We were in a no-lose situation this time. If the fort was still inhabited, we’d have an unparalleled opportunity to observe and document life in an occupied hill fort; and if not, if the people had finally drifted away, then we’d not only be able to survey and map, but we could have picnics with some pretty spectacular views. Much of the 6th century was taken up with the British struggles to resist Saxon invasions, but this area had been comparatively quiet. We’d carry out a little light surveying. I’d sketch what I could. We’d take our time, complete the assignment at a gentle pace just for once, and be back in time for tea next Tuesday. Job done.
So, of course, we landed in the middle of a war. What is it with us?
We landed on a steep slope. A very steep slope. We tilted sharply and then two of the hydraulic legs activated to keep us stable. Stable being a relative term for a pod full of historians and Mr Markham.
‘This isn’t right,’ said Sands, checking the console. ‘According to the read-outs, it should only be about eleven in the morning. If that. What’s going on? Why is it so dark?’
Markham peered at the screen. ‘It’s smoke.’
‘Smoke?’ I said. ‘Is something on fire?’
We angled the cameras. The split screens showed people struggling past, all heading in one direction: uphill. Women were shouting and trying to herd children and livestock at the same time. Sheep scattered. Pigs refused to move at all. Some men were present, shoving people in the right direction, or helping push laden carts through boggy patches. Many had swords drawn and we didn’t need the anxious glances they were throwing over their shoulders to tell us what was happening. This was an evacuation.
People were toiling uphill, backs bent under their loads, helping each other. Children frequently fell and rolled back down the steep slope until someone caught them and set them on their feet again. We angled the cameras again, trying to make out their destination, which was also ours. Caer Guorthigirn.
‘Well,’ said Peterson, looking at me. ‘What do we do?’
The correct procedure would be to leave at once.
‘We go and have a look, of course,’ I said, mildly irritated that anyone would even ask. ‘There’s no record of any early 6th-century massacre here so we should be comparatively safe. And Thirsk won’t be happy if we have to go back and start again. We have an excellent opportunity to observe a possible Dark Age conflict at first hand, so let’s get some work done.’
All perfectly sound reasons for placing ourselves in harm’s way, as I think everyone will agree.
We took a blanket each and some packs of those shitty high-energy biscuits that no one ever eats. They’re about two inches thick and built of some material designed to be harder than teeth. You can mix them with water or milk and call them breakfast. You can dip them in tea and call them shortbread. You can hurl them at the enemy and be prosecuted under the Geneva Convention for subjecting your foe to cruel and unusual punishment. No one even looks at them until absolutely everything else has been eaten, and only then if we can’t get rat.
We loaded up with water and sallied forth to see what we could see.
The pod was hidden in dense woodland. Tall, slender trees grew thickly, but not so thickly as to impede our progress. It was autumn and a thick carpet of golden leaves covered the ground. Others floated silently down to join them.
Smoke drifted up from the valley below. Smoke brought up on the wind. I squinted down through the trees. Here and there, I thought I could see small flickers of light. Homes were burning, but whether they’d been torched by an invading army or by their owners, I was unable to tell.
No one noticed us. People were joining the procession from all directions, all of them clutching whatever had seemed valuable to them at the time.
A man and a woman were struggling with an unwieldy handcart. We tossed in our bundles. Roberts and Markham put their backs into it and with a glooping noise, the wheel came free from the mud. We followed along with the others.
It wasn’t an exodus because that implies running from something. These people were running to. Running to safety. To the hill fort which now, as I stopped plodding upwards and lifted my head to look, seemed a very long way away.
‘Max,’ said Peterson softly. ‘You should go back.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘There are other pregnant women here and you don’t see them bitching about how steep the path is.’
We struggled on. The slope, steep to begin with, now became nearly vertical. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and not losing my balance. I picked up an old branch and used it for support. I used undergrowth and low-hanging branches to pull myself up the seemingly never-ending hill. It wasn’t a cold day and the wind had a soft drizzle in it. I could feel sweat running down my back. My breath rasped in my throat and I could feel my heart thumping, but I would not give in. I said nothing, gritted my teeth, and struggled on. One foot in front of the other. And again. And again.