township.
‘You’ll be billeted in the guards’ quarters until Merovech and the allied kings are ready to give you an audience,’ Gwylym explained, as Myrddion climbed down from the wagon’s high seat. ‘Don’t fear for your possessions. As you can see, the king’s guards are always alert and no one would dare to filch anything from one of the king’s guests.’
Myrddion nodded, but snatched up his satchel and a small pack of personal possessions as he gazed around at the narrow, looming buildings. The upper storeys, where the healers were to sleep, were built of wood, and as Myrddion and his followers negotiated a set of narrow, ladder-like stairs their nostrils were assaulted by the mingled smells of dried fish, cooked cabbage and male sweat. Myrddion’s nose wrinkled with distaste.
‘If you wish to bathe, a well is situated behind this building,’ Gwylym added from the ground floor. ‘I’m afraid that no Roman epicures dwell in Châlons.’ Then he disappeared into the shadowy interior, his rasping chuckle trailing behind him like a crude insult.
Myrddion examined the bleak room with misgiving. It lay directly under the roof and he could barely stand upright without striking his head on the pegged rafters. Straw had been laid out for pallets, but the mice had found it first, and the dim recesses of the room reeked of urine and the musty smell of long dead vermin.The raw wooden walls were unpainted and the floors could be seen to be slick with grease wherever they were exposed to the light.
Only a few pieces of rickety furniture provided an inadequate promise of comfort. A pair of home-made stools that canted alarmingly off centre, a table with inexpertly formed, uneven legs and a piece of oiled cloth nailed over the single window to keep out the inclement weather completed the depressing list of the room’s appointments.
‘Rhedyn, find out where food is prepared, will you?’ Myrddion asked once the women had trooped doubtfully into their new quarters. ‘And we’ll need water, Finn! You always know where to winkle out buckets.’ He glanced around the stuffy room and absorbed the appalling lack of cleanliness and hygiene. ‘Cadoc, see about a broom, or anything that will help us to clean this pigsty. The place stinks of piss and sweat.’
Two of the widows, Brangaine and Bridie, were soon at work, clearing the floor bare of the malodorous hay and then scrubbing the wooden boards, the table and the stools with stiff brushes made of boar’s hair. The air soon became golden as motes of hay, dust and the accumulated grime of many years began to float through the room. When Brangaine set off in pursuit of a mouse, her switch broom wielded with murderous intent and Willa giggling at the fuss, Myrddion decided that he would explore the small cul-de-sac until the widows had imposed order on their new quarters.
When they had first arrived, the healer had noted that the bones of the buildings in the small cobbled street were Roman in style, but a local twist invested the narrow stone facades with an exotic, purely Gallic appearance. Wooden shutters gave the windows an odd, blind look that was strangely unsettling. More surprising to Myrddion, who was used to the grey, flinty stone buildings of hishomeland, was the use of coloured pigments which had been applied over the plastered stones in faded washes of pastel yellow, brick red and a peculiar hue of charcoal grey. The shutters were lime-washed a brilliant white that added contrast to these architectural oddities, and large, hand-thrown pots were filled with earth to sustain flourishing young lemon trees that were already heavy with tiny green fruit.
His eyes wide, Myrddion stared around the mellow buildings. A series of rough gates made of lime-washed wood sealed the narrow alleyways between them. Curious, Myrddion pushed open the gate that separated the largest structure from the barracks where they were housed and, to his surprise, the gate gave way
‘You’ll be billeted in the guards’ quarters until Merovech and the allied kings are ready to give you an audience,’ Gwylym explained, as Myrddion climbed down from the wagon’s high seat. ‘Don’t fear for your possessions. As you can see, the king’s guards are always alert and no one would dare to filch anything from one of the king’s guests.’
Myrddion nodded, but snatched up his satchel and a small pack of personal possessions as he gazed around at the narrow, looming buildings. The upper storeys, where the healers were to sleep, were built of wood, and as Myrddion and his followers negotiated a set of narrow, ladder-like stairs their nostrils were assaulted by the mingled smells of dried fish, cooked cabbage and male sweat. Myrddion’s nose wrinkled with distaste.
‘If you wish to bathe, a well is situated behind this building,’ Gwylym added from the ground floor. ‘I’m afraid that no Roman epicures dwell in Châlons.’ Then he disappeared into the shadowy interior, his rasping chuckle trailing behind him like a crude insult.
Myrddion examined the bleak room with misgiving. It lay directly under the roof and he could barely stand upright without striking his head on the pegged rafters. Straw had been laid out for pallets, but the mice had found it first, and the dim recesses of the room reeked of urine and the musty smell of long dead vermin.The raw wooden walls were unpainted and the floors could be seen to be slick with grease wherever they were exposed to the light.
Only a few pieces of rickety furniture provided an inadequate promise of comfort. A pair of home-made stools that canted alarmingly off centre, a table with inexpertly formed, uneven legs and a piece of oiled cloth nailed over the single window to keep out the inclement weather completed the depressing list of the room’s appointments.
‘Rhedyn, find out where food is prepared, will you?’ Myrddion asked once the women had trooped doubtfully into their new quarters. ‘And we’ll need water, Finn! You always know where to winkle out buckets.’ He glanced around the stuffy room and absorbed the appalling lack of cleanliness and hygiene. ‘Cadoc, see about a broom, or anything that will help us to clean this pigsty. The place stinks of piss and sweat.’
Two of the widows, Brangaine and Bridie, were soon at work, clearing the floor bare of the malodorous hay and then scrubbing the wooden boards, the table and the stools with stiff brushes made of boar’s hair. The air soon became golden as motes of hay, dust and the accumulated grime of many years began to float through the room. When Brangaine set off in pursuit of a mouse, her switch broom wielded with murderous intent and Willa giggling at the fuss, Myrddion decided that he would explore the small cul-de-sac until the widows had imposed order on their new quarters.
When they had first arrived, the healer had noted that the bones of the buildings in the small cobbled street were Roman in style, but a local twist invested the narrow stone facades with an exotic, purely Gallic appearance. Wooden shutters gave the windows an odd, blind look that was strangely unsettling. More surprising to Myrddion, who was used to the grey, flinty stone buildings of hishomeland, was the use of coloured pigments which had been applied over the plastered stones in faded washes of pastel yellow, brick red and a peculiar hue of charcoal grey. The shutters were lime-washed a brilliant white that added contrast to these architectural oddities, and large, hand-thrown pots were filled with earth to sustain flourishing young lemon trees that were already heavy with tiny green fruit.
His eyes wide, Myrddion stared around the mellow buildings. A series of rough gates made of lime-washed wood sealed the narrow alleyways between them. Curious, Myrddion pushed open the gate that separated the largest structure from the barracks where they were housed and, to his surprise, the gate gave way