, copied out with loving care. He’d never done Old English, but he’d formed each word just right.

       Moe word fræt …

      She rather thought that Daddy had conspired with him on that. An Anglo-Saxon riddle from the Exeter Book: the subject was a moth, devouring words. And though it chewed and swallowed them, it never took them in.

      The answer was a Bookworm, of course. Oh, very droll, she’d told him; and kept it very carefully ever since.

      Beside it was a colour print of Beowulf’s first line, the H illuminated like a manuscript. Hwæt! the long-dead poet called to her. In the context it meant, Listen! As she’d once explained to Fran, it summed things up for her. History demanded her attention just like that.

      Returning to the Chronicle, she browsed on through the entries, and came to the Brunanburh poem. A famous English victory of 937, and the chronicler had really pulled the stops out, painting an epic scene of strife and carnage. Yet no one knew the site of it today.

      The march of time. So much fell by the wayside. She felt that old, nostalgic twinge again.

      It was doubtless Fran’s enquiry about the Raven banner that focused her attention on the grisly reference here. A real raven this time, though – and written in the common English form. More familiar; harsher-sounding. Hræfn.

       Behind them, to divide the carrion meat,

       They left the raven, dark and shadow-clad …

      She thought of Simon suddenly, and couldn’t keep a wry smile from her lips. He failed to see how she could find this stuff so interesting. Give him football any day. Or tinkering with cars.

      They had some common interests though – like good Italian food and conversation. He’d booked them a table for Saturday night. The prospect was a pleasing inner glow.

      … and æt græg deor,

       Wulf on wealde.

      Time

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