Geraint (Hengist-People of the Horse Book 5)

by Jacky Gray

  Curling up with her body as a pillow for his head, he slept a troubled sleep, his dreams reflecting the nightmare his life had become ever since his mother died.

  4 Savannah

  The next morning, when he returned, the camp had an air of empty disorder about it. As he helped himself to the remains of the gruel from the communal pot, one of the women, Drina, chided him for putting a jinx on the important trip down to Salisburgh.

  ‘Where have you been? The whole camp has been in uproar. Everyone’s been searching for you since sun-up. Your father has been making everyone’s lives a misery, shouting at people for the slightest thing because he was so worried about you.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I thought they were going next week.’

  ‘No, you didn’t think. That’s the trouble with you children; you don’t consider anything but yourselves. If he doesn’t reach the market in time, he won’t be able to trade any of the goods we’ve worked so hard to make all spring. Then we’ll have no material to make clothes and no salt to keep the meat over the winter.’

  As she spoke, the guilt he felt grew larger, making him feel sick inside. But the thought of the tough, dry winter meat turned his remorse into anger. ‘He shouldn’t have shouted at me. You don’t need to tell me how useless I am, everyone tells me every day.’ He stood so abruptly, the bowl fell off his lap, cracking in two. The gruel spilt onto the ground where Ciria lapped at it eagerly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘Precisely what I’m saying. You don’t mean to do anything. It’s always someone else’s fault. It’s about time you took responsibility for yourself. You’re old enough now to be useful instead of a burden on us all.’

  Fury raged like a wild animal inside him and he walked away from her before he said or did something stupid. Stomping up to his father’s wagon, he looked for something to kick when he saw the two-wheeler propped at the back. Glaring at it, the resentment burnt inside until he felt it would burst into flames if he looked at it much longer. As the image of it on fire filled his vision, a wet tongue on his hand extinguished the flames. He looked down at Ciria, only to have her flinch away as though from a fire. He watched in horror as her fur began to smoke and looked away quickly, worried his temper might set her alight. Breathing in deeply, he tried to imagine rain pouring down to put out the flames, waves gently lapping on a beach and a stream meandering through a meadow with willow trees dipping their leaves into its peaceful flow. Drops of water splashed onto his face and he opened his eyes to see her shaking fur which dripped as though she’d recently swum in a river. Frowning, he shook his head to clear the notion before it formed. It was purely his imagination playing tricks. She’d probably got in the way of the nearby children squirting water from their water skins.

  Turning back to the wagon, his mind filled with an image of him riding the two-wheeler down a long road with Ciria at his side. A plan formed in his mind. He knew the market trip usually took six or seven days while they travelled to different villages, so he could afford to spend a day in preparation. Initially, he had to ignore the anxiety he felt after his tumble, and try to improve his skill on the vehicle. A little unsteady at first, he soon built up some confidence on the track ways around the camp, learning to control the steering so he could avoid the pits and large stones.

  When satisfied he could handle it reasonably well, he began to think about other things he might need, like a spare water skin, a hunting knife and a groom-pad for Ciria. He guessed spending long hours in the saddle, would get uncomfortable and covered it with a piece of thick fur so it would not chafe his legs. Reasoning it was more useful to be dry than warm, he discarded the bulky woollen blanket in favour of a thin leather hide which would resist most of the light summer rains. He could always snuggle up to Ciria to share their body heat under the light covering. This would leave more room for food and other essentials. The thought of heavy rains and the cold nights gave him a moment’s pause, but he decided he would find a thicket to provide shelter.

  The next day, he got up early and, after finishing his chores in record time, ate a large breakfast. As he packed food into a carry sack, a mild enquiry made him start. ‘Off to meet Rattrick, are you?’

  Turning, he saw Savannah watching his efforts with amusement. She held two beakers of steaming liquid and he smelt a pleasant fruity aroma. He carried on with his task, his tone light and inconsequential. ‘No, I’m just going out for a ride.’

  ‘Looks like you’re going for quite a while.’

  ‘I want to ride out to the big roads and try it at speed.’

  ‘But you would be back in time for supper.’

  ‘I may camp out overnight. Ciria will keep me company.’ He willed her to go away, but she folded her arms, her intention clear. He’d finished packing the bag and had no choice but to present his face, which she read as though his plans were written in black and white.

  ‘If you leave, your father will be heart-broken.’

  ‘Rattrick doesn’t have a heart. My mother broke it when she died.’ The bitter tone screwed his face up.

  ‘Damaged it maybe, but it’s not completely broken yet. You’re the only part of her he has left. If he’s harsh, it’s because he doesn’t want to allow you to have such a large part of his heart. He fears it will break apart when you go.’

  ‘So he does everything he can to drive me away. That makes sense.’

  ‘I wish you could have seen him at your age, he was so different. You would have liked him.’

  ‘Why? Wasn’t he the one bullying all the other lads just like Oeric does?’

  Shaking her head sadly, she sat on the bench outside the wagon, indicating he should join her. Looking up at the sun with a sigh, curiosity overtook him. He knew so little about the man who ruled the tribe and dominated his life, and figured he could spare some time to find out more. She offered him one of the beakers and he sniffed appreciatively before taking a sip. It had cooled enough to give a pleasant glow as it warmed his insides. But she would not give the information so easily, and he felt cheated at her next words. ‘Tell me your earliest memory of him.’

  Closing his eyes, he sought deep into his mind, looking for something prior to his current situation. Images whirled like dancers round a Beltane pole, and he tried to figure out which ones were oldest. One persisted more than the rest: at the beach where they used to go in the summer. His mother loved to wander barefoot with the waves lapping at her toes which sank into the soft sand. Renata would laugh as her young son packed the wet sand around her legs until she became a mermaid, then call to Rattick to rescue her before the pirates stole her away. His father indulged her fantasies, always concerned she might catch a chill, fussing over her whenever she coughed, which seemed to be most of the time. Geraint recognised the young puppy splashing excitedly, barking at the waves and tearing up the sand to shake itself all over her, covering her with water and sand. His father protested, but she would laugh and hug the dog to her, soaking the front of her dress.

  ‘That’s why he hates Ciria, because she reminds him of mother.’ Geraint couldn’t stop the bitter tone.

  ‘It wasn’t just the memory; he believes your mother died because of an illness she picked up from the dog. He’s never forgiven himself for allowing her to keep Ciria even though a misguided shaman said it would kill her.’ She spat at the ground, underlining her contempt.

  ‘Oh.’ The small sound reflected Geraint’s understanding of a part of his father he’d always hated. More images pushed themselves to the fore. Images of things he could not possibly have seen, things which happened before his birth. As he tried to make sense of this, something took control of his mind and body, allowing room for nothing but the powerful memories.

  He saw his father as a young boy of around eight, training for his first trial. Rattrick could have been his twin, with similar, barely adequate warrior skills. Like his son, he constantly got in trouble for doing things wrong and talking too much, right through to
his final trial at eighteen. All the activities were performed in the shadow of an older, tougher boy. Even though the man had died a decade before his birth, Geraint recognised his uncle Riddick. Like Archer, he was a born warrior with blond hair and exceptional physical skills. While his brother happily created beautiful things from wood, Riddick carved out a career as the next leader of the tribe.

  The following images were surrounded in a mystical haze as Rattrick’s brother met a beautiful, golden-haired girl. After scenes of a joyful handfasting, several images showed her swollen with child before she finally bore him a son. The haze cleared as Riddick howled with grief over the body of his wife, and then the pictures stopped. A pain seared through Geraint’s head and he clutched it, dropping the beaker which smashed to the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, it was an accident. I’ll get you another …’

  ‘Don’t worry Geraint; not your fault. The potion was maybe too strong for someone with your powers, I should have made it weaker.’

  ‘Potion? Powers? What are you talking about?’ But if she answered, he did not hear as conscious thought left him, to be replaced by a deep, dreamless sleep.

  When he woke, the sun’s position told him several hours had elapsed, but there were still many hours of daylight left. The sun sauntered leisurely across the sky at this time of year, taking nearly twice as long as the moon. If he left now, he should get a good dozen miles before sunset. Reasoning he could probably manage the same sort of daily distance as on a horse, he calculated it would take him about a day and a half to get to Oxford. His plans were hazy once he got there. Several years had passed since he last saw Tol and Janna, but he knew he would be able to find their house and ask if he could stay for a while. Uncle Tol would know what he could do to earn himself a living, and he would never have to live in a stinking wagon ever again. Not that the wagon smelt particularly badly. He’d overheard Tol using the phrase when he was angry at the disease which had eaten away at Renata’s body until it destroyed her.

  Jumping to his feet, he immediately regretted it as blackness engulfed his head, making him so dizzy he had to sit down again.

  ‘I wouldn’t even think about it, young man, you’re not going anywhere.’

  The voice sounded familiar, but he could not turn his head. He’d been tricked. It must have been the potion which robbed his limbs of their strength.

  5 Unarmed Combat Training

  Hearing more voices, Geraint opened his eyes to see several of the tribe gathered round him, including Drina, the woman who told him off that morning. Savannah must have drugged him until the rest of them returned for their mid-day meal. The women fussed over him like an infant.

  ‘Looks like he’s caught a chill from being out all night.’

  ‘Poor thing. I was so angry at him this morning when he dropped a bowl. He was probably already ill.’

  ‘There’s a broken beaker here, it looks as though he’s lost the use of his muscles.’

  Darrack took charge, obviously not impressed. ‘Someone get Savannah, maybe she can give him one of her potions.’

  Geraint nearly protested her potion had caused his illness, but something made him keep his council until he could figure out this apparent change in their attitude.

  Addressing him directly, Darrack’s voice held concern. ‘Are you feeling better, Geraint? I worried when you got up and collapsed straight back down again.’

  He managed a weak smile as the man explained.

  ‘Your father asked me to take care of you while he’s away and we’ve been out looking for you. He was concerned when you didn’t come home last night, and wanted to cancel the trip.’ Shrugging with an air of apology, he continued. ‘But he had to go because the arrangement is signed by him, and the market official will not deal with anyone else.’

  Swallowing hard to loosen the knot of emotion in his throat which threatened to choke him, Geraint made a strangled sound; part thanks, part apology.

  ‘What’s that? No, don’t try to speak; I can see how poorly you are. What on earth has happened to that woman?’ He looked towards the healer’s wagon as though his gaze might make her appear.

  Geraint knew it would not be good for him if she did. He tried again, coughing to clear his throat. ‘It’s all right. I’m fine, just a bit dizzy. I’m sorry to put everyone to such trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. We’re happy to do something in return for everything your father does for us. No man could wish for a better leader. Are you sure you’re all right? Savannah’s probably mixing something now to give you some strength.’

  Getting up more slowly, he turned a full circle to show everyone he was not ill. ‘Really, there’s nothing wrong. I think I just got up too quickly. Maybe I need something to eat.’

  ‘That’ll be it. Have a bite to eat then come to my wagon. I promised your father I would take over your combat training while he’s away so you would not suffer unduly.’

  Smiling weakly, Geraint followed the women to the huge cooking pot, now bubbling with a tasty broth, all the while berating himself. How could he have walked into that one so blithely? He’d have done much better by playing on their sympathy for a couple of days, thus avoiding the torment. And how could his father think missing a couple of days of being battered was suffering? Obviously his famous warped sense of humour.

  The last few weeks had been bliss while Geraint was excused from many of the practice sessions in order to concentrate on young Thanet’s stealth training. Since then, Rattrick had been too busy organising things for the market run to pay any attention to his son’s advancement in the not-so-subtle art of unarmed combat. Just as the stealth trial was always held in the Litha of a boy’s eleventh year, the unarmed combat usually occurred in the Herfest after a boy’s fifteenth birthday. The only exception happened when there were not two boys of similar height and weight within the tribe. Even then, they would negotiate with other Renegate tribes to find someone suitable and fulfil the requirement. As no other boy in the camp came near him in age, his father sought far and wide to find an opponent. He’d settled on Manfrid, a boy from Hereward’s tribe who was around six months younger than Geraint.

  Rattrick was pleased with the arrangement at the time it was forged, two years earlier. Since then, the other boy had developed at a pace way beyond the normal. Geraint however, like his father, had been a slow starter: short, thin and lacking in muscle. When they met at the Beltane sporting contest last year, Manfrid won several of the junior trophies, despite being a full year younger than many of the other contenders. Geraint didn’t qualify for any of the finals and he read the disappointment in his father’s eyes, no matter how hard he tried to disguise it.

  Any other boy might have been determined to prove them wrong and make his father proud, but Geraint’s sensitive nature was severely daunted by his Rattrick’s displeasure, resulting in an expectation of failure before he even attempted anything. A classic self-fulfilling prophecy: The more he failed, the more his father disapproved, lowering his self-esteem and guaranteeing he would fail. There didn’t seem to be any way out of this vicious cycle, and he didn’t hold out any hope Darrack’s training would improve things. He knew he had little chance of getting anything better than a three-nil result. But he’d not bargained on magical after-effects.

  Darrack started the session slow and restrained, obviously paying heed to Rattrick assessment of his son’s abilities – or lack of them. As the session progressed, the older man became increasingly frustrated when Geraint was never in the expected place. It did not take long for Darrack to speed up and enhance his tactics until he employed the same level he would with a fully-fledged adversary.

  Something gave Geraint the ability to move and react faster than normal and, more spectacularly, the ability to anticipate any moves made against him. It was almost as if he could tune into his opponent’s thought process and determine the outcome before he’d even reached the final decision. When he tried to analyse it, he could only put it down to the
effect of Savannah’s potion.

  After the fifth time Darrack lunged at the empty place where the boy had stood at the start of his move, he paused to catch his breath, wiping his brow. ‘Sorry Geraint, I’m afraid I’m slowing down a bit in my old …’ He made a grab before his last word, but even his diversionary tactics failed as the boy once more danced out of reach. It was not enough.

  In a final coup de grace, Geraint used the older man’s unbalanced momentum to send him to the ground where he rolled, no longer sprightly enough to bound back onto his feet.

  ‘Smart move. Smart move, indeed. I can’t imagine what your father was thinking, saying you needed extra training. You have the speed and reactions of a champion.’

  ‘I’m not usually this fast. Maybe it’s having a few weeks’ break. And I would definitely benefit from some training to make me stronger. Manfrid is much heavier than I am.’

  ‘But not heavier than me, I’ll warrant. You had no problem tumbling me to the ground. Do that three times and you’ll win.’

  ‘But it was cheating; you’d overbalanced.’

  ‘A good tactic, not cheating. I don’t think there’s anything more I can teach you. Your father could easily have saved the two-wheeler …’ He cut off the rest of the sentence with some embarrassment, but not before the implication of the words had sunk in. Rattrick didn’t rate his son good enough to pass the trial, let alone win it. He wouldn’t want to reward failure.

  An insult like that would probably act as a spur to most boys, making them more determined to prove their detractor wrong, but it had the opposite effect on Geraint. Convinced of his unworthiness, he sank into a fog of self-pity, stomping off into the woods on his own. He slumped against an ash tree in his favourite den, his brain tussling with everything Savannah had revealed to him about Rattrick’s childhood. He really wanted to believe in the caring father she portrayed and the great leader the rest of the tribe knew him to be. But his bitter brain wouldn’t let him ignore the years of cruelty he’d endured because of the man’s constant criticism and cold-hearted attitude.