The Medieval Murderers: Hill of Bones

Caradoc found a fallen branch along the bank and, using his knife, sawed off a section. He secured one end of the boatman’s rope to the piece of wood. Cynric sat and stared with his head on one side, baffled by his master’s actions. The boatman watched with almost as much interest, stroking his chin with one hand and grasping the long paddle on his knees with the other. At one point his gaze wandered casually towards Geraint, then flicked away again – too quickly, Geraint thought. Clouds of midges hovered in the half-light.

Brennus was suddenly struck with a fresh idea. ‘Come to think of it, my little craft will not carry three at once. I will take one of you over and come back for the other. Out of goodness of heart, and seeing as you are to join the fight against the Saxon horde – our common enemy – I will do two journeys for the price of one, and in any order you please.’

Geraint was about to protest at their separation but stopped himself. It would sound feeble and unmanly. This Brennus was quite old and withered, for all his sinewy arms. The brothers were young and strong.

If Caradoc had any doubts he did not show them. He nodded. ‘Very well. But you will not be paid until we are both standing on the far bank.’

‘Step in,’ said the boatman, ‘but carefully now.’

Geraint nodded at his brother as if to say, you go first. Brennus shuffled backwards as Caradoc, holding the coiled rope, stepped into the boat and sat down at the near end. Cynric quivered on the edge of the reedy bank, uncertain of the next stage in this game. The boatman shoved off with his paddle. When they had pushed out a little way, he indicated that Caradoc should throw out the rope. The stick-end landed on the mud and Cynric snatched it up in his jaws, floundered out into the water and began paddling as if he was born to it.

Geraint heard the old boatman instructing Caradoc to keep the rope slack so that the dog’s struggles would not drag the boat down. He watched as the boat cleared the reeds and shallows and bobbed out into the clearer stretch of the Abona, the black head of the dog just visible. At once he felt very alone. Suppose the boat overturned and his brother was drowned? It did not look very stable, more like an oversized platter thrown onto the water. Suppose that, once they reached the other side, the ferryman refused to return? But then he would not be paid. Geraint did not believe that Brennus would be able to overpower Caradoc, his older, stronger brother, equipped with knife and sword. He breathed deeply, taking in cool draughts of evening air. He gazed back at the willows and poplars that fringed the shore.

By the time he looked again across the river it was to see Caradoc clambering out of the little boat on the far bank, followed a few moments later by Cynric. Geraint sensed rather than saw the dog shaking itself violently, sending spray everywhere. Then the boat, paddled by Brennus, was making progress back over the water. With one hand Geraint grasped his sword hilt, while the other kept firm hold on the pouch attached to his belt. Inside was his tribute, intended for some purpose that he did not yet know. He was tempted for an instant to unfasten the pouch, to unwrap the precious item, examine it once more in the twilight. But, hearing the splash of the paddle as the boat pushed through the outermost reeds on this side, he resisted the temptation. He glanced at the ground and noticed the white, blood-speckled front of the dead rabbit. Caradoc had forgotten his contribution to the supper that they hoped to get on arrival. Geraint picked up the dead animal by its stiff hind legs. Carrying it somehow distracted attention from the contents of the pouch.

Brennus grounded the boat once more in the mud of the shore.

‘Come on, sir,’ he said. ‘No time to waste. We must get across before nightfall.’

Geraint stepped in the boat and sat down clumsily as Caradoc had done.

For the second time, the boatman used the paddle to push them off the bank and the craft bobbled its way out into the open.

The river seemed immense once you were in the middle of it and the willow frame and stretched skin of the boat offered very thin protection. The current carried them at an angle, but Brennus was familiar with its twists and turns for, with a slight touch or stroke of the paddle, he aimed for the point at which Geraint could see his brother standing with the dog. The rushing of the water threatened to swamp the boat but it was more stable than it looked and, after a time, Geraint started to relax and study Brennus, helped by the fact that the boatman’s face was half averted. He wondered what the man did for a living. Ferrying travellers across the Abona? Fishing? Certainly a strong, disagreeable odour of fish came off him now that he was at close quarters.

Then the boat came to a halt or, rather, began to spin about in a slow circular motion as if they were trapped on the edge of a whirlpool. Geraint found himself looking at the bank they’d left behind. Brennus withdrew his paddle from the water and laid it, dripping, across his bony knees. He reached over and stroked the fur of the rabbit, which Geraint was holding. The young man suddenly felt foolish for bringing this insignificant dead tribute.

‘I’ve changed my mind, sir,’ said Brennus. His voice grew higher, more disagreeable and grating. ‘The coin your brother is offering is only enough for one passage. I need something more before I take you to the other side.’

‘I haven’t got anything,’ said Geraint, somehow unsurprised by this new demand. He had not trusted Brennus from the instant the boatman slid out of the reeds. He indicated the rabbit that nestled in his lap. ‘Nothing except this cony. You are welcome to it.’

‘I want more than a dead thing,’ said Brennus. ‘You have got something else on your very person. I saw the way your hand went towards your belt on the bank earlier. I see the way you’re gripping that pouch on your belt even now.’

It was true. Geraint was holding on to the leather pouch even more tightly than he was using his other hand to cling to the side of the boat. He had his short sword, but it was tucked awkwardly down by his side and would be slow to draw. Besides, he had never used it in anger, scarcely knew how to wield it.

‘Can you swim?’ said the boatman.

‘Yes,’ said Geraint promptly.

‘You’re a liar, and a bad one at that. Whatever you say, you have got something in that pouch of yours and, whatever else you say, you cannot swim. Not one in a hundred men can swim. I’ll turn the boat over and you’ll sink like a stone.’

‘Then you lose whatever I’m carrying. You lose your boat.’

‘Boats float,’ said Brennus. ‘And you will lose rather more when you’re at the bottom of the river.’

Geraint sensed that Brennus was enjoying this: the teasing, the control of what was happening on his boat. He looked towards the far bank where Caradoc and Cynric were standing expectantly. He thought of shouting out, but what could his brother do? Then he noticed that although they were still spinning round, the figure of his brother was growing larger. The current was gradually pushing them to the other shore while the boatman, intent on his threats, was neglecting to use the paddle to keep them in the centre of the stream. If he could only manage to distract Brennus for a little longer…

‘So you are able to swim?’ he said.

‘Like a fish. Come on now, just open up your pouch and hand whatever’s inside it to me. I’ll take it in exchange for a safe landing. A blind bargain on my side, can’t say fairer than that.’

‘It is a keepsake from my mother,’ said Geraint.

This was a lie too, more or less, but one the boatman seemed eager to accept.