“Notice there’s no water there, young comrade. And even if you fell right in, I’d say you’d find it no deeper than your own height. Curious, don’t you think? Why a moat on the inside? Why a moat at all for a small tower like this? What good can it do?” Wistan came over the planks himself and tested with his heel the central floor. “Perhaps,” he went on, “the ancients built this tower to slaughter animals. Perhaps once this was their killing floor. What they didn’t wish to keep of an animal, they simply pushed over the side into the moat. What do you think, boy?”
“That’s possible, warrior,” Edwin said. “Yet it would have been no easy thing to lead a beast across narrow planks like that.”
“Perhaps in olden times there was a better bridge here,” Wistan said. “Sturdy enough to bear an ox or a bull. Once the beast had been led over, and it guessed its fate, or when the first blow failed to make it sink to its knees, this arrangement ensured it could not easily flee. Imagine the animal twisting, trying to charge, yet finding the moat wherever it turned. And the one small bridge so hard to locate in a frenzy. It’s no foolish notion, that this was once such a place of slaughter. Tell me, boy, what do you find when you look up?”
Edwin, seeing the circle of sky high above, said: “It’s open at the top, warrior. Like a chimney.”
“You say something interesting there. Let’s hear it again.”
“It’s like a chimney, warrior.”
“What do you make of it?”
“If the ancients used this place for their slaughter, warrior, they’d have been able to build a fire just where we now stand. They could have jointed the animal, roasted the meat, the smoke escaping up to the sky.”
“It’s likely, boy, just as you say. I wonder if these Christian monks have any inkling of what went on here once? These gentlemen, I fancy, come inside this tower for its quiet and seclusion. See how thick is this circling wall. Hardly a sound comes through it, though the crows were shrieking as we entered. And the way the light comes from on high. It must remind them of their god’s grace. What do you say, boy?”
“The gentlemen might come in here and pray, right enough, warrior. Though this ground’s too soiled to kneel on.”
“Perhaps they pray standing, guessing little how this was once a place of slaughter and burning. What else do you see looking up, boy?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?”
“Only the steps, warrior.”
“Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps.”
“They first rise over the moat, then circle and circle, bending with the roundness of the wall. They rise till they reach the sky at the top.”
“That’s well observed. Now listen carefully.” Wistan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “This place, not just this old tower, but this entire place, all of what men today call this monastery, I’d wager was once a hillfort built by our Saxon forefathers in times of war. So it contains many cunning traps to welcome invading Britons.” The warrior moved away and slowly paced the perimeter of the floor, staring down into the moat. Eventually he looked up again and said: “Imagine this place a fort, boy. The siege broken after many days, the enemy pouring in. Fighting in every yard, on every wall. Now picture this. Two of our Saxon cousins, out there in the yard, hold back a large body of Britons. They fight bravely, but the enemy’s too great in number and our heroes must retreat. Let’s suppose they retreat here, into this very tower. They skip across the little bridge and turn to face their foes at this very spot. The Britons grow confident. They have our cousins cornered. They press in with their swords and axes, hurry over the bridge towards our heroes. Our brave kin bring down the first of them, but soon must retreat further. Look there, boy. They retreat up those winding stairs along the wall. Still more Britons cross the moat until this space where we stand is filled. Yet the Britons’ greater numbers can’t yet be turned to advantage. For our brave cousins fight two abreast on the stairs, and the invaders can but meet them two against two. Our heroes are skilled, and though they retreat higher and higher, the invaders cannot overwhelm them. As Britons fall, those following take their place, then fall in their turn. But surely our cousins grow weary. Higher and higher they retreat, the invaders pursue them stair by stair. But what’s this? What’s this, Edwin? Do our kin finally lose their nerve? They turn and run the remaining circles of steps, only now and then striking behind them. This is surely the end. The Britons are triumphant. Those watching from down here smile like hungry men before a banquet. But look carefully, boy. What do you see? What do you see as our Saxon cousins near that halo of sky above?” Grasping Edwin’s shoulders, Wistan repositioned him, pointing up to the opening. “Speak, boy. What do you see?”
“Our cousins spring a trap, sir. They retreat upwards only to draw in the Britons as ants to a honey pot.”
“Well said, lad! And how’s the trap made?”
Edwin considered for a moment, then said: “Just before the stairway reaches its highest point, warrior, I can see what looks from here to be an alcove. Or is it a doorway?”
“Good. And what do you suppose hides there?”
“Can it be a dozen of our greatest warriors? Then together with our two cousins, they can fight their way down again till they cut into the ranks of the Britons here below.”
“Think again, boy.”
“A fierce bear, then, warrior. Or a lion.”
“When did you last meet a lion, boy?”
“Fire, warrior. There’s fire behind that alcove.”
“Well said, boy. We can’t know for sure what happened so long ago. Yet I’d wager that’s what waited up there. In that little alcove, hardly glimpsed from down here, was a torch, or maybe two or three, blazing behind that wall. Tell me the rest, boy.”
“Our cousins throw the torches down.”
“What, onto the heads of the enemy?”
“No, warrior. Down into the moat.”
“The moat? Filled with water?”
“No, warrior. The moat’s filled with firewood. Just like the firewood we’ve sweated to cut.”
“Just so, boy. And we’ll cut more yet before the moon’s high. And we’ll find ourselves plenty of dry hay too. A chimney, you said, boy. You’re right. It’s a chimney we stand in now. Our forefathers built it for just such a purpose. Why else a tower here, when a man looking from the top has no better view than one at the wall outside? But imagine, boy, a torch dropping into this so-called moat. Then another. When we circled this place earlier, I saw at its back, close to the ground, openings in the stone. That means a strong wind from the east, such as we have tonight, will fan the flames ever higher. And how are the Britons to escape the inferno? A solid wall around them, only a single narrow bridge to freedom, and the moat itself ablaze. But let’s leave this place, boy. It may be this ancient tower grows displeased we should guess so many of his secrets.”
Wistan turned towards the planks, but Edwin was still gazing up to the top of the tower.
“But warrior,” he said. “Our two brave cousins. Must they burn in the flames with their foes?”
“If they did, wouldn’t it be a glorious bargain? Yet perhaps it needn’t come to that. Perhaps our two cousins, even as the scalding heat rises, race to the rim of the opening and leap from the top. Would they do that, boy? Even though they lack wings?”
“They have no wings,” Edwin said, “but their comrades may have brought a wagon behind the tower. A wagon loaded deep with hay.”
“It’s possible, boy. Who knows what went on here in ancient days? Now let’s finish with our dreaming and cut a little more wood. For surely these good monks face many chilly nights yet before the summer comes.”