Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

He shrugs, this lean and spotty youth, whose breath smells of bacon and onion and the clove he has chewed to hide them or perhaps to ease the toothache he must have from his bad teeth. Since we are now at the top of the hill, he mounts his mule and sets it into a trot. I continue behind him and am thus well placed to see what happens next.

At the bottom of the hill, a small group of men in dark cloaks and large floppily brimmed hats, sidle out from behind a ruined sheepcote. Their leader has a small firearm placed across his shoulder. His mate touches the end that protrudes behind with a smouldering fuse and, pop!, they blow my young equerry's head off. He remains seated for a moment with blood pumping from his neck and then his trunk slips sideways and he tumbles out of the saddle. I wait long enough to see that their interest lies in the pouch, embroidered now with blood as well as silks and precious thread, before leaping the ditch and hiding in a thorny thicket.

The day lengthens, the shadows shorten and the traffic on the road increases. Most travellers are accompanied by armed men. It is, after all, the link between the city in which the King and his court reside, and the one where the wisest men of his realm, known as dunces, carry out their business. Yet, as I have seen, one fraught with danger – hence the fact that all but a few, like my unfortunate acquaintance, travel with bodyguards, sometimes in quite considerable numbers. I reflect on the presence of footpads, murderers and the like hidden in the coverts near the highway, and decide to move off a mile or so to the west and pick my way to Coventry by lanes and byways, even if it means taking four days to get there instead of two or three.

It is a bright day with a gusty wind, and grey clouds roll intermittently across the sky. There are occasional splatters of rain, but it is never bad enough to obscure the position of the sun, and I am able without difficulty to maintain my northerly direction. Occasionally, too, from the top of a hill I can see the main road winding up hill and down dale over to my right, and the chain of villages it threads. With my senses alive and alert to all around me, not out of fear but because I feel they should be for every second of our pilgrimage across this planet, I begin to appreciate, as I could not when distracted by the company of Enoch and Ali, the tiny beauties of this country'. With none of the splendours of Vijayanagara, for which I still hanker; none of the awesome crags, the deep forests, the rich plantations and the cities scrubbed and jewelled, the white-sanded shores and emerald seas, my eyes, ears and nose seek out smaller glories.

These include yellow flowers, extended like the grubs of small butterflies, hanging from thin leafless branches. When they catch the wind they dance and tiny puffs of gold powder float from them. In clumps at the roots of these trees or bushes, for they are not big at all. I spy small white stars, not pendulant like the flowers we saw when the snow melted. Then there are elegant trees with drooping black twigs in their crowns whose trunks art-covered with a silvery-grey bark which peels off like fringed paper when I pull it. These often have quite large leathery fungi growing on them shaped like the swollen ears of baby elephants. A brilliant green moss, whose foliage is made up of tiny emerald stars, whose points touch each other to form a fine lacework covers rounded banks where the earth is moist. When I look closely I see that many plants and trees have tiny swollen buds, but none yet show any sign of bursting into leaf. There are birds jewelled with blue and yellow, and one with a red chest and jet-like beak, needle sharp, but all very small. They do not sing but chirp and mew plaintively as they scavenge for particles of food.

All in all I get a sense of life not burgeoning, far from it, but struggling against the cold, the ice and snow, which still linger in patches of shade. It seems it will be a long, hard battle and when a flash of white draws my eye and makes me stoop. I find the fragile skull of what I take to be a rodent from its two sharp incisors: clearly Parvati must wait awhile yet – Kali still rules in these hushed woods.

Towards dusk a winding descent through woodland, with a little brook chattering along beside me, takes me into a wide but meandering valley where the trees have been cleared and a rough sort of cultivation has taken place. In front of me, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, is a village much like those we passed on the way to Oxenford: twenty or thirty hovels, each with a tiny garden and a fruit tree, cluster round a handful of larger buildings – a church with a squat tower and a large barn. But even now and at that distance I am aware that something is going on: I can hear a primitive raucous music emanating from a selection of untuned drums and wailing pipes, punctuated by high screams – whether of pain or pleasure it is impossible to say.

Then, just as I approach the settlement and the sun is dipping behind the hills to the south-west, a crowd of people stream out of the big bam, the music becomes louder, and I can see that amongst them the musicians have come as well, and all are dancing, or at least flinging themselves about in a bizarre way around a large-pile of brushwood, holly branches, ivy, broom, brown gorse and prunings. I am now in a small orchard of lichened apple trees, which, in common with most trees I have seen, look dead or nearly so. Since there is a certain wildness in the antics of the people in front of me, which makes me nervous, I hoist myself up into the lower boughs of one, hoping thereby not to be discovered at least until I am satisfied I will be welcomed with friendliness.

A burning brand is poked into the foot of the pile of wood and branches and, despite the soft drizzle that is now falling, the flames take hold and are soon snaking up into the heart of the heap; there is a crackle and snapping as it takes hold, and a plume of white smoke sewn with gold and ruby sparks climbs into the cloud-filled, darkening sky. The next thing that happens is that a life-size human doll, made of straw and dressed in old clothes, is brought out and two men, holding its shoulders and feet, swing it high up on to the tire, which thus becomes a make-believe pyre.

A cry, a shout rises up, and the women who, I can see it now by the light of the fire, are wearing masks or hoods made of coloured cloth with eye-holes, seize burning brands and, still dancing roughly in time to the cacophonous beat of the music, come madly out into the orchard, banging the trunks of the trees with their brands and shouting curses or imprecations such as 'Bear apples, fuck you, Goddamn you. I want pears from you.' Once their brands have broken up, some hoist up their ragged skirts and. holding the lower branches in their hands, grip the trunks with their thighs and knees and rub their private parts against the bark.

Needless to say, in the midst of all this, I am discovered. A tall young woman with red hair flowing from below her hood throws back her head in an ecstasy real or simulated and finds my foot six inches above her forehead. She freezes, then screams: this time there is no doubting the fear and anger

All those nearest her catch her tone and, still carrying their brands, approach. The effect spreads outwards and soon the whole gathering, maybe forty or more, men, women and children, are gathered around my apple tree, looking up at me. There is no mistaking their hostility, and by now I have enough Inglysshe to glean from the men, who have pushed to the front, a sense of its cause.

"E doos be a fuckin' friar or a monk, no doubt o' that.' 'Arr. But why be 'e 'ere?'

"E be a spy for the Bishop, no doubt o' that neither.' 'Well, what's to be done wi' im?'

'Cut 'is fucking throat, I say, an' bury 'im in the midden.' 'If 'e get out of 'ere alive, then fucking Bishop'll send 'is men to burn our fucking village an' we be well fucked.' And so on.