by Jacky Gray
Sometime later, Ciria found him, worrying at his leg until he returned back to the camp to be summoned by Savannah. He presented her with a sullen face and slovenly posture and she sighed.
‘If you’re just going to wallow in the doldrums, you can take yourself off somewhere else. There is no room for melancholy in my wagon, it makes the milk curdle.’
‘That’s just an old wives’ tale.’
‘It can’t possibly be. I am not, and will never be, an old wife.’
As she looked at him, Geraint’s face softened into a grin in spite of his determination to remain angry. This deepened into a smile as she produced a large plate of golden oat cakes, still warm from the griddle. With his mouth full of the sweet honey flavour, he remembered her part in the day’s events.
‘What was in the potion you gave me?’
‘Mostly berries and a few herbs to help you relax so you could link to the memories.’
‘So why did I fall asleep?’
‘What you did was an extremely advanced form of mind linking. It would have taken a lot out of you. As well as remembering things from your past, you dug deep into your father’s memories.’
‘How could that be? They are his memories, not mine.’
‘But you’re a part of him are you not? When you were made you got part of him and part of your mother, and somewhere in those parts are their memories.’
‘I’ve never done that before.’
‘No, it’s unlikely you will again without the help of someone like me. It’s a very sophisticated skill, as I said before. Not everyone can do it, but you have a gift. Several, in fact, given the skills of your mother and father.’
‘Is that why I become so fast? I thought it was the potion.’
‘What do you mean, so fast? Explain.’
Geraint told her about the training with Darrack. Her face was impassive as he spoke. Afterward, she closed her eyes and he sensed she was listening to someone else talking inside her head.
He was excited about the idea of having highly developed skills. ‘What other sorts of gifts?’
‘There are many you might inherit: healing, prophecy, mind-linking and the warrior skills such as you have experienced.’
‘How will I know which ones?’
‘All in good time. When you recognise something strange happening, open your mind and senses to it and see what happens.’
‘You said something about me being powerful.’
‘That’s true, you are. But your power is not ready to be used yet. It’s dangerous to try and use it before you have been properly instructed. Once we determine which is strongest, you will start the necessary training.’
‘So why did you give me the potion today if it’s dangerous?’
‘Quite the inquisitor aren’t you? I have my reasons, and that’s all I’m prepared to say on the matter.’
She closed her eyes and he felt a warmth in his heart which spread out to his limbs. After a minute or two of silence, he tried to ask her for more details, but she just waved him away.
6 Three Tribes
There could not be anything on the earth worse than having to compete in the combat trial. Unless it was being watched by all the people in three tribes while you were doing it. Two other pairs of boys competing didn’t reduce the feeling of being a lone gladiator thrown to the lions. Being considerably younger, they would go first to warm the crowd up for the main event: a leader’s son against another leader’s nephew.
In the last few weeks, the normally minor affair had escalated out of all proportion, turning into a huge occasion. It all started on his father’s recent trip, when Pitivo, the leader of a coastal tribe, suggested they combined their trials and feasting afterwards to make the day more special. Rattrick debated it with the elders, and they listened patiently to the objections from others in the tribe round the communal campfire.
‘How can you possibly think it’s a good idea to join with two tribes?’
‘Bad enough when it was just one, but two is madness.’
‘Thank you, Drina, Vadoma.’ He nodded to each woman. ‘Does anyone else feel like this?’ A number of people, mostly women, raised their hands. ‘Would any of you like to explain your concerns?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? We’re worried about letting strangers into the camp.’ After Vadoma’s start, several others joined in.
A fierce-looking man, Andrzej, voiced the fears of many. ‘Don’t forget, there are many highly skilled thieves amongst them.’
‘They would not steal from their own.’
‘We are not their own.’
‘They are not our kinsmen. They hold us in no more regard than any of the Townies.’
Drina’s husband, a thin man with a scarred face, spoke passionately about conflicts which might arise between the tribes.
Rattrick frowned. ‘I understand you’re concerned, Emilian. Why do you think this might happen?’
‘Because the honour of each tribe is at stake and feelings will be running high …’
‘Especially if they’ve been quaffing back the ale all day.’
Vadoma’s interruption brought a smattering of laughs.
After glaring at her, Emilian continued as though she’d not spoken. ‘If the boys do not do well, it may cause tension between their supporters, particularly the young men, who may get carried away with their enthusiasm.’
‘You mean they’ll be fighting. People will get hurt and things will get broken.’ Emilian’s obvious temper was placated as Vadoma agreed.
Rattrick nodded. ‘Can anyone see any other risks or problems?’
Andrzej stood to emphasize his point. ‘Forgive me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the Renegates break away because of their hatred of religious dogma?’ There were several mutterings and a few people shifted in their seats. ‘I thought our code rejected these fancy Townie ceremonies with all the pomp and nonsense. We like to worship on a more private level so each tribe does what suits them.’
‘Well said, Andrzej. It sounds very organised and regimented.’ Emilian backed up his friend, frowning at his wife’s next comment.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t all the trials happen around a Sabbat?’ Drina’s face shone innocence, as she echoed Andrzej’s phrase with a knowing gleam in her eyes. Others took up her point.
‘Yeah, we all enjoy getting together for the feasts, what’s wrong with you, Andrzej?’
‘Don’t see you refusing the ale and cakes.’
Many supported her and the chastened man re-took his seat as Emilian observed, ‘Be fair, you’re always at the front of the queue.’
As it was his trial under discussion, Geraint had been privileged to join the circle of adults round the fire instead of sitting quietly to one side with the other children. He watched with pride as Rattrick controlled the meeting, allowing each person to have their say, only moving on when no new points were being made. He’d never seen this side of his father before and had not appreciated his skill as a leader. From watching the older boys planning their strategies for trials, he knew if one person did not take control and guide the conversation, tempers soon rose as everyone competed to have their say. He’d seen two of them stand up and prepare to fight over the silliest thing like the best way to bait a trap or start a fire.
With a calm competence, Rattrick considered every objection and proposed a satisfactory solution, debated and agreed by all parties. By the end of the meeting, everyone fully supported the planned event. The preparations took over every aspect of the camp’s life for the following week as people spruced up their wagons, polished up their acts for the entertainment and stocked up on the foods they would share afterwards. They cleared a site near the camp for the duelling and, on the day, the wagons were drawn around a third of it so no-one would have to stay and guard them.
The arrival of Herward’s wagon stopped everyone in their tracks; the huge vehicle needed a team of four horses to pull it. Most of the children and several women gathered to
admire the fine paintwork and shiny brass fittings. The Renegate leader happily showed them the splendid insides with its separate areas for sleeping, eating and preparing food.
Rattrick’s men tried to look unimpressed as they discussed the problems with having three axles instead of two, but the women came back chattering about the luxury of having space to chop vegetables and cupboards to store food for the winter. But the most novel feature was the separate bedroom at one end where his mother slept in privacy from her son’s night-time liaisons, which were frequent if his insinuations were to be believed. The other wagons were every bit as small and shabby as theirs, and Geraint overheard more than one of his tribe suggesting they wouldn’t like to follow a man who kept all the riches for himself.
Pitivo’s wagons rolled in then, and the Wessex Renegates were curious about these people from the south. Their vans were much sturdier to resist the fierce weather round the coasts where they did most of their trading. The people were slightly darker because of spending so much time by the sea. Many of the men earned a living crewing on fishing boats, and the women must have spent all their time out on the beaches judging by the number of shells which decorated everything they owned. The leader, a sprightly man, had a deep booming laugh which seemed out of place on such a small frame. Leaping nimbly from the weather-beaten wagon, he helped down one of the most beautiful women Geraint had ever seen. All the men stared at her long, honey-coloured hair rippling over a flowing dress with all the blues and greens of the sea. She obviously relished the admiration, moving so the tight bodice sparkled in the sunlight. As she came closer, it was clear someone had spent many hours sewing on the tiny pearls which covered it in ornate swirls.
Vadoma commented dryly that she pitied the poor woman whose fingers would have bled in the making of that dress. Drina whispered back that she could not think of a worse way of wasting her life.
Geraint was barely aware of their bitching, as his idea of an angel appeared at the doorway of the wagon, carrying one of Pitivo’s gifts for the trial prizes. The huge glass jars filled with sea shells were used to store energised water for healing; he’d seen Savannah use a smaller version. He watched as the girl returned inside for the other two jars, handing one to the woman who could only be her mother, for the same honey hair meant she must be the chief’s daughter. Like every other boy, and most of the men, he took in the details of her beauty: long graceful limbs, eyes the colour of a summer sky matching a dress which swirled around her body, clinging to her slender curves. Unlike her mother, the girl didn’t enjoy the attention, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the ground. She followed her parents to the centre of the circle where Rattrick and Hereward stood on a dais for the gift-giving.
‘People of Hereward and people of Pitivo, the people of Rattrick welcome you to our camp. Know that while we are together for this celebration, any bad blood or grievance between the tribes or within the tribes is forgotten. Today we come together as one family, the people of Hengist.’
A wild cheer drew them together as they gave the traditional greeting, following Rattrick as he clasped his right fist in the air, then brought it toward his heart.
Hereward took the centre position, waiting for silence before he responded. ‘On behalf of every person here, we would like to thank you for making this possible. We appreciate your efforts in providing us with a pleasant, secure place to hold these trials and the opportunity for the three tribes to get together and meet under such convivial circumstances.’
A big round of applause was led by one of his elders, and he acknowledged it with a bow which generously included both of the other leaders before continuing. ‘I would like to offer these as gifts for the victor of each contest. May they find them useful in the training for their survival trial.’ He held up three hunting knives with delicately shaped blades and highly polished wooden handles inlaid with ivory. They were a beautiful prize any boy would strive to win.
Pitivo responded before Rattrick had a chance. ‘Thank you for your generosity.’ He eyed the knives, his longing clear. ‘If that is not an incentive for each boy to do his best, I don’t know what is. I wouldn’t mind owning one of those myself.’
Hereward inclined his head. ‘Funny you should say that. I had two more made as a token of the great esteem we hold you both in.’ He produced the gifts, even more magnificent with intricate carvings on the hilt which were highlighted in gold. They were encased in sheaths not just crisscrossed with leather bindings, as the boys’ had been, but with a polished shining stone in between each cross. They glittered with a rainbow of colours, from amethyst, sapphire and jade ending with a rich, red carnelian.
Accepting his knife, Pitivo examined it with an expert eye as the crowd applauded Hereward’s generosity. ‘Thank you my friend, you’re most kind. I am afraid you have overshadowed our gifts for the runner up completely, although I am hoping none of them will need to use the water in these jars to heal any wounds from the contests.’ Indicating the jars with a flourish, he stood aside and his wife took centre stage, drawing all eyes as she displayed her jar.
Pitivo’s smile held affection as she stepped back, and then he addressed Rattrick. ‘I must say we are looking forward to sampling some of your fine ale. Its reputation is legendary amongst the other Renegate tribes.’
If he noticed a less enthusiastic response to his speech than the other two leaders, he did not show it, but Geraint concluded by the tight smile on his wife’s face, that she had.
As though hearing his thoughts, she turned and looked directly at him, her eyes glittering as she read his expression. Then her face altered completely, softening into its former beauty. As her gaze returned to the crowd, the applause picked up considerably.
In that moment, Geraint felt the power of this woman’s animosity, and intuition told him she would be a far more formidable opponent than her husband.
7 Manfrid
The very worst thing about competing in the combat trial was having to wait until the end. Any other boy might have been pleased by the chance to watch the first two trials and pick up some hints from the experience. Or savoured the suggestion of “saving the best ’til last.” But to Geraint, it was akin to the most horrible torture imaginable, prolonging the agony of waiting for what he knew would be certain destruction at the hands of Hereward’s champion. He thought back to his father’s return from the market trip to Salisburgh.
After Darrack’s glowing description of his son’s fighting abilities, Rattrick had insisted on a demonstration, facing him with a hopeful expression on his face. But whatever magic Savannah’s potion gave him had long since dispersed, rendering him as useless and clumsy as ever. Disappointment was evident as his father turned away, distracted by a trivial argument over how many chickens would be needed to be roasted for the feast.
Savannah seemed to make time for him every day, under the guise on checking on his health after his body’s extreme reaction to her potion. But he could tell what she doing, surreptitiously passing on some of the powerful techniques she used in her healing. He knew that his father would not sanction any distraction away from the important training for the trials, and he participated eagerly, keen to understand more about his gifts. He misjudged her willingness to teach, asking about the recipe for the potion. He met with stony refusal. ‘Please, if you could just tell me the ingredients…’
‘You would what? Brew it yourself? I thought better of you than to try and cheat. Using potions indeed.’
‘I didn’t mean … I’m sorry. It’s simply he’s so much bigger and stronger and faster than me.’
‘Size, strength and speed aren’t everything in this contest.’
‘My father thinks they are. All he cares about is winning.’
‘That’s not true. I am sure he would be proud of you no matter how you fared as long as you were true to yourself. He is a man of honour, and any kind of trick would be unthinkable.’
‘How can you say he’s a man of honour when he makes his living o
ut of stealing from others?’
He’d never been slapped by a woman before and yelped more in shock than the pain of the stinging blow. ‘Ow, what was that for?’
‘Your rotten attitude. When did you ever see Rattrick steal anything?’
‘Never. But I know that’s what he does. Ow.’
She’d slapped the other side of his face, a little more gently this time. ‘Say that again and I won’t be holding back. Your father does not steal. He takes toll from people, like a toll-keeper.’
‘It’s not the same. A toll-keeper helps people cross the river.’
‘He provides a safe passage, just as your father gives a safe passage through the forests and woods.’
Geraint resisted the impulse to express his disapproval, but her face hardened as she saw it.
‘Trust me, there are bands of Renegates who terrorise travellers and do so much more than merely steal from them.’ She cocked her head as though watching a distressing scene, then shuddered.
‘Not your father. He’s like Robin Hood.’
‘But Robin Hood robbed the rich to feed the poor and you just said Father doesn’t steal.’
Ignoring his objection, she continued her earlier argument. ‘The people have a choice; they can ride around the forest if they do not want to pay the toll, just as they would have to ride round the river.’
‘But the toll-keeper has to maintain the bridge and the signs …’
‘You will not be convinced about your father, no matter what I say. You want to think badly of him.’
‘No I don’t, it’s simply he thinks so badly of me. I only want to do well so he will be impressed for once.’
‘I told you, your father loves you. You would do much better in contests if you followed his example.’
‘I’ve tried. I listen to everything he tries to teach me but, for some reason, I can’t get it right.’