Chapter 1

I’m not a born warrior. Those that are, born to the warrior class I mean, are as bound and tied and trussed up in the control of society as those who are not. To be a warrior is to be a respected leader, a man of high rank, someone who others step aside for. It is to be feared. It is to be expected to be willing to die for imaginary slights to your honour. It is to be isolated, hated, and not able to show fear. If you prefer poetry to swords, it is to have to hide your true nature.

I am not a warrior, but I’m not really a farmer either, even if I was born into that class. My first attempt at poetry was aged eleven: “If you were a tree, A willowy elder you would be, If you were a flower your scent, Would be so pure as to be heaven sent, A bird song lovely on the ear, Is as nothing when you are near” Not very good, I grant you. I wrote it to Maddy, who was thirteen and already promised to Master Bunch, the woodsman. She liked it though, and I got a kiss for it. Unfortunately we were seen and Master Bunch was not happy; he took it out of my hide for trying to steal his bride (another rhyme, I should have used that). Master Bunch, I should say, was twenty years old, so whether I fought back or not would have made no difference. At fourteen, she was expecting her first child. At seventeen she was expecting her third child. Not a good life for Maddy.

The only other girl in the village to lust after was Lucilla. She was one of those exceptions to the rule that surprise everybody. Maddy was a typical village peasant, even at thirteen the starchy food and hard work had made her sturdy; women all went that way, same as men grew old fast (unless they were lazy poets like me or just well off and served by servants so they didn’t need to work in sun and rain). Lucilla was different. She was a year younger than me. She worked in the fields, same as all the peasants; but she always wore a hat. She seemed to find work indoors in the bad months. The result was that her willowy figure stayed that way. She developed firm muscles, but not large ones. Her legs were shapely and fine rather than trunks of a small tree; her arms were the same. It was as if she was sculpted by a better sculpture than most. Her bust was never huge, most of the big busts were fatty tissue that balanced the large bottom and waist, but it was attractively shaped, at least that is what the boys assumed – we never saw the boobs that made it, of course. But it was her face and hair that drew the eye. Wavy light brown or blonde hair framed a perfect combination of blue-green eyes, red lips and white teeth. Every boy in the village lusted after her. Most had no desire to marry her, they wanted a robust, hard working pony, not a race horse; but they would all have happily rutted with her.

I had one interaction with this demi-goddess. It was a warm early summer’s day, after lambing, before shearing and harvest. A day when people sat around and relaxed, or drank and sat around and relaxed. Villagers had low aspirations. Most of the boys had gone to the river to swim. I wasn’t invited because I was “a lazy fucking fatherless bastard”. Thanks Mark. I walked out to the nearby hills, into the woods. The woods were not particularly safe, wolves still came down; but I reckoned they’d be lying in the shade, panting too. I came to a small pond in a clearing and saw a perfect vision. In the middle, a completely naked Lucilla was standing, washing herself. She didn’t see me at first and I greedily took in every curve and crevice. When she saw me, she covered herself, then realised that I was standing by her clothes. She walked towards me, and I thought all my dreams had come true. “Will you force me, since we are alone?” she said. Perhaps she was good at reading people, it was the perfect question to ask me.

“I? I would not force you. Though if you were interested, I’d happily...”

“I have no interest or desire for men. Does that shock you?” Well it disappointed me more than shocked. We all knew that some women didn’t like sex with men, but most people just thought ‘tough, that’s what you are for – to fuck’. And by ‘most people’, well, women thought that too. I was disappointed though, because it meant I couldn’t lay her down and get inside the most beautiful body I thought I’d ever see. She dressed, we walked back. That was it. I never told anybody, but it became clear that no-one in the village was ever going to match her for beauty, she wasn’t going to be married to some horny-handed tiller of the soil.

I was early labelled as a dreamer, or a lazy bastard, or both. The ‘lazy bastard’ is half true. I’m not lazy. If I’m interested, I’ll concentrate to the exclusion of everything. That’s the trouble, if I need to find a rhyme for ‘silver’ (“your hair is like threads of gold or silver”) then I forget about the sheep and they get into the wheat field (“Ohh, your hair is like threads of silver or gold, combined with your face, you’ll never grow old” - that was a present for my mother, you thought it was a crappy love poem? I suppose it is in some ways). But when I helped with the harvest, I cut more than anybody except ‘Stooks’, who can use a sickle like a machine.’ Course it helps that he is short so he doesn’t have to bend so far. Everybody ends harvest with backache. I was able to swing the sickle and chant my poems at the same time. This isn’t big headed, but it helps being brighter than most. I’m not claiming this is something that makes me better, I was born with it, so I can’t say I deserve it. Not like the warriors who ‘deserve’ to be better class because they are born to it. I just am cleverer, so I was able to see what was the most efficient way to work. Instead of cutting a line and then walking back miles to collect all the straw, I cut in square blocks 3 rows wide. I didn’t walk so far to build my stooks. Still, this isn’t a lesson in husbandry or agriculture, so I’ll get back to the story.

When I was two, my brother died. We had been inseparable. Almost literally, when we were born, our hands had each finger connected, left to right hand. It was like we were holding hands in the womb. The birth tore most of the skin, and the midwife did the rest. But we remained two peas in a pod. I knew when he was in trouble, and he knew when I was. I felt him weaken as the disease took hold, mother said she feared I would die too, but I didn’t. Perhaps trying to bring up two babies was just too much, and he died. I was inconsolable, but not in a crying, screaming way. I stopped talking for six months.

I grew up with my mother, I never knew my father; some kids said neither did my mother. After a fight or two, I let it ride, who cares what Angus son of Brin thinks? Since he’s an ignorant tosspot, why should I care? She told me a couple of stories about him (my father) – he was a traveller that she fell for; or she was promised in marriage and gave herself too early. Since the stories don’t add up with each other, I don’t believe any of them. Look, she was young once, she probably just had a fling and got up the duff. She had enough honour never to blame anyone, and more than enough love for two parents. She died when I was nineteen, and the village took the opportunity to kick me out. They reckoned that her little patch of land could be made better use of by a couple of the landed gentry (meaning the greedy cheats who had wheedled to get more than their fair share), and they reckoned the village could probably rub along without me.