Hill of Bones (2 page)

He stood up and gazed across the valley towards the hills to the north-east. One hill stood slightly separate from the others and was distinguished by a flattened top. In the clear light of evening Geraint was able to see that the lines of the hill top looked too straight to be completely natural. There were few trees growing on the lower slopes and none at all on the upper, which meant that any approaching group would be easily seen. It reminded him of the great hill town in the south, near the village that he and Caradoc had come from. The town called Cadwy’s Fort, which Arthur used as his headquarters when he was in the region. The size of Cadwy’s, with its towering grassy flanks and deep defensive ditches surmounted by walls of pale stone, made Geraint think of the work of gods rather than mere men.

The hill opposite where he stood was less imposing than Cadwy’s, but that it was occupied by men was not in doubt, for he now saw a thick column of black smoke rising from a point near the centre of the flattened top. Then other spirals of smoke sprang up, and carried on the breeze there came cries and screams, the scrape of metal on metal, the thud of blows. Geraint had never been in battle, never been close to the scene of battle, but he recognised this for what it was. Had he and Caradoc arrived too late? Was the decisive encounter already taking place?

He felt confused and dizzy and almost sank down on the ground. When he looked again at the flattened hill, its top was placid and the pillars of smoke had vanished. In his ears there rang no sound except birdsong. Geraint was familiar with these moments, which overcame him occasionally. He had told no one of them, except one person.

Geraint blinked and followed his brother downhill towards the town in the valley. It was an open evening on the edge of midsummer. Threads of innocent white smoke wavered from the encampments set around the town of Aquae Sulis. The distance and the fading light made it impossible to judge numbers. You would scarcely know that there was an army camped about the town. You would not know that there was another army on the march in this direction.

Caradoc and Geraint crossed the lower-lying meadows, where the ground was soft underfoot and the breeze rippled through willows and rows of poplars. Geraint said nothing of the battle-scene he had witnessed on the opposite hill top. Either it had happened in the past, in which case there was nothing to be done about it, or – and this was more likely – it was still to come. The question was, would the battle take place in Geraint’s presence? Was he one of the fighters? Was his own voice among the screams and cries he had heard? Or Caradoc’s?

As they drew nearer to the encampments, with Caradoc still in the lead and the dog off to one side on some mission of its own, they could smell distant wood smoke and roasting meat, could hear a whinnying horse. It seemed to Geraint that his brother knew exactly where he was going, he walked with such confidence. Then Caradoc halted. He was standing on the edge of a marshy, reed-fringed stretch of water. They might have been able to wade through it, but beyond the reeds was a faster-flowing current, which caught up all the light remaining in the sky. Geraint realised that this must be the Abona. From their vantage point up in the hills the course of the river down here had been concealed. Now it was going to require a detour before they could reach the encampments or the town.

‘There must be a crossing point further along,’ said Caradoc, gesturing towards the west. ‘There must be a ford.’

How much further along? thought Geraint. He saw the pair of them blundering about in the gathering dark, their nostrils tickled by the smells from the other side of the river and their eyes distracted by the twinkle of fires. He suddenly felt hungry. Caradoc whistled for Cynric and the black shape came crashing through the long grass.

Distracted by the return of the dog, neither brother noticed the small boat sliding noiselessly out of the reeds. When they did, Caradoc dropped the dead rabbit and his hand jumped to his sword hilt. Geraint tensed and Cynric growled. The occupant of the boat had seen them before they were aware of him. He was a lean and wrinkled man – quite old, to Geraint’s eyes – and he was crouching in the centre of the boat, which was about half as broad as it was long. He was pushing himself towards the bank with one hand but there was a paddle resting across his knees.

‘I had my eye on you as you came across the meadows,’ said the boatman.

‘Where is the crossing place?’ said Caradoc.

The boatman did not answer until, with a final flick of his wrist, he caused his craft to crunch softly into the mud and reeds a few feet from where Caradoc and Geraint were standing.

‘Over there, but you will not reach it this side of night,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the now vanished sun.

‘We are here to join Arthur’s host,’ said Caradoc.

The boatman cleared his throat and spat into the water. Evidently he was not impressed. ‘Is Arthur here?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Caradoc with a confidence that was based more on belief than knowledge.

The boatman cast his eyes up and down the length of the brothers as if assessing their fitness as warriors. Geraint was conscious that he cut a boyish figure but his brother now, Caradoc, he had more bone and sinew on him.

‘You will carry us over,’ said Caradoc.

‘And you will pay what?’

‘We are here to fight our common enemy,’ said Geraint, speaking for the first time. ‘The Saxon horde.’

‘Oh, that enemy,’ said the boatman. He flexed his arms and the oval boat rocked in the water. ‘What are your names?’

‘I am Caradoc and this is my brother, Geraint.’

‘And I am Brennus,’ said the boatman. He had a high-pitched voice, disagreeable. Geraint was reminded of an ungreased axle on a cart. ‘Talking of enemies, mine are the cold in winter and the hunger and thirst all the time. You’ve got something to drink?’

‘The dregs of some water only,’ said Caradoc, ‘warm and stale from being carried all day.’

The boatman laughed, an odd sound like the squeak of some water bird.

‘You must surely be carrying something of value,’ he said. Instinctively, Geraint’s hand tightened on the pouch, which was fixed to his belt across from his sword. Despite the growing gloom, he could have sworn that Brennus the boatman observed this slight gesture.

Caradoc retrieved the coin he’d picked up from the villa floor. He held it towards the boatman.

‘This will more than do,’ he said. ‘It’s a coin from the old days and it is silver. You can have it if you ferry us both across. And the dog.’

‘The dog will swim behind us. You can’t have a dog in a small boat like this on account of the balance,’ said Brennus, stretching out a sinewy arm and waggling his hand to illustrate his point. He gathered a coil of rope from the bottom of the boat. ‘Here. Tie a stick to this and throw it out when we are afloat. The dog will seize hold of the stick.’

Caradoc found a fallen branch along the bank and, using his knife, sawed off a section. He secured one end of the boatman’s rope to the piece of wood. Cynric sat and stared with his head on one side, baffled by his master’s actions. The boatman watched with almost as much interest, stroking his chin with one hand and grasping the long paddle on his knees with the other. At one point his gaze wandered casually towards Geraint, then flicked away again – too quickly, Geraint thought. Clouds of midges hovered in the half-light.

Brennus was suddenly struck with a fresh idea. ‘Come to think of it, my little craft will not carry three at once. I will take one of you over and come back for the other. Out of goodness of heart, and seeing as you are to join the fight against the Saxon horde – our common enemy – I will do two journeys for the price of one, and in any order you please.’

Geraint was about to protest at their separation but stopped himself. It would sound feeble and unmanly. This Brennus was quite old and withered, for all his sinewy arms. The brothers were young and strong.

If Caradoc had any doubts he did not show them. He nodded. ‘Very well. But you will not be paid until we are both standing on the far bank.’

‘Step in,’ said the boatman, ‘but carefully now.’

Geraint nodded at his brother as if to say, you go first. Brennus shuffled backwards as Caradoc, holding the coiled rope, stepped into the boat and sat down at the near end. Cynric quivered on the edge of the reedy bank, uncertain of the next stage in this game. The boatman shoved off with his paddle. When they had pushed out a little way, he indicated that Caradoc should throw out the rope. The stick-end landed on the mud and Cynric snatched it up in his jaws, floundered out into the water and began paddling as if he was born to it.

Geraint heard the old boatman instructing Caradoc to keep the rope slack so that the dog’s struggles would not drag the boat down. He watched as the boat cleared the reeds and shallows and bobbed out into the clearer stretch of the Abona, the black head of the dog just visible. At once he felt very alone. Suppose the boat overturned and his brother was drowned? It did not look very stable, more like an oversized platter thrown onto the water. Suppose that, once they reached the other side, the ferryman refused to return? But then he would not be paid. Geraint did not believe that Brennus would be able to overpower Caradoc, his older, stronger brother, equipped with knife and sword. He breathed deeply, taking in cool draughts of evening air. He gazed back at the willows and poplars that fringed the shore.

By the time he looked again across the river it was to see Caradoc clambering out of the little boat on the far bank, followed a few moments later by Cynric. Geraint sensed rather than saw the dog shaking itself violently, sending spray everywhere. Then the boat, paddled by Brennus, was making progress back over the water. With one hand Geraint grasped his sword hilt, while the other kept firm hold on the pouch attached to his belt. Inside was his tribute, intended for some purpose that he did not yet know. He was tempted for an instant to unfasten the pouch, to unwrap the precious item, examine it once more in the twilight. But, hearing the splash of the paddle as the boat pushed through the outermost reeds on this side, he resisted the temptation. He glanced at the ground and noticed the white, blood-speckled front of the dead rabbit. Caradoc had forgotten his contribution to the supper that they hoped to get on arrival. Geraint picked up the dead animal by its stiff hind legs. Carrying it somehow distracted attention from the contents of the pouch.

Brennus grounded the boat once more in the mud of the shore.

‘Come on, sir,’ he said. ‘No time to waste. We must get across before nightfall.’

Geraint stepped in the boat and sat down clumsily as Caradoc had done.

For the second time, the boatman used the paddle to push them off the bank and the craft bobbled its way out into the open.

The river seemed immense once you were in the middle of it and the willow frame and stretched skin of the boat offered very thin protection. The current carried them at an angle, but Brennus was familiar with its twists and turns for, with a slight touch or stroke of the paddle, he aimed for the point at which Geraint could see his brother standing with the dog. The rushing of the water threatened to swamp the boat but it was more stable than it looked and, after a time, Geraint started to relax and study Brennus, helped by the fact that the boatman’s face was half averted. He wondered what the man did for a living. Ferrying travellers across the Abona? Fishing? Certainly a strong, disagreeable odour of fish came off him now that he was at close quarters.

Then the boat came to a halt or, rather, began to spin about in a slow circular motion as if they were trapped on the edge of a whirlpool. Geraint found himself looking at the bank they’d left behind. Brennus withdrew his paddle from the water and laid it, dripping, across his bony knees. He reached over and stroked the fur of the rabbit, which Geraint was holding. The young man suddenly felt foolish for bringing this insignificant dead tribute.

‘I’ve changed my mind, sir,’ said Brennus. His voice grew higher, more disagreeable and grating. ‘The coin your brother is offering is only enough for one passage. I need something more before I take you to the other side.’

‘I haven’t got anything,’ said Geraint, somehow unsurprised by this new demand. He had not trusted Brennus from the instant the boatman slid out of the reeds. He indicated the rabbit that nestled in his lap. ‘Nothing except this cony. You are welcome to it.’

‘I want more than a dead thing,’ said Brennus. ‘You have got something else on your very person. I saw the way your hand went towards your belt on the bank earlier. I see the way you’re gripping that pouch on your belt even now.’

It was true. Geraint was holding on to the leather pouch even more tightly than he was using his other hand to cling to the side of the boat. He had his short sword, but it was tucked awkwardly down by his side and would be slow to draw. Besides, he had never used it in anger, scarcely knew how to wield it.

‘Can you swim?’ said the boatman.

‘Yes,’ said Geraint promptly.

‘You’re a liar, and a bad one at that. Whatever you say, you
have
got something in that pouch of yours and, whatever else you say, you cannot swim. Not one in a hundred men can swim. I’ll turn the boat over and you’ll sink like a stone.’

‘Then you lose whatever I’m carrying. You lose your boat.’

‘Boats float,’ said Brennus. ‘And you will lose rather more when you’re at the bottom of the river.’

Geraint sensed that Brennus was enjoying this: the teasing, the control of what was happening on his boat. He looked towards the far bank where Caradoc and Cynric were standing expectantly. He thought of shouting out, but what could his brother do? Then he noticed that although they were still spinning round, the figure of his brother was growing larger. The current was gradually pushing them to the other shore while the boatman, intent on his threats, was neglecting to use the paddle to keep them in the centre of the stream. If he could only manage to distract Brennus for a little longer . . .

‘So
you
are able to swim?’ he said.