He had twisted around to find Father Ninian, the silent monk, staring into his eyes. Edwin had not cried out, but had said, in a low voice, pointing towards the bodies: “Master Wistan, my Saxon brother. Does he lie there?”
The silent monk appeared to understand, and shook his head emphatically. But even as he raised a finger to his lips in the familiar manner, he had stared warningly into Edwin’s face. Then, glancing furtively around him, Ninian had tugged Edwin away from the courtyard.
“Can we be certain, warrior,” he had asked Wistan the day before, “the soldiers will really come? Who’ll tell them we’re here? Surely these monks believe us but simple shepherds.”
“Who knows, boy. Perhaps we’ll be left in peace. But there’s one I fancy may betray our presence here, and even now the good Brennus may be issuing his orders. Test it well, young comrade. Britons have a way of dividing a bale from within with wooden slats. We need it pure hay all the way down.”
He and Wistan had been in the barn behind the old tower. Having for the moment done with woodcutting, the warrior had been seized by the urge to load the rickety wagon high with the hay stored at the back of the shed. As they had set about this task, Edwin had been required at regular intervals to clamber up onto the bales and prod into them with a stick. The warrior, observing carefully from the ground, would sometimes make him go over a section again, or order him to thrust a leg as far down as possible into a particular spot.
“These holy men are just the sort to get absent-minded,” Wistan had said by way of explanation. “They may have left a spade or pitchfork in the hay. If so, it would be a service to retrieve it for them, tools being scarce up here.”
Although at that point the warrior had given no hint as to the purpose of the hay, Edwin had known straight away it had to do with the confrontation ahead, and that was why, as the bales had piled up, he had asked his question about the soldiers.
“Who’ll betray us, warrior? The monks don’t suspect us. They’re so concerned with their holy quarrels, they hardly glance our way.”
“Maybe so, boy. But test there too. Just there.”
“Can it be, warrior, it’s the old couple will betray us? Surely they’re too foolish and honest.”
“They may be Britons, but I don’t fear their treachery. Yet you’d be wrong to suppose them foolish, boy. Master Axl, for one, is a deep fellow.”
“Warrior, why do we travel with them? They slow us at every turn.”
“They slow us, right enough, and we’ll part ways soon. Yet this morning as we set off, I felt eager for Master Axl’s company. And I may wish for more of it yet. As I say, he’s a deep one. He and I may have a little more to discuss. But just now let’s concentrate on what faces us here. We must load this wagon in a sure and steady way. We need pure hay. No wood or iron there. See how I depend on you, boy.”
But Edwin had let him down. How could he have gone on sleeping for so long? It had been a mistake to lie down at all. He should simply have sat upright in the corner, napping a few winks the way he had seen Wistan do, ready at the first noise to start to his feet. Instead, like an infant, he had accepted from the old woman a cup of milk, and fallen into a deep sleep in his corner of the chamber.
Had his real mother called him in his dreams? Perhaps that was why he had remained asleep for so long. And why, when he had been shaken awake by the crippled monk, instead of rushing to the warrior’s side, he had followed after the others down into the long, strange tunnel, for all the world as if he were still in the depths of dreaming.
It had been his mother’s voice without doubt, the same voice that had called to him in the barn. “Find the strength for me, Edwin. Find the strength and come rescue me. Come rescue me. Come rescue me.” There had been an urgency there he had not heard the previous morning. And there had been more: as he had stood at that open trap-door, staring down at the steps leading into the darkness, he had felt something pull at him with such force he had become giddy, almost sick.
The young monk was holding back blackthorn with a stick, waiting for Edwin to go ahead of him. Now at last he spoke, though in a hushed voice.
“A short cut. We’ll soon see the roof of the cooper’s cottage.”
As they came out of the woods to where the land swept down into the receding mist, Edwin could still hear movement and hissing in the nearby bracken. And he thought of the sunny evening towards the end of summer, when he had talked with the girl.
He had not at first seen the pond that day, for it had been small and well hidden by rushes. A cloud of brightly coloured insects had flown up before him, an event normally to draw his attention, but on this occasion he had been too preoccupied by the noise coming from the water’s edge. An animal in a trap? There it was again, behind the birdsong and the wind. The noise followed a pattern: an intense burst of rustling, as of a struggle, then silence. Then soon, more rustling. Approaching cautiously, he had heard laboured breathing. Then the girl had been before him.
She was lying on her back in the rough grass, her torso twisted to one side. She was a few years older than him — fifteen or sixteen — and her eyes were fixed on him without fear. It took a while to realise her odd posture had to do with her hands being tied under her body. The flattened grass around her marked the area where, by pushing with her legs, she had been sliding about in her struggles. Her cloth smock, tied at the waist, was discoloured — perhaps soaked — all along one side, and both her legs, unusually dark-skinned, bore fresh scratches from the thistles.
It occurred to him she was an apparition or a sprite, but when she spoke her voice had no echo to it.
“What do you want? Why have you come?”
Recovering himself, Edwin said: “If you like, I could help you.”
“These knots aren’t difficult. They just tied me more tightly than usual.”
Only now did he notice her face and neck were covered in perspiration. Even as she spoke, her hands, under her back, were busily struggling.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Not hurt. But a beetle landed on my knee just now. It clung on and bit me. There’ll be a swelling now. I can see you’re still too much of a child to help me. It doesn’t matter, I’ll manage myself.”
Her gaze remained fixed on him, even as her face tightened and she twisted and raised her torso a little way off the ground. He watched, transfixed, expecting at any moment to see the hands come out from under her. But she sagged down defeated and lay in the grass, breathing hard and staring angrily at him.
“I could help,” Edwin said. “I’m good with knots.”
“You’re just a child.”
“I’m not. I’m nearly twelve.”
“They’ll come back soon. If they find you’ve untied me, they’ll beat you.”
“Are they grown-ups?”
“They think they are, but they’re just boys. Older than you though and there’s three of them. They’d like nothing better than to beat you. They’ll force your head into that muddy water until you pass out. I’ve watched them do it before.”
“Are they from the village?”
“The village?” She looked at him with contempt. “Your village? We pass village after village every day. What do we care about your village? They may come back soon, then you’ll be in trouble.”