'Nooooo! No… no… please, it hurts!'
'Oh, keep still, boy! You act like you've never suffered a haircut before!' Bell
pushed the wooden bowl back onto Cal's head and continued cutting at the hair
sprouting out at the sides.
Witney had offered the security they needed and now, after three days, they
were rested and well fed. Bell had stitched the tear that the wolf had made in
Usher's trousers, and offered a replacement for his tunic. They were now
comfortable enough with Bell and her family that Bell had insisted on them
bathing and having haircuts. The bathing had been cold but fun as the boys
splashed about in the river, rubbing off the worst of the dirt that covered them
with handfuls of fine sand. The haircut was the last of her demands and wasn't so
welcome.
'Keep it washed and short and you'll attract fewer lice,' she had advised
them, and, reluctantly, they felt obliged to comply. It was too dark in the
longhouse to cut hair, so they had all trooped outside where there was plenty of
light. As the stool was placed ready and the knives sharpened, the people of the
village realised there was entertainment to be had, and a large group began to
gather, eager to witness the spectacle, and of course to offer advice and
comments.
'Owwww!' Cal tried to pull away again but Bell placed a firm grip on his
shoulder to restrain him. He turned around and glared at her and then across at
Usher as he sat grinning close-by. 'It isn't even a sharp knife,' he moaned.
'Owww, that hurts, Bell!'
'Spirits, boy, you complain worse than anyone I've ever met. Hold still and it
will be over… all the… quicker… there!' She pulled the bowl away from Cal's
head and stood back to regard her handiwork. 'A good straight line all round, and
now your hair won't bother your eyes none… next!' Cal leapt from the stool and
smiled as a slightly less cheerful Usher shuffled forward.
'That knife will be all the blunter now,' muttered Cal, with a grin. 'It's going
to hurt worse than a sore tooth!' Usher sat on the stool and watched nervously as
Bell drew nearer with the bowl, then brightened at the sound of voices
approaching.
'Well, it looks like that old rascal Meryn Link has finally found his way out
of the forest,' said Bell, peering between the huts. Usher leapt up, knocking the
bowl to the floor, and followed by an angry shout from Bell, dashed towards the
old archer who had just appeared accompanied by Eden.
'Meryn! You made it out of the forest. What happened? Did you get the
Picts? Are they chasing you? Are you…'
'Slow down, boy. Give yourself a chance to draw breath and me the chance
to greet my friends.' Meryn ruffled Usher's untidy mop of hair, unaware it had
just been granted a temporary reprieve from Bell's bowl and knife. 'Ah, and there
she is, one of my dearest friends, Goodwife Bell. Why, Bell, you look younger
than ever. One day you shall have to tell us what spirit you keep trapped in your
pocket that grants you…'
'Oh, be still with that chatter, you old fool,' chided Bell. 'Bring yourself
inside and we'll try and put some meat on those sorry bones… and you,' she
wagged a finger at Usher, 'don't you think you've missed out on a haircut. We'll
be getting round to you soon enough.' They all trailed inside the longhouse with
Cal shaking his head at the luck of Usher's escape.
Inside, as the boys pushed past the door-skin, a large group of villagers were
already settling themselves about the central fire, eager to hear Meryn's news.
Bell passed Meryn a hunk of rough bread and set a bowl of barley porridge in
front of him. The porridge had been cooking for some time and was thick and
steaming. Everyone in the room heard Meryn's stomach growling as he cupped
the bowl in his hands, closed his eyes, and savoured the heavy aroma
appreciatively. There was a respectful silence as the old archer dipped in his
bread and used it to scoop some of the mixture into his mouth. Then he smiled
his thanks at Bell who merely nodded and took her place next to her husband.
'Well, I led them Picts a merry dance,' began Meryn, after a few moments
and a second mouthful of porridge. 'Killed two others, but there's still a few of
them out there. Don't think they'll be coming this way though.' He wiped the
back of his hand across his mouth and belched softly. 'I led them south.' He
glanced over at Eden. 'The lads told you what happened to their village, and
about the Picts, didn't they?'
Eden nodded. 'Aye, they did, but they had no idea why any of it took place.
Do you?'
Meryn shook his head, his mouth too full to answer. 'What news do you have
of Vortigern?' he asked eventually. 'Is it true he's gathering the tribes to keep
back the invaders?' He quickly scooped up more porridge as the village reeve
glanced across at Usher and Cal.
'Before I go into news of Vortigern, maybe I should ask our young friends if
they know anything of what's happening in our land. I suppose you know that
the Romans have all but gone?'
Usher nodded. 'We rarely saw Romans in our village, it was too remote, but
we heard they were leaving. Then we saw signs of deserted buildings close to
where Meryn was living, but we don't really know much of what's happening.'
'I can't say anyone really knows much,' said Eden, 'except that the Romans
have been slowly leaving for years. They've been keeping their local governors
in place as long as they can, but the last Roman troops marched out of this area
around the time we were sowing crops and celebrating the Beltane festival.
Since then we've been hearing of Saxon raiding parties attacking the coastal
villages. Word is that they're daring to come further inland.' He nodded towards
the door. 'That's why we've been building the wall; just in case they take a fancy
to raiding Witney.'
'They'll not get in here,' said someone from the back. Other comments
followed and Eden had to stand after a few moments to appeal for quiet.
'Anyhow, we have the Saxons, and now it would appear Picts as well,
troubling our people.' He turned his attention back to the boys. 'For many years,
our leader under the Romans was King Constantine. Constantine was a good and
fair man that had the following of most of the tribes until he died a few years
ago. Actually, word has it, he was murdered by a Pict assassin.'
Usher and Cal exchanged glances at the mention of another murdering Pict,
and there were more angry comments thrown about in the room. Eden raised a
hand in another appeal for quiet before continuing.
'In the place of King Constantine, Vortigern took power in the name of
Constantine's sons, which many thought a little strange seeing as the druids were
accusing him at the time of arranging poor Constantine's death. Anyhow, as a
king, Vortigern is neither liked nor trusted, and most that go to join him do so for
our land, not for the man claiming to be its ruler.'
'What of others with more of a right to be called king?' Cal asked, and Eden
smiled.
'A good question, young Cal, and that honour would go to King
Constantine's oldest son, Ambrosius. He would have grown to be a man now, but
the druids spirited him away just as Vortigern took the throne. We know not
where he is, nor if he would ever come to lead us. In the absence of Ambrosius,
most agree that Vortigern is leader of the tribes, and however reluctantly, it is to
him that we must rally if we want to rid our land of the Saxons.'
The discussion continued until long after dark. The current problems were
presented and debated, and opinions discussed on everything from the possible
locations of Ambrosius, to the truth behind the reports of invasion and, of
course, the murderous nature of Picts was considered and what they were doing
so far south.
Nineve and the other young ones had retired to their sleeping furs and Cal
and Usher were both yawning when Meryn finally declared his intention to join
Vortigern despite believing him the wrong man.
'His is the only force being formed to push these invaders back into the sea,
and hopefully trying to keep those blue-painted murderers back behind their
wall. I'll be leaving in the morning to lend my bow and do what I can.'
'You could stay here and help defend Witney,' said Eden, and there were
several calls for him to do exactly that, but Meryn shook his head.
'The problem is bigger than just Witney. I'll go to find Vortigern and take the
fight to the Saxons.'
Later, as Usher huddled next to Cal in their pile of sleeping furs, they
listened to the conversations that continued by the fire. The stories of battle and
daring becoming more and more unbelievable as the mead and ale jugs emptied.
The calls of disbelief and laughter that followed each tale got louder with each
telling. They heard several of the men claim they would be leaving with Meryn
to join with Vortigern and it appeared that quite a band would be heading out the
next day.
'What are we going to do, Usher?' Cal asked, in a whisper. 'We could go with
Meryn, but what about Nineve?'
'I'm sure she could stay here with Bell,' replied Usher. 'But for us, I agree, it's
going to be more fun going with Meryn, don't you think?'
'Yeah,' said Cal, in a sleepy voice, 'much more fun.' They continued listening
to the men's conversation until their dreams placed a blanket on their minds.
* * *
The tall Briton walked through the crowd of children, stopping from time to
time to peer down at a frightened snotty face, his expression holding a growing
look of disgust and irritation. He was clutching his long brown robe about him,
clearly concerned that it might become soiled should it touch any of the young
captives.
When he had first entered the large room, several of the smaller children had
seen he was neither Saxon nor Pict, and had run over to him, wailing and
sobbing, begging him to help take them back to their families. However, as they
swarmed forward, the two Saxon warriors who accompanied him had beaten
them back with sticks and the Briton had done nothing to stop them. The
children now realised that this man was as evil as the others were and they were
keeping their distance.
'No, no, no!' spat the Briton. 'None of these is child to Constantine. Are you
people listening to the descriptions given to you? Are you? A boy of some
fifteen summers? Half of these little rodents are girls' He stepped back as the
Saxon warrior he had been addressing moved towards him threateningly. 'Very
well, I'm sure you are… really,' he blurted hurriedly, holding a pale hand against
the warrior's chest. 'Take me to Hengist, this is a waste of my time and we have
plans to discuss. None of these is the child we seek. Get rid of them all.'
'Get rid of them?' questioned the warrior looking confused. 'Kill them, you
mean, or let them go?'
For a moment, the Briton appeared almost as puzzled as the Saxon. 'I don't
care what you do with them,' he spat the words with distaste. 'I don't want them,
do whatever you wish!' Wrapping his robes even tighter about him, he pushed
past to the door into the blessed relief of fresh air.
Once outside he took a deep cleansing breath and walked away from the
villa, glad to have the feel of earth beneath his feet once more.
Walking through overgrown gardens that until recently would have been
lovingly tended by Roman-trained gardeners, he was escorted away from the
buildings towards a hastily erected roundhouse. However, just as he was about to
enter, he was rudely shoved aside as someone from inside made to leave. A
protest for this rough behaviour had just formed on his tongue, when he saw who
had shoved him, and he thought better of it. The warrior leaving, dressed from
head to foot in black, was the unmistakable figure of Horsa, brother to Hengist
the leader of the invading Saxons and a man whose reputation for violence was
enough to cause most men to avoid him.
Laughter from within the building followed the huge warrior, and Horsa
turned back with an angry glare towards those inside. The Briton stood back and
tried to blend in with the scenery.
'Do not mock me, brother. I round up your children and bring them in, so
this… creature,' his gaze flicked across to the Briton then back inside the hut, '…
can pick them over. Nobody escapes me for long. My Pict dogs are plentiful and
I shall unleash more into the Weald to track down these puppies, but first, I will
find this archer and kill him myself, and then… then I want to make war, not
hunt children. I tire of playing these games.'
The Briton took a further step back as Hengist emerged from the hut to
tower over them both.
'I do not mock you, brother. I pity anyone foolish enough ever to mock you.
Go now… hunt. Kill; and find Constantine's brats.' He slapped a hand down on
Horsa's shoulder and the two brothers embraced, then Horsa turned and strode
across to his horse, mounted, and rode out of the Saxon camp. Hengist turned to
the Briton. 'Come, Silus, we have much to discuss before I meet with your
master.'
* * *
So far, the morning had been a pleasant one for Usher and Cal. Meryn, in
contrast, had remained sullen and silent since they had left Witney at first light.
The archer had drunk his fair share of mead and ale the previous night and was
obviously feeling the worse for it.
When Meryn had risen to a sober dawn, and realised none of the others that
had sworn their allegiance to fight the Saxons were coming, he became moody
and resigned to going alone. Then, when the boys had asked to join him, he
reasoned they would at least be company, and agreed to their plan. They were,
after all, old enough to make their own decisions.
They had said their goodbyes to Witney, with Bell gathering the children for
a tearful farewell. Cal had promised Nineve he would return for her, and that this
was the best place for her until he did; she had reluctantly agreed.
The weather was pleasant, with no sign of the previous week's rain clouds;
instead, by mid-morning, a warm sun was blessing their journey and the boys, at
least, were in good spirits. They were making their way along one of the main
Roman roads that stretched west across Britain, all the way to holy Glastenning,
which was close to where Meryn believed Vortigern was assembling the tribes.
Usher and Cal were trailing behind, practicing their sword play, lopping the
heads from dandelions and stabbing out at unarmed bushes, which they imagined
were murdering Picts, when the sound of running feet made them both turn
around.
'Cal! Cal, Usher, wait for me!'
'Oh no, it's Nineve!' cried Cal, crestfallen, as his younger sister bounded
along the lane towards them wearing a big grin. 'Nin, go back! You can't come
with us.' He spun around to appeal to the only adult in the group. 'Tell her,
Meryn, tell her to go back.' Meryn cast bleary eyes to the boys, and then at
Nineve, and shrugged. Dropping his pack, he slumped down beside the road,
clearly uninterested in offering any assistance while the boys dealt with Nineve.
'I'm not going back,' said Nineve, her lower lip quivering.
Usher put his hand out to stop her. 'Nineve, you really can't come. We're
going to…' Nineve glared up at Usher, and, before he could finish speaking, she
kicked him, hard, in the shin. 'Oww! You little…' Usher spun around clutching at
his leg.
'I'm not talking to you, Usher Vance.' She turned to Cal and her face resumed
its soft, pleading look. 'Please, Calvador. You can't make me stay back in that
boring village. We're the family now. I miss Mamma and Papa and I don't want
to lose you as well. I'm meant to be going with you, I know I am.' She continued
to look defiant but her lip was trembling. Cal opened his arms and she ran to
him, sniffing back a tear. 'Let me stay, Cal. I won't be any trouble.'
Cal sighed. 'Oh, Nin.' He glanced across at Usher but he was busy rubbing
some life back into his bruised shinbone.
They stopped at mid-day for a light meal of dried fruit, bread and hard
cheese, and then continued walking until late into the afternoon. Meryn had
fallen back, still sullen and non-talkative, while Usher was ahead, leaving Cal
and Nineve time to talk.
The Weald was to the south of them with open grassland to the north and the
Roman road continuing to run ahead, straight and true into the distance. Like all
Britons, they walked the well-trodden path at its side whenever possible. The
feel of cut-stone setts underfoot was an unwelcome disconnection from the earth
and, therefore, the spirits it was home to. It was also the major reason the Roman
villas continued to remain vacant long after any claim to them had passed.
It was as they were approaching a part of the road where the trees were
growing thick to either side around a large muddy puddle, that their journey took
a sudden halt.
'At last! Thou hast arrived!'
Usher jumped back into Cal, as the cackling voice came from the shadows,
and they collapsed on the road, both scrabbling to get away from the strange
little man who had leaped out at them. Meryn, awoken from the depths of his
sore head, dashed forward but quickly sheathed his sword when he saw the only
threat might be the ripe smell emanating from the unwashed druid. For his part,
the druid didn't seem the least perturbed by their reactions. He jumped about in
great excitement, waving a branch of mistletoe above his head with one hand as
he leaped from one bare foot to the other. The other hand was wildly swinging a
staff about; flicking mud into Usher's shocked face in the process. He suddenly
stopped and offered a toothless grin to each in turn.
'Thou art most welcome to my grove. I have waited for thee most patiently.'