‘Oh, funny people up there,’ the second cart man put in.
The woman climbed down from the cart and the three welsh people gathered at the head of the donkey.
‘My cousin Albric said he’d met a stranger walking on the hills over by Brecon,’ the second man offered.
‘Your cousin Albric’s says he’s seen a lot of things, and I don’t believe half of them,’ the lead man replied with a lift of his eyes.
‘Always in his pot is Albric,’ the woman added. ‘Don’t think he can see the inside of his own eyes sometimes.’
‘Now, chwarae teg, be fair,’ the cousin was defended, ‘he’s had a hard life, what with the injury and all. In constant pain, he is.’
‘More like he is a constant pain.’
‘You take that back.’
‘I will not. You shouldn’t be so quick to claim him as your cousin. He’s a wrong un, he is.’
‘He’s a wrong un? What about that nephew of yours, now there’s a wrong un if ever I saw one.’
‘Nothing was ever proved, so if you go spreading gossip I’ll have something so say about it.’
The cart man and the woman started shoving one another about and the second man stepped in to separate them.
Hermitage, Wat and Cwen just gazed at the developing conflict in despair. Was it them? They’d only just left one group fighting among themselves, and here it was, happening again.
‘So, you don’t know Martel?’ Wat asked at the top of his voice.
The squabbling stopped instantly, and it was as if there had never been a cross word between these people.
‘’Fraid not,’ the cart man shrugged.
Hermitage sighed, heavily.
‘You could try Lord Bermo’s place,’ the woman suggested.
For some reason the other two sniggered at this.
Hermitage looked at them all to see what was going on. Even the druid was looking rather alarmed at the suggestion.
‘And where would we find Lord Bermo’s place?’ Cwen asked, clearly as suspicious of this as Hermitage.
‘You’re in it,’ the woman told them with a snort. ‘Stand still long enough and he’ll find you.’
‘Is it this way?’ Hermitage pointed in the direction the druid was leading them.
‘If you like.’ There was more snorting.
The woman climbed back into the cart, shaking her head at something.
‘Good luck,’ the cart man called as they moved off. ‘Give our regards to Lord Bermo.’ There was much sniggering from the cart.
Hermitage suspected there was something going on that he wasn’t being told about. But then he suspected that nearly all the time.
With the cart gone, the druid led them on up the road.
‘This Lord Bermo then?’ Wat asked the bearded priest.
‘We do not go to Lord Bermo,’ the priest said, without looking at any of them.
‘Where do we go then?’ Cwen demanded, moving round to stand in front of the druid and bar his path.
‘This way,’ the man explained.
‘And what’s this way?’ Cwen persisted. ‘And don’t say it’s the way we’re going.’
The druid had his mouth open to speak, but Cwen appeared to have stolen his response.
‘We go to the village.’ He was back to his old, intoning ways.
‘Which one?’ Wat asked brightly as if he knew them all.
‘The village of the stones,’ the druid half sang, half intoned.
‘Stones eh?’ said Cwen, ‘they’ll be handy for knocking that beard off your head if there’s any trouble.’
The druid looked positively alarmed that Cwen should even think of such a thing.
She moved out of his way and the man tried to take a dignified step up the road.
Judging from the slight stumble, Hermitage thought that under the man’s robes his knees were probably shaking.
‘Just how far is this village of the stones?’ Hermitage asked after they had walked quite a way up the track. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be out in the open after dark, or in a welsh village. They both sounded pretty awful.
‘It is far,’ said the druid.
‘That’s clear then,’ Wat snorted.
Hermitage whispered to Wat, ‘How do we know if this is the right direction to find Martel?’
‘How do we know it isn’t?’ Wat replied.
Hermitage thought there ought to be more to it than that, but couldn’t immediately think what.
The druid paused and looked around, as if getting his bearings. ‘This way,’ he now beckoned them off the main roadway and into the woodland.
There was a track there, but only just. The thin line of trampled undergrowth was more like an animal trail than a proper path.
‘Are you sure?’ Cwen asked, clearly suspicious about being taken into the woods by a druid.
‘This is the way.’
Even Wat and John were frowning at this development. They clearly thought that being in the woods was not a safe option. Obviously you could be attacked on the open road, but the woods made it easier for people to surprise you.
It all seemed quiet and Wat took some time to appraise their surroundings and judge the situation. There was not a sound, apart from the calling of distant birds, and the occasional haunting cry of a buzzard, circling high in the sky somewhere.
Wat looked back down the road they had travelled and squinted into the distance.
Hermitage followed his gaze and yes, he too saw a rising cloud of dust as some force moved on the path. From this distance it was hard to tell whether they were coming in their direction or moving away.
Wat picked a nearby tree and with a lithe jump and a grab of a limb, hauled himself several feet above the path.
‘Quick,’ he instructed as he sprang down again, ‘into the woods.’ He waved everyone off the track and into the cover of the trees.
‘Who is it?’ Hermitage asked, ‘this Lord Bermo’s men.’
‘Worse,’ said Wat.
‘Worse?’ Hermitage paled at the thought of what was coming.
‘It’s a bunch of robbers, pilgrims, stragglers and the mad boatman.’
…
The path through the woods was narrow but seemed well used. It wound around quite a lot but followed a steady direction to the west. The ground rose consistently and Hermitage could do nothing but conclude that he was heading into the deepest welsh hills. The ones from which he would probably not return.
He had no time to notice how pleasantly the wood presented itself. Birds sang, the sun glinted through the trees and the smell of centuries of fallen leaves perfumed the air.
Nobody jumped out on them. No hideous fate presented itself. No strange animals, or two-headed people appeared through the foliage. It was all quite normal really.
The only thing to disturb the peace, apart from Hermitage’s worry, was the distant sound of a continuing argument as quite a large group trampled through the wood some way behind them, probably scaring the wildlife.
They had kept up quite a good pace, the noises from behind encouraging them to haste, but there was no doubt the pursuit was getting closer.
‘What do we do when they catch up?’ Hermitage asked. He thought that the group would probably be pretty cross at being left behind.
‘What can we do?’ Wat asked, ‘they’ll only want to follow us again.’
‘But if we do find the you-know-what,’ Hermitage dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘there’ll be complete chaos. They got into a fight over why we were going to Wales at all. Imagine what they’ll be like when they see what we have come for.’
‘We could be safer if they do catch up,’ Cwen suggested.
Hermitage gave her one of his questioning looks.
‘There’s only five of us, and one is a druid. That leaves four to fight off a whole welsh village.’
‘How do you know there’ll be a fight?’
‘There’s always a fight,’ Cwen’s conclusion was simp
le. ‘Strangers walk into your village, what are you going to do? Fight them off of course.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hermitage with weary resignation that there probably would be a fight. Or a simple capture of the strangers for hideous purposes.
‘So with twenty-odd of us, we’ll be more than a match.’ Cwen was happy at the odds. She turned to the druid, ‘Oy, You. How many people in this village of the stones?’ The man looked mightily offended at being addressed in this manner.
‘There are many.’
‘Good. How many?’
‘As many as are needful.’
‘Oh, very helpful.’ She spoke to Wat and Hermitage again, ‘Place in the middle of Wales, up in the woods? I’d be surprised if there’s a dozen. In fact.’ A thoughtful look settled on her face. ‘If we wait for our lot to catch up, we could probably take the village by surprise.’
‘Take it by surprise?’ Hermitage wondered why they’d want to surprise a whole village.
‘Yes, of course. The robbers can handle themselves, and the stragglers look pretty handy. And we’ve got John. We could hide in the trees and get the measure of the place. Then, when we’ve picked our moment we attack and capture the lot of them.’
‘Cwen!’ Hermitage was outraged, ‘what a terrible suggestion. How could you?’
‘Hermitage,’ Cwen sounded just as outraged, ‘we are walking into a strange welsh village in the middle of the hills with a druid. What do you think might happen to us? We’re supposed to be looking for Martel. Goodness knows what the beard in a robe has in mind,’ she nodded disdainfully towards the druid.
This only wakened Hermitage’s worry that the druid had his own devices. And several of them might be waiting for them in the village.
‘What’s the point of having the upper hand,’ Cwen argued, ‘if you can’t drop it on people.’
Hermitage shook his head in disappointment. ‘And when Lord Bermo hears that twenty-odd English people have captured one of his villages?’
This did make Cwen pause for thought.
‘You think he might send a great force to finish us off?’ Hermitage’s military thinking was like a smile on the face of a Norman; non-existent. But even he could figure this one out.
Cwen looked to the ground in a sulky manner, ‘He might.’
Hermitage said nothing.
‘But that wouldn’t be ‘till later. And we don’t know how many men he’s got.’ She looked to Wat for encouragement, but got none.
‘Nice idea,’ the weaver sounded placatory, ‘but I’m not sure starting a war with the Welsh is the best plan. Particularly not with the army we’ve got following us. The robbers might be robbers but I suspect it’s only against people who don’t fight back.’
Cwen scowled at this defeatist thinking.
Hermitage nodded at the reasonable approach.
‘But then again,’ Wat went on, ‘I’m not sure I fancy just the four of us walking into a Welsh village. Cwen’s right, the druid is one of them, and there’s only so much John can do. Not much point giving you a weapon Hermitage?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Hermitage confirmed in horror.
‘Then I think, reluctantly, that we have to wait for our followers to catch up.’ He slung his pack from his back and lowered himself to sit with his back against a tree.
After a moment’s thought, probably very different in each of their heads, Cwen and Hermitage followed suit.
‘We must go, we must go,’ the druid urged, seeing them all settling down.
‘We’re having a bit of a rest,’ said John, taking out one of his daggers and giving it a friendly polish with a wet thumb.
‘But,’ the druid protested.
‘A rest,’ said John, choosing his own tree and arranging his weapons comfortably.
The druid looked at them all impatiently but it was clear there was nothing he could do. He sat uncomfortably on a fallen tree trunk and watched them all, looking ready to get up and leave at any moment.
…
‘Hello,’ it was More who found them first. The old man sounded as if he’d just stumbled upon long lost friends at the market. The idea that he had been tramping through welsh woods looking for them had clearly departed his head some time ago.
‘Hello More,’ Wat said with reluctant resignation. ‘The others coming up?’
More had to think deeply about this for a while.
‘The robbers, the pilgrims?’ Wat prompted, ‘stragglers at the back I expect.’
‘Oh, them?’ said More in surprised recognition. ‘Yis, they’re coming. There’s been a bit of trouble though.’
‘Not at all surprised.’
It wasn’t long before the next group arrived. There was still some argument going on.
‘I did not steal your wretched shell, you stupid man,’ one of the robbers was explaining to a pilgrim. ‘What would I want a shell for? I don’t even know what you want them for. And even if I did want a shell I could pick one up anywhere.’
The pilgrim, who was smaller than the robbers, and heavily outnumbered, continued to pester and skip about. ‘It was here a moment ago, and now it isn’t. Where else has it gone?’
‘You dropped it.’
‘A pilgrim does not drop his shell,’ the pilgrim, who Hermitage thought was called Lanson, protested. ‘We guard them with our lives. I’ve had it for years and then I lose it just when there’s a crowd of robbers about. What am I supposed to think?’
‘That you’re a dolt who can’t look after his property.’
The discussion halted when they saw Hermitage and the others.
‘Ha,’ said Banley, gathering his band of robbers around him. ‘Thought you could get the gold without the rest of us eh?’
Wat sighed and rested his face in his hands.
‘You mean reach the relic before we can benefit,‘ the shell-less pilgrim corrected.
Noises down the track now indicated that the rest of the sorry band was not far behind.
Elard and Pord were next, proudly holding out Lanson’s shell, which they’d found on the path.
The accused robber simply smacked the rather small and defenceless Lanson firmly round the head.
Finally, of course, the stragglers wandered in.
Hermitage did notice that at least everyone looked a bit puzzled to be in the middle of a wood. There was clearly no army nearby and so perhaps their theory was wrong after all.
‘Good,’ the druid stood and surveyed the crowd. ‘Perhaps now we can get on?’
Hermitage dragged himself up from the seat at his tree and looked around to make sure he had everything. As everything was only his habit and the small devotional volume he kept secure in an inside pocket, there wasn’t much to check.
His scream was a quite a surprise to everyone.
It didn’t seem to disturb the wizened old figure that clung to the tree like a fungus. A sentient, smiling fungus.
The shape detached itself from the bark and skipped into the middle of the path. It appraised them all and grinned and clapped and skipped about some more.
Hermitage, Wat and Cwen exchanged looks. They now had a madman of the woods. Was there anyone left to join their group?
The new arrival hopped over to the druid and patted him on the chest. The druid nodded acknowledgement and the little mad man rubbed his hands in glee for some reason.
‘What?’ said Wat, in a mixture of enquiry, despair and confusion.
‘You are here, you are here,’ the old man cackled.
Hermitage thought that in another world, this new arrival could be More’s brother. His much older and much, much madder brother.
‘Yes, we are,’ Wat confirmed.
The old man was pointing at them all one by one, as if recognising long lost friends. ‘I have come, I have come.’
‘Excellent,’ said Wat, ‘we are here and you have come. Couldn’t be better.’
‘And I shall take you to your stones, Lypolix shall take you to your stones.’
‘The monk, the monk,’ Lypolix almost shouted for glee, apparently noticing Hermitage for the first time. ‘The greatest of them is here.’ Lypolix skipped with even more fervour than seemed possible. Or decent.
‘Looks like you’re expected, Hermitage,’ Wat observed.
Yes, thought Hermitage, his prophesy shining in his mind, it did, didn’t it.
Caput XVIII
Happy Times Ahead?
For a creature of very little substance, Lypolix led the party through the woods as if brushing them aside. The group’s own personal druid now took second place, and from the outside this must look like a very strange parade indeed. Not that there was room for anyone on the outside.
Lypolix had taken some time to place them all in what he considered the right order. The right order for what, did not bear thinking about. It was pretty clear that there wasn’t a sensible thought in the old man’s head.
Hermitage had to follow the druid, and Wat and Cwen followed him. Next came John, who did not take kindly to be given orders by a cross between a cast-off druid’s robe and a hedge.
The stragglers were at the back, obviously, and the robbers and pilgrims came in front of them. That just left More.
If anyone had been paying attention, they might have quite looked forward to a conversation between Lypolix and More.
‘Aha,’ Lypolix skipped and danced, ‘and who might you be?’
‘More,’ said More.
‘And who might you be, my pretty fellow?’’
Clearly mad.
‘That’s me name.’ More sounded very proud of this.
‘Well, well, master That. I can see you are of our number.’
‘Eh?’ It took a lot to confuse More, mainly because he spent most of his time confusing other people.
‘You shall have a stone, and it shall be named That. Down the ages people will visit and say “look at That stone.”’
‘No, not That. No one would be called That. That’d be stupid. I’m More.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids Page 14
