Page 6 of The Dragon Ring
Her prisoner? This felt surreal. I decided to wait and see what this Geraint might say. Hopefully, his would be the voice of reason. I didn’t want to risk her giving me a whack with that crook. Beneath her rough tunic she looked tough and strong and well capable of dealing me a heavy blow.
A huge bear of a man emerged from the biggest hut, and roused no doubt by the boy’s shouts, a fair number more men and women came out of the lesser huts, followed by a cluster of tatty children. Their costumes were much the same as the woman’s– tunics and trousers for the men, ankle length homespun gowns for the women. None of them clean.
Geraint strode toward me as the boy ran at his side, gabbling his story. I noticed with a pang of unease that he and all the men had come out carrying spears, and most of the women had wooden clubs in their hands. Even the children had weapons.
The woman guarding me stepped back, a look of relief on her face. Geraint stopped in front of me, heavy brows knitted in aggression, bearded square jaw jutting. Bushy grey hair reached his shoulders, and an ugly, thickened white scar ran from above his left eye down to his chin. Where his eye should have been was a puckered reddish hollow. I swallowed. Surely this was taking realism a bit too far?
He didn’t need to wave his spear to frighten me. One look from that grim face had already done that. The rest of the men and women gathered round in a threatening circle, the children peering between the bodies of their elders. If anything, the women looked fiercer than their menfolk. No use appealing to them for help.
“Who’re ye?” Geraint demanded.
“Gwen,” I said. “My name’s Gwen. I’m here by mistake. I–”
Geraint gave a growl of annoyance. “Jus’ answer my questions, woman.” His eye ran over my clothing, which was so unlike theirs. “Where did ye come from?”
That was a question I wanted an answer to myself. I pointed toward the Tor. “Up there. I went to scatter my father’s ashes, but when I came down, I got lost and ended up here. I don’t know where I am. I’m lost.”
“No one ends up ’ere unless it’s by intention,” Geraint spat at me. All around, the others muttered their agreement in a hissing chorus. “There’s no way in ’less ye know the way. And I’ll be bound ye don’t. Who was it brought ye in and why?”
I was drowning in a sea of mud, bogged down and being sucked under. “I came here to Glastonbury in my boyfriend’s car,” I said, guessing this answer wouldn’t do. “I walked up to the Tor, and then I walked back down, and fell in a bog. Look at me. I’m wet and filthy, and all I want to do is get back home for a shower and clean clothes.” My voice rose in desperation.
“She ’as the clothes of an ’eathen,” came a rough voice from behind me, followed by grunts of assent.
“She’s not one of we,” said another. A rumble of approval ran through them all.
“String ’er up right now.” That came from a woman. No sisterhood here, then. Did she mean it?
Real fear gripped me. “I haven’t done anything. I just need to see someone who can help me. Please, I need your help. I’m not a spy or a fairy or anything else you don’t like.” A sea of blank faces greeted my outburst. “I’m just an ordinary person who got here by mistake. Please help me.” My voice rose an octave higher.
One of the women, a wrinkled, toothless crone, held a coil of rope in her hands. She edged closer, running it through her fingers.
Geraint pushed her away. “We don’t know what she be or what she be about, but the abbot will. ’E’ll know for sure what to do with ’er. We’ll take ’er there. If ’e thinks she needs ’anging then ’e’ll do it. It’s not for us to deal out justice– much as you’d like to, Old Mother Nia.” The crone licked her thin lips, but let the rope drop to her side.
Yes. An abbot was a person in authority. He sounded like he’d be helpful. “Please,” I said. “Take me to the abbot.”
One of the men snatched the rope from the crone. “We don’t know what she might do. Better bind ’er ’ands, Geraint.” He thrust the rope at Geraint, who took it and turned back to me. As well as aggression, his eyes held fear, superstitious, unreasoning fear. That was it. They were all afraid of me.
“Stick out yer ’ands, woman, and don’t do nothin’ unexpected, for if ye do I’ll not be able to stop these good people meting out their own justice on ye. Strangers aren’t welcome ’ere.”
I believed him. Terrified of what they might do if I made a wrong move, I held out my dirty hands to him, palms together. He seized them and the sleeve of my coat slipped backwards. The bracelet on my wrist caught the dim light. Every eye in the crowd fixed on it.
Geraint froze.
“Where’d ye get that?” he asked, at length. As one, the eyes of the crowd moved to my face.
I trembled. “It was given to me when I was a child.”
Was that the right answer? What would I do if they tried to steal it? My bracelet had been part of my life so long, and was so inextricably tied up with my mother’s death, I knew if they tried to take it I would fight them for it, despite the threat of being beaten.
“She’ve stole it.” A man spoke out.
“’Tis the royal dragon on it,” the old woman who’d had the rope said.
“Stolen or not, the abbot’ll know what to do with ’er.” Geraint wrapped the rope round my wrists, binding them together. “We’ll take ’er there and ’e can deal with ’er.”
Wherever I was, they were so enmeshed in the authenticity of their lives they feared me and meant me harm. I glanced around at them. Ordinarily, I might have admired their commitment to realism. Their costumes had the appearance of having been lived in for a long time, and their weapons could well be the real things. Every one of them looked and smelled in need of a good bath, as you’d expect people in an ancient village would. The fact that I’d rolled in sheep droppings and was smelly seemed as though it wouldn’t matter to them at all. A shiver of fear ran down my spine.
Holding the end of the rope that bound me, Geraint nodded to a few of the younger men. “I’ll need ye to come along o’me and take ’er to the abbot. We don’t know she’s by ’erself, do we? Rest of ye, stay ’ere and guard the village. Ye women get knives ’stead o’ those clubs. Give the young’uns the clubs. We’ll be quick as we can. We’ll leave ’er with the abbot and get back straightaway.”
