by Sean Poage
“It’s called ‘Galuth’?” Gawain asked. “I haven’t heard that word before.”
“It means ‘exile’ in the language of the Israelites,” Riwal interjected. “Our father commissioned it to fight the Saxon pirates harassing our coasts, and named it in honour of our people forced from our native lands.”
“A fine name for a fine sword,” Gawain said. “I will do my utmost to see it honour your father’s memory.” With that, he excused himself and followed his nose to find the midden. It lay in a depression just outside the wall. Gawain climbed the rampart and dropped the head over the edge, where it landed on a high, mouldering pile of animal bones and other detritus. Melwas appeared to be exaggerating his poverty.
Returning to the gate, he questioned the soldiers there, learning that Myrddin was last seen strolling along the terraces circling the Tor. Gawain gauged the weather and decided to go out and circle the fort to look for him.
Exiting the gate, he followed the path until he found one that turned back and dropped below the wall. The terraces of the Tor were not like those around Cadubrega. They were narrower, gentler, without the ditches behind each. They did not appear to have been designed for defence. The view on a clear day would be spectacular, and a peacefulness settled on Gawain as he meandered along. He found himself gazing out across the landscape, thinking about the attack and wondering if it had been planned. If Arthur had intended the princes to be killed, it would have meant the end of Gawain’s life as well, either in battle or in judgement after. His instincts told him that Arthur was not responsible, but this sort of thing was not unknown among ambitious chieftains, and Gawain was sceptical of coincidence.
He was jarred out of his contemplations when the edge of his vision caught the shape of a man standing in the path above him. He jumped back with a gasp, his hand going to his sword hilt.
“You picked a poor day to enjoy the scenery, Gawain,” the figure chuckled. “Not that you were paying much attention to it.”
“Myrddin?” Gawain asked, recovering his faculties. Myrddin was dressed much as before, but his hood was down. He leant on a dark wood staff, oddly carved into three tiers, the thickest at the top, the thinnest at the bottom, with a bronze cap at either end. Designs of various sorts were carved into it, though they were too small for Gawain to make out.
“Of course,” Myrddin nodded. “I was just returning to the community below and saw you blindly stumbling about up here.” He paused a moment, then asked, “What brings you to the Isle of Glass, and on this path?”
“The Rigotamos assigned me to escort two princes to Melwas,” Gawain answered, with the peculiar feeling that Myrddin knew the answer to the first question, and that the second was not about the hill. “And to find you.” Gawain untied the odd leather belt Arthur had given him and stepped forward to hand it to Myrddin. “He bade me give this to you, and to no other.”
Myrddin accepted the belt with an odd half-smile, rolling it up and stuffing it into his tunic without looking at it. “So. Meliau and Riwal are here, and fate begins to unfold,” he said, turning back towards the main path. He glanced back to see Gawain standing, open-mouthed. “Unless you intend to face the coming storm here, you might wish to follow me,” he called over his shoulder. Gawain looked out across the flat landscape below. The clouds and mists were closing in, and he could see rain falling to the south. It would be upon them soon. He hurried after Myrddin, again with the strange feeling that Myrddin’s words meant more than what was spoken.
“Will you stay in the hall tonight?” Myrddin asked.
“I’d sooner share the stable with my horse,” Gawain replied.
“I don’t blame you,” Myrddin laughed, continuing his stroll down the hill. “I can offer you a bed in my quarters, at the monastery below.”
“That’s kind, thank you,” Gawain smiled. “I should first check on my companions and collect my gear.”
Myrddin nodded and said he would wait for him at the base of the hill, so Gawain hurried back to the fort. He returned to the hall to find a few more people there, eating and drinking, but no sign of Glyf or the princes. Melwas told him that they were in a nearby house and invited him to stay for a show of dancing girls. Gawain politely refused and walked out into the first sprinkling of rain.
He found the house and stepped in to see the three there drinking, chatting and playing at dice. He declined their offer to join them, explaining that he would be staying with Myrddin that evening. All three looked sceptical, especially Glyf.
“Well, my lord,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t close my eyes in the house of a sorcerer, but that’s your business. I hope to see you in the morn.”
“I’m sure you will,” Gawain chuckled. “Meet me there at dawn, ready to ride, rain or not.” He collected his gear and hurried back down the path, finding Myrddin beside the stable, the pair of guards keeping a wary distance. He retrieved his horse, and the two of them walked back towards the community.
“I’d ask if your short journey was uneventful,” Myrddin continued. “But I can see that it was not. What did you run into?”
Gawain gave a brief description of the encounter, leaving out Riwal’s comments and his own questions. Myrddin nodded but said nothing for a few minutes. Gawain became a bit uncomfortable and decided to break the silence.
“It’s quite a view from the Tor,” he said.
“Hmm, yes,” Myrddin responded. “It’s a good place for contemplation. I make the climb whenever I’m here.”
“Do you come here often?”
“No. Well, perhaps more often than most other places. It’s peaceful.”
“Are you from this region?”
“Oh, no,” Myrddin shook his head. “My home was several days’ journey north-west.” Myrddin changed the subject by pointing out some leafy weeds with tall stalks of thin yellow flowers that grew in a shady depression.
“You might be interested in that plant,” he said. “It’s called Inula and has many uses, not least as a cure for ailments of the lungs and the skin, especially for horses.” Gawain was actually quite interested, having studied medicinal plants since childhood. Myrddin passed the time describing its preparation in medicines and even as a seasoning until they passed the open gate into the monastic community, just as the rain began in earnest.
Gawain gave his horse into the care of a young boy at the nearby stable and left most of his kit there. Myrddin pointed out a small round hut standing apart from a cluster of other huts.
“The house they have given me,” he said. “But, first, please go to the kitchen over there,” he pointed with his staff, “and collect a meal for us.”
“Of course,” Gawain said. The kitchen was staffed by several monks quietly going about their business, who provided Gawain with a basket of food and a jug of water. Gawain jogged back to Myrddin’s hut and pushed aside the hide covering the doorway.
Myrddin stood near a table on the back wall, leaning his staff against it. An oil lamp sat on the table beside the leather strip and a satchel with several rolls of parchment poking out. Myrddin turned and nodded at Gawain, then picked up a jug and two cups.
“Please see to the fire,” Myrddin requested. He poured a cup of wine for each of them, then started digging through his satchel. Gawain doffed his wet cloak and got a fire going in the hearth in the centre of the hut, eying the old thatch above them. It would probably begin leaking soon.
“Show me your wound,” Myrddin ordered. Gawain turned so that the back of his arm showed in the light. Gawain gritted his teeth as the dried blood pulled the cut open when Merlin removed the strip of cloth. Myrddin prodded the edges of the gash, causing the blood to flow again.
“This should be cleaned and stitched,” Myrddin announced. He put a small copper pot of water on the fire, then dug through another bag for some linen strips. When the water had boiled, he took it off the fire and pour
ed it into a clay bowl to cool, using it to clean away the dried blood and dirt. He poured some of the wine over the cut, then took out a needle and silk thread. Gawain tried to relax as Myrddin closed the wound with several small, quick stitches. Finally, Myrddin rubbed a pungent salve from a small clay jar over the wound and tied a clean strip of linen around Gawain’s arm.
“Take this,” he handed the jar to Gawain. “Leave the bandage on at night, but let the air do its work during the day. Clean the wound at night with wine, apply some salve and a new bandage for the next few nights. Longer if it becomes red or oozing.”
Gawain thanked him, and they settled down on blanket-covered straw bundles. Myrddin studied the parchments from his bag and did not seem interested in talking, so Gawain tempered his disappointment by digging into his own satchel and retrieving his book from its leather wrapping.
After several minutes, he heard Myrddin stir and, looking up, saw the man studying him.
“Arthur’s book on the cavalry general?” Myrddin asked. Gawain nodded and explained how he had obtained it. Myrddin leant back and said, “It’s a valuable thing. Take good care of it.”
After a while, Gawain started nodding off. Myrddin noticed and stood up to put away his satchel. Gawain started and woke, stretched and wrapped the book up to put away.
“So you ride on to Din Tagell tomorrow?” Myrddin asked, settling down onto his bed.
“Well, yes,” Gawain answered, uncomfortable with Myrddin’s apparent ability to know everything.
“It should be a clear day,” Myrddin said. “But muddy.”
“Um, Myrddin?” Gawain began. “May I ask how you knew my name? The day I met you at the gate at Cadubrega?”
Myrddin was leaning over to snuff the light on the lamp and paused to look at Gawain. He had the touch of a smile in the corner of his mouth and a definite twinkle in his eye when he responded.
“Do they not say I’m a sorcerer?” He snuffed the light and rolled over into his blankets.
Gawain woke with the grey light before dawn. He was disappointed to see that Myrddin was not in his bed, and his satchel and other belongings were gone. A hunk of bread, cheese and a cup of water were there, so Gawain cleaned up, had his breakfast and carried his belongings to the stable. Glyf was already there, moving stiffly as he saw to the care and preparation of their horses.
“I nearly left without you, Master Gawain,” Glyf greeted him, “on account of your orders to ride with the dawn.”
“I’m glad you’re adaptable,” Gawain responded. “How are you feeling? Did you have a peaceful night?”
“I did,” Glyf answered. “Though those two princes are the dullest of people. And I want to wring that young one’s neck.” Gawain chuckled, nodding. “As for how I’m feeling, it’s as if I’d been trampled by a troop of horse. And I can’t bend or turn my neck for this burn having scabbed over my throat.”
“Let me see,” Gawain said. Over Glyf’s mild protestations, he examined the burn that covered his throat in broad bands.
“This may help.” Gawain opened the little jar that Myrddin had given him and dabbed some of the salve on the marks. “Though it would’ve done better yesterday.”
“I do appreciate your effort, even coming late,” Glyf said. “It eases the pain.”
“Myrddin gave it to me last night and tended my arm.”
“This came from the magician?” Glyf recoiled. “If you dare to risk your skin and soul with his potions that is your business. I prefer not to.”
Gawain, surprised, closed the jar and put it away. But he noticed that Glyf made no effort to remove it.
“You know the way?” Gawain asked as they led their horses through the gate.
“I should hope so,” Glyf responded. “Since you’re the only other member of our party.”
“How far is it?” Gawain asked, becoming irritated by Glyf’s insubordinate attitude.
“We should arrive the third day, by midday,” Glyf answered.
“Let’s arrive the evening of the second,” Gawain said. “We’ll keep the horses to a trot.” Glyf heard a tone in Gawain’s voice that discouraged his usual flippancy, so he groaned, mounted and led the way out into a thick fog.
They picked their way along until they crossed the bridge and Glyf found the path that led south-west, almost through the spine of Dumnein. Picking up the pace, they passed some farmsteads and then open pastureland. Within a couple of hours, the fog had burned off and a bright morning cheered their journey. By midday, the terrain rose, become rolling hills of scrubby grassland and small forests.
It was a long, hard day of riding. They varied their speed and gave the horses breaks to drink and rest. As the sun began to set red in the west, they came to one of the larger rivers to cross.
“This is the Uisc. Where it empties,” Glyf pointed to the east, “is where I’ve heard Arthur has the men board his ships.”
“You’ve never been there?”
“No,” Glyf shook his head. “I’m from the western coast, somewhat north of Din Tagell. There used to be a farmstead not far beyond the river,” he pointed south-west. “We’d do well to stay the night there, rather than in a thicket.”
They crossed at a swift ford, teeming with fish, and followed the track further until Glyf pointed to a narrow path leading off to the left and up a hill. The sun had set, and stars were showing in the east when they found the home, nestled in a grove of trees and difficult to see. Only a little light showed through gaps in the door, and they could smell the smoke from a peat fire within. As they approached, a pair of hounds stirred and charged at them, baying. They dismounted and calmed their horses, waiting for the owner to come out, while the dogs stood their ground, snarling and barking, watching for the slightest hostile movement.
A minute later, the door opened, and a pair of figures came out. One held a spear or a stave; it was too dark to tell for sure.
“Who’s there?” yelled a man. “Why are you on my land?”
“We’re here on the business of the king,” Glyf called out. “And the last I heard, this is his land.” The figures shifted uneasily, and they could hear some anxious murmuring.
“Which king?” the voice called.
“The Rigotamos,” Gawain answered, getting a cautionary look from Glyf. “We’re his messengers, only passing through.” He held up the wooden disk of the courier’s seal on its thong, rather pointlessly in this dim light.
“The king of this land is Gwynn. The Rigotamos is not our master.”
“We mean you no harm,” Gawain called out. “We need only a place to sleep for the night, as hospitality obliges. We’ll depart with the sunrise.” There was a quiet pause.
“Is it only the two of you?” the man asked.
“Yes, and our two horses,” Gawain answered.
The man gave a couple of short whistles, and the dogs turned and trotted back to their master while one of the figures ducked back into the house.
“Come up,” the figure said. “But know that we have nothing of value.”
“Who is Gwynn?” Gawain whispered as they paced slowly towards the house.
“A local warlord,” Glyf answered. “Calling him a king is a stretch. But he’s said to be loyal to Arthur, at least in appearance.”
When they were close enough to see the man, they saw that he did indeed hold a spear, though one that had seen better days. Moreover, while he was as tall and sturdy as most adults, he was barely old enough to be called a man. He had curly dark hair and suspicious eyes and wore only a rough tunic with a knife tucked into a cord belt. From inside the house, they could hear the occupants scurrying about to hide whatever of value they owned.
The boy peered at them, noting their expensive arms and that Gawain’s armour was not the garb of brigands or even common soldiers.
“Lord,” the boy bowed his head to Gawain.
“Please forgive my suspicion. We’re more likely to find thieves at our door than agents of the king.”
“Simple prudence,” Gawain replied. “We take no offence. What’s your name? Are you the master of this house?”
“Gwidawl, my lord. I am, since my father died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I am Gawain, and this is Glyf.”
“We own no horses and have no stable, and our winter hay is spent, so I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer your beasts,” Gwidawl stated. “But the grass behind the house is long, and we’ve prepared a supper that we would be honoured for you to share with us.”
Gawain and Glyf thanked him, then led their tired horses around the back to picket them for the night. After unsaddling them, checking their hooves and the various other tasks required of a horseman, they carried their gear back around to the door. They were met by Gwidawl and a younger boy who took their kit into the house.
Inside the dim space, they were welcomed by Gwidawl’s mother, Bodicca, and his sister, on the verge of womanhood, who stood shyly behind her mother, wrapped in a shawl. Gawain and Glyf were especially gracious and avoided giving undue attention to the girl.
The hearth in the centre of the house had a blackened pot propped up on rocks over a peat fire. The hard earthen floor was strewn with fresh grass, but there was little else in evidence, only some bundles of sheepskin covered straw for seats and beds and a few wooden crates along one wall. Their tools, extra food and few other valuables would be well hidden.
They probably only owned four bowls and often ate right from the pot. But on this occasion, they gave each of their guests their own plain, chipped, home-fired clay bowl, while Gwidawl and his brother shared one bowl and Bodicca and her daughter shared another.
They had clean water, milk and had brewed their own beer, a watered down drink that was poor in comparison to what Gawain and Glyf were accustomed. The meal was typical fare amongst the poor—a thick porridge made of legumes, grains and whatever herbs and root vegetables they were able to grow or find, scooped from the bowls with pieces of dense, dark bread. And there was not much, little more than the family would have eaten that night.
