scrubbing would shift it. He doubled up, his stomach clenching.
He’d forgotten to bring food with him, and Broccus hadn’t offered any. Still the efforts to vomit tore through him. He used to suffer from strange, disabling headaches, days when coloured glass had seemed to float in front of his eyes. On those days Leof had sat by his bunk, pressing a cold, damp cloth to his brow. Cai threw up water and stood gasping, wiping away hot tears.
His head had cleared a little. That often happened once the sickness had pitched, Leof cleaning him up and telling him gently how poor an inspiration he was for his profession. Even the bells and the screams inside his head were dying down.
Replaced by rapid hoofbeats. Was that worse? Cai half-fell back out onto the track. A violent four-time percussion… He didn’t think he could live with that. With relief he realised the sounds were coming from the hillside above him. One of Broc’s wild little warhorses was being driven down over the turf. They’d have made a Roman soldier laugh, Cai suspected, but in their own right they were grand beasts, crossbred down with native ponies through the centuries and still showing some of their imperial blood. An eye for horseflesh was one of the things Cai had been meant to leave behind him in the outer world, but still he watched appreciatively as the horse and cart approached.
No, not a cart. Cai wiped his eyes again, in disbelief this time. Jouncing behind the pony, catching dull flashes of sun on its ancient bronze fittings, was one of Broc’s chariots. He had three of them, his legacy from his own father’s grandfather. Broc swore they were original and had seen action up near Hadrian’s great wall, but Cai reckoned that, like the horse, they were inventive copies. The wheels were broad and tough, better fitted to hillsides than old Roman pavements. Their frames were gaudy with low-relief bronze plates of goddesses walloping nine shades of hell out of a more recent enemy—wide-eyed figures who looked like the very Saxons who had since settled peacefully here, established monasteries and sent their beautiful sons to lighten the lives of men like Cai. “Leof,” he whispered, wondering if the name would ever be out of his mind, off his tongue.
Maybe the loss of him had finally unseated Cai’s reason. Broc valued these chariots more than his cows and his women put together. They seldom saw the light of day, and were never sent out on errands. Still unsteady, he stepped forwards to meet the driver, a skinny lad struggling for control. “Whoa! Pull her up, pull her up. What’s all this?”
“Broccus sent me after you. He says…” The boy hauled back hard on the snorting pony’s reins, and Cai took hold of the harness. “He says you’re to have the weapons you asked for. He also said…” Frowning, the boy repeated his script. “There’s little point, because you and your skirt-wearing friends will probably just chop your feet off, but you’re welcome.”
Cai looked into the willow containers strapped to the chariot’s frame. About twenty broadswords had been roughly packed inside, together with a selection of rusted shields. “He said I was to have all these?”
“Yes. The horse and chariot too. He also said you could have me.”
Cai had no doubt in what capacity. “That’s nice. How old are you?” The boy looked blank, and he clarified, “How many summers? Since you graced this world with your being?”
“Oh. Fourteen or so, I think.”
“Well, go back and have about ten more.”
“What? You’ll be an old man by then!”
Cai shook his head. He reached up and lifted the boy from his perch. Springing onto the board in his place, he took up the reins. They were soft and worn and came more sweetly to his hands than befitted a humble follower of Christ. He couldn’t help but think how much faster he would cover the ground between here and the monastery now. He smelled fresh bread and noticed the satchel of
He’d forgotten to bring food with him, and Broccus hadn’t offered any. Still the efforts to vomit tore through him. He used to suffer from strange, disabling headaches, days when coloured glass had seemed to float in front of his eyes. On those days Leof had sat by his bunk, pressing a cold, damp cloth to his brow. Cai threw up water and stood gasping, wiping away hot tears.
His head had cleared a little. That often happened once the sickness had pitched, Leof cleaning him up and telling him gently how poor an inspiration he was for his profession. Even the bells and the screams inside his head were dying down.
Replaced by rapid hoofbeats. Was that worse? Cai half-fell back out onto the track. A violent four-time percussion… He didn’t think he could live with that. With relief he realised the sounds were coming from the hillside above him. One of Broc’s wild little warhorses was being driven down over the turf. They’d have made a Roman soldier laugh, Cai suspected, but in their own right they were grand beasts, crossbred down with native ponies through the centuries and still showing some of their imperial blood. An eye for horseflesh was one of the things Cai had been meant to leave behind him in the outer world, but still he watched appreciatively as the horse and cart approached.
No, not a cart. Cai wiped his eyes again, in disbelief this time. Jouncing behind the pony, catching dull flashes of sun on its ancient bronze fittings, was one of Broc’s chariots. He had three of them, his legacy from his own father’s grandfather. Broc swore they were original and had seen action up near Hadrian’s great wall, but Cai reckoned that, like the horse, they were inventive copies. The wheels were broad and tough, better fitted to hillsides than old Roman pavements. Their frames were gaudy with low-relief bronze plates of goddesses walloping nine shades of hell out of a more recent enemy—wide-eyed figures who looked like the very Saxons who had since settled peacefully here, established monasteries and sent their beautiful sons to lighten the lives of men like Cai. “Leof,” he whispered, wondering if the name would ever be out of his mind, off his tongue.
Maybe the loss of him had finally unseated Cai’s reason. Broc valued these chariots more than his cows and his women put together. They seldom saw the light of day, and were never sent out on errands. Still unsteady, he stepped forwards to meet the driver, a skinny lad struggling for control. “Whoa! Pull her up, pull her up. What’s all this?”
“Broccus sent me after you. He says…” The boy hauled back hard on the snorting pony’s reins, and Cai took hold of the harness. “He says you’re to have the weapons you asked for. He also said…” Frowning, the boy repeated his script. “There’s little point, because you and your skirt-wearing friends will probably just chop your feet off, but you’re welcome.”
Cai looked into the willow containers strapped to the chariot’s frame. About twenty broadswords had been roughly packed inside, together with a selection of rusted shields. “He said I was to have all these?”
“Yes. The horse and chariot too. He also said you could have me.”
Cai had no doubt in what capacity. “That’s nice. How old are you?” The boy looked blank, and he clarified, “How many summers? Since you graced this world with your being?”
“Oh. Fourteen or so, I think.”
“Well, go back and have about ten more.”
“What? You’ll be an old man by then!”
Cai shook his head. He reached up and lifted the boy from his perch. Springing onto the board in his place, he took up the reins. They were soft and worn and came more sweetly to his hands than befitted a humble follower of Christ. He couldn’t help but think how much faster he would cover the ground between here and the monastery now. He smelled fresh bread and noticed the satchel of
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