“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.”
In a battle, there was no time for elaborate exchanges of information. A swift look, a wave of a hand, a barked word over the noise: that was all true warriors needed to convey their wishes to one another. It had been in such a spirit Wistan had made his thoughts clear that afternoon in the tower, and Edwin had let him down utterly.
But had the warrior expected too much? Even old Steffa had only talked of Edwin’s great promise, what he would become once he had been taught the warrior’s ways. Wistan had yet to finish training him, so how was Edwin to respond with such understanding? And now, it seems, the warrior was wounded, but surely this could not be Edwin’s fault alone.
The young monk had paused by the edge of the stream to unfasten his shoes. “This is where we ford,” he said. “The bridge is much further down and the land there’s too open. We may be seen from even the next hilltop.” Then pointing to Edwin’s shoes, he said: “Those look skilfully crafted. Did you make them yourself?”
“Master Baldwin made them for me. The most skilled shoemaker in the village, even though he has fits every full moon.”
“Off with them. A soaking’s sure to wreck them. Can you see the stepping stones? Lower your head more, and try to gaze beneath the water’s surface. There, you see them? That’s our pathway. Keep them in your sight and you’ll stay dry.”
Again, the young monk’s tone had something curt about it. Could it be that since they had set off he had had time to piece together in his mind Edwin’s role in what had occurred? At the start of their journey, the young monk had not only been warmer in manner, he had hardly been able to stop talking.
They had met in the chilly corridor outside Father Jonus’s cell, where Edwin had been waiting while several voices, lowered but passionate, argued from within. The dread of what he might soon be told had mounted, and Edwin had been relieved when instead of being summoned inside, he had seen the young monk emerge, a cheerful smile on his face.
“I’ve been chosen to be your guide,” he had said triumphantly, in Edwin’s language. “Father Jonus says we’re to go at once and slip out unseen. Be brave, young cousin, you’ll be at your brother’s side before long.”
The young monk had an odd way of walking, clutching himself tightly like someone intensely cold, both arms lost within his robe, so that Edwin, following him down the mountain path, had wondered at first if he was one of those born with missing limbs. But as soon as the monastery was safely behind them, the young monk had fallen in step beside him, and producing a thin, long arm had placed it supportively around Edwin’s shoulders.
“It was foolish of you to come back as you did, and after you’d made good your escape. Father Jonus was angry to hear of it. But here you are, safely away again, and with luck no one’s the wiser about your return. But what an affair this is! Is your brother always so quarrelsome? Or is it one of the soldiers made some fierce insult to him in passing? Perhaps once you reach his bedside, young cousin, you’ll ask him how it all began, for none of us can make head or tail of it. If it was he who insulted the soldiers, then it must have been something strong indeed, for they as one forgot whatever purpose brought them to see the abbot, and turning into wild men, set about trying to extract payment for his boldness. I myself woke at the sounds of the shouting, even though my own chamber’s far from the courtyard. I ran there in alarm, only to stand helpless alongside my fellow monks, watching in horror all that unfolded. Your brother, they soon told me, had run into the ancient tower to escape the wrath of the soldiers, and though they rushed in after him with a mind to tear him limb from limb, it seems he began to fight them as best he knew. And a surprising match he seemed to be, even though they were thirty or more and he just one Saxon shepherd. We watched expecting any moment to see his bloody remains brought out, and instead it’s soldier after soldier running from that tower in panic, or staggering out carrying wounded comrades. We could hardly believe our eyes! We were praying for the quarrel soon to end, for whatever the original insult, such violence’s surely uncalled for. Yet it went on and on, and then, young cousin, the dreadful accident occurred. Who knows it wasn’t God himself, frowning on so black a quarrel within his holy buildings, pointed a finger and struck them with fire? More likely it was one of the soldiers running back and forth with torches tripped and made his great error. The horror of it! Suddenly the tower was ablaze! And who’d think an old damp tower could offer so much kindling? Yet blaze it did and Lord Brennus’s men together with your brother caught within. They’d have done better forgetting their quarrel at once and running out as fast as they could, but I fancy they thought instead to fight the flames, and saw only too late the fires engulfing them. An accident of true ghastliness, and the few who came out did so just to die twisting horribly on the ground. Yet miracle of miracles, young cousin, your brother it turns out escaped! Father Ninian found him wandering the darkness of the grounds, dazed and wounded, but still alive, even as the rest of us watched the blazing tower and prayed for the trapped men inside. Your brother lives, but Father Jonus, who himself treated his wounds, has counselled the few of us who know this news to keep it a solemn secret, even from the abbot himself. For he fears if the news gets further, Lord Brennus will send out more soldiers seeking vengeance, not caring that most died by accident and not by your brother’s hand. You’d do well not to whisper a word of it to anyone, at least not until you’re both far from this country. Father Jonus was angry you should risk yourself returning to the monastery, yet he’s contented he can the more easily reunite you with your brother. ‘They must travel together out of this country,’ he said. The best of men is Father Jonus, and still our wisest, even after what the birds have done to him. I dare say your brother owes him and Father Ninian his life.”
But that had been earlier. Now the young monk had become distant, and his arms were once again tucked firmly within his robe. As Edwin followed him across the stream, trying his best to see the rocks beneath the swiftly running water, the thought came to him that he should make a clean breast of it to the warrior; tell him about his mother and how she had called to him. If he explained it all from the start, honestly and frankly, it was possible Wistan would understand and give him another chance.
A shoe in each hand, Edwin sprang lightly towards the next rock, faintly cheered by this possibility.