Red Horse Vale E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When novelist Jake Conley regains consciousness after a serious head injury, he discovers he's affected by a rare condition: synaesthesia.

This not only gives his brain heightened psychic powers, but also affects his behavior. Nationally prominent after discovering the tomb of King Aldfrith and writing a bestseller, Jake is in a world of trouble.

After his cross-wired brain responds to psychometry in his childhood home, he sees his mother who had died young, and decides to go on holiday to the Cotswolds... to discover the curse of the Red Horse Vale.

Leseprobe

RED HORSE VALE

JAKE CONLEY BOOK 2

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Dragonfly Brooch

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

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright © 2019 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Frontispiece: Sixth-century Dragonfly Brooch imagined by Dawn Burgoyne. Medieval re-enactor specialising in period calligraphy. Visit her on Facebook at dawnburgoynepresents.

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to Red Horse Vale.

The dragonfly brooch gifted to Liffi by the cunning woman.

ONE

YORK, 2020 AD

Jack Conley sat in his favourite armchair, or to be more accurate, the only armchair of the four in his lounge he would consider, repeating a mantra to himself – listen to the still inner voice. He was not, by definition, a recluse, but he preferred to be left alone to explore his rich interior life. This was something that had become more frequent since his triumph with the media after the affair of Elfrid’s Hole.

For an entire year after that, he spent his time not in contemplation but busily writing his bestselling novel based on the life of King Aldfrith of Northumbria. Its commercial success had been guaranteed before he’d typed the first word into his computer, thanks to his exploits in the North Yorkshire village of Ebberston, where he’d located that king’s tomb.

Given that his wife, Heather, an archaeologist, lecturer and researcher at the University of Leeds, led such a dynamic and fulfilling life, Jake found that he spent much of his daytime talking to himself in their historic four-bedroom house. He spoke aloud, as now, to obviate the silence that surrounded him, but also to clarify his complicated thoughts.

“Our view of ourselves is self-centred, so we think we deserve more than we are. The alternative view is based on what we believe others think of us and is deflated because we assume others judge us more than they do. We often worry too much about the third person opinion instead of re-calibrating our own view.” He sighed and blew out his cheeks. “Yes, that’s the problem, and I need to do something active. If only I had an idea for another novel to keep me busy. But it doesn’t seem that inspiration is coming from within. What I need is a holiday! Maybe I could visit some interesting country churches. After all, look what happened last time I did that – except that this time I don’t want to be arrested for murder!”

Throughout the day, this decision grew into a firm conviction. Indeed, he went as far as to research interesting churches in the area he’d chosen for a week’s vacation – the Cotswolds. He loved the thatched cottages and the honey-coloured stone of their walls. All that remained was for him to convince Heather that she needed a break too.

That evening, when she breezed through the front door, as excited as usual to be back home with him, she gazed round the lounge. Not a thing was out of place. If she hadn’t known that her husband had spent the day at home, she’d have supposed that he’d been out and about. Knowing how obsessively tidy Jake was, it came as no surprise when he confirmed that he’d spent all day at home. His obsessive compulsion to put everything in its designated place didn’t bother Heather, whose own work, by its nature, required meticulous order.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Not too bad. A little too introverted if anything.”

Heather’s brow creased into a frown. “Why didn’t you get out a bit? It was a lovely sunny day. This mooching about the house isn’t healthy.”

He gazed into her shrewd sage green eyes and remembered the day he’d met this cool, well-posed woman; she hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, marriage had made her more self-confident.

“As ever, you’re right, my love. In fact, today I decided to get away for a week. Can you manage to persuade James to give you a break? Or will your overlord, the tyrannical Professor Whitehead, turn you down flat?”

“After what we’ve done for his career? You’re joking. I’ve got him eating out of both hands.”

“It’s settled then. A soon as you’re freed up, we’ll get away.”

“Anywhere in mind, or can I choose?” she said, half-teasing him.

Jake looked crestfallen. It was true that he tended to decide for her and recognised that it was no basis for a respectful relationship.

“You can choose wherever you like,” he said with a hangdog expression that made her burst out laughing.

“So, what do you have in mind, oh masterful one?”

“Sorry, Heather, I know I should involve you, but I confess to having studied the Cotswolds area. What do you think?”

“I love the Cotswolds, and I’ve only been once, that was with my parents, years ago, when mum was alive.” She hung her head, and her wavy strawberry blonde hair fell to veil her face. She often tied it back in a ponytail but worn loose like today pleased him better.

“Good reason to go back then; it might make you feel closer to her.”

He bit his lip at his unthinking crassness when he saw a tear spill onto one high cheekbone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right. Every now and again… anyway, the Cotswolds would be lovely.”

“Great, I’d thought of using Banbury as a base, but I’d prefer you to choose the accommodation. You’ve better taste than me in that sort of thing.”

She smiled bravely and nodded, wiping her face with a lace hankie. “I’ll call James now.”

The professor was as obliging as she’d supposed he would be, but he managed to irritate her by insisting he wanted to be a godfather as soon as possible.

“There are loads of places with vacancies in and around Banbury,” Jake pointed to his laptop screen.

“Better in the town. More to do in the evenings.” Her bright red lips formed into a perfect smile.

“There’s a lovely tenth-century church at Wootten Wawen. It’s only thirty miles away from Banbury.”

“You don’t fool me, Jake Conley, I’ll bet it’s full of Saxon spirits.”

Jake laughed. “We’ve only been married for just over a year, and you know me inside out, wife.”

“It didn’t take much working out. You’re obsessed with the Anglo-Saxons and the tenth-century.”

“St. Peter’s church, it has a ninth-century tower – if not earlier – and there’s more, but I’ll keep it a secret for the moment.”

Heather smiled and looked away from the laptop over her shoulder from her seat at the desk. “Each to her own, if we’re going to Banbury, we can slip over to Long Compton to visit the Rollright Stones. You’ll like them.”

“Sorry, you’ve got me there, Heather.”

“Never heard of them?” She went into archaeology lecturer mode. “They’re a complex of three Neolithic and Bronze Age megalithic monuments on the borders of Oxfordshire and Warwickshire. They were built from local oolitic limestone; they are now known as the King's Men and the Whispering Knights in Oxfordshire and the King Stone in Warwickshire. They are distinct in their design and purpose and were built at different periods in late prehistory. The stretch of time during which the three monuments were erected bears witness to a continuous tradition of ritual behaviour on sacred ground, from the fourth to the second millennium BC.”

“I’m not sure whether I can go there. Were there human sacrifices?”

“There might have been, I suppose.”

“You know, after my road accident I can’t cope with things like that.”

“I’d completely forgotten you suffer from synaesthesia. I shouldn’t have, really, after all the problems it caused our house-hunting. How we ever found a delightful historic home without you picking up on some horrendous event that had occurred there, I’ll never know.”

“Well, this house is a positive one. I didn’t admit it to you, but it was my parents’ first home. I was little, and I have only vague memories of it. Anyway, there are only good vibrations here. It’s not my fault my brain’s cross-wired and that I’m sensitive to psychic phenomena. After all, it’s made our fortune, hasn’t it?”

Heather scowled at him, wondering what else he hadn’t told her, but forced a smile and said, “Well, I’m going to visit the Rollright Stones. It says here they’re only thirteen miles from Banbury. You can do as you please. I just hope you don’t stir up any more murderous Saxon warriors at Wootten Whatsit.”

“Wooten Wawen. And I really don’t think it’s likely, else I’d willingly stay and mooch around here. I mean, what could possibly happen in here?”

“Right.” Heather’s jaw set and in a determined voice, said, “I’m going to find us some superior lodgings. Get your credit card ready, fellow-me-lad!”

Jake had no objection to that, and when she had accomplished her task by booking a delightful thatched cottage with two bedrooms – “In case we fall out, I can banish you from my bed,” she jested – he took over the computer and began to research the area, which was when he found an article entitled THE CURSE OF THE RED HORSE – an account through the ages. Fascinated, he began to read.

TWO

YORK, 2020 AD

Heather came home after a long day in the archaeology laboratory to find her husband sitting pale and distressed in his usual armchair as weary as if he had fought in the Battle of Towton that he’d just finished reading about.

“Jake! What’s the matter, darling?”

“It’s complicated.”

Heather bit her lower lip at this brusque answer and considered his countenance. She hadn’t seen him like this since he was fighting to clear himself from a murder charge in Pilkington. “I’ll open a bottle of wine, and you can tell me all about it.”

He thought, She makes it sound as simple as pulling a cork.

Jake sighed heavily and wondered how different his life might have been if he’d looked both ways before crossing the road on that fateful morning, instead of walking out in front of a Jeep. The pop of the extracted cork and the sound of wine pouring snapped him out of his reverie, but where to start his explanation was more difficult. Gratefully he took the glass of ruby red wine from his pretty, smiling wife.

He plunged straight in without sipping the drink. “I saw my mother today, in our bedroom.”

“B-but you told me she died ten years ago.”

“That’s just it. She did!”

“How–”

“She was just as attractive as I remembered her but so…so…grunge. I saw her as close as you are to me. I remember she was always playing Pearl Jam and Nirvana. She was wearing a scrunchie in her long, straight hair, with ripped jeans, Doc Martin boots and a flannel shirt, just as I remember her.”

“Oh, that’s so nineties! It must have been a shock for you, Jake – she was young when she died…”

“Yes, but it wasn’t that, Heather. It was wonderful to see her again but not in that situation.”

“What do you mean? On one of your psychic excursions?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve found the explanation to that. No, it was what was going on when I saw her in the bedroom.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She wasn’t alone. My dad came storming in. He was really angry and began shouting horrible names at her like tart!trollop! and worse. He accused her of having an affair with a colleague, but you see, Heather, I never knew any of this. I always set her on a pedestal. She shouted back that she wanted a divorce, but dad told her to think about me. He said I was only five and about to start school and they had to put me first.” Jake shuddered and downed the contents of his glass in one long draught.

Heather couldn’t bear to see him so upset, so she put her drink on the coffee table and came over to kneel before him, resting her head on his knees. Without looking up, she said, “Poor darling, it must have been terrible for you. But you must continue to think of your mother as you always have done. They didn’t split up for you, after all. Respect the fact that they wanted to shelter you from their lapses.”

Jake stroked her strawberry blonde hair that he’d always loved as he had her unfailing, even-tempered nature and her sensible advice, as on this occasion. She stood, took his glass, and from the kitchen, she called, “You look like you could do with another of these, but don’t drain it down this time. You should savour it; it costs enough to be appreciated.”

As she returned with the wine, she said, “You found the explanation, didn’t you? Why don’t you tell me?”

He took the glass and smiled at her. “You’re so good to me, so understanding. Do you remember when I told you about the premonition I had years ago?”

“When those two poor lads were killed in a crash?”

“Yes. Well, a better term than premonition, in that case, is precognition, andfrom what I read this afternoon, people who have the gift, or curse, of precognition often have the contrary – retrocognition. It’s a term first coined by Frederick William Henry Myers in the nineteenth century.”

“Really? Was he a psychologist like Freud and Jung?”

“No, actually he was a poet and a philologist, but he founded the Society for Psychical Research. In fact, many psychologists dismissed his theories as quackery. But in the 1960s Aldous Huxley wrote a foreword to a reprinting of Myers’s book, Human Personality.”

“So retrocognition is about witnessing moments in the past, is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, your poor head! How does it work?”

Jake took a sip of his wine. “What I’m about to tell you is scientifically unproven, just a theory, but I believe it’s what happens to me. The universe is made up of energy. So, all past events are imprinted in the surrounding objects or environment in the form of energy that can be sensed by a psychic.”

“Wait a minute! Not just by psychics! Archaeoacoustics! There are audio recordings of prehistoric voices taken from the rock in caverns, like the one in the cave of Niaux in France. Archaeologists can do that in places that have remained undisturbed for centuries. I don’t know the science behind it, but I assure you, it’s been done. There’s a definite, proven relationship between the frequency of cave paintings and the resonance of the acoustics too.”

“Interesting,” but Jake wanted to re-take control of the conversation – once Heather got going with archaeology, she was capable of a long boring speech. Hurriedly, he said, “Anyway, a psychic can ‘tune in’ to these frequencies or vibrations, access the information and experience it. I assume it works in the same way as residual ghost phenomena. Myers explained a branch of retrocognition was psychometry, which is the ability to describe or witness the past by touching or holding the objects related to past events. These events are often highly-charged emotive events, such as a murder or a rage…”

“Hum, or a marital row?”

“Exactly.”

“Jake?”

“Yes?”

“What were you holding?”

“I’d kept mother’s bead crochet scrunchie as a reminder of her. She was wearing it in the row I witnessed. If only I’d known, I wouldn’t have picked it up in that room.”

“If you’d known, we might not even have moved into this house. But I love it so much, Jake.”

Her tone was anxious, so he reassured her. “Don’t worry, my love, I’ve locked the scrunchie away. I can’t bear to part with it. But you’re right, it’s better to cling to my memories of her rather than travel back and glimpse her…like some kind of modern voyeur.”

Heather tut-tutted. “You’re so hard on yourself sometimes. It’s not as if you meant to spy on them. You’re going to have to be careful, Jake. What if you’re holding something really old, say, a Saxon coin? Will you find yourself in a Saxon slave market or something?”

“I think I’ve done it already, Heather. Remember at Ebberston, when I found myself in the middle of the battle and witnessed the wounding of Aldfrith.”

“Yes! In the lab in Bradford, we found damage to the right clavicle consistent with an arrowhead. Wow, Jake, how privileged you are to have really seen that historic moment!”

“I didn’t feel privileged at the time. I was too busy trying to escape from that murderous ghost. He’d already slaughtered poor Livie.”

“Do you still miss Olivia?”

He stared hard at his wife. He was just beginning to understand her tendency to jealousy. His ex-fiancée was a delicate topic, and he cursed himself for bringing up her name, he clearly wasn’t thinking straight this evening. “Not really, but I regret that the last time I saw her, I mistreated her. She didn’t deserve that, Heather, but I can’t turn back time and do it differently. We weren’t getting on, and there was no future for us.” His voice broke, “As it turns out there was no future for her at all. I blame myself.”

Heather took his arm. “You shouldn’t, Jake. The accident that cross-wired your brain wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d been more careful crossing…”

“Some things are meant to be. You wouldn’t be here with me, now.”

He relaxed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right…as usual!”

“Just be careful on holiday, that’s all. Don’t go poking around reawakening homicidal Saxon ghosts!”

“I’ve done that, and once is quite enough, believe me.”

“Well, Jake Conley, be careful, that’s all.”

THREE

YORK, 2020 AD

“Hey, listen to this, Heather! I’ve found something of a mystery in the area we’re going to. You’re an archaeologist; this will interest you. What do you know about horse figures?”

“You mean white horses carved into the hillside exposing the chalk below? Well, there are fourteen of them in England. They’re called geoglyphs, and the oldest is near us in Oxfordshire.”

“The one at Uffington? How old is it?”

“It’s Iron Age, about 3000 years. But what’s this got to do with your mystery around here?”

“Are there any Saxon horses to your knowledge?”

“Not as far as I know because the Saxons didn’t worship the horse. Woden had an eight-legged steed called Sleipnir, but that’s about it.”

“I’m asking because in Warwickshire there used to be a red horse. In fact, it gave its name to the Red Horse Vale –around Tysoe. It no longer exists, but there’s been plenty of controversy about it over the years. I’ve made some notes. Listen to this: there was a large original horse, let me see…yes, here it is, it was 285 feet long and 195 feet high…”

“Quite a beast.”

“Yes, but the problem is that the underlying clay is fertile and weeds and grass can soon take over unless the figure is regularly scoured.”

“I see, though I think that’s less of a problem on chalk uplands. Although, I believe Thomas Hardy mentions festivities associated with the activity in Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Thomas Hughes dedicated an entire novel to it called TheScouring of the White Horse.”

“The fact is that this horse disappeared never to be seen again, but while it was there, it provoked considerable controversy.”

“It did?”

“Yes, you see…” Jake went on to explain the different theories of eighteenth-century antiquarians and ended by saying, “…I thought I might be able to solve the mystery once and for all using my retrocognition.”

“Once and for all? I doubt it, my love. Who’s going to take the word of a well-meaning psychic? In these cases, solid proof is needed. If, as you say, the horse is lost, there’s no proof it existed in the first place.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Heather.” How he enjoyed debunking her so-serious archaeological approach! He’d bring her own weapons to bear on the argument. “You see, two gentlemen called Kenneth Cardus and Graham Miller set out to find the horse in 1964. The former was given a map dated 1796, which showed the horse on the side of Old Lodge Hill. They conducted a preliminary excavation right there but drew a blank. Instead, they turned to documentary evidence that spoke of the horse on a hill called the Hangings. Really, that started the breakthrough because Miller took a photo using special filters across the valley to that hill, and owing to the dry weather, the pattern made by the shading of the vegetation revealed the shape of a head like a knight in a chess set. They got definitive confirmation from aerial photos taken in 1965.” He could see by her face he was speaking her language. “And measurements coincided with the eighteenth-century ones, so naturally, they decided to excavate.”

“What did they find?”

“In the autumn of 1967, they conducted a soil resistivity survey. You do know what that is, Heather?”

“Get lost, Jake!”

“Only teasing! But the probes revealed higher readings from the crop mark area than elsewhere. It confirmed the head and ears. As a control, they did an excavation that showed no visible alterations to the soil and no surface rock to cause changes in resistivity.”

Heather stared at her husband, and her voice was cutting, “I wonder whether they used high- or low-frequency meters? I suppose they used the Wenner 4-Point Test Set-up, didn’t they?” She gave him a thin smile as he floundered.

“I – er – I don’t think I made a note of any of that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. So, when was the horse last seen?”

“It depends. You see, there have been five horses. The biggest and original, this one, didn’t survive much later than 1656, according to documentary records. The second horse was smaller and partially covered the first. The third and smallest, only 55 feet long, faces right, or to the south; it’s above and to the left of the first two. That was described by a certain Reverend Mead in 1742, the man who later insisted on the Earl of Warwick theory. I’ll tell you about that later. Maps of 1727 and 1798 confirm the presence of this horse.”

Heather was growing impatient with his ramblings through history. “So, where’s the mystery, Jake?”

“Haven’t you been listening? The irony of it is that this antiquarian gentleman was basing his chronology on a false horse.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he was wrong. His theory could be equally applied to the first horse.”

“It could. That’s why I want to find out and prove him wrong. I think the Saxons cut it first.”

“Pfff! You would!”

“You can mock as much as you like, but I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Heather didn’t really care either way, but she wanted to calm her excitable husband. “Didn’t you say there were five red horses? What about the other two?”

Mollified, he said, “The landlord of the Sun Rising Inn cut horse 4 sometime around 1800. It was small, about 17 feet long, and resembled a pantomime horse with human feet. It was little more than an inn sign. They deliberately ploughed it over in 1910.”

“And the last one?”

“That was mentioned by a man called Turner in 1892. This one was ten yards long and cut on Spring Hill a little to the south of the fourth. It was last recorded in 1914 and didn’t survive the Great War.”

“Why didn’t the archaeologists press for the re-cutting of the original horse?”

“From Mr Miller’s book, it seems they would have wanted that, but the landowner had planted the slope with softwood trees. Despite petitioning the Owner, Lord Bearstead, he was not keen to destroy nearly two acres of maturing wood. Today the site is little changed. The more mature trees prevent under growth of vegetation, and it is relatively easy to walk between them. Traces of the original excavations from 1968 can still be seen. The trees are not likely to be harvested for a year or two, yet. I don’t know how the new owner, Lord Bearstead’s grandson, feels about it. That’s something I’ll try to find out.”

“You’d better be careful. Landowners generally don’t like their property interfered with. Remember what happened when you got involved with Elfrid’s Hole in Ebberston? You were lucky to come out of that with only severe bruising.”

“That was different. As an archaeologist, you should understand this is about restoring our historic heritage.”

“I think this story is more about Jake Conley and his funny head!”

He glared at Heather. She could be infuriating, but before he could think of a reply, she asked, “What happened to your interest in Wootten Whatsit?”

“Wooten Wawen. I’m still very interested. I can conduct this investigation around my other plans.”

“Investigation! Oh dear, this Red Horse business is taking on a whole new dimension. And I’m not sure I like it.”

FOUR

BROADWAY, WORCESTERSHIRE COTSWOLDS, 2020 AND 590 AD

Jake strolled along the pavement of the High Street, a wide avenue that lived up to the village name of Broadway. He wended his way past the honey-coloured stone buildings and thatched pubs, idly glancing in the windows until he reached an antique shop. There, a familiar sensation, a dull ache, appeared on his forehead, above and between his eyes. He had come to realise that this feeling of a ‘third eye’ was an indicator of psychic awareness and should not be ignored; this, together with a natural compulsion for looking at antiques meaning he simply couldn’t brush aside a visit, drove him to enter the shop.

“Good day, sir, can I be of assistance?” A well-spoken man in his fifties with the aged skin of a heavy smoker greeted him.

“I’d just like to look around if that’s alright?”

“Please be my guest.”

Startled, Jake almost cringed away as he turned towards a bronze eagle, its wings outstretched and beak half-open. How could anyone live with such an aggressive-looking object in their lounge? He went past a gilded Buddha, legs crossed underneath him, hands cupped in its lap in meditation, altogether a more relaxing, peaceful statue. Just beyond, on a small table, was a polished walnut box, its lid held open by a shiny brass slide hinge.

Curious, Jake peered inside and saw a collection of small, different-coloured velvet bags. On top of one bag lay a carved bone. He picked it up and held it in his palm, turning it with his other hand. He recognised the bone as a sheep vertebra. Etched into it and painted black for good contrast was an Anglo-Saxon rune. From behind him, the suave voice said, “It’s reproduction, of course, but rather finely done, wouldn’t you say? It’s one of a set, the first six sounds of the fifth-century futhorc; the others are in the red bag.”

Jake removed the red bag, revealing a somewhat shabbier bone nestling alone in the bottom of the box. As his fingers closed over it, a sharp pain to his brow transformed at once into the familiar ache in the usual place to warn him of the object’s importance. He feigned nonchalance, studying it in his palm.

“Ah, that!” said the man. “I can’t remember where it came from. It probably arrived with sundry bric-a-brac, clay pipes, you know the sort of rubbish. Since there’s a rune carved into it, I put it in the box with the others.”

“Yes,” said Jake, trying to conceal his excitement, “it’s the haegl rune, the equivalent of our letter aitch.” Have I said too much?This is an original Saxon rune carved in a deer knuckle bone. It should be in a museum. I must have it.

“I see you’re quite an expert, sir.”