Another of the stones caught my eye, less than an arm’s length away from where the first had lain, and I picked it up. It was identical both in size and in shape, although this one was black rather than red. I turned the two of them carefully in my fingers, wondering what they could have been used for.
‘This place, I believe, is what we know in the English tongue as Silcestre, but which the Romans used to call Calleva,’ ?lfwold said. ‘In its time it was a great city; since its fall, however, none have dared live here nor attempt to rebuild it.’
I tossed the two stones back on to the ground and stood back up. ‘Why would God punish them?’ I asked. ‘I thought the Romans were a Christian people.’ Though it was a long time since I had been at my studies, I was certain of that much.
‘They were,’ said ?lfwold, unblinking and unsmiling. ‘But they were also a sinful race, proud and weak in morals, who spent more of their time in pleasure than they did pursuing God’s work. Too concerned with preserving their worldly wealth, they cared little for the future of their souls.’ He gestured all around him at the shattered stones, the broken tiles, the empty town. ‘What you see is the result of His retribution: a warning to all men not to follow the same example.’
For a while no one said anything. The wind began to gust and I felt a drop of water strike the back of my neck, trickling down my spine and causing me to shiver. Overhead, the skies were darkening still further; around us the ground pattered as the rain began to fall.
‘We should find shelter,’ Wace said.
‘A good idea,’ I replied.
The most substantial remains were of a larger building a little to the south, and it was there that we led our animals. There was nothing to which we could tether them, but they were unlikely to roam far, so we left them to graze upon the grass. We huddled down within the walls, which rose here as far as waist-height, offering some protection at least from the chill of the wind at it swept amidst the shattered stonework. There was no roof to keep out the rain, however; instead we sat with the hoods of our cloaks up, eating in silence.
We could have set up our tents, but it would have taken some while, and I did not want us to tarry here any longer than we had to. At one point I imagined I heard a whisper – some words spoken, though I could not make them out – and thought that the ghosts of those who had lived here were trying to speak to us, before dismissing the idea. Such things existed only in the minds of children and the mad, and I was neither of those.
Even so, to shelter as we were doing within the houses of the dead made me uneasy. I was glad when all had finished and we were back in the saddle, and finally we left that place of ruin, that city of the condemned, that symbol of God’s vengeance.
Twenty-three
THE RAIN FELL throughout the rest of the day, sweeping in from the south and the west, driven by a gusting wind which only grew stronger as the afternoon went on. Greyness hung like a sheet across the sky, the cloud veiling the tops of the hills in the distance. By the time we stopped for the night, in a village nestled at the bottom of a valley, known to the local folk as Ovretune, my cloak was soaked through and my tunic clinging to my skin.
Much to our relief there was already a fire roaring in the alehouse when we arrived. We huddled around it, warming our fingers by the flames while platters of smoked trout and boiled vegetables and pitchers of wine were brought out to us by the innkeeper’s wife. She was a thin woman, about the same age as Lady Elise, with chestnut-brown hair and a timid demeanour. Perhaps it was because she recognised most of us for Frenchmen and knights, or perhaps she was merely uneasy around strangers, but she kept her head bowed whenever she approached, as if the slightest glance might incur our wrath.
She reminded me in a way of my mother, the little that I could recall of her at least. It was not that they looked alike; as much as I tried, I could never picture my mother clearly. But I did remember the manner with which she carried herself – quiet and humble, and somehow always afraid – and as I watched this woman now, I felt that I could almost see her again, though it was near twenty years since I had known her.
We ate in silence, content simply to be indoors at last and to have food in our bellies. Gradually the common room filled with men, many of whom seemed to have come straight from the fields, their trews and tunics caked with mud. They kept to small groups, huddled over their cups, occasionally turning their heads in our direction as they muttered to one another in their own tongue. I’d become so used to the company of ?lfwold in recent weeks that it was strange to see such men speaking without a single word of French. I was suddenly aware that we were the only ones in the room who were not English. My fingertips brushed against the cold hilt of my sword beneath my cloak; I pulled them away quickly. I did not want to have to use it tonight.
I turned my attention back to our table. ‘All being well, we ought to reach Wiltune by sunset tomorrow,’ ?lfwold said.