by Sean Poage
Gawain entered, passing a pair of Arthur’s guards, who stood like statues. The great hall’s only furniture was a heavy, plain wooden chair on a dais at one end and a few benches against the walls behind the white plastered pillars that lined each side. Small windows high up would have lightened the room if not for the gloom outside. The floor was marble, deep red with streaks of white that eerily reflected the light from the torches and oil lamps.
Few people occupied the hall. Arthur, upon the throne, leant forward, scowling at a fat man dressed in an ostentatiously embroidered and fur-lined robe. Cei and Bedwyr stood nearby to Arthur’s right, while a handful of clerks with their wax writing tablets clustered on his left.
“We are done for now,” Arthur said, scowling at the man before him. “Inform your council that if this must be addressed again, I will simply replace them with a military governor and garrison.”
The robed man bowed, turned and bustled out, Arthur’s glare following him through the door. When it closed, Arthur looked down and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger for a long moment. He looked tired, perhaps older.
“My good men,” Arthur addressed Gwenwyn and his group. “Please retire to my chambers so we can discuss your business there.” He then turned his gaze to Gawain.
“Gawain!” Arthur beamed. “There is no task I can give you that will not be successfully completed.”
“My lord,” Gawain approached the dais, set down his sack and bowed. “I pray our efforts were not in vain.”
“You’ve lost men?” Arthur asked gravely.
“Three, my lord, including one of my kinsmen.”
Arthur nodded. “It’s a burden of command, to see men die following your orders. The higher your place in that chain, the more you must detach yourself, or it will drive any man of conscience mad.” He looked up at Gawain and said, “I hope it helps to know that your efforts were entirely successful. You distracted Euric and allowed us to expand our control further. We’ve heard of the discord and confusion created around Pictavis. You and your men are to be commended.” Bedwyr smiled and nodded, while Cei, in his usual fashion, remained stoically unmoved.
“Thank you, my lord,” Gawain bowed. “I’ve brought the plunder that is your due, as well as the coins you entrusted to me but were not needed.”
“A share of the plunder that came back, no doubt,” Arthur grinned. Cei snorted a chuckle, all aware of what soldiers do with treasure they cannot carry. “I’ll accept the return of the funds I gave you. As for the treasure, I waive my claim, with the hope that you’ll be generous with it, to God, as well as your men.”
“My lord, that’s very kind,” Gawain said, then paused thoughtfully. “Would it be possible to arrange for a share to go to the church and the remainder to the families of each of the men I’ve lost?”
“A worthy notion,” Arthur nodded. “See that it’s done,” Arthur barked over his shoulder to the clerks standing by. “It will return with the next rotation of ships. Have you reported to your commander since your arrival?” he asked Gawain.
“No, my lord. I just returned and do not know where to find him.”
“The clerks will direct you to his house,” Arthur said. “Report to him immediately and return here tomorrow, before the evening meal.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gawain bowed. He collected his bag, followed one of the clerks outside and gave him the names of the men and their homes. Gawain handed him the sack, having little choice but to trust that at least some of the gold and silver would make it back to the families. When finished, he followed the directions to Hyfaidd’s house, one in a row of narrow two-storey stone and timber structures near the barracks.
Hyfaidd welcomed him back, and Gawain gave him a brief account of the mission. Hyfaidd postponed the full debrief to the next day, then gave instructions for billeting Gawain’s men. He was about to see Gawain out when he stopped.
“Oh, one moment,” he said, turning back into the house. He was back shortly with a folded piece of parchment tied shut with string. He handed it to Gawain, who saw his name written on one side. “While you were away, a fleet returned with supplies, including this letter, which I’m told is from Modred ap Lot. You have influential friends.”
Gawain, surprised, put the letter under his cloak, thanked him, then turned out to the drizzle and fading light to return to Etmic’s barracks. He was extremely curious about the letter, but after moving his men to their new barracks and drawing their rations, he had a bite to eat and fell straight to sleep.
The next day happened to be a Sunday, so after a quick breakfast, Gawain attended services at a chapel built for the soldiers, then checked on his troops. He told them to spend the day cleaning and repairing their gear, then had Illtud, Lloch and Cadwal join him for the debriefing with Hyfaidd. Because they operated in different locations, it would provide more information than if Gawain went alone.
It lasted several gruelling hours. Hyfaidd had several maps of the area and took copious notes of the details they provided about the terrain, settlements and fortifications. When he was satisfied, he had wine and food brought in.
“Arthur had others out doing similar work, but none stayed out nearly as long as you, nor caused half the havoc,” Hyfaidd said after a long drink. He leant back against the wall and stretched his legs out. “You did quite well, though I’d say your expedition for wine was unnecessarily risky.”
Gawain nodded. He had not told Hyfaidd or anyone except Gareth about Arthur’s task with the belt. “Do you know what’s planned next?” he asked.
“Continued expansion,” Hyfaidd shrugged. “Though not for a while, until he has stockpiled enough food to march without having to forage. Otherwise, we would have to wait for the next campaigning season.”
“Would Euric wait that long?” Illtud asked.
“We, particularly you, have destroyed much that he could use to feed his army in this region,” Hyfaidd answered. “It’s doubtful that he has enough stored away to move before the next season.”
“Does Arthur have enough supplies?” Gawain asked, thinking about the exchange he overheard the day before.
“No, not by far,” Hyfaidd shook his head, frowning. “Arthur’s agreement with the Romans, this Syagrius fellow, is that they’ll provide the stores needed for the campaign. But each ship brings enough to keep us fed for now and little beyond that. Arthur’s taxed the farms in the lands he controls here, but only lightly to maintain the goodwill of the people.”
“What do we do now?” Cadwal asked.
“We tighten our hold on this region,” Hyfaidd said. “It’s a rather dull routine, as Vesi incursions have become rare, and banditry has been nearly eradicated. But we continue to drill the troops and patrol to prevent idle hands from turning to mischief. Lloch, you’ll be detached from our ala and returned to your usual duties.”
“It’s been an honour to fight alongside these men,” Lloch said graciously.
For a while, Hyfaidd described how chores, patrols and training were conducted, as well as details of the city, its local government and the surrounding lands. When they had a good grasp of how things would proceed, they were dismissed to update their men. They would have a few days to rest and recuperate before starting regular duties.
Gawain returned to his small room at the end of his barracks and tried to clean up as best he could. His clothes were rather ragged from two months in the field and not worthy of Arthur’s hall. The market would not be open that day, so he wore his darker tunic and trousers to avoid showing the stains as much. From a tightly rolled sack, he removed the expensive green cloak given him by Arthur at Namnetis, seemingly a year before. He hoped it would draw attention away from his travel-worn clothes. As he finished dressing there was a knock on his door, and it opened slightly. A hand poked in waving a jug of wine.
“Might the Hero of Namnetis deign to share a drink with a lowly cons
cript?” Gareth called from behind the door.
Gawain laughed, grabbed the jug and yanked the arm into the room. Gareth stumbled in, clearly not on his first jug.
“You didn’t have to dress up for me,” Gareth said, eyeing Gawain’s cloak sceptically.
“I’ve just learnt to put on as many clothes as I can when you show up drunk,” Gawain grinned. “But I’m afraid I can’t stay. I’m ordered to Arthur’s hall tonight, probably to be questioned on our expedition.”
“Is there anything more to say after Hyfaidd’s interrogation?” Gareth looked perplexed. He steadied himself against the wall. “No, I think you’re being groomed for elevation far above the likes of us. Don’t forget your friends when you move to the palace.”
“You’re drunker than I thought,” Gawain said, opening the bottle and giving it a suspicious sniff before taking a long swallow. “I always thought the leaders made everyone else do all the work. You know, I received a letter from Modred, and I still haven’t had time to sit and read it.”
“A letter!” Gareth, looking obnoxiously awestruck, took back the jug and had a long pull. “You need to stop spending so much time with your letters, and your books and your lords and your…” he trailed off for a moment, struggling to continue the thought. “And whatever, and spend time with the lads. The goodwill you earned for the wine back at Cadubrega won’t last forever. In fact,” Gareth’s voice lowered conspiratorially, “I’ve been hearing many people call you the southern end of a northbound horse.” He nodded seriously, wobbling slightly.
“Who said that?” Gawain was more puzzled than angry.
“Well, just me,” Gareth shrugged. “But I say it a lot, so it seems like many people.”
Gawain laughed and grabbed the bottle while shoving Gareth’s head the other direction and nearly toppling him. He took a quick drink and handed it back to his grinning friend. “Tomorrow I’ll go to the market, and we’ll have something better than this swill. I promise.” He turned and stepped through the door as Gareth gave a parting shot.
“Don’t expect me to dress up for it!”
Few people were about that evening as Gawain walked up the hill to the praetorium. Gawain was immediately admitted and followed Drem to a different part of the palace and another door flanked by a pair of Arthur’s statue-like guards. Drem stopped, knocked and announced Gawain when the door opened. Gawain was motioned in, and the door closed behind him.
He was in a large, richly appointed room, with thick carpets on the floors and colourful tapestries on the walls. Couches lined two sides, with cushions scattered about. Arthur lounged on one of the couches, with Morcant looking fidgety and distracted, sitting upright at the other end, sipping at a cup of wine. Cei, Bedwyr, Gwenwyn and Hyfaidd were there, along with a dozen others he knew only by sight. All were sprawled on the couches or cushions, drinking and eating from trays of food scattered about. They greeted Gawain as informally as if he had just returned from the privy.
“Ah, Gawain! We were just discussing you,” Arthur smiled, waving for him to find a place to sit. Gawain sat down on some cushions and was handed a copper goblet by the man on his right, while the fellow on his left filled it with mead. Gawain thanked them and tried to look at ease amongst all the seasoned warriors.
“We’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time,” Arthur said. “You show immense potential. Unwavering loyalty, great skill at arms, keen judgement and admirable courtesy.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Gawain smiled, caught between pride and embarrassment.
“He also shows a stubborn refusal to be killed,” Cei chuckled. Gawain blinked, but Arthur continued.
“Gawain, have you heard of the Persian Immortals?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, my lord,” Gawain answered, pausing a moment to think. “Herodotus, I believe, said they were elite warriors whose casualties would always be replaced to keep their numbers at ten thousand.”
“Excellent!” Arthur smiled, while Cei rolled his eyes and the others looked vaguely amused. “While I have no wish to emulate Xerxes, a king must have his own guard.” His hand swept the room. “These are the finest warriors to be found anywhere in the world, and I am honoured that they have pledged their lives to me, as I have to them.” A growl of assent answered him, the men raising their cups, as did Arthur.
“They train hard, they fight harder, they earn their mead, and they receive their rings of gold in double handfuls,” Arthur continued, bringing another rumble from the men. “Beyond the oaths we swear, I demand that a man who stands by my side be a man of honour, true to his word and deed. A man of courage, placing the lives of his fellows above his own. A man of humility, understanding that the hand that lifts the sword and brings victory does so by God’s grace.” The room had gone silent, many heads bowed a moment, including Arthur’s. Gawain sat in awe, not daring to imagine what Arthur was getting at.
“My guard, the warriors of my household, specifically, is short a man,” Arthur’s voice softened, and he looked at Gawain for a moment. “Gawain, we believe you are worthy of our circle. Do not answer now, consider it carefully. In one week we will gather together again. If you feel you are prepared and willing to become a member of my household, I will accept your oath, and you will have a place at my table and honour alongside these great men.” He paused a moment, watching Gawain’s expression of open-mouthed astonishment. Then he raised his glass and his voice.
“But for tonight, let us drink, sing and lie about our exploits!”
The room erupted in a cheer, and a pair of doors at the other end of the room were flung open to admit a line of servants bearing yet more food and drink, as well as musicians and beautiful young dancing women. It was a night unlike any he had ever experienced.
The next morning, Gawain awoke to a pounding head and sour stomach, sprawled across a cushion on the floor of the dimly lit banquet room. Some of the men were stirring, low groans, flatulence and other noises circling the chamber. He lay for a moment trying to recall the events of the night before. The memory of what Arthur had offered him coalesced in his mind with sudden sharpness. He lay there for a bit, thinking, before quietly crawling to his feet, collecting his things and stepping around the scattered sleepers to exit the room and make his way back to the barracks.
Back in his room, he doffed his cloak, pulled off his boots and collapsed onto the bed. He stared at the ceiling, thinking about Arthur’s invitation and what it would mean. He was conflicted between his desire for the honour and opportunities it would provide and the result of being separated from the men of his turma, his friends and brothers. He fingered the charm Rhian had given him, missing her immensely, and wondering what she would think. And what his father would think. Would it be a betrayal? Not likely, but Gawain was sworn to his father’s lord, Dyfnwal. It was not uncommon for warriors to take service with other lords, but Arthur’s lands were far from his own, and he was not sure if the oath would be binding beyond this war.
Modred would be utterly consumed with envy, Gawain chuckled to himself. And then he remembered the letter he had set aside. Gawain rolled to his feet and retrieved it. He sat on a small stool and lit the stump of a candle on his shaky little table before examining the parchment. It had been folded into a chunky square held shut by the string. He could see the faint remains of writing on the pale material. Parchment was an expensive commodity, and it was not unusual for a sheet to be scraped and reused.
Gawain cut the string and unfolded the sheet. The letters were small and neatly written, with another, rougher script written perpendicularly along the edge. He adjusted the candle and began reading.
‘Piran, to his friend and lord, Gawain, may this message find you in good health.
It is with the greatest sorrow that I must bring tidings that your father has passed from this world, but having made his peace with our Saviour, and with his loved ones all about him. Among his final words wa
s a prayer for God’s blessings upon you and your posterity.’
The letter fell from Gawain’s fingers, his sight blinded by sudden tears. He sat there for a long time without thinking. His thoughts returned slowly as he tried to comprehend his father being dead. He wanted to believe it was not true, though knew it was. He felt guilt; for not having been there, for… he was not even sure what else. He wanted his father to know how far he had come from the child he had been, of his growing fame and the honour he was shown. For his father to be proud of the man he had become but would never see. He recalled the last time he saw his father, giving a nod and a smile before riding away. He was unable to continue for some time as he sat there, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched, sobbing silently.
Eventually, the tears passed, Gawain relaxed from his rigid posture and his breathing returned to normal. He sat that way for a while longer, his mind blank, until he picked up the letter again. Continuing from where he had left off, his eyes widened.
‘It is true that the mercy of our Lord is such that while he has called for your father, he has sent you and Rhian a blessing. Your wife is with child. I hope this joyous news helps allay the grief of losing your father. His elation nearly restored him when he learnt of it, and he obtained an oath from your brother, though of course none was needed, to see to the care of Rhian and the child until your return.’
Gawain was stunned, his mind grappling with the conflicting events, to the point that he felt disconnected from his own body. Finally, as the confusion subsided, new tears of a different sort came to his eyes. After a time, his heart lightened, he returned to the letter.
‘You are greatly missed, but your wife, your family and the combrogi are well. Though your father long ago freed me, I stayed these many years for love of him, and while I have no less love for you and the rest of my adopted family, my grief is such that I feel it is time for me to return to the lands of my birth and contemplate what God desires of me. I will pray each day for you all, and for us to meet again before we are called to our Lord.
