It was much smaller than the other and there were far more huts scattered around. The place was packed and everyone was having a great time. Something was roasting on a spit and smelled really good. I suddenly realised I hadn’t eaten for hours. Rough tables were set up with jugs of something awful. Piles of fresh-baked flat loaves were stacked in baskets, together with what looked like some sort of cake, dripping with honey. I helped myself to a large portion and immediately became smothered from head to foot in sticky stuff. Unsecured objects began to stick to me in large numbers. Leaves, fluff, dust, flying insects, Mr Roberts – even my fingers were gummed together.
We found somewhere safe to sit down – before three-fifths of our happy little band fell down – and tucked in. I still remember the damp grass, the smell of roasting animals and baking bread, the excited talking, laughing and shouting. Mini battles were fought again so men’s families could admire their skill and daring. Young boys practised with sticks, showing off for their fathers. Even the dogs were back, barking and howling in the distance. Someone must have shut them up somewhere and the smell of meat was driving them frantic. All around us, everyone was having the Dark Age equivalent of a Great Day Out.
Two small teams were engaged in a tug-of-war over a fire. They strained happily away to shouts of encouragement from their quaffing friends, and then the fire burned through the rope and they all went sprawling, to huge hilarity.
As a further demonstration of muscle and futility combined, a number of young men were engaging in trials of strength. Stripped to the waist, they were heaving rocks around. I turned my back because it was difficult enough to concentrate as it was.
There was wrestling and it was hard to say whether it was friendly or not. Even as I watched, two men crashed to the ground. Impressively, neither of them spilled a drop.
At the centre of a very wide circle, another young man was juggling with knives. It should be said that he was very, very drunk, which was probably why he was able to get away with it.
Everywhere was exuberance and fun, shouting and laughter, excited children, and very apprehensive sheep.
We met Granny’s son. Ulf something or other. I couldn’t make it out. He was younger than I thought he would be, a pleasant-faced man with wide gaps between his teeth, and who seemed to be wearing all his children at once. One sat on his shoulders, one hung off his back, one was clinging to one leg and the last was freelancing around his ankles. His wife beamed silently at his side. He seemed to have escaped completely unscathed. Granny’s pride and relief rolled off her in waves. She kept gesturing to me. I think she was telling him about the barn. He smiled and nodded and said something to Peterson which, he later claimed, was an offer to buy me.
And all the time, some kind of music played, some people sang, an awful lot of people quaffed, and we had the sort of good time you can only have when you suddenly and unexpectedly find yourself still alive.
We should have left. We should have quietly packed up our gear and departed. But we didn’t. It wasn’t often that we actually had the opportunity to observe the aftermath of a battlefield. Most of our assignments ended with us racing back to the pod and shouting for emergency extraction. It was very pleasant to sit for a few hours with friends.
Arthur had scrubbed up well. Gone was the sweaty, muddy warrior. His hair had been washed and combed, although it still wasn’t golden. More a kind of light brown. He wore it loose around his shoulders. Interestingly, he had no beard.
‘Ha,’ said Roberts. ‘Well, if Arthur hasn’t got one then I’m certainly not going to bother.’
‘Like you have a choice,’ said Sands, grinning.
He was an affable leader, submitting to being led around the enclosure. A number of men were presented to him – I assumed they’d distinguished themselves during the battle. There was a lot of laughing and hand clasping. And he was approachable. Small children milled around his feet and he seized one and hoisted him onto his shoulder. His progress was easy to follow – like royalty today, he wore bright colours so he could easily be identified. His appropriately royal-blue cloak fastened at his right shoulder with a Celtic knot clasp. Beneath, he wore a red tunic which fell to mid-calf.
‘Are you getting this?’ enquired Peterson, softly.
‘You bet.’
He didn’t come anywhere near us and I wasn’t sure whether to be sad or glad. Duty done, he seated himself on the ground along with everyone else and got stuck in.
I have to say I caused a small sensation when I split open my loaf and stuffed a thick slice of roast mutton inside. I rather think I might have anticipated the invention of the sandwich by a thousand years and more, and cursed myself for not having thought to patent it. If I’d had my wits about me, we could all have been scarfing down ham maxwells. Or indulging in a crispy bacon maxxie. There would be toasted maxwells, open maxwells, maxwells with the crusts cut off, the king would entertain his guests to cucumber maxwells … I surfaced to find everyone watching me with some concern. Peterson leaned over and gently removed my cup of beer and I think we were all relieved about that.