by Sean Poage
Old Conn, sitting on a stool by the gate, greeted them as they approached. People bustled about the courtyard, preparing packs for the horses. It looked as if some of the warband were organising for a raid.
“Well, sir, it appears we were able to stroll right up to the walls without your notice,” Gawain grinned at Conn.
“Bah! Don’t be absurd,” scowled the old man. “I may be slowing down, but these eyes don’t miss much. Like the two of you nearly losing your grip on that pig while crossing the river.” Gawain and Gareth laughed, and he chuckled, leaning forward to continue. “I didn’t hail you sooner because I thought I’d send young master Peredur on an errand.”
“Ah, Conn, you’re a wily fellow! Now can you tell us what’s going on here at this late hour?”
“A herald from Alt Clut came today. The king has called his senior warriors to council. Your father has asked for you, and will be setting out in the morning.”
By this time, some of the other warriors had noticed them at the gate with their trophy. A few paused in their preparations to gather around and gape at the boar’s size and wounds. Gawain and Gareth were often obliged to restart the tale of their hunt, each time remembering greater details to embellish the story. Within a few minutes, an excited young fellow ran up to the group and greeted Gawain and Gareth fervidly. Gawain groaned inwardly, glancing at Conn, who shrugged.
“You killed this boar, my lord?” the lad gushed, eyes wide as he busied himself with unsaddling their horses and collecting their gear.
“No, Peredur, we were having a rest, minding our business, with our spears propped on the log beside us, when this poor creature walked up and just threw himself onto them,” Gawain replied wistfully. “We think his sow spurned him and he couldn’t bear the shame.” Gareth had to turn away to avoid laughing out loud. Confused for a moment, Peredur hesitated until, seeing the repressed mirth on the faces of those around, he laughed and begged for the full story.
“Go to your father’s summons,” Gareth turned to Gawain. “Some of these lads will help me finish cleaning the hog and start a pit to cook him.” Gawain thanked them and entered the fort.
The road ended in a cobbled courtyard in the centre of the compound. To the right, near the north-east wall stood a family-sized roundhouse. It’s conical thatched roof reached down to the low stone foundation. Here the local blacksmith, Efrawg, lived with his family, including his son, Peredur. A small work shed lay behind it. Along the south-eastern wall to the left, behind a post and wicker fence was a similar building, used as a barn. Some sheep and chickens roamed the enclosure, which also housed the stables.
At the far western end of the ring were two larger roundhouses. The one on the right was the home of Gawain’s brother, Gwalhafed, and his family, though in practice they shared it with Gawain and his newlywed wife. The roundhouse on the left and a little further back was taller, with a prominent stone entryway. This was the mead-hall, the chief’s home, the feasting hall of the combrogi, the centre of the warband’s world.
This is the door Gawain entered, ducking under the stone lintel and stepping up onto the raised plank floor, worn smooth and dark over many years. A central fire ring and several iron candle holders pounded into the posts dimly lit the large open room. Scrolling knot patterns in varied colours circled the whitewashed, wattle and daub walls. Around the firepit were enough benches and stools to seat up to fifty warriors, if they were friendly. Shields, weapons, animal skulls and other trophies hung from the walls and sometimes the rafters. At the opposite side of the fire was his father’s carved wooden chair, covered in hides.
The old chief, Gwyar ap Gartnait, stood beside his seat, clad only in his breeches, talking to a few of his senior warriors. His belly was full and hairy, marked with scars, as were his arms and broad shoulders. His hair and the beard on his broad, square face was long and white, but his dark eyes were still sharp and piercing. He was renowned for his strength, even after more than sixty summers, as well as his fierceness in battle. He smiled as freely as he gave of his treasure and was well loved by his combrogi.
The chief’s eyes met his son’s, as Gawain approached the small group and stopped to wait. His father was giving directions for bringing a pair of colts, three yearling calves, mead and other items of the food-render on the trip to Alt Clut. When he had concluded, he walked over to embrace his son.
“I see you finally decided to return to your home and duties,” he grinned. “How’s your sister? Did the horses all make it there in worthy condition?”
“I sped home with all haste, Father,” Gawain responded with a pained expression. “She’s well, as is her husband. He received the horses gratefully and was quite hospitable, but I’m not certain he has much to spare. His hall was empty of all but two boys and his steward. He said he’d come to visit soon and would bring gifts then, though we offered to spare him the trouble and carry them back ourselves.”
“It’s no matter,” Gwyar slapped him on the back, directing him to the sideboard. “The long peace is draining everyone of gifts to share. There’s no need to shame him.” He poured two wooden cups of ale and handed one to Gawain. “Your return is well timed. The elder warriors have been summoned to join counsel at Alt Clut. We leave in the morning.”
“We?” Gawain perked up.
“Myself and the senior warriors,” Gwyar said and noted the look on his son’s face. “You hoped I meant to include you.”
“No, Father, of course not,” Gawain replied, keeping an impassive visage as his heart sank.
“Hmmph, don’t try to sell me that bag of manure,” the old man smiled. “You will visit the Rock, but this is not the time. Something serious is afoot, and I need you here, watching over our lands and people in my absence. And with my mares at the end of their foaling, I need my best man to see to them.”
The glow of his father’s praise lessened Gawain’s disappointment. “I’m always at your call, Father, for whatever you need.”
“Yes, well, as long as you don’t have the rush of blood in your ears and the scent of game in your nose,” he laughed, draining and refilling his cup. “Now tell me about your trip while I go and see this little piglet I hear you purchased at market.”
It was unsettling how Gwyar always seemed to know everything that happened within the span of their small clan’s holdings. As they strolled to the gate, Gawain briefed him on his trip and the events of the hunt. His father was uncharacteristically impressed, beaming with pride as he squatted beside the beast, examining its wounds.
“Well! Be certain to cook this well,” he stood. “It’ll be a fine contribution to the table of our good king, Dyfnwal Hen!” He roared with laughter at the sight of the young men’s faces. Turning this tough old boar into something worthy of the king’s hall was a daunting task.
“Looks like it’ll be a long night,” Gareth said glumly, as the chief strode back through the gate.
“No, you go home and see your mother,” Gawain said. “The boys and I will get this into the pit and ready for tomorrow’s trip.”
Gareth was relieved and grateful, and the two grasped hands and embraced as men who have recently faced danger together are prone to do. He quickly gathered his horse and gear and trotted off through the gathering gloom, down the road and towards his family homestead.
Early the next morning, Gawain was bridling his father’s horse when he heard the clomping sound of his brother’s approach. He turned and smiled at Gwalhafed, who looked so much like their father must have when young, save for the carved wood and leather shank that was his right leg. If it were possible for any man to strut like a prize cock while wearing such a clumsy device, it was Gwalhafed.
They greeted each other, and Gwalhafed held the horse’s bridle as Gawain checked its hooves. “Do you have all you need for the trip, Brother?” Gawain asked, using an iron pick to remove a small stone from the hoof. “Your horse is groom
ed and saddled.”
“Yes, thank you, Gawain,” Gwalhafed said. “I hear you spitted a piglet yesterday.”
“Piglet my arse!” Gawain retorted. “Did you see the size of that monster?”
“No, it’s already been roasted and loaded onto one of the coracles,” Gwalhafed replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see it last night.”
“I am, too! But you were busy with preparations. And you’ll certainly have occasion to see it at Alt Clut.”
After a long pause, Gwalhafed frowned and said, “I’m also sorry that Father chose me to accompany him to the Rock again. I would rather he had asked you.”
“It’s for warriors to attend,” Gawain muttered, with more than a hint of bitterness. “Not an unblooded hostler.”
“Gawain, you are a warrior of our household, as much as any here,” Gwalhafed grimaced. “More so even than I, who will no longer ride to war. You’re as brave a man as any I know, to the point of recklessness at times, when trying to prove yourself.”
“There’s been little opportunity for that since I came of age,” Gawain moved to the fourth hoof. “And little prospect for the future. There are no more wars since the Picts were driven far beyond Grimm’s Dyke, and the Gododdin now render homage to our king.”
“Your time will come; either the Picts or the Scoti will resume their raiding before long. In the meantime, I think Father is looking for you to show you can be responsible for the combrogi and spend less time in hunting and races.”
Gawain released the hoof, stood and turned on his heel and strode away, neck rigid.
“Gawain,” Gwalhafed called after him, “you must know that Father is not bringing that tough old hog along for the meat. He wants to brag about you in the king’s hall.”
When all were ready, Gwyar, Gwalhafed and his five most senior warriors assembled and mounted their steeds. The residents of the fort and nearby homes gathered to say farewell and wish them a safe trip. The cooked boar, several barrels of mead and some crafted goods had already been carted down to the river and loaded onto coracles. They would follow the Carindis downstream to the Clut and thence on to the king’s fortress at Alt Clut, arriving early to wait for the chief. The colts and calves would go with the chief’s party. Gwyar gave Gawain some final instructions and a firm hand-clasp, then led the procession out the gate. Gawain stood watching their progress for several minutes after the rest had gone back to their business. Finally, he sighed, turned and walked back to the hall to see to his responsibilities.
Late in the afternoon, Gawain stepped out of the stables where he had been checking on the health of several foaling mares. Since time long forgotten, the wealth of a warlord had been measured by the heads of cattle he owned. While this was still so, Gawain’s family had turned more attention to the breeding of horses, especially for war. Many years before, on a raid far to the south, Gwyar had captured some large horses said to be descended from those brought by the Romans. He bred them with some of the larger examples of the smaller native horses from his region, producing bigger, stronger horses and mules. They were in demand by many warlords and were becoming a significant source of wealth for the combrogi.
Gawain was cleaning the brushes when he heard his name called and looked up to see Conn waving for him at the gate. Gawain laid aside his tools and walked over. Conn was smiling and pointed across the fields at the Carindis ford. A quartet of horses was approaching, and even at this distance, he could see that a woman rode one. Rhian, his young bride, was coming home. One of her companions would be his old tutor, Piran, and the remaining two would be her escorts, warriors of her father’s household.
Gawain, beaming, squeezed Conn’s shoulder, then jogged to the well near the mead-hall, pulling off his tunic. He quickly washed the sweat and horse-smell off of his body, then darted into their house and retrieved a cleaner shirt. He made it back to the gate as the party was climbing the hill.
Rhian rode a grey dappled palfrey beside Piran on his chestnut gelding, with their escorts trailing. Her unruly auburn hair was pulled back beneath a white linen scarf, with some errant curls that annoyed her but endeared Gawain. Large, friendly brown eyes twinkled in a square face of pale skin, with a dusting of freckles, a ready smile and a hint of dimples. She was laughing with Piran when she looked up at the gate and saw Gawain standing there. Her face brightened even more, and she urged her horse into a gentle canter to cover the remaining distance. She pulled up sharply at the gate and leapt off her blankets into Gawain’s arms. Her mare snorted and stamped in irritation at the unexpected shift in weight.
Laughing, they embraced, and Rhian kissed him deeply, causing Gawain to turn bright red as he noticed several people gathering to see who had arrived. Rhian laughed at his discomfort as he lowered her to the ground and greeted Piran. Short and bald, he wore a close-trimmed dark beard streaked with grey that showed his nearly forty winters. Not a warrior or a farmer, a quarter of a century of comfortable living had left him with some extra weight. He took the teasing from the young warriors of the hall in tranquil stride.
“Go refresh yourself, my lady,” Gawain said to Rhian. “I’ll see to your animals, then join you for supper.” He sent Peredur, who of course showed up, to arrange accommodations for the two escorts.
After tending to their horses and tack, Gawain ensured the escorts at the mead-hall were comfortable and fed, then headed for the house he shared with his brother’s family. It was roomy and comfortable, with a hard earthen floor, less decoration and more items of daily life. The raised fire pit in the centre had an iron spit, an expensive luxury, with a pair of geese roasting. At the edge of the hearth, Rhian sat, pressing dough onto hot, flat rocks to make flatbread for the evening’s meal. She turned, her face lighting up on seeing her husband, and Gawain smiled in return.
Stepping towards her, Gawain was nearly bowled over when a small bundle of giggling dark-haired mischief leapt onto his back from the storage platform circling the inside of the house. Laughing, Gawain flipped Torri, Gwalhafed’s second daughter, over his head and tickled her. Her mother, Gladus, who sat mashing vegetables in an earthenware bowl opposite Rhian, scolded both of them.
Gawain held Torri upside down by one leg out away from his body and ignored her giggling struggles while strolling to the hearth. He gently deposited the little girl on a pile of furs and kissed Gladus on the forehead while holding Torri at arm’s length with his hand on her forehead. “How are you feeling, Gladus?”
“Enough Torri!” Gladus barked. Torri paused, then ran out of her reach. “I’m fine, though that child is wearing me out.” She leant back, exhausted, and ran her hand across her belly, a fourth child soon to see the bright world. “Would you please place this on the table?” Gawain put the bowl on the table, then sat on the floor beside Rhian and put his hand on her knee.
“This is not the time for such liberties,” Rhian said airily, using two fingers to lift his hand and drop it to the side. She smiled as she continued with the bread. “Tell me about your visit with Beatha. I prayed your travel would be quick and uneventful. What news from the south? How was the Easter celebration there?”
“The trip was long but uneventful, aside from a massive boar that Gareth and I took down yesterday.” Rhian raised her eyebrows absently and nodded. “Oh, and of course Beatha is expecting.” He turned away to unlace his sandals as Rhian and Gladus exclaimed. Rhian grasped his shoulder, demanding more details. Gawain had little to add, aside from an expected birth in about six months, but the conversation between the women gave him time to remove his shoes and pour himself a cup of ale from a cask. He settled onto a low couch piled with furs and stretched out his legs as the conversation swept him up again with the latest news and gossip while the evening meal was prepared.
Gwalhafed’s oldest, Tarran, returned from her errands with his youngest, Anna, and supper was soon ready. Piran arrived as he often did, and they all sat on piled
furs around the fire. Piran, in his role as lay minister to the settlement, led them all in a prayer of thanks, then Gawain broke off a few pieces of bread and passed the wooden platter around.
“Do you know why the warriors have been summoned to Alt Clut?” Piran asked. “Or when they will return?”
“No one knows,” Gawain replied with a hint of a scowl. “Perhaps the Picts are resuming their raids.” As the chief’s son, everyone expected him to know details that he was seldom privy to, and he found it frustrating.
“You sound hopeful,” Piran said, dipping his bread into a small wooden cup of porridge. The quiet of the last several years had left Gawain’s generation with few opportunities to prove themselves as warriors. It created a stigma of inferiority beside the older warriors, and pressure was mounting for them to conduct raids of their own.
“Surely they wouldn’t think to attack,” Rhian looked up with an anxious frown. “After all these years, and when we are at the peak of our strength?” Gladus, a wry smile on her lips, gave a slight shake of her head and turned to feed Anna.
“You can never tell what a Pict may do,” Gawain replied absently, chewing on a piece of roasted goose. As the son and brother of famed veterans, he felt the stigma keenly.
“So, Piran,” Gladus changed the subject, “how are Tarran’s lessons progressing?”
“Quite well,” he answered, “Her handwriting is exquisite. While visiting Rhian’s family, I called on the bishop and convinced him to loan me a small book on calligraphy. I think it will further her Latin and be of interest as well.”
The conversation turned to their separate trips and the news from both regions about the crops and animals, the Easter celebrations, the health of family members and the petty squabbles and intrigues common to family and neighbours. Gawain paid only passing attention when the conversation wasn’t directed at him. Instead, he brooded on what might be happening at Alt Clut and daydreamed of riding into battle against the Picts.
