by Sean Poage
But he did yell at the top of his lungs for his fellows, and any chance of Gawain sneaking back to the fort was gone. Gawain picked up speed and sprinted on, now turning away from the river. If he were trapped against the river, it would be very hard to swim and hold onto the criapan. He did not want to carry the dishonour that would come from losing it.
The sound of pursuit came to his ears. They were running along the track up to his right. Not hindered by the rougher terrain, they would make up time and be in a position to head him off if they didn’t see him first. The river took a turn to the south nearby before looping back towards the fields around Pollag. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath and listening. It sounded like the others were passing by above him. He turned away from the river and crept back towards the path. No one was in sight, so he darted across the track and made his way deeper into the trees on the other side. This direction would bring him out of the shelter of the forest sooner, but closer to the fort and, with luck, they would expect him to be down in the trees near the river. He picked up speed again but kept his pace measured, saving himself for the long sprint that was to come.
After about half a mile of steady running, he could see the light ahead where the trees abruptly ended. He slowed down to survey the final run across the field, looking to his left where he expected the other team to be. Sure enough, he saw a form or two at the edge of the tree line to the south. He was grinning in satisfaction for his cleverness when he was startled by a yell to his right. Gawain launched into a full sprint, breaking out into the open field. A glance to his right showed several young men in pursuit, and their commotion had attracted the attention of the men to the left, who spotted him and joined the chase.
Not all of them headed straight for him. Several dashed for the road leading to the gate, almost a mile away and up the hill. Gawain was entering a tightening noose, and his only hope was to stay just far enough ahead of them. But it didn’t look good. They had had a few minutes to rest and a roughly equal distance to cross. And Ajax was not far from the lead. For such a huge man, he could move fast.
As half the field was crossed, the ground started to rise. Gawain’s breath was becoming ragged, his legs heavier. He could sense that he was a respectable distance ahead of the pursuers on his right and he didn’t waste concentration by turning his head to see where the left-hand mob was. But from the corner of his eye, he saw that a couple were ahead of the pack and might get ahead of him on the road. Gawain poured his reserves into the final uphill push. While a very fast sprinter, he was not cut out for long-distance running and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He kept his head down and pushed himself up the hill, gasping, a sharp pain stabbing in his side.
Looking up he could see the crest of the hill and the palisade upon it. People were standing on the rampart watching, cheering. Only two or three good spear throws further. Through the blood pounding in his ears, he heard his name, people behind him cheering him on, telling him to go, go, go. Could it be his team behind him? He turned his head, to look over his shoulder and saw Gareth in the lead, chasing him with all his might, with others behind him. His attention diverted for a moment, he missed his step, slipping on a loose rock, and felt himself hurtling to the ground. He had time to think, “So close…” as he tucked the precious criapan close into his body and took the full force of the fall on his shoulder, chest, chin.
Dazed, the wind knocked out of him, he had no chance of getting back on his feet in time. Gareth reached him in a few steps, grasped his shoulders and flung Gawain over on his back, grabbing for his hands and the prize held to his chest. Gawain nearly lost his grip and tried to roll away when Gareth was bowled over in a spray of sweat and curses. Peredur almost tripped over Gawain and regained his footing several feet past.
“Peredur!” Gawain yelled, and with both hands heaved the ball to him. The hapless boy’s attention was split between Gawain, Gareth regaining his feet, and the approaching, roaring mob intent on taking the prize back. The slick wooden sphere slipped through his fingers, hit him in the chest and dropped to the ground. Peredur’s eyes widened in horror, and he dived for the ball, but it skidded away from him down the hill.
Gareth stood and went after the ball, but Gawain tripped him up, and he sprawled out across the road again. The ball may be lost, but Gareth must not get it. The dozen or so who were still in the race were nearly upon them, and the ball was rolling down the road towards them. One man, several steps ahead of the next few in the pack, deftly scooped up the ball without breaking stride. Gawain groaned and rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to convince himself to join the chase back down the hill.
But the ball carrier did not turn or swerve off the path. He continued on up the road towards the gates, leaping over Gareth and Peredur. Gawain got a good look at the man: handsome, somewhat older than he, with golden hair and a sharp chin. It was one of the two escorts for his wife, who must have joined the game on the Pollag side.
“Peredur!” he yelled, and threw himself at the legs of the nearest pursuer, managing to trip up both him and the man behind. Peredur also tackled a runner, while Gareth rolled out of the way to avoid being trampled.
The cheering from the fort increased, and as the mob realised they could not catch the ball carrier, they gave up the chase. The stranger lobbed the criapan through the open gate into the hands of old Conn and leant over to catch his breath. The cheering spectators surrounded the man, slapping him on the back and bringing him water and a face cloth.
Gawain, Peredur, Gareth and the tripped-up players sat, wiping the sweat away from their eyes and trying to catch their breath. Ajax hadn’t made it very far up the hill and had sullenly turned away, heading home with his remaining fellows.
“Good game,” one of the opposing players said, standing and offering his hand to Peredur, who had downed him. All agreed and traded compliments as they stood and dusted themselves off. Many had scrapes and cuts. Gawain had some prominent, stinging abrasions on his chest, shoulder and chin.
“Who was that?” Gareth asked. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“I don’t know his name,” Gawain answered. “He’s our guest, one of Rhian’s escorts from Din Eidyn.”
“What?” exclaimed one of the other players. “He’s not of your household? You can’t claim the victory! The criapan is forfeit. It may as well go back to Wentas.”
“I’m no happier about the outcome than you, Gildaf,” Gareth said. “But the guest of any household has always been welcome to take part in our field games. I see no reason why this would be different.”
“These stakes are entirely different, a tradition of our clan, not a stranger’s,” Gildaf retorted.
“Well, then, you should bring it up to the arbiter,” Gawain suggested tiredly.
“Humph, as if we all don’t know where his loyalties rest,” Gildaf growled, turning away and stumping down the hill.
“It’s not worth it, my friend,” Gareth said, reaching out to hold him up when he noticed Gawain’s eyes turn hard.
Gawain paused, then turned to walk up to the gate. “If only your tackle had been as well considered as your words,” he smirked at Gareth. “My friend.”
“I can’t believe I dropped the ball,” Peredur said, joining them.
“It happens,” Gawain shrugged. “Teamwork won the game, and that’s what matters.”
They reached the gate and were welcomed by the crowd. Amid the jostling and congratulations, the blond stranger stepped out to Gawain and extended his hand.
“Thank you for letting me join in your game,” he said. “It was quite rousing!”
“Thank you for bringing the prize home for us,” Gawain answered, shaking his hand. “We nearly lost it, thanks to this oaf.” He jerked his thumb at Gareth. Peredur happened to be standing beside him and looked stricken, thinking Gawain referred to him.
“Of course not, it was an ex
ceptional team effort. I was merely in the right place at the right time.”
“May I know your name?” Gawain asked. “You must be the guest of honour for our humble meal tonight, and for a likely feast upon my father’s return.”
“I am Modred ap Lot,” he replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself when we arrived last night, but I was tired and did not want to cause a fuss.”
“I… wait, you’re the son of Lot?” Gawain stammered, “How could you not tell us your father is the prince of the Gododdin? You should not have found our hospitality so lacking!”
“Please, it was just as I preferred,” Modred smiled, clasping Gawain’s shoulder as they walked through the gates, the crowds dispersing. “You showed more hospitality to a tired soldier than most are inclined to do.”
“Please share our evening meal with us,” Gawain said. “I would not have my father know that you were so little honoured here.”
“Thank you, I will. Providing you promise not to go further out of your way than you would have done without our company.” Gawain agreed, and Modred stopped. Rhian stood by the path, smiling. “And now,” Modred added, “I believe your charming wife has been patient enough for you.” Gawain smiled, bade farewell, and turned his attention to Rhian.
“You had no interest in the commotion at the gates, I see,” he said with some disappointment.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, taking his arm and turning towards the house. “I watched from the parapet, though I could barely bring myself to look, I was so worried for you. But immensely proud.” She stopped and stood on her tiptoes to give him a light kiss on the lips. “But I’m no silly girl who mothers her husband. I knew you would come to me when your blood cooled and you had finished your celebration with the other boys. And then we would have a real celebration.”
“You are a wonder of thoughtfulness,” Gawain kissed her.
“Now let me tend to the triumphant warrior’s wounds,” Rhian led him to the well.
The evening proceeded delightfully as the story of the game was recounted and the new friends became acquainted. Piran, through his knowledge of Gwyar’s lineage, realised that Gawain and Modred were second cousins. Gawain’s grandfather was brother to Modred’s grandfather. Gawain knew that his father had come from the Gododdin, but was fostered at the court of Ceretic and stayed on as a member of his warband. And Gwyar never spoke of his youth before that. That was all Piran knew, but the revelation brought greater merriment to the evening, and Gawain and Modred found that their temperaments bonded their friendship quickly.
“Why did you not tell us who you are?” Rhian asked. “Not to mention the scandal of a prince of the Gododdin taking on the dreary role of a guard!”
“Oh, I grew restless in the dreary role of a prince in my father’s court,” Modred smiled, “so I set out to find some adventure. When I stopped at his other court at Din Eidyn to collect a few things, I learnt that a couple of the soldiers had been hired to escort you here. It was the perfect opportunity to explore westwards and visit the mighty Fortress of the Rock, so I bribed one of the fellows to let me take his place. Remaining anonymous prevented any sort of fuss.”
“Well, I am glad you told us today,” she replied. “Thanks to Piran, we know that you’re family.” Everyone raised a glass to agree.
“Piran, you’re a remarkably learned fellow,” Modred said. “I’m afraid to admit that, from your accent, I took you for a favoured slave.”
“You’re quite insightful, my lord,” Piran smiled. “I was a slave, for a short time, long ago.”
“You bought your freedom?” Modred asked.
“No, though Gawain’s father offered that arrangement that when he purchased me.”
“This sounds intriguing,” Modred said. “Might you elaborate?”
“It was an unusual situation,” Piran chuckled. “When I was young and Dyfnwal’s father, Ceretic, was king of Alt Clut, raids back and forth between Britain and Iwerrdon were common. I and many others were taken in a raid by some of Ceretic’s warriors and brought to Alt Clut to be paraded before the king, which is where Gwyar found me.”
“Our father has a keen eye for people,” Gwalhafed said. “He noticed ink stains on Piran’s fingers and struck up a conversation with him in Latin, learning that Piran was a trained scribe. Father never learnt his letters, but he wanted us to be well educated, and I was just old enough to begin studies, so he sought to purchase Piran from the warrior who claimed him.”
“Gwyar was a new landholder,” Piran said, “and had little wealth in those days, so he told me to hide my education from others, to keep my price low. In return, he’d employ me as a tutor, and I’d be able to buy my freedom when the price was recouped.”
“Not only did he conceal his education,” Gwalhafed grinned, “but Piran portrayed himself as so uncommonly thick that no one showed an interest in him. Father was able to purchase him for the price of a goat and a horn comb with several broken teeth.”
“The owner was so frustrated with his worthless plunder,” Gawain said, “that he said Piran would be best suited for frightening birds away from crops if he could be lashed to a post with something shiny dangling just out of reach!” The room erupted in laughter as Piran crossed his eyes, let his tongue loll and mimed trying to grasp something out of the air.
“But you said you didn’t buy your freedom,” Modred said, still chuckling.
“No, I was freed,” Piran said. “It so happened that Ceretic’s men had stumbled on my group returning from a festival in which the great bishop, Patrick, had recently baptised many of our folk. Patrick was furious that Christians would enslave other Christians and sent messengers demanding our return. At first, Ceretic ignored the demand, but when he was excommunicated, he had a change of heart, and all the captives were returned.”
“Except for you?” Modred asked.
“I’d taken to the family and felt a calling to remain here,” Piran replied. “I had been training under Patrick to become a cleric, and I found purpose as a lay minister here. I flatter myself to think I follow the example of Bishop Patrick, who had been taken as a boy and spent six years in Iwerddon as a slave before escaping and becoming a priest.”
“Have you had much luck with the local pagans?” Modred grinned.
“I don’t possess the grace of my mentor,” Piran smiled. “But I do what I may.”
The time sped away until it was decided that the festivities should come to an end so that the children could sleep. Modred and Piran chose to sleep in the mead-hall again, and would probably stay up late. Gawain saw to their comfort in the hall, then returned to his own house.
Rhian had once again prepared their sleeping area, but there was a candle burning behind the screen with her. When he stepped behind the screen, he found his beautiful wife sitting on her knees in her white linen shift, smiling and holding a silver cup.
“Haven’t had enough to drink tonight?” Gawain winked at her.
“Of course,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m not surprised that you don’t know what tonight is.”
“What?”
“Mere men,” she said with mild exasperation. “This is the last moon of our wedding month.”
“No! It can’t have been a month already.”
“I’m afraid so. And as I was robbed of too many days with you, drink this mead with me and let us make up for some of that lost time.”
The next morning dawned bright and crisp. Gawain let Rhian sleep while he went outside to check on the boys who stayed the night watch. He was surprised to find Modred and his companion beside the open gate, saddling their horses and preparing their gear for travel.
“Our humble hall can’t hope to compare with Din Pendyrlaw, but must you return home already?”
“I don’t plan to return home, at least not for a long time,” Modred turned and smiled. “If the
itch to seek adventure weren’t so strong, I’d be quite content to remain here.”
“Stay a bit longer, at least until my father returns,” Gawain appealed. “He will have a great feast to honour you for winning the game for us, and his generosity in gifts is well known.”
“I don’t know how long it’ll be before he returns, and I have stayed longer than I intended,” Modred looked conflicted, then smiled. “And besides, you won that game, not I. I only scooped up your glory right before your gates.”
“If you hadn’t, no one would be celebrating how I almost won the criapan.”
“Be that as it may, it’s time for me to continue my travels before I become soft with the comforts here.” He paused in his work and looked at Gawain with sudden earnest. “Come with me! We’ll strike out to find fame and riches, and become ring-givers in our own right.”
“I…” Gawain felt oddly conflicted. “I cannot. I have my wife to think of, and my father has entrusted me with the care of his holdings until his return.”
“More like imprisoned you with them,” Modred grumbled, returning to his preparations. He glanced at Gawain and, seeing the stunned look on his face, shook his head. “Forgive me. The scorn was of my own reflection, not of you.”
Modred nodded to his companion, and both swung up into their saddles. He leant down to grasp Gawain’s hand, smiling. “You have the makings of a formidable warrior. I hope you have a chance to see more of this world, and I hope we may yet have an opportunity to run through a Pict or two together.” He wheeled around and trotted out of the gates, leaving Gawain feeling much as he did the morning his father left for Alt Clut.
After a few minutes of staring out at the fog-covered lowlands, Gawain trudged back to the mead-hall. He found Piran sitting on a split log bench near the door, with some chewy day-old bread, cheese and a large leather mug of water. He had brought out enough for two and motioned for Gawain to join him.
