and his face was scarred, horribly, by what looked like an old axe or
sword wound. Something stirred in my memory then − something from one of
Lilla’s stories. For a moment the warrior’s one eye turned towards the woods
where I lurked and seemed to search them. Had I made a noise, or had the
moonlight caught my knife blade and betrayed me? I tensed and was ready to
spring up and flee if needs be, but he glanced away from my hiding place and
muttered something to the other men, which they laughed at.
After another few minutes, they drank
up and tossed the empty pots towards the trees, cheering or jeering as each man
hit or missed a trunk. One landed and shattered by my foot and I jumped, almost
giving myself away, but they were moving off behind the prisoners and in
moments were gone. I was just about to return to the villagers, when I saw
another man emerge from the trees, going the same way as the others.
This was no warrior: this man I
knew and I stared at him in confusion as I realised that it was Aedann, our
slave. He was carrying a spear as well as a shield, which bore the Welsh
Christian God’s symbol upon it. I stood up and was about to yell after him,
when two more Welsh warriors emerged, twenty yards behind him. They must have
been able to see him ahead of them, across the glade, because they shouted a
challenge at him. Aedann turned, answered them with a few words in Welsh,
before passing into the woods ahead of them and was gone. Minutes later, they
followed him and finally, the glade was silent. I was left alone to ponder what
I had seen. Firstly: the prisoners − some from the village and some from
Wicstun − being herded westwards, towards Elmet. Then Aedann, carrying a
Welsh shield. Had he joined them? Had he taken advantage of the raid to make
his escape? I turned back towards the villagers and found them still asleep.
Should I rouse them and tell them? No − let them rest − dawn would
come soon enough, with the sorrows it must bring. Then, we would go home and
see what had happened.
In the middle of the night,
Cuthbert relieved me from watch. I lay down on the ground next to the snoring
Eduard and waited for sleep to take me. As I grew drowsy, images from the day
flashed across my mind. I saw the horribly scarred face of the one-eyed Welsh
warrior chieftan leading our people into slavery and in my dreams he looked at
me, his face mocking, as if saying that I had failed these people and that he
had won. Then the chieftain vanished and next I saw Aedann, walking along with
a spear leaning against his shoulder. He glanced over at me with those
brooding, dark green eyes and then, after a moment, he laughed. ‘You thought I
was your slave,’ he seemed to say. ‘You fool: now I am free.’ A moment later
and then he too was gone and the last thing I was aware of, before oblivion
came, was the terrified expression in the eyes of the man I had killed and the
warm, sticky feeling of his blood running over my hands.
Lilla never mentioned that in his
poems.
Chapter Seven
End of Childhood
In the morning,
we led our charges back through the woods, eastwards towards the Villa. From
yet some distance away, we could see a cloud of thick, black smoke and fumes
hanging in the air over the smouldering huts and hovels of the village. One of
the buildings was still burning: the cracking and popping sounds the only ones
we could hear as we approached. At first I could see no sign of life: no
villagers, or indeed any Welsh raiders. As we crossed the meadow in which the
day before Edwin, Cuthbert and I had fought our first fight, we passed the
bodies of the warriors we had slain. They still lay in the long grass with
flies buzzing about them. A raven hopped about on one of the youngest men,
pecking away at his face. Then, when it brought its head up, I could see a
glittering scrap of bloody flesh dangling from its beak and I felt my stomach
tighten again, a surge of bile burning my throat.
Quickly, I led the
sword wound. Something stirred in my memory then − something from one of
Lilla’s stories. For a moment the warrior’s one eye turned towards the woods
where I lurked and seemed to search them. Had I made a noise, or had the
moonlight caught my knife blade and betrayed me? I tensed and was ready to
spring up and flee if needs be, but he glanced away from my hiding place and
muttered something to the other men, which they laughed at.
After another few minutes, they drank
up and tossed the empty pots towards the trees, cheering or jeering as each man
hit or missed a trunk. One landed and shattered by my foot and I jumped, almost
giving myself away, but they were moving off behind the prisoners and in
moments were gone. I was just about to return to the villagers, when I saw
another man emerge from the trees, going the same way as the others.
This was no warrior: this man I
knew and I stared at him in confusion as I realised that it was Aedann, our
slave. He was carrying a spear as well as a shield, which bore the Welsh
Christian God’s symbol upon it. I stood up and was about to yell after him,
when two more Welsh warriors emerged, twenty yards behind him. They must have
been able to see him ahead of them, across the glade, because they shouted a
challenge at him. Aedann turned, answered them with a few words in Welsh,
before passing into the woods ahead of them and was gone. Minutes later, they
followed him and finally, the glade was silent. I was left alone to ponder what
I had seen. Firstly: the prisoners − some from the village and some from
Wicstun − being herded westwards, towards Elmet. Then Aedann, carrying a
Welsh shield. Had he joined them? Had he taken advantage of the raid to make
his escape? I turned back towards the villagers and found them still asleep.
Should I rouse them and tell them? No − let them rest − dawn would
come soon enough, with the sorrows it must bring. Then, we would go home and
see what had happened.
In the middle of the night,
Cuthbert relieved me from watch. I lay down on the ground next to the snoring
Eduard and waited for sleep to take me. As I grew drowsy, images from the day
flashed across my mind. I saw the horribly scarred face of the one-eyed Welsh
warrior chieftan leading our people into slavery and in my dreams he looked at
me, his face mocking, as if saying that I had failed these people and that he
had won. Then the chieftain vanished and next I saw Aedann, walking along with
a spear leaning against his shoulder. He glanced over at me with those
brooding, dark green eyes and then, after a moment, he laughed. ‘You thought I
was your slave,’ he seemed to say. ‘You fool: now I am free.’ A moment later
and then he too was gone and the last thing I was aware of, before oblivion
came, was the terrified expression in the eyes of the man I had killed and the
warm, sticky feeling of his blood running over my hands.
Lilla never mentioned that in his
poems.
Chapter Seven
End of Childhood
In the morning,
we led our charges back through the woods, eastwards towards the Villa. From
yet some distance away, we could see a cloud of thick, black smoke and fumes
hanging in the air over the smouldering huts and hovels of the village. One of
the buildings was still burning: the cracking and popping sounds the only ones
we could hear as we approached. At first I could see no sign of life: no
villagers, or indeed any Welsh raiders. As we crossed the meadow in which the
day before Edwin, Cuthbert and I had fought our first fight, we passed the
bodies of the warriors we had slain. They still lay in the long grass with
flies buzzing about them. A raven hopped about on one of the youngest men,
pecking away at his face. Then, when it brought its head up, I could see a
glittering scrap of bloody flesh dangling from its beak and I felt my stomach
tighten again, a surge of bile burning my throat.
Quickly, I led the
Similar Books
