by M. K. Hume
Just when he believed his muscles would tear from the agony of assaulted nerve ends and joints, a sharp knife cut him free and he slithered to the hard earth with an audible thump.
Winded, he stared up into the handsome, cold face of a tall Saxon youth. The young man spoke in a quick burst of what must surely have been Saxon, but Bedwyr shook his head weakly and shrugged his ignorance. The Saxon spat his impatience, and reverted to bastardized Celt.
‘Stand, dog!’
The knife cut the lashings at his ankles, and Bedwyr struggled to his feet.
‘Look at me, dog! If you can keep up with the horse, there’s a strong chance you will live. But I will cut your throat if we are forced to drag you.’
A long rope secured his hands to the cheek straps of his horse’s harness, and the animal was lashed into movement. Almost dragged off his feet, Bedwyr settled into a mind-numbing shamble.
At last, the leading rope slackened a little, and Bedwyr wiped his brow and temple where blood pumped sluggishly from a long, shallow wound. The horse’s haunches quivered as they began to climb a long, low slope, and Bedwyr stared at the ground and concentrated on the position of stones, scree and fallen branches. He was in no doubt that he would be killed out of hand if he fell.
Wordlessly, Bedwyr thanked his Christian god for his agile legs and whipcord muscles. Only his unshakeable belief in his superb fitness kept him on his feet. Shrubs cut him, and gorse tore his legs. Stubbornly, he forced his exhausted muscles to propel him forward, one leg in front of the other, as each step became a word in a long, sonorous prayer to Jesu.
Stupefied, and drunk on the hypnotic rhythm of his stumbling feet, Bedwyr was barely conscious when the Saxons stopped. The dark silence was only broken by the sounds of laboured, ragged breathing. The Saxon youth cuffed Bedwyr as he turned to check on his prisoner, and seemed disappointed that the Celt was still on his feet.
‘Listen to me, dog! If you fall, then you die! If you live, you will be a gift from me to my lord, Glamdring Ironfist. Now, we run again!’
The youth rejoined his friends, and the agonizing journey recommenced.
The long night blurred into a series of muscle-killing bouts of running, punctuated by brief rests when Bedwyr did not dare to sit in case he could not rise again. At some point in the nightmare passage, his captor grudgingly gave him a few mouthfuls of water, and the cold draught cleared Bedwyr’s head for a short time. His only sustenance was the long, unravelling prayer to his god, and the snatches of the Latin Host that he recited. One foot in front of the other! Again! Again! Again! Ignore the burning lungs! Ignore the pain of torn muscles! Run! Run! Run!
The first stains of dawn were reddening the sky when the half-light revealed a huge wooden palisade, built around a cluster of stone and timber buildings that hunched within it. Ragged huts huddled around the outside of the palisade, and fowls, mangy dogs and half-naked children foraged for food or sunned themselves in the first light.
At the gates, Bedwyr hung his head as he leaned against the haunches of his running mate, whose nostrils were reddened with broken blood vessels. Once inside the forbidding walls, the Saxon youth cut Bedwyr’s rope to the lathered horse and the frightened, exhausted animal was led away behind a squat building. While the youth rolled up his salvaged length of rope, Bedwyr heard the shrill scream from the horse as its throat was cut.
They’ll eat him for the meat, Bedwyr thought to himself, with neither regret nor horror, too exhausted to care. The horse was better off dead.
Inside a smoke-filled, odorous hall, a huge, shaggy-bearded Saxon was seated, breaking his fast with coarse beer, some kind of oat cakes and slabs of half-cooked meat. With smeared fingers, the man ripped the meat to pieces, and employed large, yellowing teeth to chew it to an oozy pulp. Bedwyr could see the whole process clearly, because the Saxon ate noisily with his mouth open.
The young Saxons told their tale of murderous cruelty in their own language, and gesticulated often in Bedwyr’s direction. They were obviously boasting to their master.
Then Bedwyr was dragged forward and cuffed to the ground in a crude copy of the full obeisance owed to a High King. Bedwyr was too exhausted to resist.
‘Who are you, dog?’ the master uttered in a guttural growl. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I am Bedwyr, son of Bedwyr of Letocetum. I am a Cornovii.’
The chieftain, whom Bedwyr later realized was Glamdring Ironfist, looked vaguely at him. Bedwyr realized immediately that the Saxon had no idea who the Cornovii were, or where their lands lay.
Another rapid burst of Saxon words followed, which the Celt didn’t even attempt to follow. Glamdring stared hard at Bedwyr with narrowed blue eyes above his muddy blond beard, while he continued to masticate methodically.
Bedwyr repressed a shudder and let his head hang low.
Glamdring made a decision.
‘You’re strong, I’ll say that for you. You’ll forget your outland name, and will be called Dog from this moment on. You belong to me. If you are a good dog, and labour hard for me, you’ll be fed. If you are not a good dog, you will die and your body will feed my pigs. Get a collar for him!’
Someone pressed a band of iron around Bedwyr’s neck and a peg of metal was forced through the flange under his right ear. He was clubbed to his knees, his cheek lying on the table, while another Saxon used an iron hammer to pound the flange of iron closed. The metal scoured his skin, and Bedwyr knew that his neck would soon be bleeding where the collar rubbed against his flesh.
Another warrior thrust a short spear into the open hearth.
‘You are now mine, Dog. If I die, so will you. And you will then serve me in Valhalla. Remember that my dogs are worth more than you are. They are Saxon dogs and they are fighters. You are a bastard Celt and were taken without striking a blow.’
After that, Glamdring ignored him entirely. Dismissively, he threw bronze arm rings to the six young captors, who flushed to their hairlines with pleasure.
Prudently, Bedwyr remained on his knees, with his head sunk between his shoulders and his chin on his breast. In truth, he was ashamed. Although any attempt to escape would have brought death, Bedwyr regretted that he had been taken so cheaply when his friends had paid with their lives. He supposed that Glamdring and his fellows believed that he would be too cowardly to attempt escape. His heart began to beat with an ever-deepening purpose.
The warrior who was heating the spear eventually drew it out of the hearth. The point glowed.
Glamdring nodded his approval, and several warriors approached and stripped the Celt to his loincloth. He would never see his tunic or leggings again. The warrior holding the spear approached Bedwyr purposefully. Bedwyr controlled his fear and his bowels with difficulty, while praying that he would not shame his ancestors.
His head was forcibly drawn back and his chest was exposed. The warrior pressed the red-hot weapon against the flesh above Bedwyr’s right nipple. The flesh smoked and burned.
Except for the involuntary twitching of muscle, Bedwyr forced himself not to move. He had shut his eyes and concentrated on the crucifixion of his Lord Jesu, for if He could suffer such agony without complaint, then so could Bedwyr. Just when the Celt was sure he would scream, the hot metal was withdrawn, and Bedwyr fell to his knees, panting like an animal.
‘Get yourself to the women in the kitchens, Dog. They’ll put salve on my loving little bite. And remember, Dog, that you must be good and do what you are told, or you’ll learn what real pain is.’
For three years now, Bedwyr had done what he was told. Glamdring was his master, but any Saxon could order him to do their bidding.
His beard had grown and, although he tried to keep it trimmed with a blunt blade, it still turned into a ragged, matted bush. His hair was filthy and knotted although, when circumstances permitted, he would stand in the rivulet below Caer Fyrddin and allow the rushing water to cleanse his body.
In the months and years that followed his capture, Bedwyr’s fl
esh became meagre and whipcord strong. His muscles developed in response to the unceasing physical labour, and his clear eyes appeared downcast and deceptively docile. In the eyes of Glamdring’s warriors and his women, Dog was a halfwit. Only the other house servants knew that Bedwyr was still alive within Dog’s scarred body. Occasionally, in passing, he would murmur encouragement to a fellow slave, or exchange information culled from his duties in the great hall that he cleaned as vigorously as the Saxons would allow. He assisted the mastiff bitches to whelp, and the great, shaggy beasts loved him, especially one young male whom he called Wind because of its wiry grey coat.
The hall was Bedwyr’s direct responsibility, and it was filthy. How the Saxons avoided pestilence defied reason, but perhaps even disease refused to take root among them. But Bedwyr intended to live and revenge himself on his captors, so he kept himself as clean as possible and took care of any cuts or bruises lest they fester and rot. One of Glamdring’s women, less cruel than her sisters, had given him a salve for his burn which he kept carefully and used for many months till the wound healed. He ate whenever he could steal food, even from the hounds and, despite a vague feeling of guilt, never shared with his fellow slaves. For Bedwyr, survival was everything.
As the years of pain and degradation passed, Bedwyr’s faith began to die. The holy child of Christianity had sustained him on his journey to the fortress, but the darker gods of war salvaged his pride and strengthened his grip on life. In Bedwyr’s jaundiced opinion, acceptance of suffering as a route to Paradise was a foolish affectation. Revenge kept him breathing, and the hope that Ironfist would one day die at his hands allowed the Cornovii to endure every indignity that was heaped on him to break his spirit. His Christian values were not dead but they had merged with older, hardened beliefs that gave him a fragile reason to remain sane.
Over time, the Saxon chief scarcely noticed his daft servant with the insulting name of Dog. The slave was a familiar possession, like his favourite ale cup, which had become worn to the shape of his hand.
Now, as Bedwyr piled wooden trenchers into a wicker basket and rubbed the scarred surface of the table with a grimy scrap of cloth, a Saxon courier pounded on the gates of the fortress. Passwords were exchanged, and the messenger slid into the dark confines of the caer like an eel. Quickly, he was brought into the presence of the Saxon king. Since his capture, Bedwyr had become quite fluent in the Saxon language, but as he was rarely permitted to speak, Glamdring never considered that his slave had ears to hear, or a mouth to pass on secrets.
‘A large force of Celts has moved up the coast under the banner of Artor’s dragon, my lord’, the courier reported. ‘They wear dull black so they are easily seen in the daylight, although the night conceals them.’
The courier was an impressive-looking man. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was slender and well-made, with hair that was very dark for a Saxon. Glamdring’s eyes registered contempt for his visitor, whose blue eyes were the only clue to his northern blood. Even with all the dirt that caked his red hair, Bedwyr seemed more of a Saxon than this proud warrior.
‘What are their numbers?’ he asked in a cold voice, and the courier flushed.
‘There are over five hundred cavalry, plus archers and foot soldiers, my lord. The baggage train is huge and they travel very slowly. They are prepared for a long campaign.’
‘So many? Artor is taking a risk, for his borders must have been picked clean.’
‘I saw the standard of Lot within the column. Your ally has broken his oath.’
Glamdring chuckled quietly, and his courier took heart from his leader’s indifference to the size of the host. For his part, Glamdring was pleased, for a large force was difficult to co-ordinate and was nearly impossible to manoeuvre. Artor would be impeded by the sheer size of his forces.
‘The boy Gaheris assured me that Artor would come to exact his revenge, and that Lot wouldn’t tolerate the death of his son. You bring me good news, very good news. Artor intends to fight us on our ground, and therefore on our terms. It’s time we discovered for ourselves if this bastard is really the Warrior of the West.’ Glamdring had longed for the moment when he could finally test the might of Artor and his Celtic warriors.
While the courier and his master conversed, Bedwyr’s concentration appeared to be wholly centred on his mundane domestic task.
‘Call Nils Redbeard to me. You’ve done well, Cadall, and you may eat at our cooking fires. Afterwards, you will return to your post, and make sure that our scouts are ready to send me news of any changes in Artor’s tactics. I expect to be told of all changes, no matter how minor. Artor is a successful leader and a skilled warrior, so he will have devised an effective battle plan.’
‘My life is pledged to serve you, my master,’ the courier vowed, and padded off to find the captain of the fortress.
Bedwyr collected his baskets and moved silently out of the hall. Quickly and thoroughly, he scrubbed the dirty plates in water drawn from the well and held in a large, roughly chiselled stone trough. The Saxons had grown careless of basic cleanliness, and no one noticed that Bedwyr used clean drinking water for his labours. He returned the slops back into the trough. The Saxons never seemed to sicken from drinking the polluted water, but Bedwyr permitted himself the enjoyment of this trifling triumph.
Bearing a leather bucket of clean water, he re-entered the hall. The guards yawned and honed their weapons, ignoring his shambling presence. Bedwyr continued to clean down the tabletops while a litter of puppies charged his filthy toes and attempted to worry his bedraggled tunic hem.
Nils Redbeard entered the hall with a swagger.
The new arrival took his name from his fiery red hair and his potent temper. His ancestors were Jute, but he had been raised to hate the Celtic standard and Glamdring Ironfist offered the only resistance to Artor’s hold on the kingdom. Redbeard had embraced his master’s viciousness and ambitions, and had quickly carved out a respected place for himself among Glamdring’s warriors.
When he entered the hall, his pale eyes were hot and impatient. The time for battle had arrived and he was eager to wade through Celtic corpses.
‘You called for me, my lord?’
Glamdring glanced up, his crafty eyes intent on the eager face of his officer. ‘You have heard?’
‘Aye. Our warriors are impatient to blood their weapons. When do we march, master?’
‘When I tell you! Call in the warriors from the outposts. If Artor turns his eye on Caer Fyrddin, we must have troops to hold the fortress.’ Glamdring grinned like a fox. ‘And tell Valdemar to form an extra company to patrol the approaches to the caer. Their purpose is to nip at Artor’s heels if he moves towards us.’
Bedwyr dropped a small wooden cup which hit the edge of the table with a loud clatter. Both Glamdring and Redbeard looked at him.
‘Isn’t that right, Dog?’ Glamdring demanded. ‘Dogs are useful animals to help us herd dumb beasts. That’s right, nod back at me, Dog. Your friends among the Celts are dumb beasts if they think they can keep me penned up here in Caer Fyrddin.’
Bedwyr grinned vacuously, and nodded so eagerly that his filthy hair shed dust and wisps of straw into the yellow light.
Both Saxon warriors laughed contemptuously and ignored the idiot.
Glamdring turned his attention back to Redbeard, and Bedwyr continued to mop and wipe, his open lips drooling thin strings of spittle.
‘Lot’s brat said we are incapable of learning from our enemies,’ Glamdring sneered, ‘but he was wrong, and now he’s the one who’s dead. The Celts use horses and are very dangerous where they can manoeuvre, but these hills are no help to his warriors. We’ll borrow Artor’s methods, and we’ll use our young, unblooded warriors to make surprise attacks on his baggage train. You can choose those youngsters who show the most promise. Perhaps we can starve the bastards out so Artor will be the one to make the first mistake. Don’t fail me, Redbeard.’
‘I’ll not fail you, master.’
&nb
sp; ‘Then leave, for you have much to do.’
Glamdring loved to talk to a captive audience, even if his bravado was only for the ears of a witless slave. With vile invective the master described how his warriors would take great joy in crushing Artor. He described in vicious detail how they would dine on the fruits of hit-and-run attacks against the baggage train, and how his archers, although Glamdring had but few, would use their longbows to pin down the fierce Artor.
‘Are you afraid, Dog? You are nodding your head, so you are being a good dog. Now, bring Wyrr to me.’
As Bedwyr hurried to find Glamdring’s soothsayer, his heart rejoiced at the secret knowledge he now possessed. The Celts were coming at last. If his gods were kind, he would discover some way to reach them, and his long hatred could be slaked in full.
CHAPTER VI
THE ARDEN KNIFE
Bedwyr hurried through the muddy pathways of Caer Fyrddin to a small wooden hut that was isolated from the rest of the fortress dwellings. Although the structure was a simple construction of logs and bulrushes, it was rendered memorable by a series of severed, mummified hands, bound together with bronze wire, that hung, fingers downwards, before the doorway. In the mountain breeze, the hands clicked with the odd rattle of dried twigs. Avoiding the grisly totems, Bedwyr edged through the doorway of the sorcerer’s lair.
Within the hut, the air was thick, sweet and smoke-filled, for Wyrr was always cold. Dried bundles of herbs and other, less savoury ingredients hung from the hazy ceiling, while pottery jars held oils and medicines. Other than an oddly carved chest and a simple pallet for sleeping, the over-warm hut was bare of any furnishings.
Like a ghost or a malevolent spirit, Wyrr loomed whitely out of the hut’s darkness.
Glamdring’s sorcerer was an aberration of nature in that he gave the physical impression of pale, wizened youth. His features seemed young, but when viewed closely, the preternatural wrinkles of old age were visible around his boyish eyes and on his cheeks. According to the whispers of the Saxon warriors, Wyrr had been born somewhere on the western coast of Cymru some twenty-six years before. Local folklore insisted that Wyrr’s young mother had been struck dumb when she first beheld the silent infant, although no one remembered where this rumour had started. At any rate, the paths of Wyrr and Glamdring Ironfist had crossed when the Saxon warrior was still an impressionable youth. Glamdring’s women swore, in nervous whispers, that Wyrr had assisted his master to gain control of the western Saxon imagination and, in time, the position of thane. Certainly, Glamdring had manipulated the superstitions of his people and advantaged his leadership by shamelessly using Wyrr’s influence. Men chose to step aside when the shadow of the little man fell across their path.
