In Wales, in the heart of it, in the great hall of the stronghold of Lord Bermo, who proclaimed himself ruler of quite a lot of it, the druids were the topic of conversation, once more. (Great Hall and stronghold being more by the way of convenient terms rather than actual descriptions.)
King William would have been very disappointed to hear that this conversation included several references to druid gold, his druid gold as he saw it. If Lord Bermo had any idea that this was William’s view, he would have taken issue with him immediately.
Lord Bermo had a very physical approach to taking issue with things, most of which ended up so comprehensively damaged that they weren’t an issue any more. People, livestock, furniture, nothing was safe.
Druid gold had long been a topic of interest, but the druids themselves were always there to get in the way. The druids controlled access to the Gods and that was that. Lord Bermo was a straightforward, practical and action-oriented chap. But he was also God fearing. Actually, he was God terrified. He could lop the head off most things at a moment’s notice but even he drew the line somewhere. It was much further out than where most people drew their lines, but at least it was there.
Now though, other options were appearing in his head, or rather were being dripped in through his ears. Apparently the Christian God was much more powerful than all the Gods of the druids put together.
Christian priests and pilgrims passed through this land and had been telling him this for years. The problem for Bermo was that the druid Gods were in the woods outside his window. The Christian God was miles away. This usually meant that the Christian priests and pilgrims became issues, which were dealt with in the usual manner. Their actually completing a passage through his land was so unsuccessful they had taken to going round instead.
This latest visitor had a very interesting view though. He was pointing out that if the druid Gods could be defeated by the Christian God then all the druid gold would become Christian. He then went on to explain that the Christian God didn’t care for gold and the like and so Bermo could look after it.
The visitor had been with Bermo for several days now. That he was a stranger and was still alive at the end of those several days meant that change really was in the air.
On this evening, the fire glowed dull but hot in the middle of the floor. The stranger thought this was also a fairly accurate description of his host. He sighed as he went over the argument. How many more times? He knew English was Bermo’s second language, but he was starting to have doubts the man even had a fully functioning first one.
‘We have swords,’ the visitor explained, nodding towards Bermo’s sword on the table so the lord got the idea. ‘We use them to chop the heads off the druids, which will make it easier to get the gold off.’
Bermo screwed his face up in thought. The visitor couldn’t tell whether this was because the concept of such an overt challenge to established religious authority was raising fundamental doubts about the stability of society, or because he was trying to work out whether it was the shiny bit of the sword that did the chopping.
‘Druids,’ Lord Bermo mumbled in worry.
No, the visitor realised, the thoughts that were actually in Lord Bermo’s head were about the giant squirrel-God which lived in the woods. Apparently, it also hid under the beds in the castle, ready to bite Bermo’s bits off if he got too close so it could bury them back in the woods, where they would grow into something unspeakable.
It had taken two long evenings of barely coherent conversation to get to the bottom of that particular pit.
The visitor put his face in his hands. Again. ‘The Christian God will defeat the squirrel,’ he assured the master of the place.
‘But even so,’ Bermo drawled, ‘killing druids?’
‘You don’t have to kill the druids,’ the visitor explained, with a hint of annoyance, ‘not personally.’
‘Don’t think my men would like to do it either,’ Bermo confirmed.
‘I’ll kill the first one,’ the visitor sighed heavily. ‘Then, when the squirrel doesn’t come and eat my bits, you’ll see that it’s alright. If the squirrel does eat my bits, you can blame me. How’s that?’
Bermo didn’t respond.
‘Look,’ the visitor used his hands on the table to explain the situation he had explained every mealtime since he’d arrived. ‘King William will be coming this way looking for gold. He has a very big army and is very keen on using it to kill everyone in sight.’ He put his right hand on the right hand end of the table.
‘He will bring his army to kill you and the druids and take the gold.’ The left hand represented Bermo. The right hand came across the table and flattened the left.
Bermo started at the sudden capitulation of his forces. ‘William,’ he scoffed. He clearly believed less in this King William than he did in the squirrel-God.
‘That’s right. The King William who has already defeated the Saxons. The same Saxons who defeated the Vikings.’
This did seem to register on Bermo’s largely vacant face.
‘But if you have the gold first you’ll be able to pay for a bigger army to defend yourself and drive William away. Get some big Irishmen, they’re always good in a fight.’
‘So you want to kill a druid?’ Bermo checked.
Perhaps, at last, the idea was sinking in. The visitor nodded and spoke as he would to deaf man at a distance. ‘Yes please.’
…
‘He wants to kill a monk,’ Wulf hissed his alarm at the Arch-Druid. ‘A real live monk. Not a chicken or a goat like we usually do, but a person.’ They were outside the temple, where the Arch-Druid had stopped to pick up his staff. The long piece of carved oak leant the old man even more authority than he had already. And helped him hit people who were out of reach.
‘One thing at a time. Let’s just start with the stone, we’ll worry about the sacrifices later.’ said the Arch-Druid, although the concern was clear in his voice. ‘We haven’t even got a monk,’ he added.
Lypolix was there, weeing against a sacred oak.
Wulf gaped at the old seer. If he had so much as had the thought of discussing such an act, in secret with the other acolytes, all of them sworn to secrecy by the most hideous vows, the Arch-Druid would have removed his weeing apparatus with a blunt sickle.
‘We go to the village,’ the Arch-Druid called, trying to distract Lypolix from the task in his hand.
The seer cackled and nodded, re-arranged his robes and gave the oak a friendly pat.
The route to the village was clear and relatively short, although there were several twists and turns in the woodland trail.
At the first hour of the day the people of this modest place in the depths of the welsh hills found themselves wishing the sun would go back down again and leave them alone until their heads stopped throbbing.
The deerskin over the entrance to the village head’s hut was thrown aside and a figure stepped out into the daylight. It immediately clamped its hands over its eyes and groaned loudly.
‘Good morning Hywel,’ the Arch-Druid boomed.
‘No it isn’t,’ Hywel replied, dropping to his knees and resting his forehead against the ground, perhaps in the hope that the monsters in his head would migrate to the earth, and from thence to the hell from which they came. ‘This is your fault,’ the man added in a pathetic moan. ‘If you hadn’t shouted for the feast to begin as soon as Wulf did his reading, we wouldn’t have drunk all the mead.’
‘All of it?’ the Arch-Druid was either surprised, impressed or disappointed. It was always hard to tell.
‘Must have done. We can’t find any more.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not dead.’
Hywel raised his head from the ground and dragged his eyes towards the Arch-Druid, eyes that looked like they had been pickled in honey, just before the bees found out where it had all gone and came to take it back. ‘I think I am,’ he groaned.
The Arch-Druid simply tutted in that way he had. The way which could make the Gods feel inadequate. ‘We have a task for you,’ he went on, ignoring Hywel’s condition.
‘A task, a task,’ Lypolix cackled loudly and scittered about.
Hywel held up a hand, ‘Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just get him to stop making that noise.’
‘Right,’ the Arch-Druid clapped his hands smartly together, which caused Hywel to wince and start to crawl on hands and knees back towards his hut, ‘there’s work to be done. Wulf, fetch the small cauldron from the temple compound and look for sorrel on the way back. I’ll start a fire and get the hawthorn.’
‘Aha,’ cackled Lypolix. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of the Arch-Druid’s plan and bounced off into the wood.
…
After a couple of hours of herb and plant selection and preparation, (ignoring most of the ingredients Lypolix had found, many of which were still moving), several minutes of mumbled and incoherent incantation, which Wulf tried to pick up but which he suspected were deliberately mumbled and incoherent, and another hour of careful steaming, boiling, stirring and straining, it was ready.
The villagers, having figured out quite quickly what was going on, queued up at the small cauldron to get their portion of the Arch-Druid’s famous morning-after-the-mead-before cure.
It was a famously bitter concoction. Not bitter in the way ale or some herbs are bitter, but bitter in the way it hated you. From the inside out. How anyone who ever tasted this stuff could even thinking of drinking again was a mystery.
The villagers gagged, they vomited, they screamed and swore oaths to every God they could remember that never again would they do whatever it was they’d done to deserve this. They would double their temple contributions, and do anything as long as no one made them ever put this foul distillation of purified venom to their lips again.
When they had finished thumping the ground with their fists, seemingly convinced their eyeballs were about to drop from their heads, they sat back and took deep breaths.
Heads were clear. Stomachs were settled. Appetites rekindled and a thirst for pure, clean water was overwhelming. In the space of a few short moments they started to think that actually, if the Druid’s concoction could make them feel so much better, perhaps they might celebrate midday with a small mug of mead. Except of course, as some recalled, it had all gone. They’d better start another batch.
…
‘A circle?’ Hywel asked when they were all seated round the village table, ‘a stone circle?’
This table was a magnificent piece of furniture which merited its own hut. For as long as anyone could remember it had been the place where the issues of the day were discussed and dealt with.
The myths and rumours which surrounded this magnificent example of the carpenter’s art were as dark and complex as anything the druids told. According to your preference it had either been carried down from the top of Mount Snowden by a magic goat, been sailed up the coast as a boat by a Dragon that had lost its fire, or been found at the bottom of the deepest gold mine by the God of darkness who had used it to hold the lamp of eternal night.
There was even some fanciful nonsense about it simply being some old king’s table which he used to gather his knights around before they went off and did brave deeds. But that was far too dull to be true.
Wulf thought it quite appropriate that the table was round when the subject under discussion was his new stone circle.
‘Wulf is a stone seer, which Lypolix has confirmed, and we are to make The Grand Complication, the stone circle of all stone circles which will allow us to see all there is to see. This village has the honour of putting the master stone in place.’
‘Just us?’ Hywel seemed doubtful about this being quite such an honour. ‘How big is this master stone?’
‘It is magnificent,’ the Arch-Druid explained.
‘I’m sure it is. Just how big is magnificent? Bigger than the stones we’ve got.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Wulf with enthusiasm.
Hywel’s doubt had made camp on his face. ‘And how exactly are we to put this magnificent, big stone in place? You told us the Gods and the Ancient Ones built our circle.’
That was a good point, thought Wulf. The Arch-Druid was always reminding the villagers of the power of the Gods and the Ancient Ones. It would be a bit hard to explain if the villagers were now asked to dig a hole and haul the stone about without any mystical help.
The Arch-Druid explained carefully, ‘That was that one, this is this one.’
To Wulf’s surprise, this seemed to be perfectly acceptable to Hywel.
‘Still,’ the villager frowned, ‘must take a lot of time, shifting some master stone. How are we going to get the rest of our work done if we’re all playing with stones? Crops don’t harvest themselves you know. And where are we going to get this stone from anyway?’
‘Wulf will identify the master stone, some of you will have to attend to your normal tasks while the rest work on the stone.’
‘Hm,’ Hywel did not sound convinced.
‘And of course the Gods will want to see the work progressing,’ the Arch-Druid threatened.
Wulf could see that Hywel was torn. The man clearly didn’t want to lose the time that would be needed in the coming months simply to see the village through the next winter. But on the other hand, angering the Gods was completely out of the question. From a simple boil to a hideous death, everyone knew what the Gods could do if they felt like it. And the Arch-Druid was the only protection.
Wulf thought perhaps a bit of encouragement might help.
‘The stone will be big but I’m sure we can manage,’ he said with a smile. ‘and once we cover it with the gold everyone will see what a good job we’ve done, including the Gods.’
For some reason the Arch-Druid had his head in his hands.
Hywel looked at them one at a time, very slowly. A complete change had come over his countenance and he seemed to have a new found enthusiasm for the task. ‘What gold?’ he asked very carefully.