It is then, in her confusion and fear, she sees us.
Her eye moves out beyond the tight ring of spears, away from the dying fire, into the trees and the darkness crowding in on all sides. Merlin's oft-repeated words come back to me. Death, he would say, is a fey companion and will drink from any well.
Two others, a man and boy, stumble into the clearing. The man stands a moment and then begins to chant. The lad staggers forward, sinking to his knees near the fire. In a single leap the girl clears the flames and Arthur's lance finds air instead of flesh.
The man is on his hands and knees in the snow. He sings on in defiance.
But this is Arthur's hour. Arthur tosses his lance to me, dismounts and draws his sword.
His eyes are on the girl and she knows his cold desire.
of armed horsemen, we shift uneasily in our saddles as our mounts stand patiently in the snow. We are waiting on Arthur. He kicks his mare forward a few paces and the girl feels the point of his lance prick her shoulder. Blood trickles over skin. She shudders and looks about wildly.
'Come on.' Max grabbed Emlyn's arm and pulled him deeper into the wood.
'We're making too much noise.'
'In case you didn'a notice,' said Max, 'I left ma cape and hover jet-pack in the phone box opposite the church.'
'If the McCrossans are about we'll be...'
'Lawrence McCrossan's at The Swan, sucking on a pint,' said Max. 'I checked on the way over. And the old man - he'll be at home, parked in front of the telly.'
Pausing every twenty or so paces to listen, they worked their way between the trees to the grass mound, where Emlyn cast about in the moonlight. After a few minutes he pointed at the ground.
'There - see?'
'Not really,' said Max.
'A torch'd be real handy now.'
'Look, buster, it wasn'a me that dropped the bloody thing.'
'You knocked it out of my hand.'
'An' you switched it on.'
'McCrossan's down the pub,' said Emlyn. 'What's your problem?'
Max started down the hillock.
'Wait up! Just wait up - okay?'
Emlyn strode to a hazel brake at the edge of the clearing. Snapping one of the slender branches at the base, he pulled out a small jackknife, flicked it open and hacked at the wood. Once it was free, he sharpened the thick end to a rough point, walked back, and plunged it into the turf. The stick vibrated, jarring his arms.
'See!' He was almost shouting.
'Shusshh! Keep your voice down. See what?'
'Shove it into the ground,' he said, handing Max the stick. 'No, here!'
Max's hand vibrated. 'What is it?'
'There - that line - and there! The turves have been cut - laid.'
Max leant closer. A shadowy patchwork of lines and indents crisscrossed the mound under the slanting moonlight. Dropping to her knees, she began pulling at the turf.
'Hang on!' said Emlyn. 'They'll know we've been here.'
Max sat back on her haunches, while Emlyn carefully lifted a section of turf and laid it gently to one side. 'Seems like ... stone,' he said, feeling around in the void.
Max ferreted in her pack. Emlyn heard the rasp of a match and for a moment they were staring at a patch of damp slate.
'Matches? Great!'
'An' a candle,' she said, lighting it.
Emlyn lifted three more sods, placing them gently alongside the first. The wavering flame showed a brass ring, green with age and verdigris. Emlyn heaved on it. The slate grated, rising slowly until he tipped it to one side.
A deeper darkness stared up at the night sky. He reached for the candle and then lay on his stomach, his head and shoulders in the opening. Pushing himself up off the grass, he gave a backward nod. 'Looks as if the passage runs in that direction.'
'What is this place?' said Max. 'What was it used for?'
'Probably a Bronze Age tumulus,' said Emlyn casually. She stared at him. 'A tomb. An ancient burial mound.'
'Get outta here.'
'No, really.'
'Right. Who's going in then?' said Max. Emlyn hesitated and shook his head. 'Gi's it here,' she sighed. 'And the matches.'
She lowered herself into the hole, ducked and was gone.
stone dyke, they were in the spinney, the sound of their feet on the leaf litter pricking at the darkness. A branch snapped under Emlyn's heel and he halted. Lawrence McCrossan's singing echoed faintly in his head.
Max stooped to avoid banging her head. Using her left hand, she groped her way along the passage wall. A joint in the stonework snagged her fingernail, tearing it, and she cursed under her breath. Above and all around her the massive stone slabs compressed the darkness until she could taste it. Several paces on, the wall curved away to the left and she stumbled to a halt, inching the candle higher. The flame revealed a chamber no more than five or six paces across. Ahead, the passage ran on into blackness. On either side were two smaller openings, inky holes in the darkness.
Max tried to visualise what it would look like if the roof was lifted off - a cross imposed over a circle came to mind - but the image made her think of the tons of earth above and she cowered down, her back against the wall. Her foot knocked something hollow-sounding, sending it clattering across the slate floor. Just as she leant forward and her fingers closed over wood, Emlyn's harsh whisper echoed along the passage.
'Someone's coming. I'll get you out later.'
Swinging around, her hand knocked the wall, sending the candle spinning to the ground, where it flared briefly and guttered. The last thing she heard as she groped for the waxy stub was the dull scrape of slate being dragged across the entrance.
The sound of an engine drifted across the fields. Emlyn assumed the vehicle was down on the road, but as the sound grew louder he realised it was coming from the woods further up the valley. Whoever it was drove slowly and without lights. Suddenly, he realised he could no longer hear the motor. A persistent swishing noise came through the trees. At first he thought it was the wind, until he realised it was the sound of tyres rolling over waterlogged turf. The faint snick of a car door opening drifted across.
They would be on him any minute.
Emlyn ducked his head into the hole and rasped, 'Somebody's coming. I'll get you out later.'
Working quickly, he replaced the slate and then the turf. Looks disturbed, he thought, but it'll have to do. He pushed at some of the lumpier bits with his foot. Damn! There was no way they wouldn't spot it. He gave a final prod at a raised edge, then dropped to a crouch and hurried across to the other side of the clearing, pausing briefly to listen before he stepped into the trees. Dead twigs crackled underfoot. He would be heard crashing about before he could hide.
A shallow ditch filled with last winter's leaves ran in a crescent shape at the foot of the mound. It would have to do. He lay down on his back, tucked the whiteness of his scarf away, and covered himself with leaves. He blinked up at the stars, wondering how Max was faring underground.
Close by someone hissed, 'Damn you, man, there's no-one here.'
'Your hearing's no' what it used to be,' came the answer. 'I definitely heard someone, I tell you.'
The McCrossans, thought Emlyn, as he listened to the two men move around to the far side of the mound. A torch beam flicked on. Now we're really screwed.
'What did I tell you?' The voice was reedy, bird-like. 'Somebody's been fossicking.'
Ol'man McCrossan.
Minutes passed and Emlyn heard the familiar grate of slate on rock. Jeezus, he thought, they're opening the mound. Now we're well and truly bollixed.
'I'll take a look around - while you're down below.'
'Who said I was going down? You've years on me.'
'You know how I feel about going in there,' said the younger man.
'Achh, yer great jessie, gi's the bloody torch.'
There was a clatter as something heavy hit stone and Emlyn jumped. On the far side of the mound someone cursed.
'You trying to vex me on purpose? Gi's your lighter - if you can pass that without dropping it?'
They've dropped their torch, thought Emlyn. Please God, let it be broken. Two torches in one night; the chances weren't good. He strained his ears, listening. A frantic clicking carried over the mound to where he lay.
'Globe's gone.'
'Whoever it was, they could still be around. I'll take a look.'
'Aye, you do that, eh.'
Before Emlyn knew it, Lawrence McCrossan was towering above the ditch, stock-still, staring off into the trees. Emlyn felt he would suffocate as he tried to push his breathing a notch lower. His cheek was pressed into the leaf mould, inches away from the gamekeeper's boot. The glassy surface of the toecap held a reflection: the tiny silver coin of the moon. Emlyn stared into its depths aware that at any moment a violent shiver would give him away.
Without warning, the gleaming toe-cap disappeared as the gamekeeper grunted and stepped over the ditch, missing the leaf-strewn form by a stride. A branch cracked in the distance, and, as a bout of shivering passed through Emlyn and he sucked the dank night air deep into his lungs, rustling his leafy covering, the thought came to him how remarkably quiet McCrossan was for such a bulky man.
Max's instinct was to scramble from the chamber and run, but the heavy slate blocked her escape. The wooden carving she had grabbed seconds before was still in her hand. She tried to make out its shape, feeling the texture, trying to calm herself, trying to push away the fear, but she couldn't concentrate on what she held. Shoving it into her coat, she said, 'I'll light the candle.' In her other pocket was the book of matches. But her hands were too shaky. She gave up and settled against the wall to wait. Minutes passed; time became fluid, an extension of the blackness around her.
A cold draught eddied around her face.
It was several seconds before she realised that someone was pulling back the slate. Relief surged through her: Emlyn was getting her out. She shuffled forward on her hands and knees. Near the entrance something heavy clattered onto stone. Max froze. Someone had dropped down into the passage.
'Globe's gone.' Ol'man McCrossan's voice echoed in the darkness.
Logic told her that she was separated from the speaker by the distance of the passage, but kneeling there she felt that if she reached out she would be able to touch him. She shuddered. There was the insect-like sound of a lighter being struck several times.
Max felt her way down the side passage until she could go no further. A slab of stone was blocking her way. She ran her fingers over it and felt it disappear downwards beyond her reach, a cold slash across the passage. One of the great roof stones must have caved in, she thought. Squatting down, she waved her arm blindly into the triangular void beneath the stone and crawled into the space. Squashed beneath the fallen lintel, the damp rock pressed her face sideways, forcing her to look back the way she had come.
A wavering light licked at the walls. Huge shadows swallowed the roof. Ol'man McCrossan's silhouette blocked the chamber as he squatted with his back to her. A sharp, strangled breath sucked at the darkness, making Max jump. Sensing the urgency in his voice, she shrank deeper into her hiding place as the lighter flame swung wildly, this way and that.
'Damn and blast!' he croaked and spun on his heels. 'One's gone.'
Somewhere out in the spinney a gun went off. Max gasped. They were shooting at Emlyn!
'What the-' Ol'man McCrossan launched himself upright. Bone cracked on rock and he sank down again, rubbing his head, until, cursing, he fumbled his way back to the entrance.
Max took a breath and let it out slowly. It was hard to believe what she had seen arranged in a circle on the heavy flagstones, hard to trust her memory and the flickering light of the candle. But seen it, she had. Ol'man McCrossan's reaction confirmed that. Her hand went instinctively to her pocket and she felt the small lumpy shape against her thigh.
In the pitch black the image wavered in front of her eyes. Twenty or so squat, crudely carved wooden horsemen. No more than palm high, they had been arranged neatly in a circle like toy soldiers in some four-year-old's nursery game.
The Stone Crown will be available in UK bookshops from 2 November 200.
UK and US readers can pre-order the novel here
