‘And now for the gold,’ the Arch-Druid announced as he strode out of the temple bearing armfuls of the stuff.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Wat.
Caput XXVI
Ah, the Gold.
All eyes were on the Arch-Druid. Or rather they were on the nice shiny things he was carrying in his arms.
The expression “a king’s ransom” was often bandied about to indicate so much wealth that actually trying to enumerate it was beyond the wit of mortal man or woman.
The assembled mortal men and women now knew what a king’s ransom actually looked like. It looked very nice indeed. Virtually every mind in the place turned to how they might be able to leave this place with all the gold. Even people tied up and ready to be sacrificed could suddenly imagine a turn of events which left everyone else dead, or lost, and them escaping alone over the hills carrying more gold than they could carry.
‘I’ve been discussing this with Lypolix,’ the Arch-Druid explained, ‘and rather than put the gold on the stones, where it might be stolen, we’ve decided to bury it with you.’
Several of the minds now thought that being put in a hole with a rock on top wasn’t really so bad, if you got big piece of gold all to yourself.
‘That way, each stone will have its own gold and of course we don’t have to go to the trouble of melting it down.’
The original triumvirate who had set off on the mission from Le Pedvin had varying reactions to the arrival of the treasure. The treasure they had been sent to find in the first place.
Hermitage was interested in the gold at an intellectual level. He considered it fascinating that these pagan people, in the middle of nowhere, had managed to accumulate and keep such a quantity of wealth. He also feared for their safety when William found out that he was right; Wales was full of gold. He thought it would be extremely satisfying if he could now find Martel and complete the set.
Cwen was considering which piece of gold in the Arch-Druid’s arms, a big, heavy torc, a large plate or a simple lump of un-fashioned metal, would make the best weapon with which to knock out an Arch-Druid’s brains.
Wat was dribbling.
‘Gold,’ the weaver breathed and drooled at the same time, ‘so much gold.’
‘And death,’ Hermitage pointed out, ‘gold and death.’ He thought it had a nice ring to it as a warning to the avaricious.
‘Gold and death,’ Wat repeated, as if it was an invitation. And a nicely balanced one at that.
‘Let’s see.’ The Arch-Druid deposited his treasury on the floor and surveyed it casually. ‘I think the monk and the stone seer should probably have the most significant pieces.
He selected pieces of such significance as was fitting, and of such significance that they could have bought a small town.
He took a massive, embossed gold plate and laid it by Hermitage. Then he deposited a torc big enough for a cow at Wulf’s feet.
‘Where did all this come from?’ Wulf asked in awe. ‘I’ve never seen any of it before.’
‘And so you shouldn’t young Wulf. This is the Arch-Druid’s treasury. Gifts to the druids over the years have been accumulated and kept safe for just such a purpose as this.’
‘Killing druids,’ Wulf was contemptuous.
‘Sacrificing, Wulf,’ the Arch-Druid corrected, ‘sacrificing. How many times have I told you? You’ll have the honour of a place with the Gods.’
Wulf did not look like he thought it much of an honour.
As the Arch-Druid got on with distributing the gold among the soon-to-be foundations, the various faces around the horde of gold were getting over their awe at the sight of such wealth. Minds returned to the subjects of stones and holes and sacrifices. The reality of being a sacrifice, even a rich one, was dawning.
The Arch-Druid was pottering about, putting a piece of gold here, placing another one there, not quite liking it and then moving it back again. He was even humming merrily as he went.
With the last bit of gold distributed, the old man surveyed his achievements and noticed that he was still several treasures short of a full circle. He tutted mild annoyance that some people might not be put to death quite properly, and scuttled back to the temple, beckoning John to follow him and help with the load.
The swordsman appeared to be overwhelmed by the honour of this, put his sword, away and followed.
…
Other faces looked upon the scene from their place of hiding and were not in the least concerned about being a sacrifice - because they weren’t tied up waiting to become one. They were quite taken with the rich bit though. And the route to becoming rich seemed pretty straightforward just now. It would be even easier if all the people who were tied up ready to be sacrificed, went ahead and got on with it.
One of the watchers was ready to leap forward immediately and start the harvest, but was held back.
‘The gold,’ the leaper-forward breathed.
‘Wait,’ said the one who seemed to be in charge. He seemed to be very much in charge and so the enthusiast waited.
‘But they’re going to bury it under rocks,’ the first protested.
‘Then we’ll know where it is, won’t we,’ the second hissed a command and followed it up with a cuff round the head. A cuff round the head which sent the first man reeling as the cuffs were on the end of solid metal, armoured gloves.
…
And yet more faces watched the scene. It was a good job this area was so heavily wooded. The secrecy of the various parties would have been severely hindered if they kept bumping into one another.
‘Look at all that gold,’ one of these observers breathed.
‘I say,’ the other was impressed as well.
‘We could get some.’ A grin erupted which would make the god of avarice tut in distaste.
‘Do you think we should?’
‘It’s there for the taking.’
‘I’m not sure. I think it belongs to the druids. You see the big chap with the beard? I don’t think they’d like it.’
‘We don’t have to ask.’
‘But they’ve got all those other people tied up. If a couple of druids can do that, even to other druids, what chance do we stand?’
‘Tell you what, we’ll sneak in, free the people who are tied up, and then we’ll outnumber the druids.’ The head nodded at this cunning and daring plan.
‘Do you think we should?’
‘Oh come on,’ the first said as he made sneaking movements through the undergrowth, ‘you’ve been in that cave too long.’
…
Oh lord, thought Hermitage, as he heard a very distinctive hissing sound, there’s that snake of the druids. He had told Wat there was a snake involved.
‘Hissss.’
He waited, fully anticipating the sharp pain of fangs striking his vulnerable parts. Druid fangs, probably poisoned. He tightened his body and screwed up his face, perhaps in the forlorn hope that poisoned, druid snakes didn’t bite people with screwed up faces.
He was so tense, he couldn’t even shout out when there was indeed a sharp pain at his wrist. All he could do was let out a strangled gurgle as he anticipated the awful, slow death that was to come.
‘Oh, sorry,’ More spoke in his ear, ‘missed the rope.’
Hermitage felt the twine at his wrists tugged away as a knife slid across his binding and started to saw at it.
‘More?’ Hermitage managed to breathe – when he had started breathing again.
‘Yis,‘ said More as he sawed away.
‘Where have you been?’ As he asked it, Hermitage thought that this was probably not the right question for this particular situation.
‘I went for a walk.’ More seemed happy to start a normal conversation.
‘A walk?’ Hermitage let his annoyance slip out. ‘We’re tied up, about to be sacrificed by some mad druids and you went for a walk?’
‘You weren’t being sacrificed when I went for a walk,’ More pointed out quite reasonably. ‘And I so
rt of got a bit lost.’
Hermitage couldn’t think of anything to say. Which was unusual in itself.
‘Good job I did, eh?’ More tugged and pulled at the rope which he was nearly through.
‘I suppose it is,’ Hermitage whispered. ‘You haven’t seen anyone else have you? We lost one of the stragglers - Leon, and all the robbers.’
‘Oh,’ More sounded very interested, ‘been busy then.’
Hermitage breathed deeply as he felt his wrists come free, but held them still, in case anyone spotted that he had been released.
There was no sign of Lypolix, so Hermitage took his chance and pulled himself up to a squatting position. He turned to face More. He should at least thank the old man for his rescue. The mad boatman, who he had not wanted on the mission at all, might have turned out to be the one who saved them all. It just taught him not to judge people.
‘Oh,’ he exclaimed, as he saw there was someone else with More.
The figure was more like a hermit than most hermits Hermitage had ever seen. He had been tempted to the isolated life himself, and even directed to it on one or two occasions. The problem had always been that the hermits he met seemed to have no gainful employment outside of starving and begging. They never considered great arguments. They never studied illuminating texts. They just sat in caves and thought. Apparently. He’d never even come across the results of any hermit’s thinking.
As far as he could tell from this individual, he had really got the hang of the starving bit. His clothes seemed of good quality, but far too big. He was dirty and wrinkled and his hair would only be rescued by complete removal.
The other held his hand out, ‘How do you do,’ he said in a loud whisper. He sounded much more intelligent that he looked. ‘Martel, Giles Martel. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Giles Martel?’ Hermitage was stunned. ‘King William’s looking for you?’
‘Oh dear,’ said Martel. And he sounded like he meant it.
‘I found him hiding in a cave,’ More explained.
‘Living,’ Martel corrected, ‘living in a cave.’
‘Hm,’ said More, clearly not giving Martel the benefit of the doubt.
‘In fact,’ said Hermitage, ‘the King sent us to find you.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Martel looked like he wanted to get back to his cave.
‘Hermitage!’ Wat’s whispered shout crossed the clearing.
Hermitage turned to look at the weaver.
‘Perhaps now is not the time for a conversation,’ Wat made wriggling movements, indicating that he was still firmly tied up.
‘Ah, quite.’
Crouching low, as if that would stop them being spotted if the Arch-Druid reappeared, Hermitage, More and Martel hurried over to Wat. The knife did its job and Wat moved on to release the others.
When he came to Wulf and Gardle, he paused.
‘Not sure I should release you,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘I would if I were you,’ said Wulf in all seriousness.
‘Oh, yes? Going to join your master and put us all in holes in the ground?’
‘I shall join my master to the nearest oak tree,’ Wulf growled, ‘with a sickle through his sensitive bits. And that prancing idiot Lypolix along with him.’
Gardle looked at his companion in some surprise at this challenge to authority. He didn’t object though.
Wat was impressed by the venom in the young man’s voice and so cut them free.
As soon as everyone’s ties were cut and they were able to escape the horror of a druid sacrifice, they acted with one accord. Without exception they stooped to pick up their piece of gold and stash it somewhere safe.
‘What?’ Cwen demanded as Hermitage gave her a disappointed look. ‘We don’t want to leave it with the druids. Look what they do with it. That must be sinful.’
Hermitage thought this was a fine time for Cwen to start worrying about what was sinful and what wasn’t.
‘In fact, if you don’t want your bit?’ she asked.
Hermitage shook his head in despair, but did glance over to where he had been tied.
There was no sign of the large gold plate. More was standing there, smiling, with a large plate-shaped bulge under his jerkin.
‘Oh, really,’ Hermitage huffed at the assembly, ‘do you value gold more highly than your own lives?’
Ellen, the straggler shrugged, ‘We can have both now,’ she said.
‘Unless the druids come back,’ Hermitage pointed out.
‘What’s one old man, and an even older, mad one going to do against all of us?’ Ellen asked, putting her hands on her hips, gold chalices firmly clasped in each. ‘We’ve even got druids on our side now,’ she pointed out Wulf and Gardle.
‘And the rest of the village?’ Hermitage asked. ‘We should leave all this here and make good our escape. The gold will only hold us back.’
‘The rest of the village are nowhere to be seen,’ Ellen pointed out. ‘We still haven’t found Leon so we’re not going anywhere. And no one’s asking you to carry any gold.’ She seemed to think she had finished with Hermitage.
He had no satisfactory answer. ‘This will not end well,’ he warned, ‘the gold will be a division between us. Wars have been fought over less.’
‘Then the further apart we are after this, the better,’ Ellen concluded.
‘What’s going on?’ the voice of the Arch-Druid boomed over the woodland.
They all turned to face the man who did not look happy, even though he had an arm full of fresh gold.
Lypolix was now with the bearded one, and hopped about in his shadow, still grinning for some reason or other. Or most likely for no reason at all – or the complete absence of reason.
John stood at his side, sword freshly in hand
‘Get back to your places,’ the Arch-Druid commanded.
No one moved.
‘Now!’ he brought this instruction from the very depths of his massive frame.
‘No.’ It was Wulf who spoke up in defiance. A voice which seemed to give the Arch-Druid a shock.
‘Wulf Barelock,’ the Arch-Druid was correcting a mere acolyte who dared to speak up.
‘It is Wulf Barelock and I am not going to my death on the say-so of that.’ He pointed at Lypolix, who seemed not to notice. ‘I am the stone seer. I am the one who saw the great circle and the fact that it demanded gold. I did not see any sacrifices. I never saw any sacrifices. I don’t think there need to be any sacrifices at all, never mind a list of specific people. It’s only Lypolix who’s said there should be any at all. And I never believed most of the things he says anyway.’
Hermitage could see that young Wulf was trembling at this outburst. It must have taken considerable courage to speak out against his master like that. Hermitage recalled speaking out against one of his own masters once. That man had been so profoundly wrong about an interpretation of scripture that his error had to be pointed out.
The man had asked Hermitage if he was stupid or just impudent. While he’d been thinking about it, the master had hit him anyway, so there didn’t seem much point in asking the question in the first place.
The poor Arch-Druid didn’t seem to know what to do about this situation. John still stood at his side and could probably take care of everyone in pretty short order but didn’t know where to start. Wulf and Gardle were off to one side of the clearing, Hermitage, Wat and Cwen were in the middle and the remainder of the stragglers were to the other side. By the time John attacked any of them, the rest could run away.
‘The Gods,’ Lypolix cackled at the top of his voice.
‘Yes,’ the Arch-Druid leapt on the explanation, ‘the Gods have dictated the sacrifices. If they want Wulf Barelock crushed under a rock, that’s what they’ll get.’
‘The Gods,’ Wulf was dismissive. ‘We’ve only got Lypolix’s word that any of that is true.’
‘No,’ Lypolix cackled on, ‘the Gods.’ He was pointing towards the woods behind Hermitage’s
head.
Everyone swung round to see the Gods come out of the trees.
Hermitage knew perfectly well that there was only one God and he was hardly likely to appear in some Welsh woods. Of course, he could if he wanted to, but this seemed to be such a local issue it wouldn’t be worth his trouble. Anyway, his days of direct miraculous appearance had tapered off after the Old Testament. He acted in a much more mysterious way now. Hardly likely to come marching out of the trees demanding sacrifices. This druid was clearly and absolutely wrong.
He still had to look though.
They all had to look.
Breath could be heard being drawn in as a large figure stepped out from between two trees and looked left and right across the clearing.
It had a head of shining glory with piercing eyes that took in all they surveyed. It had a mighty sword of vengeance in its right hand and a shield of justice in its left. Its front was a blazing lion which roared its anger at them all and its feet bestrode the ground as if growing from the earth itself.
There was silence in the clearing as eyes widened in alarm at the sight.
Apart from one set of eyes.
‘That’s not a god,’ said Giles Martel, in disappointment, ‘that’s Hector de Boise.’
Caput XXVII
Now Who’s Lying?
‘What?’ the Arch-Druid demanded.
‘Hector de Boise,’ Martel repeated. ‘It’s Hector de Boise. I’d recognise his arms anywhere.’
‘His arms?’ Hermitage enquired, wondering how anyone recognised someone from their arms.
‘He means his coat of arms, Hermitage,’ Wat explained.
‘Ah,’ Hermitage nodded, content that that had been cleared up. It was clear that the man before them was just a normal Norman Noble. He had Norman helmet, armour and weapons. It was obvious. He hadn’t for a moment thought the man was god at all. Not really.
‘He knew my father,’ Martel went on.
The Arch-Druid turned to give Lypolix a very questioning look.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids Page 21