by Sean Poage
“Why would it irritate him?”
“He comes from the Roman school,” Bedwyr said. “They frown on women providing ministry and distrust- Hush!” A low groan made Bedwyr turn his attention to Arthur. A moment later, the king stirred and slowly opened his eyes, while Bedwyr and Gawain watched breathlessly.
“Water,” Arthur croaked weakly through parched lips.
Gawain poured some from a pitcher into a small silver cup and handed it to Bedwyr, who helped Arthur sip it. After drinking a little, Arthur closed his eyes again and was quiet for several minutes. They worried he had slipped back into unconsciousness.
“You disobeyed my orders, Bedwyr,” Arthur said, with a little more strength, but not with any hint of anger. “You know how much trouble you’ve gotten me into.” A crinkle in his eye hinted at a smile that was hidden behind his pain and weakness.
“Would it have been better to let you die?” Bedwyr asked.
Arthur was silent a long moment.
“Arthur?” Bedwyr leant forward anxiously.
“I am thinking about it,” Arthur said slowly, opening his eyes. Gawain choked back a laugh, and even Bedwyr smiled and leant back. “I suppose if I must take my final rest, it would be better to do so on my native soil than alone in this foreign land,” Arthur continued softly.
“With rest, you will recover,” Bedwyr said earnestly. “But we would never leave you behind.”
Arthur opened his eyes and looked at Bedwyr. “I know,” he said. After a moment, he continued. “How long have I slept? How fares the army?”
“It’s six days since the battle in which you were injured,” Bedwyr answered. “We arrived here the day before yesterday. The Artoriani are mostly billeted at Avalon, and Cyndelic left this morning to get news from Menw and Gallcoyt.”
Arthur was silent a moment, then asked, “Is my sister near?”
“Yes,” Bedwyr answered. “Should I call for her?”
“It could do no more harm,” Arthur smiled.
Bedwyr paused as he stood, and Gawain looked over his shoulder to see Morgen standing in the doorway. Bedwyr motioned for Gawain to follow him out into the night, to allow the siblings to reunite in private. After a while, Morgen stepped out of the sanctum and found Gawain and Bedwyr sitting on the wall of the garden.
“He’s asleep. He needs the rest. It’s a dangerous time,” she said. “The wound to his side is out of danger, but it’s too soon to tell how his head will heal.”
“Thank you for your efforts,” Bedwyr said. “What may we do to help?”
“Ensure he has peace,” she replied. “He already wishes to see his men, to give them encouragement. Some fresh air would be good for him, but he must conserve his strength.”
Two days later, Gundgomar arrived to see Arthur. He was a large, barrel-chested man with flowing blond hair and a thick beard. Gawain and the rest of the Guard stood around the sanctum as if they were in Arthur’s own hall, so only Bedwyr and Morgen saw their meeting. They said little of it, except that Arthur and Gundgomar greeted each other like the old friends they were.
Guin had explained the circumstances of the wounded at the sanctuary, so Gundgomar had brought along a train of wagons loaded with foodstuffs, barrels of good wine, blankets, furs and tents. It brought a considerable measure of cheer to the camp and relieved the strain on the resources of Morgen’s community. When he departed, he vowed to return with more supplies as needed.
Over the next few days, Arthur drifted in and out of sleep. He ate little, but Morgen pressed him to drink water and broth. She permitted him short sessions with Bedwyr and other members of the Guard, occupying him with soft music and singing when speaking fatigued him. On occasion, Bedwyr and a few men would carry Arthur outside on a litter piled with furs and blankets and place it under a small pavilion by the garden wall. The wounded who could walk or convince someone to carry them would throng a short distance away, blocked from getting closer by Arthur’s Guard. Seeing Arthur wave to the men did wonders for their morale, though Morgen worried Arthur was pushing himself too hard.
On the fifth day after Arthur awoke, Cyndelic returned, exhausted. He had ridden hard and only spent one day at Blesum to rest his horse before turning back. Arthur was sleeping, so Bedwyr, Gawain and several others met nearby to hear the news he brought.
“The tidings are grim,” Cyndelic began. “Menw lost many when his camp was attacked one morning, but he reached Blesum with more than five hundred horsemen. Remigius has given them refuge until Arthur recalls them.”
“That is a heavy loss,” Bedwyr shook his head. “Was there any news from Biturigas?”
“That is worse,” Cyndelic looked down, struggling with emotion. “The Vesi continued to chase the infantry. Those of ours who made it to the city found the place in a panic, and the enemy took advantage of the confusion to take the main gate. The city quickly surrendered. We don’t know what happened to most of the infantry. A few who escaped had begun straggling into Blesum the day before I arrived, but no one knows much more.”
Everyone sat in shock and grief for several minutes. Finally, Bedwyr cleared his throat and pushed on.
“Were you able to learn anything of Syagrius and why he failed us?” Bedwyr growled.
“That may be the worst of all,” Cyndelic whispered. “It seems Paulus and Childeric arrived near Dolens a day after we had left.” He waited for the gasps and exclamations to die down, then continued. “But we have had a measure of vengeance. Euric had sent the greater part of his army back to go to Aurelianis while he chased us towards Biturigas. Paulus and Childeric came upon that army and crushed it.”
“That is little comfort to our countrymen who are slain or captive for want of a single day,” Bedwyr growled. “Is Paulus moving on Biturigas now?”
“Well, no,” Cyndelic replied. “Our old foe, Odoacer, had avoided the battle and the fate of his allies. He took his portion of the army away west, following the road to Turonis, but was discovered. Paulus and Childeric are pursuing him.”
“Does Odoacer intend to take Turonis?” Siawn asked.
“No, he arrived at the city about the day we arrived here,” Cyndelic answered. “He crossed the river and burned the bridge, but then continued west along the river towards Andecava.”
“Where he has friends,” Bedwyr mused.
“The following day,” Cyndelic continued, “Childeric and Paulus arrived at Turonis and continued in pursuit of Odoacer. That is the last news received before I left to return here.”
Bedwyr was silent for some time, rubbing his temple with his thumb and staring into the darkening horizon.
“This does not answer the question of where we stand with Syagrius,” Bedwyr said. “If we were to be gracious, it could be said that they tried to join us but were too late. Let us hope this is the case because we have little in the way of resources to regain our losses or to return home.”
Bedwyr sat patiently beside Arthur the rest of the night until he awoke. He did not recount his conversation, but Dalldav, who was sitting outside the door on guard, said that he feared the sanctum would crack open from the string of curses he heard Arthur spew. He did not dare enter, but when Bedwyr opened the door to leave, he saw Arthur reclining on his bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face.
Perhaps his wound was always mortal, or it may have been the shock of learning of the loss of so many of his men, but from that point, Arthur’s health deteriorated rapidly. Morgen became frantic as his fever returned and Arthur slipped more frequently into fits, spasms and unconsciousness.
The weather turned grey, cold and wet as if the very heavens foretold a tragedy. On the fourth day after Cyndelic’s return, Arthur awoke, more alert than most of his recent episodes. Bedwyr called for the members of the Guard to gather at the sanctum. They pressed into the small building, utterly silent but for the scraping of boots on
the flagstones or the shuffling of bodies crowded together. Arthur lay propped up on cushions, his face a pale grey, thin, with a slight sag on the right side. His eyes, tired but alert, shone from darkened pits below his eyebrows. When all were assembled, he raised his head from the pillow and smiled sadly at the crowd.
“Hubris is a most grievous sin,” Arthur said. “Despite the warnings of history, of wise men and even of wiser loved ones, my pride chose this path. If it were only my life brought to ruin, I could take my final rest peacefully.” Arthur choked on emotion and paused to compose himself. His men shuffled apprehensively, unsure of speaking.
“I’ve talked with Bedwyr about how to salvage what we may,” Arthur continued. “He will lead you home and see to it that you are rewarded for your loyal and honourable service. The bards will sing of your deeds through a hundred generations, and I could not be more honoured than to have fought and bled beside such as you.”
“My lord,” Echel, who was nicknamed “Mighty Thigh”, spoke up. “You speak as if you were not to come with us!” His distress mirrored the rest of the Guard.
“My brother,” Arthur said, “I wish nothing more than to return with all of you; but my only remaining hope is that my body returns home, as I can feel my spirit slipping away.”
Gasps and restrained exclamations erupted through the room at hearing what no one wanted to say. Arthur, expecting this reaction, weakly raised his left hand until Bedwyr hissed for them to quiet down.
“Is there nothing we can do?” Amren said, struggling to restrain tears. “Nothing that the healers may do? We can take you to a city with Roman doctors!”
“There is no healer more skilled than my sister,” Arthur said, slipping into a familiarity about his family that he seldom exhibited. “But even she is not able to thwart God’s will, and not one of us should wish to.”
“Is there anything you wish of us?” Gawain asked, feeling much as he did when he learned his father had passed. “Anything we may do in your honour?”
“I have no right to ask any more of you,” Arthur shook his head slowly. “Each of you has dreams to pursue. My dream is of peace and prosperity for our people and of Britons united towards that goal. Unity among our folk has always been a tenuous thing. Even now, when we have cowed the Saxon and won peace at home, it is threatened by petty rivalries, greed and the pursuit of power.
“Inevitably, the barbarian will once again test our resolve, threaten our lands, our families, our freedom. When that time comes, it is only through unity that we will prevail and maintain civilisation. If any of you believe as I do, I pray you will form the core of the defence against the onslaught and be a beacon of justice against the darkness.”
A rumble of assent from the men made Arthur smile gratefully, and he let his head fall back on the pillows behind him.
“Do not think your efforts here in vain,” Arthur said, fatigue evident in his voice. “Not even Myrddin can divine God’s plan. When you go out amongst the men, be joyful; speak of my miraculous recovery. This is not only for their morale, but to convince our allies to help you home. My prayers are with you all, and may God see you safely and quickly home.”
“Let our king take his rest,” Bedwyr declared. “But heed well what he has said.”
Each of the warriors reluctantly began to file out, stopping to grasp and kiss Arthur’s hand as he smiled and said a few words to each. Gawain lingered to the end, somewhat surprised to see Bedwyr nod to him and step out behind the last of the men, leaving Gawain alone with Arthur.
The king’s eyes had closed, and he breathed shallowly. Gawain hesitated before kneeling to take Arthur’s hand. He was surprised to feel it grip his own and looked up to see Arthur looking at him.
“My youngest warrior. And my finest,” Arthur smiled. “It is an honour to count you among my household.”
“You flatter me, my lord,” Gawain smiled, glancing down in embarrassment, and to squeeze his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill.
“I do not. Your prowess as a warrior is remarkable, but more so is the leadership you exhibit,” Arthur said firmly. “When it is pressed upon you,” he continued with a tilt of his head and an ironic smile. “Honour and prudence are in dire need among our leaders. So should you decide to remain amongst our fellowship, I’ve directed Bedwyr to bequeath certain lands to you as lord and guardian.”
Gawain’s mouth fell open, speechless. Arthur smiled and said, “This isn’t the time to decide. For now, our thoughts must stay focused on getting our people home. In any case, it’s indecorous to grant lands to the junior member of the band, so we should increase our depleted ranks. Ah, Bedwyr has returned.”
Gawain turned as Bedwyr entered the room, followed by the priest, Cethtrwm and Peredur, who managed to look awestruck and worried at the same time. Peredur knelt beside the king and gave Gawain a nervous nod.
“Peredur, you have developed into a fine warrior,” Arthur said. “Our order has need of men such as yourself, and I would be honoured to have you join my household as a member of my Guard. Has Bedwyr discussed the details of this responsibility with you? Do you understand all that he has said?” Peredur replied affirmatively, so Arthur continued, “Peredur ap Efrawg, why are you here?”
“To pledge my sword, life and loyalty to you, my lord,” Peredur answered.
“Gawain ap Gwyar,” Arthur painfully turned his head, “Will you sanction Peredur’s admission to our brotherhood?”
“I will, my lord,” Gawain replied, smiling in surprise.
Arthur nodded slightly and quickly concluded the oath process with Peredur, who kissed his hand, leaning in so that Arthur could lay his hand on the back of Peredur’s neck in the best approximation of an embrace that the enfeebled king could manage.
Arthur, lay back, exhausted, and closed his eyes. Cethtrwm blessed Peredur, and then Bedwyr ushered Gawain and Peredur out as Morgen stepped into the room. She looked tired and pale and did not so much as glance at Gawain as they passed. Outside, Gawain and Peredur nodded to Isperyr, who stood sentry that evening, and walked back towards the tents.
“When did you learn of this?” Gawain asked.
“Shortly before Bedwyr brought me in,” Peredur responded, then his voice dropped. “He fears Arthur may soon pass.”
“Do not speak of such things,” Gawain said, more harshly than he intended. “Just pray for his recovery.”
“I do,” Peredur responded. “But something seems out of place. Bedwyr impressed upon me to say nothing outside of our group of Arthur’s condition, but to express that he is healed and preparing to ride to war.”
“Bedwyr prepares for any eventuality,” Gawain sighed. “An appearance of normalcy and strength will be needed to bring the army home.”
“Tomorrow, I’m to lead all the wounded who are recovered enough to travel back to the Artoriani at Avalon and deliver a message to Guin.”
“Your responsibilities increase already,” Gawain quipped, as they reached the tents and parted. “I’m glad you’ve joined our band.”
Early the next morning, most of the hospital tents were broken down and packed. Within a couple of hours, Peredur, guided by a local farmer’s young son, set out for the town of Avalon with a short train of wagons and walking soldiers. Only the sickest men, about a dozen, were to remain at the sanctuary. Feelings were mixed among those who departed. They looked forward to being reunited with their friends at Avalon but did not want to be separated from their king or leave the beautiful, peaceful sanctuary. Morale was high, as news of Arthur’s recovery had spread, and as the men departed, they saw, far across the field, Arthur’s Guard on their horses lined up for inspection. A cheer rose from the men as they saw Arthur riding across the ranks in his unmistakable armour and gold-crested helm.
Gawain watched them depart as he sat in the saddle for the inspection, feeling sick to his stomach. The demeanour of the o
thers of the Guard revealed a similar sentiment. The man on Arthur’s horse wore Arthur’s armour and helm and bore his sword and shield. But it was Llysgadrudd, the only man of the Guard who approached Arthur’s height. Soon after Gawain had spoken with Arthur the night before, Bedwyr reported that Arthur had fallen asleep. He had yet to wake up again.
The rest of the day was spent quietly. After the mock inspection, Bedwyr led the Guard through some drills to get them back into routine. The rest of the day was spent in cleaning and repairing their kit, sharpening their weapons, caring for the horses and otherwise returning to regular camp discipline. It was good that most of the soldiers who were not part of the Guard had departed because the sense of melancholy that had settled over the valley would have undone any attempt to suggest that all was well.
Night fell, and still Arthur had not stirred. Bedwyr, Morgen and Cethtrwm stayed with Arthur. Rather than dispersing back to their tents to take their meal or sleep, the men began clustering quietly outside the sanctum. The vigil continued, even as a thin, cold rain began to fall, suppressing any remaining conversation as the men huddled under their cloaks in the darkness, some dozing, many sleepless.
At some point in the interminable night, the door of the sanctum creaked open, and Bedwyr stepped out. It was too dark to see his expression, but he stood outside the door a long time, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, and looked up to the heavens, letting the rain wash down his face. When his eyes finally came back to earth, he found a semi-circle of silent, hooded shadows surrounding him.
“Are you living men?” Bedwyr growled. “Or have the souls of our fallen come to claim justice?” A shuffle of feet and turned heads displayed the superstitious discomfort many felt at such words. A discrete cough broke the tension, and Bedwyr sighed, looking down at the ground.
“What word of our king?” Tegyr spoke up, finally. After a long pause, Bedwyr straightened and looked around the group.
