‘Don’t interrupt, this may take some time.’
‘Tell me,’ she said, because this was when she felt closest.
‘Okay. The Romans had gone and what they’d left behind was pretty chaotic. Fat cats, merchants and bureaucrats still trying to live like nothing had changed. Now, I’m sure
I’ve told you, the Romans had always hired German mercenaries to look after their turf round here and the British chieftains thought they’d do the same.’
She knew it, but she let him talk.
‘Anyway, come the early sixth century the Scots and the Picts up north started threatening the south so the British chieftains hired a load more Saxons to help out. The trouble was the
British didn’t get round to feeding and paying them properly, which is not very sensible when you’ve got a well-armed cuckoo polishing its armour in the middle of your nest. The
Saxons’ homelands were getting very overcrowded, but the whole of Britain had less than a million inhabitants. It must have seemed like heaven, so they moved in and grabbed the south. Their
mates the Angles came in and took over a bit further up-country and after that the poor old Britons were easy meat. There was only one thing that stopped the Saxons spreading west. Do you know what
that was?’
She thought she did, but she shook her head.
‘Selwood Forest,’ he said. ‘Coit Maur, the Britons called it, the Great Wood.’
The name rang in her head, wild and thrilling.
‘The bit of Somerset to the north wasn’t much good,’ he went on, ‘the levels were flooded most of the year. They only dried out in midsummer, the rest of the time the
settlers had to live on the higher ground. That’s how it got to be called Somerset. Anyway the Great Wood stopped the Saxons heading further west. They settled in the lush river valleys round
Salisbury and got a bit soft. The Britons from the Great Wood started fighting back and gave them a bit of a pasting, so the Mercians, who had moved into the Midlands, came down to help sort it
out.’
He saw the flush on her face and wondered, as ever, that the dry dust of history had such direct, warm impact on her. ‘This is where your Kenny Wilkins comes in. The Mercian king was
called Penda and he did a deal with your Kenny. Cenwalch was king of Wessex, you see, and he married Penda’s sister to glue it all together. Anyway, something went wrong. Kenny didn’t
fancy her, maybe, and he gave her the push, so Penda exiled him to East Anglia. Then Penda screwed up. He took a huge army up north and got himself killed by a tiny bunch of Oswy’s Bernicians
– Northumbrians, if you like. He must have been pretty incompetent.’
‘So Kenny was back on top?’
‘Cenwalch came back from exile and took charge, but he had all these young bloods who were demanding land of their own and the best bet was to the west. Every other direction had seasoned
armies blocking the way, but the west, beyond the Great Wood, was anyone’s guess. So in 658, Kenny Wilkins and his men took on the Britons at Peonnum and that was pretty much that for the
Britons – next stop Cornwall and I hope you like large lumps of granite in your farmland.’
‘Poor Britons,’ she said, and she really felt it, turning his words into a mental landscape of burning huts and people fleeing terror-struck into unfamiliar lands.
‘I don’t know. They’ve done quite well down in Cornwall. They’ve been ripping off the tourists ever since.’
‘So, it could easily have been here, couldn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The battle. Peonnum?’
‘There’s no direct evidence.’
‘Just a long tradition?’
‘Just a long tradition.’
She looked at him, transported, warm and open and they both stood up. She nestled into his arms. ‘I love listening to you like that,’ she said.
‘I know, but I still don’t know why.’
She kissed the side of his neck. ‘It all makes more sense. I feel . . . fuller maybe, as if there’s more of me alive.’
‘Medieval
‘Tell me,’ she said, because this was when she felt closest.
‘Okay. The Romans had gone and what they’d left behind was pretty chaotic. Fat cats, merchants and bureaucrats still trying to live like nothing had changed. Now, I’m sure
I’ve told you, the Romans had always hired German mercenaries to look after their turf round here and the British chieftains thought they’d do the same.’
She knew it, but she let him talk.
‘Anyway, come the early sixth century the Scots and the Picts up north started threatening the south so the British chieftains hired a load more Saxons to help out. The trouble was the
British didn’t get round to feeding and paying them properly, which is not very sensible when you’ve got a well-armed cuckoo polishing its armour in the middle of your nest. The
Saxons’ homelands were getting very overcrowded, but the whole of Britain had less than a million inhabitants. It must have seemed like heaven, so they moved in and grabbed the south. Their
mates the Angles came in and took over a bit further up-country and after that the poor old Britons were easy meat. There was only one thing that stopped the Saxons spreading west. Do you know what
that was?’
She thought she did, but she shook her head.
‘Selwood Forest,’ he said. ‘Coit Maur, the Britons called it, the Great Wood.’
The name rang in her head, wild and thrilling.
‘The bit of Somerset to the north wasn’t much good,’ he went on, ‘the levels were flooded most of the year. They only dried out in midsummer, the rest of the time the
settlers had to live on the higher ground. That’s how it got to be called Somerset. Anyway the Great Wood stopped the Saxons heading further west. They settled in the lush river valleys round
Salisbury and got a bit soft. The Britons from the Great Wood started fighting back and gave them a bit of a pasting, so the Mercians, who had moved into the Midlands, came down to help sort it
out.’
He saw the flush on her face and wondered, as ever, that the dry dust of history had such direct, warm impact on her. ‘This is where your Kenny Wilkins comes in. The Mercian king was
called Penda and he did a deal with your Kenny. Cenwalch was king of Wessex, you see, and he married Penda’s sister to glue it all together. Anyway, something went wrong. Kenny didn’t
fancy her, maybe, and he gave her the push, so Penda exiled him to East Anglia. Then Penda screwed up. He took a huge army up north and got himself killed by a tiny bunch of Oswy’s Bernicians
– Northumbrians, if you like. He must have been pretty incompetent.’
‘So Kenny was back on top?’
‘Cenwalch came back from exile and took charge, but he had all these young bloods who were demanding land of their own and the best bet was to the west. Every other direction had seasoned
armies blocking the way, but the west, beyond the Great Wood, was anyone’s guess. So in 658, Kenny Wilkins and his men took on the Britons at Peonnum and that was pretty much that for the
Britons – next stop Cornwall and I hope you like large lumps of granite in your farmland.’
‘Poor Britons,’ she said, and she really felt it, turning his words into a mental landscape of burning huts and people fleeing terror-struck into unfamiliar lands.
‘I don’t know. They’ve done quite well down in Cornwall. They’ve been ripping off the tourists ever since.’
‘So, it could easily have been here, couldn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘The battle. Peonnum?’
‘There’s no direct evidence.’
‘Just a long tradition?’
‘Just a long tradition.’
She looked at him, transported, warm and open and they both stood up. She nestled into his arms. ‘I love listening to you like that,’ she said.
‘I know, but I still don’t know why.’
She kissed the side of his neck. ‘It all makes more sense. I feel . . . fuller maybe, as if there’s more of me alive.’
‘Medieval
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