Raven's Hoard Page 4

  CHAPTER 8

  TIME LAPSE

  Nate stood on the mound looking across the sands. Wind blew sand and rain over the open landscape, blasting the contours of the coast, over time moulding and changing its features. The sky met the sea in the distance, spreading a grey blanket that obscured the horizon. He pondered about the quest and still found it hard to comprehend. He had a map to discover; where that could be in this hostile place he could not imagine. If the hoard had been buried close he must be able to find it. The sword was more difficult. It had been rescued but then lost again – how would this be resolved? Someone had taken it and had deliberately hidden it; this would be much harder to locate.

  Aldingham Motte was a good vantage point for the quest, but how useful it would be was debatable. As he stared out to sea he could see a rider fighting his way across the inhospitable sands. A cloak of sea mist wrapped around the figure, obscuring him from view. The rain grew heavier and Nate strained to see the rider emerge from the mist. It cleared for seconds, revealing the horse rearing and the rider falling backwards on to the mud. Fingers of fog played with the figures and Nate jumped as the horse finally bolted and disappeared into the greyness. The rider then vanished from view too.

  Nate ran to the next field and scrambled over the fence. He slipped and scrambled down the cliff side, sending stones and mud rattling down to the beach below. He caught his clothes on the brambles and his arms were scratched and bruised. He fell the last few feet, landing heavily on to the pebbles and shingle. Picking himself up, he ran down the beach towards the place where he had last seen the rider. The mist descended and swirled around the boy as he ran across the sands. Very quickly he was encased in dense, grey, damp fog, his heart hammered at his chest and his throat compressed with fear like a noose around his neck. He turned quickly this way and that, looking for a familiar feature to help him find his way. None was evident. His feet began to sink and squelch into the mud and water stole around his legs, making him panic further.

  He pulled his foot out of the mud with a huge effort and fell sprawling across the fluid sands. He dragged himself along the ground, the water rising fast. A silhouette flickered and glimmered ahead of him, shrouded in an ethereal silver light. It moved closer and Nate stiffened with fear. A hand reached down and heaved him to his feet. The two connected and the grey world span around them. They were overcome with giddiness and nausea as they lost orientation and direction. Then… blackness.

  Nate opened his eyes slowly. His head throbbed and small flashes of light ran back and forth across his vision. He blinked and rubbed them, slowly sitting up. He felt cold and damp, his clothes heavy with sand and grit. The greyness had dissipated, replaced by a pale, watercolour sky. He looked around to establish where he was. Astonishingly he was above the beach on the banking, facing out to sea again, as if he had never moved. He wondered whether he had dreamed it all and turned to stand up. He flinched suddenly as he saw another figure sprawled on the wet grass before him. So it hadn’t been a dream! The person on the beach… who had grabbed his hand, pulling him to safety, was there in front of him – real flesh and blood.

  Almost telepathically the figure stirred as though he knew he was being stared at. The fellow sat up, brushing sand from his clothes. He stopped suddenly, as soon as he caught sight of Nate. Both boys stared at each other, but neither spoke. They inspected each other in disbelief.

  “Who… what … ” began Nate.

  “What strange apparel thou dost wear, lad,” interrupted the tall youth.

  “Me? Strange? What about you?” retorted Nate.

  The youth merely stared hard, considering the boy before him. He shrugged and continued to dust down his cloak. He wore the thick woollen cloak over a waistcoat, breeches and shirt. His legs were encased in leather top boots and he bent to pick up a tricorn hat, which he proceeded to brush with his hand. He glanced at Nate as he stood up, his eyes travelling over his fedora, Doc Marten boots, jeans and waterproof jacket. He looked puzzled, but did not say anything.

  “Who are you?” asked Nate bluntly.

  “I am the Revenue officer for this coast, Tom Rallison,” he said, growing a few inches taller with pride. “And who be thee?”

  “I live at Roose and I’m an archaeologist,” said Nate, bristling with similar pride.

  “I know not what an arch… archil…”

  “Archaeologist!” interjected Nate, smiling. “I dig up old pots, bones and stuff.”

  “Thou art a mudlark?” hissed Tom, “A scavenger. I trust thou art honest, lad?”

  “Well, I dunno about mudlark, but I am honest. Cheek!”

  “I mean no offence, lad… but ’tis an unusual occupation for a strong lad like thee. Hast thou no farm work or fishing to occupy thee?”

  “I don’t need to work, I live at home with my Mam and Dad and I still go to school. Anyway, you can’t be a Revenue officer – you’re too young… and while were on it, why are you dressed like a highwayman? ’You going to a fancy dress party or summat?”

  It became apparent that they were not speaking the same language.

  A gust of wind blew, driving sand across the beach. The movement awoke them from their torpor and both youths looked around. Tom started striding across the headland. Nate stood glued to the spot. As he gazed around the familiar landscape, he suddenly realised that it was not as familiar as he first thought. Tom was striding over the field towards Mote Farm, which looked different and rustic. A thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney and people were moving around the farmyard, making noise and working. Nate looked towards the road, but instead of the coastal road there was a dirt track leading away from the farm towards the direction of Gleaston. He spun round, to look back at the sea and the horizon, to find familiar landmarks.

  He could no longer see Heysham Nuclear Power Station, or evidence of the towns of Morecambe and Blackpool… not even the famous Tower was visible. He strained to see towards Rampside and Piel and was shocked to see the former was an island; its familiar causeway had disappeared. No bungalows or houses remained, no road and even the Motte looked odd. It was further away from the cliff edge and covered in brambles and plants.

  He was shocked to the point of being sick. Tom turned to see him throwing up on the grass.

  “What ails thee, lad?” he cried.

  Nate rested his hands on his knees and bent low. He shook himself and stood up, rubbing his head as he did so. Tom had reached him and looked on in concern.

  “Come, I’ll take thee to my brother’s home, ’tis just over yonder,” he said, waving an arm towards the farm.

  Nate did not object. He followed the strange youth, feeling conspicuous sporting his bright blue waterproof jacket. He removed it and rolled it up, tucking it under the hedge, to retrieve later. He felt at least his black checked, fleeced shirt was less at odds and he hoped he could blend in better. Thoughts raced through his head, he could make no sense of things. His mind told him that he was in a different time zone, but he could not accept it. How this could have happened he could not explain, but more importantly, why had it happened? This was scarier than when time stood still in the field at Gleaston.

  They reached the muddy farmyard and the farm hands working in the outbuildings looked at him curiously as he followed Tom into the house. It was here that the sharpest difference struck him. An open fire, with a pot suspended above it, warmed and partially lit the dim kitchen. The smell of soup rose from the black pot and he realised how long it was since he had eaten. A rough wooden table filled the small room surrounded by roughly hewn benches and two Windsor chairs stood beside the fire separated by a rag rug, the only floor covering visible. There did not appear to be much furniture – apart from a dresser in the corner. A young woman in a long dress covered by an apron was stoking the fire. She replaced the poker on the hearth and wiped her hands on the apron.

  “Tom!” she exclaimed. “Thou art back swiftly?”

  “Aye! I fell into danger across the sands. Th
e horse bolted and I was left to fettle for myself until this young lad came to my rescue.”

  The girl, whose name was Mary, produced a loaf of gritty – looking bread, two wooden bowls full of a thick vegetable soup and two cups of ale. Nate ate mindlessly. The day could not become much stranger and who knew how long he was going to be stuck here in… whatever year this was!

  The day passed and Tom shared his story of smugglers and escape. He spoke fondly of Dolly and how he had failed to reach the Customs at Lancaster. Nate shared nothing of his quest; he felt until he knew more it would not be safe to do so. He explained he came from a far distant time, but was not sure how much they understood this.

  Days melted into weeks. Nate fell into gloom, wondering if he would ever see his family again. Tom and Dolly, whom he had met the same day he had arrived in the past, both tried to comfort him and make him welcome. Dolly had turned back to Aldingham because Swarbrick’s men were abroad at Goadsbarrow and she dared not pass them.

  Nate borrowed some of Tom’s brother Jack’s clothes, to blend in a little better. He felt uncomfortable in the rough fabrics and insisted on retaining his own hat, T-shirt, boxer shorts and boots, which Tom had found hilarious. He soon became grubby and smelly, as he quickly discovered that clothes washing and bathing were not high on the agenda in 1750. Eventually he grew used to the aroma and made sure he washed well each day with the foul-smelling piece of homemade soap that Mary had given him on request. The food, too, took an immense effort to get used to. The variety was limited and the meat they had tasted differently to that at home. The diet included fish and shellfish, taken from the sands below the farm, and they did have fresh eggs from the many hens running around the yard. However, his stomach was delicate and unused to the diet and he suffered with griping pains for the first few days.

  Tom was anxious to bring his smugglers to book, and one evening as they sat around the crackling log fire, the women sewing by candlelight, he began speaking.

  “I must yet apprehend these villains and find the treasure they so keenly seek.”

  Nate nearly choked on the ale he was drinking.

  “What? Treasure?” he spluttered.

  “Aye lad, treasure and ’tis my chart they crave.”

  Nate thought all his birthdays had come at once.

  “A map? Do you mean a map?” he cried excitedly.

  “Of course, ’twas how I stumbled upon their evil trade. It led me to their cache in the tunnel. And right beside the Customs House at Piel it was! The boldness of them, hiding their booty beneath the noses of the Excise men.”

  “This map – do you still have it, Tom?”

  “Aye, I keep it in my wes’cot, here,” he said, patting his chest.

  “May I see it?” begged Nate.

  “You may… why art thou so interested in it?”

  “Because… because we may have a connection… because it may be the key to why I am here in your time… because I have treasure to find in my time.”

  Tom considered this for a moment and then answered.

  “I think it’s time we both shared what we know.”

  Nate nodded and told the young man all he knew, about Chris, the skull and the lost treasure.

  “So thou think ’tis likely to be one and the same treasure we both seek?” Tom asked.

  “I do!” replied Nate simply.

  Tom took out the map and unfolded it, smoothing it out on the table. He explained that he had found the map at the Custom House on Piel, not long after he had arrived. It was old and showed tunnels and pathways all over the district, many of them leading to the abbey. At first he had not taken much notice of it, but then he had seen the tangle of tunnels and their proximity to the inn. He knew that the smugglers were always just one step ahead of the Excise officers and wondered if they too knew of these tunnels. He had soon discovered the answer, coming across them one dark night and finding a huge cache of contraband. The contraband was not the least of it, there was a small collection of golden artefacts too, strange and old. He was shocked to see them because some were religious in nature, bejewelled and gaudy; something that these days were not approved of, they were of the Roman religion. The more he spoke, the surer Nate was that this was the map which Chris had mentioned.

  Tom and Nate decided to explore the tunnels as soon as day broke. They knew they would have to be careful as Swarbrick’s gang were still out for their blood, but the Excise men had been finally alerted to the gang’s exploits and they were now in hiding. Tom was back to his duties and he knew that to solve the problem once and for all would be to locate the treasure and expose the many hiding places of the smugglers.

  Dolly had listened quietly. She suddenly broke her silence.

  “I will come too,” she said.

  “That thou shalt not!” Tom exclaimed. “’Twill be too dangerous for a girl!”

  Nate sniggered.

  “Dangerous! I care not. I want these villains out of my father’s life and I will be part of this, as I have been all along,” she asserted firmly.

  Tom opened his mouth to protest, but Nate interrupted swiftly.

  “Come on, Tom! She’s got a point and she’s been in danger before … we’ll be with her!”

  “’Tis not seemly! She is but a woman.”

  Nate winced; he wouldn’t get away with that attitude in the present. Dolly stood up, drawing herself to her full height, and exclaimed, “And thou art only a man… and I will go with thee!”

  And so she did.

  CHAPTER 9

  RAMPSIDE

  It was strange to see the Concle again, Dolly had not been back since the night Tom had rescued her. Dawn was just breaking and the strange half-light cast an ethereal glow. They crept along the edge of the beach and pushed the small rowing boat out into the gently lapping waves. Tom and Nate took an oar each and they rowed past Roa Island and on to Piel. They beached the boat on the shoreline and ran quickly up to the castle. It had fallen into disrepair, but Nate was surprised to see that more existed in this time than his own. The east tower in his time had slipped some way down the hill and on to the beach, yet here it was still in place.

  They crouched down behind the castle wall and opened the map again. They looked for the entrance to the tunnel and where it branched off. Tom whispered, “We must climb down this shaft first and from there we can move onward. I reckon this tunnel connects with others. I took the tunnel at the far side of the island, but it did only lead to a small cave where the cache was hid.”

  He revealed a rotting grille hidden among the undergrowth, covering a deep hole. Somebody had tied a rope to one of the bars and it dangled far below, the end vanishing into darkness.

  Nate whistled. “How are we gonna get down without light, we won’t be able to see?”

  “What is it?” asked Dolly, peering over the edge.

  “I know this… it’s what they call an oubliette – for prisoners and such.”

  They both accepted Nate’s explanation and asked no further questions. They seemed happy that such a place should be reserved for prisoners.

  Tom had a bag with him and he placed it on the floor and took a tallow candle from inside.

  “We can use these, but sparingly.”

  He replaced the candle and they prepared to lower themselves into the shaft. Nate was lowered down first, at Tom’s insistence, so he could catch Dolly when it was her turn. It wasn’t quite as dark as it looked at the bottom, but Nate couldn’t fathom where there would be an exit from the shaft. He waited for Dolly to land and he looked upwards to catch her. He could see her voluminous skirts and petticoats flapping around her legs and suddenly a leather shoe hit him squarely in the face. Before he could recover, Dolly let go of the rope and she landed on top of him. They fell in a crumpled heap and could not help but laugh.

  Minutes later Tom jumped from the end of the rope and helped Dolly up. They collected themselves and Tom took out the candle. He lit it with a tinder box which he took from his pocket.<
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  The candle illuminated the bottom of the shaft with a weak yellow light. They looked around the roughly hewn walls and were unable at first to find an opening. Nate felt around the walls with the palms of his hands, just as he had seen in films, hoping to discover a lever or a gap revealing a tunnel. Tom joined him, both of them absorbed in what they were doing. Tom almost dropped the candle when he turned around to speak to Dolly. She was gone! Both boys called her name, in fear. What had happened to her in such a confined space?

  Then, almost as quickly as she had disappeared; she returned. She was grinning from ear to ear. She seemed to step from nowhere.

  “Look, there is a gap behind this wall – it leads to a tunnel,” she explained excitedly.

  “Where? I can’t see one!” exclaimed Nate, in disbelief.

  Dolly grabbed his hand and pulled him to the wall opposite. She felt along the edge where the two walls met and vanished behind. There was a false wall at one end, with a narrow gap, large enough to slip behind, which led to another wall parallel to the original wall in the shaft, again with a small gap. So, to the naked eye it could not be seen.

  “Aw! It’s like an optical illusion!” said Nate. “No way was this a dungeon – the prisoners would have escaped.”

  “Aye, but what a great deception! The monks were clever, ’twould look like a dungeon and would not arouse suspicion – not a soul would guess it was a tunnel.”