Weaver

Julia grinned. 'The Germans have a name for such people, Constable Tanner. Useless mouths!'

George flared at her. 'They are English, madam, as you are.'

Julia made to snap back, but Trojan touched her arm. 'No, my dear, let it go. And besides, we have no wish to appear callous to the British, a people with whom we have no genuine quarrel, none at all. Constable, I'll see to it that something is done for the neediest. You may advise, if you wish.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Well, well,' came a familiar voice from the crowd. 'Just where I'd expect to find you, George – in harm's way.'

'Mary?' He turned around. She was walking towards him, limping a bit, and her hair was still grimy from the raids. But she was healthy enough. George took her hands. 'I wish I could say it's good to see you.'

'Yeah. Well, so much for fleeing; I didn't get very far.'

He forced a laugh. 'You should have stayed with me and hitched a ride in a Bentley. Listen,' he whispered, 'never mind these posturing arseholes. The invasion's not won yet…'

'Is that an American accent?' Trojan approached, with Fiveash at his heel.

George took a breath. 'Standartenfuhrer Trojan, this is Mrs Mary Wooler. She's a friend of mine, from Hastings. And, yes, she's an American citizen.'

'Ah. Then you have no need to hide amongst this rabble, Mrs Wooler. You are a foreign neutral, and your rights will of course be respected. Tell me, what brings you to Britain?'

'Long story. I'm a historian by profession. Since war broke out I've been working as a correspondent.'

He puzzled over the word. 'You mean a reporter? For which newspaper?'

'The Boston Traveller.'

'Really? Then I am very happy indeed to have met you, Mrs Wooler, at this propitious moment.'

Tired, grubby, she was wary. 'Propitious?'

'Come, please.' He offered her his arm.

Mary stared back. 'I'll come with you. But I won't take your SS-UNIFORMED arm, Standartenfuhrer Trojan.'

'Very well. But remember, I am not your enemy. Constable, would you lead the way?'

So they walked through the gatehouse and into the grounds of the Abbey, and past the abbot's hall and the cloister. George looked out from the terrace over the shadowed hillside where once Saxons and Normans had fought over the destiny of England; now German voices echoed there. Then George led the party back through the grounds, past the ruin of the old dormitory, to the site of the Abbey's first church. It was long demolished, but there was a particular point on the ground that Trojan wanted to see.

'Mrs Wooler, you are the historian – it is here that Harold fell?'

'As best anybody knows. I mean, William wanted his church consecrated here, with the high altar right on that spot, even though it wasn't a too convenient place for an abbey. It has no water supply; it needed a hell of a lot of terracing. So here it must be that Harold fell; there's no reason to have built here otherwise.'

The SS officer walked around the unremarkable piece of ground. 'How astonishing.' He smiled, at Julia, George, Mary, the soldiers who discreetly shadowed them. 'Then on this spot I give you my pledge. I want you to write this down, Mrs Wooler, so that it may be transmitted to the world, and to posterity.'

Mary stared at him. Then she fumbled in her pockets for a pen and a bit of paper.

Trojan declaimed, 'We of the SS have come here not for conquest. We come to liberate England, a nation with proud Aryan roots, from the subjugation of the Latin conquerors. And we come to avenge the illegal murder of King Harold. I, Josef Trojan, swear by my mother's life that I will not rest until that historic catastrophe is put right, and the Aryan destiny of England restored.' He glanced at Mary. 'Did you get that? Was my English adequate?'

'You Nazis really are as crazy as they say, aren't you?'

George held his breath.

But Trojan just laughed. 'Oh, not crazy, Mrs Wooler. I mean my promise to be taken literally – and it will be fulfilled, literally. You will see.' He snapped his fingers, and to George's astonishment the Wehrmacht driver produced a bunch of flowers, late roses, purloined who knew how. Trojan scattered the flowers on the spot where the last English king had fallen. 'For Harold Godwineson!' He shouted the name, and it rang through the English dusk.

XXV

By Sunday night the POWs reached Bexhill, from where they were to be moved on by truck.

They were crammed into the trucks, some German military stock and others purloined farm wagons, maybe fifty men to a vehicle. There was no room to sit or lie down. Ben was stuck somewhere in the middle of the truck, surrounded by a forest of greatcoats that stank of cordite and mud and blood.

The truck swayed as it drove, and he was thrown against the bodies of the others, and they against him. In the night it was pitch dark. There wasn't even a glimmer of headlights to be seen; the Germans seemed to be operating under blackout rules. The prisoners had no food, no water. And of course there was no toilet. You just went where you stood, and after a while the floor of the truck swam with piss and shit and a few pools of vomit.

He thought he slept a little. It was hard to tell. The journey had the quality of a nightmare.

Once Ben slipped on a puddle of something, and would have fallen. But a beefy hand caught him under the arm, and hauled him back upright.

'There you go, mate.'

'Say, thanks, I was nearly down in the dirty stuff there.'

'You're all right. What accent's that? Canadian?'

It was the man who had tried to help him during the march. Ben could barely understand him, and couldn't see the man's face. 'Um, I spent a few years in America. But I came from Austria originally.'

To his surprise the man understood. 'You a refugee from the Nazis, then? I saw plenty of them in France.'

'You were with the BEF?'

'Yep. Barely got out of that without my arse being blown up by Stuka bombers, and after five minutes over here I've been jugged. Not having a good year, am I?'

'I guess not. I don't recognise your accent. Are you Scottish?'

'Not likely. I'm Scouse. From Liverpool. Used to be a house painter before the war.'

'So did Hitler,' someone said, and there was a rumble of weary laughter.

'Danny,' the Liverpudlian said. 'Danny Adams.'

'I'm Ben.'

'You just hold on, Ben, you'll be all right.'

'Yeah.'

When the dawn came the trucks jolted to a halt, and Ben was shaken awake. The backs of the trucks were opened up, and to German shouts the men jumped down to the ground. They were clumsy and stiff, and many fell, after a night spent standing up. But they helped each other, the fifty or so men in Ben's truck. Within a few minutes they were all standing in a rough huddle, surrounded by German troopers with rifles, and dogs, three big Alsatians, on leads.

'Bad news, lads,' someone called on seeing the dogs. 'They've shipped their girlfriends over.' That was met with a snarl in German. 'All right, Funf, keep your helmet on.'

By the dawn light Ben tried to see what kind of place he had been brought to. He was in what seemed to be an open field, coated with green grass, on a raised rectangular scrap of ground. Truck wheels had churned the turf. The earth was cut up by grassy ditches, and the whole space was enclosed by a ruined wall. At the heart of the site Ben made out a concrete platform with the remains of a kind of cross structure embedded in it. Two Germans in the black uniform of the SS were strutting about this centrepiece, pointing at it with swagger sticks and gazing around at the site.

The air was fresh; he could smell the sea. 'Where the hell are we?'

A murmur went around the men. One of them, a local, recognised the place. This was Richborough, at the very eastern extremity of Kent. Another old Roman ruin, now in the hands of the Nazis.