The Medieval Murderers: Hill of Bones

‘And what are our chances?’

It was either a foolish or an inappropriate question for there was an uneasy shifting among the group by the fire.

Then Caradoc piped up, ‘Under our leader, how can we fail?’

‘You mean Arthur guards us against defeat?’

There was a general mutter of agreement at this but the man was firm in contradicting his own question. ‘No, each man must guard himself against defeat. Arthur is not one of the gods, as in the religion of the olden days.’

‘He is not an ordinary man,’ said Aelric. ‘You, of all people, must know that if you are truly with the Company of the Bear.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said the newcomer, ‘but the outcome of battle is always uncertain. What do you think, you over there? Do you expect victory?’

As he said these last words he turned to look at Geraint, who was sitting in shadow. Disconcertingly Geraint could see nothing of the face under the hood except the glitter of the man’s eyes – that and a grizzled beard.

‘No victory without tears,’ said Geraint, repeating what the sightless woman in the burial ground had told him.

‘True enough,’ said the man.

‘That is my young brother, Geraint,’ said Caradoc.

‘Whoever he is, he speaks sense,’ said the man.

After that the group about the fire fell silent and after a time the man got up and, with a muttered farewell, left them.

The next morning Geraint woke early, cramped and stiff from where he’d been sleeping on the rough ground. There was a thin mist lying across the valley and the damp had crept under his clothes. He clambered to his feet. Cynric, who had edged himself close to the dying fire during the night, staggered up, looking expectantly at Geraint. No one else was awake, not even Caradoc.

Geraint and the dog wandered away to stretch their legs. Quite soon Geraint heard the sound of the river, although at first he saw nothing but the blurred outline of the willows along the bank. He pushed through some low-lying shrubs and entered a flat, grassy area fronting the water. Suddenly Cynric stopped and the hackles on his back rose. Through the mist Geraint strained to see what the dog had sensed. A few yards in front of him a man was sitting on the edge of the water. His knees were drawn up under him and his head was bowed. He looked like a large grey stone. Something about his posture and the cowl that covered his head reminded Geraint of the individual who’d joined them at the campfire the previous evening. He gave no sign of being aware of their presence. Perhaps he was asleep or praying.

Geraint was about to move away. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on the far side of the clearing. Another man was emerging from the undergrowth. This one Geraint also recognized, and his heart thumped and his mouth went dry. It was the boatman, Brennus. He had survived the spill from his coracle! Moving through the long grass with exaggerated gestures, raising his legs high with each step, he advanced towards the man on the bank, who remained still as a stone. In his hand he held a knife. Geraint recognised this too. It was his, the knife with the bear-hilt.

The treacherous boatman was within a few strides of the other, the one huddled up on the bank. His intention was plain: to take the other by surprise, to stab him in the back or the neck.

Geraint had no weapon. His sword was left, carelessly, inexcusably, where he had been sleeping. But his unarmed state did not cross his mind. Seeing Brennus once more, stepping like a malevolent spirit through the tendrils of mist, grasping his bear-knife, was sufficient to cause Geraint to launch himself across the clearing. He almost took Brennus by surprise but the wrinkled man turned just in time and slashed out with the knife. He was aiming too high and the sweeping stroke passed over Geraint’s back as the lad hit him around the knees. Both of them tumbled into the dank grass and rolled over, now one on top, now the other. Geraint seized hold of Brennus’s forearm and exerted all his strength to keep the knife blade away from his face and eyes. His nostrils filled with the stench of fish from the boatman.

Cynric joined in but he was no dog for a fight. Rather, he lunged at the tangle of legs and impeded Geraint instead of helping him. Brennus might have been old but he was tough and wiry as a strip of tanned leather. At one moment, Geraint levered himself up and sat astride Brennus. As he did so, his grip on the other’s knife-hand slackened. The boatman’s arm wriggled away and would have slashed Geraint across the face had he not raised his own arm to protect himself. So instead the blade sliced through the coarse fabric of Geraint’s sleeve and ripped down the underside of his arm. He was conscious of no pain but the blood welled through the cloth and blotted Brennus’s withered face. Wounded with his own weapon, Geraint managed to seize the other’s knife-hand once again but his hold was not as tight as it had been. Now the boatman had the advantage and, arching his back, he threw Geraint off. Positions were reversed, with the boatman lying at an angle across the younger man and attempting to twist his hand and arm about so that he might pierce Geraint in the flank.

Then there loomed above them both a man’s shape, a very tall man in cloak and hood. With one hand, it seemed, he grabbed Brennus about the nape of his neck and lifted him clear of Geraint. He held the boatman at a distance as one would a poisonous viper, and his grip on the other’s neck was so firm that Brennus appeared to hang like a sack from the man’s hand.

With his other arm and in almost leisurely fashion, the tall man reached about and twisted the knife-hand of the boatman. Twisted it so sharply Geraint could have sworn he heard the crack of bone. Brennus gave a screech like a bird and let go of the bear-knife. The man dropped the boatman on the ground and then planted a foot on the side of his head. All this time he looked not at Brennus, who might have been so much discarded rubbish, but at Geraint. The lad was standing up by this time but felt very unsteady. It was not only as a consequence of his wound but also because he recognised the man for certain. In the struggle his hood had fallen away and Geraint realised this was indeed the individual from the night before, the man with glittering eyes and grizzled beard. His stooping posture then had disguised his true height: he was almost a giant, in Geraint’s eyes. Cynric the dog crouched uneasily at the edge of the clearing, watching the trio.

‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘You have protected me. I know this traitor. He would have killed me while I was sunk deep in my thoughts and was lost to the world. Each man must guard himself, I said, but I forgot my own teaching.’

‘Thoughts about the battle – the battle to come?’ said Geraint, surprising himself by the evenness of his voice. But he could not look at the tall man and instead cast his glance down to where Brennus, writhing, was pinned under the other’s foot.

‘Yes. I was thinking of the battle.’

‘I am here to take part,’ said Geraint.

‘How old are you?’

‘Old enough to fight,’ he said, then, seeing the man staring hard at him, ‘Twelve years, I think.’

‘And your brother, the one who identified you last night?’

‘I do not know,’ said Geraint. ‘Two years older maybe.’

The man seemed about to say something then turned his head to one side. ‘You must be attended to,’ he said.

By now blood was beginning to issue from his arm in some quantity and, before he knew it, Geraint was sitting back on the rank grass and then lying down as he heard rather than saw a rush of people enter the clearing. Then the morning mist seemed to enter his own mind too.