The Macbeth Prophecy Page 2

  As I turned to remark on this to Philip, the waiter returned. “Your table’s ready, gentlemen, if you’d like to come through.”

  “But we haven’t given our order yet,” Philip protested.

  The waiter looked surprised. “Surely, sir – your first course is waiting for you.”

  “And what,” I asked a little sarcastically, “has been allotted to us?”

  He glanced down at the pad in his hand. “One paté de maison, one vichyssoise, to be followed by Steak Diane and roast duckling. Is that correct, sir?”

  Philip and I exchanged startled glances. “Quite correct, but how – ?”

  “I understood you’d given Mrs Barlow your order, sir. It was she who took it through to the kitchen.”

  “Mrs Barlow?”

  “The proprietor’s wife. I believe you spoke to her as you came in.”

  In silence Philip and I followed him across the hall to the dining-room. As he pulled out our chairs I saw that the dishes we’d chosen were indeed waiting for us. Even the bottle of wine we’d selected stood ready for our approval.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked in a low voice, picking up my spoon.

  “Very mystifying. Perhaps they bug the tables to save the staff legwork! No-one could possibly have overheard us with all that noise going on.”

  Unwillingly I remembered the expression on Mrs Barlow’s face when she registered our presence. It had been a mixture of shock and excitement. Why did everyone react to us so strongly here?

  The meal was delicious and we relaxed, allowing the pleasant atmosphere to soothe away suspicions which were surely ludicrous. The sweet trolley was brought for our inspection, and after it coffee and petits fours.

  “Is Mrs Barlow still about?” Philip asked the waiter as he topped up our coffee cups.

  “I’m afraid she’s gone off-duty, sir. Can I help you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not important.” But we both knew that it might be.

  The night was clear and cold when we emerged from the warmth of the hotel and walked briskly the few hundred yards back to our lodgings. Our arrival in Crowthorpe had not been without incident, I reflected, and I fell asleep to the confused memory of beating black wings and the frightened look in Mrs Barlow’s eyes.

  Two

  We woke the next morning to the pealing of church bells.

  “Easter bloody Sunday!” said Philip, pulling the pillow over his head. “They don’t intend the faithless to lie in, do they?”

  “I suppose you don’t want to go?”

  “To church?” Philip raised himself on one elbow to stare at me.

  “I only wondered,” I said awkwardly.

  “Do you?” he challenged.

  I hesitated. Neither of us was in the habit of church-going, yet that particular morning I felt a primitive urge to put myself and my future in the care of someone greater than myself. To claim sanctuary, protection –

  I said defensively, “Easter is one of the major festivals.”

  “The raising from the dead,” Philip returned flippantly. “It’s always happening nowadays. Last month a patient of mine ‘died’ twice on the operating table but they managed to revive him each time, and the last I saw of him he was sitting up in bed tucking into fish and chips!”

  “Point taken.” I swung my feet to the floor. “We will not go to church; instead, we’ll visit the heathen shrine of the stones. Is that more to your liking?”

  “Decidedly! But first, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a delicious smell of frying bacon stealing under the door.”

  By the time we set off once more along Upper Fell Lane, the sun had gathered some warmth and was spilling prodigally over the daffodils which rioted in the small cottage gardens. In one or two of them, old men pottered, straightening to look curiously at Philip and me as we passed. We reached the sign pointing to the Circle and began to climb the steep slope which brought us out on to the open hillside. There we paused for a moment to look back, surprised at the height already gained. Below us Crowthorpe lay sprawled down the hill and at its foot the stretching waters of the lake glowed a dazzling blue in the sunshine. We were almost completely enfolded by hills and not a soul was in sight, though the distant bleating of sheep told us that we shared the hilltop with at least some fellow creatures.

  A few minutes’ walking brought us within sight of our goal. On the deserted hill the ancient stones stood in their faery ring, a group of them huddled together at one side. I had the curious sensation that I’d seen them before, but the memory must have come from photographs in the guide book. Philip grabbed my arm.

  “Look over there!”

  I followed the direction of his eyes and gave a low whistle. The hill was not deserted after all and the stones already had one visitor that Easter morning. Leaning against one, her back to us, was the slight figure of a woman with red hair.

  “Perhaps now we’ll solve the mystery of last night’s dinner,” I commented. We must have made some sound as we approached, for while we were still a few yards away the woman glanced round. Then she straightened slowly and turned to face us.

  “Good morning,” Philip greeted her. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “Indeed it is.” She was watching us with a stillness that made me uncomfortable. Her eyes, large and grey, moved slowly between us.

  “We did enjoy our meal last night,” I began purposefully.

  She looked at me blankly. “Oh?”

  “But there’s one thing which puzzled us. How did you know the dishes we’d chosen?”

  Her face cleared. “Ah! You dined at the Greystones last night? Then it was my sister you saw, not I.”

  The implication behind her words was unmistakable and we stared at her speechlessly.

  “You’re not unique, you know!” she added with a touch of amusement. “We’re identical, too.” She held out her hand. “Eve Braithwaite, the vicar’s wife.”

  I said the first thing that came into my head. “So there are still twins at Crowthorpe.”

  Her interest quickened. “You know about the Crowthorpe twins?”

  “Some of them,” I replied guardedly.

  “Not many years go by without at least one pair, and always identical, which as you know are much the rarer kind. I never cease to marvel that such a tiny place can attract so many.”

  “Then they’re not all born here?”

  “Of course not. You weren’t, were you?”

  “But we’re only on holiday.”

  She looked at me oddly. “Are you?”

  I moistened my lips. “How many pairs are here at the moment?”

  “Only ourselves and the squire’s daughters. There was a third, but they – moved away.”

  “The squire? That sounds positively feudal!”

  She smiled. “He isn’t really, of course, merely a solicitor and, incidentally, one of my husband’s church wardens. But he lives at Crowthorpe Grange, which makes him Squire as far as the village is concerned – and he has twin daughters, nine years old.”

  Philip said – and I think only I caught the edge in his voice – “Is there any reason for this – abundance of twins?”

  “Ah!” Eve Braithwaite smiled again and patted the stone beside her. “You can’t have heard the local legend.”

  During the last few minutes I had become increasingly aware of the presence of the stones; almost as though they were a silent group of bystanders listening to our conversation.

  “In Celtic times, this region was the centre of a twin god cult. There was longstanding rivalry between the Bear Twins and the Crow goddess, Macha, who lived under the lake, but as long as the Twins were in harmony, their joint power was too strong for her to overthrow. So one day she craftily sent up a beautiful girl, and as she’d intended both the Twins fell in love with her. Finally the girl agreed to marry one of them, but on their wedding day, the other brother put a powerful drug in the bridegroom’s cup and came here to the temple in his place. By the time the
betrayed Twin woke and rushed up here, the ceremony was over. Beside himself with fury, he turned on his brother and in that moment, with their power divided, the Crow goddess struck and turned them all to stone.”

  She pointed to the half dozen megaliths set apart from the rest. “That group is known as the Wedding Stones, the small one being the Bride Stone, the Priest in front of her, and so on. And ever since, the spirits of the Twins have been imprisoned there and the Crow goddess has held sway.”

  The Crow goddess, black-cloaked and sharp-beaked – High in the clear air above us a curlew spilled its liquid song. I could feel the blood drumming in my ears. Eve Braithwaite’s amused, assessing eyes went from my face to Philip’s.

  “But one day,” she went on, in the tone of a mother telling a story to her children, “so the legend goes, a sufficient number of twins will be gathered here to generate the power to release them. And you can scoff as much as you like, but it’s a fact that Crowthorpe has always been known for its twins.”

  “A very pretty tale for Easter morning,” Philip said unevenly. “But I’m surprised you’re not at church with your husband, listening to more conventional myths.”

  It was appallingly rude, but Eve Braithwaite answered calmly, “I was at the eight o’clock service, Dr Selby.”

  Philip’s discomfiture at her knowledge of his name made her laugh. “I heard Mrs Earnshaw was expecting you this weekend, though admittedly I didn’t know – and I’m willing to bet she didn’t either – that you were twins. I’m surprised Anita didn’t mention meeting you, though. Perhaps she tried to phone last night when we were out. What did she do that puzzled you so much?”

  Briefly we recounted what had happened and she nodded. “Telepathy. She uses it more and more, though she usually manages to be discreet. I imagine she assumed Louis had gone for your order, and knowing what it would be, didn’t wait for confirmation but passed it along the line. Then when he actually was going to collect it, the kitchen staff would have told him it was already in hand.” She looked at us steadily. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you anything about telepathy.”

  I found myself resenting her matter-of-factness. “We’ve noticed it between ourselves, but not with other people.”

  “Probably only because you haven’t tried it more widely.” She pushed herself away from the stone. “Well, I’ll leave you to make your obeisance to the twin gods. Church must be out now and Douglas will be wondering where I am.”

  With a little nod she left us. We stood side by side watching her diminishing figure as she walked over the grass and gradually dropped below the level of our vision. She didn’t turn round.

  To break the lengthening silence between us, I said, “Odd, that Mother should have complained only the other evening of our tricking girls by pretending to be each other. These blokes were playing the same game thousands of years ago.”

  He didn’t answer me directly. “Doesn’t it strike you as ominous,” he said musingly, “that we should always have had such a fear of crows?”

  Lunchtime came and went without our noticing and we stayed on the hillside till the lengthening shadows warned us that it was late afternoon. We had needed that time alone together, to try to come to terms with something which neither of us had yet formulated.

  According to the guide book, the Gemelly Circle was an estimated three to four thousand years old. It was eighty feet in diameter and composed of some forty stones of varying shapes and sizes, and Philip and I moved constantly among them, running our hands over the rough-hewn surfaces, exploring cracks and crevices.

  This affinity with standing stones was something we had discovered during research for my paper on ancient circles. Prolonged contact with them always brought a sensation of peace, but never before had I felt such a deeply personal bond as now encompassed Philip and myself. There was something here I didn’t understand.

  Time and again we returned to the Wedding Group which Eve Braithwaite had pointed out, trying to decide which characters they represented in the legendary marriage service. By half closing my eyes, it was possible to mould the small Bride Stone into the shape of a girl kneeling in her wedding dress, with the Priest in front of her as Eve had said. Poor, petrified little bride. However, there was no groom by her side, just two stones standing confrontationally face to face – doubtless the Bear Twins at each other’s throats.

  I shuddered involuntarily. It was only a legend, but legends had their roots in race memory and there was often a grain of truth in them.

  I started as Philip laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Matthew. If we don’t make a move we’ll turn to stone ourselves! Let’s walk over in that direction and see if there’s another path leading back to the village.”

  I said thoughtfully, “However she might have discovered our surname, Mrs Braithwaite knew you were a doctor.”

  “Yes, that hadn’t escaped me. Perhaps I smell of disinfectant!”

  Over the next rise we could discern the sheep whose bleating had reached us earlier. In the distance lay a small crescent-shaped belt of trees. We made our way towards it but, reaching one end of the windbreak, stopped in some embarrassment. Concealed behind the trees was a small gypsy encampment comprising three shabby caravans and a few lean-to tents. Some scrawny horses cropped at the grass and over a fire a woman, heavily pregnant, balanced a cooking pot. The smell rising from it identified the contents as rabbit stew. Beside her, two olive-skinned, dark-eyed babies played in the dirt.

  No-one had noticed us and we were about to withdraw tactfully when a raucous noise shattered the quiet and a large crow – surely the bird which had presaged our arrival – started flapping its great wings without attempting to rise from the shaft of the caravan where it perched. The woman at the fire turned and stared across the intervening space, sullen and resentful of our intrusion, and the children stopped their play to gaze at us open-mouthed.

  I said inadequately, “I’m so sorry – we didn’t know anyone was here.” But the harsh rasping of the crow’s alarm call drowned my words. We turned and made our way hastily back round the screen of trees. I was shaking violently and wondered if I were going to vomit.

  “One of the goddess’s messengers!” said Philip, with a totally disastrous attempt at lightness. “I told you it had gone to announce our arrival.” He looked at me closely. “Are you going to throw up?”

  “Such a medical turn of phrase! I hope not. About crows,” I added carefully, after a moment. “It’s never struck me before, but ours is a very selective phobia, isn’t it? Plenty of people are terrified of birds in general, but with us it’s only crows.”

  “No-one understands phobias,” Philip answered, kicking the turf at his feet. “If we cared to be psychoanalyzed there’s no doubt a rational explanation.”

  “I’d rather not know,” I said.

  As we’d supposed, a fairly well-worn track led down from the trees, presumably used by the gypsies. It brought us out on to a stretch of Upper Fell Lane near our lodgings.

  “What now? Having missed lunch, I’m beginning to feel hungry and there won’t be any food at number twenty-two. Shall we take the car into Barrowick and find somewhere to eat there?”

  But a letter awaited us on the hall table which altered our plans. Avoiding Mrs Earnshaw’s curious eyes, I waited until we reached the privacy of our room before opening it.

  The note began baldly: “My sister and I would be delighted if you’d join us for supper this evening – seven-thirty at the Vicarage.” It was signed “Eve Braithwaite”.

  “Well, well,” Philip said softly. “That could be interesting. Can you stand another dose of Celtic lore?”

  “You think that will be served with supper?”

  “Sure to be. And perhaps Mrs Barlow is looking for another chance to practise her telepathy. Brother, this will be a vicarage party like no other!”

  We forebore from asking directions to the vicarage. Mrs Earnshaw’s curiosity was patent as we came down the stairs and we h
ad no intention of gratifying it. Once in the streets we could if need be enquire the way to the church; the vicarage was sure to be close by.

  We turned left at the gate, along the stretch of Honeypot Lane we had not yet explored. It didn’t in fact stretch very far, ending in a T junction on Ash Street, which curved round behind it from further down Fell Lane. And almost opposite the end of the road stood the squat outline of a church.

  “That didn’t take long!” I commented, but Philip shook his head, indicating the noticeboard by the gate. “Our Lady of the Sorrows,” I read aloud. “You could be right. There’s unlikely to be a wife in that setup! Those would be the bells that woke us this morning, though.”

  Another winding road led off beside the church and we followed it until we found ourselves at the top of the High Street. “There’s Crowthorpe Grange,” I pointed out. “I wonder if the squire and his lady are in residence this evening.”

  “Not to mention their twin daughters,” Philip said darkly. “No wonder the locals looked at us askance. They probably feel they have their share of twins already. Matthew, why do you suppose we’ve been invited to supper? Doesn’t it strike you as odd, after so very brief an acquaintance? Especially when there was no mention of husbands being present.”

  “You think they have designs on us?” I suggested facetiously.

  He was pursuing his own line of thought. “I’ve a feeling they – expect something of us, and since I should hate to disappoint them, I’m counting on you to back me up, even if you don’t see what I’m driving at.”

  We had followed the bend in the road and another church was now in sight lower down the hill, with the vicarage just beyond. As we turned into the gateway, Mrs Braithwaite opened the front door.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come. Douglas is preaching in Barrowick this evening and the boys are having tea with friends. It seemed a good opportunity to get to know each other.” She was speaking rather quickly, and the undercurrent Philip had suspected reached me clearly. “Do come through.”

  She led us into a pleasant square room at the back of the house. The curtains had not yet been drawn and there was a superb view down the sloping garden and the fields beyond to a stream in the valley, presumably making its way to the lake.