Her arm around Alison, she helped the girl shuffle through to the kitchen and sat her, still coc.o.o.ned in the blanket, on a stool.

Quietly, she closed the door and turned the key, then, her hand shaking with fear, she picked up the phone.

The line was still dead.

XXVI.

Defiantly leaving his car in a parking s.p.a.ce reserved for the disabled right next to the castle gates Greg strode towards the entrance. He glanced at the sky. Snow and sleet showers, they had forecast, turning to unseasonably heavy snow later. That probably meant sleet out at Redall Bay, but you never knew. Sometimes it settled. Whatever happened it would be worse in Colchester. It always seemed to snow heavily there.

It was a long time since he had been in the museum. He stared round, confused. The huge hall with its peripheral exhibits had vanished. Instead it was sectioned, part.i.tioned, intimate, the lighting low and seductive and from some distant corner he could hear the tinny insistent blare of videoed commentary. He frowned. Why couldn't the b.u.g.g.e.rs leave things alone? He could have found his way to Marcus blindfold before. Now, G.o.d knows where he was.

He was upstairs, near yet more video c.r.a.p. With an impatient glare at the booth from which sounds of ma.s.sacre were emerging, Greg stood in front of the statue and stared long and hard at its face. Then he, as Kate had done, moved to the exhibit and looked down at the man's skeleton. She had been right. It was not Marcus himself who was buried at Redall. So who was it? His eyes strayed to the other remains. Smaller, though not significantly so; Marcus's wife had strong, well-formed bones. His art school study of the skeletal form had been fairly rudimentary, but it was thorough enough for him to give an educated guess that she had been young when she died. How, he wondered. Illness? Injury? Childbirth? He glanced at the inscription. There was no clue there, no notes beyond the bare minimum. He stared down at what was left of Marcus's skull. Was his story written there, in the imprint of his bones? His loves, his hates, his triumphs, his disasters? He brought up his hands and rested them against the cold gla.s.s of the display case. *Come on, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, cough.' He hadn't realised he had spoken out loud until he saw a woman near him turn and stare. She caught his eye and hurriedly turned away. He grinned absent-mindedly but already his attention was back on Marcus. Rich, successful Marcus who had made good after the Boudiccan defeat; who had returned to Colchester and to Redall and bought land, probably when prices were rock bottom, like today a he grimaced a was that how it had been? Or had he just helped himself to some property he fancied and marched in? Had Redall's former owner died in the rebellion, leaving his lands wasted and deserted, or did he sell at a profit? He leaned closer to the gla.s.s, resting his forehead against it and closed his eyes.

HATE.

ANGER.

FEAR.

FURY.

The emotions sweeping through him obliterated every other thought in his head. They swirled round him, shimmering with colour: Red! Black! A vicious violent orange! He was spitting, shouting, tearing at the air, aware in some distant part of himself that there was foam at the corners of his mouth, hearing howls of anguish in his ears and realising they were his own.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the noise and the colour and the pain were gone and he was conscious of a sudden total silence around him.

Christ, had that been him? Had he really screamed out loud, or had it all been inside his head? The tape in the booth had reached its end and was silent for a few minutes before it marshalled itself for yet another enactment of the conversation between two Romans as the hordes closed in. The hall echoed with silence and cold.

The quick, anxious tap of heels on the floor did not intrude on his shock and terror until he felt a timid hand on his arm. *Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone?' The woman who had been watching him was staring anxiously into his face. *I saw you staggering about. I thought perhaps a' She faltered as he stared at her, blankly. *I don't know, but I wondered if you were epileptic or something ...?' Her anxiety petered out and she blushed crimson. *I'm so sorry.'

He gazed at her vaguely. *I'm all right. Thanks. It must be the heat in here.' He stared round, confused. The hall was cold. Very, very cold.

Slowly she was backing away. She would hurry as soon as she was out of sight and run downstairs and perhaps send up one of the attendants. Well, when they came, whoever they were, they would find that he wasn't p.i.s.sed. In fact he had never been more sober.

He reached out a hand towards the gla.s.s case and then withdrew it quickly as though it had stung him. Whatever had attacked him, overwhelming him with its vile emotions, had come from behind that gla.s.s.

XXVII.

There was no escort, no guard to watch over him. They trusted him absolutely. The G.o.ds had spoken; there was no question but that he would obey. Last minute private farewells were common; what more natural than that a man should say goodbye to the world.

*NO!'

Her scream of agony echoed across the dunes and marshes, the sound rising and falling across the land and the sea until it was lost in the clouds beyond the horizon.

*Claudia a my love a '

*No! I won't let them! What kind of barbaric G.o.ds do you worship that they can do this? You can't go back to them. You can't! You can't ...' She burst into tears.

*Claudia. I have to. The G.o.ds have chosen me.' His voice was firm, his strength surprising, even to himself.

*I hate your G.o.ds!'

*You mustn't. You must honour them as I do. And obey. To be chosen for the Great Sacrifice is the highest honour possible.'

*Honour! I thought your people sacrificed their prisoners! Their slaves! What kind of honour is it to die like them?' The tears were running down her face, streaking the saffron eyeshadow she had so cheerfully applied before she left home.

*The greatest. The G.o.ds have demanded the blood of a prince.' He spoke calmly, his need to rea.s.sure her in some strange way giving him courage. *Maybe we offended them, my dearest, with our love,' he said gently, touching her face with the tip of his finger as though trying to memorise the position of her nose, her mouth, her eyes for all eternity. *Perhaps it is best like this. Your G.o.ds too, I hope, will be appeased and honoured by my death.'

*No.' She shook her head blindly. *No. I worship Fortuna. She does not demand the death of her followers. She wants them to live, and be happy. No, I won't let you die. If you die I want to die too.'

*No!' He took her shoulders and shook her gently. *Claudia, you must live. For your son's sake. You can't leave him. And for my sake. To carry my memory in your heart. You must be strong. You are a daughter of Rome, remember?' It was something she took such pride in, her n.o.ble breeding. As he hoped, the words reached her.

She straightened her shoulders a little and raised her head, though tears still streamed down her face. *You're not afraid?'

*Of course I'm not afraid.' He smiled sternly. *I am a prince and I am a priest. Why should I be afraid to meet my G.o.ds?' He reached up to the heavy silver brooch which fastened his cloak. *I want you to have this. Wear it for me and don't grieve too much.'

She took it with a shaking hand and pressed it to her lips. *When ... when will it happen?'

*At dawn. As the sun shows over the eastern edge of the world.'

*Where a?' It was barely a whisper.

*At the sacred marsh.' He smiled sadly. *On the land that belonged to my fathers and my fathers' fathers. In the place where the G.o.ds congregate and this world and the next run side by side.' He took a deep breath. *You must go now.'

*Not yet.' Her voice slid up in agony.

*Please, Claudia Honorata. I wish to bid you farewell without tears. I want you to be as full of honour and courage and pride as you would have been had you been my wife.' His voice was stern.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. *If that is your wish, husband of my heart.' She forced a tight, meaningless smile and, raising her face, she kissed him on the cheek. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips, then, unable to trust himself further he turned away and ran towards his chariot.

The phone was still not working. Three times she dialled, her hand sweating, slipping on the receiver, and three times she was greeted with the strange echoing silence, the conviction that at the other end someone was listening to her heavy breathing.

*What's wrong?' Alison was shaking visibly.

*The phone doesn't seem to be working.'

*You mean we're cut off?' The girl's voice slid into a squeak.

*It's all right, Allie. It doesn't matter. You're safe here. Safe and warm.' Kate forced herself to smile rea.s.suringly. *I'll make that hot drink now. What would you like?' She glanced at Alison, who shrugged.

Picking up the kettle Kate walked across to the sink to fill it, staring out of the window as she did so. The trees in the wood, only just visible through the streaming sleet, were bent double before the force of the wind. There was a strange darkness in the sky which was heavy with brownish cloud. Snow. It was snow cloud.

She turned on the tap. There was sand in the sink. Sand and peat and a with a shudder she s.n.a.t.c.hed the kettle away, letting the stream of water swish round the sink to wash the maggots and soil away. She glanced at Allie, hoping she had noticed nothing. The girl's eyes were closed and she was swaying slightly on her stool.

With a grimace Kate filled the kettle and went to plug it in. *Do you want to go back by the fire next door?' she asked gently. *You can lie on the sofa and have a snooze.'

*No.' Allie shook her head. *I want to stay with you.'

*OK.' Kate reached down two mugs. Her hand hovered over the coffee jar then moved on to an unopened tin of drinking chocolate. Diana must have put it there when she stocked up the cottage with groceries. Chocolate was rich, soothing, comforting. It would do them both good. She levered off the lid with a spoon and tore back the paper seal. The tin was full of earth. A fat white maggot wriggled indignantly at the sudden light. With a scream Kate hurled the tin across the room and it hit the wall with a crash.

Alison jerked upright. *What is it?' She stared at the red tin which had rolled into the corner leaving a trail of powdered chocolate across the floor.

Kate rubbed her eyes. She was shaking like a leaf. *I'm sorry. It slipped out of my hand. How silly ...'

Somehow she forced herself to pick it up. She sniffed the remaining contents cautiously. It smelt good; rich, sweet and clean. *Luckily there's enough left to make us a drink.' She was imagining things. Stupid. She had to be calm and strong for Alison's sake. She took a deep breath. *Allie, who is Claudia?'

*Claudia?' Alison turned towards her. The colour had returned to the girl's face a little now and she seemed more alert but there was a strange blankness somewhere behind her eyes which made Kate uneasy. *I don't know anyone called Claudia. Why?'

*I thought you said a' She stopped with a sigh. *No. Perhaps I heard you wrong. It doesn't matter. Look, the drink is ready. Let's both go next door and sit by the stove.'

The sleet was lashing the panes and she could see the puddle on the sill was larger now. It had begun to drip onto the floor. Putting down the chocolate she went back into the kitchen for a cloth. Alison was still perched on her stool. *Come on. I'll put some more logs on. Do you want me to help you?'

Alison shook her head. *Is it ... is it all right in there?'

*Of course it's all right. The window is leaking a bit that's all.' She reached for the cloth. *I'll mop it up and then I'll stoke up the stove.'

She approached the window cautiously, peering at the sill. There were still flecks of soil floating in the water, but the maggots had disappeared. With a sigh of relief she mopped up the water and wedged a clean drying-up cloth into the angle between the sill and the window frame to catch the melted sleet as it seeped through, then she turned to the stove. There were only three logs left in the box. She opened the door and wedged one of them into the stove, and opening the dampers roared it up a little, then she plumped up the cushions on the sofa. Behind her Alison had shuffled as far as the doorway. She was peering into the room.

*Has she gone?' she said.

*Who?' Kate swung round.

* a' Alison's deep breath was cut off short and her shoulders slumped. *I don't know. There was someone here ... or was she on the beach ...?'

Kate walked over to her and put her arm round her shoulders. *There's no one here, Allie,' she said softly. *And there's nothing to be afraid of. You got very cold on the beach and I think you've had a touch of hypothermia. That sometimes makes people imagine things. Come and sit down and put your feet up then have a drink. You'll feel better soon, I promise.' She would not look at the corner where she had seen the figure of the woman. That, too, was imagination. *I'll tell you what, why don't we have some music.' She went to her pile of ca.s.settes and shuffled through them with a small half-smile at the thought of what Alison was going to think of Vaughan Williams or Sibelius or Bach when her tastes were so demonstrably different. Her hand hovered over the tapes. Faure's Requiem. How had that got there? It was Jon's. She stared at it for a moment, then she opened its box and took it out. Was it some atavistic need for prayer that made her choose it? Whatever it was it would do no harm. As she slotted it into the ca.s.sette player her eye was caught by the pile of typescript on her desk. She shrugged. Now was not the time to worry about work. Perhaps if Alison fell asleep she would be able to do some writing. It was obvious at the moment that the girl could not walk anywhere, so there was nothing she could do but keep her warm and wait. But later, when Alison was better, should they try and walk back to the farmhouse, or should they wait for Roger and Diana to miss the girl and come looking for her? She felt so alone without a telephone; so thrown back on her own resources.

As the ethereal strains of the Introit and Kyrie filled the room Alison sank back without protest and closed her eyes. Kate watched her surrept.i.tiously from the chair opposite. The log was burning well. Soon she would have to put on another. Then there would be only one left. Her gaze turned to the window sill. The tea towel was still dry and there was no sign of any movement there.

The tentative knock on the front door was almost lost in the strains of music but at the sound of it a shot of adrenalin propelled Kate out of her chair in a panic, every nerve stretched. She looked at Alison, but the girl didn't seem to have heard it.

Patrick stood on the doorstep, a yellow cycling mac over his thick jacket, his hair plastered to his head, his cheeks pink with the effort of bicycling down the wet muddy track.

*Hi. Mum wondered if Allie was here. Your phone's out of order, did you know?'

*Yes, I did and yes, she is.' Kate pulled him into the hall and closed the door. *Thank G.o.d you've come!' She glanced over her shoulder into the living room. Alison still appeared to have heard nothing. Her eyes were closed and her face had relaxed into sleep. *Come into the kitchen where we can talk.' Kate led the way and closed the door silently behind them. To her shame she found that her hands were still shaking. *Listen, something very odd has been happening. I found Alison out in the dunes, kneeling in the excavation in some sort of trance. You've got to fetch your parents and the Land Rover to take her home. She's OK, more or less, but she's not well enough to walk. I think she ought to see a doctor.'

*Oh h.e.l.l.' Patrick's thin face was a picture of worry. *The reason I came on the bike was because Greg's taken the Land Rover. No one knows where he's gone. The Volvo won't make it through the woods. It's a quagmire. And there's been a severe weather warning on the radio. It's going to snow hard.'

*d.a.m.n!' Kate gnawed at her thumbnail.

*What's wrong with Allie? What was she doing out at the dig in this weather?' Patrick asked thoughtfully.

*I don't know. She had no spades with her or anything. She seemed to be in a state of shock.' Kate eyed him. She had barely spoken to this intense young man before, but what she had seen she liked. He appeared to be steadier and calmer than either his brother or his sister a far more like his father in fact. *Something happened to her out there, Patrick. I don't know what it was, but it scared the h.e.l.l out of her. She's still frightened. And so am I.' She hadn't meant to add that last bit.

Patrick was eyeing her warily. *She started something when she messed about with that grave, didn't she?' he said. His voice was pleasant, light, calm. *She's stirred something up.'

Kate swallowed. *I suppose it's possible,' she said cautiously.

*Do you think it's Marcus's grave?'

Kate shook her head. *I don't see how it can be. They found his grave near Colchester somewhere.' She hesitated. *I think it's a woman's grave.'

*I see.' He frowned. He seemed unsurprised. He didn't ask her how she knew. He was more concerned with turning over this new set of possibilities in his mind. *You mean the ghost is not a joke. A woman really does haunt this cottage. Do you think Allie saw her?'

Kate nodded. *Her name is Claudia.'

Patrick's eyebrows shot up. *How do you know that?'

*Allie was muttering about her. She doesn't remember now, but she said the name several times.'

*Wow.' Patrick looked awestruck. *Oh, Jeez. I wish Mum and Dad were here.' He glanced up and swatted exasperatedly in the air as a bluebottle divebombed the light near him. Kate stared at it. Something cold had lodged in the pit of her stomach. Where were they coming from, the bluebottles a and the maggots?

As if reading her thoughts Patrick grinned. *You often get them in old houses in the winter,' he said comfortably. *They hibernate or something. There are probably dead mice under the floorboards. You've heated the place up a lot so they've woken up.'

He was right of course. Kate shuddered. Had she really begun to wonder, deep down in the innermost part of herself, if the maggots and the soil and the flies had somehow come out of the grave? She gave a feeble grin. *I was beginning to think the worst.'

*Have you really seen her? Claudia?' Patrick's eyes were like his brother's. They were deep grey-green, all-seeing, but unlike Greg's they were sleepy, gentle. Misleading. She could feel them boring into her soul.

*Yes, I've seen her.'

Once again he seemed to accept her answer without surprise. There was no mockery or disbelief in his voice when he asked his next question: *Do you think she smashed up the house?' He held her gaze.

She shrugged. *I've never really thought about the idea of whether or not I believe in ghosts, before. They seemed a nice idea a at a safe distance.'

*Scientifically, the idea is untenable, of course.'

She smiled. *Is it? I wonder.'

*Psychokinetic energy is something that is measurable, I believe, and has been shown to be capable of hurling things about a bit. That is what poltergeists are. They are often connected with the presence of a teenager. All our frustrated angst.' He smiled and Kate found herself thinking with a certain wry amus.e.m.e.nt how very much more mature this intense boy was than his elder brother.

*Allie is a bit of a prat,' he went on, *but she's a nice kid. There's nothing malicious about her. She wouldn't do this on purpose.' He was speaking from the safe platform of two years' superiority. He glanced up as an unusually strong gust of wind hurled a shower of hail against the window and he shuddered. *Can I see the room where it happened before I go?'

*Help yourself. On the left at the top of the stairs.' She stayed in the kitchen as he ran up, listening to the sound of his feet overhead. A couple of minutes later he came down again. *It's all tidy.'