Smoke rose from the Hall chimney, from the Keep and from the small conical cottages that had sprung up just outside the castle grounds - and there were a few within, I noticed. Perhaps the quarters of highly-placed warriors, or even homes for their bastards and their mothers. They were ordinary men, with ordinary needs, and the life of a warrior seemed to produce a higher than average sex-drive. The proximity of Death made Life the more precious, and the drive to produce children seemed to be strongest in those who were least likely to see them grow up. They could be widows’ quarters, those wee huts inside the castle grounds: Owain had gained a reputation for looking after the families of those who fell fighting for him. No wonder they were loyal to him.
Out on the blue water I could see little boats, as small as insects, some with full sails rushing off on the King’s business or their own; others with slack sails or none, drifting with the current while they fished for the harvest hidden in the depths. The waters hereabouts were abundant, with mackerel, herring, salmon and saithe just waiting to be pulled out of the deep in all their silver glory. The last were regarded as a nuisance and thrown back but the rest had generated a marine cuisine all the way around the coast: poached in wine, grilled with herbs, smoked over oak, baked with milk or ale, there were as many ways of preparing fish as there were boats on the water - and just as well, for it could be a dull diet otherwise.
Back on shore there was activity in the fields. The soil had thawed and was soft enough for the plough; planting was going on in earnest. When it wasn’t frozen solid the land between the mountains and the sea was fertile and, if unravaged by war, it could produce enough food to support the people quite comfortably. The rough grass of the higher pastures was good enough to feed the brown sheep, and the cultivated land was now extensive enough for many a good herd of cattle to feed on fields that were lying fallow - and to fertilise them, of course. A land flowing with milk and honey, then? There was milk, certainly, but the honey would have to wait until the summer when the bees had fully wakened from their hibernation and had collected sufficient nectar to feed their own armies, with enough left over for the tables of their keepers. A small cloud of dust signalled the return of a light patrol from wherever Owain had sent them.
In all the landscape I couldn’t spot the distinctive figure of my troubled friend, Ieuan ap Talog, High Druid of the Kingdom of Strathclyde. In the past, in Erin, his disappearance would have meant that he had retreated to his inner cave, or gone wandering in the woods and glades where no-one would find him for hours, or even days. I had no idea where any hideaway of his might be and so I decided to walk up to the forest’s edge. Perhaps I would come across him but if not there were herbs and roots to be found to replenish the small store in my bag.
I told the sentry at the gate where I was going and was advised to watch for wolves.
“Our King has ordered that the wolves should be hunted until there are none within the kingdom but they're still numerous, and bold after a hard winter.”
“Or desperate with hunger,” I replied. “Thank you for the warning; I’ll be on my guard.” I had just got down to the lands below the Rock when a woman came running out of one of the huts.
“Father! Thank the gods! Help me please, my son...my son...” she burst into tears. I asked where the boy was and she indicated the hut, unable to speak. I followed her in and found a brodach, an older woman, and a man - probably the younger woman’s husband - mopping the brow of a child of no more than six years of age. The brodach stepped away to give me room. I knelt down by the pallet on which the boy lay, ignoring the mud on the floor. He had a fever and was breathing feebly.
“How long has he been like this?”
“A week, Father,” the older woman replied.
“Magister or Saint, mother.”
“You’re a Christian?”
“Yes. Now what happened? Exactly?”
“It was nothing out of the ordinary, Magister, not to begin with. He went swimming early in the morning and then complained of a stomach ache just after midday. He wouldn’t take his food. By evening he was vomiting, the following day he had the runs and his temperature was right up.”
“Where was he swimming?”
“Upstream of the Castle, Magister, we’re very careful about that. The tide was slack, too. We won’t let him swim downstream, with all the rubbish that comes out of there. But you can’t stop a boy from going where he wants with his friends.”
“When did he stop sweating?”
“Just this morning, my Lord.”
“What have you given him?”
“He couldn’t hardly hold anything down. I tried nettle soup, peppermint cordial and mustard vapour. Nothing’s helped. We have been up for five days and nights trying to keep his temperature down.” She paused, then continued, hesitantly. “I hope I did no harm?”
“No, mother. You’ve kept him alive. More than most could have done.” I stood up. “He has a dangerous infection, and we’re close to the crisis - indeed we’re in it.” I sighed. “I don’t know if I can save him,” the mother wailed, “but you’re fortunate. The High Druid of the Kingdom has great healing powers. I’ll give you something for your immediate use, which will keep him alive. You need Father Ieuan to restore him.” I reached into my bag and sorted through the half-dozen or so small - and dwindling - bundles of dried vegetation I had in there and selected two. “This should be infused with warm water - not boiling - it must be just a little more than hand hot, and a cloth soaked in it held under his nose and lain on his chest. This one must be made into a soup and he must - must - drink it, even if you have to pour it down his throat drop by drop. You,” I called the man over, “go to the Keep, use my name - it’s Magister Anselm - and ask for Father Ieuan, the High Druid. Tell him what’s wrong with your son and that I sent you to him. I’ll go looking for him in the woods. Keep looking for him until you find him or I send word to you.” The man nodded but hesitated at the door. He looked as if he wanted to ask something. I followed him outside, leaving the women with the boy.
“If the boy lives, Magister, will he...” the query died on his lips.
“If he comes through this crisis, with Father Iuean’s help, he’ll have no ill effects at all. He'll grow up strong. He won’t be a burden on you.” The man nodded and jogged off up the hill to the Castle. I had great confidence in the Druid’s Gift: while I could keep the boy alive for another day or so Ieuan could restore him to health, given time. I had seen him pull people back from the jaws of Death, or what looked very much like it. Coivin and I had both benefitted from his Gift. I scratched at my ribs at the memory of the beating that had broken them. Coivin had received even worse but in two days, he was up and about and able to ride again. It was miraculous.
Eighteen months later he was dead. At my hand. There was nothing Ieuan could have done to bring him back.
Why had the little family not called the Druid earlier? Or one of the more junior Druids not called in on his rounds among the people? Any cleric’s first duty was to the people, be he Druid or Christian. I would have to ask when I next saw Ieuan.