Lies, Damned Lies, and History(19)

I stood, torturing myself with visions of them being hacked into pieces so tiny that bringing the bodies back to St Mary’s would be an impossibility. In my mind’s eye, I saw them fall, one by one, overwhelmed, unable to help themselves. I hugged myself even more tightly and struggled for calm, trying to think of something. I had wild ideas of escaping out of the gates, getting back to the pod, and going for help. Maybe returning with Guthrie and a security team and somehow getting them out.

Useless. The gate was guarded. No one in and no one out. Even if I managed to get out over the walls unaided, what could Guthrie do except risk more people?

I was so deep in thought that I realised afterwards I’d been hearing this lack of noise for a long time without any idea of its significance. A sudden silence around me – a sudden stillness as people listened.

There, miles away, on that faint line between actual sound and imagination, I could hear it. First a murmur, then a rumble, then a roar and then a beat as an unknown number of feet marched more or less in rhythm. I’d heard that sound before. In Colchester, as Boudicca’s army approached, and now I was hearing it again.

This was no local squabble over stolen cattle or a disputed boundary. These were Saxons. Probably not an invading army, but a raiding party. Or possibly, given the noise and commotion below, several raiding parties. I tried to remember whether the Wye was navigable to this point. I imagined dragon-headed boats rowing up the river, silent except for the occasional soft creak of an oar. In my mind, I saw giant men, splashing to the banks, hoisting their swords and shields and setting off through the trees.

This was the classic approach at dusk – too dark for numbers to be accurately assessed. Night-time fears would double the number in the minds of the defenders and, then, a new day would dawn. The sun would rise, picking out men, armour, and spears. I’ve been besieged before. I know how quickly that feeling of security behind high walls can turn to a fear of being trapped behind those same high walls.

I blinked to clear my eyes, because the wind was making them water, and turned back to my suddenly cheerless and solitary camp. They’d left me a blanket and some rations, for which I was grateful. I wrapped myself up, leaned back against the wall, and closed my eyes.

I was roused by a shout and a poke. The correct response would have been to leap to my feet in an instant, assume a defensive posture, all ready to deal, effectively and efficiently, with whatever threat was being posed.

In reality, I thrashed around inside my blanket, unable to free my arms, and eventually toppled over. Suddenly, I was glad Peterson and the others weren’t around to see that.

There was no threat. Unless you count granny, grinning gummily at me, and gesturing. The neighbours were inviting me over. There was granny herself, mum stirring something in a pot, and their indeterminate number of children who wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to count them.

I shared their meal. They had hardly anything and yet they shared everything with me. We had some hard, flat bread, which I chewed very carefully, because it was full of grit from the millstones. We dipped this in some kind of hot, salty broth that could have been anything and I wasn’t going to ask, followed by a heel of hard, dry cheese. There was no meat. I looked at the chickens who stared beadily back again. None of the portions was very large and I saw granny give her cheese to the kids.

I crawled over to my bundle, pulled out a pack of the hitherto despised high-energy biscuits, and shared them out. They loved them, washing them down with some kind of fluid that looked as if it had been drained from someone’s U-bend, so it was probably beer.

By the time we finished eating, it was dark. We smiled at each other and I curled up in my blanket and tried to sleep. Behind me, the chickens made the sort of noises that led me to believe they were contemplating suicide. I don’t know why they were worrying. Chickens had value – even if it was very short-lived. If tomorrow went badly, we’d have even shorter anticipated life spans than the chickens.

I was lying on the hard ground, feeling the damp seep up through my blanket, when Peterson spoke in my ear. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t worry about us, we’re all fine. I don’t think they were that impressed by us. We’ve been put at the back. We seem to be guarding some sacks of strategically important flour.’

‘Really?’ I said, relief temporarily overriding the damp.

‘Yes. We don’t even have weapons. Wait. Hold on.’

I could hear the sound of men’s voices.

‘Ah. As you were, Max. We’ve just been issued with three swordy-looking things,’ said our on-site weapons expert.