Page 110 of The Changeling

There, where the wild god Esus’s altar stands,

where dire Teutates human blood demands,

drenched with crimson his obsidian blade,

where Taranis by wretches is obeyed …

‘Wait, wait!’ I said. ‘May I write this down? To help me remember?’

‘You can write?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Och aye,’ I replied scornfully. ‘Of course I can write. Nan taught us when we were bairns. And I read many books whilst at court – her Grace let me read whatever I liked from her library.’

‘I had no idea,’ Lord George said, with a new note of respect in his voice.

‘You think because we are poor, we are stupid and ignorant?’

‘I’m afraid I did. Here, let me get you some paper and a quill.’

I sat at his desk. As he read the words to me again, I wrote them down as neatly as I knew how, determined to impress him. He spelt out the names of the gods for me, then said, ‘There’s a wee bit later on that is interesting. It says:

While the Druids, whose arms are heard no more,

Old mysteries and strange rites restore,

To the cruel altar their victims drove

In the lonely coverts of the grove.

If what they sang is true and right,

No ghosts descend to dwell in dreadful night,

But forth they fly immortal in their kind,

And other bodies in new worlds find.

Thus life forever runs its endless race,

And like a line, death but divides the space.

No terror of death do they feel,

So rush undaunted upon the pointed steel.

‘Perhaps that is why they were so fearless in battle,’ Lord George said, closing the book and returning it to its place upon the shelf. ‘Because they had no terror of death.’

I did not answer. The poem had awoken a strange feeling in me. I had been afraid for so long. What must it be like, to live without fear? To rush undaunted upon the pointed steel?

‘Has this helped?’ Lord George asked.

‘I think so,’ I answered. ‘Thank you.’

I sprinkled sand over my page, brushed it away, folded my page and rose. ‘One more question. Do you ken aught about the nature of these gods?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. There is an old medieval scholia written on Lucanus’s poem, which describes the way victims were sacrificed to each of the three gods. I do not have a copy, unfortunately, but I remember the passage. For the god Teutates, offerings were drowned. For Taranis, who was a god of lightning and fire, sacrificial victims were burned. And for Esus, his preferred method is unclear, other than that it was bloody. He is often depicted with a blade cutting branches from a willow, and so some say his victims were hung from a tree and had their throats cut.’

I hugged my arms about me, chilled to the core. ‘I must go,’ I said abruptly. ‘I need to sleep if I am to watch over Robbie tonight.’