by Angus Watson
Chapter 4
They dismounted at the edge of the village and Lowa led them to a hut. It was the standard circular wattle and daub construction, but a strikingly large and tidy example. A low stone wall surrounded the straight-sided hut and a well kept space that was part agricultural workshop, part flower garden. A bare-chested young man was doing press-ups outside the hut’s porch, apparently oblivious to their arrival.
“Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight!” he counted as he pumped up and down. His arm muscles shifted like stoats racing through a haggis skin. I don’t like you, thought Dug. He glanced at Lowa. She was eyeing the young man appreciatively, in much the same way, Dug realised with a sinking stomach, as he’d eyed her when she’d come back from washing in the river the previous day.
“Bet he just started when he saw us coming,” he whispered to Spring. “He’d be sweating if he’d really done that many.”
Spring was staring open-mouthed at the man and didn’t seem to hear him. Not her as well? thought Dug. Surely she’s too young?
Lowa pushed open the low gate into the garden. “Farrell.”
The man leaped up and swept blond shoulder-length hair from his eyes. He was medium height, about Lowa’s age. His square jaw was beardless. Welcoming blue eyes shone from a tanned, effeminate but handsome face that radiated relaxed confidence and decency. He wore clean woollen trousers and leather boots. His lean, hard, lightly tanned torso was unscarred by battle. He wore a jewelled gold bracelet on each wrist. Dug found himself clasping his one remaining plain bronze bracelet as if to cover it up.
“Lowa!” The young man strode over and embraced her manfully for far too long, before looking up at Dug and Spring. “And who are these?” he asked, his ruling-class accent tinged with the laughter of happy welcome. Lowa told him their names and said: “This is Farrell Finda, King of Kanawan.”
“Come come!” boomed Farrell. “You must have been travelling for hours. Enid!”
A girl about Spring’s age with straight eyebrows, a high forehead and a freckly nose walked out of the hut, wiping her hands on a white apron. “Dad?”
“Put the horses out please darling, for Lowa, Spring and Dud. This is my daughter Enid.”
Spring giggled.
“That’s Dug,” said Dug.
“Sorry, old man! Come in, come in and meet Ula! We’ve enough food for all. You must sit and rest and tell us what brings you to our humble village.” Farrell swept a woollen coat from a hook on the wall and pulled it on. It was the reddest coat Dug had ever seen. Farrell fastened it with five bone toggles carved, if Dug wasn’t mistaken, into the shape of mice.
He looked down at his own tatty, brown, unadorned outfit, then followed Farrell into his big round hut. Inside it was clean and neat. There were tartan rugs draped over furniture and furs on the floor. A section of the conical roof had been folded back, so all was bright and airy. Shelves were lined with swirl-decorated pots, long-necked jugs and a few of the smaller, patterned Roman wine amphoras. Along one wall was a display of long-handled, short-toothed, antler-carved wool-weaving combs, decorated with circles and lines. Arranged teeth up, they looked to Dug like a row of dandy dogs’ paws. Up north, the kind of time devoted to producing such fancy goods was channelled into making better weapons.
The home was large enough for the sleeping quarters to be two separate little rooms, shielded from the main chamber by heavy leather curtains. A pot bubbled gloopily over the central hearth. A large oval shield leaned against one wall. Its polished bronze boss was surrounded by an elaborate design of what was meant to be two dragons with their tails in each other’s mouths but looked more to Dug like cannibalistic tadpoles. He curled his lip at it. That lovely piece of kit had never deflected a spear blow, and, with that soft bronze boss, wouldn’t last long if it tried.
But it did look good. The whole hut did. Expensive and unnecessary decoration aside, the hut was exactly the sort of place Dug would have loved to have lived in. In fact, replace the poncey decorations with functional kit, swap the cow leather for sealskin, change the mud and wood walls for stone, and it wasn’t that different from the broch he and Brinna had so lovingly and enthusiastically done up when he’d been a little younger than Farrell, before it had all gone wrong.
A woman emerged from one of the sleeping chambers.
“This is my wife, Ula,” said Farrell, chest swelling as he pointed at her. “I’ll leave you here for a while. You’re in good hands!” He ducked out of the hut.
Ula was a svelte young woman with black hair falling sleekly over her shoulders onto incongruously large breasts. She had questioning eyebrows, large blue eyes, a sharp chin and plump, almost bruised-looking pink lips with a mischievous curl of smile. Her only adornment was a heavy blue-glass bracelet – no gold – but the way she held herself suggested that she had a hoard of riches packed away and didn’t feel the need to show it. Old money, thought Dug. Her woollen dress was simple but well made, lighter than Dug had seen wool spun before, with braid edging and a woollen belt that accentuated her narrow waist.
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 li
ttle 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 t
o 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.