‘I thought there were four of you.’
‘They’ve given Roberts a stick. I think they think he’s a girl.’
I could hear Roberts waxing indignant in the background.
‘Well, I keep telling you – grow some facial hair. It’s not difficult. You just have to stop shaving for a couple of days. You still there, Max?’
‘No. I got bored and wandered off. Of course I’m still here.’
‘We’re going to get our heads down now. Big day tomorrow. ‘
‘OK,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Try to remember to stay at the back.’
‘We’ll be fine. And you make sure you stay safe, as well. We’ll need to brag about our exploits when we next see you.’
I snorted, but he’d closed the link.
They might have got their heads down. They probably did – Markham could sleep on a clothesline, but for me there was no chance. Apart from the depressed chicken noises, granny’s snores could have woken the dead, and in our enclosure, smiths hammered all night long, working on weapons and shields. Men moved backwards and forwards, shouting instructions. In the distance, excited dogs barked, baying at a moon visible occasionally through holes in the shredded clouds.
I lay on my back and looked up at the cloud-cloaked stars. It wasn’t cold. The air was warm and wet. I could feel rain in the wind.
I gave it up in the hour before dawn, sitting up and earning my keep by stirring their dying fire back into life. I could see bubbles of moisture on my blanket and clothes. I nibbled my last biscuit and then, just as the sky began to lighten a little in the east, horns sounded.
My first thought was that this was it – the fighting was about to begin – but there was no way an army could have snuck up on us unawares. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the Saxons. I could hear the distant thunder of hooves. Shouts rang out. More horns sounded from the gates.
All around me, people sprang to their feet and ran, shouting, to the wall.
I followed behind them.
In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Max, something’s happening.’
‘I know.’
I ran to the wall on legs that trembled with excitement. My heart pounded. I fumbled with my recorder with clumsy fingers. Because if this was who I thought it might be… I elbowed myself a place at the wall, stood on tiptoe and peered down the slope.
They came fast, their big, powerful horses thundering uphill, manes flying, and hooves kicking up great divots of mud. About thirty of them. A horn sounded – a long musical note. A greeting. From behind me, up on the ramparts near the gate, another horn responded. A low, rumbling tone, dark and dangerous. Then, a great noise of them all together, returning the greeting. I felt the short hairs on my neck stand up on end.
They galloped out of the early morning mist like avenging gods. All foam and fury. A long banner snapped behind them. As a contrast to the skinny, underdeveloped livestock, which was all we’d seen so far, the horses these men rode were good – very good – their muscles bunching and flexing as they galloped up the hill. These were warhorses that had been taught to fight and maim and kill.
Their riders were equally tough. These were not the chivalrous knights of legend. These were hard-looking men; swords and battle-axes hung from their saddles and their shields were slung across their backs.
The excitement around us was intense. People jostled each other for a good view. Children were lifted up to sit on top of the wall and wave. All around us, people cheered. The word Arth was everywhere.
Remembering I was supposed to be on the job, I activated my recorder, saying softly, ‘Sleeveless jerkins. Coarse shirts. Trousers. Leather boots. About thirty of them. Good horses. Stirrups. Ten spare horses at the rear. Three baggage horses. Assorted grooms. Blacksmith. Armourer. Maybe a medical man. Hard to say. No religious symbols visible.’
The gates opened. People streamed out to greet them, cheering and shouting. Granny grinned her toothless grin at me.
I was close enough to see the splattered mud on their boots, make out the coarse weave of their trousers, see the sweat stains under their armpits. I fixed my gaze on the man riding under the banner, watching his tangled hair lifting and falling in time with his horse’s stride.
Then, just as they breasted the rise to approach the gate, in one smooth movement, they drew their swords. I stiffened, but it was a salute, not a threat. This was friend, not foe. The guards at the gate returned the salute, roaring a greeting as with scarcely a pause, the riders swept into the fort.
In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Someone likes a dramatic entrance.’
But this wasn’t just any someone. I knew who this was. I’d seen the banner as it swept past. I’d seen the Red Dragon, blazing fire and fury.