by Sean Poage
“Well? Are none here willing to face me?” Bachlach shouted, turning, glaring at the men of Alt Clut. “A single spear? No one has the courage to face me?”
Gawain looked around, realising that the situation had become tenuous. Wars had started like this, and they would have little chance of fighting their way out of the fort.
“Are there no men in Alt Clut?” Bachlach spread his arms. “You are all such peerless hunters! Why not test your throw against mine?”
“No one here doubts your skill,” Gawain spoke up, hoping to relieve the tension and avoid disaster.
“I have no need of your words, boy,” Bachlach said derisively, glancing sideways at Gawain. “You can’t even do your own lying.” He then turned his back on Gawain, piling that grievous insult upon the others.
“A single throw of spears at fifty paces?” Bachlach thundered. “Come now; I’ll even await the first throw. If I move so much as a toe, I will lay my head on a block for you to take!”
Gawain was seething, the blood rushing to his head, his teeth clenched. He glanced about and saw confusion and dismay amongst his people. Cunbelin looked pale. Meirchion looked on with interest, a slight smile on his lips. Gawain suspected treachery, and that finally broke the dam of his self-control.
“I will face you!” Gawain shouted, pushing past a startled Modred and close to Bachlach, who turned, grinning, eyes wide in surprise. “Our time here is short, so lead the way, and we’ll put an end to this rot and silence your loud mouth forever!”
Bachlach threw his head back and laughed, reaching out to thump Gawain on the shoulder.
“So the bravest of Alt Clut are the pups,” he shook his shaggy head. “Ah, well, we’ll have some sport! But not until the morrow, twelve hours hence at the north gate, so we’ll have good light to aim by and spectators to cheer us on.” He called for more mead, and his anger seemed to drain away like ale from a cup as he moved off among his fellows.
Gawain stood staring at his back until Modred pulled his arm around to face him and stepped back upon seeing the look on Gawain’s face.
“My brother, calm yourself,” Modred took a jug of wine from a passing servant and filled his cup, handing it to Gawain. “I fear drink and pride have led you to your doom. He’s a giant and looking for blood. We should leave tomorrow before–”
“We will leave the morning after tomorrow, as we have planned,” Gawain growled. “And his head shall lead our march.” Gawain drained the cup, handed it back to Modred and stomped for the doors, the crowd parting as if he were Moses at the Red Sea. Modred gave the cup to someone and hurried out after him.
Gawain stalked down the road towards the gate and the barracks where their horses were stabled. Modred caught up and fell into step with him, silent for a moment until it was apparent that Gawain would not speak first.
“Where are you planning to go, brother?” Modred asked, puffing a bit from the quick pace.
“Back to our camp,” Gawain muttered, eyes straight ahead. “I will not sleep in that hall.”
“The gates won’t open after dark without the king’s command.”
“Then I’ll sleep with my horse!” Gawain exclaimed, picking up his pace.
Modred slowed a moment, shook his head and continued with him. At the end of the street before the gates, they went to the row of barracks on the right, where the hostlers had taken their horses. A guard near the gate hailed them, and Modred stated their business and convinced him to give them a torch.
They opened the first of a row of wide doors to find a small room with three horses, but none were Gawain’s. The third held Modred’s, but they continued until they had opened the fifth door and located Gawain’s. The room was just big enough for the three horses stabled there to be comfortable. A door at the back opened into a small, empty room that may have been the barracks for three soldiers, but contained only their kit, tack and some dry hay. Gawain, in no mood to speak, trussed up a pile of hay, pulled his cloak over his head and lay down to sleep. Modred did the same, though he lay awake for a long while before drifting off.
The next morning, Gawain opened his bleary eyes to light streaming into the room from a small square window high in the back wall. Looking around, he saw that Modred and another still slept. Etmic ap Caw. As the leader of Caw’s contingent and an officer of the army, he had a horse, though he preferred to fight on foot and did not take part in cavalry operations. Gawain was not thrilled to be sharing a room with him, but Etmic seemed more reasonable than most of his family.
Gawain sat up, his head aching and his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed with sawdust. Etmic stirred, groaned and opened his eyes.
“So you wake to greet your last morning,” Etmic croaked. “How do you plan to spend your few remaining hours?”
“Not humping sheep, as you would,” Modred answered, rolling over and picking a flea off his hand.
Gawain groaned and leant over his knees, clenching his head between his hands.
“Ah, you recall last night’s rash deeds,” Modred smiled grimly at Gawain.
Gawain nodded, his eyes closed.
“I’d rather face Goliath,” Etmic stated. “At least David could out-range his spear.”
“Gawain, perhaps you should take a ride?” Modred suggested earnestly. “Set out now, and meet us in a few days further south.”
“No,” Gawain replied, a look of resignation on his face. “I planted my feet firmly on this path, and it’s mine to see through.”
“Bachlach is a thug,” Modred pressed, “He was trying to provoke a confrontation, perhaps a war. You could–”
“No!” Gawain asserted. “I will not throw away my honour, nor that of my house. None would respect me, or follow me, and it would only give Meirchion an excuse to cause more havoc.” Gawain stood, gathered his kit, and turned to the door.
“I’m going to the camp to clean up and prepare for the trial. I thank you for your concern, but I’d prefer to be alone.”
The other two remained silent as Gawain left. He saddled his horse and led it onto the street and towards the gate, which was now open. The sun was warm in a clear sky. Riding out, he followed the road to the town gate and the camp beyond. As he rode, he thought about what was to come, how to approach it, how to win. He reached up and grasped Rhian’s charm on the thong around his neck. Guilt flooded over him for his rashness, for leaving her a widow.
As he rode into camp, it was clear that news of the contest had spread everywhere. Soldiers going about their business stared as he rode past, and when he reached the area assigned to his men, he was surrounded and peppered with questions and declarations of admiration. Rumour described Bachlach as ten feet tall with green skin, and some suggested he had two heads or three arms.
Peredur and Gareth appeared and helped Gawain break clear of the mob, dismount and get into their tent. They dispersed the crowd and joined Gawain, who was being offered watered wine by Keir. Mabon and Teilo were seeing to the horses that morning.
Gawain related the previous night’s events and told them not to even think about suggesting he avoid the confrontation. With little else to say, they acquiesced to Gawain’s request to have some time alone and left him in the tent. Gawain stared at nothing for several minutes, then knelt and spent a long time in prayer.
A short time before the sun was at its peak, Peredur stepped into the tent, interrupting Gawain’s contemplations to inform him that the time was nearing. Gawain nodded, stood and followed him outside into the bright sunlight. No armour would be worn, as it would suggest fear or an attempt to thwart fate. Peredur handed him a pair of freshly sharpened spears, the straightest, best balanced he could find.
“If you follow me, I’ve set up a tall target,” Peredur pointed to the clearing behind the camp, “so you can practise your throw.” Gawain gratefully followed.
Peredur had tied bundles of hay
into a roughly man-sized pillar propped up by spears. Gawain marked off fifty long paces and took several throws. It was a long distance for accuracy, but in taking his time, he was able to get good strikes on nearly all of his attempts.
Somewhat more optimistic, he nodded to Peredur, and they set off for the gates. Gawain hoped that the shakiness he felt in his legs did not show. This was the first time he had faced anyone in a deadly struggle. He prayed for God’s protection, mounted his horse, and the two of them trotted through the deserted camp towards the city.
The entire population must have gathered on the road a short distance in front of the gates. All the soldiers from Alt Clut had congregated a short distance in front of them, milling about waiting for the entertainment to begin. Some enterprising locals had brought carts of food, drink and trinkets out of the city to take advantage of the numbers and festival atmosphere. Jugglers and fools entertained while they waited.
Cheering erupted from the men of Alt Clut as Gawain and Peredur appeared, and a path opened along the road for them to pass. At the head of their people stood the officers, led by Cunbelin, Garmonion and Presuda, as well as Mabon, Teilo, Keir and an anxious looking Gareth. An open space of about fifty paces had been marked out with a large curbstone at either end. Across the field, Meirchion sat on his chair upon a small wooden dais to the side of the road, his advisors and priests clustered around him, his son at his knee. He smiled and nodded towards Gawain, who saluted the king before turning to his own people.
He lifted his sheathed sword on its brown leather baldric from his shoulder and gave it into Peredur’s keeping. The men around him offered words of praise and encouragement, thumping him on the chest, back or shoulder until the army’s priest stepped forward. Gawain immediately knelt and received a blessing from the priest. When finished, he stood, forced a cocky smile and turned to face the city gates and await his challenger.
The sun was at its zenith, the appointed hour, and Gawain had begun to wonder if Bachlach would even show when a roar from the other side of the field drew his attention. He saw a wave of movement in the crowd and Bachlach surged into the open, carrying his spear and shield and wearing his sword on a green leather baldric. His hair was meticulously combed and braided to a tail down his back, and his beard had been brushed out to look even bigger. He looked across the field, spied Gawain, and broke into a broad smile. He turned to the king and bowed, then handed a soldier his shield and sword before striding towards the middle of the field, carrying his spear.
Gawain took his spear and started across the field, counting the paces to keep his mind from unhappy thoughts. At the twenty-fifth pace, he stopped in front of Bachlach, looking up into Bachlach’s merry countenance. He saw no malice there, only joy in the coming contest, and Bachlach offered his hand with a grin.
“I’m rather surprised to find you here, as agreed,” Bachlach rumbled, squeezing Gawain’s hand too hard. “It’s a beautiful day for some sport, is it not?”
“It certainly is,” Gawain agreed, shaking his hand. “Shall we get on with it?”
Bachlach laughed, agreed and complimented Gawain’s eagerness. They inspected and approved of the other’s weapon, turned and marched to their respective stones. The people behind and around Bachlach parted so as not to be struck by an errant throw.
Gawain felt his heart pounding and forced himself to breathe slower and deeper. He placed the toes of his left foot against the stone and looked out across at his opponent. Bachlach had put a foot against his stone and stood, straight and tall, facing Gawain squarely, his left fist resting on his hip, the spear in his right.
Gawain gave his shoulders and arms a shake to loosen up. His awareness seemed to focus into a tunnel, blocking out the cheering and catcalls of the crowd. He thought through his process as he prepared his throw. Right foot back, left hand extended towards his target. He grasped the spear at its centre of balance, considered the greater distance for his aim and noted the strength of the breeze. His hips, shoulders and arm snapped as a unit to add power, and the spear launched.
It arced through the air, straight at Bachlach who stood still as a statue, grinning like a madman. At first, Gawain thought he might have a killing hit, then realised it was falling too fast. It struck Bachlach on the left thigh, below the hip. He staggered with a loud grunt and dropped his spear, both hands going to the shaft protruding from his thick leg. But he yanked the spear out, tossed it to the ground and retrieved his own, raising his arms and bellowing a laugh. The crowd behind him burst out in a roar, closing in around Bachlach, while the men behind Gawain grew quiet and spread out away from him.
“I suppose his head won’t be leading our march out tomorrow,” Gawain thought to himself, resigned to his demise. He stood straight, hands on the front of his belt, hoping that the look on his face was one of unconcerned boredom. He was determined not to show fear, not to move any more than Bachlach had. He wanted to close his eyes, but people would laugh about his fear of seeing his death approach. In the end, he focused on the fluttering of a banner on the battlements behind Bachlach, and the pale blue of the sky beyond.
Thus, he did not see Bachlach’s throw or watch the spear cross the space between them until its gleaming point suddenly appeared in his vision. Time almost stopped as he realised it was about to strike him in his right eye. At that moment, he flinched. Ever so slightly, but enough that the spear missed his face. As it passed him, he felt it brush the side of his neck before thudding into the ground behind him.
In another moment, sound came back to him, as if from deep underwater. People were cheering as they closed in around him. He felt a wet, burning sensation on his neck. All Gawain wanted to do was sit down, but he acknowledged the crowd, smiling, until he remembered Bachlach, and pushed back out of the press towards his opponent. Looking across the field, he saw that the crowd around the Scoti were showing their respect and drifting off to their own business. Bachlach kept looking for Gawain and, on spotting him, limped towards the centre of the field again, blood covering his leg. Gawain walked to meet Bachlach, realising that he was bleeding from his neck but determined to ignore it for now.
They stopped where they had stood before and stared at each other for a moment, until Bachlach extended his hand, with a wide smile.
“You did well,” he said. “And as your throw caused the greater wound, I yield that you are the greater hunter.”
“Your throw was better,” Gawain said. “I flinched.”
“So you say? Well, I dare say a blade flying at my eyes would make me flinch as well. The statement stands! And if this wound does not fester and kill me, I hope that when you return from this foolish quest, we will hunt together!”
“That we will!” Gawain laughed. “But you should come along for some real sport.”
“No,” Bachlach chuckled. “I’ve pledged my service to Meirchion, and he prefers to keep me nearby.” He turned to look over his shoulder and waved to the soldier holding his gear. “But in token of your victory, please take this.” The soldier jogged up, and Bachlach retrieved his sword, which he detached from the baldric. He turned and handed the belt to Gawain, who, following tradition, tried to decline before accepting. It was beautiful, dyed green with brown edging and intricately worked with patterns of intertwining branches and leaves all the way around. The bronze buckle and plate were beautiful, with a gilt knot-work design.
Gawain turned and signalled to Peredur to fetch his hunting horn from where it hung on his horse. It was one of his prized possessions, made from a black bull’s horn with silver fittings on a black leather strap. Peredur hurried to fetch it and handed it to Gawain, who then went through the same ritual with Bachlach, who also finally accepted.
Gifts exchanged, a new friendship struck, they parted. Gawain returned to his camp surrounded by the men of the coriios, who treated him with near legendary status. It made for a very merry night in the camp. There was plenty of food
and ale, and entertainment from the locals, in the form of musicians, fools and women. All were looking for coin, though little was to be had, and many left disappointed, though some stayed simply for the diversion and the ale.
The next morning, they broke camp and started south again. Gawain set out wearing Bachlach’s baldric to carry his sword. It would take some work to make it fit, but he wanted it to be seen as he left. He also wore a linen bandage over the cut on his neck. It was superficial and should heal quickly.
As they travelled south through rugged terrain and stunning gorges, they saw more evidence of people in the form of distant homesteads, tilled earth and watchers from distant hills. As before, people avoided the army as it passed. There were also more indications of bandits, as the scouts came upon small groups of armed men that fled on sight. They passed ruins of ancient villas that their guides said had belonged to the Romans, and on the fifth day, they stopped at a stone-walled town that once was a Roman cavalry fort. It was deserted now, except for the small garrison that Rheged maintained there.
Late morning on the seventh day, they rested near a large derelict town. The walls were broken in several places, and most of the buildings had collapsed. There were signs that a few people lived amongst the ruins, but they were gone when the army arrived. The soldiers did not want to stay near the city, as it seemed a likely home for ghosts, but they were overruled by Cunbelin. The animals needed to rest, or they would become prone to injury, so the eighth day was spent fitfully in a cold rain near its crumbling walls.
On the ninth day out of Cair Ligualid, they marvelled at great wheeling flocks of seabirds filling the sky as they crossed a wide river and marched into the Kingdom of Rhos. The king, Owain ap Einion, and his brother, Cadwallon of Gwynedd, were friendly towards Alt Clut. Their grandfather had moved his coriios from the land of the Gododdin to expel Scoti invaders, and much like Alt Clut, they were often in conflict with Rheged.
