Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  More straw and dust floated down. I looked up. A face appeared, long hair hanging down around it. He stared for a moment and then shouted something over his shoulder. He was pushed aside and another face appeared in his place. There was the sound of laughter.

  Another hole appeared. Large lumps of thatch fell around us.

  I looked behind me. Three women and an old man were struggling to heave the sacks aside. A group of women and children clustered behind them. Around me, some half dozen women, single, like me, I guessed, stood looking up.

  The only thing that bought us a little time was that they’d made their holes in the highest part of the roof. Too high to jump and risk a broken leg because, looking at the faces around me, no mercy would be shown to any man unfortunate enough to be unable to defend himself.

  Two men tried to lower another. He hung for a moment, legs kicking, still too high to drop. I had a sudden idea, ran to the pile of stones, and began to throw them. Others had the same idea. I’m a good shot. Suddenly, this wasn’t somewhere he wanted to be. He shouted to be pulled up. His mates, laughing their heads off, let him go. He fell heavily. An old man pushed us roughly aside and stood over him with a rock. There was a nasty sound.

  And now, we had a sword.

  The old man, one-eyed and heavily scarred, picked it up, hefted it expertly, sighted down the blade and grunted in satisfaction.

  Over our heads, they’d stopped laughing and were furiously excavating. Even more lumps of brushwood and thatch fell around us. Surely now, they could safely make the jump. The roof sloped – where the roof met the walls was not that high above our heads. But they didn’t. They cleared the roof, tossing everything down into the barn with us. I could see the sky, hear the sounds of battle around us. But they didn’t jump.

  It was the old man with the sword who understood first. Turning his head, he shouted. The women at the door redoubled their efforts to pull the heavy sacks away. And then I got it as well.

  They were going to burn us.

  They would drop lighted torches down on top of us and this barn, full of hay, straw, wood, and thatch would explode into an inferno. And they’d wait outside the doors to cut down anyone trying to escape. We had to get out now. Or we would burn.

  I could hear men shouting all around us. There were a lot of them. They began to scramble down off the roof. Obviously they wouldn’t want to be caught up there when the torches were dropped.

  More shouting. And now, the clash of swords. There was fighting. Were we being rescued? We couldn’t see a thing. We had no idea from which direction the most peril would come. Were we now safer inside or out? I made a mental note never ever to be caught like this again, and then the little voice inside me, that one gives me such a hard time in the small hours when I can’t sleep, said, ‘You should be so lucky.’

  A movement caught my eye. I looked up. I saw a flicker. The next moment, a lighted torch dropped through the roof, trailing a stream of black, oily smoke, and landed squarely on the biggest pile of bone-dry brushwood.

  I ran towards it, hoisting up my skirts and began to stamp out the flames as best I could, cursing the fact I’d left my blanket out there somewhere. Others joined me.

  I stamped and kicked and scuffed and made no impact at all. The fire was spreading.

  Someone must finally have got the door open because suddenly a great blast of warm air blew around me. The small fire became a major conflagration. Flames roared hungrily, feeding on the oxygen. Someone grabbed me from behind. I could see sparks flying heavenwards through the hole in the roof. Terrified livestock were stampeding past me. I was knocked over by a sheep. Not what you want on your death certificate. Trampled by sheep. I could hear men shouting. Someone heaved me up, lifted me off my feet and ran. I was being rescued. I hoped.

  After the heat of the barn, it seemed very cool outside. The breeze was welcome. Someone laid me on the ground. Granny’s face swam above me. She held something to my lips and I may have inadvertently drunk the devil’s urine. Or beer, as the brewing industry would probably like me to refer to it. It didn’t matter. I was temporarily lost in the hazy euphoria of smoke inhalation and not being dead.

  I thought I’d only closed my eyes for a second, but when I opened them again, I was wrapped in my blanket, and Peterson was there.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘This brings back memories. You unconscious on the ground and showing your knickers.’

  I gazed up at him. ‘You’ve peed on me again, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not this time,’ he said happily. ‘With increased age comes increased bladder control.’

  I always thought it was the other way around, but he seemed so cheerful that I let it go. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Safe and sound. Everyone has exactly the number of body parts they started with.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Clean-up duties. Yes, the warriors get the beer and women, but they also serve who do the clearing up afterwards. At least, that’s what I told them.’

  I clutched his arm. ‘You didn’t kill anyone?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said indignantly. ‘We are professionals, you know.’

  I let that go. It wasn’t the day for an argument.

  It was obvious the battle had been won. The Red Dragon still streamed overhead. The dead had been cleared away. Wounded people were being ministered to. There was an air of bustle and purpose.

  The barn in which we’d hidden was smouldering. The roof was mostly gone but the walls were intact. Livestock grazed quietly back in their makeshift enclosure.

  It was quite a pleasant post-battle scene. I’ve seen worse.

  He helped me sit up. ‘Everything OK?’

  I looked down. ‘I think so. Scorched skirts. Correct number of limbs. Young Farrell kicking like a madman and a slight headache, but otherwise fine.’

  He passed me some water and I washed away the taste of the beer.

  ‘So come on, tell me. What happened? How did you all manage to survive both the Saxons and History?’

  He looked smug. ‘Max, we were magnificent.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, but how did you actually manage it?’

  He grinned at me. ‘We fought ourselves.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding.’

  ‘Well, there weren’t any badges or distinguishing features, and no one knew us from Adam, so we just turned and engaged each other. I took on Roberts, and Sands and Markham engaged in what must have looked like a death match. We all hammered away at each other. There were lots of flourishes and shouting and wild slashing, just to make it look good. Occasionally one of us went down and sprawled on the ground for a bit of a rest. We swapped partners every now and then, or had a bit of a mêlée when we got bored, and it must have worked because everyone left us alone to get on with it.’

  I stared at him in admiration. ‘Tim, that’s brilliant. And don’t tell me it wasn’t your idea.’

  He contrived to look brilliant and modest at the same time. ‘Well …’

  I wanted to ask how his arm had held up but at that moment, with an overwhelming aroma of beer, the others turned up, each clutching a jug of something unspeakable.

  I sighed. ‘I see Mr Markham has still managed to get himself injured. Did you hit yourself over the head again?’

  ‘No,’ he slurred with great dignity. ‘Been hearing about the barn. Did you really burn it down?’

  ‘No. Actually I was trying to put it out. I gather we were rescued in the nick of time. Are you lot drunk?’

  ‘To the victor the spoils. Big party next door. Came to get you. Just remembered you can’t drink.’

  ‘Too late,’ I said, remembering Granny and the beer. Peterson helped me up. I wrapped my blanket around myself and we followed our meandering guides into the other enclosure where I was finally able to look around.

  It was much smaller than the other and there were far more huts scattered around. The place was packed and everyone was having a great time. S
omething was roasting on a spit and smelled really good. I suddenly realised I hadn’t eaten for hours. Rough tables were set up with jugs of something awful. Piles of fresh-baked flat loaves were stacked in baskets, together with what looked like some sort of cake, dripping with honey. I helped myself to a large portion and immediately became smothered from head to foot in sticky stuff. Unsecured objects began to stick to me in large numbers. Leaves, fluff, dust, flying insects, Mr Roberts – even my fingers were gummed together.

  We found somewhere safe to sit down – before three-fifths of our happy little band fell down – and tucked in. I still remember the damp grass, the smell of roasting animals and baking bread, the excited talking, laughing and shouting. Mini battles were fought again so men’s families could admire their skill and daring. Young boys practised with sticks, showing off for their fathers. Even the dogs were back, barking and howling in the distance. Someone must have shut them up somewhere and the smell of meat was driving them frantic. All around us, everyone was having the Dark Age equivalent of a Great Day Out.

  Two small teams were engaged in a tug-of-war over a fire. They strained happily away to shouts of encouragement from their quaffing friends, and then the fire burned through the rope and they all went sprawling, to huge hilarity.

  As a further demonstration of muscle and futility combined, a number of young men were engaging in trials of strength. Stripped to the waist, they were heaving rocks around. I turned my back because it was difficult enough to concentrate as it was.

  There was wrestling and it was hard to say whether it was friendly or not. Even as I watched, two men crashed to the ground. Impressively, neither of them spilled a drop.

  At the centre of a very wide circle, another young man was juggling with knives. It should be said that he was very, very drunk, which was probably why he was able to get away with it.

  Everywhere was exuberance and fun, shouting and laughter, excited children, and very apprehensive sheep.

  We met Granny’s son. Ulf something or other. I couldn’t make it out. He was younger than I thought he would be, a pleasant-faced man with wide gaps between his teeth, and who seemed to be wearing all his children at once. One sat on his shoulders, one hung off his back, one was clinging to one leg and the last was freelancing around his ankles. His wife beamed silently at his side. He seemed to have escaped completely unscathed. Granny’s pride and relief rolled off her in waves. She kept gesturing to me. I think she was telling him about the barn. He smiled and nodded and said something to Peterson which, he later claimed, was an offer to buy me.

  And all the time, some kind of music played, some people sang, an awful lot of people quaffed, and we had the sort of good time you can only have when you suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself still alive.

  We should have left. We should have quietly packed up our gear and departed. But we didn’t. It wasn’t often that we actually had the opportunity to observe the aftermath of a battlefield. Most of our assignments ended with us racing back to the pod and shouting for emergency extraction. It was very pleasant to sit for a few hours with friends.

  Arthur had scrubbed up well. Gone was the sweaty, muddy warrior. His hair had been washed and combed, although it still wasn’t golden. More a kind of light brown. He wore it loose around his shoulders. Interestingly, he had no beard.

  ‘Ha,’ said Roberts. ‘Well, if Arthur hasn’t got one then I’m certainly not going to bother.’

  ‘Like you have a choice,’ said Sands, grinning.

  He was an affable leader, submitting to being led around the enclosure. A number of men were presented to him – I assumed they’d distinguished themselves during the battle. There was a lot of laughing and hand clasping. And he was approachable. Small children milled around his feet and he seized one and hoisted him onto his shoulder. His progress was easy to follow – like royalty today, he wore bright colours so he could easily be identified. His appropriately royal-blue cloak fastened at his right shoulder with a Celtic knot clasp. Beneath, he wore a red tunic which fell to mid-calf.

  ‘Are you getting this?’ enquired Peterson, softly.

  ‘You bet.’

  He didn’t come anywhere near us and I wasn’t sure whether to be sad or glad. Duty done, he seated himself on the ground along with everyone else and got stuck in.

  I have to say I caused a small sensation when I split open my loaf and stuffed a thick slice of roast mutton inside. I rather think I might have anticipated the invention of the sandwich by a thousand years and more, and cursed myself for not having thought to patent it. If I’d had my wits about me, we could all have been scarfing down ham maxwells. Or indulging in a crispy bacon maxxie. There would be toasted maxwells, open maxwells, maxwells with the crusts cut off, the king would entertain his guests to cucumber maxwells … I surfaced to find everyone watching me with some concern. Peterson leaned over and gently removed my cup of beer and I think we were all relieved about that.

  Just as dusk began to fall and I was thinking about chivvying them all back to the pod, a man walked quietly to stand by the fire. At once, everyone fell silent.

  He wore a simple white robe, spotlessly clean. A stool was brought for him, which he politely declined. He carried a hand-harp, which he strummed gently.

  Lifting his head, he sang. I have no idea of the subject, I didn’t understand the words, but the tune carried a strange, halting rhythm. Sometimes a note was held just for a fraction too long, or an unexpected pause broke up the expected sequence of notes. And at the end of every phrase, a long, sliding note dragged at the heartstrings, and tailed into nothing. People stopped drinking. The dogs even stopped barking. I felt the tears on my cheeks. This was grief made tangible. A song to those no longer in this world. The last note died away. There was no applause.

  He began again and this time there was a different rhythm. A dancing, skipping, insistent beat. I felt my feet tap in response. This tune could raise the dead and make them dance. For no reason at all, I thought of giant stones, dancing their way across the country, defying the laws of physics. I saw them slotting smoothly into place, as meek and obedient as sheep. To stand forever, black against the sky. I remembered the old name for Stonehenge was the Giant’s Dance; remembered that according to legend, the wizard Merlin spoke the words and the stones danced to his bidding.

  Believe it or not, I’ve never visited Stonehenge. Not in any time. But I could. My last jump was coming up. I could visit Stonehenge. I could touch the stones. Walk among them. I could see them when they were young.

  He started another song. It was very dark by now. The juggling and other activities had halted. I looked around. Everyone was standing or sitting in a large circle, listening. His voice was liquid gold. We swayed gently in time to the mesmerising rhythm of the music. He sang softly but clearly, and the words mingled with the smoke and sparks from the fire, and rose slowly towards the stars.

  I don’t know for how long we sat there, just listening. Eventually, the words dwindled into silence. Now the people applauded. The musician stood, slim and tall, head bowed, accepting his due. I wiped my eyes and when I looked again, he had disappeared.

  People sighed, shook themselves, and refilled their mugs. Now things grew rowdy. Songs grew bawdy and suggestive. All around, people were disappearing into the darkness. I could hear a lot of laughter and shrieking.

  Eventually, Arthur stood up, seized two laughing girls, and disappeared into the hut set aside for him.

  Markham, Sands and Roberts, their arms around each other – although whether as a demonstration of affection or much needed support I had no idea – set off in search of more jugs. Tim and I sat quietly. He drained his cup.

  I grinned. ‘Now we know what puts the pee in Peterson.’

  He snorted.

  To fill the silence and with some trepidation, I asked, ‘How did the arm hold up?’ My fears were groundless; he answered quite normally.

  ‘Quite well. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wield a sword a
s well as I used to, but I was able to use a spear as a quarterstaff. If I can use both arms, then I’m not too bad. I’m going to get some practice in when I get back. Quarterstaffs are pretty lethal, you know. And their reach is much greater than that of a sword.’

  I waited.

  He turned to me and in the light of someone’s fire, I caught a glimpse of his crooked grin. ‘I’m not so useless after all.’

  ‘That’ll come as a surprise to the rest of us.’

  He put his hand on my arm and I covered it briefly with my own, searching for the words to ask him. He’d once told me he wanted to ask Helen a Special Question. He’d never mentioned it since and I didn’t like to ask. Now, I wondered if he’d put off asking her until he’d regained his faith in himself. I opened my mouth to frame a tentative question, but then the others came back with more jugs and the moment passed.

  Roberts retracted his undercarriage and collapsed beside me, grinning all over his face. He waved an arm to embrace the socially disintegrating scene around us. ‘Bloody hell, Max, we really are the dog’s bollocks, aren’t we?’

  I grinned and nodded.

  He waved his arm again. ‘We saved them. Well, Arthur did a bit, of course. All these people. Max, I keep thinking, somewhere here tonight there might be some of my ancestors.’ He waved his arm yet again.

  ‘What – in amongst the sheep? That would account for a lot.’

  ‘No, sorry – my arm went the wrong way.’ He giggled. ‘Gotta say though, the one on the end looks pretty good to me.’

  Markham watched him in tolerant amusement. ‘That’s an actual girl.’

  He squinted. ‘I knew that.’ He began to make preparations to heave himself onto his feet. ‘I might go and say hello.’

  Markham pushed him back down again. ‘Yes, and find yourself looking down the wrong end of her father, three uncles, eight brothers and seventeen cousins. Stick to the sheep. They might find your lack of facial fleece oddly alluring.’