by Jacky Gray
‘True, we did find him first. My tip would definitely be to take a bath, or make sure he stayed down wind of the hunters.’
‘We may as well get back to the rest, we’re not going to flush him out standing here blathering. Come on, race you back.’
Geraint stayed put for a few minutes, despite quite clearly hearing them charge back down the path. Slipping out from his hiding place, he made his way cautiously round a circuitous route parallel to the path. He suspected they’d staged the whole conversation to make him think they’d given up when they were actually lying in wait to ambush him as he returned to the muster point. As he walked, he recalled what the older boys had said and wondered how the other kids must perceive him. He wondered if they hated him the same way he’d resented his trainer’s arrogant behaviour.
Since Geraint won the Herfest challenge, Oeric and Fredulf showed a growing level of respect. It seemed their task of toughening him up had finished. They no longer teased and tormented, instead treating him almost as an equal.
He was surprised to be asked along to their last practice session before the trial which would happen at Imbolc. This was the final trial before they reached their majority and, after three days surviving on their own wits, they had to make it all the way back to the camp. Very few managed to outwit the seasoned trackers, but if they were caught within three hours of sunrise, they were deemed to have failed and had to re-attempt the trial the next year, otherwise they passed the trial whether they were caught or not. Most trackers gave up after five hours, but if an initiate was deemed particularly skilful, his capture attracted a great kudos, and the trial could last well after sunset.
As with the actual trial, the elders sprang the practice on them with no notice. They were bundled into a cart, taken to the muster point in the forest and given thirty minutes before the hunters were let loose.
Approaching the designated tree, Geraint slowed his pace, aware that if they were still looking out for him, this is where they would be. Sure enough, they were waiting behind a huge oak tree overlooking the path, so he circled round them, trying to watch all the other obvious places where a hunter could hide.
He would have made it all the way, but the most skilled tracker had created a hide which blended so well with the forest floor it became invisible. Made from a loosely woven cloak stuffed with moss and leaves, the dried out stump of an old tree had been attached to disguise the mound made by the watcher’s body. An excellent tool, it was easy to carry, simple to use and extremely effective. Its inventor, a wiry man in his prime called Hunter, had the highest count of rabbit’s feet, the prize awarded for each successful capture at the Imbolc trials.
But he’d not reckoned on Geraint’s ability to sense and react to danger. As his hand shot out to grab an ankle, the boy leapt away and raced toward the muster tree to claim sanctuary. Every hunter appeared from their hiding place then, all racing to stop the prey, but with the encouragement of the captured initiates ringing in his ears, he feinted and dodged like a professional. He reached the tree, losing his coarse woollen jacket in the process, but gaining the respect of every man there.
Hunter approached first, holding out Geraint’s jacket. ‘Well done, lad. You have proven a more worthy contender than these seniors. I wonder if you will be as swift when it’s your turn.’
Oeric was next, clapping him on the back. ‘What a master. Besting all those expert trackers and making it all the way to safety. Geraint the Great.’ He raised a victory fist, and Geraint clasped it absently.
By the time the rest of the camp rose to get their breakfast, Hunter had spread the story of his defeat at the hands of a mere junior. Happy to re-tell the tale to anyone who would listen, he had no illusions about the limits of his skill or the fact he could be bested by someone younger and faster.
Geraint, however, struggled with the hero-worship from the younger boys. They all wanted to know what it felt like to beat a champion and nagged him to re-enact the moment. Rattrick appeared as they were asking and shoed them off, saying his son deserved a champion’s breakfast.
‘Are there no lengths you will not go to for their adulation? I think I have spawned a minstrel for the girls to swoon at.’
Geraint knew his father well enough to recognise the tease and the massive bear-hug confirmed his pride in his son’s achievement, reinforced by his comment. ‘You have managed something even I could not do. That man has the senses of an animal.’
‘Pure luck. I was expecting someone to be waiting close to the muster point and I had a feeling about the pile of leaves.’
‘With instincts like that, you could become a master hunter. His skills are in demand all over the country.’
Although a massive compliment, Geraint did not see himself following this lifestyle. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but it was not his first, or even tenth, choice.
Thanks to Geraint’s advice about taking a bath, Oeric passed his trial and swore eternal gratitude to Geraint. Thanet excelled in his hunting trial at Ostara, and Beltane was a small, local affair this year. They’d planned another inter-tribe clash at Herfest for the four fifteen-year-olds, this time hosted at Pitivo’s camp. Litha was free of trials as there were no boys in their eleventh year, and Rattrick decided it would be a good time for Geraint to visit his roots. He set everything in place for the camp to function while they were away, and a week after Beltane they hitched up the wagon and set off.
25 On the Road Again
This was a side of his father he’d never seen before: A carefree, fun-loving side, as he enjoyed a well-earned break. They went at a leisurely pace, covering no more than thirty miles each day with plenty of stops to allow the horses to last the entire journey. He’d swapped the normal wheels for broader ones coated in a spongy layer of hides, treated to reduce the drag for the horses, making the ride smoother for the riders.
Each night, they stopped at a different inn. Rattrick knew the owners, getting good deals and flirting outrageously with the wives and serving wenches. After the third dark-haired beauty had offered him a little extra comfort if he should need it, Geraint shook his head, smiling as he raised his beaker of ale.
‘What do you think you’re smiling at?’ His father’s reflexes were quick, stopping his son’s hand before he could drink, but he, too, was grinning. ‘Am I too old to make a pretty girl happy?’
‘Not at all. I wish I had your skill. All the women fancy you.’
‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’ Slapping his hand down on the table, he emptied his beaker and instructed Geraint to drink up as he gestured for a refill. When the wench had left, he studied his beaker intently as though to find the answer to a question which obviously bothered him. Geraint knew instinctively what it was about, but didn’t feel ready to discuss such a painful subject, even though he knew what his response would be. So he distracted his father by asking about their ancestors, a subject guaranteed to occupy him for the rest of the evening. But Rattrick seemed intent on bringing the conversation back to the subject playing on his mind.
Geraint tried to knock him off course. ‘The way you tell it, it was all about the men. There were strong women around then.’
‘You mean strong, like Drina? There’s a woman who can handle an axe like a man.’ Rattrick paused, his beaker halfway to his lips.
‘I mean strong as in powerful, like Boudicca.’
‘You mean powerful like Savannah? She terrifies me.’
‘Boudicca was a leader in Roman Britain. Siany says ...’
‘A woman leader? Never. You’ve got that wrong.’ Finishing his ale, Rattrick filled both beakers. ‘Who’s this Siany? Is she strong or is she pretty? You can’t be both. Well you can’t, but Savannah can.’
‘Siany is Tol’s granddaughter. You’ve met her.’
‘Tol’s grand …? I remember. Very pretty. Do you fancy her?’
Sighing in frustration, Geraint took a swig of ale, realising his father had sunk at least six and quite unable to kee
p focussed. But still he persevered. ‘Boudicca was the warrior queen who led the Iceni tribe into battle against the Romans in the first century.’
‘How do you know about her then? Has Tol been filling your head with stories? That’s all they are, stories.’
‘I read it in a book. She defeated whole legions in bloody battles and they sacked and razed London.’
‘You can read? Since when?’
‘Since last year. Siany taught me.’
‘How? When? Is she a professor?’
‘Her father is. While I stayed at Tol’s with a broken leg. Look, I can’t make my point if you keep interrupting.’
Rattrick sealed his lips with a finger, but it slipped off and he grinned, finishing off his ale with a loud smacking sound. Realising he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his father in that state, Geraint gave up trying.
That night, his dream filled with battles: not Romans and Iceni, but a fierce band attacking his tribe.
It came as a surprise the next day when his father remembered everything they’d said and his mind was razor sharp. ‘So my son’s not only a fine athlete and sportsman, but he has a good brain. If I didn’t know better, I’d think your mother had bedded another man.’
Gasping that his father could think such a thing, let alone say it, he recognised the teasing smile and swallowed his outrage. ‘I think you must be right. I couldn’t have got any of it from you.’
‘Cheeky knave. What was this high and mighty point my ale-sodden ramblings stopped you from making last night?’
‘It wasn’t high and mighty. I was just curious about the big difference between our culture and Siany’s.’
‘Our culture? What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Our way of life. The fact we don’t have any female leaders. We don’t even have trials for the girls.’
‘Because you can’t exactly check if a girl can make a baby or not. You just hope they can.’ He laughed at his own wit.
‘But women do so much more than have babies.’
‘Oh, I know that. They do all the cooking and cleaning and mending. But it seems to me they’re all born knowing how to do those things really well; we don’t need a trial to see if they can do it.’
‘But what about if a girl wants to hunt or fight?’
‘Are you soft in the head? Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought. Girls fighting indeed. Who are they going to fight? They wouldn’t last even a second against a boy.’
‘But they should be able to defend themselves against attack. Siany is learning basic warrior skills; and she will be trialled at Beltane with all the other girls of her age.’
Rattrick chuckled to himself at the thought of girls fighting boys, but he became serious at his son’s passion. ‘Where is all this leading? You have something on your mind.’
‘I worry we don’t show enough respect to our women.’
‘How can you say that? Have you ever heard anyone being disrespectful toward a woman? No. We treat them like the precious gems they are, taking care of our needs and raising our children.’
‘But not allowed to have a say in running the camp.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you ask them what they think about anything?’
‘All the time – they have an equal voice round the fire.’
‘But how can they know about things if they have never had the training the men have?’
‘That’s crazy. Why would women learn to fight?’
‘So they would know how to escape if a man tried to … force himself …’
‘I see now. You’re thinking of when your … Siany was captured last year. That would never happen to one of our girls, they never go out on their own.’
‘She wasn’t on her own, but there were six of them and only one of me.’
‘Mmm. I understand your concern, but I think we are safe enough.’
Geraint did not force the issue, but the dream which sparked his anxiety came back that night, even more vividly. The camp was attacked by a band of Renegates who were far superior in numbers and weapons and they were fighting to kill.
26 Renegate Threat
It was a long time since Geraint had seen the sea, and he sat for hours, content to marvel at the sheer power as it tore at the rocks as though trying to get at whatever they were hiding beneath them. The bond between father and son strengthened as they spent several days ambling along the north coast of Kent, stopping off to sample the delightful variety of fish dishes cooked by the wives of friends who all seemed to have the same refrain: “How long is it since we’ve seen you down here?” Or alternatively, “That can’t be Geraint, he’s almost a man.”
Finally, they reached the furthest destination on their itinerary. The market town of Canterburgh was lively and rich, with the cathedral as its jewel. Geraint was drawn to its stately magnificence just as his mother had been, finding the same peace she did in the cavernous insides with beautifully ornate carvings and stained glass windows. He wondered at the people who’d given up their time and skill to create such a tribute and what kind of god demanded such an artificial setting for his worship. But his father put it into perspective when he compared the time and effort which had gone into the building of Stonehenge or Aveburgh stone circle.
‘I see what you’re saying, but somehow they are more natural and in harmony with the land around them.’
‘You don’t think this is a magnificent testimony to man’s skill in working with stone?’
‘It undoubtedly is.’ Geraint ran his hand over the carving.
‘Exactly the same as Stonehenge: a place of worship designed and built using the very latest technology and skilled craftsmanship.’
‘But this seems to be more a symbol of the power of the men who ordered it to be built.’
‘Precisely as the stone circles represented the ability of the tribes who had them built to command and organise a massive workforce. No-one in the land had anything as big as Stonehenge or as wide as Aveburgh.’
‘Amazing to think the cathedral has lasted over ten centuries.’
‘But not as impressive as our circles, they’ve lasted over forty centuries.’
Geraint conceded the point, but his feelings about the cathedral remained ambivalent. It was, without doubt, an awe-inspiring symbol of man’s skill, but despite the serenity, he did not find the atmosphere inside conducive for communing with higher powers.
Rattrick seemed content to spend several days in the area, doing a good deal of trading at the markets. The traders were keen to buy the exquisitely crafted leather, intricately carved wooden artefacts and Savannah’s exotic herbal preparations. Because food was plentiful, he was content to trade for the gold jewellery which could be sold in the winter, but many of the richer merchants were buying with gold and silver coins. After a brisk morning’s work, they relaxed in the White Bull, one of the oldest inns in the town, with Yanko, an old friend who’d married a local girl and settled down.
‘Still no regrets? Your feet not itching to get out on the road after all this time?’ Rattrick’s glance at his friend’s ample girth, underlined how unlikely that would be.
Catching the implication, Yanko rubbed his belly with a grin. ‘It does look as though I live a life of plenty. I’m too used to my comfortable bed to want the cold and damp now.’
‘And your wife, is she still comfortable?’
‘Very. Three children and she still looks no more than a slip of a girl. You never thought of wiving again?’
‘Many a time, but there’s not the lass born who would have an old codger like me.’
‘Rubbish. I’ve seen them all giving you the glad eye.’
‘You flatter me, but I think it’s this young buck they all want an introduction to.’
‘He’s a fine looking son, a credit to you.’
Geraint was embarrassed by the comments and bent his head to the leaflet of information he’d picked up from the cathedral, reading about its turbulent hist
ory. After a while, he sensed a change in Yanko’s tone and tuned back into their conversation.
‘… not like any band of Renegates I’ve ever known. Apparently they were scourge of Essex, but last year they moved down to Sussex and now across to Kent.’
‘Two brothers, you say. I’ve heard rumours of this tribe with strange sounding names.’
‘They are currently styling themselves as Hengest and Horsa, for obvious reasons.’
‘Gunari, that’s the name I know.’
‘It’s actually his brother Guaril who is the driving force. He’s a real bad bugger, cruel and merciless.’
‘And you say they target a town for several months at a time and bleed it dry.’
‘Then they move on to the next one. That’s why you need to take care travelling around with all that gold. They’re here at the moment, and I’m sure there are spies in the market who will have seen you trading and know you’re ripe for plundering.’
‘Thanks for the tip-off. I might just lodge this hoard in a safe place until I’m ready to leave the area.’
‘Rattrick dealing at a money-bank? That’s got the smell of respectability about it.’
‘Did I mention a money-bank? I have other ways.’
‘Of course. But you may find your normal contacts are not as amenable as usual; a lot of places are being raided by these ruffians.’
‘I was thinking of Big Charlie at Faversham, they don’t come much safer than him.’
‘One of the first places they hit around here. He put up a good fight but they razed him to the ground with the little ones asleep upstairs.’
Geraint could not believe his ears. ‘They burnt his house with children in it? That’s despicable.’
‘Indeed it is; like returning to the dark ages. Gives our people a bad name they don’t deserve any more.’
‘But extremely effective tactically. Attack the biggest dog in the pack and the rest will follow meekly.’ Rattrick’s tone was thoughtful.
‘That’s their thinking, all right. Several of the small timers have scarpered, taking their hoards with them. The good people who have invested are up in arms, but they can’t exactly go to the marshals because it was all hidden away to avoid the tithing in the first place.’
