GIRL GLADIATOR (3 page)

S
harn, and his father and uncles were sitting around the table, bowls of ale before them, listening to Rufus’s plan. Sharn didn’t like the sound of it right from the start, no more than he liked the man whose idea it was. Rufus was from another clan two valleys over. Sharn had met him and his cutthroat bodyguards once before. He thought they were nothing but robbers and troublemakers and he was sure his father would not have bothered with them in better days.

“About twenty Roman miles beyond the wall, well into Pictish country, is a Roman grain store. Soon it will be bursting at the seams with the harvest. There are only ever ten or twelve legionnaires there. All it would take is a night raid and some big carts and we’d have enough grain for our clans and plenty left over to sell.” Rufus took a suck of his ale and smacked his lips. He looked around at Colun, Brion and Rem to gauge their reactions, ignoring Sharn because of his youth.

Colun frowned as he deliberated. Brion and Rem deferred to their older brother and would not offer an opinion until he did. “If the Romans catch us, they’ll kill us … and maybe our families as well,” Colun said.

Rufus laughed. “They won’t catch us, because there won’t be any witnesses. We’ll take care of the whole garrison. And if they do suspect anyone it will be the Picts. They won’t have a clue the grain has come south.”

Rufus’s bodyguards, Gee and Magee, grinned proudly at their leader’s cunning. They certainly looked as though they earned their keep, judging from the flatness of their noses and the number of teeth that had been knocked out of their heads.

Brion had something to ask. “A dozen Roman soldiers … is that what you said?”

Rufus nodded.

“Twelve legionnaires – with almost certainly a couple of archers among them – will be hard.” Colun scratched his beard, unconvinced.

Rufus could scarcely contain himself. He had been keeping something back and now he proudly brought it out into the open. “I will have a man inside to make sure the archers won’t bother us.”

Everybody sat up and took notice, and even Sharn had to admit to himself that Rufus seemed to have planned things carefully.

“The Romans use local labour at harvest time. One of the Picts will hide in the granary, hide the legionnaires’ weapons and then open the gate.”

“And what does the Pict want for his trouble?” Rem asked.

“A couple of cartloads of grain,” Rufus replied.

Sharn hoped his elders wouldn’t be carried along by Rufus’s enthusiasm. How could anyone rely on somebody as shifty as him?

But clearly this did not bother his father, because he banged down his empty bowl. “I like it, Rufus. Count us in.”

Rem and Brion, following Colun’s lead, acclaimed the plan. Colun then turned to Sharn for his opinion. Sharn was tempted to take the easy way out and go along with the men, but he was sixteen now and deserved to be listened to in his own right.

“There are too many unknown factors,” Sharn said. “Too many things could go wrong.”

Rufus scowled at Sharn. “With you along, sure, because you’re obviously a coward.”

“There’s no need for insults. My brothers and I will come on the raid. My only worry is the Picts,” Colun said.

“I’ve met Alpin, our man inside. He’s the son of the headman of the nearby village and he seems reliable. Anyway, he will call on you within the next couple of days so you can make up your own mind.”

All the men nodded – it would be good to form a war-band again. Having suffered so much humiliation at the hands of the Romans, killing a few would help even the score.

Rufus stood and Gee and Magee followed suit. He shook hands with Colun, Brion and Rem, pointedly ignoring Sharn.

As they left, Rufus growled, “Your clan must wish you a long life, Colun, considering the mettle of the son who will replace you.” And he swept out with his bodyguards sniggering through their broken teeth.

Colun reached for the pitcher of ale and nodded towards Sharn, “You’re old enough to bear arms now, Sharn. You should come.”

“I’m not afraid, Da – that’s not it. I just don’t think much of Rufus.”

“None of us do. But it’ll be a lean winter otherwise. Now cheer up … and drink up!”

More ale was Colun’s solution to everything, but Sharn shook his head – he felt he needed to keep his wits sharp.

S
harn slipped out into the golden evening, loud with the throb of insects. He was on the verge of setting off across the fields to think about things, when something made him turn towards Fritha’s hut.

In the three weeks she had been there, she had mended well and was now able to stand and walk, although she did not venture outside much because the clan looked at her askance. It was a combination of things: her dark intense features, her inability to speak, her wolfish eyes, and her tattoos. It all added up to her seeming like an alien presence in the dun.

Since she no longer needed to be looked after, there was no reason for Sharn to visit her, so it was something else that turned his footsteps to the dilapidated hut behind their own.

He pushed open the door and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. The reason Fritha had not heard him enter was the noise she was making as she … well he wasn’t sure what she was doing. She had a knife in her hand and was stabbing and thrusting in a series of swift moves, her body bobbing and weaving as if to present a moving target. After each thrust she would take a lightning step back, pause for a split second, and then lunge forward again.

He stood there and gawked as her feet made flecks of dust slide up the bars of light coming in through the smoke hole. She caught sight of him out of the tail of her eye, coming to a stop and staring back at him sheepishly. Obviously Sharn had not taken a close look at her lately because he was astonished at how she had filled out after three weeks of good food.

“Hello, Fritha,” Sharn said, “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

She smiled her shy smile and beckoned him to sit down.

“What were you doing just now? It looked like some sort of knife dance.”

Fritha smiled noncommittally and pushed him gently back onto the seat. Sharn eased back on the deerskins and watched as she served two plates of stew. She set the steaming food before him and scooped up cups of beer from a stone crock. She sat opposite him with her own meal, dipping her bread into the beer and sucking the crusts.

Sharn suddenly realised he hadn’t had one of his black moods since Fritha came into his life. It may have been coincidence – they happened less in the warmer months – but he certainly felt brighter with her around.

He gave her a happy smile and in return she winked at him. He wasn’t quite sure what this meant so he looked at her quizzically. She suddenly burst into laughter and aped his expression.

Sharn was taken aback at her perfect mimicry. He’d only seen Fritha sick, and then watchful as she tried to settle into her new life. He’d never seen this playful side of her. Then she pulled another face and he realised she was now mirroring his look of puzzlement. Sharn found himself laughing, and egged on by each other, they cackled so much, they spilt their drink.

Eventually they calmed down and finished the meal, then he began to tell her about the meeting that day with Rufus. Sharn knew he shouldn’t be passing on clan business, particularly something as secret as this, but then Fritha couldn’t talk, could she? – so she couldn’t tell anyone else.

He wasn’t sure how much she understood, but her reactions came at exactly the right places. By the end of the evening, although she had said nothing, his impression was of having had a good conversation. Certainly he felt a lot more settled about things having put them into words and was more convinced than ever Rufus was not to be trusted.

Fritha stepped outside with Sharn to say goodnight. They looked up at the stars, crystal stuck in coal, and when their eyes dropped again they smiled at each other. She suddenly took his hand and pressed it against her forehead, then she turned quickly and ducked back into the hut, leaving Sharn to puzzle over what she meant by this. He looked up at the stars again, wondering where this mysterious girl had sprung from and if there was a reason she had come into his life.

A shooting star suddenly careered across the blackness and vanished as quickly as it had shown. Maybe there was no reason for things appearing and disappearing, but somehow Sharn was sure that with this stranger it was different.

T
his set the pattern for how they spent their evenings. Sharn would visit her as the shadows were lengthening and they would sit and have a bowl of ale, followed by some stew. Even Fritha’s cooking was different from what Sharn was used to. It was sharper and darker in flavour because of the unusual herbs she used. She would go foraging over the moors, gathering the leaves of plants the Celts thought of as weeds; or grubbing out strange roots which tasted of the earth; or breaking open the pods of creepers to get the seeds.

She would carry these unusual things back to the dun and spend hours grinding and mixing the berries and flowers and bulbs into pungent pastes. When she added them to the bubbling cauldron, the hut would fill with strange aromas. Then came the best part of the evening – their talks.

Cumbria’s view was that Sharn was a shameless chatterbox and he had found the perfect listener in Fritha because she couldn’t talk back. He pointed out that it was almost as if she
could
talk because she always had exactly the right look on her face.

“I know the look you mean,” Cumbria said, “and it’s got nothing to do with what’s being said.”

Sharn frowned. What was she getting at?

“Can’t you see what’s happening,” Cumbria said.

“See what?”

“She’s falling in love with you, you dimwit,” Cumbria announced.

Sharn was flabbergasted. “Don’t be stupid, Cumbria!”

“Have it your own way then,” Cumbria said sniffily and left him to it.

Sharn sat there stunned. He hadn’t had much to do with love in his sixteen years. He knew some of the village girls liked him, although how much that had to do with the fact he was the only son of the headman, Sharn wasn’t sure. Now he came to think about it, they threw disapproving glances at him as he headed towards Fritha’s hut every afternoon and he’d overheard them pass catty remarks about her smallness and darkness, and her animal eyes.

Since Sharn wasn’t sure what it felt like, how would he really know if he was in love or not?

But then something happened that made Sharn’s mind up for him.

A
lpin, the Pict whom Rufus had mentioned, arrived to talk about the raid. He was a young man of about twenty summers, very sure of himself and a fluent speaker of Celtic. He spelt out the details of his plan to them in a confident voice. Sharn couldn’t help but like him despite his brashness and swagger.

Colun nodded, “When do we make our move?”

Alpin explained how Colun and his men should set out the next morning to rendezvous with Alpin.

Colun, Brion, Rem and Sharn shook the young man’s hand and watched him mount his horse. Alpin was about to gallop off when he looked as though he had seen a ghost. Sharn followed his line of sight to where Fritha was returning from the well, and she was staring at Alpin just as astonished as he was. Alpin jumped from his horse and ran over to her.

And this was the moment Sharn knew for certain his feelings for Fritha ran deeper than friendship. When Alpin embraced her, Sharn felt the blade of jealousy twist in his guts.

Alpin was gabbling to Fritha in Pictish, but Fritha just stared at him without response. He stepped back from her, confused by her silence. He rattled off a string of questions, again with no success. He turned back to Colun in a fury and switched to Celtic. “What have you done to her?” he demanded.

“Nothing – except take her in and look after her,” Colun replied.

Alpin grunted. “Why can’t she speak then?”

Colun drew himself up to impose his authority. “We found her more dead than alive in an abandoned village. Somebody had cut her tongue out.”

Alpin frowned and turned to Fritha. “Come back to your own people.” But she shrank away, shaking her head. He reached out and grabbed her. Fritha wrenched herself from his grip, her chin jutting defiantly.

“Are you being kept here against your will?”

She shook her head. Alpin made to reach out for her again.

“Hasn’t she made herself clear enough?” Sharn was surprised at the loudness of his challenge.

Alpin glanced at Sharn for the first time, and Colun also reacted to the steel in his son’s voice.

“Yes, her answer is clear. Why she is making it is not so clear,” Alpin spat back.

Alpin looked at Fritha one last time, then mounted his horse. He called back over his shoulder as he rode off, “This business is not finished.”

Sharn ran to Fritha’s side and picked up the pail of water she had set down. “Let me help you, Fritha,” he said.

She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it.

“Are you all right?” Sharn asked.

She shot him her bright smile, tugged at his arm and pointed to the hut.

Fritha started preparing their simple meal in the usual way. Sharn had only one question on his mind but he was afraid of the answer, so he held off speaking, as he watched her shave some horseradish into the pot.

“Who … who is Alpin?” he eventually asked. For the first time Fritha seemed evasive, shrugging uncomfortably.

Sharn was not sure what to do. From the way he behaved, Alpin may have been her lover or her husband. Sharn regretted once again that he knew nothing about Fritha. It was as if she had dropped to earth from the moon. And if Alpin had been her lover, did that change how Sharn felt about her?

Suddenly Fritha was at his side. She put her hands on his shoulders and twisted him around to face her and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Sharn was flooded with a jumble of impressions: how strong her body was as it crushed against his; how much he had longed for this to happen; and a nagging sense of inadequacy. What should he do next? He broke away from Fritha’s grip, feeling awkward and immature.