‘No, I need to keep my eyes sharp for when the devils come. You know, I can’t even hate them, Gwal. I feel nothing. Is that my age, do you think? Have I lost something during these years in the bakery?’
‘We’ve all lost something, my friend. Maybe we’ll find it again.’ Gwalch lifted the jug to his lips – then paused. He pointed to the south. ‘There! What do you see? My old eyes have dimmed.’
Tovi squinted. ‘Flashes of sunlight upon metal. The enemy are coming. It will take them at least an hour to cross the valley floor.’
‘How many?’
‘They are too far away to count accurately. Go back to Cilfallen and tell them the Outlanders are coming.’
‘What about you?’ asked Gwalch, pushing himself to his feet. Behind him the grey hounds rose also.
Ill wait awhile and count them. Then I’ll join you.’ Gwalch climbed into the cart, still nursing his jug. He flicked the reins and the two war-hounds lurched into the traces. Tovi watched as the little cart trundled out of view, then he stood and stretched. His thoughts flicked to the Pallides man, Loran, and his warnings concerning the Outlanders. He had hoped the clansman was wrong, but now he knew otherwise. A few weeks ago the world had been a calm and pleasant place, filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the laughter and noise of his children. Now the days of blood had dawned again.
Stooping, he picked up the old claymore and stood facing the south, his hands upon the hilt, the blade resting on the earth. It was a fine weapon, and had served him well all those years ago. Yet
holding it now gave him no pleasure, no surging sense of pride. All he could feel was sorrow.
The line of riders came down the long hill into the valley. Now he could count them. One hundred and fifty men and five officers. Too large a group to have come for hostages. No, he told himself, this is a killing raid. One hundred and fifty-five soldiers for a village of forty-seven men, thirty-eight women and fifty-one children! As he thought of the little ones a spark of anger burned through his grief, flaming to life in his breast. His huge hands curled around the claymore, the blade flashing up. Once he could have taken three, maybe four enemy soldiers. Today he would find out how much he had lost.
Turning his back upon the distant enemy, Tovi laid the claymore blade on his shoulder and strode down the long road to home. He was high above Cilfallen and from here the buildings seemed tiny set against the green hills and the mighty mountains. Newer dwellings of stone alongside the older timbered houses, and ancient log cabins with roofs of turf, all clustered together in a friendly harmony of wood and stone. Aye, thought Tovi, that is the mark of Cilfallen. The village is friendly and welcoming. There were no walls, for up to now the people had lived without fear.
Cilfallen was indefensible. Tovi sighed, and paused for one last look at the village he had known all his life.
Never will you look the same to me again, he knew. For now I can see the lack of walls and parapets. I see hills from which cavalry can charge into our square. I see buildings with no strong doors, or bowmen’s windows. There is no moat. Only the stream, and the white rocks upon which the women and children beat the clothes to wash them.
Tovi walked on, aware also of his own weakness, the large belly fed with too much fresh bread and country butter, and a right arm already tired from holding the claymore.
Ill find the strength,’ he said, aloud.
Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps. The weight of his chain-mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron’s orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.