‘Stay true to your heart. It is wiser than your head.’
Church glanced at Etain, but she didn’t return his look. ‘That’s very profound.’
They were interrupted by three of Etain’s friends who were bickering as they wandered out of the village. Ailidh was barely out of her teens, but heavily pregnant. A good-natured young woman, Etain doted on her like an aunt. Owein’s muscular, lumbering frame belied his sharp intelligence, while his friend Branwen was flinty with a sharp tongue that could cut anyone down.
‘Etain, help me.’ Ailidh laughed. ‘They will not let me work.’
‘You must rest,’ Owein insisted, clearly troubled by the discussion. ‘The baby will be here soon. You must save your strength.’
‘My hands are still strong.’ Ailidh showed them to Etain and Church. ‘We must all labour while summer is here.’
Branwen shook her head with unconcealed contempt. ‘Then let her. If she brings her child forth in the fields or at the stream, he can help with the labours.’
Etain took Ailidh’s shoulders and turned her around. ‘Owein and Branwen are right. Your days are short. The birth will take you to the edge of death. If you are too weak, you will not return.’
Ailidh made a childish expression of disdain, but obviously valued Etain’s opinion. She stomped back along the track to the village.
Owein shook his head wearily at Church. ‘Women never listen.’
‘That is because they must close their ears so they do not go mad from the witterings of men,’ Branwen said sharply.
They continued their argument all the way back to the village. Etain shared a wry smile with Church, and it was a moment of awakening for him. He had always unconsciously considered the people of the past as an alien race, but they were hardly different from modern people at all.
The warriors Church had saved from the giant tended to their horses in a makeshift camp on the outskirts of the settlement. They were not from Carn Euny. They kept themselves to themselves, but while they told Church politely that they had travelled for several days to protect the village, they too kept the important details infuriatingly secret. Their leader Tannis, however, was intrigued by Church and showed a deep respect whenever they conversed. He always greeted Church as ‘Giantkiller’, however much Church tried to escape the title.
In the moments when Church felt the insanity of his situation threatening to run away with him, he would find solace in the wild, sun-drenched Cornish landscape, unspoiled and filled with wildlife. On the lonely uplands, he would sit and watch the distant sea, feeling lost and desperate.
The nights were the best. Then the villagers would gather around a fire in one of the homes and drink a strong brew while swapping tales of their gods and heroes. They were raucous events filled with great humour. Church sat on the fringes, but from the stolen glances he knew everyone was deeply aware of his presence, though they tried their best not to make him feel uncomfortable. After several draughts of the powerful drink he no longer cared, about anything.
It intrigued him to learn that their society was just as he had been taught in his university classes. There was an equality amongst the men and women that was surprising for such an ancient culture. The women were unafraid to speak their minds, and the men listened intently and with respect to their views. Indeed, some of the women present put forth their views more forcefully than their male counterparts, and were even more raucous in their enjoyment of the nightly festivities.
They were a lusty group. The storytelling eventually devolved into arguments and fist fights amongst the men, which tumbled out into the muddy street to be resolved. But once it was over, the men returned, bloody and bruised, and immediately appeared to be the best of friends once more. Regularly, men and women would walk outside for a bout of noisy lovemaking, the sounds often interrupting the stories, and the assembled group would cheer loudly. When the couple returned, they wore it as a badge, with no embarrassment.
On the night of the third day, a ferocious storm swept in from the Atlantic. Thunder banged loudly and white lightning flashes burned away the dark, while the wind whipped around the roundhouses that were scant protection against the elements. Yet with the central fire stoked and the sparks surging up to the tiny hole in the roof, and all the villagers huddled together to hear tales of a darker bent, it was undeniably cosy.
As the warm glow of the alcohol suffused him, Church vacated his seat at the back and slipped out. A maudlin feeling had been creeping up on him all day. He hated his inactivity and his inability to find a solution to his predicament. He wasn’t someone who could lie back and let life wash over him.