Cover

THE LOST SHRINE

NICOLA FORD

DEDICATION

For the Crickley diggers

CONTENTS

1. TITLE PAGE
2. DEDICATION
3. CHAPTER ONE
4. CHAPTER TWO
5. CHAPTER THREE
6. CHAPTER FOUR
7. CHAPTER FIVE
8. CHAPTER SIX
9. CHAPTER SEVEN
10. CHAPTER EIGHT
11. CHAPTER NINE
12. CHAPTER TEN
13. CHAPTER ELEVEN
14. CHAPTER TWELVE
15. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
16. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
17. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
18. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
19. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
20. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
21. CHAPTER NINETEEN
22. CHAPTER TWENTY
23. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
24. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
25. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
26. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
27. EPILOGUE
28. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
29. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
30. BY NICOLA FORD
31. COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

The strengthening breeze rippled the newly green foliage of the ancient giants. His breath was coming in gasps as he made his way towards the stand of beeches that crowned the hilltop. He was out of nick, that was for sure.

It was unseasonably warm for the May Day Beltane ceremony. Beneath the full-length white tunic that he’d fashioned from an old cotton sheet, his leather biker’s trousers chafed against his skin. He hadn’t had time to change. They’d been expecting him and he couldn’t afford to be late for the ceremony. Behind him he could hear the murmuring of the small, ramshackle assortment of middle-aged men and women who had followed him from the pub car park in the village far below. He halted, glad of the chance to catch his breath. Then, he raised the gnarled yew branch high above his head and the crowd behind him fell silent.

‘Great goddess of the sacred grove, accept our libation.’

He lowered the staff and rammed it into the ground, then turning, beckoned a short woman sporting a faded denim jacket and Indian cotton print dress forward. She approached him carrying a small wooden bowl outstretched in her cupped hands.

As he took the bowl from her, the sticky amber liquid within swished against its roughly hewn surface, releasing the scent of honey into the warm May air. Three times he circled the staff before turning to face the trees. Then, raising the vessel skyward, he tipped it forwards, sending the contents splattering onto the ground in front of him. The crowd erupted into a spontaneous cheer.

Holding his hand aloft to silence them he began to move – this time alone – in the direction of the wood. As he strode uphill towards the small clearing at the centre of the copse he could hear the clamour of shouts accompanied by the insistent beat of a bodhrán, skin stretched tightly across its large wooden frame, rising to a crescendo on the hillside below. Brushing past ribbons and strips of coloured cloth tied to the overhanging branches, the spaces between the great, smooth trunks grew wider. Light filtered through the gently swaying leaves and branches in a hypnotic dance of light and shade.

The intensity of the sunlight cascading through the gap in the woodland canopy as he stepped into the clearing was overwhelming. His vision dazzled, he cast his eyes to the ground. When he raised them again he struggled to comprehend the scene in front of him.