by Sean Poage
Gawain’s eyes opened as consciousness returned, slowly, blurrily, without knowing where he was or how he had got there. His whole body, and in particular his head, ached. He was nauseated, and his mouth and throat were painfully dry. He was lying on a soft bed in a very warm, dimly lit room where a shape or two moved about. He remained quiet a few moments before he finally recalled his last memories, of the battle and his final, desperate fight.
“Water,” he croaked. Either a captive or a victor, he had little to lose. One of the shapes turned and shuffled to the side of the room, where he heard a ladle dip into water. The figure, a man, brought the water to Gawain, who tried to sit up, but the man stopped him.
“Rest,” spoke an old man’s voice. He helped raise Gawain’s head enough to let him sip from the ladle. “Not too much,” he said. “You have many injuries, and your head took quite a knock. You need rest if you want to swing a sword again.”
Gawain mumbled his thanks and slipped again into forgetfulness.
Quiet but earnest voices intruded on Gawain’s sleep. It was even darker than before. A man moaned, mumbled and was comforted by the same voice that had given him water. The groaning and mumbling continued for a few minutes, and Gawain heard the name, “Iseult” several times before he drifted off again.
Again, quiet voices woke Gawain. He slowly opened his eyes to a small room and an open window near him. A linen curtain, stirred by a cool breeze, softened the sunlight that filtered through. Birds chirped pleasantly outside. Against the far wall stood a large clay pot and a wooden table with a variety of small jars and stacks of folded linen strips. A pile of bloodied bandages lay on the floor beside it.
At the far end, next to the door was another bed like his, with the form of a man lying on it, a tumble of dark hair showing at the end of the blankets that covered him. Beside the bed stood a pair of men, their backs to Gawain, speaking in low voices.
“Will he live?” asked one, a voice Gawain was surprised to recognise as Cei’s.
“It’s uncertain,” answered the other, the voice of the old man who gave him water. “He wakes from time to time and begs to see his men.” The old man shook his head and continued, “But often he lies in fever, delirious and mumbling.”
“Would he survive a voyage to his uncle’s hall?” Cei asked.
“He may,” the old man shrugged. “There’s little more I can do for him here that could not be done on a ship. The sea air might even do him some good.”
“Then let us set him upon one of the ships leaving today.”
“Yes, lord,” the man bowed slightly, then turned to place a bowl on the table. He saw Gawain looking at them and smiled. He was a short, thin man with slate grey hair fringing a bald pate, beardless but with bushy eyebrows and tufts of hair growing from his ears. A long, narrow nose and lack of chin framed thin lips, but he had large, kind eyes.
“Well, now,” the man said, picking up a silver ladle and dipping it into the pot. “Our other guest has decided to return to the land of the living.” He crossed to Gawain and offered him the water, as Cei turned and looked on.
“Am I in Namnetis?” Gawain asked.
“Of course,” Cei responded. “Where else?”
Gawain did not have a response, but the old man spoke up.
“You’re in the palace of Namnetis,” he said. “I am Morcant, physician to the Rigotamos, and I’ve been caring for you since you arrived.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Not long,” Morcant smiled. “The battle was only yesterday.”
“I feel as if I’ve slept for weeks,” Gawain grimaced.
“You may need to do so,” Morcant replied. “You’ve been seriously injured.”
“The good medicus would lay up our entire army for a week to recover from blisters and sore muscles,” Cei quipped, not unkindly. He turned and ducked to step through the doorway into a hallway. “But we leave this morning for Andecava, and I’m sure the Hero of Namnetis will want to join us as soon as possible.”
The door closed, leaving Gawain puzzled. He tried to rise, but pain shot through his head and chest, and he felt cuts open on his arms and legs. He sank back down as Morcant reached out to restrain him.
“Please rest if you want to return to your men quickly,” Morcant said. “Besides several cuts and possibly some cracked ribs, you have a head injury that only sleep will heal.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Gawain pleaded. “How I came here? Where my men are?”
“If I didn’t have many others to see to, I’d gladly sit and tell you what little I know,” Morcant replied. He put the ladle back on the table and walked to the door. “But don’t worry. At least one of your fellows is here with you. He should be back soon. He’s scarcely left your side, but I hope you don’t mind that I’ve put him to work doing odd chores. There are always more people in need than people to provide.”
“Can you at least tell me who that is?” Gawain asked, nodding towards the man on the bed. “Is that the hero Cei spoke of?”
“That is Drustan, the commander of one of the Rigotamos’s legions,” Morcant answered as he stepped through the door. “And while he’s certainly a hero, Lord Cei was referring to you.” He left the room, closing the door.
Gawain lay wondering and trying to recall what might have earned him the epithet. Nothing came to mind, and he decided that it was just Cei’s characteristic sarcasm. Hopefully, the fellow Morcant referred to would return soon and bring him up to date. It would be Peredur, Gawain thought with a sigh, more from habit. Peredur had matured considerably in the last few months.
He did not have long to wait. The door burst open, and Peredur rushed in, catching himself from making more noise as Drustan stirred with a groan. He saw Gawain and broke into a smile, managing to stifle an exclamation. He moved to the bedside and grasped Gawain’s hand in both of his.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like a herd of cattle has run over me,” Gawain answered. He looked at Peredur, noting the edge of a bandage showing above his tunic’s collar. “Did you get in the way of one?”
“Only a wayward calf,” Peredur answered. “Nothing of any note. Morcant says that you should recover soon with rest.”
“But not soon enough to join our brothers for the next battle,” Gawain said, frustrated. “I’m told they depart today.”
“Yes, they’re setting out as we speak,” Peredur nodded sympathetically. “But I wouldn’t worry, as there’s likely to be little battle. Arthur is returning the hostages to Andecava and ensuring no Saxons remain in the valley.”
“I know nothing beyond our charge at the Saxon chieftain,” Gawain said. “What happened after? What of our men? Do they all live?”
“We have lost two men. Atfodla, you remember?” Peredur paused. Gawain nodded.
“The other is Got,” Peredur continued sadly. Got was a stout, older warrior of Cadwal’s line. “As we broke through the gap his horse was struck by a spear and fell, killing Got beneath him.”
Gawain closed his eyes, said a silent prayer for the man and his family, then looked up and said, “Tell me everything.”
“As you know, we were making slow progress against the Saxons,” Peredur began. “But when you spotted the break in the line and led us through, that changed everything.”
“Our horsemen behind their lines finally caused them to break,” Gawain nodded, pleased.
“Well, not quite,” Peredur said. “They were beginning to trickle off, but their leader was a commanding warrior who held his men by sheer force of will. When you killed him, it finally caused their collapse.”
“I killed him?” Gawain blinked. “You mean the one beneath the ram’s skull? I don’t remember even getting close to him.”
“When you charged at his band, you got well ahead of the rest of us,” Peredur began, sounding rathe
r accusatory. “After you were unhorsed they crowded about you, trying to kill you, and made it hard for us to get to you.” Again the critical tone. “We eventually got through. You were nearly buried under Saxons you killed, and he was one of them.” This time there was awe in his voice.
“When we pulled down his standard, the Saxons finally broke and tried to flee back to the city,” Peredur continued. “The ditch stymied our horses for a bit, of course, but we killed many before they could cross. Those that did get across found the gates closed to them and our horsemen on their heels.”
“Drustan’s men took the city? Or did the residents rise up?” Gawain asked.
“It was Drustan’s men,” Peredur answered. “There are few natives left here, and the Saxons didn’t leave enough men to hold the walls when they sallied out against Bedwyr. But those that remained fought fiercely, and Drustan was grievously wounded leading his men up the ladders to take the western wall.”
“Did the Saxons escape?”
“Not many. A few surrendered. Most ran and were killed. Some tried to swim the river, but many of those drowned. A few tried to fight.”
“What about Odoacer and his Saxons?” Gawain asked. “Did they break at the same time?”
“Some did,” Peredur replied. “Cei said most continued towards the river. They’d left men in the ships, and those had floated the boats when Cei sent men to capture them. But as the Saxons neared their ships some turned and held, fighting to the death so that Odoacer and perhaps a thousand were able to get into their ships.”
“Odoacer got away?” Gawain grimaced at this failure. “Arthur won’t be pleased with this news.”
“Arthur was furious,” Peredur nodded.
“Where was he? He never made it to the battle?”
“He was held up downriver,” Peredur shook his head. “The pagan priest of his Saxon sailors had killed a goat that morning, and after poking through its entrails divined that they couldn’t set sail until their gods were agreeable.”
“What?” Gawain was shocked. “Arthur permitted this?”
“No, he was incensed,” Peredur answered. “He could see the smoke rising from Namnetis and tried to convince the sailors to man their oars, but they were fearful of their gods. It wasn’t until Arthur killed the Saxon captain and threatened to kill the priest that they found a more cooperative goat.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t rise up,” Gawain mused. “Arthur’s warriors must have been the only deterrent.”
“Even so, they rowed without enthusiasm, and the winds were against them, so they crawled upriver,” Peredur continued. “They weren’t far away when Odoacer and his handful of ships tried to escape. When Odoacer saw the river choked with Arthur’s fleet, he had the Saxons abandon their ships on the south bank and flee on foot through the marshes and woods. Arthur wouldn’t have been able to catch them, so he continued on to land here. Afterwards, Cei and Arthur came to visit the wounded. Arthur commanded you to be brought here and be cared for by his personal physician.”
“How did our army fare?” Gawain asked. “Any news of our coriios?”
“All told, we acquitted ourselves well,” Peredur replied. “Some three hundred have died or will likely die. About twice that are wounded but should recover, including yourself. Our spearmen were valorous, though we lost four and several others are wounded.”
Peredur paused to recall the names. Two of the men killed were well known to Gawain. Brychan and Padraig, Gawain’s tent-mate from the training week. A few hundred brothers lost is no small thing, but in comparison to the Saxons’ loss of more than four thousand men, it was good news. This was the way of war, where the battle is mainly one of taunts, shoving and ineffectual lunges until one side loses its nerve. Then the real killing begins as men flee, giving up the cohesion that protected them all in the hope of saving themselves.
“My horse?” Gawain asked, apprehensively.
“She was killed when you fell,” Peredur replied sympathetically. Gawain choked back his emotion, deciding to change the subject.
“Morcant said you were helping him,” Gawain said.
“Yes,” Peredur nodded grimly. “I’ve tried to help as much as possible, with what you’ve taught me. There’s much suffering.”
“So now that you’ve been to battle, what do you think?” Gawain tilted his head and watched Peredur closely.
“It’s both what I expected and not at all,” Peredur looked thoughtful. “The bards sing of battles so that you’d think they were fought all day long without pause. But what I saw was more time spent standing and waiting.
“And then there’s the carnage,” Peredur shook his head. “The songs and tales might describe flowing blood and piled bodies, but they don’t convey it. And they don’t talk of the miserable wounded, which seems worse.”
“Are you still eager to be a warrior?”
Peredur paused before answering, “I also saw acts of immense bravery, skill and even love as men fought to aid their brothers. When you disappeared from your horse every man of our turma, even those who see you as a rival or made jokes behind your back, fought like maddened boars to get to you. When we found you still alive, they expressed the sort of joy that comes from relief when all is thought lost.
“There’s a bond between us that began with shared hardship and has been forged into steel by combat. I can foresee growing weary of war,” Peredur said quietly, “but the Emperor of Rome could offer me his crown, and I’d sooner stand by my brothers and greet death daily than leave them behind.”
Gawain smiled, looking away and fighting a surge of emotion that nearly brought tears to his eyes again.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he said.
“You need rest,” Peredur said, mistaking Gawain’s expression for pain. He excused himself to return to helping Morcant. “I’ll return soon.”
Exhaustion fell on Gawain, and he slipped back into sleep. Some short time later, he was awakened by Morcant and two young men who had come to take Drustan to the ships.
“Are all of the ships returning?” Gawain asked.
“No, only a few,” Morcant answered. “Most have gone upriver with Arthur, as the rest of the army marches to Andecava. A few are taking news to our folk at home. And they’ll dispose of the captive Saxons.”
“What will they do with them?”
“They’ll take them to a port in Iwerddon to sell as slaves,” Morcant replied. “Now get your rest.” He turned and followed the two young men who bore the moaning Drustan out of the room on a litter.
Gawain nodded. It was wise to send the Saxons far from where they might cause trouble, and the Scoti were ever eager for slaves. He wished he had time and parchment to write a letter to Rhian. He had heard that at the height of the Roman Empire, a message could be sent from Britain to Egypt and arrive reliably at its destination. But these days, there was no way to ensure it would, and if it did, it was likely that Gawain would be home before it arrived so far north.
Alone with his thoughts, Gawain had time to consider the losses of his men. Atfodla had died, but Gawain felt a greater responsibility for Got. It was his decision to make the charge through the gap, leading to Got’s death. Perhaps he had been too rash in making the charge without orders. Gawain agonised over this, tears flowing until he drifted off to sleep again.
Over the next few days, Gawain took short walks around the palace, such as it was. Once the residence of the Roman magistrate, the Saxons had done quite a bit of damage, stripping it of anything of value and digging into the floors and walls in search of hidden treasures. As time went on, his walks expanded through the town. He was dismayed by the amount of destruction within the city. A fire had destroyed many of the buildings, and the lack of population had left many others derelict. Scarcely a structure could be found that did not bear the marks of soot. A few people picked through what remained or att
empted to repair a house to a liveable condition. Feral dogs and cats roamed the streets fighting or scavenging through garbage.
He spent most of his time with Peredur and, as he regained his health, assisted Morcant and his small group of helpers with the care of the wounded. They were housed in an old barracks near the city walls, making it easier to take their bodies out for burial when they died, which many did. A few of the surviving wounded were from Gawain’s coriios, and it was good to reconnect with them and share news and experiences. Gawain’s fame had given him a celebrity status that Morcant exploited to inspire recovery in the men that were struggling.
In the days following the battle, former residents who had fled the Saxon takeover of their home started to trickle back into Namnetis. First were those who had fled to Andecava. As word spread, people who had gone north and west to their kin in Letavia began to return. The surge in population brought the sounds of rebuilding, trade and laughter, reviving the old city.
In the following weeks, Gawain recovered quickly. He and Peredur often borrowed horses from the garrison for exercise and to continue Peredur’s training. On one such excursion, they stopped on a hill east of the city, looking out over the narrow road that followed the river towards Andecava. They could see a cloud of dust and a group of riders in the distance, making for Namnetis.
“Looks like about a score of men. Do you think they’re friendly?” Peredur asked.
“They’re travelling openly and at a mild pace,” Gawain replied. “I’d wager they are. Likely some of our own returning with news. We’ll wait here a bit and see.”
They were quiet for a while, allowing their horses to munch grass while they sat with their own thoughts. As usual, Peredur broke the silence first.
“I miss home,” he said. “I imagine you miss your wife.”
“Of course,” Gawain said, feeling cross at Peredur’s broaching of the subject.
