Wolf Blood (13 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Trista’s Story

The village – no more than five large roundhouses – is protected by a palisade and two young boys act as sentries. I can’t tell whether they are Brigante or Parisi. When they see us coming, they raise the alarm and by the time we reach the gate there is a small reception party of young men with spears, led by a huge tattooed warrior with a long, greying moustache. It takes an effort to keep my hand from my sword hilt. I can’t fight all of them. We are coming to trade, not to fight. I take a closer look at the big man. He is muddy from labouring at some task in the rain, but the torques that he wears around his neck and on his arms are gold and of fine workmanship: he is no farmer. Thank Lugh, and the mother! His tattoos mark him as Brigante.

Morcant looks like a wild man in a bloodstained tunic. The wolf, if anyone can see him, is at high alert watching the big warrior. I don’t want to think about my own appearance: I can’t imagine that I make a good impression.

I greet the leader in the formal language of the tribes. His eyes widen.

‘Where have you come from? Isn’t that Roman dress?’ He surveys my garish, stained and immodest robe with some confusion. ‘We don’t want any business with collaborators. We’re not all in Roman pockets.’ His eyes linger on my sword and on Morcant. Morcant may be bedraggled and shoeless, but he’s still tall, broad and, with the wolf awake, a fighter. I notice that Morcant has covered his Roman tattoo with mud. I speak before the warrior can say more.

‘We’ve had a bit of trouble. I apologise for our disreputable appearance but we’ve had to make do with what we could find. Our own gear was stolen, we’ve come to trade for more.’ I pause for a moment and point at my sword. ‘But for this we’d have lost our lives too.’

I can see him deliberating. The presence of the sword marks me as either a thief or a warrior and I see him deciding which is the most probable. Oh, by Lugh, he has decided that I’m a thief.

‘That’s a fine sword you have there. I would trade for that.’

I put my hand on its hilt. I don’t know if I would beat him in a fight. He is big and strong but also old and a little above his fighting weight. He would tire easily, but perhaps no more easily than me.

‘Ah. It is an heirloom as well as the tool of my trade and I fear that I would grow very hungry and very desperate before I would trade that.’ Our eyes lock. I hope he sees in mine my intention to kill him, or die trying, if he were to try to wrest the sword from me. The moment extends as such moments do. I evaluate him as I might an enemy. He does not plant his weight equally; his right side is more muscular than his left. He has one finger missing from his right hand, which will affect his grip.

‘You have Roman coin?’ It is a backing down of sorts. I am careful not to sigh my relief. From the corner of my eye I see the wolf and the man stand down.

‘Ah. Indeed, but as I am of your tribe, I would hope that you will not take advantage of my desperate state but treat me fairly.’ I smile, knowing that he’ll take advantage. Thank the gods, this is no different to the horse-trading of my father and I do at least know how to haggle.

He allows us into the village itself. The young men stare at me with undisguised wonder. One of them sniggers. I try to muster what dignity I can and hold my head high. The leader, Ger, directs me to a seat outside the largest roundhouse where a fire struggles to stay alight in the damp air. Morcant squats beside me and tries to look servile. Women are grinding grain for bread. They send me sidelong looks. I feel ridiculous in Cassie’s thin stola; my slave brand throbs.

Ger enjoys the game of trading and is much better at it than I am. We settle on a huge sum for some worn-out shoes, well-used clothes and an ancient longsword that is better than it seems. The jewels have been stripped from the hilt and it needs a bit of restoration, but its balance is good and I can see by the patterns in the blade that it was made by a master at his craft.

I am not sure why anyone would trade this, for it is a good fighting blade. I try to keep the question from my eyes. I don’t succeed.

‘It was my brother’s. I have no sons and not even a feisty daughter to carry it in his stead. I would rather trade it than see it go to someone who can’t see past a pretty pommel to the quality of the steel.’ I nod. Warriors, for all that they dedicate their life to causing mayhem, are among the most sentimental of people and a blade, it is said, has a soul of its own. ‘We are as blessed by your generosity as you are blessed by the gods.’ He has still done the more favourable deal, as I can tell from Morcant’s look of horror, but the trade is not disastrous. I cannot expect Morcant to know about blades. The short stabbing thing he called a gladius was as nothing to this work of craftsmanship.

We seal the deal with a shared meal. There is no way out of that. I feel nervous for no reason that I can explain. Perhaps it is just that I am unused to being with my own people. I glance at Morcant who gives me a reassuring grin. The wolf is still alert in him, and watchful and that makes me feel a little better. The meal will be eaten before full dark, though that is no guarantee that Morcant won’t transform.

I’m invited into one of the smaller roundhouses to change my clothes. It smells like my childhood home and reminds me of all the things that I’ve lost. I swap Cassie’s bathhouse wear for good wool, stinking of other people’s use but warm and modest. One of the women helps me to dress and makes sure that nothing I have not traded makes its way into my belt pouch. She is more than happy to take the stola. She fingers the fine fabric with near reverence. She’ll be lucky to get it clean again after such hard use as I’ve given it. She smiles at me, showing an untidy row of ill-shaped teeth, and touches my hair, which has started to curl in the dampness. ‘’Tis a pity to lose your glory but it suits you short.’ I am touched by her compliment and her warmth: kindness unsettles me now.

The women produce a feast of some quality, better than I’d expected. We sit around the hearth fire of the largest house on an assortment of skins, stools and couches. I sit close to the elderly druid who has the place of honour. That makes me nervous. Druids make me nervous. Children squat close to their mothers and Morcant sits with the other slaves in the chilly place away from the fire. I avoid their eyes.

Ger is an expansive host, loud and talkative. I know at once that our arrival is a welcome break from the tedium of winter and Ger intends to make the most of it. I dare not look Morcant’s way too often but when I do he seems in control of himself. I am beginning to hope that we might get away without disaster when the druid brings out his harp and makes the customary request that others should join in the entertainment. I feel a chill of foreboding.

I loved this time when I was a child and for a moment I am transported to another fireside and another old druid: my brothers’ boasting songs, my mother’s haunting lullabies. At Ger’s hearth, I am moved when a small girl sings a song of Lugh with a sweet, lisping voice. A young man with hair as red as the Parisi pedlar’s sings a drinking song and Ger recounts the story of his most famous battle and then all eyes turn to me. I can sing, of course, it is part of every child’s education, but my voice is neither sweet nor strong. I clear my throat, ready to launch into one of the old tunes that everyone knows, but the druid stops me.

‘Ah, but music is not your gift, honoured guest. You have another more valuable skill to share with us . . .’ It is suddenly very hot and close in the space round the central hearth. The fire blazes a little more wildly and sparks fly. I am aware of the wolf’s yellow eyes turning to fix themselves on the old man and of Morcant pausing in the act of drinking. If this turns bad, there is little he can do: little either of us can do. It is bad luck that in this village the druid is one of the gifted. There are enough who are not, clever men and women who learn the lore but have no gods-given talents beyond their wits. I smile and look modest.

‘Revered sage, I fear you bestow on me honours I do not deserve, praise I do not merit and expectations I cannot fulfil. My voice is a poor thing it is true, but unless you wish me to fight for my dinner I have little else with which to entertain you.’ I was taught to speak this way back home. Big occasions demand fine words and a formal feast, however humble the home, is always a big occasion. I know at once that it’s no good. This man’s oddly coloured eyes are sharp and he knows what I am. I don’t know what other gifts he has but he can recognise a seeress when he sees one. My pulse starts to race.

‘But, cariad, is it not true that you are a seeress?’ Everyone is staring at me. Everyone stops talking. Mothers hush their babies and even the dogs are quietened. There is no way out. My gift is always an affliction but at moments like this it threatens to become a death sentence. I never see good things and if he makes me touch someone I will almost certainly see things they will not want known. The druid’s eyes flash with a golden light. I don’t understand why he is making me do this. These are violent times and too many stories will end badly.

‘Now, my beauteous seer, do you see the future in entrails, in the smoke of the fire or in the pattern of the stars?’

I’m relieved that he doesn’t know everything about me. Perhaps I might lie? Something in his face tells me that wouldn’t be wise.

‘I have visions,’ I mumble in a low voice, but the room has grown so still I might as well have shouted. ‘Sometimes I see things if I touch a person’s flesh.’

‘Come then, honoured guest, touch me.’

There is no getting away from this. All eyes are on me. There is no escape. The druid rules here. I feel Morcant and the wolf willing me to say nothing stupid, but I am powerless. I must tell what I see. My throat is dry and I can feel the tension clenched in the muscles of my belly. The druid’s hand is as soft as worn leather. Within that skin his bones are sharp and brittle as dried twigs for the fire.
I see the men of fire and steel again. I see the druid burning, his mouth open in a howl of animal agony
 . . .
I drop his hand as if I myself had been burned. There is something else too, but I don’t want to see it.

I am panting, fighting for calm, unable to get my breath, and I know he reads the horror on my face.

‘Tell me, child,’ he says and the strange light in his eyes compels me.

‘Fire, burning you,’ I whisper with my dry throat. ‘I think it has something to do with the invaders.’

‘Here?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so. Somewhere else.’

‘Is it safe here?’ he asks.

I close my eyes.
Blood stains the walls, the floor. The roundhouse is open to the sky. Crows peck at the faces of slaughtered, rotting cattle
. ‘No!’ I say but it is more a sob than a word.

He looks at me for a long time and for a moment I think I see something shadowing him, dark and watchful. Sometimes it is hard to know what is real and what is not. I am trembling all over, quaking with the shock of what I’ve seen. I wonder what else he will make me do. He seems to come to a decision and turns from me.

‘Time for a song, Megan,’ he says gaily, as if I had not just foreseen his death. A young woman rises from her seat to entertain, while I sink down to squat beside the druid’s feet.

He pats my head as though I were a hound who had pleased him in the hunt. ‘Such truths are hard to live with,’ he says softly while Megan sings, ‘but we all must die and for a druid rebirth must surely follow. I would like to spend time with you and your most interesting companion.’ He turns to the place where Morcant sits; the wolf squirms and looks away. Then the druid is focusing on me and I want to run from his gaze. His body may be feeble but his will is powerful. I am afraid of him.

‘We can’t talk here, but I will see you again. I’m no seer but even I know that. We may help each other before the end, but now it would be best if you leave at once.’ He flares his nostrils as though he can smell something unpleasant. ‘There is danger for you here. I thank you for the truth you have given me. I will try to stay away from the heat and you should do the same.’

I know that he is trying to warn me of something but I don’t know what it is. Megan’s voice is strong and true and when the song is over, I praise her talent, the generosity of my hosts and the pleasures of their company. I delight in our shared lineage and promise eternal friendship and then I do as the druid says and get out of there as fast as possible. Morcant, watching my every breath, is ahead of me, slinking through the doorway like a chastised dog. The wolf’s ears are flat against his head. The old warrior, Ger, seems puzzled by my haste. I am not surprised when he follows me out a few moments later to say his own farewell.

‘I’m not a bearer of good news,’ I say in answer to his unspoken question. ‘The gods bless me with knowledge of their darker intentions. I thank you for the sword and I pray that I use it well on both our enemies.’

‘Be careful,’ he says, ‘not everyone here is loyal to our tribe. Wait!’ He disappears for a moment and returns pulling an old mare. ‘The druid says you are working for the tribes, that you stand with us.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘He asked me to give you this.’ He removes one of his own golden arm rings and gives it to me. The ring is broad as the width of my hand and thick as my thumbnail is long. It is a gift of great price.

‘I can’t take this!’

‘It was never mine. It’s druid-made, brought from the Sacred Isle, from Mona. I am told it brings certain blessings on the right people.’ He sighs. ‘Not me. The druid says you need it – it will help you to see more clearly.’