Lies, Damned Lies, and History(27)

I ran towards it, hoisting up my skirts and began to stamp out the flames as best I could, cursing the fact I’d left my blanket out there somewhere. Others joined me.

I stamped and kicked and scuffed and made no impact at all. The fire was spreading.

Someone must finally have got the door open because suddenly a great blast of warm air blew around me. The small fire became a major conflagration. Flames roared hungrily, feeding on the oxygen. Someone grabbed me from behind. I could see sparks flying heavenwards through the hole in the roof. Terrified livestock were stampeding past me. I was knocked over by a sheep. Not what you want on your death certificate. Trampled by sheep. I could hear men shouting. Someone heaved me up, lifted me off my feet and ran. I was being rescued. I hoped.

After the heat of the barn, it seemed very cool outside. The breeze was welcome. Someone laid me on the ground. Granny’s face swam above me. She held something to my lips and I may have inadvertently drunk the devil’s urine. Or beer, as the brewing industry would probably like me to refer to it. It didn’t matter. I was temporarily lost in the hazy euphoria of smoke inhalation and not being dead.

I thought I’d only closed my eyes for a second, but when I opened them again, I was wrapped in my blanket, and Peterson was there.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘This brings back memories. You unconscious on the ground and showing your knickers.’

I gazed up at him. ‘You’ve peed on me again, haven’t you?’

‘Not this time,’ he said happily. ‘With increased age comes increased bladder control.’

I always thought it was the other way around, but he seemed so cheerful that I let it go. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Safe and sound. Everyone has exactly the number of body parts they started with.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Clean-up duties. Yes, the warriors get the beer and women, but they also serve who do the clearing up afterwards. At least, that’s what I told them.’

I clutched his arm. ‘You didn’t kill anyone?’

‘Of course not,’ he said indignantly. ‘We are professionals, you know.’

I let that go. It wasn’t the day for an argument.

It was obvious the battle had been won. The Red Dragon still streamed overhead. The dead had been cleared away. Wounded people were being ministered to. There was an air of bustle and purpose.

The barn in which we’d hidden was smouldering. The roof was mostly gone but the walls were intact. Livestock grazed quietly back in their makeshift enclosure.

It was quite a pleasant post-battle scene. I’ve seen worse.

He helped me sit up. ‘Everything OK?’

I looked down. ‘I think so. Scorched skirts. Correct number of limbs. Young Farrell kicking like a madman and a slight headache, but otherwise fine.’

He passed me some water and I washed away the taste of the beer.

‘So come on, tell me. What happened? How did you all manage to survive both the Saxons and History?’

He looked smug. ‘Max, we were magnificent.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, but how did you actually manage it?’

He grinned at me. ‘We fought ourselves.’

‘What? You’re kidding.’

‘Well, there weren’t any badges or distinguishing features, and no one knew us from Adam, so we just turned and engaged each other. I took on Roberts, and Sands and Markham engaged in what must have looked like a death match. We all hammered away at each other. There were lots of flourishes and shouting and wild slashing, just to make it look good. Occasionally one of us went down and sprawled on the ground for a bit of a rest. We swapped partners every now and then, or had a bit of a mêlée when we got bored, and it must have worked because everyone left us alone to get on with it.’

I stared at him in admiration. ‘Tim, that’s brilliant. And don’t tell me it wasn’t your idea.’

He contrived to look brilliant and modest at the same time. ‘Well …’

I wanted to ask how his arm had held up but at that moment, with an overwhelming aroma of beer, the others turned up, each clutching a jug of something unspeakable.

I sighed. ‘I see Mr Markham has still managed to get himself injured. Did you hit yourself over the head again?’

‘No,’ he slurred with great dignity. ‘Been hearing about the barn. Did you really burn it down?’

‘No. Actually I was trying to put it out. I gather we were rescued in the nick of time. Are you lot drunk?’

‘To the victor the spoils. Big party next door. Came to get you. Just remembered you can’t drink.’

‘Too late,’ I said, remembering Granny and the beer. Peterson helped me up. I wrapped my blanket around myself and we followed our meandering guides into the other enclosure where I was finally able to look around.