The Midsummer Crown Read Online Free Page A

been the time between its appearance and disappearance that, for a moment, I wondered if I had really seen it or if it was simply a figment of my imagination or the incarnation of a visitor from another world . . .
    I gave myself a mental shake and also, literally, shook my head in order to clear my mind of such dangerous fancies. But there was something about this tract of country that gave one fantastical thoughts; visions almost. As I have said, the Giant’s Dance lay some miles to the south of Avebury, while roughly an equal number of miles to the north, as I knew from my travels among the lower slopes of the Cotswold hills, was Wayland’s smithy and the strange white horse, carved into a hillside near Uffington. The latter is thousands of years old and nothing but a series of sweeping curves cut into the chalk beneath the downs, not at all as our artists today would portray the beast and yet, from a distance, instantly recognizable as a horse. Locals secretly worship it as the depiction of an ancient goddess and for century after century, in defiance of the Church’s ruling, have kept the outline clear of encroaching grass. As for Wayland the Smith, he belongs to Norse mythology and perhaps came to these shores with the Viking invaders; a magical being who would shoe travellers’ horses in return for a silver coin. I once knew a man who had tried it, leaving his offering at the mouth of the long barrow where the smith is said to have his forge, but nothing, he informed me sadly, had happened. When he awoke in the morning, his horse still had the same old shoes. He really wasn’t surprised, but disappointed nonetheless.
    And as I stood there among the Avebury circles, I could feel the strangeness of the place seeping into my bones, could feel the prickling of the hairs along my arms and was aware of an inability to control my thoughts. Visions of Druids and blood sacrifice filled my mind and I found that I was sweating profusely in spite of the evening chill. For a moment or two I felt unable to move, as if some unseen force had me in its thrall; as though if I fell sideways I might find myself in some fairy world peopled by elves and demons . . .
    I fought back, struggling to recite the words of St Patrick’s Breastplate. ‘I bind unto myself today the strong name of the Trinity, the power of Heaven, the light of the sun, the whiteness of snow, the force of fire, the power of the Resurrection with the Ascension, the power of the coming to the sentence of judgement. I have set around me all these powers against the incantations of false prophets, against all knowledge which blinds the soul of man.’ And suddenly I was free of the miasma of weird fears which had beset me, whole and sane once more.
    But I decided not to linger amongst the stones but to return to the village to see if I could beg a bed for the night.
    I arrived home some eleven days later, three weeks by my reckoning since leaving London. I had deliberately taken my time, even, on one occasion, refusing a lift from a carter who was heading towards Bath with a load of peat, preferring my own company to the trial of making small talk. Besides, the man had only come from Chippenham and would have had no knowledge of what might be going on in the wider world, beyond the boundary between Wiltshire and Somerset. So I made up my mind to let Adela think that her cousins’ business had taken longer to solve than was actually the case, and that I had subsequently made all speed back to Bristol.
    Fortunately, she was so pleased to see me, and so anxious to be told the outcome of my investigation into the Godsloves’ affairs, that her enquiries concerning my journey were perfunctory and easily satisfied. The children, as usual, wanted only to know what I had brought them and were perfectly happy with the sweetmeats and stuffed figs I had managed to buy in Bath market; although Elizabeth did give me a hug and Adam