A short while later the entire group were clambering up
the slope onto a grassed earthen platform of approximately one hectare in area.
On it stood two, singular buildings. To their left a three-story timber frame
hall was raised up on Doric columns of black and white oak. A market was spread
out amongst the pillars and a sweeping stairway led up through the floor to a
Georgian doorway. The dun coloured lath and plaster infill between the dark frames was pierced where ever possible with leaded windows. This sober building
was the Moot Hall, the place where serious issues were thrashed out and
important decisions made. Facing it, and far more jocular in nature was the
Mead Hall. Entirely constructed of heavy, deeply carved oak, the main structure
was windowless with a steeply tiered shingle roof out of which sprouted a tower
and flying grotesques. It was decorated with intertwining ravens, deer, boar
and dragons, and painted in earthy reds and yellows and a vibrant
electric-blue. Smoke seeped through gaps in the roof and a great deal of noise
issued from its dark interior.
On the green between the two buildings our merry gang found at last the Tamworth
Ranters, dancing and carousing, a motley, unkempt band. Exposed skin, of which
there was a great deal, was painted and tattooed, their scant clothing,
brightly coloured and patterned, hair unruly, or elaborately entwined with
ribbons and feathers. Many of the aged amongst the groups, wrinkled, sagging
and tanned, seemed to shun clothing almost entirely. A manic hoop dancer
twirled past, her plaited hair writhing like a medusa on speed. There was a
hurdy-gurdy and a flautist in a huge floppy hat, standing on one leg.
With Anna taking the lead, they approached the Mead Hall. At once a slender girl burst into
the open like a faun breaking cover and came prancing down the wide steps that
led up to its entrance. She
was stained with red ochre and decorated in strange black Cabalistic symbols, an
ankle length heavy woollen, tiered and pleated skirt hung from her hips and she
had tiny bells on her toes.
She was towing a golden youth, a naked youth, gilded from blond hairline
to the tips of his toes, He was lithe, physical perfection with cornflower-blue
eyes, yet unnaturally passive. The girl winked at Anna on her way past, bound
for a small orchard down by the river.
“Isn’t
he just too gorgeous?”
Anna
smiled back without comment.
Ferdy looked stunned and, ever so lightly, bemused.
Obvious
within the Mead Hall, even from the imposing doorway, despite the jostling
crowd, was a massive bulk of bulging muscle beneath a covering of sun blackened
hide, criss-crossed with livid scars and almost entirely covered in tattoos, a
red beard, plaited and bowed, a stub of clay pipe, a third hand black leather
Saint Laurent biker jacket, scuffed and stained with sump oil, over a pink,
Eric Bloodaxe t-shirt, striped Bermuda shorts, Doc Martens 14 eyelet Black
1914s, a red headscarf and black felt hat with black ostrich feathers and an
extra wide brim turned up and pinned at the front. It was seated on a straining
Windsor oak chair with a Ranter lass on each knee and a quart pewter tankard in
its gnarled fist. This was
unmistakably Rotskagg Blenkinsopp the pirate king. He stood up with a roar, letting the two girls fall,
giggling, to the ground.
“Anna,
miri feely yog chavi, sastimos.
Y kon shee deze bold ryes?”
(“Anna, my young fire child,
greetings. And who are these daring gentlemen?”)
(“You look well, captain. My companions, the famous Boz, Ferdinand the aviator
and Phoebles who is our steadying hand,”) replied Anna.
“You
polari’s improving,” boomed Rotskagg, now in thickly accented English. He
lurched forward, lifted Boz by the shoulders and shook him in a companionable
way. Dropping the Boz, he
grabbed Ferdy’s wing stub and shook it so vigorously that several feathers had
to be straightened, once the bird had freed himself from the crushing
grip. Advancing jovially
towards a horrified Phoebles the corsair swept his hat from his own head and
dropped it over the rotund ginger tom. It buried him. As Phoebles battled to escape, the hat twitched and
it’s black plume quivered, and Rotskagg clung to the furniture, overcome with
mirth. Deeming introductions
to be at an end the captain turned his attention to the ragged band of wild
cats, wilder Scots and scurvy sea dogs that were shambling into the hall.
“Mira
wortacha, pralas, avela y schlumph, y xa. Mandi wil parlé. Eğlence
daha yeni başlıyor.”
(“My confederates, brothers, come and drink, and
eat. We must talk. The fun is only just beginning.) Rotskagg retrieved his hat and Phoebles rejoined his
companions, blinking.
“What’s
all that jabber?”
“The
Pirate King prefers to communicate in a bastard form of Lingua Franca. It is the common language of the
corsairs.” Explained Anna before she turned her attention to the ruffian band.
Rotskagg had scooped up Bui and was tickling her behind one ear. Ale was
ordered.
“Have we been dismissed?” asked
Ferdy.
“They
do seem to have forgotten us.” replied Boz.
Phoebles
was edging towards the food. A long table was piled high with ornately
displayed snacks. Multi-coloured catnip muffins vied with mooncakes and neat
little triangular fish-paste sandwiches for the attention of prospective
diners. There were exotic flans and trifle and, at the centre a life-size ice
sculpture of Lady Æthelflæda in full armour and winged helmet, already melting
into the brocade tablecloth. Almost before he could grab any of the refreshments there
was a commotion and Snowdrop wobbled her way through the crowd on her unicycle,
juggling three white mice who were squeaking Rule Britannia, not very well as
they were a little nauseous.
“Come
on,” she shouted, spinning round and heading for the door, “The brass band
competition is about to start.”
