by Jodi Taylor
We struggled on. The slope, steep to begin with, now became nearly vertical. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and not losing my balance. I picked up an old branch and used it for support. I used undergrowth and low-hanging branches to pull myself up the seemingly never-ending hill. It wasn’t a cold day and the wind had a soft drizzle in it. I could feel sweat running down my back. My breath rasped in my throat and I could feel my heart thumping, but I would not give in. I said nothing, gritted my teeth, and struggled on. One foot in front of the other. And again. And again.
The path steepened even further and for me, the last part was a nightmare. Why the bloody hell anyone would want to attack a hill fort was a complete mystery to me. Any warriors getting this far would be bent double, sucking in as much oxygen as they could get while wheezing, ‘Just give me a minute, will you,’ as the defenders peppered them with arrows and spears. As far as I was concerned, they could keep it and I’d live in one of the nice valleys below. The nice level valleys.
‘Nearly there,’ said Peterson, who was wheezing himself.
I said, ‘You OK?’ to Sands who was limping a little.
‘Absolutely fine,’ he panted, pausing to bend forward and rest his hands on his knees. ‘Bloody hell, please tell me it’s not much further.’
It wasn’t.
At the very summit, most of the trees had been felled, giving any defenders a clear sight of approaching armies. Piles of stripped tree trunks lay around, carefully wedged.
‘Neat,’ panted Peterson. ‘They knock out the wedges … and the trunks roll down on top of anyone who hasn’t already succumbed to … some sort of cardiac event. They’d be travelling at some speed, too. Impossible to dodge. You can barely keep your feet here. And look.’ He pointed. ‘You have to come up this way because they’ve covered everywhere else with brushwood and felled branches.’
He was right. Using the natural slope and the materials to hand, anyone taking refuge here would be near unassailable. Looking ahead, I could see where natural rock outcrops had been incorporated into high stone walls. We were nearly there.
The track broadened out and became well defined. Potholes and ruts had been filled in with small stones. The way was still steep but much firmer underfoot. The area had been cleared of all obstructions and obstacles. This was where any invading forces would be forced to fight. Right under the walls of Caer Guorthigirn.
We retrieved our bundles from the cart, which could go no further anyway. The last I saw, it was being incorporated into some sort of barrier. We stepped aside as if to rest. I wanted some shots of the hill fort itself, together with some of the stream of people still snaking their way up towards it.
More smoke drifted on the wind, catching at my throat and mixing with the rich smell of earth and wet leaves.
‘Wow,’ said Roberts, struggling to keep on his feet in his excitement. ‘It’s so much bigger than I thought. I used to play up here when I was a kid. It was right in the middle of a conifer plantation then, so we never really got the full effect.’
Looking ahead, I could see two vast enclosures – one to the right and one to the left, both enclosed by revetments – dry stone walls. So that settled that argument. Although in whose favour I’d have to wait and see.
Between the two enclosures, the path became a passage and dipped sharply, exposing any attackers attempting to access the main gate to heavy fire from above. The passage was about twenty yards long, no more than a cart-width wide, and ended at a pair of heavy wooden gates.
A group of armed men stood there, urging people through as quickly as possible.
I had a sudden panic over whether we would be required to identify ourselves, but these were simpler times. Protection and shelter were offered to everyone.
They let us through and once inside we were ushered very firmly towards the right-hand enclosure. Along with civilians and other animals. They should have had a sign saying, ‘Expendable people this way.’ With an arrow.
Fighting men were mustering to the left, in the smaller and more heavily fortified area. I caught a quick glimpse of some thirty or forty thatched round huts before the pressure of people behind me pushed me away and into our enclosure. My guess was that in normal times, people lived in the smaller enclosure, and this larger one was used for working and keeping animals.
We paused just inside the entrance and looked around us.
‘We need to establish ourselves some territory,’ said Markham. ‘A base for our possessions, such as they are, and a place to gather if we get separated.’
I glanced around. We stood in a large, open space, enclosed by a stone wall. Not as high as the other enclosure, but for anyone approaching up the hill, the wall would still be above head height.
‘Not the front wall,’ he said. ‘That’s just asking for trouble. This way.’ We made our way across the grass to a quieter area near the back wall. From there, standing on tiptoe, we could look down an even steeper slope. All around us were other wooded hillsides, all in the russet and gold shades of autumn.
‘If it wasn’t for all the trees I reckon we could see my house from up here,’ said Roberts, grinning. ‘Or we could if it had been built yet.’
‘Where?’ demanded Peterson.
He pointed. ‘Just over there. See that smaller hill? Somewhere in the middle but nearer to the left. The house will be there, facing towards us. To the left will be the two barns. Facing them are the cattle sheds and milking parlours. We have two. We will have two. The silo tower is over there.’
He paused, staring eagerly over the wall. ‘I think my tree house is just …’ he sighted down his arm ‘… there. This is so cool!’
Peterson was amused. It’s a bit of a rarity for any of us to have family. Especially family with whom we were still speaking. Or who were speaking to us. ‘How many?’
‘Oh, it’s a big farm. Over two hundred animals all together.’
‘I meant in your family, idiot. Why aren’t you with them, riding the range?’
‘Third son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Surplus to requirements. And it’s a hazardous business, dairy farming. Me mam was dead chuffed when I went off to seek my fortune in the gloriously dull world of European History.’
This statement was greeted with disbelief. ‘You have a mother?’
‘And two younger sisters.’
‘Hazardous?’ said Markham. ‘You were a dairy farmer, for heaven’s sake. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘Have you ever seen the size of a cow? Up close? Right up close, I mean. I’ve been bitten – well, gummed and slobbered on – kicked, and crushed. My brother had a nasty chain-saw accident to his leg. You can roll a tractor – done that – me dad stayed the whole day at my bedside, waiting for me to come round and then tried to strangle me. There’s chemicals that make your eyes drop out and your lungs burst into flames. Then there’s the weather. Sunburn …’
‘Hold on,’ said Markham. ‘In Wales?’
‘Well, all right. Exposure, then.’
‘Can I just ask – what exactly does your mum think you do for a living now?’
‘Sit in a library, thinking deep academic thoughts, and not, in any way, getting ringworm, or poisoning myself with pesticides, ripping myself to pieces on barbed wire and getting tetanus, or finding myself underneath an angry cow.’
There was a thoughtful silence.
‘Actually,’ said Sands. ‘I think she might have a point. To the best of my knowledge, no historian has ever found himself underneath an angry cow.’
‘Give us time,’ I said.
‘Here,’ said Markham, bringing us back to the present and dropping his bundle. ‘It’s quiet and out of the wind. We’ll camp here and the second they’re through the gate – whoever they are – we’re over this wall and down the hill back to the pod. No arguments. Right – what have we got in the way of weapons?’
We’re not allowed to injure contemporaries – it’s a capital offence – so whatever we carry is for defensive pur
poses only. We had the usual stun guns and pepper. And hairpins in my case. If none of that worked then we’d just have to rely on the historian’s natural ability to cover vast distances very, very quickly.
Except that one of us had an artificial foot, one of us had a weak arm, one of us was missing a bit of one ear, one of us was pregnant, and none of us was very bright.
We made ourselves comfortable against the wall. From where we sat, we had a clear view of the entrance to the enclosure in which we were quartered. People were still hurrying inside, although the flow was much less now. Taking stock of our provisions, we had food for two days and water for about twenty-four hours.
‘There’ll be a supply of water somewhere around,’ said Peterson, confidently. ‘There must be, otherwise the enemy would only have to sit outside the gates and wait.’
He was right. There were two wells in our enclosure, both surrounded by muddy, churned up ground. One for animals and one for people as far as I could see. There were about eight or ten huts, clustered together around a large, barn-like structure in the centre, with haystacks and sacks of grain stacked against their walls. Across in the other enclosure, I could hear the ringing sound of hammers on anvils and there were two forges near us, as well. Away at the far end, about thirty greasy-looking sheep, a large number of pigs, and six small, skinny cows had been herded against the wall. Piles of brushwood kept them penned in. It’s always a surprise to see how small farmyard animals used to be. Some of the sheep were no bigger than large dogs and the pigs – these pigs anyway – were certainly not the fat, wobbling monsters we were used to. The cows were mud-covered and bony. They all had horns and were about as far from massive, glossy black and white Friesians as I could imagine. But they seemed docile enough. They all got their heads down and started grazing.
‘They seem very calm,’ said Peterson, talking about the people, I assumed. ‘There’s no panic anywhere.’
No, there wasn’t. People deposited their belongings and set about making themselves comfortable. Either the threat was small or they’d done this so many times that the fear had worn off.
‘Or,’ said Peterson, ‘they have confidence in their defences.’
‘Or rescuers,’ said Markham.
‘From whom? From what are they being rescued?’
They all looked at me.
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘I know that after the Romans left, the country was vulnerable and defenceless. The Saxons are moving in, but that doesn’t necessarily mean this is all about them. This might simply be some local dispute over a border or some stolen cattle.’
He nodded. ‘True.’
I looked at the scene around us. People were greeting each other, unloading their small piles of belongings and setting up camp.
Such men as I could see wore coarse, woollen undershirts with long sleeves and woollen trousers. Most wore some kind of belted tunic over the top. No pockets, obviously, but their belts hung with pouches for those valuable and important items. Most wore swords. They all had a dagger at their belt. Most people wore shoes, too, seemingly made of one piece of leather with what looked like an extra piece added for the sole.
Women wore linen under-dresses, again with long sleeves and drawn tight around the neck. Their sleeves were tied with string or braid. A second outer dress was fastened at the shoulder with a clasp or brooch, Celtic knots seemed a popular design. They also wore belts and pouches. There seemed little difference between men’s and women’s shoes, but I did notice that some women wore woollen socks. As did I, so obviously women and their icy cold feet are not a modern phenomenon.
What struck me most were the colours. I knew they used vegetable and berry dyes, and everywhere I could see various shades of red, brown, and ochre, although there was very little blue or green. To my modern eye, all the materials were coarsely woven and looked very heavy. Practicality seemed preferable to fashion, with women’s skirts finishing at the ankle to keep them out of the mud. Interestingly, not all women’s heads were covered. I made a note to try to discover whether this signified their single state, or their religious beliefs. Head covering became more popular as Christianity gained ground and I wasn’t sure how much ground it had gained in this area by the 6th century.
On our right, about fifteen to twenty feet away, a family with several children was unloading their belongings. Three loudly complaining chickens in wicker cages were carefully placed against the wall out of harm’s way. They laid out their blankets, as we had done, unpacked a few pots and a precious metal skillet, and set about making a fire.
It was done in seconds. ‘Wow,’ said Peterson in admiration. ‘Even Markham can’t ignite something that quickly.’
‘Bet I could,’ said Markham. ‘Shall I give it a go?’
‘No.’
My heartbeat had returned to normal and it was time to earn our pay. I heaved myself to my feet. ‘We should take a look around. We’ll split into two groups and see what we can see. Markham, Roberts, and Sands, you head off that way. Peterson and I will try to get into the other enclosure. Where the soldiers are. We’re bound to learn more in there.’
‘Excellent plan,’ said Sands, and it would have been if they had let us in. We were turned away, politely at first and then they shoved Peterson backwards and the message was clear. Soldiers only. Stay out. So we did.
We turned away and watched the gate guards urge the last stragglers through. They didn’t close them, merely stationing themselves across the entrance, but there was no doubt they could be closed at a moment’s notice.
Not that they would need it. Like all hill forts, it was a good position defensively. They could see any one and anything long before they were within striking distance. And, in my opinion, anyone making it to the top would need a good half hour’s quiet sit-down – and possibly even oxygen – before even contemplating anything requiring any effort at all.
We wandered around, weaving in between the little camps that were appearing everywhere as women got busy. Children ran around getting in people’s way. Many of the old men had gone to the front wall and were peering over the top, pointing and nodding. I wondered if they were reliving old battles.
I estimated there was just over one hundred people here, mostly women, children, old people, and their livestock. I had no idea of the number of fighting men and it clearly wasn’t a good idea to try poking around. The last thing we needed was to be apprehended as spies.
After a while, my ears became attuned. There was a great deal of what I took to be an ancient version of Welsh, some old English, from which I could distinguish the odd word, and even after all this time, a little Latin was still being spoken. Indeed, when I first heard it, a woman was telling off two small boys. I assumed she was saying that if they didn’t behave then they would be carried off by bears, but as we walked around, I heard it everywhere. Ursus. The Bear. Everyone was talking about The Bear. I listened carefully, but couldn’t make out whether this was a good or a bad thing. Whoever or whatever he was, he commanded some very healthy respect. It was only as I passed a large group of people all talking away at the tops of their voices that I got it. The pronunciation confused me a little at first, because they were speaking in Welsh and I was listening in English, and then suddenly, it hit me like a hammer blow.
They were talking about Arth.
Oh my God.
And now that I’d heard it once, variations of the word were everywhere. On everyone’s lips.
Ursus.
Bera.
Arth.
Arthur.
I felt my heart pick up. It surely couldn’t be … There’s no record of him fighting here … We couldn’t possibly be that lucky …
Peterson gripped my arm. Hard. He’d come to the same conclusion.
‘Max …’
‘I know.’
At the same time, I heard Sands say, ‘Max …’
And then, suddenly, something was happening.
A group of soldiers, armoured and armed, pushed the
ir way in through the gate, split up, and started around the enclosure, pulling out people, apparently at random.
No, not at random. They were lining up the men. Men who could fight.
‘They’re conscripting all the able-bodied men,’ said Sands. ‘Looks like we’re in the front line this time.’
None of them seemed particularly worried.
I was. ‘You’re not able-bodied. None of you is able-bodied. If we added you all together, you wouldn’t make a whole person. You’re all missing feet, ears, upper arm muscle.’ I thought of Roberts. ‘And facial hair.’
Now we were in real trouble. Not because of the actual fighting, although that would be hazardous enough, but because we’re not allowed to kill contemporaries. Not under any circumstances. We’ve saved a few in our time – and don’t think that doesn’t lead to problems as well – but we’d never actually killed anyone. We’d never be allowed to get away with it. If History doesn’t get us, then Dr Bairstow will. Even setting aside the question of ‘who were we to decide who should live and who should die’, History has very strong views about meddling historians. Terminally strong views.
On the other hand, we probably wouldn’t live that long. A pitched battle was about to be fought and none of my boys were up to spec in the body-parts department. Apart from Roberts, of course, and even he appeared to have stopped developing around the age of twelve.
I ordered them back to our camp, and we all clustered together, watching what was going on. There was no escape. Nowhere to run. We could only stand quietly as two soldiers approached, gave us all the once over and jerked their heads in the direction of the group of men assembling near the gate.
I watched them being led away. There wasn’t anything I could do and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Around me, some women wailed, but the majority seemed resigned. One woman desperately tried to hold on to her two young lads, neither of whom looked above ten or eleven. Two men pulled her off, but gently. She stood, white and shocked, and was surrounded by other women who took her away.
I stood alone. Above my head, the warm wind tore the clouds to shreds, trailing them across the sky like tattered banners. I pulled my thick cloak around me, more for comfort than warmth.
