The Boar Stone: Book Three of the Dalriada Trilogy by Jules Watson Page A
Authors: Jules Watson
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head, and rings flashed at her ears. She carried herself upright, but not stiff like Roman women, nor were her eyes cast down. Striding forward to cuff the barking dog, this girl walked freely, her arms and legs strong and loose.
‘Minna!’ Orla cried, and she hurried away, the woman’s gaze resting on her back.
‘The druids live there,’ Orla declared, pointing south. Minna squinted through the greyness at the ridge outside the dun scattered with thatched huts. On the flat of the marsh sat a circle of tall posts. Druids. She knew that word well, for the barbarian priests featured heavily in Mamo’s tales, with their incantations, prophecies and divinations – and the Roman whispers of human sacrifice and lewd rites.
‘Come,’ Orla cried. ‘There is more!’
Night fell early in the north. As darkness gathered, Minna hovered on the threshold of the king’s hall, her heart pounding.
The great fire roared and torches stuck into the earth floor spilled light over the chaos. Servants rushed past with armloads of firewood, and maids plucked chickens as they gossiped, rubbing them with fat. Others stirred cauldrons, disappearing into clouds of steam when they lifted the lids. People bellowed to each other, kicking squabbling dogs aside as pots and pans crashed.
Minna shrunk back, then forced herself after Orla and Finola. They were hopping around a plump woman of middle age. Her feet were planted at the hearth as if rooted there, and her fair hair was damp from steam. Her finger jabbed about, ordering people, weaving the pattern of dashing servants like a squat, red-faced spider.
The woman paused to grab bowls from a stack and ladle in stew, shoving them at the princesses, who ran off. One gimlet eye swivelled towards Minna, and there was another bowl in those rough, red hands. ‘Here.’ The woman’s voice was hoarse from yelling.
‘Minna,’ she stammered, pointing at herself.
The woman’s eyes were set close together, like matrons gossiping in a doorway, missing nothing. ‘Clíona.’ She mimed eating, as if Minna were an imbecile, before her attention was claimed elsewhere and she turned away.
Minna found the girls on a bench set apart from the bustle. Behind them, the rugs and cushions gave way to alcoves piled with pots and baskets, and pallets of rough hides for beds. She sniffed the stew, relieved to smell fresh beef and thyme.
‘Mama doesn’t eat this.’ Orla’s chin went up, superior. Minna knew she wasn’t a bad-tempered child, for she recognized hurt – as well as the defiance a girl cultivated to cover it. ‘Mama has wine and … and …’ Orla fumbled for the Latin words, ‘ chicken and oil and walnuts off the ships, and that smelly fish sauce on everything.’
‘ Garum, ’ Minna supplied, trying to hear through the din. Logs rumbled into wood baskets, and the servants shouted at each other, everyone large and ruddy – even the women. Eventually one voice rose above the others: Clíona. Orla and Finola’s faces fell.
Orla’s voice changed, her lisp deepening into an uncanny imitation of the older maid. ‘Mama has bathed in her hall and she is coming, so the servants must simmer down now or Clíona will box their ears with a spoon.’ She looked at Minna. ‘And we must be up the stairs and out of sight now. We bathe our faces in bed.’
‘Bed,’ Minna repeated slowly. Somewhere that did not shift on the waves, or stink of vomit. Exhaustion suddenly swamped her, down to her bones. ‘How do you say it?’
Orla told her, and Minna placed the word carefully in her mind.
At first Minna found it hard to rest among the unfamiliar smokiness of tanned hides. The bracken mattress crackled, wafting up a pungent herb that she fervently hoped was to keep fleas away. The thatch was oppressively low over her head; she could see each piece of straw gilded by firelight. The girls wheezed and, at the foot of the bed, the grey puppy, solemnly introduced as Lia, whuffled in sleep.
At least
‘Minna!’ Orla cried, and she hurried away, the woman’s gaze resting on her back.
‘The druids live there,’ Orla declared, pointing south. Minna squinted through the greyness at the ridge outside the dun scattered with thatched huts. On the flat of the marsh sat a circle of tall posts. Druids. She knew that word well, for the barbarian priests featured heavily in Mamo’s tales, with their incantations, prophecies and divinations – and the Roman whispers of human sacrifice and lewd rites.
‘Come,’ Orla cried. ‘There is more!’
Night fell early in the north. As darkness gathered, Minna hovered on the threshold of the king’s hall, her heart pounding.
The great fire roared and torches stuck into the earth floor spilled light over the chaos. Servants rushed past with armloads of firewood, and maids plucked chickens as they gossiped, rubbing them with fat. Others stirred cauldrons, disappearing into clouds of steam when they lifted the lids. People bellowed to each other, kicking squabbling dogs aside as pots and pans crashed.
Minna shrunk back, then forced herself after Orla and Finola. They were hopping around a plump woman of middle age. Her feet were planted at the hearth as if rooted there, and her fair hair was damp from steam. Her finger jabbed about, ordering people, weaving the pattern of dashing servants like a squat, red-faced spider.
The woman paused to grab bowls from a stack and ladle in stew, shoving them at the princesses, who ran off. One gimlet eye swivelled towards Minna, and there was another bowl in those rough, red hands. ‘Here.’ The woman’s voice was hoarse from yelling.
‘Minna,’ she stammered, pointing at herself.
The woman’s eyes were set close together, like matrons gossiping in a doorway, missing nothing. ‘Clíona.’ She mimed eating, as if Minna were an imbecile, before her attention was claimed elsewhere and she turned away.
Minna found the girls on a bench set apart from the bustle. Behind them, the rugs and cushions gave way to alcoves piled with pots and baskets, and pallets of rough hides for beds. She sniffed the stew, relieved to smell fresh beef and thyme.
‘Mama doesn’t eat this.’ Orla’s chin went up, superior. Minna knew she wasn’t a bad-tempered child, for she recognized hurt – as well as the defiance a girl cultivated to cover it. ‘Mama has wine and … and …’ Orla fumbled for the Latin words, ‘ chicken and oil and walnuts off the ships, and that smelly fish sauce on everything.’
‘ Garum, ’ Minna supplied, trying to hear through the din. Logs rumbled into wood baskets, and the servants shouted at each other, everyone large and ruddy – even the women. Eventually one voice rose above the others: Clíona. Orla and Finola’s faces fell.
Orla’s voice changed, her lisp deepening into an uncanny imitation of the older maid. ‘Mama has bathed in her hall and she is coming, so the servants must simmer down now or Clíona will box their ears with a spoon.’ She looked at Minna. ‘And we must be up the stairs and out of sight now. We bathe our faces in bed.’
‘Bed,’ Minna repeated slowly. Somewhere that did not shift on the waves, or stink of vomit. Exhaustion suddenly swamped her, down to her bones. ‘How do you say it?’
Orla told her, and Minna placed the word carefully in her mind.
At first Minna found it hard to rest among the unfamiliar smokiness of tanned hides. The bracken mattress crackled, wafting up a pungent herb that she fervently hoped was to keep fleas away. The thatch was oppressively low over her head; she could see each piece of straw gilded by firelight. The girls wheezed and, at the foot of the bed, the grey puppy, solemnly introduced as Lia, whuffled in sleep.
At least
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