by Sean Poage
But ancient custom called for hospitality to travellers, to the best of one’s ability. It also required respect from the guest and understanding if their hosts were sharing more than they had to spare. Gawain and Glyf praised the food and drink and tried to eat just enough to get them through the night without shaming their hosts.
They chatted about local news and the fortunes of the family. The father had died two winters before from a coughing ailment, leaving the family in desperate straits and forcing Gwidawl to step into his father’s role. With some help from distant family members, they had recovered and were reasonably stable. Life was hard for such as these, but they lived in a remote area that rarely saw a tax collector or foreign raider and saw their situation as blessed.
Gawain and Glyf were exhausted by their long ride, and very sore, so they begged their hosts’ forgiveness and asked if they could turn in early. They readily agreed, scurrying about to make their guests comfortable on sheepskin covered bundles of straw on the wall opposite where the family huddled for sleep. Even feeling confident in the honesty and loyalty of the household, Gawain and Glyf slept fitfully, alert for any noise that might suggest foul intent. Most certainly, Gwidawl and Bodicca did the same.
When dawn approached, Gawain and Glyf stirred and quietly gathered their belongings, hoping to leave without disturbing the others. Gwidawl stood and joined them, offering some bread and small pieces of cheese for their breakfast. They accepted with thanks and carried their kit out to the horses. When passing near the door, Gawain paused to place one of his larger silver coins on the stone quern they used to grind grain. It was worth more than the family could hope to earn in several years of harvests.
When the horses were ready, they thanked Gwidawl, wished blessings for him and his family and set off, walking the horses for a while to loosen them up after the long ride the day before.
Gwidawl’s farm lay on the edge of a region of taller, steeper hills. Their road followed one of the ancient trackways that the Britons established along ridges, centuries before the Romans brought different ideas of road building.
Soon the hills became lower and gentler again, and they were able to pick up the pace. River fording was proving to be a problem, as the waters were often higher and swifter than expected. At a stop to cross another river, they let their horses drink and graze for a bit while they rested under some trees. They were sore, tired, sunburnt and a bit hungry.
“I’m concerned that the pace we’re setting won’t see us to our destination as soon as you intend,” Glyf said, with no hint of his usual acerbity. “I apologise; my reckoning of the distance was to my home, north of Din Tagell.”
“How much further would our journey be?”
“Oh, fifteen miles or so.”
“Hmm…” Gawain pondered for a moment. “We’ve been pushing hard, and our beasts have been agreeable, but we may injure them if we try to arrive tonight. At the least, we can make it to your village for a comfortable night.”
“We will find no shelter there,” Glyf said.
“Why is that?” Gawain was puzzled by the change in Glyf’s demeanour.
“It’s no longer there.”
Glyf did not want to talk about it, so Gawain left it alone. He slowed the pace and rested the horses more. They saw no houses and only rare evidence of other humans recently in the area. Even river crossings, where a village would often be found in years past, were desolate. These were now strategic locations, drawing the attention of brigands, raiders and generals.
As evening approached, they came to another river. Dark and slow moving, the ford was deep. With darkness approaching and yet further to travel in the morning, Gawain called a halt. They went off the road and found a cluster of trees in a fold between hills. After seeing to the care of their horses, they bedded down, eating most of their remaining food, but choosing to go without a fire. It was a warm night, and they did not want to draw attention to their location as they were too exhausted to take turns on watch. They slept fitfully, counting on the sensitive awareness of their horses to alert them to danger.
The dawn came with a drizzle of rain as they forded the river and walked the horses for a while to warm them up. When the rain passed, leaving a slight overcast, they noted a change in the air, less humidity and an occasional scent of the sea. The further west they rode, the more often the crest of a hill would show them a dark fringe of blue where the sea met the sky.
“Thalatta! Thalatta!” Gawain murmured on a peak that showed the ocean most clearly that day.
“What?” Glyf looked over his shoulder.
“Oh, nothing. A quote from my favourite book,” Gawain answered. Glyf rolled his eyes, not impressed that a warrior would waste his time with books.
“What is that?” Gawain pointed back over his shoulder, a bit to the north towards the sea where a sliver of sandy beach could be seen. “Is there a village over there? Fishermen?”
“None that I know of,” Glyf squinted into the distance. Some large dark shapes were visible on the sand. “Maybe a house or two, but they’d likely be much further back.”
“I think we need a closer look,” Gawain said, a mixed feeling of dread and excitement rising in him. He turned his horse and began trotting towards the beach.
“Wait!” Glyf called out. “I know a bit of this area. There are few beaches along this coast, and this is a large one. The slope is gentle and open in that direction. If we go further to the south-west and double back, we can come out amongst some trees and rougher ground overlooking the beach.”
Gawain saw the wisdom in this and agreed, so Glyf led them further south before turning west off the road across tree-dotted fields. Presently, they dismounted, tied their horses’ reins to a clump of bushes and continued on foot up a slight rise. As the view of the beach appeared, they dropped to a crawl and worked their way forward, to the edge of a small bluff hanging over the shore.
Below them stretched a broad expanse of stone stretching off into the ocean, with long, narrow parallel scars as if some tremendous sea creature used it to sharpen its claws. Further north, the stone gave way to a wide sandy beach sloping up to a grassy hill. The beach was framed by the rock formation and a bluff jutting out into the sea at the far end, more than half a mile away, forming a slight bay.
But on the beach was a sight that chilled them. A line of ships was beached, twenty-seven from what they could see. None of the vessel’s masts was stepped, and some ships were drawn further onto the sand, in the process of having the hulls cleaned and patched. This was no trading fleet or raiding party, it was an army. Tents clustered further up the slope, and men moved back and forth at various tasks.
“Saxons!” Glyf hissed. Gawain had never seen a Saxon or one of their ships, but he had heard descriptions of them. While these were not giants or appeared to be eating babies on spear points, their style of clothing and the way many wore their hair in a strange topknot made them stand out. Gawain and Glyf wriggled back from the edge and crept back to their horses.
“We must get word of this to Din Tagell,” Gawain said. “How far?”
“About fifteen miles,” Glyf answered. “I know the route well.”
“That’s a long way, after the distance we’ve gone,” Gawain mused. “We could maintain a trot with some cantering in short stages, arrive in… perhaps an hour and a half. More likely two hours.”
“We won’t be walking right for a week,” Glyf said, leading the horses out towards the trail.
“Don’t forget,” Gawain grinned, swinging into his saddle, “we have the ride back to Cadubrega tomorrow.” Glyf groaned, climbing into his saddle, and they set off.
The track led through hilly terrain near the coast, and they pushed their horses as much as they dared. There was more evidence of habitation the closer they came to Din Tagell, with well-tended fords and even a wooden bridge over one small river. They saw some hou
ses tucked into secluded clefts filled with trees, flocks of sheep and cattle on distant hills, but no people.
Finally, they crested a high flat hill and looked down on Din Tagell, a somewhat dome-shaped rock that jutted into the ocean, connected to the mainland by a narrow land-bridge. That thin neck of land was defended on the mainland side by a small castle of drystone and timber walls consisting of two levels. On the left, as you approached the gate, was a higher plateau with a pair of barracks just visible behind the walls. It overlooked the lower fortification, with the gatehouse and a stable.
On Din Tagell itself could be seen a large hall and numerous homes and smaller buildings. A timber wall with a small gate guarded access from the land-bridge, and a few lower locations on the north that might be accessible from a boat below were protected by stacked rock walls. A few sheep and cows roamed the far end, and people could be seen going about their business. It was a spectacular citadel.
Gawain and Glyf picked up the pace as their goal came within reach. The gate was open, but a pair of soldiers stepped out, levelling their spears as Gawain reined to a halt.
“I must speak to the lord of the castle!” Gawain called out, jumping out of his saddle to land on stiff, shaky legs. He steadied himself against his horse, patting the frothing, blowing animal. “There’s a foreign army just north of here!” He held up the courier’s seal.
The soldiers looked alarmed, and one ran off down the path. Gawain looked back and saw Glyf approaching on foot, his horse’s head bobbing in a sure sign of lameness. As he arrived, one of the soldiers on the wall called down.
“Glyf! Is that you, you miserable excuse for a shepherd?”
“Ha, yes, Trem, it is,” Glyf looked up to the rampart at an equally aged face grinning back down at them.
“And you haven’t mastered horses, either, I see!”
“Shut up and let us in!”
Trem called down to the gate and vouched for them, so they entered and led their horses to the stable to wait for the officer in charge. They unburdened the horses and gave them water, then examined their legs and hooves. Gawain’s horse was tired but remained proud. Glyf’s horse had the start of a small crack on the side of a hoof and appeared to have bruised it, but he, too, was proud and wanted to follow Gawain’s horse as they were walked around the yard to cool down.
“He won’t be riding anywhere tomorrow,” Glyf said, with evident relief.
“Or for some time,” Gawain agreed. “We’ll have to borrow a horse in exchange.” Glyf grimaced in response.
“Who are you?” called a gravelly voice from behind. It belonged to a wiry man with thin blond hair, a short beard and the kind of leathery red skin that never tanned well but spent long days in the sun. He looked much older than he probably was. He had a tunic and short breeches and wore no shoes or armour but had a short sword slung at his belt.
“I am Gawain ap Gwyar. Glyf and I are here on an errand for the Rigotamos. But on our way we found a fleet of Saxon ships beached fifteen miles north of here and came as fast as we could to warn you.”
“A fleet you say?” the man looked at him sceptically. “And you’re certain they’re Saxons? You sound like you come from the far north.”
“I’ve traded blows with the devils, myself,” Glyf interjected. “I know a Saxon when I see one.”
“Do you, now?” the man grinned. “Well, that is good to know. So tell me. How many did you kill before you came to warn us?”
Gawain and Glyf looked at each other, dumbfounded, and back at the man.
“There were twenty-seven ships,” Gawain said. “If we had attacked, there would be no one here to warn you.”
“Surely a great warrior of the old north and a seasoned veteran could have killed a few and made our job easier before coming here?” the man looked at them quizzically for a few moments as Gawain and Glyf stared at him, speechless. He suddenly laughed, turned and motioned for them to follow him along the path towards the headland. Gawain and Glyf handed off their horses to the stable boy and hurried after him.
When they caught up with him, he looked at Gawain, still grinning, and asked, “You said you were coming here on another errand. What would that be?”
“I was told to find Gwenwyn,” Gawain answered. “And deliver a message only to him.”
“I would wager the message is that the Rigotamos wants his fleet brought around?” the man smiled.
“You’re Gwenwyn,” Gawain said, his earlier hunch confirmed.
“Of course.”
“Yes, that is the message,” Gawain replied. “But what of…” He trailed off, stunned by what had occurred to him.
“Ah, the blind now see,” Gwenwyn laughed.
“What?” Glyf started. “What are you—No!” Gwenwyn burst into full-throated laughter at that. The other two were silent for a moment as they came to where the path descended steeply towards the high, narrow causeway between the headland and the mainland. To either side of the causeway, broken rocks sloped sharply down to the sea on the left and a tiny beach on the right. The beach lay in a sheltered cove between the promontory of Din Tagell and an arm of rock they later learnt was called the “Dragon’s Claw”. Drawn up on that beach were several small boats and a ship like those typically used by the Britons, wider and somewhat taller than a Saxon ship.
“That was Arthur’s fleet?” Gawain asked in disbelief.
“Oh, yes,” Gwenwyn nodded. “But only a part of it. Mind your footing.”
They made their way down, helped by stone steps placed where needed. It became windy as they crossed the causeway. The ascent on the other side required a steep climb up rough-hewn rock steps to the stout door in the palisade. It was open, with a single guard standing beside it.
“But...” Gawain was at a loss for words, trying to understand why Arthur would have allied with the Saxons. There seemed to be so many contradictions around him that it was impossible to grasp his purposes. “Why Saxons? They are treacherous. Our enemy!”
Gwenwyn stopped and turned to face him so abruptly that Gawain and Glyf nearly collided.
“I found it amusing earlier, but let me educate you so that deadly misunderstandings do not occur,” Gwenwyn spoke quietly, intensely, but not angrily. “Those you call ‘Saxons’ are no single people with a single set of intentions. Many are not even Saxons. Some are Angles, Jutes, Franks or Frisians. They share a common tongue and culture, but other than that, they are less a nation than we are.
“And they are not all nor have always been, our enemy. The Romans settled many in Britain long before our fathers’ time, to protect against other raiders. Many of their descendants continue to live peacefully in some areas.
“So you wonder why the Rigotamos would employ Saxons? Do you have any idea how many ships it would take to move his army to Gaul? The ships you saw at that beach are barely enough to transport twelve hundred soldiers, to say nothing of their supplies or animals. Rome left us very few vessels, nothing near what Arthur needs. So, he has found his navy where it may be found.
“Now tell me, Northman,” Gwenwyn looked intently at Gawain. “Can you think of no other advantage to Arthur’s employing as many Saxon ships as he is able to?”
Gawain was silent for a moment, trying to think of what Gwenwyn was hinting at, then it dawned on him.
“If he controls the ships,” Gawain answered, “there are fewer available for the Saxons to use for raiding.”
“You’re not as stupid as I had feared,” Gwenwyn nodded. He turned and continued along the path towards a cluster of buildings in a low area to the right. “I have other duties to attend to, so I’ll show you to a barracks where you may refresh yourselves before you return to Cadubrega, which I assume will be today?”
“We’ve pushed our mounts hard to arrive here in a short time,” Gawain said. “I fear my horse will need a day to rest, and Glyf will need to borrow
a horse, as his is injured.”
“I’ll have it arranged,” Gwenwyn nodded. “You may stay in the barracks overnight, here.” He stopped outside a building. “There should be some unused beds on the right side.”
“Thank you,” Gawain replied. “Though I have another errand I must discharge before I rest. I have a letter to deliver to the lady, Ygerna.”
“Well,” Gwenwyn sighed, glancing up towards the heavens with something like pity in his expression. “In that case, I’d recommend you clean up first, then go to the mead-hall up on that ridge.” He pointed towards a stony bluff to the west. “Tell the guard at the door of your errand, and you’ll be taken to her.” He turned and walked into a building on the other side of the path.
Gawain and Glyf entered the barracks to find it was empty and probably used by the soldiers who worked during the day. The centre of the room had a hearth, benches and tables. One table had a barrel of ale, a platter of bread and a large basin and pitcher. A large barrel of water stood beside it. Beds and trunks filled the room to either side. As Gwenwyn had said, there were some unused beds to the right, so they set their gear down and Glyf belly-flopped onto one.
“My arse feels like every Saxon in that fleet had lined up to give it a square kick,” Glyf groaned. “If you don’t mind, I’ll lie here and pray for death.”
“Pray it comes before morning,” Gawain said. He felt no better but was determined that Glyf would not know. “I’ll return later.”
Glyf grunted, eyes already closed, so Gawain washed at the basin, throwing the dirty water out of the door, then stepped back out onto the street. It was a pleasant place with a cooling breeze, the background murmur of a small but busy village and the sound of the sea on the rocks.
He followed the path up the hill and around the ridge, where the great hall looked over the bluff with a cluster of smaller structures around it. The door to the building was in the centre of the long side, where a guard stood stiffly.
