Medraut

by David Pilling

  Let them have their adventure. Those that return will be older and wiser men.

  He rose from his seat. “Those who wish to go in search of the Fragment may do so,” he declared, “provided enough men are left to defend Caerleon. My prayers shall go with you. Meanwhile the city shall be evacuated. Christ protect us.”

  Cadwy grinned wolfishly. A cheer erupted from the Round Table. Bar Medraut and a few of the older heads, the Companions rose as one and echoed the High King’s plea.

  “Christ protect us!”

  6.

  Three days after the meeting at the Round Hall, Artorius rode to the bishop’s palace at Llandaff. With him went those Companions who had volunteered to join the quest for the Fragment. They numbered two hundred and thirty, over half the total strength of the Companions garrisoned at Caerleon. Artorius had forbidden the message to go north, to the reserve garrison at Viroconium. He needed those men in place, not haring off on some holy mission. At Llandaff, the High King and his red-cloaked warriors gathered in a meadow under rainy skies, since there were too many to cram inside the church. Flanked by two priests, Bishop Cadwy stood on a dais and blessed them all.

  “The Lord commands you to go forth,” he bellowed, “He will defend the inhabitants of Jerusalem, and the one who is feeble among them in that day will be like David, and the House of David will be like God, like the Angel of the Lord before them. And in that day, He will set out to destroy all the nations that come against Jerusalem. You are his messengers, his spear-armed warriors. Go, and take the blessing of the Lord with you!”

  When the ceremony was over, the Companions split up and went their separate ways. Artorius returned to Caerleon, to oversee the abandonment of the city. His warriors rode in all directions, scattered like leaves in the wind. They followed instincts, fragments of old stories and legend, the direction of their prayers.

  Among the least of them was a youth named Peredur. He was barely sixteen, and until recently had been a servant in the palace kitchens. Bored with life in the kitchen, and of having his backside kicked by angry cooks, he asked to join the Companions. Well-built and enormously strong, he easily beat the other recruits at wrestling and staves. After he had cracked the skulls of three opponents, the others refused to face him.

  “Strong as a bull,” Bedwyr remarked once the tests were over, “though you handle a sword like a drunk with a mop, and your horsemanship is abysmal.”

  The one-handed warrior smiled kindly at Peredur. “You can learn. We shall make a Companion of you yet, Peredur…?”

  “Peredur ap Evrawc,” the boy replied proudly. “My father was a great warrior in the days of Ambrosius. So were my brothers.”

  “If you say so,” Bedwyr said politely. He had clearly never heard of Evrawc or his sons. That was six months ago. Since then Peredur had strived to be the model soldier: dutiful, obedient, brave. He wasn’t a natural horseman, yet worked hard at improving his seat and following the drill. Horses didn’t much like him either, and he lost count of the number of time he was bitten or thrown out of the saddle.

  As a swordsman Peredur was no more fast or skilful than his instructors could make him. Instead he relied on brute strength. Peredur could absorb any amount of punishment, and one blow from his sword-arm was enough to knock most men flat. Only one criticism stung Peredur to the quick. The swordmaster at Caerleon said he was too stupid and easily led to ever make an officer:

  “You’re a born follower, my lad. The burden of command will never sit on those heavy shoulders. Spear-fodder in a red cloak. Get used to it.”

  Peredur was determined to prove everyone wrong. Ever since he could remember, people had mocked and belittled him. His mother had done so to preserve his life. Peredur was the youngest of seven brothers. The other six had followed their father’s example, ridden off to war and died in battle. Determined to save her last child, the bereaved widow abandoned her house and took Peredur deep into the wild, away from inhabited places. There he was raised among women and a couple of old servants, strictly forbidden to teach the boy how to ride or fight.

  Peredur brooded on the past as he rode away from Llandaff. He had a vague sense that he should go north, and followed the highway to the borders of Gwent. There was very little traffic; terror of the Yellow Plague had driven most people into hiding. He passed only the occasional beggar sat by the roadside, waiting in vain for the charity of strangers.

  “Alms,” one of these lost souls pleaded, “alms, lord. Have pity on me.”

  Peredur ignored the beggar and cantered on past. His thoughts were not in the present. He remembered the first time he saw warriors, a troop of riders armed with spears and shields, pass through the woods near his mother’s refuge.

  Peredur was transfixed by the sight of them, and ran home to ask who these men were.

  “They wore red cloaks and coats of shiny scales like fish-skins over their bodies,” he breathlessly informed his mother. “One was a giant, with a red streamer in his iron hat and fair hair the colour of ripe straw streaming to his shoulders.”

  His mother suddenly looked very old. “Those men you saw were warriors,” she said heavily, “men who kill other men in battle, or are killed themselves. The giant with the yellow hair was probably a captain in the service of Artorius. He rules this island as High King.”

  These names meant nothing to Peredur, but they filled him with wonder and an unquenchable desire to know more. The warrior spirit of his ancestors was roused. He could no longer endure living in the forest with a pack of old women and greybeards. Instead he burned with a desire to see the world; to wear a red cloak and fish-skin armour, wield his own spear and shield, win fame in battle and serve the great king, Artorius.

  At last Peredur could endure it no longer, and ran away. Somehow he found his way to Caerleon. Not as a famous warrior, clad in gold and silver armour upon a white horse, but a starving urchin in dirty rags, half-dead from days on the road with little to eat or drink. The steward of the household, Gareth, took pity on the waif and found a place for him in the kitchens.

  Back in the present, he came to a fork in the road. Ignorant of his surroundings, Peredur chose to turn off the main highway and explore the path leading north-east. That way led the frontier of the Debated Land. Peredur knew this at least, and his heart beat faster at the thought of encountering a band of Saxon warriors. It was time he had a real fight against the enemies of his race. The road plunged through a dense swathe of woodland before steadily rising to some bare high ground. Peredur slid from the saddle and led his horse up the crest on foot, wishing to spare her strength.

  He halted at the summit to take in the view. Lush green hillsides rolled away to the east with no sign of habitation. Miles of forest stretched away north and south. Peredur might have been alone in the world. After the noise and bustle of Caerleon, the unexpected peace was welcome.

  Peredur turned his horse loose to graze and sat down to eat some of his rations. He chewed at a lump of rye bread and soft cheese and let his mind roam. His reverie was shattered by the thump of hoof beats. Peredur threw away the crumbs of his supper and ran to his horse. He had seized the reins and was about to hook a leg over the saddle when a rider appeared.

  Peredur dropped to the ground and reached for his sword, then breathed a sigh of relief when he recognised the newcomer’s face.

  “Swyno,” he cried, “are you following me?”

  Swyno, a young man who had joined the Companions at about the same time as Peredur, reined in his horse and grinned. He was a slender youth, handsome and light of complexion, his crisp, fair hair falling in burnished ringlets to his shoulders. Peredur, who was jealous of his good looks and popularity with women, suspected he used curling irons at night.

  “Well met, Peredur,” Swyno called out cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’m not tracking you. We happen to be on the same road to Glevum, that’s all.”

  Peredur had no idea the road led to Glevum, a deserted town on the Saxon side of the frontier. He
was determined to hide his ignorance, otherwise Swyno would only spread the tale among the other Companions. Yet another example of poor dull-witted Peredur and his lack of knowledge of the world.

  “Why are you headed to Glevum?” he asked, trying to sound offhand, as Swyno spurred his horse up the hill.

  “I might ask you the same question,” the other man responded. He grinned again, displaying perfect white teeth, and gave Peredur a wink.

  Peredur’s blood boiled. Swyno was mocking him, as he always did. He clenched his fists and forced himself to remain calm. This man was his comrade. The Companions were supposed to be on quest together, for the sake of Britannia and Artorius.

  Swyno slipped lightly off his horse and gave Peredur a friendly thump on the shoulder.

  “The Nine Witches,” he said. “You must have heard of them?”

  Peredur nodded stiffly. As it happened, he did recall a tale or two of the Nine Witches of Glevum, but the details were vague in his mind. He refused to give Swyno an excuse to question him.

  “Well,” Swyno continued, “the old hags are said to have the Sight, and a talent for prophecy. They seemed as good a place as any to begin my search. The priests would disapprove, of course.”

  Peredur understood. The church hated all forms of the old religion. They taught all prophecy was false, mere lies of the Devil, meant to trick men and lead them away from the true path.

  Swyno tapped the side of his nose and gave another irritating wink. “I didn’t tell Bedwyr and his crows where I was going, of course. The bishop would have me crucified if he knew. Upside down. Shall we travel together? There’s safety in numbers.”

  Peredur shrugged. In truth, he didn’t much care for Swyno’s company, but it made sense for two warriors to ride together into hostile territory. Perhaps the experience would draw them closer together. It was said that Artorius hated Cei and Bedwyr when they were children, and yet they became firm friends and battle-companions.

  The two young men mounted and rode on. They went at a careful pace, following the road east towards Glevum as it carved through the wild hills and forests. The land was untamed here, a legacy of the constant state of war between Briton and Saxon. Once, they passed a deserted farmstead with no sign of fire or other damage. A few sheep cropped the grass of a nearby paddock, and cattle could be heard moving about inside the byre. The farm had not been plundered or attacked.

  Intrigued, Peredur ventured closer to the miserable thatched cottage, and almost retched when a foul smell hit his nostrils.

  “Beware!” cried Swyno, who hung back on the forest road. “Come away, quickly! The plague!”

  Peredur wrenched on his reins, forcing his horse to turn about. He caught a glimpse of a body sprawled just inside the low doorway of the cottage. One arm was outflung, as if reaching for daylight, and the flesh of the hand and lower arm were a sickly shade of yellow.

  The two riders put their horses to the gallop. Before nightfall they passed two more deserted settlements, small farms, and gave them a wide berth. Peredur, who would never admit to fearing any human enemy, went cold with fear at the thought of the plague. His companion, for all his bold front, was also clearly shaken.

  Shortly after dusk they halted for the night beside a pleasant stream inside a glade, a little way off the road.

  “One of us should keep watch,” suggested Swyno. “Let us swap shifts through the night, as we are trained.”

  Peredur agreed. He offered to keep the first watch, and sat on the riverbank while Swyno laid out his bedroll. All was quiet and peaceful. The gentle flow of the stream encouraged contemplation, and he once again fell into the past. He tried to summon up a clear memory of Evrawc, his father. It was impossible. The old warrior had ridden off to his last battle when Peredur was barely two years old. All he could recall of the man was a kind smile, a pair of moody grey eyes, and a rough hand adjusting the brooch of his first cloak.

  “You must keep warm, lad. A hard winter lies ahead.”

  His father’s voice. A distant murmur, almost buried in the deep vaults of Peredur’s mind. He treasured the words. The hard winter was his life, and spring might never come.

  After midnight, he woke Swyno, who resented it, and curled up in his bedroll. Peredur instantly plunged into dreamless sleep.

  He woke to cold and the pitiless light of dawn. Peredur yawned, knuckled his eyes and sat up, confused. There was no sign of his companion. Swyno’s horse was gone, along with his bedroll, leaving a shallow impression in the grass.

  At first Peredur was angry. His so-called comrade had abandoned him! Anger swiftly cooled to relief. He had no love for Swyno or his company, and it would make a good story when he got back to Caerleon. He smiled at the thought of Swyno, red-faced and humiliated, desperately trying to explain to the High King why he had deserted Peredur. With luck, Artorius would have little mercy on him.

  Let the king break Swyno’s sword, Peredur thought hopefully. Let him shame the man in public. Tear his red cloak in pieces and have him whipped through the streets.

  With these happy thoughts, Peredur ate a swift breakfast, fetched his horse and rode on in high spirits. It was a fine morning, chill but dry and bright, and the road ahead peaceful and lonely. Peredur relished any chance to be alone with his thoughts. He whistled a dimly remembered tune from his childhood, and wondered if his mother still lived. Perhaps she had forgiven him by now for running away. Peredur was his father’s son, and could only follow his destiny. She would understand.

  A riderless horse appeared on the road ahead. He rode forward to catch its bridle. Fear struck him, and a sense of dread. This was Swyno’s horse.

  Peredur looked to his right. The horse had emerged from the trees in that direction, and her hoof-prints dwindled away into the shadows. His heart raced. The thought of plunging alone into the darkness was not a happy one. Yet he was a Companion, and his sword-brother was in trouble. Peredur had to help him.

  He tethered the spare horse to a tree and advanced on foot into the forest, sword in hand. Peredur trod warily, leading his own horse by the reins. The woods clustered thickly about him, gnarled bodies of ancient trees and clusters of twisted boughs, overhung with webs of green moss. There was a path of sorts, wide enough for just one horseman, twisting like a ribbon through the old forest.

  Soon he reached a shallow brook on the edge of a small hillock, little more than a bump in the ground. The trees grew less thickly on the mound, which was crowned by a ramshackle lodge made of felled trunks, shorn of branches and piled on top of each other. A crude roof of nettles, bunched and plaited together, protected the lodge against rain. There was no door, merely an old woollen blanket hanging from two nails over the entrance.

  Peredur paid little attention to the lodge. His eye was drawn to a chestnut tree near the foot of the mound. The trunk was divided in the middle, and a copper basin hung from one of the lower branches.

  The basin was not alone. Next to it, hanging from a stout rope tied round his ankles and looped around the trunk, was the corpse of Swyno. He hung upside down, arms dangling, blood trickling from the knife slash in his throat. His red cloak hung down and brushed against the sodden earth.

  Swyno’s eyes gazed into eternity. His mouth drooped open, his yellow beard and golden curls were rank with fresh blood. The branch creaked ominously under the weight of his body.

  Peredur quickly recovered from the shock. All his envy and dislike of Swyno was forgotten, consumed by a desire to avenge a comrade. He spurred forward to the tree, lifted his spear and swung the butt-end against the bowl of the copper basin. The dull boom echoed through the woods. A few birds were startled from their nests, otherwise all was quiet. Peredur waited impatiently.

  Not long after the echo had died away, he heard the thump of hoofs on soft ground. He looked to his left and took in a sharp breath. A horseman approached the mound. He was all in black; black cloak and knee-length tunic, black braccae and boots, black shield with an iron rim. He wore a black leather
mask over his face, with only one eye-hole, and over it an iron helm painted black, adorned by a black ridged crest. The sword at his side had a silver hilt and rested inside a black scabbard. His hands were hidden inside black gauntlets, and slung over his back was a spear with a glinting silver tip. His horse was bone-white.

  At first he seemed unreal. A ghostly apparition, drifting silently through the woods. When Peredur looked closer, horse and rider were not quite as impressive. The black garments were shabby and worn thin in places, patched at the knees and elbows. His cloak was ragged, and there were spots of rust on the sword-hilt and the tip of his spear. His horse, a gelding, was alarmingly thin and trotted along with head bowed, eyes dull and filmy. Yet still the black rider looked formidable. He stopped dead at the sight of Peredur, who spurred forward to meet him. Peredur gestured with his spear at Swyno’s corpse.

  “Did you kill this man?” he demanded.

  The rider, his single eye glittering with malice behind the mask, gave a slow nod.

  “I did,” he rasped in a voice like the hiss of steel on leather. “I killed your friend. He dared to enter my forest and challenge me to battle. Not much of a fight. What has happened to the Companions of old? They are gone, and far lesser men now wear the red cloak. Artorius is old. His time is almost done. I mean to pick at the carrion of his followers.”

  “You are a traitor to the High King,” Peredur replied angrily. “I shall take your head back to Caerleon.”

  Part of the rider’s lower jaw was visible under the mask. He was clean-shaven, his chin rubbed raw, and sniggered through bad teeth.