by Sean Poage
Gawain announced his name and errand, and the soldier stepped inside. Almost immediately, there was the sound of pottery crashing against the timber wall on the inside, and the muffled sound of a woman screeching profanely. A moment later, the door opened, and the soldier hurriedly waved Gawain in before scuttling back outside and closing the door.
Gawain stood uncertainly for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was very warm, with a large hearth in the centre of the room. Beyond it was a raised dais with a wide couch piled with cushions. Expensive tapestries draped the walls, and thick rugs covered much of the wooden floor. The benches and tables normally associated with a mead-hall were piled up in the shadows to either side of the room. A harp played softly from somewhere behind the couch.
“Well? Who is that?” cackled a voice from the dais. “You have something for me? Bring it! Don’t stand there like a dolt!”
Gawain jumped a little and walked around the hearth. A young female slave scurried to the door to sweep up the pieces of a broken dish, then disappeared through another door towards the end of the hall.
Ygerna lounged on the couch, propped on the cushions. A roll of silk, a basket of wool, a distaff and spindle were piled near her feet. A plate of cakes, cheese and bread sat on a small table beside her, along with a glass of wine. Clear, greenish Roman glass, and probably Roman wine. A sweet, woody scent wafted towards him. Arthur spared no expense in seeing to the comfort of his mother.
The woman was mature but not elderly, with grey-streaked dark hair and piercing blue eyes, like Arthur’s. She was taller than most women, corpulent now, but obviously stunningly beautiful years before. She had bare feet protruding from her gown, one showing an inflamed and swollen big toe. And she looked quite irritable.
“You have a letter for me? From my son?” she snapped. “Well, hand it over!”
Gawain bowed, giving her the parchment and stepping back, not sure if he should leave or wait to be dismissed. He did not want to be smacked in the back of the head with a plate.
“Gah! You stink of sweat and horse!” she wrinkled her nose. “But what should I expect when my son thinks so little of me that he won’t visit, but sends servants with notes and cheap wine. And no fresh fruit for months!”
“If you have no further need of me, lady, I’ll depart,” Gawain said with some trepidation.
“Yes, please go,” she sighed as one afflicted, waving him off. “But on your return tell my ungrateful son that his mother is wasting away in her prison, banished by that whore!”
Gawain bowed in assent and made a hasty exit, happy to breathe in the cool air outside. He smiled sympathetically at the soldier beside the door, but he stood like a statue, eyes forward and grim.
As Gawain hiked back to the barracks, he saw a quartet of horsemen exit the gate on the mainland, one pair heading north, the other south. At the barracks, Glyf, snoring loudly, was still the only occupant. Gawain dropped down onto his bed and fell straight to sleep.
He woke several hours later feeling stiff, sore and groggy. Glyf was still sleeping, though quietly now, and the room was dimmer, indicating the approach of dusk. He considered waking Glyf to go for the evening meal, then decided to let him be. A handful of water splashed over his face and he stepped outside, feeling better. Not sure where to find food, and unwilling to go to Ygerna’s hall, he stood looking around for signs of a kitchen. Gwenwyn strolled up the path from the mainland.
“You must be looking for some food?” he said, in a friendlier manner than earlier. “The soldiers who live in that barracks will be off duty soon, and you can eat with them.” He shrugged and added, “Or you may join me for some better food and drink up the hill.”
Gawain brightened, then hesitated, “At the hall?”
“No,” Gwenwyn chuckled. “It’s been many years since that hall has seen a pleasant drink. Come,” he waved Gawain along. “An old resident of this rock has had the brilliance to put his family to work serving food and drink to those who have the means to pay.”
They followed the path towards the centre of the headland, while Gwenwyn pointed out different places, including the Dragon’s Claw and the nearby promontory that was said to be his wing. His head lay under a point in the hill overlooking the bay, where he was said to sleep, imprisoned by a great hero long ago.
They arrived at the house, a rectangular home of stacked rock walls plastered with whitewashed daub and a tall, thatched roof. The family appeared to be doing well. Inside the room, the hearth blazed merrily and several men sat at a table drinking or eating. The portly and balding master of the house approached them immediately. His wife and daughters busied themselves with cooking and cleaning up after the guests.
“My lord, Gwenwyn!” the old fellow smiled, wiping his hands on a rag. “Good to have you here again. Will you be eating or just drinking?”
“Both,” Gwenwyn answered, as they were ushered to a small table near the fire but towards the back wall and away from the others.
“There’s enough trade and travellers for him to keep this business running. The food is decent, most days,” Gwenwyn told Gawain as they sat. “He has wine and mead available, but the ale is so good that he goes through it almost faster than he can brew it.”
“Then that’s what I will have,” Gawain smiled, looking forward to a hot meal and good drink.
Both arrived immediately. The meal was a rich stew of fish, cream and onions with a fresh loaf of bread. The ale was as good as Gwenwyn described. As they ate, they chatted about their homes and families and the things they had seen. Gwenwyn had many more tales to tell. He had always been a sailor, starting as a fisherman, later as a trader and sometimes raider, and was now Arthur’s captain of ships. His home and family were near Cair Guinntguic, a couple of days east of Cadubrega. After a while, Gawain worked up the nerve to ask Gwenwyn the question that had bothered him all day.
“My lord, the Saxons… How can they be trusted?” Gawain asked. “Have any of these fought against our people?”
“Some likely have,” Gwenwyn nodded. “They’re a mercenary people, believing it’s ignoble to provide for themselves by tilling the ground if they can take what they need with a sword. But, they hold their honour above all, so they can be trusted within the bounds of the oaths they swear and the payment they receive. And they’re expensive to keep. You would not believe the quantities of ale they consume!”
“Would they fight other Saxons if so commanded?”
“I guess that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Gwenwyn winked.
Not comforted by the last remark, Gawain nodded and turned his attention to a group of sailors who had been drinking more than eating. They started up a bawdy song until the proprietor asked them to change the tune out of respect for his wife and daughters. After a while, his head feeling a little fuzzy, he thanked Gwenwyn for the meal and company and returned through the darkness to the barracks.
The room was well lit, with several local soldiers drinking and chatting, or playing games. Glyf was awake and playing Latrones with Trem. He had lost a piece from the board as Gawain entered, so he was irritable.
“Where have you been?” he looked up at Gawain.
“I got tired of listening to you snore so I went to find some food,” Gawain answered. “You’ve eaten?” Glyf nodded in return. “Good, we should be ready to go in the morning.”
Glyf scowled, returning to his game, as Gawain settled onto his bed. He took out his book, which brought incredulous looks from some of the men there, but he read for a while and went to sleep early.
They woke with the soldiers, ate breakfast, then cleaned up and gathered their gear. They followed the men across to the mainland and went to the stable, where Gawain found his steed healthy and in good spirits. Glyf woke the stable hand, who sourly pointed out the horse that Glyf was to borrow.
The sun had risen above the horizon when
they rode out and climbed the hill to follow a road that ran east. They planned to make it a slower ride for the horses, alternating with more walking, and would arrive at Cadubrega on the evening of the third day. Towards the end of their first day, they rode along the northern edges of a high, stark moorland and spent a rainy night in a rectangular earthwork, the remains of an old Roman fort. There was evidence it was only frequented by sheep these days, and the remains of an abandoned farm lay in the valley below.
The next day brought them to Cair Uisc. It was an old Roman city near the mouth of the River Uisc, prosperous once but fading now with few residents, mostly in a small community of monks. Here they picked up the Fossa Way, which would lead them northeast to Cadubrega.
By the time they decided to stop, they were near a farmstead. The family was large and doing well, though suspicious of strangers. They provided Gawain and Glyf with food, drink and a place to stay in a stable, but did not care to spend more time with them.
The third day brought them to flatter lands and more evidence of human activity, though they did not pass anyone on the road. From time to time, they saw distant ruins of old Roman villas or hilltop forts. In the afternoon, they crossed a river near another Roman town, Cair Pensa uel Coit that was still occupied by a few families and a small garrison of soldiers. Here they left the Fossa and turned north-easterly along another road that finally brought them to the south gate of Cadubrega.
Arriving well after the evening meal, they were sore and exhausted, and neither was speaking much. They muttered goodnights and parted. Gawain saw to his horse’s care and stabling, then collected his gear and trudged to the Great Hall. It was evident that something was afoot. Wagons were lined up in the field beside the market, and even though it was nearly dark, people hurried about.
Gawain was stopped at the door to the hall and told that the Rigotamos was in council and would not be seeing anyone that night. He made his way to the camp, approaching from the rear in the hopes of getting to his tent unseen. He was not successful, nearly being knocked over by Gareth, who stumbled drunkenly into his path from a row of tents.
“Gawain!” he yelled, surprised and merry. “You finally return! And a hero as well!”
“What?” Gawain couldn’t imagine how word had gotten back about the fight in the woods. “Look, Gareth, I’m exhausted, and only want sleep. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Gareth slurred. “Let me help you.” He took Gawain’s saddle and some other gear and promptly fell over. Gawain shook his head, helped him up and together they made it back to their tent.
Peredur and Keir were both there, and their exclamations brought Mabon, Teilo and several of the infantrymen, all demanding to know about his journey and the great battle he had fought. Most reported a variation of his having found a Scoti army, killed five to a dozen of them and drove the others off in terror.
Gawain, rather flattered and embarrassed by the attention, explained that it was only five bandits and he had only killed two of them. It did not lessen their admiration in the least, and he had to show them his wounds and the new sword and tell and re-tell the story of the ambush until Peredur realised Gawain was about to fall asleep in mid-sentence and made everyone leave.
While Gawain was crawling under his blanket and Peredur was taking his gear out of the tent for cleaning, Gareth flopped down on his bedroll and chuckled.
“Ah, brother,” he said. “You wanted adventure and battle, and you have had no trouble in finding it!”
“It keeps finding me,” Gawain murmured. “Oh, you know I saw a lot of wagons in the field by the market. Are we preparing to leave?”
“As a matter of fact, we leave in three days,” Gareth said. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d make it back in time.” He did not get a response and looked over to see that Gawain had fallen asleep.
Chapter Eight
The next day, after the morning exercises, Gawain was summoned to Arthur’s hall. Training had ceased to allow everyone to prepare for travel by cleaning and mending their clothing and equipment. It might have led to boredom if a strong sense of nervous excitement had not pervaded the army.
Gawain, feeling refreshed and only a little sore, was admitted to the hall when he arrived. Arthur, Cei and Bedwyr were looking at some maps spread out on one of the tables. They all looked up as he entered and Arthur smiled broadly.
“Gawain, good to have you back,” Arthur waved him over. “You wasted no time. A good trait in a leader.” Bedwyr smiled and nodded, while Cei rolled his eyes and went back to studying a map.
“We may have pressed a bit too hard,” Gawain said, returning the courier’s seal to Arthur. “Glyf’s horse took lame, and he had to borrow one from Din Tagell’s stable.”
“Well, those horses belong to me,” Arthur shrugged, “so it won’t be a problem. What pushed you to such haste? Surely not the bandits you met on the road?”
“No, lord,” Gawain replied, feeling suddenly foolish. “We saw a fleet of Saxon ships beached north of Din Tagell and rushed to warn the castle, not knowing they were yours.”
“Wonderful,” Cei snorted. “If he’s to lead men, let us pray he doesn’t mistake your trading ships for Euric’s invasion force and launch an attack.”
Arthur chuckled and gave Cei a light slap on the back.
“I’m certain Gawain will do well,” Arthur said. “He’s shown great promise as a leader as well as a warrior. And speaking of your skill as a warrior, you performed your duty admirably in protecting the princes and seeing them to Melwas’s care.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Gawain replied, with a mixture of pride and misgiving due to Riwal’s words. “I was honoured by your trust.”
“I understand Meliau gave you his father’s sword,” Arthur nodded to the weapon hanging at Gawain’s side. It was uncanny how well informed he was. “It’s a superior weapon, forged by the Ripuarii, north of the Rhenus. Quite similar to my own sword, which was crafted by the Burgundii. Wield it well.”
“I will, my lord.”
“And what of your final labour?” Arthur looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Which was worse? The ambush, or my mother?” Cei and Bedwyr laughed, and Gawain was careful to avoid saying what he actually thought of the encounter.
“Is that cut on your chin from one of her dishes?” Cei asked, with something akin to empathy.
“No, Lord,” Gawain smiled sheepishly. “It was a pleasure meeting her. She bade me tell you that she wishes for you to visit her.”
“Ever the diplomat, eh Gawain?” Arthur chuckled. “How was her health?”
“She seemed well, aside from a badly swollen toe. She showed a great deal of spirit.”
“A diplomat indeed!” Cei exclaimed, laughing with Arthur and Bedwyr. Gawain smiled awkwardly, unsure what to think of the exchange and fearing to offend.
“So,” Arthur wiped his eye and returned to business. “How far have you got in your study of the book I gave you?”
“I finished it,” Gawain answered. “And I’m reading it through again.”
“Very good,” Arthur nodded. “Then you’re ready to take command of your turma?”
“My lord?” Gawain was stunned. The Rigotamos’ army often used the old Roman terms and organisation, and a turma was a troop of about 30 cavalrymen, led by a Decurion. Sixteen turma made up an ala, or cavalry wing, about 500 cavalrymen.
“You will lead a troop of cavalry under Cei,” Arthur said. “It’s a position of honour and great responsibility that requires a strong leader. Are you ready to accept this position?”
“Yes, my lord!” Gawain exclaimed. “Thank you for this honour.”
“I’m certain it’s a trust well placed,” Arthur smiled. Gawain was dismissed, with orders to report to Cei’s quarters at midday.
Not yet ready to tell his fellows, he fetched his damaged spa
tha and went in search of an ironworker at the market. He found one at work at his forge, heating several bars of iron as his helper worked a large set of bellows. He was huge, heavy, and so covered in hair that he looked more like a bear than a man. Noticing Gawain standing outside his stall, he wiped his grimy hands on his greasy leather trousers and barked at his helper to keep the bellows going.
“Yes,” he growled. “What are you looking for?”
“A smith with the skills to mend a sword,” Gawain answered, trying not to breathe through his nose. “If it can be done quickly, by tomorrow evening.”
“I am such a man,” he replied. “Though I have many demands on my time, and it depends on what I must do with it.” He eyed the sheathed sword in Gawain’s hand.
“I can pay well, with coin,” Gawain said, holding out the sword. That piqued the man’s interest.
“I am Tohodyfn,” he said, drawing and examining the sword. “You bent it. These old Roman blades tend to do that. Easy enough to make true.” He looked up with an odd look in his eye. “But it’ll be more likely to bend again. Unless a little more time is spent by someone with the skill to harden the steel.”
“Are you such a person?” Gawain asked, trying to avoid sounding dubious.
“The only such person in these parts,” he answered proudly. “Taught the magic to do so by Myrddin himself. But it takes more time and effort. The blade will be ready by tomorrow night, but I won’t have a chance to give it a final sharpening or reset the hilt.”
“Myrddin taught you magic that hardens steel?” Gawain was doubtful.
“Oh, yes,” Tohodyfn nodded, examining the hilt fitting. “It’s a complicated and secret process, and he only told me on command of the Rigotamos, so that I might improve his soldiers’ weapons. I’ll need you to perform a small task if I’m to have time to do this.”
“What task is that?” Gawain asked, worried that it might interfere with his midday orders.
