Crown in Darkness

quiet; the tension became oppressive, now and again broken by the mocking call of some bird. Corbett pushed his horse nearer to Thomas. 'Are we following the right route?' he whispered anxiously. Thomas nodded. 'Wait,' he muttered. 'I will show you.' They rode further on and Thomas pointed to a copper beech. Corbett peered closer and saw a V-rod and crescent marked on the tree. 'We are following the right path,' Thomas said, 'and soon we will be there.' He rode, Corbett following, noting the same symbol appeared on other trees they passed. Then a low, warbling birdsong came clear and pure through the silence. Thomas stopped and gestured Corbett to do the same. 'Do not move,' he whispered. The whistle came again, stronger, almost threatening, and Thomas, pursing his lips, returned the call, raising his hands like a priest giving a benediction. The whistling came again, clear and simple, then abruptly ceased. Corbett looked into the green darkness, straining his eyes to see any movement and almost screamed with terror as a hand touched his leg. He looked down and saw a man, small, dark, with black hair flowing down to his shoulders, staring up at him. Corbett looked wildly around and saw others. Small, swarthy men, no higher than his chest-bone, dressed in leather jerkins and leggings. Some wore cloaks clasped at the neck with huge ornamental brooches. They were all armed with spears, short bows and wicked little daggers pushed into their belts. They stared impassively at Corbett while their leader talked to Thomas in a tongue that Corbett did not know, though it sounded like birdsong, high, clicking and quick. The chieftain then stopped speaking and bowed to Corbett, who felt the group around him suddenly relax. The leader took the bridle of Thomas's horse, another seized Corbett's and they were led deeper into the forest.
    Corbett expected the Pictish village to be hidden and secretive but suddenly the trees thinned, the sunlight glimmered then poured through as they abruptly left the canopy of trees and entered a large clearing. A huge rocky outcrop at the far end jutted up and beneath it a small river or burn flowed quietly, turning and twisting as it followed its banks. The houses were scattered around, low-slung, timbered, with a thatched roof and small porch; it was a village scene similar to many Corbett had seen elsewhere except for the small dark people, their furtive looks and quiet ways. 'Come Corbett!' Thomas called. 'We are amongst friends.' 'Their language is strange,' Corbett said. 'And their ways are so secretive!' Thomas looked around and nodded. 'Once they were a proud people and ruled the greater part of Scotland but the Celts, the Angles, the Saxons and the Normans drove them from their lands into the dark vastness of the forests. They scarcely venture out and do not take easily to strangers.' 'And if I met them when I was alone?' Corbett asked. Thomas grimaced. 'Out in the open? They would pass you by. You would not see them here in the forest. If you injured or offended them,' Thomas turned and pointed to the carvings on the rocky outcrop, a woman with large generous thighs and huge round breasts, 'they would put you in a wicker basket and burn you alive, an offering to their Mother Goddess.' He saw Corbett frown and added, 'Come, Hugh, tell me what happens at your Smithfield?' Corbett stared at him and looked away, the tension between them broken by the Pictish leader who took Thomas by the hand, like a child with a parent, and led him into the largest house, beckoning Corbett to follow them.
    Inside it was dark and cool, smelling faintly of crushed grass and heather. A fire burnt in a ring of stones in the centre, the smoke rising to a flue-hole in the roof above the rough timbered rafters. Corbett shuddered when he looked closer and saw human skulls nestling in the cross-pieces. An old man, swathed in robes, sat before the fire; he looked up when Corbett and Thomas squatted before him across the stones, peering at them with rheumy eyes, his lips parted in a toothless, dribbling smile. His face was so dark and wizened that he reminded Corbett of a monkey he had once seen in the royal menagerie in the Tower of London. Beer made from barley, and flat oat-cakes were brought for them. They ate in silence, Corbett conscious of the old man staring at them now joined by the leader who had met them in the forest. Once they had eaten, the fire was doused and branches laid across the stones. On these, a