Skin (8 page)

We are born neither good nor evil.

It is our choice that determines which of these we become.

To make this choice we need absolute freedom.

How else may we be judged unless we are free?

I
CARRIED
THE
last platter of loaves into the Great House, weaving between guests
to join Cookmother at the hearth. Rich smells of long-cooked meat mingled with those
of herbsmoke, blossom and crowded bodies. The fire roared at the room's centre, a
whole sow blistering above it. The roasted doe had been broken onto steaming platters
by the hearth.

At least a hundred tribespeople were seated on benches in three rings around the
fire. Nearest to the fire, on the most finely carved bench, and facing the eastern
doorway, sat Fraid. She wore woven wool in the deepest hue of red and her arms were
weighted with bracelets of silver and gold that she would hand to the poets as they
pleased her. Fibor sat on her left, then Etaina and Manacca, Fraid's daughter.

Before them stood a visiting poet, robed in woad-blue, plucking a
harp. The instrument
was of an ancient style, strung with human hair and with as many strings as were
ribs in a human body.

To Fraid's right sat Llwyd and, beside him, two lesser journeymen of Cad. The other
high warriors and their families completed this circle. Among them, facing the Tribequeen,
was Ruther. I was suddenly shy as I stood beside Cookmother, and did not return his
gaze.

In the second ring were the craftsmen and low warriors, and behind them, the land-owning
farmers of Summer.

When all were settled, Llwyd stood and dedicated the meat. As first warrior, Fibor
took an iron knife from his belt and speared a thick chunk of doe's shoulder, which
he passed to Fraid with a bow. The feast had begun.

Cookmother toiled at the fire, ladling stew into bowls. My task was to fill the tribesmen's
outstretched beer horns and I could hardly keep pace with their shouts for more.

When I reached Ruther, he grabbed my free hand and pulled me into his lap. ‘Greetings,
Ailia
.'

‘I am needed for serving,' I protested, laughing.

‘There are others to serve.' He leaned forward to slice a morsel of pork and fed
it straight from his knife tip into my mouth.

Juice trickled down my chin as I chewed, and he licked it away.

The room roared with voices. Feasts were the tribe's time to firm friendships, soothe
old arguments, bring gifts to Fraid, and, of course, hear news.

‘All quiet!' commanded Fraid, raising her arm. ‘You will know by now that Belinus,
High King of the Catuvellauni has passed to Caer Sidi, the home of the dead. Let
us hear from the visiting songman. He came only this day from our neighbour to the
east. Tell us, poet, how it stands in the eastern tribes since the death. Are they
resolved to settle under Caradog?'

The young poet bowed and lifted his harp. Our songmen spent ceaseless summers learning
by heart the poems of our country, but their most admired skill was that of forging
verse in the moment it was spoken.

He sang:

When the Great Bear dies

Barely are his pyre and carcass ready

When he's swarmed by many well-kinned flies

Though none who'd rule as steady,

None who'd walk the narrow bridge

That spans the Empire and our home,

None who reap the privilege

Of holding hands with Rome.

Caradog has risen,

He rules with Mothers' might,

When Rome chimes at his hut bell,

Will he run? Succumb? No. Fight.

The guests bellowed their applause.

Fibor had emptied more beer horns than most. ‘I am glad to see the Great Bear down,'
he proclaimed. ‘Perhaps now the Catuvellauni will have a king who will stand firm
against Rome.'

I felt Ruther's back stiffen. ‘Belinus held the ear of the Emperor himself,' he said.
‘We all reap the spoils from the tradelines he opened.'

I glanced at him, amazed he would challenge our first warrior.

Fibor set down his cup. He was well known for his hatred of Rome and less so for
the delicacy of his tongue. ‘Belinus wiped Rome's arse for the privilege of its pretty
things. His son knows the honour of freedom.'

‘On matters of trade,' Fraid interjected calmly, ‘the Great Bear's
achievements are
undisputed. But he is gone. Let us speak of the future.' She turned to the poet.
‘Are the other petty kings and queens concerned that this death will prompt an arrival
on our eastern shores?'

‘It is so feared,' said the poet. ‘Caradog is beginning to strengthen his support
among the tribes.'

‘Take them by force, you mean?' Fibor chuckled. ‘I wish him courage. The Emperor
will think twice before launching an attack on a warrior such as Caradog.'

‘Caradog
insults
the Emperor Claudius,' said the one who held me. ‘He goads him by
claiming we Britons are the uncapturable people.' Ruther looked around the circle.
‘Think for yourselves, tribesmen, what this will provoke in Rome.'

I moved to stand but Ruther tightened his grasp around my waist.

‘Son of Orgilos, it seems you have become quite a friend to Rome since your travels
there,' said Fibor.

Ruther stared back at him. ‘Is it not wise to understand the mind of those who would
be our captors and our rulers?'

‘Understand this,' said Fibor. ‘We are the free people. The Romans have captured
the world, yet we remain uncaptured.'

Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the gathering.

‘I have heard that they see Albion as a place of dark magic! An otherworld!' said
Etaina. ‘They are too frightened to come. This is why we remain uncaptured.'

‘Hah!' sneered Ruther. ‘We are uncaptured because Belinus met Rome's hunger for our
landwealth. Why would they attack when they already held purchase on all they desired?'

The circle fell silent. I was stunned by the recklessness with which Ruther spoke.
Surely Fraid would not permit him such liberty? With his thick forearm gripping my
waist, I felt as though I were caught on a wild horse.

‘You return to us greatly informed of the opinions of Rome, Ruther,' said Fraid.
‘We are privileged to have such knowledge in our midst.'

Fibor grunted but I felt Ruther soften.

‘When do you leave for the Empire lands, Ruther?' asks Llwyd. Until now he had said
nothing but I watched how closely he listened.

‘Tomorrow if the weather holds, and if you will bless it, Journeyman.' Ruther dipped
his head to Llwyd and I breathed out with relief that at least he showed respect
to our wiseman.

‘And what do you carry by way of trade goods?' Llwyd continued.

‘Metals.' He took a large bite from his flesh hook, chewing as he spoke. ‘And dogs.
Our skins are in favour.'

Llwyd nodded. ‘Long-traded goods,' he said. ‘What do you make of the new trade taking
hold at the eastern ports? I hear it is very lucrative and that the Romans exploit
it in ever greater quantities.'

Ruther frowned. ‘Of what trade do you speak?'

‘Do you not know it?' Llwyd paused. ‘I speak of the sale of our men and women to
Romans as slaves.'

There was a murmur around the circle.

‘A foul trade,' said Fibor. ‘Roman slaves are whipped like dogs and owned until death.
What snake would sell his own tribesman to such a life?'

Ruther snorted. ‘Do not our own noblemen—our tribekings and queens—also have servants?'

‘Yes,' said Fraid. ‘But their labour is owned, not their souls.'

It was true. As a servant to the Tribequeen, I was constrained by the laws of skin
but not by my servitude. I finally wriggled free of Ruther's hold and stood, taking
up my jug.

‘Wherever the Roman slaves may come from,' said Ruther, holding up his horn, ‘they
are put to good use in the building of fine cities.'

The circle was silent. His light words were poorly judged.

I made my way around the circles, filling horns that had run dry.

‘They please you then, these cities of the Empire lands?' asked Llwyd quietly.

‘Why, none could be displeased—'

Fibor protested, but Llwyd raised his hand. ‘Tell us of them.'

Ruther straightened, pausing to cast his gaze around the room.

I filled Llwyd's cup, then stopped behind him to listen.

‘Imagine a city that covers the earth from one horizon to the other—' Ruther's eyes
blazed—‘where there are columns of stone that would dwarf an elm. Where buildings
are not small or round or made of stick and mud, but are square and high and built
of cut stone, each with not one, but many rooms. Where underground pipes bring rivers
of clear water into every home through bronze fountains that can be levered to run
at will. And there are yet other pipes that carry away their shit. Imagine, never
having to empty a pot!'

Timid laughter rolled through the audience.

‘They adorn their floors with pictures made of a thousand tiny tiles. Their stadiums
make ant mounds of our hill towns,' he continued. ‘And every corner of the known
world can be visited in one stroll of a market square. This is the glory of Rome.'

‘Yet who serves this glory?' demanded Fibor. ‘Who lays these pipes?'

‘Slaves!' challenged Ruther.

‘Such a city cannot endure,' said Fibor. ‘It is immorally built, and in time it will
crumble.'

‘And yet it does not,' said Ruther. ‘All are enlightened by the brightness of this
city. Even the slaves bask in its warmth.'

‘And what of the groves and springs for ritual?' asked Llwyd. ‘Where are they found
in these cities?'

‘There are shrines in every street. They do not need forests or springs to worship.'

Standing close, only I heard Llwyd's intake of breath. ‘And they are not weakened
in denying the springs?' he asked.

There was a trap in these questions and I wondered for what purpose.

‘Weakened?' Ruther laughed. ‘Journeyman, I am a tribesman first, and I love my own
people above all others, but make no mistake, these are among the strongest people
under the sun's light.'

There were gasps among the warriors.

‘I question the loyalty of this man!' Fibor stood and Ruther immediately followed,
putting his palm to his sword handle. Where there were disputes between warriors
at feast times, they were often resolved with a test of swordsmanship. But not this
day, not at Beltane, a time of coming together.

‘Cease, both of you!' commanded Fraid. ‘By Mothers, speak more cautiously, Ruther.'

‘I am sorry.' Ruther bowed lightly to her. ‘It was clumsily uttered. I would no sooner
see us subject to Roman rule than anyone here, but there is greatness in the new
world that cannot be denied. Greatness of man. Even a fool can see it.'

Fibor's eyes flared. ‘Anyone who is true to the tribes—even a fool—sees no such thing.'

‘Shall we test it?' said Ruther. ‘Give me a fool.'

Fibor's eyes narrowed until his gaze fell on me. ‘Ask the beer maiden. She is untaught,
unskinned, little more than a fool, albeit a pretty one. How does
she
judge the greatness
of man?'

‘Yes, ask her.' Ruther smiled broadly.

‘Step forward, girl,' commanded Fibor.

‘Stop!' said Fraid. ‘Ailia, do not answer. The skinless will not speak at festival
time. Fibor, cease this game.'

‘Wait.' Llwyd held up his hand. ‘I wish to hear her answer. Ailia,' he said, turning
to me, ‘what is your response? How is greatness to be judged?'

All eyes were upon me and suddenly my breath was short. What
would I say? I stepped
forward, heart pounding. ‘I—I have seen nothing of the greatness of which Ruther
speaks,' I began. ‘But I do know that all wisdom is born in the springs…' With these
words, a strange calm descended over me and my voice steadied. ‘If a man obscures
our sight of these by a thousand tiny tiles, then surely he is the fool.'

‘And this from a kitchen girl!' Fibor roared with laughter and the other guests joined
in.

Ruther looked away.

Llwyd's gaze was fixed upon me.

The feast rolled into the night. Ruther barely allowed me to leave him, pulling me
back to his lap when I tried to get up, slipping his warm hand into the sleeve of
my leine to stroke the fall of my breast. When the sow's carcass had been picked
clean and the men had fallen to slumber from drunkenness, he led me to the stables
to couple again.

Afterwards, he lay panting, his head on my chest. ‘Last night was by no means my
first time in the fields,' he said when his breath had steadied, ‘but I have never
known such nearness to the Mothers as by you this Beltane.'