Now as he sat by the fire, rubbing the winter chill from his hands, he was happy to note that apart from the tavern keeper he was the room’s only occupant, and this suited him just fine. Today, he would not be relentlessly teased; would not have his slow speech and languid movements mocked.
But Pwyll’s tranquility was not to last. He flinched as the door opened and two men bustled into the tavern. Worse still, and to his utter dismay, Pwyll knew one of the men; knew him as Hal: a sneering bully. Pwyll turned away from them. Hunched and anonymous, he faced the fire, quietly cursing the Gods for sending Hal into this wine tavern ... on this day ... at this time. Quickly, he sipped at his wine. Maybe he could slip out unnoticed; after all, he could hear them preoccupied with the tavern keeper; could hear them laugh their clever laughs as they waited for the man to fill their cups.
After draining his own cup, Pwyll had almost reached the door when Hal’s lickspittle companion—a man named Menw—spotted him. His nudge and smile to Hal said, Look what we’ve got here!
Immediately, Hal hurried to the door and blocked Pwyll’s exit.
‘No you don’t; you don’t leave without me buying you a drink my challenged friend.’ Hal’s pinched face was resolute, his narrow eyes cold, as he stared at Pwyll. Soon, though, the thin line of his mouth began to twitch, as the hint of a smile turned up its corners. The smirk soon became a mocking grin and, in an act of faux bonhomie, he draped his arm over Pwyll’s shoulders and turned with him towards the tavern keeper. ‘A large cup of your best Gaul wine for my thirsty friend, barkeeper!’ he shouted.
Pwyll frowned and looked at the door. ‘No ... thank you … but no. I’ve had my fill and have a heavy day at the quarry tomorrow. I must be gone from here.’
Hal looked positively wounded. ‘No! my friend. How can you deprive me of your eloquence this night.’ He nodded towards Menw. ‘Surely you would not leave me to spend my leisure with that cock-brain.’
Menw considered Hal’s slight towards him, but soon realised the joke was on the dimwit and not him. After giving a broken-toothed grin he waited in anticipation.
Hal guided Pwyll to the counter where the tavern keeper, who by now was far from happy with affairs, waited with a full cup of wine. Hal slid a coin across the counter, picked up the cup and offered it to Pwyll. His tone had now lost its affected geniality. ‘Come, drink up and let’s hear no more of your nonsense about working in quarries.’
Slacked mouthed and dreading whatever Hal had in store for him, Pwyll took the cup. He raised it to his lips and looked nervously at his tormentor who sternly nodded for him to continue. Pwyll took a mouthful of the wine. He swallowed it with difficulty as if swallowing sawdust. Four more such gulps emptied the cup, then three more cups followed as Hal and Menw waited in icy silence to witness Pwyll’s inebriation. But Pwyll held his drink well that night ... remained sober ... too terrified anyway to be effected by the wine.
Far from pleased, Hal decided to move things along; decided it was time to hasten Pwyll’s humiliation. He pursed his lips in mock contemplation as he nodded towards Pwyll’s crotch. ‘Is it true what they say?’ he asked.
Pwyll looked puzzled—a frown creasing his troubled face. Self-consciously, he placed his wine cup on the counter and dropped his hands to his crotch. ‘W-w-hat do they say?’ he asked.
Hal turned to Menw and shot him a glance which said: Listen to this; you’re about to wet yourself. He turned back to Pwyll, nodding again towards his crotch. ‘They say this: that the Gods compensate for what’s deficient between a dullard’s ears by blessing him with an abundance between his legs.’
Pwyll had no idea what compensate or abundance or deficient meant, but he did know he was in trouble now. He knew Hal; knew what he liked to do. Worse still, the other man had started to laugh and that would only make things worse ... would encourage Hal.
Hal moved close to Pwyll; so close that Pwyll could smell his wine-tainted breath. Without touching him, Hal walked him towards the corner of the tavern, forcing Pwyll to walk backwards until reaching the lime-rendered wall.
Hal was still nose-to-nose with Pwyll, whose own breath now left him in panicky gasps. Over his shoulder, Hal gave Menw his instructions. ‘It’s no good doing this without an audience. Get some women in here off the street; they need to know what they’ve been missing.’
The sound of a door opening came to Pwyll as Menw left the tavern, but all Pwyll could see for now was Hal’s face. His tormentor wore a lizard smile; a smile that did not reach his eyes.
‘It would be better if you let me go now,’ said Pwyll, determined not to let the tears that threatened to break from him become visible. He did not want Hal to see them; did not want to give him more reason to mock him.
‘And why’s that?’ asked Hal, his smile lingering as his gaze flickered down towards Pwyll crotch again. ‘Why should I let you go? If I did that we would never know if the Gods were telling the truth.’
‘I just want to do my day’s work for my master, then have my wine at the end of each day. I do not understand what you said about the Gods. If you let me go now …’ The door opened causing a rush of cold air into the room. Female voices accompanied the gust. ‘…if you let me go I can get to my bed and rest for the morrow.’
Pwyll’s eyes stung as he realised that Hal hadn’t the slightest intention of letting him go. His tormentor saw the surfacing tears and was inwardly satisfied; tears were his currency ... what he strove to achieve. He grasped Pwyll cheeks with his right hand (the first time he had actually laid hands upon him during the entire ordeal), causing his cheeks to compress and his mouth to pucker like a bloated fish. ‘Of course you can get to your bed, my challenged friend. As soon as I’ve de-bagged you, you can leave.’
‘No you can’t do that to him.’ The woman’s protestation gave Pwyll no hope; laced as it was with humour. She didn’t mean it. He could tell. She said it merely because it was what she was supposed to say. She wanted her show—a show he would soon provide.
Hal still stood in front of Pwyll, his hand now removed from his face. Now it rested flat against his chest, pushing him against the wall. Hal turned his head to look over his shoulder at the woman who had spoken. He could see she was no older than twenty. She lingered with another of a similar age. Both had been walking home when Menw had persuaded them to enter the wine tavern with his offer. ‘Just a moment of your time, girls. I promise you a sight you will never forget,’ he had told them.
The other woman—the one who had remained silent up to now—shuffled uncomfortably and frowned at her friend. But her companion just nodded at her, a small smile playing on her face. No, let’s stay a while, perhaps we can see what he has to show us, was the consensus of the smile.
Pwyll slammed himself back against the wall and clutched at the waistband of his hose as Hal turned on him.
Hal nodded to Menw and exploded into action. ‘NOW … WITH ME!’ He made a grab for Pwyll’s tunic, his intention to pull it upwards over his head, but Pwyll dropped to the floor and curled into a ball.
Menw fell on him and pulled him on to his back, but Pwyll brought his knees up. Whimpering with raw fear now, he bunched his body into a tight cocoon. Hal knelt beside him and began to pummel his fist into his thighs. Angry and breathless, he punched him repeatedly. ‘Straighten out ... you retard ... or we’ll strip you completely ... make you walk home bare-bollocked.’
The two girls stood frozen, hands to mouths in shock, not knowing whether to laugh or cry now the show had started in earnest.
An uneasy frown creased the tavern keeper’s face. He knew he should do something—this could not be right—but what could he do? The men before him would probably do the same to him if he interfered; they were much younger and stronger than he. If he left to get help, the thing would be over with before he got back. They were about to humiliate Pwyll (a simple man, but a man he liked); humiliate him so badly he would never be able to show his face in Aquae Sulis again. He could see that Pwyll’s strengt
h was waning—could see that Pwyll was crying now, as Menw lay across his knees, pinning them straight.
Gasping and clench-teethed from the struggle, Hal knelt over him. He looked to the girls as he rummaged up Pwyll’s tunic and searched for the top of the hose which Pwyll still clung to. He callously bent Pwyll’s finger back from the hose and shot the girls a quick glance. ‘I swear this has been worth your wait—‘ he finally got his hands around the hose rim which circled Pwyll’s waist and got ready to tug hard—‘just look at…’
The door opened and Augustus walked in.
Put in charge of the local quarry by Arthur, he was Pwyll’s master and had decided to join him for a late drink, knowing, as he did, that Pwyll would be in the wine tavern at the end of his day. Augusrus knew the man was unobtrusive and preferred his own company, but Augustus always sought to draw him out of himself—to offer him friendship.
The tavern keeper had flinched when the giant Briton had entered, because then he knew things were about to happen. He knew all about Augustus—who didn’t? Knew he was genial and friendly; also knew he was formidable. The rumours of what he had done in Norwic—how he had defended himself, bare handed, against two killing dogs and an armed warrior of renown—had elevated the man to legendary status. Like all tales it been exaggerated in the re-telling, and when Arthur had seconded Augustus to Aquae Sulis to help with the town’s renovation, the sight of him had actually stopped people in the streets. Soon though, folk were to discover that ‘big Gus’ (as he was known) was a man of the people; a man who waved away any suggestion he was in any way special. In particular, he would go out of his way to befriend the so-called lesser men—men such as Pwyll. But the tavern keeper knew that Augustus was special; special in the way that any room he walked into was immediately enhanced and made more interesting by his booming personality and aura.
Unfortunately, though, Augustus had just walked into his room, his tavern, and that could only mean one thing. Hastily, he removed his best jugs of wine and placed them under the counter. He considered joining the jugs on the ground but his curiosity kept him standing.
Augustus was at first puzzled when he saw Pwyll in a struggle with two men. Had he had a fit? A seizure? But when the cruel eyes of Hal and Menw turned towards him (two men he could not stand), Augustus then knew. Menw was the first to his feet. Augustus stood facing him, then looked at the girls who by now had moved to the counter.
‘Leave, please,’ Augustus instructed them quietly. He stepped back to the door and opened it for them. As they scuttled, shame-faced through the door, he added, ‘And disgrace on you.’
Hal was standing now. He knew all about Augustus—knew that he had a reputation; had heard as well that the big bastard was a bit stupid and could be reasoned with, because fighting him was definitely out of the question, even with Menw to help him.
By now, Pwyll had scrambled to his feet and hitched up his crumpled hose. Augustus nodded towards the wine counter. ‘Go behind there with the tavern keeper, Pwyll. I’ll buy you a cup of wine when this is done with.’ He turned back to Hal and Menw.
They exchanged glances. Hal, jittery and unsettled by Augustus’ measured tone, attempted a compromise. ‘We were just having a bit of fun with him. L-look at him, w-we’ve not harmed a hair on his head.’
‘And I won’t harm a hair on yours,’ said Augustus. He nodded towards Menw. ‘Or his.’ Hal’s and Menw’s sigh of relief was audible to everyone in the room. They were about to thank Augustus for his clemency when he continued. ‘Now be good enough to step out of your clothes so we can get this matter dealt with.’
‘Hhh?’ Hal was wide-eyed and dismayed as the gravity of Augustus’ command sank in. He looked at Menw, whose expression, if it were possible, was even more haunted than before.
‘Yes, you heard me right,’ said Augustus. ‘I want you both to strip naked here before me, just as you would have stripped Pwyll naked.’ To emphasise the folly of refusing his request, Augustus let his hand drop to the stonemason’s hammer that hung at his belt.
Hal and Menw looked at Augustus who was two heads taller; looked at the meaty fist grasping the hammer.
They began to undress.
Moments later, they were standing naked before him, shuffling uncomfortably—their dropped hands preserving their modesty.
Augustus let out his breath in a disgusted ‘phh.’ He looked over to Pwyll and the tavern keeper. ‘Pour two cups of wine please ... one for me ... one for Pwyll.’ He looked with mock apology at Hal and Menw, as if he had committed the clumsiest of faux pas. ‘Oh, I am sorry … y-you didn’t think they were for you, did you?’ Hal and Menw blankly shook their heads. Augustus looked them over again, then turned to the tavern keeper, but now his tone was frosty. ‘Why were the women in here?’ he asked.
The tavern keeper pointed to Hal and Menw. ‘Those two wanted the women to watch Pwyll being stripped; they brought them in to laugh at him.’
Augustus nodded and pursed his lips as if enlightened. He looked back at Hal and Menw. ‘Better if there’s an audience, is it?’
Hal had no idea whether to nod or shake his head. Neither action would satisfy Augustus—he knew that. Instead, he merely shrugged his bare shoulders at him.
Augustus feigned bewilderment. ‘What?—you mean to tell me you don’t know? That’s strange, because you seemed pretty sure of it when I walked in.’ Crowd murmurings now came from beyond the door. The expelled women had spread the word that the giant, Augustus, had caught two renowned bullies; caught them trying to humiliate a man in the wine tavern. ‘Outside,’ said Augustus, pointing to the door. ‘You are both leaving this town and I want you to go now.’
Hal shook his head. ‘No … you can’t mean this. This has gone far enou—‘
‘OUT OF THE DOOR, I SAID!’ Augustus stepped towards them, his latent fury close to eruption.
Hal and Menw shrank from him, then edged themselves towards the door. He leant before them and opened it. And there they stood; naked as the day they were born—the snickering crowd facing them. Augustus kicked firstly Menw, then Hal into the street. Both men landed on their knees amongst the crowd—a crowd which had now started to jeer them.
Augustus followed and began to kick their skinny backsides down the muddy road. Several times, they would fall to their knees; then, after waiting with folded arms for them to get to their feet, Augustus resumed his kicking as he coerced them towards the gates of the city. Eventually, Hal and Menw had had enough, and began a stumbling run down the street. The crowd followed, shouting insults and pelting stones. The gates could not come soon enough for the two men.
Erec rode up towards Aquae Sulis with his woman Morgana by his side. Having spent the last six months at Brythonfort, training new recruits at the academy, Erec’s time had come again to assume his six-month tenure as steward of Aquae Sulis. Morgana’s saddle had been adapted to hold their three-year-old son, Girard, firmly in place—a wise move that had been partially successful in restricting the youngster’s boisterousness on the sixty mile journey from Brythonfort. Now as they neared the open gates, the infant’s keen eyes had spotted movement beyond the open gates of the city.
He turned to his father. ‘Papa … men are running towards us. They come to say hello.’
Erec could see for himself now, and bade Morgana to stop. He squinted into the distance, still not sure what was happening. ‘Stay here, please,’ he said as he spurred his horse into a trot towards the gates.
The son of a peasant, Erec had inherited his father’s genes, and when still only fourteen towered above the tallest man in his village. His athleticism was not lost on Arthur’s scouts, who, as well as checking that the lands around Brythonfort held no threat from Saxon incursion, looked out for boys of Erec’s stature. His parents agreed for him to go to Brythonfort (indeed it was deemed a considerable honour for any family to have a son selected for training with Arthur’s militia) and at the age of fifteen Erec left his village to take up his lodgings at the bas
tion.
Arthur’s faith in Erec had not been misplaced and the boy took easily and naturally to his tutorage. He excelled in all aspects of his training, and at the age of twenty-one was trusted to lead his first patrol from the gates of Brythonfort. They came upon a Saxon war party, intent on striking deep into the western lands. The party had strayed into Arthur’s protectorate and needed to dealt with. Under Erec’s leadership, and employing the Roman techniques utilised by Arthur’s standing army, Erec and his knights had ruthlessly sliced through the Saxon threat that day, leaving not one Germanic warrior alive.
Erec led many more patrols, and the result was always the same: total annihilation of his adversaries. The quality of Erec’s field craft was such, that he was asked by Arthur to take up the role of weapons instructor in the academy when only twenty-five years old. Erec had proven to be a tough but fair trainer. Five years had passed since that day, during which time many youths and men had graduated through the academy.
At about the same time Erec took up his post at the academy, the girl, Morgana (then twenty years old) began her employment as a cook. Her role was to assist the older women and ensure that the trainees’ hunger was satisfied at the end of each day. She soon caught Erec’s eye, and after a slow and awkward beginning—Erec having spent all his years since adolescence either training or fighting, and Morgana never having developed any romantic attachments, such was her age—they had fallen deeply in love. After a short courtship they had wed, and one year after that, Morgana gave birth to a son whom they named Girard, after Morgana’s late father.
Now as he approached the city, Erec thought of his son and considered the infant’s vulnerability in the uncertainty of the post-Roman world. Anything could happen at any time, he knew that. For now, Arthur had secured the western lands, but Erec was shrewd enough to realise that Britannia was volatile and always open to Saxon dominance—especially if the barbaric war bands came to realise that their fragmented approach to warfare had its limitations. Already there was rumour of troop movement, from the north of all places, causing Arthur to dispatch Dominic and Tomas at once to scout the situation.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 56
