Julian Rathbone - Kings of Albion

As we left Snitterfield we passed two villagers trimming a hawthorn hedge where its branches had grown over the track enough to be a nuisance to passers-by. One was hacking at it with a small axe; the other trimmed it with a pruning knife.

'Oi rough-hews 'em,' said the first, as we passed.

'An' oi shapes their ends,' the second concluded.

'What philosophers these men are,' cried Peter.

'Whatever do you mean?'

'The irresistible forces of nature, as witnessed in the causes and effects that create species, rough-hew our destinies. And accumulated wealth employed reproductively shapes our ends. History in a mouthful.'

he roads were filling up now. Every day we saw men in armour, often on horseback, heading towards Coventry, and three times a cannon-train: mules pulling these cumbersome weapons along roads too narrow for them or too rutted, or which crossed fords too deep. Since we knew that the King and court were in Coventry it was not difficult to guess what was happening. He, or, if he was as mad as people said, his affinity and connections, especially the Queen, were preparing for the arrival of the Yorkists, both those with the Duke himself, expected any day from Ireland, and those from Calais led by his cousin, the Earl of Warwick. I recalled that one of these was Eddie March and how Uma had bedded him with so much pleasure to both that they had nearly been caught by Lord Scales. Only my quick intervention with his horse had saved him. It seemed not impossible that if she was still alive she might have sought to join him again and, indeed, perhaps Prince Harihara and Anish might do the same since they had employed March as their guide in Ingerlond. With this in mind I was not entirely loath to postpone our trip into the north-west to search out the Brothers of the Free Spirit – at least, until I had news of my friends' and employer's whereabouts and fortunes. Moving towards the area where the King's army was collecting seemed as good a plan as any since, no doubt, the Yorkists would do the same if they wanted a battle.

There was lots of fresh food now, much of it the same or like the foods we Arabs eat, such as beans and later peas and many green-leafed salads but lacking the interest our spices and herbs give them, apart from mint and parsley. Indeed, the whole-countryside would have been a sort of paradise if it were not for the crazy weather.

But what I remember most, and it would have pleased the Hindus of these parts, were the fields held in common by all the local community, often by riverbanks, where the grass grew thick and lush with hundreds of smaller herbs and (lowers amongst it, and cows munched their way through it. Most families had a cow, and each village had common land all could share. The cows were not as big as ours, had smaller horns and dewlaps, but huge udders; throughout this Middle Ingerlond, cream and butter, cheese and milk were abundant.

What our Hindus would not have liked – and Prince Harihara and Anish must have been disgusted by- if they had come across it – was the eager, even greedy way these people feasted off beef. The bullocks were separated from the heifers and mostly killed and eaten before they were two years old, often roasted over huge fires at fairs and festivals. It didn't bother me, and once I had the taste for this Inglysshe beef I sought it out whenever I smelt the rich odour of burning flesh drifting across a meadow filled with stalls, pedlars and the common folk. On account of the abundance of green, fresh grass, and water too, these animals never had to walk more than fifty or a hundred paces in a day, so their meat was tender and rich with fat.

The one thing they did not grow in Ingerlond was hemp, which grieved me. I would not touch their stronger beers or mead, an alcoholic drink made from honey. Although I now counted the Prophet's interdiction useless superstition, the avoidance of strong drink was so deeply ingrained I could not even smell it without a slight feeling of nausea. But bhang or hashish I would have given my soul for, supposing I have one and anyone wants it.

The fairs were an excuse for rural sports, which were often both absurd and dangerous. Men shot arrows at bird carcasses whirled round on the ends of ropes in simulation of flight or at distant targets made up to look like the heads of Saracens. Although it was many decades since anyone had been on a crusade, which is what the Christians call a jihad, they were still remembered. Oddly enough, no one hit on my dark visage as a sign that I might be one. Or perhaps they weren't bothered whether I was or not. By and large the Inglysshe are tolerant and easy-going – the old Inglysshe, that is, not the Normans – so long as their bellies and tankards are full. The men also sat on greasy poles set across brooks and tried to knock each other off with bags filled with sand; they ran races wearing armour; they split wood with giant axes; they wrestled in a variety of styles. Often we saw broken limbs, bloodied noses, and bruised faces worn with pride by winners and losers alike.

All these were one man against the rest to find the best, but we also came across, and particularly on Midsummer Night's Eve, a contest between all the men of one village against those of another. The object was to get an inflated bladder into the centre or some other agreed point in the opposing village. Simple. Indeed, very simple, for there were no rules except against the carrying of actual weapons. Teams seemed to divide themselves into those who relied on brute force and those who expected to win through cunning. The first, having obtained the bladder or ball, simply bunched around the man carrying it and in a solid block attempted to push their way through all opposition to their goal. The second used decoys and fast running to jinx their way through, often drawing most of the opposition after a runner carrying a similar but not genuine bladder, while the real bladder was carried or kicked by byways and round the back. Because of the nature of the bladder it was possible to kick it over quite long distances, up to a hundred paces, to get it over the heads of opponents to men of one's own side. Kicked, it travelled further and straighter than when thrown. Men who had this kicking skill were especially valued and honoured by their team-mates.

My companion had a strange liking for this sport. When we watched it he would quickly identify himself with one of the participating villages, buy or borrow the favours their supporters wore, such as ribbons in special colours or scarves, then run about cheering their successes and groaning or even using uncouth language when they failed, and shouting catchphrases and snatches, lie explained that before taking orders in his early twenties but while still a student at Oxenford, he had been an adept and turned out for the student hall where he lodged.

At the end of the day the losing village played host to both communities and round a giant bonfire plied each other with beer, or cider made from apples nine or ten months earlier and now unbearably tart on the tongue, no sweetness left, which they nevertheless consumed copiously since it made them drunk even more quickly than their beer. Meanwhile they danced, they danced to bagpipe, flute and drum, strange maze-like dances, or dances in which they banged sticks together. Many had bells attached by ribbons to their bodies. And suddenly, through this cacophony, prancing, grotesque capering, I heard and saw something quite different, the whirling sword dances of the Moors in Granada, and the circling arms and stamped feet of the Moorish women. This may have been illusion, though I later learnt that it was believed these dances were first brought to Ingerlond by John of Gaunt, great-grandfather of the present King, who had fought campaigns in Spain.