Cedd knew they were a long way from the nearest town because the stones in the ruts of the road were broken and in one or two places they passed as the evening wore on there was only mud which was thick with the white dust of masonry ground by long years of passing wheels. It was a roman road, eighty or ninety years old at least, and the boroughs kept the roads in good repair where they could despite the loss of the legions, and you could still count on good roads around the big towns. Cedd had never taken the Londinium road before, and he was surprised to find that despite the fact that they were only one day out of York, the six carts his father had entrusted him were coming to the ragged edge of the civilization he felt so sure of. Cedd was sitting in the second cart, holding the reins.
“Bowden!” shouted Cedd, and the shorter of the two horsemen at the head of the convoy turned in the saddle.
“Yes?” Bowden was the more senior of the two mercenaries Aolwyn, Cedd's father, had hired for the trip.
“Is it much further to the wayhouse?”
“An hour, no more,” said Bowden and turned away.
Cedd didn’t like Bowden at all, nor his partner, the dark bearded lumbering Ceawlin. Cedd was young for the trip, it was true, but he felt as though he was in control of everything except the mercenaries, who paid him only the minimal amount of deference and went their own ways a lot of the time, riding ahead and leaving the trail, making Cedd nervous.
Since leaving the sight of the walls of York, there had been few people at the roadside. It was Autumn, the harvest was only just past, and the fields were taking their breath. In the hours between the city walls and the start of the forest, Cedd had seen only three people other than his father’s men, and it heightened his sense of isolation and fragility. He wasn’t even allowed to ride in the leading cart. At his father’s pleading and tales of robbers on the road, he had accepted, but it was a bitter taste in Cedd’s mouth – his first caravan and he did not have the seat of authority.
The road curved up over the brow of a hill between the trees and for a moment the forest was laid out in front of them. Bowden and Ceawlin had stopped, one on either side of the road and were looking out over the valley.
“We should make camp tonight,” said Bowden. As Cedd’s cart pulled past him, Bowden eased his horse into a gentle walk.
“We shall make the wayhouse,” said Cedd.
“Stop!” cried Bowden, and to Cedd’s dismay Alfred, the lead cartsman, did so. The complaints of reined-in mules came sharply from the carts behind them.
“Master Cedd,” said Bowden, leaning forward in the saddle. “How are your eyes?”
“Fair enough,” said Cedd.
“Well, train your fair enough eyes on the lap of the valley.”
Bowden’s glove waved, and Cedd saw the reddish glow of fire in the tops of the trees in the distance.
“But…but…how far is the sea?”
“Seven miles or so, hereabouts.”
“They’ve come inland.”
“They’ve been roving inland for nearly a year. This far south, they'll have had a long journey. A few miles’ walk won’t stop them.”
“Was it a large village?”
“No,” said Bowden.
The sun was setting and Cedd was frightened.
“Are they likely to come along the road?”
“The village wasn’t tiny, lad. They’ll be satisfied for tonight. In the morning I respectfully suggest that we turn back to the fork and take the longer road inland.”
“Yes,” said Cedd. “Yes, all right.”
The carts pulled off the road and bunched together and the men began to unhitch the mules for grazing under the trees. Cedd took no part in the making of camp, but sat on his cart after his mule had been taken, facing the valley and watching the red of the fires in the twilight, wondering what it must have been like before the raids.
