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Authors: Sean Pidgeon
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she hears the familiar tone of mild irritation, shutting off the possibility of further discussion. ‘I’m a little tired. I think I’ll head upstairs, if you don’t mind.’
The BBC man is meanwhile bringing things to a close. ‘I would like to ask you both one last question. What, in your opinion, was the purpose of the ceramic cup? Paul Healey?’
Healey seems back in his element. ‘I’ll admit it’s a beautiful object, fit for a British queen,’ he says, the twinkle in his eye fully restored. ‘The presence of traces of blood might suggest some sort of ritual significance, but in my view there’s no need to look for complicated explanations. In the end I suspect it was nothing more than a superior kind of drinking vessel.’
‘And Lucy Trevelyan? Do you agree with your colleague’s rather prosaic analysis?’
For the first time, Lucy smiles austerely for the camera. ‘The chalice was, and is, a magical thing, that much is clear to me. Perhaps we should not attempt to interpret it beyond that?’
Lucy has the last word, and the interview is wrapped up. Hugh is now standing in the doorway that leads to the stairs. ‘Will you come up soon?’ he says.
It is a clear enough invitation, and Julia finds herself wishing he would simply take her by the hand and lead her to bed, as he would in the old days. ‘I won’t be long,’ she says.
In the end she stays up for another hour or more, finding unopened post to go through, counter-tops to wipe, things to tidy up, her mind racing all the while on Hugh’s startling reference to Caradoc Bowen and his poem, on Lucy Trevelyan’s vivid description of the woman of Devil’s Barrow and her magical chalice.
The Song of Lailoken
C UTTING ACROSS LONELY chalk downlands, the train skirts the northern border of Cerdic’s ancient kingdom of Wessex, crossing the line of the old soldiers’ road from Corinium to Calleva, then following the Vale of the White Horse as it runs through the lands of the Brigovantes to the east. To the right, the long escarpment of the Berkshire Downs marks the line of the Ridgeway path, for over four thousand years the most important road of southern Britain. Here on the grassy uplands, in earthy mounds and cold stone barrows, lie buried the greatest leaders of bronze-age Britain.
As Donald gazes out through the half-fogged glass at this landscape of rolling fields and curved green horizons, the soporific cadence of the wheels on the track carries him along the pleasant dreamy verge of sleep. He awakens some time later with a start, reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe a small dribble of saliva from his chin. Crossing the Thames at Goring, the train coasts on through Pangbourne with its vistas of neat suburban houses dispelling all sense of history.
At Reading, the carriageo t fills up with London commuters. It seems to Donald, as he watches them unfurl their salmon-pink newspapers, that these people are uncommonly calm, focused, in control of their professional lives. He tries to gather his thoughts for the upcoming meeting with his editor. Felicity will gently try to steer him, as she always does; they will have the kind of conversation they always have. He takes out his manuscript, turns through the pages one more time, still hoping to find the essential, decisive insight that will make sense of it all.
Meanwhile, he cannot stop thinking about Lucy and her excruciating television interview. Paul Healey, having failed to recognise the strength and agility of his opponent, came off far worse in the exchange, but at least he did not abandon all his scholarly principles. As to how Lucy was able to get sight of the Devil’s Barrow finds and then insinuate herself into the BBC newsroom with Healey, perhaps it is better not to ask. In some ways, Paul and Lucy make a likely pair; they are, after all, two of the most successful self-promoters in British archaeology. It occurs to Donald, with a surprising twinge of
The BBC man is meanwhile bringing things to a close. ‘I would like to ask you both one last question. What, in your opinion, was the purpose of the ceramic cup? Paul Healey?’
Healey seems back in his element. ‘I’ll admit it’s a beautiful object, fit for a British queen,’ he says, the twinkle in his eye fully restored. ‘The presence of traces of blood might suggest some sort of ritual significance, but in my view there’s no need to look for complicated explanations. In the end I suspect it was nothing more than a superior kind of drinking vessel.’
‘And Lucy Trevelyan? Do you agree with your colleague’s rather prosaic analysis?’
For the first time, Lucy smiles austerely for the camera. ‘The chalice was, and is, a magical thing, that much is clear to me. Perhaps we should not attempt to interpret it beyond that?’
Lucy has the last word, and the interview is wrapped up. Hugh is now standing in the doorway that leads to the stairs. ‘Will you come up soon?’ he says.
It is a clear enough invitation, and Julia finds herself wishing he would simply take her by the hand and lead her to bed, as he would in the old days. ‘I won’t be long,’ she says.
In the end she stays up for another hour or more, finding unopened post to go through, counter-tops to wipe, things to tidy up, her mind racing all the while on Hugh’s startling reference to Caradoc Bowen and his poem, on Lucy Trevelyan’s vivid description of the woman of Devil’s Barrow and her magical chalice.
The Song of Lailoken
C UTTING ACROSS LONELY chalk downlands, the train skirts the northern border of Cerdic’s ancient kingdom of Wessex, crossing the line of the old soldiers’ road from Corinium to Calleva, then following the Vale of the White Horse as it runs through the lands of the Brigovantes to the east. To the right, the long escarpment of the Berkshire Downs marks the line of the Ridgeway path, for over four thousand years the most important road of southern Britain. Here on the grassy uplands, in earthy mounds and cold stone barrows, lie buried the greatest leaders of bronze-age Britain.
As Donald gazes out through the half-fogged glass at this landscape of rolling fields and curved green horizons, the soporific cadence of the wheels on the track carries him along the pleasant dreamy verge of sleep. He awakens some time later with a start, reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe a small dribble of saliva from his chin. Crossing the Thames at Goring, the train coasts on through Pangbourne with its vistas of neat suburban houses dispelling all sense of history.
At Reading, the carriageo t fills up with London commuters. It seems to Donald, as he watches them unfurl their salmon-pink newspapers, that these people are uncommonly calm, focused, in control of their professional lives. He tries to gather his thoughts for the upcoming meeting with his editor. Felicity will gently try to steer him, as she always does; they will have the kind of conversation they always have. He takes out his manuscript, turns through the pages one more time, still hoping to find the essential, decisive insight that will make sense of it all.
Meanwhile, he cannot stop thinking about Lucy and her excruciating television interview. Paul Healey, having failed to recognise the strength and agility of his opponent, came off far worse in the exchange, but at least he did not abandon all his scholarly principles. As to how Lucy was able to get sight of the Devil’s Barrow finds and then insinuate herself into the BBC newsroom with Healey, perhaps it is better not to ask. In some ways, Paul and Lucy make a likely pair; they are, after all, two of the most successful self-promoters in British archaeology. It occurs to Donald, with a surprising twinge of
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