‘Say hello to your Uncle Dave,’ says Clough, but the baby’s eyes remain resolutely shut. He is very dark with soft down over his forehead.

‘How are you?’ Nelson asks Judy. She looks exhausted, he thinks, her hair dark with grease and her eyes bloodshot. Darren, on the other hand, who is now preparing tea in the kitchen, seems manic with happiness.

‘Bit tired,’ says Judy. ‘It’s hard work, having a baby.’

‘So Michelle tells me.’

‘He’s beautiful,’ says Clough. ‘Have you got a name yet? What about David after his favourite uncle?’

‘Michael,’ says Darren, coming in with the tray. ‘We’ve decided on Michael.’

‘Why Michael?’ asks Clough. ‘After Michael Owen?’

‘No. I’m a Chelsea supporter. My granddad was called Michael and we just liked the name, didn’t we, love?’

Judy nods. To Nelson’s expert eye (he has three daughters, after all), she looks close to tears. He wishes they hadn’t come. It’s far too soon for visitors. Clough, slurping tea and scoffing cake, is oblivious to everything. Darren has now taken charge of the baby and is looking with wonder at the wizened little face.

‘He’s very dark,’ observes Clough. ‘You must be glad he isn’t ginger like you.’

Nelson raises his eyes heavenward. Just when Clough is almost behaving like a civilised human being, he comes out with something like that. But Darren, who is undoubtedly red-haired, just laughs. Today, nothing can offend him.

‘Oh, he’s got Judy’s looks. And Judy’s brains too, I hope.’

‘He’s a grand little chap,’ says Nelson.

‘Do you want a hold?’ asks Darren.

‘You’re all right,’ Nelson begins, but the proud father has placed his son in Nelson’s arms. On cue, Michael’s eyelids flutter and he looks at Nelson out of big, dark eyes that are somehow oddly familiar.

*

As Ruth and Kate approach their house, they see a dilapidated car parked in front of it.

‘Cathbad!’ shouts Kate in delight.

She can hardly wait until Ruth has undone her car seat before she throws herself in her godfather’s arms. Ruth’s eyes prickle, and not just from the salt wind blowing in from the sea. She is glad that Kate has Cathbad in her life, a solid male figure (albeit one in a purple cloak) who will continue to be there for her whatever happens to Ruth and Max – or Ruth and Nelson.

‘Hi, Ruth.’ Cathbad comes towards her carrying Kate. ‘I’ve brought that book I was telling you about.’

Yesterday, Ruth had mentioned Dan’s letter and the reference to the Raven King. Cathbad had thought that he had a book about the mythology of birds and, sure enough, here he is, holding it out as if it is his alibi. But Cathbad doesn’t need a reason to visit. He knows that he is always welcome.

It is such a lovely evening that they walk down to the beach, swinging Kate over the little streams and ditches. The tide is coming in but there is still a stretch of sand, wide and clear. Ruth takes off Kate’s shoes and the little girl runs delightedly towards the sea, stopping occasionally to look at starfish and clam shells.

‘A water baby,’ says Cathbad. ‘Typical Scorpio.’

Nelson is also Scorpio, thinks Ruth. She’s never thought to ask if he likes water. He is certainly no fan of the Saltmarsh.

Ruth and Cathbad also take off their shoes and walk in the shallows. The water feels heavenly against Ruth’s tired feet.

‘Have you seen Judy?’ asks Cathbad.

‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘I sent a card but I thought they … she … might like some time alone.’

‘You’re probably right,’ says Cathbad. He looks out to sea for a moment, his cloak blowing back in the wind. Ruth is reminded of the first time she saw him, standing on the beach trying to defend the henge, looking as if he could stop the tide itself. Then he turns and he is Cathbad again, a middle-aged man in a cloak, looking slightly sad. ‘When you see Judy,’ he says, ‘will you give her my love?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘I cast the baby’s horoscope, you know, and he’s going to have a full and happy life.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yes. Yes it is.’

Cathbad looks as if he is about to say more but Kate runs up to them, her little feet soundless on the sand. Cathbad lifts her high above the waves, sadness vanishing momentarily.

‘This is a magical place,’ he says.

‘I know,’ says Ruth. Then, thinking of her prospective holiday, she asks, ‘Is the sand at Blackpool like this?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’ve never been there.’

Ruth explains about the invitation from Clayton Henry.

‘My friend Pendragon lives in Lancashire,’ says Cathbad. ‘In the Forest of Pendle. It’s an interesting place, by all accounts.’

*

In bed that night, Ruth opens Cathbad’s book and turns to the chapter on ravens. There is a rather horrible illustration of a black bird perching on a skull. She hopes it won’t give her nightmares. As a precaution, she puts on her headphones and tunes in to Bruce Springsteen. The Boss will protect her.

Because of its black plumage, croaking call and diet of carrion, she reads, the raven has long been considered a bird of ill omen. Great, thinks Ruth, I don’t think I’ll buy one as a pet. But, she reads on, the raven is a significant and benevolent figure in many cultures. For some indigenous American tribes Raven is a deity and is known as He Whose Voice Must be Obeyed. In many legends, Raven is a creator figure, sometimes the creator of the world. In Norse mythology (Ruth turns up the sound on her iPod so as not to hear Erik’s voice), the ravens Huginn and Muninn sit on Odin’s shoulders and bring him all the world’s news. The Old English word for raven was hraefn, which also means a premonition of bloodshed. ‘The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements,’ says Lady Macbeth. And, of course, that visit went spectacularly well.

But the raven is also a trickster god. In the culture of the Pacific Tlingit people, there is a Creator Raven, known as the Owner of Daylight, but there is also a childish Raven, forever performing nasty tricks such as stealing the sun.

According to Livy, the Roman general Marcus Valerius Corvus had a raven settle on his helmet during combat with a gigantic Gaul. The raven flew into his enemy’s face and allowed Marcus to win the fight. Henceforward, the general always had a raven on his flag. The Vikings too often went into battle under the device of the raven. Ragnar Lodbrok had a raven banner called Reafan. It was said that if the banner fluttered, Lodbrok would carry the day. King Harald Hardrada had a raven banner known as Landeythan, the land-waster.

The Norse names are making Ruth’s eyelids droop. She scans the next few pages quickly – Tower of London, Edgar Allen Poe, corvus corax … Then her eyes light on two familiar words.

‘It is sometimes thought (she reads) that King Arthur’s spirit left his body in the form of a raven. For this reason, Arthur is sometimes known as the Raven King.’

King Arthur.

Could Dan possibly have found the body of King Arthur?

Her phone bleeps, alerting her to a text message. She has a bad feeling about this, a premonition, you might say.

Keep away from Pendle. You have been warned.

Tramps like us, sings Bruce Springsteen, baby we were born to run.

CHAPTER 6

‘A summer holiday in Lancashire,’ says Judy. ‘You must be mad.’

‘I haven’t definitely decided to go,’ says Ruth, rather defensively. ‘But I’ve been asked to look at some bones at Pendle University.’

‘Sounds wild,’ says Judy. ‘I went to Southport once. Never again.’

Ruth sighs. She is finding Judy rather hard going. She has popped in on her way home from the dig to see mother and baby. Actually, it was rather a trek from Swaffham and Ruth is feeling that Judy ought to be, well, not grateful exactly, but at least pleased to see her. So far, Judy has not even offered her a cup of tea. It’s another lovely evening but they are sitting in a stuffy sitting room with the windows closed. The air smells of nappy bags. Judy, wearing stained jeans and a man’s shirt, is obviously conforming to the Ruth style of post-birth wardrobe rather than the Shona yummy-mummy look. Ruth doesn’t blame her for this in the least but she does feel that Judy could make some effort. She didn’t even laugh at the latest Clough story. (Last week Clough burst into an illegal gambling den with such force that he fell down two flights of stairs; the den turned out to be the local bridge club.)