Age of Iron (23 page)

She pulled rug-draped chairs closer to the hearth. “Please, do sit,” she said.

They sat and Ula doled out a hot porridge of oats, nuts, seeds and honey. The ladle was polished bronze, and the bowls lathe-turned, of a quality that Dug had only ever seen used for display. The porridge would have been good at any time. After their sleepless night on the road, it was sigh-inducingly delicious. The three of them guzzled in happy silence as Ula looked on, pleased at their enjoyment. As they were finishing, Farrell returned. He leaned against the porch’s frame, smiling. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

Lowa told him that she’d had a disagreement with Zadar and needed a few days away for him to cool down before she resolved matters.

“And how do these two fit in?” Farrell asked, open palms pointing at Spring and Dug.

Lowa looked at them as if thinking what to say. “They—”

“What are you going to do about Zadar’s shout?” interrupted Dug.

“Shout?”

“You know.”

Farrell’s lips tightened into a grimace for an instant, but his smile of universal kindliness quickly covered it. “Yes, the shouter on duty heard Zadar’s message last night. But he didn’t pass it on and we will not act on it.”

Dug stood. He was a head taller than Farrell. “If you knew about the shout from just a few hours before, you can’t have been surprised to see Lowa. But you acted like you were, and you didn’t mention the shout, which, if you were friends, you’d think you would. So there’s something odd going on. What is it?”

“I…” Farrell looked at Lowa.

“And,” continued Dug, “where did you go just now? Were you sending someone far enough away so we wouldn’t hear him shout to Zadar?”

Farrell shook his head. “Dug, old man, I’m grateful that you’re so protective of Lowa. You obviously care a great deal for her. But I do too. That’s why I didn’t mention the shout.” Farrell’s face shifted from smiling to sincere as if a lever had been pulled. “Look, I’ll be entirely honest with you, since you’re clearly too sharp for me not to be. I decided not to tell you that we’d heard the shout to put you at ease.”

“And why would you want us at ease?”

“Because … because I want you at ease! I want you to have a good time here. I loved Lowa like a sister when I knew her back then. And in other ways.”

He winked, and Dug resisted an urge to kill him. He glanced at Ula, but she was busy with their dishes.

Farrell continued: “Zadar I hardly know. Yes, we are part of his web of shouts. We receive … benefits that would make us mad not to be. And it might be useful one day if, say, we get invaded – and that is going to happen, by the way.” He nodded grimly, then shook his head. “But, I would never, never betray Lowa. Just now, while you ate breakfast – my breakfast, by the way, which I gave up for you – I was arranging lookouts on the roads into Kanawan. So now we’ve got our own little web of shouters who’ll tell us if anyone comes looking for Lowa. I was also sorting out some huts for you to stay in.”

Dug shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m proud of my village, Dug. I want you all to relax and enjoy it without constantly looking over your shoulders. That’s why I didn’t tell you about the shout. I want you to feel safe, happy and chilled.” Farrell walked over to Dug and put his hand on his shoulder. “My friend – and a friend of Lowa is a friend of mine – you are safe here.”

Dug looked over at Lowa, expecting her to be annoyed with him for attacking her friend, but she smiled reassuringly. “I trust him, Dug. But Farrell, this row I’ve had with Zadar, it may be a bit more serious than I said. What will you do if Zadar’s troops do come?”

“They won’t come in numbers. Zadar respects my boundary ditches, just like the Dumnonians do. We’re a buffer between them. That may change if either side decides to attack the other – and that is a real worry – but right now they’re evenly matched and I don’t think either will risk a war. So you’re safe here. They may well send a rider or two to look for you, but there are plenty of places to hide and my people can be trusted.”

Lowa stood. “We’re safe here, Dug. Farrell and I have been through a lot. He owes me his life at least twice over.”

“I’d say it was the other way round. Remember Cadbury?” Farrell jabbed Lowa in the ribs and she laughed.

“I had that guy. You got in the way and nearly got us both killed!” Lowa jabbed him back.

“I knew a man called Farrell once. A bear ate him. Pulled his arms off first,” said Spring.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?” said Farrell, ruffling her hair. Spring looked as if she might bite him. Farrell laughed but pulled his hand back swiftly. “Now, you’ve been up all night. Let’s show you somewhere to put your heads down. Would you like to share a hut or have one each?”

“I’ll have my own,” said Lowa.

“So will I!” announced Spring.

“No, you won’t,” said Dug. “The girl and I will share.” Spring scowled.

“Marvellous. Now come on, let’s get you to bed. We’ll have you woken in time for lunch.”

By now the villagers were up and busy with rural industry. They walked past thatched huts, weaving sheds, dyeing pools and stone grain stores. Blacksmiths, carpenters and potters working outside in the already-warm morning nodded greetings. Farrell introduced all the villagers by name, but Dug didn’t take any of them in. He was too tired and there were too many.

He did notice how well off everyone looked. Every villager, young and old, was dressed in new-looking cottons and linens. Even the ironsmith’s leather apron looked well made and was almost free of burns. Many of the men had shaved faces. Their hair was neat and clean. In every other settlement this size he’d visited people tended to have one or two sets of clothes that they wore all year. Even in summer most people – most people being field-working peasants – would be clad in patched and re-stitched rough woollen frock-smocks. Only the queen, king, chief or whatever their ruler was called and their families would be well dressed and tidy. Here everybody was.

Dug ran a hand through his own bush of beard and discovered a twig with a leaf attached. Elm, if he wasn’t mistaken. He tossed it onto the roadside. He pushed his fingers through his knotted, greasy hair and found quite a lot of spider’s web.

Ahead of him Spring was busy scrambling her hair with both hands into a bigger mess than it already was. She clenched her fists and walked with her knees bowed outwards and shoulders rolling like a teen trying to look tough.

Farrell introduced them to everyone as Poppy, Rose and Grampus.

“Those are the names I’ll give you while you’re here, by the way,” Farrell said quietly, “You’re mother, daughter and grandfather. Your farm was sacked by bandits and you’re on the way to relatives in Dumnonia and a new life. I know Lowa – Poppy – from years back. Which is true of course. The closer to the truth, the better the lie.”

“Can’t I be Poppy?” asked Spring.

“No, you’re Rose, I’m afraid, my sweet.” Farrell reached to ruffle Spring’s hair again and she ducked aside.

“Why?”

“Because I mentioned Rose after Poppy, and when we list names here, we do it in order of importance.”

Farrell walked them through a courtyard of cart garages and closed-up winter stables. The carts were the finest quality – light but strong, with spoked wheels.

“Whose carts are these?” Dug asked.

“Shared by the village. We share most things. Just up here is our communal cookhouse where everyone eats. Why use wood for a hundred cookfires in summer when the huts don’t need to be heated and one will do? We eat in shifts.” Farrell looked up at the sun. “Should be the girls about now.”

“Everyone apart from you and your family eat here, you mean?” Dug said.

“I’m chief, old man. I’d love to muck in with everyone, but one has to keep a distance. Eating together builds bonds, but not the sort of bonds that a chief needs. Sometimes a chief has to take decisions that don’t benefit everyone. Cosy up to one group, and you’re going to get those decisions wrong. I really would like it if the people could see me as just another one of them with similar tastes and needs, because that’s what I am, but they’d lose respect and it wouldn’t work.”

“And then you’d have to eat what they eat.”

“I do eat the same food as them. Have a look. You’ll see they’re tucking into exactly what you just had.” Farrell smiled kindly, or perhaps pityingly, at Dug. Dug felt heat flow into his ears.

On the other side of the stables was a longhouse with two long tables outside. Around thirty girls were sitting on benches at the tables, eating porridge with nuts, seeds and honey. Four elder women sat at the ends of the tables. The women looked to be around Dug’s age, the girls were all maybe three or four years older than Spring. They looked up at the newcomers’ arrival and smiled a greeting.

“These are the girls from our school and their teachers. Hi, girls! Hi, teachers!” said Farrell.

“Hi!” “Hello!” “Good morning!” the girls said back. Dug spotted a particularly good-looking one with golden hair and white teeth. Then he noticed that the girl next to her was a beauty too, as was the girl next to her … They were young enough that he told himself to think of them as pretty, rather than attractive. He looked along another rank of seated girls, thinking yes, they are all pretty, maybe it’s true what they say and people do become better looking as you head south. Then his eyes met a teacher’s. She raised an eyebrow. Dug looked away, ears reddening again.

“These are my guests, Poppy, Rose and Grampus,” said Farrell. “They’ll be staying for a few days. Be nice to them!”

“We will!” “Sure thing!” “See you around, Poppy, Rose and Grampus!” said the girls.

They walked on, along a street that climbed gently towards the hillfort. Largeish huts lined one side. Each had a little porch angled south-east to catch the rising sun. Several had roof flaps flung open. They were all encircled by drainage channels which fed into a flagstone-lined ditch in the centre of the road. This, thought Dug, is not a village. It’s a rich little town.

“The girls are all here for our summer school,” said Farrell. “We have girls in every summer now. We teach them how to run a village, and how to speak correctly, act correctly, that sort of thing.”

“Speak and act … correctly?” asked Lowa.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. It’s a Roman idea. It’s only for a few weeks in the summer.”

“Girls only?”

“Yeah.”

“So they can serve men better?”

“Sorry, Lowa. Like I said, it’s a Roman idea. People like Roman things and the coin is useful – we built this street with it.” He waved a hand at the neat little homes. “They’re all chiefs’ and kings’ daughters who are going to have a life of ease. If they spend a while with us learning how to cook and sew, what’s the trouble?”

“They don’t learn that at home?”

“Here are your huts!”

They’d turned right onto a track that ran along the valley side. Set back on the left, on flat plots cut into the hill’s slope, were two huts with the same south-east-facing porches and drainage channels running out to the road, although they couldn’t see where the channels began because each hut was ringed with a bed of flowers. They looked and smelled nicer than any huts Dug had seen before.

“We keep these for guests. You’ll find fuel, nettles for tea, nuts, berries, dried meat, a couple of jugs of water – everything you need.”

“We’ll take this one!” Spring cried, running into the hut on the left. Lowa shrugged and headed for the hut on the right.

Dug turned and looked at Farrell. Kanawan’s young chief was looking over the valley, hands on hips and hair blowing in the wind.

Dug stifled an instinct to push him down the slope. Instead he stood next to him. ”What’s that?” he asked, pointing across the valley. From up here they could see across Kanawan and the river to a large wooden structure in a field. It consisted of an enclosed corridor running into a circular building with high walls, the shape of thick-edged pan with a wide handle. Wooden stairs were built out from the side nearest them, finishing in a platform flush with the top of the wall. Inside the structure’s circular body, open to the sky, steps tiered down towards a wall encircling a bare earth centre.

“It’s an auction circus. Another idea from Rome. We’ve been the centre of livestock sales for miles around since we built it – another good source of coin. Each animal is driven along that tunnel into the centre. That’s seating you can see around the edge. About four hundred people can all sit comfortably, view the animals and make bids on them.”

“Oh right?”

“Yeah. Things are good.”

“But wouldn’t it be better to have a way out as well as a way in? You could get the animals through more efficiently.”

Farrell reached a hand round Dug’s shoulder, like a father overlooking a scene with a taller son.

“You know, old man, you might just have something there. You are a clever fellow. Perhaps you’d like to stick around for a while? Share some ideas? But now why don’t you get some shut-eye, and we’ll see you later?”

“Aye. And thanks for all of this. Sorry if I’ve been a bit off. There was a battle, then we didn’t sleep last night…”

“You’re very welcome. And I totally understand. I don’t think she needs it, but I’m glad you’re being protective of Lowa. Any friend of Lowa’s … Just let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

Dug lowered his voice. “Where can I go to take a crap?”

A
n hour later they were riding through the woods side by side, Ragnall leading the angry little packhorse on a long rein. He was vexed that his mind kept returning to Simshill. He’d stop himself, think about Anwen or the death of his family, but then his thoughts would drift off only to lap ashore invariably on Simshill’s leather-clad bottom. Part of him wanted to return to her despite what she was selling and, worse, despite Anwen. He tried to think about something else, and a realisation struck him like a slap to the face.

“Drustan, how did we pay for the inn at Bladonfort? And to join the convoy?”

“With coins.”

“What coins?”

“Coins taken from corpses at Boddingham. Quite a lot came from your brothers’ and your parents’ huts.”