Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Will Caradoc go too?’

  ‘He will accompany you,’ she said.

  She had a gift for him. He was to take it on his journey when the call came. She reached into a bag that lay at her side and extracted a small object. He was surprised to see that it was a knife, but small, almost ornamental, rather than practical. She held it in the palm of one hand and ran the fingers of the other across the surface of the hilt before passing it to Geraint. The blade glinted with a metallic blue threat but the hilt was finely worked. It was made from some off-white substance that Geraint did not recognise, like stone but with a smooth, living feel to it that stone did not possess. The hilt depicted an animal that Geraint also didn’t recognise. The beast stood on its hind legs with its forelegs wrapped around the trunk of a tree. Its upright posture was disturbing, neither man-like nor animal.

  ‘What is the beast on the hilt?’

  ‘A bear.’

  ‘I have never seen one.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  Geraint did not answer. Instead he said, ‘What am I to do with it?’

  ‘Keep it with you, safe. Take it with you when you are called away. You will know what to do with it when the time comes.’

  And Geraint had to be content with that. A few weeks afterwards the call came. Arthur was summoning his countrymen to confront the Saxon hordes at a place several days’ travel from the village, near the old Roman town of Aquae Sulis. Caradoc explained what was happening. It all might have been rumour but he told his younger brother as if it were fact (which it was, more or less). Caradoc said that for many months Arthur, using pedlars and paid informants as well as reputable travelling merchants, had caused a story to be spread among the Saxon enemy. The story was that the Picts, the people of the far north, were preparing to march south as soon as the winter retreated. Arthur had made a great show of sending some of his men north, apparently to face the Pictish threat and leaving the southlands undefended. But the British army had halted near the mouth of the Sabrina, far from their supposed destination. The Saxons, deceived, saw their chance to swing round and cut the country in two, like a woodman cleaving an upturned log at a single stroke. They massed to march west and south towards the river Abona, ignorant of the existence of the army lying hidden at their heels.

  When Arthur received news of the Saxon preparation to march, he made the general call to arms. It was the final crisis, as predicted by the woman in the burial ground. If the Saxons were not dealt with now, they would surely overrun the whole land.

  Caradoc and Geraint might have left with the other men of the village although they had not got the explicit permission of Aelric to go. But, as it happened, they had to delay their departure by a couple of days since their mother, so long dying during the spring and early summer, was now at the very point of extinction. They departed on the morning following her death, each young man sunk in his thoughts and letting the breeze dry the occasional tear. Hence it was that they eventually arrived near Aquae Sulis, accompanied by the dog Cynric, but behind the rest of their neighbours.

  Now Geraint sat not far from the men’s campfire and wondered about the coming battle. He heard the sound of his brother’s voice, protesting amid some laughter that he did know how to use the sword and knife that he carried. Geraint remembered the knife and its ornamental hilt. The bear with its arms clasped around the tree trunk. You will know what to do with it when the time comes. What would he have to do? When? Too late now. He had been robbed by the old boatman. The leather pouch and the knife were at the bottom of the river Abona. He had failed. He felt ashamed.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a tall man near the dying fire. Aelric welcomed him and asked him where he was from. The man said, ‘I am with the Company of the Bear.’

  Geraint started at the words, since they chimed with his recent thoughts. The newcomer settled himself close to the embers as if he had a right to be there and the others accepted him without question. He was wearing a hooded mantle, grey, and his great height was evident even though he carried himself with a stoop.

  ‘What news?’ he said to no one in particular.

  Aelric said, ‘The enemy draws nearer.’

  ‘And what are our chances?’

  It was either a foolish or an inappropriate question for there was an uneasy shifting among the group by the fire.

  Then Caradoc piped up, ‘Under our leader, how can we fail?’

  ‘You mean Arthur guards us against defeat?’

  There was a general mutter of agreement at this but the man was firm in contradicting his own question. ‘No, each man must guard himself against defeat. Arthur is not one of the gods, as in the religion of the olden days.’

  ‘He is not an ordinary man,’ said Aelric. ‘You, of all people, must know that if you are truly with the Company of the Bear.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said the newcomer, ‘but the outcome of battle is always uncertain. What do you think, you over there? Do you expect victory?’

  As he said these last words he turned to look at Geraint, who was sitting in shadow. Disconcertingly Geraint could see nothing of the face under the hood except the glitter of the man’s eyes – that and a grizzled beard.

  ‘No victory without tears,’ said Geraint, repeating what the sightless woman in the burial ground had told him.

  ‘True enough,’ said the man.

  ‘That is my young brother, Geraint,’ said Caradoc.

  ‘Whoever he is, he speaks sense,’ said the man.

  After that the group about the fire fell silent and after a time the man got up and, with a muttered farewell, left them.

  III

  The next morning Geraint woke early, cramped and stiff from where he’d been sleeping on the rough ground. There was a thin mist lying across the valley and the damp had crept under his clothes. He clambered to his feet. Cynric, who had edged himself close to the dying fire during the night, staggered up, looking expectantly at Geraint. No one else was awake, not even Caradoc.

  Geraint and the dog wandered away to stretch their legs. Quite soon Geraint heard the sound of the river, although at first he saw nothing but the blurred outline of the willows along the bank. He pushed through some low-lying shrubs and entered a flat, grassy area fronting the water. Suddenly Cynric stopped and the hackles on his back rose. Through the mist Geraint strained to see what the dog had sensed. A few yards in front of him a man was sitting on the edge of the water. His knees were drawn up under him and his head was bowed. He looked like a large grey stone. Something about his posture and the cowl that covered his head reminded Geraint of the individual who’d joined them at the campfire the previous evening. He gave no sign of being aware of their presence. Perhaps he was asleep or praying.

  Geraint was about to move away. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on the far side of the clearing. Another man was emerging from the undergrowth. This one Geraint also recognized, and his heart thumped and his mouth went dry. It was the boatman, Brennus. He had survived the spill from his coracle! Moving through the long grass with exaggerated gestures, raising his legs high with each step, he advanced towards the man on the bank, who remained still as a stone. In his hand he held a knife. Geraint recognised this too. It was his, the knife with the bear-hilt.

  The treacherous boatman was within a few strides of the other, the one huddled up on the bank. His intention was plain: to take the other by surprise, to stab him in the back or the neck.

  Geraint had no weapon. His sword was left, carelessly, inexcusably, where he had been sleeping. But his unarmed state did not cross his mind. Seeing Brennus once more, stepping like a malevolent spirit through the tendrils of mist, grasping his bear-knife, was sufficient to cause Geraint to launch himself across the clearing. He almost took Brennus by surprise but the wrinkled man turned just in time and slashed out with the knife. He was aiming too high and the sweeping stroke passed over Geraint’s back as the lad hit him around the knees. Both of them tumbled i
nto the dank grass and rolled over, now one on top, now the other. Geraint seized hold of Brennus’s forearm and exerted all his strength to keep the knife blade away from his face and eyes. His nostrils filled with the stench of fish from the boatman.

  Cynric joined in but he was no dog for a fight. Rather, he lunged at the tangle of legs and impeded Geraint instead of helping him. Brennus might have been old but he was tough and wiry as a strip of tanned leather. At one moment, Geraint levered himself up and sat astride Brennus. As he did so, his grip on the other’s knife-hand slackened. The boatman’s arm wriggled away and would have slashed Geraint across the face had he not raised his own arm to protect himself. So instead the blade sliced through the coarse fabric of Geraint’s sleeve and ripped down the underside of his arm. He was conscious of no pain but the blood welled through the cloth and blotted Brennus’s withered face. Wounded with his own weapon, Geraint managed to seize the other’s knife-hand once again but his hold was not as tight as it had been. Now the boatman had the advantage and, arching his back, he threw Geraint off. Positions were reversed, with the boatman lying at an angle across the younger man and attempting to twist his hand and arm about so that he might pierce Geraint in the flank.

  Then there loomed above them both a man’s shape, a very tall man in cloak and hood. With one hand, it seemed, he grabbed Brennus about the nape of his neck and lifted him clear of Geraint. He held the boatman at a distance as one would a poisonous viper, and his grip on the other’s neck was so firm that Brennus appeared to hang like a sack from the man’s hand.

  With his other arm and in almost leisurely fashion, the tall man reached about and twisted the knife-hand of the boatman. Twisted it so sharply Geraint could have sworn he heard the crack of bone. Brennus gave a screech like a bird and let go of the bear-knife. The man dropped the boatman on the ground and then planted a foot on the side of his head. All this time he looked not at Brennus, who might have been so much discarded rubbish, but at Geraint. The lad was standing up by this time but felt very unsteady. It was not only as a consequence of his wound but also because he recognised the man for certain. In the struggle his hood had fallen away and Geraint realised this was indeed the individual from the night before, the man with glittering eyes and grizzled beard. His stooping posture then had disguised his true height: he was almost a giant, in Geraint’s eyes. Cynric the dog crouched uneasily at the edge of the clearing, watching the trio.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘You have protected me. I know this traitor. He would have killed me while I was sunk deep in my thoughts and was lost to the world. Each man must guard himself, I said, but I forgot my own teaching.’

  ‘Thoughts about the battle – the battle to come?’ said Geraint, surprising himself by the evenness of his voice. But he could not look at the tall man and instead cast his glance down to where Brennus, writhing, was pinned under the other’s foot.

  ‘Yes. I was thinking of the battle.’

  ‘I am here to take part,’ said Geraint.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough to fight,’ he said, then, seeing the man staring hard at him, ‘Twelve years, I think.’

  ‘And your brother, the one who identified you last night?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Geraint. ‘Two years older maybe.’

  The man seemed about to say something then turned his head to one side. ‘You must be attended to,’ he said.

  By now blood was beginning to issue from his arm in some quantity and, before he knew it, Geraint was sitting back on the rank grass and then lying down as he heard rather than saw a rush of people enter the clearing. Then the morning mist seemed to enter his own mind too.

  Geraint dreamed he was in a desperate fight but, even though he was once again equipped with the bear-knife, he could not lift his arm to strike out against his unseen enemy, who was jabbing at him out of a mist. Then he woke and when he glanced sideways at his arm he saw it was swathed in blood-soaked bandages and, although it was throbbing slightly, it seemed not to be part of him. He was lying on a plain bed in a plain room, illuminated by sun pouring through a high narrow aperture. Caradoc was standing nearby, awkward.

  ‘Brother,’ he said simply.

  He squatted down on his hams so that he almost on a level with Geraint.

  In a corner of the room lay Cynric. The dog’s tail fluttered to see Geraint awake. It was cool and dry in the chamber.

  ‘This is a storage room of one of the villas in Aquae Sulis,’ said Caradoc. ‘You have been brought here to recover. One of the women of the town has been ordered to tend to you.’

  ‘It is my fighting arm,’ said Geraint.

  ‘You will not be doing any fighting for a while,’ said Caradoc, and the remark sounded like something he had heard someone else say.

  ‘What happened? Did you see Brennus?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the boatman. Yes, he has been . . . questioned. It seems he was more than a petty thief and ferryman. He was in the pay of the Saxons. We have agents among them and they keep traitors among us.’

  ‘Brennus was trying to attack the man by the river. The hooded man.’

  ‘Thanks to you he did not succeed. You know who the hooded man is?’

  ‘Arthur,’ said Geraint, remembering the time when he had seen him near Cadwy’s Fort. On that occasion he had ridden past in splendour, high and easy, like a god. Very different from the man still as stone in a grey mantle by the riverbank. ‘Arthur, our leader.’

  ‘Arthur knew Brennus of old. He was a steward at Cadwy’s Fort. He had stolen from the stores and kept false records. Arthur showed mercy by driving him from the realm in disgrace instead of taking his life. He was not grateful but twisted with bitterness. He would have harmed Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur was the stranger by the fire last night. The one who said he was not a god.’

  ‘It is his custom, they say, to walk unknown among his men and listen to what they are saying.’

  ‘We are his men,’ said Geraint.

  ‘Yes,’ said Caradoc. ‘Boys no longer.’

  There was an awkward pause before Caradoc said, ‘He told me to return something to you. Arthur spoke to me! I could scarcely meet his gaze. He told me to give this back to you. He assured me it was your property even though I have never seen it before.’ He fumbled in his garments and produced the knife with the bear-hilt. Geraint took it with his good hand. ‘Where did it come from? It is not our father’s.’

  ‘The bear is Arthur’s image, isn’t it?’ said Geraint, not replying to his brother’s question. ‘The Company of the Bear. Brennus could surely not have killed Arthur with a weapon bearing his own image on the hilt.’

  ‘In any case, you alerted him.’

  ‘He was deep in thought. Or he was praying for success in battle.’

  ‘The battle that is coming,’ said Caradoc.

  ‘I am afraid for you,’ said Geraint, struggling to rise from the narrow bed.

  ‘Be still, little brother. Recover your strength and the use of your arm.’

  The battle of Badon Hill, which Geraint had witnessed as plumes of smoke and cries and screams, began within a matter of days. The Saxons were ambushed by Arthur’s men as they approached Aquae Sulis, in a pass between the hills to the east of the Roman town. Taken by surprise and temporarily overwhelmed, they retreated to the old fortified hill top called Badon and there the Britons laid siege to them. The hill top was barren, without water or any resources. When the enemy was weakened by hunger and thirst and constant harrying, Arthur’s men stormed the bare slopes and swept over the plateau with sword and fire.

  It was a great struggle, and a great victory for Arthur and the Britons against the Saxons. Arthur was reputed to have slain over nine hundred of the foe single-handed – or so the story went centuries later when he was no longer a mere man but a god once more. There were losses on the British side too, among them red-headed Aelric and young Caradoc from an anonymous village not far from Cadwy’s.

  Gera
int, kept from the battle by his wound, knew of Caradoc’s death before the woman who was tending to him informed him of it. He knew of it not because of any vision but because one morning Cynric, who stayed in the storeroom and would not leave Geraint’s side, was restless for hours and then raised the hairs on the boy’s neck with a long-drawn-out ghostly howl. Geraint turned his head to one side and wept for his brother, following so hard at the heels of their departed mother.

  He might be glad of the happy outcome of the battle but he grieved for the loss of Caradoc. In commemoration of his brother and before returning to his village, Geraint went to the hill of Badon outside the town. The day was overcast and the clouds pressed down low. Geraint did not walk to the very top of the hill from which smoke drifted, acrid, smelling of meat. The dead were still burning, the corpses of Saxons and the Britons, or it was merely the carcasses of the horses. Nevertheless Geraint did not want to climb any higher. He did not want to go searching for the exact spot where Caradoc had fallen. He did not want the possibility of glimpsing his brother’s mangled, roasting corpse among the slain.

  Instead he faced about to the south-west in the direction of his village. The gentle hills slept under the low sky. Geraint saw no vision of any battle to come. Perhaps the talk that he had heard while he was recovering his strength was true: that the battle of Badon was the last battle, or the last for many years. The Saxons were routed. For all the bitter scent in his nostrils, thought Geraint, perhaps the Saxon threat was sleeping or even at an end. Then, in the company of the dog Cynric and, choosing a secluded spot on the slope, Geraint buried the dagger with the ivory bear-hilt.