Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

The farmer looked my way again and his gaze directed the eyes of his companions to where I stood. Then, extending a half-raised arm to the others in a clear command to remain where they were, the big man set off purposefully towards me.

"He's coming up here," I said. "The farmer, alone."

"Aye, well, he must, mustn't he? What other choice does he have? Can't ignore you. Go to meet him. I'll stay here, out of sight for a while longer."

"Then what? Won't you come down with me? You can talk to them. I can't".

"No, I can't either, remember? I didn't understand a word of what they said, any more than you did. Go down to him, before he sees me. When you have their attention, and when I'm quite sure you're safe and they mean you no harm, I'll slip away unseen and collect the other horses. I'll bring them back and wait for you by the barn."

I was feeling increasingly foolish, having to speak without looking at him, and trying to do so without moving my lips, lest the approaching farmer thought me a madman, talking to myself.

"What will I say to them?"

"Tell them your name. Then collect our arrows, accept some food from them, enough for both of us, since they'll be grateful, and bid them farewell. They won't attempt to stop you. They'll think you're magic, too. Go down now, before he has a chance to see the two of us. You'll have no need of speech. A friendly smile will suffice, you'll see. You did save their lives, after all. Besides, you need to meet them, to see for yourself that they are ordinary people, just like our own in Camulod. Being Angles does not make them any less than human. Go, now, but don't stay long. I'll see you later."

Resigned to the strangeness of the situation, I set off down the slope towards the farmer, who stopped as soon as I began to move. He remained motionless, giving me ample opportunity to examine him as I drew near. He wore the same half-sleeved tunic he had worn earlier, but now it was covered by a one-piece, knee-length overcoat of heavy, toughened leather, embossed with bronze, rectangular lozenges of armour. His head was thrust through the single yoke-hole and the garment was cinched at his waist, protecting his sides with an overlapping, double thickness, by a thick leather belt with a silver, ornately carved buckle in the shape of a writhing serpent. He wore heavy, leather brogans on his feet, fastened by long ties that criss-crossed up his calves to his knees, binding his leggings in place. He wore neither cloak nor helmet, nor did he carry a shield. His entire weaponry consisted of a longish, heavy-looking sword in a sheath by his side, and a broad-bladed dagger thrust into his belt.

I halted when a distance of four paces separated us and he stood gazing at me for several moments more, his eyes narrowed almost to slits, wary and speculative. Somehow, I summoned up a smile and nodded to him, and he relaxed at once, although the slight sagging at his shoulders was the only sign he gave that he had been under any kind of tension.

The act of crinkling my face in a smile had reminded me of the mud that coated one side of my face, and now I reached up to pick at the tight coating beneath my left eye. A large flake came free and I rubbed at it, feeling it crumble between my fingers. It may have been the simple humanity of the gesture that finally convinced him that he was dealing with a man and not some alien woodland deity, for he suddenly spoke, in a deep, grave voice, laying the spread fingers of one hand upon his breast.

"Gethelrud," he rumbled, and I guessed he had named himself.

I repeated the sound as closely as I could, adding my own interrogative note. "Gethelrud?"

He nodded, apparently pleased, and repeated it. I touched my own breast in the same manner.

"Merlyn."

"Merlyn." Grave-faced, he repeated my name yet again and then broke into a flood of speech, of which I recognized no single sound. When he fell silent again, I shook my head, then spoke to him in Latin, asking him if he understood that tongue. His incomprehension was as complete as mine had been. I spoke then in our native Celtic tongue of the West, and then in Donuil's Erse tongue, and again made no impression.

Finally he grunted and shrugged eloquently, a gesture that required no translation, before following that with another movement, this one an obvious invitation to accompany him to his home. We walked side by side, and I was as conscious of his fascination with my huge African bow as I was of the awe with which his people watched my approach.

Face to face with all of them finally, in the farm yard, I was overwhelmed by the impossibility of communicating with them. The farmer had spoken to them as we approached, naming my name and evidently telling them I did not know their tongue, and now no one made any attempt to speak, all of them simply staring at me in silence. I could read gratitude and uncertainty in the eyes of the adults and sheer awe in the faces of the youngsters. It was the woman, however, who took the initiative to break the awkwardness of the moment. With a glance at her husband, she stepped towards me, reaching for my right hand. Taking it between her own, a tremulous half- smile on her handsome face, she raised it towards her forehead, bringing it eventually, palm downward, to touch the top of her head, which she lowered towards me in an unmistakable gesture of gratitude, friendship and submission. I saw, before she lowered her eyes, that they were grey and large. I now guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid to late twenties, but the smooth skin of her face was yet unmarked by the lines of hardship and age.

As I stood there feeling slightly foolish, the woman transferred her right hand gently to my wrist and turned slightly, waving her left hand towards the open door behind her. Removing my hand equally gently from her head, I smiled and nodded, first to her and then to her husband, and thereafter to each of the others in turn. Satisfied that she had succeeded in communicating her message, the woman turned away and moved quickly into the house, followed by her daughter. Gethelrud gestured with his hand, indicating that I should follow them, but as I nodded and began to turn that way, my eye fell upon one of our arrows—the one that had struck sparks from the stony ground—lying close by my feet. I bent and recovered it, checking its point, which seemed undamaged, before slipping it into my quiver and looking around for more. Three I could see protruding from the bodies of the men they had killed. Seeing my gaze and correctly guessing my intent, Gethelrud laid a detaining hand on my arm and began issuing instructions to the others who immediately moved away and set to work cleaning up the carnage in the farm yard. One of them, the other man of Gethelrud's age, whom I now took to be his brother, ripped an arrow audibly from the nearest corpse and held it out towards me, nodding plainly towards the nearby trough, mutely inquiring if I would like him to clean the missile and return it to me. I nodded and he moved to place the arrow point-downward in the water, leaving it to steep as he moved to collect another. The two youths had gone off somewhere, dispatched by Gethelrud, presumably to warn their neighbours of the threat posed by the raiders.

A movement at the door caught my attention and the daughter came out again, carrying three pottery mugs with thick foam bubbling over their rims. My mouth immediately went dry with thirst and, on an impulse, I winked an eye at the one of the trio of small boys who still stood gaping at me. None of them had uttered a word since I appeared. Now, however, as I accepted a cool mug from their sister, this urchin, emboldened by my wink, stepped forward, his eyes on mine, and pointed to the bow I still held in my left hand. I have no idea what he asked me, but I realized immediately that what had held them silent all this time was mere shyness, and not superstitious dread and with that realisation it became suddenly apparent to me that none of the people in the farmhouse could have seen the effect engineered by Ambrose to astound and terrify their attackers. The shuttered windows of the house all faced the yard. These people all believed, quite clearly, that I had been alone upon the hill, shooting from one position. Amused now, and relieved, I decided to call Ambrose into view. Signalling open-handed to Gethelrud to alert him, I put down my mug, placed two fingers between my teeth, and whistled loudly.