Curiosity finally got the better of her. After Adela's shift finished at eight o'clock, she couldn't resist heading off to take a look at the site of the archeological dig, just a hundred yards from the hospital. National newspapers had spoken of the chance find, by a dog walker, of a bracelet and a sword, unearthed by a farmer's plough. In no time at all the experts were there with their gadgets and heavy machinery and within a month the entire field had been dup up. The find was enormous. Viking swords, axes, and jewellery worn by the slain warriors, were all unearthed. So too were the bones of the Viking warriors which had been slaughtered by a Saxon army which had proved far mightier than the invaders.
Adela grabbed her coat and put it on over her nurse's uniform. The evening bore a chill for it was late autumn and winter seemed to be fast approaching. Although the field had been cordoned off, and notices erected warning people not to trespass on the site, that didn't stop her. Taking a furtive glance to check she was alone, she clambered over the low fence and walked across the muddy field. Clearly, since the evening was so awful, everyone had gone off home or, more likely, to the pub.
Drizzle moistened her face and, shuddering, she wiped it away with the back of her hand. A thick mist had descended astonishingly quickly and fine tendrils swirled around her feet and ankles. She felt decidedly odd, and whether that was down to her heart problem, she had no idea, but it wasn't going to stop her exploring. The entire place had an other-worldly feel to it, but it was a world she felt she wanted to embrace. After all she was trespassing on an ancient battle site where hundreds of Vikings had been killed. The affinity she felt, and she did feel an affinity rather than fear or apprehension, was possibly because she was Scandinavian herself. Born in Norway, she had come to England to train as a nurse, but she she supposed that one day she would return home.
Adela stared at the boxes containing fragments of bones. There were skulls too and many of them bore holes and fractures, tell-tale evidence of how the men died.
"I wonder why the Saxons left the Viking weapons," she whispered into the mist.
"Tainted weapons. Cursed weapons. Touched by the hand of Odin and Thor and vulgar to a Christian!"
Had that voice been inside her head? Sounding like the voice of some old crone, she could almost have believed it came from right beside her. Shrugging, she glanced up, looking towards the stone wall that formed the northern bounday of the field. She saw something move and it was large enough to be a man, although she couldn't be sure because of the fog. Then, the mist cleared slightly and she knew that it was. "You're in trouble now, Adela." She turned to run, knowing with her heart arrhythmia, that would not be wise.
"Halt! I wish to talk to you, wench."
He had called out to her in Noweigian. She didn't run, rather she faced the approaching man. Oddly she felt no fear and some strange, invisible tug in the ether seemed to draw her towards the striking, dark-haired figure who strode towards her in full Viking battle dress. She stopped and looked up into his piercing blue eyes. How odd that a man with black hair should have blue eyes. "Forgive me, I know I shouldn't be here."
His dark brows drew together. "By Odin, how can you be here?"
"I'm sorry?" she said, responding in her own language since it seemed a natural thing to do.
"Astrid, you should be sorry for nothing. You are female perfection in every way, but how is it that you stand before me in such strange clothing?"
Her jaw dropped and she took a deep breath. "My name is not Astrid."
"Aye, 'tis Astrid, and you are my love."
"What?" she squeaked, unable to figure out what was going on.
"We were betrothed and due to be wed in Rogaland, the town of our births in Norway. Then, I came a-Viking to this cursed land where we were met by a Saxon army far stronger than we had anticipated. Thus, we were slain and I have wandered this foul place ever since."
She felt the blood drain from her face and a pain flared in her chest. "You can't be a ghost!"
He tore at his long hair. "I should not be here. I should be feasting with my men in the Hall of Valhalla. I saw the Valkyries come for the others, but they did not take me."
Astrid sucked in a breath. It was a wonder she hadn't fainted away.
"I suppose I must blame my Saxon mother. She tutored me in the ways of Christianity and tried to persuade me to adopt her religion. I sided with my father and chose to believe in our Norse gods, but I can only think that my belief was not strong enough. Odin does not want me and so I wander this land as a lost soul." He clenched his fists. "I want to feel, and eat, and laugh, and couple." He held out his hand. "I want you in my bed, Astrid. I want to love you."
"I am not Astrid. My name is Adela."
"I see your beautiful soul, Adela. I would know you anywhere. Come to me and touch my hand."
She didn't, but that did not stop him coming to her and, when he moved to put his arm around her waist, it went straight through her body. Scared out of her wits, she took to her heels, not realising that she ran into the woodland area and not back to the road.
  ****
She ran along the woodland track as daylight gave way to the darkness of evening. Finally, the pain in her chest made her drop to her knees. When the tap came on her shoulder, she started and clutched her chest.
"Ye should not be exerting yerself in your frail condition, lass."
It was the voice she had heard before, and when Adela looked up, it seemed that she did look into the face of a wizened old woman. "I just saw a ghost," she gasped.
"I know ye did and a fine looking ghost he is too. I've been watching ye, Astrid."
"I'm not Astrid."
"Aye, ye be. Adela and Astrid be the same. Ye share the same soul, although your bodies are separated by well over a thousand years."
"Oh, God, this is too much."
"Lass, I am going to help ye remember."
"What? No, I don't want to remember. Who are you anyway?"
"I am Gwenfrewi, from Wales."
"What are you, Gwenfrewi?"
"Why, lass, I am a witch o' course." She put her hand on Adela's head.
"No, don't touch me!" But, it was too late. As the witch's hand touched her forehead the memories came flooding back in an avalanche of vivid detail.
  ****