“I don’t see the point, Sharn,” Colun grumbled, “he’ll die from you moving him – if nothing else.”
Sharn had no trouble hoisting the boy onto his pony – he was just a cage of bones. “Then there’s no harm done,” he said.
Rem and Brion reacted with surprise at the new authority in Sharn’s tone, and even Colun smiled. Sharn had done a lot of growing up in the last couple of seasons.
With the boy sitting in front of Sharn on the pony, they returned to their own village, jangling and clanking with all the utensils and tools they’d scavenged.
They crested a rise and saw Ryant, their dun, on the next hill. There were about thirty dwellings surrounded by a ditch and palisade. In the middle stood the roundhouse where clan meetings were held. Many of the huts were in bad repair because as the fortunes of their clan declined, families had drifted off to seek a more successful life with other kin, and some had even become servants in Damnonium, the nearby Roman outpost.
People ran out of their huts as they rode in. Colun summoned Guyleen, the village midwife and healer, indicating the sick boy and instructing the old woman to do what she could for him.
Guyleen reached the boy down from the pony. As she carried him away, he gazed back at Sharn with that same fathomless gaze.
Sharn and Colun entered their hut which was the grandest in the village, befitting the headman. Cumbria, Sharn’s sister, brought them cakes and ale. Sharn’s spirits always lifted when he saw Cumbria. She had a giggly voice, as if she was just about to burst into laughter, and she moved with a repressed energy as if she was on the verge of breaking into a run; but the thing Sharn liked most was that she reminded him of their mother, Imogen.
Sharn didn’t think he would ever recover from his mother’s death three summers ago. It was from that time that Colun’s drinking grew worse and it was about then that Sharn started to get his black moods – a terrible sadness settled on him like a huge crow blacking out the sun.
Sharn was telling his sister about the empty village and how he had rescued the dying boy, when all hell broke loose. Guyleen rushed into the hut, her gray hair flying and her arms waving. “She’s one of the little folk. She has the fairy markings.”
Sharn, Cumbria and Colun exchanged a look. What was she making such a fuss about? But Guyleen wasn’t going to hang around to elaborate – she hurried out, still screeching.
Colun was deep into his second bowl of ale and wasn’t interested in stirring. “Can you see what’s going on?”
Sharn and Cumbria entered Guyleen’s hut, the air heavy with the aroma of drying herbs. Guyleen had obviously been about to bath the boy, judging from the big wooden tub full of steaming water, but right now she was pointing at him accusingly, “She is a witch.” And with this she wrenched off the old fur the boy was clutching.
Sharn was dumbstruck. It was not a boy he had rescued, but a girl. She was so thin, her breasts were hardly breasts at all, and they were covered with tattoos, masses of weird swirling patterns. Sharn had coming-of-age tattoos around his arms and wrists but the girl’s tattoos were outlandish and otherworldly – row upon row of overlapping wolf fangs and stylised staring wolf eyes.
“Get her out!” Guyleen commanded.
But Sharn was still rooted to the spot with surprise. The girl did not try to cover herself but somehow she did not seem vulnerable. It was partly the athletic set of her body and partly her utter composure, despite her illness and nakedness. Sharn looked at the girl and the girl looked at him. Then without warning, she pitched forward and crashed to the ground.
“Careful – it might be witchcraft,” Guyleen cautioned as Sharn rushed forward. As he stooped down, he didn’t know why it should matter to him, but he was very relieved she was still breathing.
“Let’s take her home,” Cumbria said.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Guyleen said, “she might have the plague.” Sharn nodded. The Romans had brought new diseases with them which had caused a lot of deaths in the tribal lands.
“All right, we’ll take her to the Declans’ old place,” Cumbria agreed.
While Cumbria grabbed the fur coverings, Sharn scooped her up. Guyleen came to the door to see them on their way, muttering prayers to the gods to banish the evil spirits the girl had no doubt brought into her home.
CHAPTER 3
WOLF-EYES
That night Sharn and Cumbria put her in a hut that had lain empty since their neighbours had left, and kept a peat fire going as she hovered near death. Sharn wrapped her in his own cloak when her teeth chattered with cold, and laid it aside when she shuddered with fever.
The next day, Cumbria was at the hearth preparing porridge while Sharn sat staring at the newcomer on the sleeping platform.
“She is a Pict, isn’t she?” Sharn asked.
“Those tattoos are Pictish,” Cumbria nodded.
“What was she doing in that Celtic village then?”
Cumbria shrugged. Despite the Roman wall, the raids backwards and forwards still went on. “She probably got grabbed as booty.”
Cumbria brought the bowl of porridge over. Sharn scooped up a spoonful and blew on it. With Cumbria propping up the head of the Pictish girl, Sharn tried to feed her. It was then that he realised why he had never heard her speak. As she opened her mouth, he saw with horror that she had no tongue.
“Oh, Cumbria, look!”
Cumbria craned forward and gasped. “It’s been cut out!” she exclaimed.
The scar had healed now, but that is almost certainly what had happened. The stranger gazed up at them, like a wounded animal overtaken by hunters. Maybe that was why her eyes said so much, Sharn figured, because they had to utter what her mouth could not.
The girl was too weak to eat much and lay back on the pillow. As Sharn and Cumbria traded troubled looks and tried to come to terms with this grisly discovery, she started to doze. They got to their feet and went over to the hearth where Cumbria poured two cups of yarrow tea, handing one to Sharn.
“Who do you think would do such a thing?” Sharn asked.
Cumbria thought about this as she sipped her tea.
“I’ve heard that if a girl is raped … sometimes the man who forced her cuts out her tongue so she can’t inform.”
Sharn thought about this, and it made his flesh creep. He was glad he was not a girl. Suddenly the Pict twitched and whimpered in her sleep.
“She looks as though she has gone through a lot,” Cumbria said as she laid aside her cup and moved back to the bed. She gently wiped a cloth across the girl’s forehead to sop up some of the fever-sweat.
Sharn glanced at Cumbria as she took the cloth and wrung it out in a pail of cold water. Sharn smiled. The arrival of the girl was making him feel closer to his sister. Cumbria was so calm and self-possessed, like their mother, and growing more like her every day. You could tell Cumbria some startling news and she would listen quietly and then say something wise and balanced. The whole village could be abuzz with vicious gossip about an unfaithful wife or a thieving youth but she wouldn’t blame, just seek for reasons why things were this way.
“Do you think she understands what we say to her?” Sharn asked.
“She’d get some of it. A lot of our words are the same.”
“I can’t follow when the Picts talk fast,” Sharn admitted. “They always sound like they’re half singing.”
Cumbria smiled. “You’ve never been a good listener, Sharn.”
Sharn brushed this aside – his sister was always teasing him. “We should call her something,” he said watching the firelight tremble on her sleeping face.
“Call her something?” Cumbria frowned.
“We’ll never learn what her real name is. She can’t tell us and there’s nobody else around who can,” Sharn answered.
Cumbria nodded slowly, accepting the truth of this.
“What about Fritha?” Sharn said.
Cumbria’s head jerked up. “Fritha!”
Sharn looked down at hi
s hands. “It’s a nice name.”
“It was what Mum was going to call the baby – if they’d lived,” Cumbria said hollowly.
He nodded, “So do you think it’s disrespectful?”
“I think it’s a good choice,” she smiled.
Sharn was relieved. He stood and went over to the sick girl, kneeling down to take her hot hand. Her eyes flew open. “We’re going to call you Fritha. I hope you like it.”
The girl’s face brightened and the shapes deep in her eyes seemed to move forward, as if interested for the first time to peer out into the world. And as he gazed into her green eyes it came to Sharn what they reminded him of. Last winter had been particularly cold and the wolves were driven out of the oak forests by hunger. Under the cover of a snowstorm one very bold wolf had tried to take one of their sheep from the fold in broad daylight. Sharn, on patrol, managed to spear it. As it lay dying it looked up at him … and its eyes were exactly like this girl’s – alien and wild and unknowable. Sharn squeezed the girl’s hand and he felt an answering pressure, so faint perhaps he imagined it.
CHAPTER 4
A SIMPLE PLAN
Sharn, and his father and uncles were sitting around the table, bowls of ale before them, listening to Rufus’s plan. Sharn didn’t like the sound of it right from the start, no more than he liked the man whose idea it was. Rufus was from another clan two valleys over. Sharn had met him and his cutthroat bodyguards once before. He thought they were nothing but robbers and troublemakers and he was sure his father would not have bothered with them in better days.
“About twenty Roman miles beyond the wall, well into Pictish country, is a Roman grain store. Soon it will be bursting at the seams with the harvest. There are only ever ten or twelve legionnaires there. All it would take is a night raid and some big carts and we’d have enough grain for our clans and plenty left over to sell.” Rufus took a suck of his ale and smacked his lips. He looked around at Colun, Brion and Rem to gauge their reactions, ignoring Sharn because of his youth.
Colun frowned as he deliberated. Brion and Rem deferred to their older brother and would not offer an opinion until he did. “If the Romans catch us, they’ll kill us … and maybe our families as well,” Colun said.
Rufus laughed. “They won’t catch us, because there won’t be any witnesses. We’ll take care of the whole garrison. And if they do suspect anyone it will be the Picts. They won’t have a clue the grain has come south.”
Rufus’s bodyguards, Gee and Magee, grinned proudly at their leader’s cunning. They certainly looked as though they earned their keep, judging from the flatness of their noses and the number of teeth that had been knocked out of their heads.
Brion had something to ask. “A dozen Roman soldiers … is that what you said?”
Rufus nodded.
“Twelve legionnaires – with almost certainly a couple of archers among them – will be hard.” Colun scratched his beard, unconvinced.
Rufus could scarcely contain himself. He had been keeping something back and now he proudly brought it out into the open. “I will have a man inside to make sure the archers won’t bother us.”
Everybody sat up and took notice, and even Sharn had to admit to himself that Rufus seemed to have planned things carefully.
“The Romans use local labour at harvest time. One of the Picts will hide in the granary, hide the legionnaires’ weapons and then open the gate.”
“And what does the Pict want for his trouble?” Rem asked.
“A couple of cartloads of grain,” Rufus replied.
Sharn hoped his elders wouldn’t be carried along by Rufus’s enthusiasm. How could anyone rely on somebody as shifty as him?
But clearly this did not bother his father, because he banged down his empty bowl. “I like it, Rufus. Count us in.”
Rem and Brion, following Colun’s lead, acclaimed the plan. Colun then turned to Sharn for his opinion. Sharn was tempted to take the easy way out and go along with the men, but he was sixteen now and deserved to be listened to in his own right.
“There are too many unknown factors,” Sharn said. “Too many things could go wrong.”
Rufus scowled at Sharn. “With you along, sure, because you’re obviously a coward.”
“There’s no need for insults. My brothers and I will come on the raid. My only worry is the Picts,” Colun said.
“I’ve met Alpin, our man inside. He’s the son of the headman of the nearby village and he seems reliable. Anyway, he will call on you within the next couple of days so you can make up your own mind.”
All the men nodded – it would be good to form a war-band again. Having suffered so much humiliation at the hands of the Romans, killing a few would help even the score.
Rufus stood and Gee and Magee followed suit. He shook hands with Colun, Brion and Rem, pointedly ignoring Sharn.
As they left, Rufus growled, “Your clan must wish you a long life, Colun, considering the mettle of the son who will replace you.” And he swept out with his bodyguards sniggering through their broken teeth.
Colun reached for the pitcher of ale and nodded towards Sharn, “You’re old enough to bear arms now, Sharn. You should come.”
“I’m not afraid, Da – that’s not it. I just don’t think much of Rufus.”
“None of us do. But it’ll be a lean winter otherwise. Now cheer up … and drink up!”
More ale was Colun’s solution to everything, but Sharn shook his head – he felt he needed to keep his wits sharp.
CHAPTER 5
KNIFE DANCE
Sharn slipped out into the golden evening, loud with the throb of insects. He was on the verge of setting off across the fields to think about things, when something made him turn towards Fritha’s hut.
In the three weeks she had been there, she had mended well and was now able to stand and walk, although she did not venture outside much because the clan looked at her askance. It was a combination of things: her dark intense features, her inability to speak, her wolfish eyes, and her tattoos. It all added up to her seeming like an alien presence in the dun.
Since she no longer needed to be looked after, there was no reason for Sharn to visit her, so it was something else that turned his footsteps to the dilapidated hut behind their own.
He pushed open the door and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. The reason Fritha had not heard him enter was the noise she was making as she … well he wasn’t sure what she was doing. She had a knife in her hand and was stabbing and thrusting in a series of swift moves, her body bobbing and weaving as if to present a moving target. After each thrust she would take a lightning step back, pause for a split second, and then lunge forward again.
He stood there and gawked as her feet made flecks of dust slide up the bars of light coming in through the smoke hole. She caught sight of him out of the tail of her eye, coming to a stop and staring back at him sheepishly. Obviously Sharn had not taken a close look at her lately because he was astonished at how she had filled out after three weeks of good food.
“Hello, Fritha,” Sharn said, “I hope I didn’t startle you.”
She smiled her shy smile and beckoned him to sit down.
“What were you doing just now? It looked like some sort of knife dance.”
Fritha smiled noncommittally and pushed him gently back onto the seat. Sharn eased back on the deerskins and watched as she served two plates of stew. She set the steaming food before him and scooped up cups of beer from a stone crock. She sat opposite him with her own meal, dipping her bread into the beer and sucking the crusts.
Sharn suddenly realised he hadn’t had one of his black moods since Fritha came into his life. It may have been coincidence – they happened less in the warmer months – but he certainly felt brighter with her around.
He gave her a happy smile and in return she winked at him. He wasn’t quite sure what this meant so he looked at her quizzically. She suddenly burst into laughter and aped his expression.
Sharn was tak
en aback at her perfect mimicry. He’d only seen Fritha sick, and then watchful as she tried to settle into her new life. He’d never seen this playful side of her. Then she pulled another face and he realised she was now mirroring his look of puzzlement. Sharn found himself laughing, and egged on by each other, they cackled so much, they spilt their drink.
Eventually they calmed down and finished the meal, then he began to tell her about the meeting that day with Rufus. Sharn knew he shouldn’t be passing on clan business, particularly something as secret as this, but then Fritha couldn’t talk, could she? – so she couldn’t tell anyone else.
He wasn’t sure how much she understood, but her reactions came at exactly the right places. By the end of the evening, although she had said nothing, his impression was of having had a good conversation. Certainly he felt a lot more settled about things having put them into words and was more convinced than ever Rufus was not to be trusted.
Fritha stepped outside with Sharn to say goodnight. They looked up at the stars, crystal stuck in coal, and when their eyes dropped again they smiled at each other. She suddenly took his hand and pressed it against her forehead, then she turned quickly and ducked back into the hut, leaving Sharn to puzzle over what she meant by this. He looked up at the stars again, wondering where this mysterious girl had sprung from and if there was a reason she had come into his life.
A shooting star suddenly careered across the blackness and vanished as quickly as it had shown. Maybe there was no reason for things appearing and disappearing, but somehow Sharn was sure that with this stranger it was different.
CHAPTER 6
FALLING IN LOVE
This set the pattern for how they spent their evenings. Sharn would visit her as the shadows were lengthening and they would sit and have a bowl of ale, followed by some stew. Even Fritha’s cooking was different from what Sharn was used to. It was sharper and darker in flavour because of the unusual herbs she used. She would go foraging over the moors, gathering the leaves of plants the Celts thought of as weeds; or grubbing out strange roots which tasted of the earth; or breaking open the pods of creepers to get the seeds.
GIRL GLADIATOR Page 2
