Lies, Damned Lies, and History(24)

A pile of hay stood against one wall. Not a huge pile – I suspected it was the end of last winter’s store. The sheep were already making inroads.

People got themselves organised. Elderly people sat in the middle with the smaller children on their laps. Older children and some women chivvied aside the sheep and sat themselves down on the pile of hay. Worryingly, all the children were very quiet. Big-eyed, they sat listening. We were all listening, because in the time it had taken to get us all inside and for us to sort ourselves out, things had gone very quiet outside.

What was happening? Had the Saxons withdrawn and gone home? Unlikely. Or were they preparing themselves for an all-out assault? Much more likely.

The silence was unbearable. Not knowing what’s happening is a bugger. I looked at the wooden door and pushed gently. It gave a fraction, but only a fraction. There was no way out.

I suspected, however, that there were many ways in. In my mind, I saw big, blond men tearing aside the thatch and jumping down, swords stained with blood. Or using their weapons to force their way through the mud walls, to fall on us in a blood lust.

Which just goes to show there’s something seriously wrong with my imagination – it was probably on pregnancy overload, or something – because there was nothing to stop them killing the two guards outside, lifting the bar, and just strolling in through the door.

Yes, there was. There was us.

I stared thoughtfully at the door and then looked around to find Granny doing the same. I suspected she’d had exactly the same thought.

We tend to think of people in the past as less intelligent than us because they can’t drive cars or understand computers. Actually, that applies to me as well. On both counts. But Granny, who was probably only in her forties, although she looked much older, had almost certainly done this several times in her life. Looking around the barn, a good number of them had probably been in similar situations before. These were turbulent times. The departing Romans had left a vacuum, which the Saxons were determined to exploit. Arthur would fight his famous twelve battles all over the country, before dying at Camlann.

I looked around me. In these days, women did not fight, but we could defend ourselves. We did not have to sit, helpless, waiting for whatever came through that door.

I think the same idea had occurred to several other women as well.

We formed a small group by one of the central pillars. There was always the language barrier of course, but I’m pretty good at conveying my meaning through the medium of mime. There were some sacks of something stacked in the corner. They’d been there for some time by the looks of things. I think they contained grain of some kind maybe, carelessly stored, and the rats had got at them, but they were heavy and the door opened inwards. They were a start.

I pointed at the sacks and then at the door. They nodded.

There was what looked like the remains of an old plough – we could use that to wedge the door – and a pile of stones. I had no idea why someone would want to store rocks in a barn, but we could certainly throw them at anyone we didn’t like the look of.

Several women brought up tools of some kind. No scythes or sickles, sadly, but the old wooden handles could be used as staffs. Even buckets can be nasty weapons if wielded with malicious intent. And we intended to be very malicious.

We set to work building our barricade. As barricades go, it wasn’t that brilliant. I suspected it would hold them for five, possibly six seconds, but it gave us something to do. Anything was better than sitting passively waiting for whatever was going to happen to us. It gave us at least the illusion of control, and best of all, it took our minds off what was going on out there. Of husbands, fathers, brothers, colleagues, all of them fighting for their lives. And ours.

Sadly, it didn’t take our minds off things for very long.

Astoundingly, I had Peterson in my ear. ‘Max what’s happening?’ He sounded breathless but intact.

‘Safe. We’re all together and guarded.’ Probably not a good idea to tell him it was just two men. ‘Where are you?’

‘Still safely at the back. We’re the reserve. No cause for concern. We’re all drawn up ready to go. Just awaiting the word.’

The noise around him increased to a deafening clamour. The Saxons must be almost on top of them. Shouts rang out.

‘Shit,’ said Peterson. ‘This is it, Max. Talk to you later.’

They would fight. It was useless to expect them not to. And they would almost certainly die. Either at the hands of the Saxons or History itself, and if they tried to save themselves by refusing to fight then the British would kill them out of hand. And Peterson – looking for an opportunity to prove to himself and the world that he could still function. How long would he last? How long would any of them last?