by Sean Poage
Modred’s place was well up the hall on the right-hand side, close to the king’s table, as befitted a prince of a subject realm. He ate little but drank copious amounts of the king’s wine, surrounded by ladies and young men drawn to his charisma and charm. After the meal had given way to drinking and socialising, Modred stopped by to greet Gawain and his family before moving on and paying particular attention to Cwyllog. She flashed Gawain a disdaining smile and lavished attention on Modred. Gawain chuckled, certain that Modred would not be fooled for long.
As the night wore on, and the cups grew deeper, Caw struck up a conversation with Gwyar as if they were long-time friends.
“I’ve always said you’re a fine man,” Caw slurred to Gwyar, who held his tongue rather than ask to whom Caw had ever said that. “We’ve had silly disagreements, but you know those are all just the dance we perform to keep our warriors from becoming complacent.”
“Complacency should not be a problem for many of them for some time,” Gwyar grunted. “The most restless of our young men, like Modred there, will soon long for the quiet days of their innocence.”
“Gah!” Caw spat, his face and neck flushing red. “A damned fool’s chase we send them on! And the gods only know if any will come back. All to flatter that southern fool with delusions of empire. Dyfnwal should never have offered up our blood for those simpering Roman bootlickers.”
“Everyone knows how you feel about this, Caw,” Gwyar said wearily.
“You said nothing at the council. You approve of this madness?”
“What I think of this is meaningless. I do not have the influence to sway any of the lords who have our king’s ear, so I sat and listened as others asked all the questions I would have asked. And with it decided, I and my kin will do our duty.”
“Ha! You fear –.” Caw’s mouth snapped shut as Gwyar spun to face him, his eyes hard, his lips tight, causing his grey beard to bristle out. After a long silent moment, Caw turned away and took a long drink from his horn before turning his attention to his family and Modred. Gwyar stood and stretched.
“Come, let us move about,” Gwyar said to Gawain and Rhian. “I’ll introduce you to the other nobles whose sons you’ll be marching with.”
The evening went long, as none dared insult the king by leaving before him, and Dyfnwal was renowned for his stamina with the mead horn. When he finally decided to go to his bed, Dyfnwal thanked his guests and called an end to the night. While the hall emptied, a stream of slaves entered to clean up and collect the uneaten food to distribute to the poor.
Gwyar led the way back down the long stairs. They moved slowly due to the crowd, but also because the stairs were more treacherous in the dim light of torches set in the wall along the path. Finally reaching the bottom, they retrieved their horses and joined the stream of people returning to the camps on the far side of the Rock. The night was beautiful, clear and crisp with only a sliver of a moon, but bright stars.
“So now you’ve been to the court of our king,” Gwyar said to Gawain. “What impression has it made?”
“It was more than I had imagined,” Gawain said. “I knew our king is wealthy but never conceived of this. Thank you for introducing us to the others. They all seemed a fine lot, and not a single lord or his lady failed to show you fond respect.”
“Humph, yes, well, never leave your purse unattended or your knife out of reach amongst such as these,” Gwyar said. “Friendship is a brittle thing when it competes with power and wealth. And once you have left our lands, you won’t even have the shield of our laws to protect you from the whims of those who rule other realms.”
“Are the people in the south so different from us?” Rhian asked.
“We share much in our cultures. Our languages are similar from one tribe to the next, although you might have to ask some to speak slower,” Gwyar mused. “But the nobles are somewhat different. Every petty warlord styles himself a king. They have a council of the more prominent kings that they call the span class="Italic">Consilium, an attempt to unite their forces and policies to revive the security and prosperity of the Roman years. Some of the nobles are still so enamoured of their former masters that they affect Roman styles and speak Latin better than the language of their own people.”
“Is the Rigotamos one of these?” Gawain asked. “Some say he wants to bring Roman rule back to our lands.”
“I don’t believe so,” Gwyar answered, then rode for a few moments, thinking. “I’m not sure. In the little I’ve seen of him, he’s well spoken, not arrogant. More devoutly Christian than most. He’s said to champion justice and truth above all. He may be the most selfless man I’ve ever laid eyes on, or the greatest liar since Satan.”
“If Rome brought security and prosperity, would it be so bad if they returned?” Rhian asked hesitantly.
“Rome is as corrupt as it is vast, and it strips its subjects of the right and ability to defend themselves. After four centuries of living under their so-called protection,” Gwyar said, “they withdrew their soldiers, and many have died trying to relearn how to defend themselves.”
“Who is the Rigotamos?” Gawain asked. “How did he become the high king?”
“I don’t know, but his prowess in battle certainly had a hand in it,” Gwyar answered. “It’s said he hails from the Cornovii and has Roman blood from generations ago. And he has a Roman name, Arturus.”
At that point, they rode into their camp, picketed their horses and went to their tents. Gawain and Rhian had a small tent of their own, and despite near exhaustion, took advantage of the privacy.
The soldiers were up early. Eudaf had them form up for a run, followed by some basic drills in the camp. Some of the soldiers from other warbands did the same, though most watched from their camps and shook their heads at this excessive display.
Gawain was not happy about the early rise and despised the exercises, but after they had finished and washed in the Lemn, he felt quite refreshed. After breakfast, everyone was given the rest of the morning to do as they wished. The king’s games would begin at midday, and all were expected to attend and encouraged to participate.
More warbands trickled in throughout the morning. As Dyfnwal promised, his man arrived at camp to speak to Gwyar and get a list of what the soldiers lacked. Gawain and Rhian followed Gwyar, Eudaf and the messenger around the camp seeing that all was in order and determining what was needed.
At midday, they joined the mass of people walking to the game fields. They sat on the grass around it, while the king and his entourage took seats on the rampart overlooking the field. It was by far the largest and most exciting festival seen in these parts in living memory.
There were all the usual competitions, including foot races, jumping, log tossing and javelin throwing. There was also wrestling, tug-of-war and fencing with wooden swords and shields. Gawain wanted to enter some of the games, but Gwyar pointed out that the nobles only participated in the horsemanship contests. Being bested by men he meant to lead could damage his authority.
At times, old family rivalries or feuds between individuals sparked brawls. Some stretched back so far that the reason for the dispute had been forgotten.
At the end of the day, the mass of soldiers and locals dispersed back to their camps or farms. The nobles met again at Dyfnwal’s hall for yet another feast, the primary social and political activity of the warrior class.
The next day was Sunday, and most attended services in the morning. There were too many to fit inside the castle’s small wooden chapel, so the priest celebrated mass from the ramparts of the lower palisade.
At noon, the nobles competing in the horsemanship games gathered by the gate, while nearly everyone else ringed the field to watch. Gawain joined in these games, as did Keir and Modred. Between the contests, there were various demonstrations to impress the audience, such as mounting and dismounting at speed, group manoeuvres in tight forma
tion and mock mounted combat with wooden swords. The space was too small for proper races, so the jumping events and competitions involving skilful turning and negotiating obstacles were the most popular. There was also the use of the javelin or spears against targets or to snag small rings hanging from a line, executed at full gallop. A more dangerous game resulting in some minor injuries involved mounted wrestling matches won by throwing the opponent from his horse.
Gawain did quite well, particularly in the obstacle races and the ring catch, which found him the champion. He came in third on the javelin throw and second in the mounted wrestling. That last was a disappointment because after he defeated Modred, he expected to win the first place. The final match was against an older man from Dyfnwal’s warband named Presuda. The sly old warrior surprised Gawain by feigning a near fall and trapping Gawain’s arm while using his legs to have his horse turn away suddenly, pulling Gawain from his seat. Laughing, Presuda dismounted and helped Gawain to his feet.
“Don’t underestimate an old man in a world where warriors usually die young,” he winked at Gawain, who laughed and congratulated him on his win.
Peredur collected Gawain’s horse while he joined his father on the grass at the edge of the ring. Gwyar grinned as Gawain dropped to the ground.
“As the proverb goes, old age and treachery will always conquer youth and ability,” Gwyar laughed, followed by a coughing spate. The close quarters shared with so many people kept the bad air lingering, and Gawain had a sore throat as well. When Gwyar recovered, he said, “I could’ve warned you, but you were starting to get a swollen head, so a dose of humility was in order.”
“He said something quite similar,” Gawain grinned, rubbing his shoulder. “You two fought together?”
“Oh, yes,” Gwyar nodded. “He’s a good man, and I’m glad he’ll be going with the army. You can learn much from him.”
“So, taken down by a greybeard, eh Gawain?” Modred appeared beside them, smiling. He squatted down and slapped Gawain on the shoulder. “Let’s hope there are no old men amongst the Vesi!”
“You threw our match so you wouldn’t have to face Presuda, didn’t you, Modred?” Gawain grinned back.
Modred laughed, and they chatted for several minutes about the games and what to expect over the next several days. Gwyar remained silent, looking out at the games. When Modred moved on to another group of spectators, Gawain looked over to his father and frowned.
“You seem to dislike Modred,” he whispered. “Has he wronged you?”
“No, I’ve had no dealings with him,” Gwyar grunted. He paused for a moment, then continued, “But I’ve had dealings with his kin. I thought it best to leave these things buried, but as your destiny brings you and Modred together, it’s probably better that you know.
“Gartnait, your grandfather, and Edor, Modred’s, were half-brothers, princes of the Gododdin, though by different mothers. My mother died at my birth. My father was the elder and died mysteriously when I was very young. I was conveniently sent away to the court of Ceretic to be fostered, but also as a hostage, as the Gododdin had not been long under the control of Alt Clut. I have little doubt that my uncle’s path to the throne was cleared by my father’s death, and my worth as Ceretic’s hostage was minimal.
“I was raised in Ceretic’s household, and though he had little to do with me, I was well treated. I was about your age when I killed the assassin that attempted Ceretic’s life and was elevated in his favour. Edor undoubtedly sent the assassin, though it couldn’t be proven. I’ve had no dealings with my uncle or his descendants since.”
Gawain was silent for a few minutes, then said, “Do you suspect Modred’s intentions?” Modred seemed to have left his father’s court in dissatisfaction, but that said little of the reason, or where his sympathies lay.
“Not entirely,” Gwyar answered. “But I doubt the honour of that entire line. I tell you this in the hope that you do not leave your back exposed to him.”
They sat quietly for a while until the gloom that had settled over them passed as they enjoyed the games and returned to other topics. The mood brightened significantly when Rhian returned from visiting with some of the other young ladies of the court. As the sun began to settle to the west and the nobles prepared for the great feast, the gloom returned to Gawain. This would be the last night with his wife for a long time. Looking into Rhian’s eyes, he saw it was on her mind as well, but she was showing her strength and maintaining her smile, so he shrugged aside those thoughts. They would make the most of the time they had together and let that carry them through.
They slept little that night, and as the camp stirred they were reluctant to rise until Gwyar called out that they would be departing for home shortly. Finally, they dressed and prepared for Rhian’s departure. Her belongings were stowed on one of the wagons, and her horse was made ready.
Gawain left her while she cleaned up and found his father directing the escort in their final preparations. He turned and smiled at Gawain, looked him up and down and said, “So… are you ready for what’s ahead?”
“I believe so, Father. At the very least I’ll take all that you’ve taught me and make the best of the talents God has given me.”
“A good outlook,” Gwyar nodded. “I know you’ll make us proud.”
Gwyar extended his hand, grasping Gawain’s for a moment before pulling him in and giving him a strong embrace. After a moment, he slapped him on the back and said, “Now go find your wife so we can get moving.”
Gawain, unable to find words, nodded, turned and hastened back to his tent. Entering, he found her standing in the centre, fidgeting with the brooch on her travelling cloak. Rhian looked up, her usual confident bearing replaced with a shaken, pale disorientation. Gawain felt his heart drop to the floor and rushed to wrap his arms around her as the tears started flowing down her cheeks. They stood there, clinging to each other, for what seemed both an eternity and the space of a breath. When it was plain that they could not stay that way forever, they eased apart and looked at each other. Gawain caressed her face, wiping away the tears, then awkwardly brushed his sleeve across his own face. He kissed her, gently. His fingers brushed her ear and stroked her hair the way he always did.
“Rhian, I love you,” he whispered. “I… I can’t find the strength to move my feet. I can’t bear to leave you. I can’t imagine being separated from you.”
“My love, my heart will be with you,” Rhian whispered, “no matter where you are. Don’t fret for me. I will be strong. I’ll miss you, but when you return to me, we’ll continue our life. And you will return to me. I know this, as well as I know the sound of your breathing when you sleep.”
She reached up and pulled him to her lips, kissing him deeply for a long minute, before pulling away and kissing his cheek.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand. They stepped out of the tent and walked through the camp to the road, where the return party waited.
Gawain lifted her onto her horse, smiled, and kissed her fingertips. Rhian smiled at him, brushed her hand through his hair, then looked at Gwyar and nodded. He returned the nod, winked at Gawain and turned his horse towards the road, Rhian and the rest following.
They merged into the light flow of traffic leading away from the stronghold, families returning to their homes. Gawain watched as they were lost to the dust and terrain. Rhian turned for a moment to look back, her white hand raised a moment before she was gone.
Gawain continued to stand there for several minutes more. Finally, he sighed, turned and returned to his tent, avoiding the eyes of his fellows.
He woke to the sound of Gareth calling his name and beating on the side of the tent. He groaned, got to his feet and went outside. It was past midday.
“The king’s quartermaster is here,” Gareth pointed towards the road. “Or were you hoping to sleep all day?”
Gawain yawned, stretched and glowere
d at Gareth as they started for the road. The king’s man was there with a small escort and a wagon, covered by a tarp. Several curious Pollag men had gathered around but were told that none would receive the goods except the leader of their band.
Gawain stepped up to the wagon and tried to look unimpressed as the tarp was pulled back to reveal a mound of shields, helmets, belts and shoes. Quite a few of the men did not have good shoes, if any, and this would be a valuable asset on the long marches ahead. It was more than he had expected, or even hoped for. He briefly wondered what items had fallen off the wagon and into the quartermaster’s personal locker, but such was the way of things.
Looking around, he spotted Eudaf standing at the edge of the group and called him over. Eudaf knew the soldiers best and would ensure the gear was fairly distributed. By the time the goods were unloaded from the impatient quartermaster’s cart and sorted into different piles, the rumour of gifts had brought the rest of the camp like ravens to a carcass.
Gawain stood back to watch as Eudaf gave out the shields to those who had inferior versions. Those who needed a helmet received one. They were slightly conical bowls of vertical steel bands, riveted together and lined with leather. Many had a metal nose guard. There were enough good, thick, leather belts for everyone to receive a new one. All who needed shoes were able to find a pair that fit close enough, and there were still a few pairs left over.
That evening, the leaders of the various bands met at the king’s hall to set the plan for the next few days. Dyfnwal’s muster was represented by twenty-three coriii contributing a total of seven hundred infantry and two hundred cavalry. One of Dyfnwal’s sons, Cunbelin, would be the army’s leader, backed by his brother, Garmonion and by the experienced Presuda. The training would begin the next day. The infantry would focus on marching as a group and assembling into line of battle. The cavalry would practice their role, including scouting, screening and supporting the infantry in advance and retreat. The march south would begin on the fourth day.
