by M. K. Hume
The river was icy, and Bedwyr shivered as he sat in the fast-flowing water and scrubbed his nakedness with handfuls of river sand. When one of the Celts threw him a knife and a small phial of oil, he dragged the sharp blade through his matted beard, cutting himself painfully in many places so that the water around him ran pink. Then he set to work with a pair of blunt shears on the mane of hair on his head. So matted were the tangled locks that Bedwyr decided to cut them off only an inch from his skull. He immediately gained a civilized appearance. Finally, clean and roughly trimmed, he lunged out of the water and stood, shivering violently, on the bank.
With a look of sheer bravado, he threw the knife into the earth between its owner’s feet.
‘I apologize if I have dulled the edge of your blade.’ Bedwyr bowed slightly, and grinned. ‘And I thank you also for the use of your oil. I’d not have removed three years of dirt without it, although I now smell of rancid fat.’
‘It’s an improvement,’ the Celt guard, Alun, retorted.
The cavalryman passed him his tunic and loincloth, and Bedwyr pulled them over his wet body.
When he was brought back to Gawayne, no longer dripping but still chilled, the water and the hair cropping had wrought a minor miracle. Bedwyr’s hair was now undoubtedly russet, and he had a disarming smattering of freckles over his nose and shoulders. The white skin where his beard had protected his face from the sun revealed a firm mouth and a stubborn jaw that belied the youth of the man who stood before the band of cavalry.
Bedwyr’s body reflected the years of abuse suffered during his captivity. His nose had been broken, creating a slightly crooked appearance on his otherwise symmetrical face. The white seams of old scars covered his body, one laid on the other, especially around the ribs and the back. One of his smaller fingers had been broken, as well as several toes, and his torso and shoulders were covered with scrapes, bruises and cuts.
Gawayne saw, and was half convinced.
‘Tell me, Bedwyr, how were you captured?’ he demanded.
And Bedwyr told him.
‘I still don’t understand why you stayed with Glamdring’s warriors if you escaped so easily in this instance. If I doubt your honesty, it’s because of your unwillingness to flee the Saxon fortress.’
Bedwyr snorted. ‘Where was I to go? King Artor has only recently moved his army to this part of Britain and, until now, there has been no haven open to me. I have cared for Glamdring’s war dogs, but they would have happily hunted me down, for all that I slept with them and fed them. I’ve waited, and stayed alive, knowing that a time might come when I, Glamdring Ironfist’s dog, could tear out his throat as I swore to do so long ago. I’ve been prepared to die for a very long time, for all slaves know that living is hard with such masters. But if I was destined to perish, then I wanted my death to mean something. I determined that I should direct a killing blow at the hearts of my captors and remain alive until Artor came.’
‘If you desire to kill Glamdring, you will have to stand in a very long line to await your turn,’ Gawayne retorted drily.
‘Nor was my escape easy. I sat quietly for years, enduring insults, blows and starvation, so that one day I could take my chance to fly from Glamdring’s tender care. In my escape, I was forced to kill two guards. I also killed Wyrr, Glamdring’s sorcerer and his closest, most clever adviser. At least he’ll never again whisper words of caution into the ears of his master. He was the intelligence behind Glamdring’s brawn.’
‘Who is this Wyrr?’ Gawayne asked. ‘We haven’t heard of him.’
‘He was a vicious albino creature. He was clever and cold, but I killed him anyway. The knife I used to silence Wyrr’s dangerous tongue was taken from me by your warriors. My lord, we’re wasting time with these pointless questions.’ A sense of urgency gave an edge to his voice now. ‘I am only one man, and I’m easily slain if I should prove to be false. But Glamdring is coming against Artor, and he has amassed more than eight hundred men, and will raise even more warriors once the villagers begin to flock to his banner. Artor has enraged Glamdring beyond reason, and I was running to warn the High King when your men found me and brought me to you. Take me to the High King, Prince Gawayne, for I have not listened and endured my slavery for three years to see the Saxons win the coming war because Artor was kept in ignorance.’
Gawayne thought ponderously for just a few more minutes. He remembered Artor’s plan, and made his decision. He directed his orders to the warrior whose knife Bedwyr had blunted at the river. As a fellow Otadini, Gawayne trusted him completely.
‘Alun, take Bedwyr to Artor at full speed. Once there, you will wait for any message for me from the High King, and then you may return to my command. Use one of the spare horses for Bedwyr, and you can return his weapon. He looks famished, so give him some rations to eat as you ride to King Artor’s encampment.’
‘My thanks, my prince.’ Bedwyr smiled. ‘Your trust is not misplaced.’
‘I hope not. Otherwise I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you!’
With efficiency and speed, Bedwyr and Alun were mounted and had departed within minutes of Gawayne’s decision. Morosely, the prince watched the two horsemen disappear into the tree line. More than anything else, Bedwyr’s riding skill convinced him that the Cornovii was no spy. The Saxons preferred to walk, scorning horseback, but Bedwyr was obviously a skilled horseman.
‘Well, Artor will discover the truth of this man far easier than I could,’ Gawayne said aloud. ‘If Bedwyr found Glamdring’s sorcerer to be exotic, what will he make of Myrddion and Targo?’
Alun and Bedwyr travelled at a steady canter. At first, they followed the track of Artor’s army, so they moved swiftly. Then, as the light faded, they moved into the tree line.
The spring weather was still cold and Bedwyr was only lightly clothed, but years of privation had inured him to light rain and the chill of the night. When the horses began to weary, the two men walked. Bedwyr’s horny soles were accustomed to the sharp flints and rough underbrush of the ground they traversed but, even so, his bare feet began to bleed from slippage on the knife-sharp flints and slate. Although he gave the cuts and slashes little attention, and walked on stolidly, he began to leave bloody footprints on the stone. Eventually, because discovery would be disastrous, Alun tossed him a length of old rag, and Bedwyr took the time to bind his feet.
The heavily wooded slopes of the hills rising out of the coastal strip appeared like stumpy teeth to Bedwyr, for he had been raised in Arden Forest. The whole dim greenness was silent, except for the cawing of the ever-present crows that had learned to follow armies a thousand years earlier. The young man’s imaginative intellect filled the stunted woods with black, beady eyes that followed their passage. No stranger to the gloom of forests, Bedwyr felt at home in the dim, sea-green light, and gained confidence from the old trees that were twisted by the sea gales into strange, humanoid forms that rattled their leafy branches as the riders passed by.
Within four hours, they saw smoke rising above the tree line, and Bedwyr’s ears caught the sound of running water, of a river, and the muted rumble of the nearby ocean.
The two warriors halted and dismounted to survey the terrain ahead of them.
Satisfied, Alun gathered his reins and remounted, indicating that Bedwyr should do the same.
‘The smoke that we can see is from Artor’s camp,’ Alun said, ‘but I can’t begin to guess where Glamdring’s men are. I can feel eyes watching us, and my back already feels the bite of an arrow. We shall have to ride for our lives from this point onwards, even if our horses die in the run. We go by the open road, so you must keep up. Hear me? I don’t propose to stop if you should fall.’
Bedwyr merely grunted, and settled his nervous horse. ‘Good. I’m sick of hiding. May the gods judge the justice of our cause.’
Before Alun could take the lead, Bedwyr whipped his horse with his reins and it sprang into a gallop.
The beasts bunched their thigh muscles and broke from cover
, sending a flock of complaining crows flapping from the trees. Crouched over his horse’s neck, Bedwyr urged his steed to greater efforts. The track was so muddy that he chose the slopes above the dragon’s spore, with Alun directly behind him. A thin whistling sound came from the woods on their flank and a shaft hit the neck of his mount. The arrow was almost spent and caused the animal to check its stride only momentarily.
Bedwyr didn’t hesitate, but plucked the shaft free. Blood welled from the slight wound.
He sank his heels into the ribs of his stallion and the beast resumed its mile-devouring gallop. Other arrows fell around them, but they had been fired from an extreme distance and were spent. Other than one that grazed Bedwyr’s cheek in passing, the shafts fell harmlessly away.
Even at full gallop, the two horsemen could see warriors on the fringes of Artor’s camp stir like disturbed ants as they prepared to repel enemy riders.
‘We are friends!’ Alun screamed, and waved his free arm. ‘Friends from Gawayne! Make way! Make way! Gawayne! Gawayne!’
Several warriors planted their long rectangular shields in the mud, but Bedwyr and Alun paid them no mind, and continued to urge their mounts towards the obstruction. Up rose the beasts, lifting their deceptively delicate forelegs to leap the line of shields. And then they were inside the camp, where grim men ran to surround them in a ring of cold iron.
Bedwyr dragged his horse to a shuddering halt, followed by a pale-faced Alun. Bedwyr stroked the bleeding neck of his faltering beast, threw the reins to a waiting warrior, and lithely leapt to the ground. The guards could see the bloodstained rags that bound his feet and the scars that covered his body.
‘Have one of your men see to my horse’s wound, for he’s served me well and I’d not wish harm to him. And escort me to an audience with the High King.’ He smiled at the warrior with unconscious charm. ‘I bear tidings for King Artor from Glamdring Ironfist.’
Artor had observed the mad gallop of the two horsemen as they approached the encampment. He recognized the second of the riders as one of Gawayne’s Otadini warriors, and he had also observed the hail of arrows that had sped after them, reaching almost to the defensive wall of Mori Saxonicus itself. Myrddion stood beside the High King, counting the bowshots and estimating their number, for this skirmish was the first time that Artor’s encampment had been under any attack, even one as feeble as this.
‘There are at least six archers in the trees. They’re probably in the branches, as the arrows are aimed downward,’ Myrddion stated. ‘I’ll let Gruffydd know. He’ll soon have them winkled out.’
Artor nodded economically. ‘Who’s the scarecrow on the leading horse?’ he asked. ‘He rides like a man possessed. Bring him to me. We may need Gruffydd to translate if he’s a Saxon, although why a Saxon would wish to enter my encampment beggars the imagination.’
When Myrddion approached the strange-looking man, he was being shouted at by an enraged Luka, to whom he had thrown the reins of his horse.
‘I’m not your stable boy, you impertinent scrag! And nobody speaks to the High King until I decide they’ll be no threat to his person.’
In his fury, Luka was even more obstinate than usual, and his eyes were mere slits in his dark, scowling face. The new arrival was going nowhere without his approval. On the other hand, the ragged warrior stood pugnaciously with his feet slightly apart and his hands planted belligerently on his hips. His jaw was thrust forward in an obvious challenge to the older man’s authority.
‘I’ve travelled on foot and by horseback from Caer Fyrddin. At some cost, I’ve escaped from the Saxon hive, and I can assure you that the High King will not thank you if you keep me from him.’ Twin spots of colour burned on the stranger’s sunburned cheeks and his eyes, more hazel than brown, threatened imminent bloodletting.
‘Please, Bedwyr!’ Alun pleaded vainly, and tried to pull him away from an increasingly angry Luka, who had half drawn his knife from its scabbard. ‘You don’t know who you offend with your insults.’
Bedwyr used his superior muscle to throw off the clutching hand of the taller warrior. ‘If he isn’t King Artor, I don’t care who he is. My message must not wait while dullards decide if I am fit to enter the presence of the great man. Yes, I’m ragged. And I’m dirty too, no doubt. And Prince Gawayne told me I smell, and I believe him. But Artor alone will know how to use the information I bring.’
Luka pulled out his dagger with a venomous little hiss. ‘Whoever you are, I stand first in line and I claim the right to add a second mouth to your throat. You insult Luka, King of the Brigante, and a member of the High Council of King Artor. No doubt you are hell-bent on offending anyone who gets in your way, but on this occasion you chose the wrong man to treat like a slave.’
Luka dropped the reins with disdain and Bedwyr flushed a little under his tan. Myrddion approached the young stranger on silent feet and made a small gesture to one of the warriors, who bent to retrieve the reins.
The horses were led away.
A little shame-faced, Bedwyr made a rather belated, indifferent bow to Luka.
‘I offer my apologies, my lord, but my horse is wounded and my message has still not been relayed to the High King. I am impatient after years of inaction. Courtesy must wait on necessity as I must see the High King immediately. When King Artor has learned what I have to tell him, you may kill me any way you choose - if you can!’
‘Sir, you are an impudent son of—’
Luka was robbed of any chance to instruct Bedwyr on his mother’s chosen occupation by Myrddion, who cut into the discussion, raising his voice to drown out the shouts of the two men. Bedwyr was alarmed that Myrddion had approached so near to him unnoticed.
‘Shut up, Luka! And you too, young man, whoever you are! You will keep a civil tongue in your head or Luka will cut you into ribbons. I am Myrddion Merlinus, and I come from the High King himself.’
Bedwyr continued to struggle against Alun’s restraining arms. In his anger, he scarcely heard the last part of Myrddion’s message.
‘He can try! Even if he is a king, he’ll have to work hard to kill me off. And my mother was a decent woman, wife to a Cornovii chieftain. I’ll not have her slighted.’
‘Enough!’ Myrddion roared, using that particular gift of tone and volume that demanded instant obedience. ‘If ever a young man warranted my turning him into a toad or a snake, it’s you, you dolt! Have done! Now!’ He turned to Luka. ‘It’s obvious that this cub had no idea who you are, Luka, so it’s pointless to take offence. And shouting is unseemly for a king.’
Luka looked chastened and sheathed his knife.
‘You!’ Myrddion pointed at Bedwyr. ‘Follow me!’
‘I’m coming too,’ Luka insisted. ‘This bundle of rags is not to be trusted.’ He was spoiling for a fight; the whole camp had been on edge for days.
‘Whatever you wish, Luka. But I suggest you leave your bad temper here before you see Artor. He’s not in the mood. Try and behave like adults, both of you.’
Myrddion strode off, disapproval evident in every line of his body.
‘That’s told us.’ Bedwyr grinned, and Luka found himself smiling as well.
‘He takes the role of king’s adviser and sorcerer very seriously,’ Luka explained. ‘You weren’t very civil to him.’
‘Oh.’ Out of long habit, Bedwyr crossed himself in the Roman manner, although his faith was fractured. Luka’s doubts about the young man’s motives fell away, for Saxons didn’t pretend to be Christian - ever.
Artor had seen the fracas from the knoll, and he was irritated. No word had come from Glamdring Ironfist, and the High King had begun to fear that his strategy was flawed. His temper was strained to breaking point, and his gaze was particularly cold.
Bedwyr had only to see Artor’s remarkable hair and the king’s great height to believe that all the rumours concerning his liege were true. He fell to his knees in the trampled grass and pressed his forehead into the dirt. His heart beat so quickly that he fear
ed it would escape from his chest.
‘My lord king,’ he murmured as he attempted to kiss Artor’s foot.
‘Rise, man,’ Artor responded gruffly and impatiently, clearly embarrassed by Bedwyr’s homage. ‘Who are you? Clearly, you’re not a Celt!’
Bedwyr drew himself to his full height of five foot seven inches, a respectable height for a Briton, although his king dwarfed him. His whole body bridled with insult.
‘Sire, I am of the Cornovii tribe, and I was born near the forests of Arden in the north. My name is Bedwyr, son of Bedwyr, Chieftain of Letocetum on the Roman road to Viroconium. My family have been the guardians of Arden for time beyond time, and our stewardship of the forest is our greatest honour.’
‘My apologies, young man, if I have insulted you. But you must admit that you appear the veriest savage. Still, I was hasty and foolish, for Saxons don’t ride near as well as you.’ Artor grinned suddenly and even his grey eyes warmed. ‘One day you may tell your children that you caught the great Artor in a fundamental error of logic.’
Suddenly, as he basked in the warmth of the High King’s charm, Bedwyr was robbed of his fluency. Confusion furrowed his brow, and devotion, and he would have abased himself again had Artor not physically restrained him.
‘There will be no more bowing and scraping, for I hate all that fuss. Now, how did the Saxons capture you? From your look, I assume you were forced into slavery.’
Bedwyr sighed and began the story of his captivity all over again. As he spoke, his eyes kept returning to the edge of the forest.
‘I begged my father to send me to Viroconium, and from there, under King Llanwith’s orders, to the border at Castell Collen. Saxons ambushed my companions, but I’d been hunting, and I managed to evade the terrible deaths suffered by my friends. I won’t speak of what I saw the Saxons do to the Ordovice warriors, for I would rather hold those hideous memories in my heart until someone dies for it.’
