by Ilka Tampke
The young poet bowed and lifted his harp. Our songmen spent ceaseless summers learning by heart the poems of our country, but their most admired skill was that of forging verse in the moment it was spoken.
He sang:
When the Great Bear dies
Barely are his pyre and carcass ready
When he’s swarmed by many well-kinned flies
Though none who’d rule as steady,
None who’d walk the narrow bridge
That spans the Empire and our home,
None who reap the privilege
Of holding hands with Rome.
Caradog has risen,
He rules with Mothers’ might,
When Rome chimes at his hut bell,
Will he run? Succumb? No. Fight.
The guests bellowed their applause.
Fibor had emptied more beer horns than most. ‘I am glad to see the Great Bear down,’ he proclaimed. ‘Perhaps now the Catuvellauni will have a king who will stand firm against Rome.’
I felt Ruther’s back stiffen. ‘Belinus held the ear of the Emperor himself,’ he said. ‘We all reap the spoils from the tradelines he opened.’
I glanced at him, amazed he would challenge our first warrior.
Fibor set down his cup. He was well known for his hatred of Rome and less so for the delicacy of his tongue. ‘Belinus wiped Rome’s arse for the privilege of its pretty things. His son knows the honour of freedom.’
‘On matters of trade,’ Fraid interjected calmly, ‘the Great Bear’s achievements are undisputed. But he is gone. Let us speak of the future.’ She turned to the poet. ‘Are the other petty kings and queens concerned that this death will prompt an arrival on our eastern shores?’
‘It is so feared,’ said the poet. ‘Caradog is beginning to strengthen his support among the tribes.’
‘Take them by force, you mean?’ Fibor chuckled. ‘I wish him courage. The Emperor will think twice before launching an attack on a warrior such as Caradog.’
‘Caradog insults the Emperor Claudius,’ said the one who held me. ‘He goads him by claiming we Britons are the uncapturable people.’ Ruther looked around the circle. ‘Think for yourselves, tribesmen, what this will provoke in Rome.’
I moved to stand but Ruther tightened his grasp around my waist.
‘Son of Orgilos, it seems you have become quite a friend to Rome since your travels there,’ said Fibor.
Ruther stared back at him. ‘Is it not wise to understand the mind of those who would be our captors and our rulers?’
‘Understand this,’ said Fibor. ‘We are the free people. The Romans have captured the world, yet we remain uncaptured.’
Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the gathering.
‘I have heard that they see Albion as a place of dark magic! An otherworld!’ said Etaina. ‘They are too frightened to come. This is why we remain uncaptured.’
‘Hah!’ sneered Ruther. ‘We are uncaptured because Belinus met Rome’s hunger for our landwealth. Why would they attack when they already held purchase on all they desired?’
The circle fell silent. I was stunned by the recklessness with which Ruther spoke. Surely Fraid would not permit him such liberty? With his thick forearm gripping my waist, I felt as though I were caught on a wild horse.
‘You return to us greatly informed of the opinions of Rome, Ruther,’ said Fraid. ‘We are privileged to have such knowledge in our midst.’
Fibor grunted but I felt Ruther soften.
‘When do you leave for the Empire lands, Ruther?’ asks Llwyd. Until now he had said nothing but I watched how closely he listened.
‘Tomorrow if the weather holds, and if you will bless it, Journeyman.’ Ruther dipped his head to Llwyd and I breathed out with relief that at least he showed respect to our wiseman.
‘And what do you carry by way of trade goods?’ Llwyd continued.
‘Metals.’ He took a large bite from his flesh hook, chewing as he spoke. ‘And dogs. Our skins are in favour.’
Llwyd nodded. ‘Long-traded goods,’ he said. ‘What do you make of the new trade taking hold at the eastern ports? I hear it is very lucrative and that the Romans exploit it in ever greater quantities.’
Ruther frowned. ‘Of what trade do you speak?’
‘Do you not know it?’ Llwyd paused. ‘I speak of the sale of our men and women to Romans as slaves.’
There was a murmur around the circle.
‘A foul trade,’ said Fibor. ‘Roman slaves are whipped like dogs and owned until death. What snake would sell his own tribesman to such a life?’
Ruther snorted. ‘Do not our own noblemen—our tribekings and queens—also have servants?’
‘Yes,’ said Fraid. ‘But their labour is owned, not their souls.’
It was true. As a servant to the Tribequeen, I was constrained by the laws of skin but not by my servitude. I finally wriggled free of Ruther’s hold and stood, taking up my jug.
‘Wherever the Roman slaves may come from,’ said Ruther, holding up his horn, ‘they are put to good use in the building of fine cities.’
The circle was silent. His light words were poorly judged.
I made my way around the circles, filling horns that had run dry.
‘They please you then, these cities of the Empire lands?’ asked Llwyd quietly.
‘Why, none could be displeased—’
Fibor protested, but Llwyd raised his hand. ‘Tell us of them.’
Ruther straightened, pausing to cast his gaze around the room.
I filled Llwyd’s cup, then stopped behind him to listen.
‘Imagine a city that covers the earth from one horizon to the other—’ Ruther’s eyes blazed—‘where there are columns of stone that would dwarf an elm. Where buildings are not small or round or made of stick and mud, but are square and high and built of cut stone, each with not one, but many rooms. Where underground pipes bring rivers of clear water into every home through bronze fountains that can be levered to run at will. And there are yet other pipes that carry away their shit. Imagine, never having to empty a pot!’
Timid laughter rolled through the audience.
‘They adorn their floors with pictures made of a thousand tiny tiles. Their stadiums make ant mounds of our hill towns,’ he continued. ‘And every corner of the known world can be visited in one stroll of a market square. This is the glory of Rome.’
‘Yet who serves this glory?’ demanded Fibor. ‘Who lays these pipes?’
‘Slaves!’ challenged Ruther.
‘Such a city cannot endure,’ said Fibor. ‘It is immorally built, and in time it will crumble.’
‘And yet it does not,’ said Ruther. ‘All are enlightened by the brightness of this city. Even the slaves bask in its warmth.’
‘And what of the groves and springs for ritual?’ asked Llwyd. ‘Where are they found in these cities?’
‘There are shrines in every street. They do not need forests or springs to worship.’
Standing close, only I heard Llwyd’s intake of breath. ‘And they are not weakened in denying the springs?’ he asked.
There was a trap in these questions and I wondered for what purpose.
‘Weakened?’ Ruther laughed. ‘Journeyman, I am a tribesman first, and I love my own people above all others, but make no mistake, these are among the strongest people under the sun’s light.’
There were gasps among the warriors.
‘I question the loyalty of this man!’ Fibor stood and Ruther immediately followed, putting his palm to his sword handle. Where there were disputes between warriors at feast times, they were often resolved with a test of swordsmanship. But not this day, not at Beltane, a time of coming together.
‘Cease, both of you!’ commanded Fraid. ‘By Mothers, speak more cautiously, Ruther.’
‘I am sorry.’ Ruther bowed lightly to her. ‘It was clumsily uttered. I would no sooner see us subject to Roman rule than anyone here, but there is greatness in the new world that cannot be denied. Greatness of man. Even a fool can see it.’
Fibor’s eyes flared. ‘Anyone who is true to the tribes—even a fool—sees no such thing.’
‘Shall we test it?’ said Ruther. ‘Give me a fool.’
Fibor’s eyes narrowed until his gaze fell on me. ‘Ask the beer maiden. She is untaught, unskinned, little more than a fool, albeit a pretty one. How does she judge the greatness of man?’
‘Yes, ask her.’ Ruther smiled broadly.
‘Step forward, girl,’ commanded Fibor.
‘Stop!’ said Fraid. ‘Ailia, do not answer. The skinless will not speak at festival time. Fibor, cease this game.’
‘Wait.’ Llwyd held up his hand. ‘I wish to hear her answer. Ailia,’ he said, turning to me, ‘what is your response? How is greatness to be judged?’
All eyes were upon me and suddenly my breath was short. What would I say? I stepped forward, heart pounding. ‘I—I have seen nothing of the greatness of which Ruther speaks,’ I began. ‘But I do know that all wisdom is born in the springs…’ With these words, a strange calm descended over me and my voice steadied. ‘If a man obscures our sight of these by a thousand tiny tiles, then surely he is the fool.’
‘And this from a kitchen girl!’ Fibor roared with laughter and the other guests joined in.
Ruther looked away.
Llwyd’s gaze was fixed upon me.
The feast rolled into the night. Ruther barely allowed me to leave him, pulling me back to his lap when I tried to get up, slipping his warm hand into the sleeve of my leine to stroke the fall of my breast. When the sow’s carcass had been picked clean and the men had fallen to slumber from drunkenness, he led me to the stables to couple again.
Afterwards, he lay panting, his head on my chest. ‘Last night was by no means my first time in the fields,’ he said when his breath had steadied, ‘but I have never known such nearness to the Mothers as by you this Beltane.’
I smiled, confused by his praise. ‘Still it does not bother you that I am without skin?’
‘No.’ He propped on one elbow and stared at my face. ‘You know so little of the world. In Durotriga you all live as you have lived for thousands of summers. But the eastern tribes are leaving the hills and are settling in river towns—large towns that are already shaped by the Empire. People of all skins fill these cities. The ties of skin are loosening there. Does that not interest you, Doorstep?’
‘By the will of the Mothers, I am blessed with a name. Will you use it?’
He laughed and rolled back, pulling me onto his chest.
What he described did interest me. How could it not? But it frightened me also. The laws of skin had denied me much but I knew in the heart of my bones that they were true. It unsettled me that Ruther did not see it so.
He yawned. ‘You should come with me to the Empire lands, Ailia. Journey with me and see for yourself what I have spoken of.’
I chuckled. ‘How could I come?’
He wriggled up to sitting, roused by the idea. ‘You will come as my servant.’
I sat up, our spell broken, and began to dress. ‘It is too soon for me to leave Cookmother. She needs me for her work.’
‘The herbs? Any girl can help her with that—you are meant for something greater.’
I flinched. ‘You’ll not say that when my poultice saves your limb should you come to me with battle wounds.’ I strapped my sandals.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To my bed.’
‘Will you not return with me to my house?’
‘As your servant?’
He frowned. ‘Forgive me, is that not what you are? Have I done wrong to call you so?’
I sighed and softened. ‘No, you haven’t. But I would rest in my own bed this night.’
He drew a deep breath of my scent. ‘You’ve pierced me, Doorstep. When I was not battle-ready.’
I kissed his mouth then slipped out onto the moonlit courtyard. As I walked to the kitchen, my eyes stung from sleeplessness and my body hummed with a sweet, dull ache. But I was glad to have run the threshold of Beltane, glad to discover what lay beyond.
All wisdom lives in our rivers.
The brink of water is where knowledge is revealed.
THE MORNING’S FIRST light showed Bebin’s bed was empty.
As I wandered out to collect fresh water, I met her stealing through the Tribequeen’s gate, still in her feasting dress. I led her to the back of the kitchen, where we could stand in the warmth of the rising sun and talk without being heard.
‘Where have you been?’ I whispered.
‘With Uaine,’ she murmured, heavy-lidded.
‘He is pleased to return then?’ I smiled.
‘Ay.’ She turned to me, her brown eyes brightening. ‘I think he will sing me his song.’
I nodded. Wordless. I was not prepared for how deep it cut.
The skinsong. The betrothal. An invitation to join with another as kin. It was how we knew if the Mothers blessed the union. When the skinsong was sung, the one who listened could remain silent, declining the bond. Or they could sing their skinsong in return. It was in the blending of songs that the singers knew if they were favoured to marry. If the harmonies shifted the soul, the bond was true.
Bebin had sung me hers, once, in friendship and, of course, I had heard Cookmother’s many times. But I would never hear one from a tribesman in betrothal. Because they would know that I could not return it.
I kissed Bebin’s cheek and wished her happiness.
Ruther and Uaine returned mid-morning to prepare for their departure. They would take some of Fraid’s best horses and many of her dogs and hides.
I found cause to pass Ruther many times in the stables and storehouses until eventually he pulled me into one of the grain huts, pulling the door closed behind us. ‘How can a man prepare for travel,’ he said, kissing my throat, ‘with such a bird flying past?’ He loosened his belt. ‘Must I show you once more, my feeling for you?’
I took a strange pleasure in luring him from his task, testing this new power I
held. My back was pressed hard against the storehouse wall when the door swung open and Bebin stepped in. She stopped when she saw us, then turned and left.
I found her in the Great House, straightening the skins that covered the benches.
‘May I speak, Ailia?’ she said, as I joined her.
‘Of course.’
‘Think on your intention with Ruther. The union of man and woman is a life-giving act. It summons magic in one way or another—use it cleverly.’
I fondled the tattered edge of a boar skin, shamed by her wisdom.
‘But Ailia—’
I looked up.
‘Do not think I am displeased that you are favoured so.’ She smiled her quiet smile.
I glanced at her sideways. ‘You are still not impressed by him?’
‘No, no, he is a fine man indeed,’ she protested. ‘I hear he even employs a history-keeper to travel with him and sing praise-songs as he walks into new townships, like a king into battle.’
We both spluttered with laughter at the arrogance of it.
Smoothing my fingers over the animal skins, I marvelled, as always, at the variation between them: the soft, patchy pelts of the cattle, the spiked shiny bristles of the boar, and the deep lustrous fur of the reindeer, in which I buried my whole hand. Each held its own beauty and worth.
The sun had just begun its descent when a small group gathered at the southern gateway to farewell Ruther and Uaine.
Ruther’s last kiss was sweet but I was relieved as I watched him ride away. I could return to the kitchen’s steady rhythm and settle my thoughts.
Cookmother busied all of us with harvesting early berries from the Tribequeen’s gardens, but when I could not even sort the green from the rosy without error, she took pity on me and went to fetch a delivery of medicine. ‘You are useless to me here, sex-drunk and giddy,’ she said, handing me a muslin-wrapped bundle and a small bottle of honey. ‘Take these to Dun’s farm. Tell the woman there to heat the powders and honey with sheep’s milk, drink it, and rub a little on the chest. Throw what remains on the ground to the south of the house. Tell her there’s enough within for four days.’
