by Henry Treece
Then the two were running as fast as their tiredness would allow them, into the brushwood that fringed the lower parts of the mound, the great and sombre tumulus.
5. The Flight to the Coast
For three days and nights the boys travelled on, sometimes running, when they could, sometimes walking. They slept only in snatches, one of them keeping guard, and then their dreams were full of fear, of Medrodus and those last awful days of battle.
Once Festus said to his friend, ‘It is strange to think that you were fighting on the one side, and I on the other.’
But Wulf did not reply for a moment. He pulled off his coarse linen shirt and Festus saw the half-healed scars of many lashes that stretched across his back. He looked at Wulf in bewilderment, and then, almost ashamed, the Jute said, ‘I was no warrior. They made me a slave when I returned to my village, for they said I was a spy sent by the British to betray my own folk.’
Festus said, ‘So you have little love for your own people now, Wulf?’
The Jutish boy clasped the hand of Festus. ‘I have only one friend,’ he said.
Festus returned the hand-clasp. ‘You are wrong, Wulf,’ he said. ‘You have another. The one who struck Medrodus down. Bedwyr is one of the great Britons. There are few like him now. Another of them lies beside Dubglas, the arrows thick in his body.’
The tears began to run down the boy’s face for the memory of his lost friends. Wulf put his arm across his shoulders. ‘We must do our best,’ he said simply.
Then they rose and ran on through the thick forest.
On the evening of the fourth day, they stood on a headland,
looking down towards the grey and whispering sea. Dusk had fallen about them, and a wind was rising. In their tattered clothes they looked like a pair of vagabonds, without home or future. Yet in their tired minds a future shone - if only they could reach it.
Suddenly Wulf pointed and said, ‘There, far down below! A little light that passes to and fro! It will be a ship and they arc carrying stores aboard. They will be anxious to catch this wind that is rising now. Come on, Festus, we must make a last effort!’
So, almost dragging his exhausted friend, he set off into the darkness, picking his way among the chalky rocks and over the sharp stones, down towards the beach.
‘What if they are enemies?’ groaned Festus, by now at the end of his tether, for he still wore the armour and sword which Artorius had given him. It was his last sign of pride.
‘Then they will either kill us or make us slaves,’ said Wulf, ‘and I for one am beyond caring which, as long as we do not fall into the hands of Medrawt again!’
As they struggled across the painful beach in the darkness, two men came towards them, flashing a lantern in their faces. ‘By the Holy Cross, but who have we here?’ said one, when he had surveyed their tattered clothes. And the heart of Festus leaped with joy, for this was no Saxon voice, but the voice of a Briton and, by bis exclamation, a Christian.
‘Help us, friend,’ he gasped. ‘We run from Medrodus and are near exhaustion.’
‘So do many men,’ dryly observed the man with the lantern. ‘Britain is a good place to be out of at the moment.’
The other man said, ‘We sail for Armorica, young friends, God being willing to give us a fortunate wind to get us there. If you are true men, there is room on board for you. If you try to betray us, though, we shall pitch you overboard, for the Channel is thronged with Saxon ships now and we must run the gauntlet of them to reach safety. You will stay below the deck until we are past them.’
Wulf said, ‘We should not betray you by any shouts or signals, sir.’
‘You will not get the chance,’ said the man with the lantern. ‘We have too many precious souls aboard to take the risk. But you will be comfortable enough, till we get well out to sea, never fear.’
When they were on board the other man said, ‘You are only lads and carry no money. But the captain of this ship must have a price, for he takes a great risk. What have you to offer?’
Reluctantly Festus unbuckled his sword-belt and began to take off the inlaid cuirass that Artorius had given him. The man saw the look on the boy’s face, and said, ‘That is a price I cannot ask you to pay. No, my young gamebird, keep your arms, I would rather pay your passage out of my own purse, light though it is with a wife and four children to fend for,’
But Festus threw the sword and cuirass on to the deck. ‘Take it, friend,’ he said. ‘It hurts me to part with it, but it belongs to a way of life which I want to forget for ever now.’
Then he began to sway on his feet so badly that Wulf could hardly support him, and a kindly woman came forward and took both boys by the hand.
‘Come you below, you bad boys,’ she said, almost in tears herself at the plight they were in. ‘You need a bite of food inside you if we are to face the seas this night.’
Then she tried to smooth Wulf’s long and matted hair and the Jute tried to recall his own mother; but that was so long ago. Festus only smiled sadly, for his memories were still fresh enough to be painful.
Later, wrapped in warm sheepskins, they stood on the rolling deck and looked towards the dark shape that lay far behind them, beyond the white wake of the ship.
‘Goodbye, Britain, may you fare well when the fighting is over,’ said Wulf.
A swooping gull seemed to cry out as it rode above the swaying mast. ‘Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!’
‘Perhaps we may return, one day,’ said Festus, the salt spray mingling with the tears that ran down his cheeks.
‘Who knows? Who knows? Who knows?’ the gull seemed to cry as it sped away into the darkness, back towards the coast.
EPILOGUE
About AD 520
The Tavern of the Three Queens was a safe place, and so much frequented by visiting merchants to Camlann, who had no wish that the profit of a whole voyage should be stolen from them while they lay back, comfortable and bemused by good mead, brewed to some old Celtic recipe. Besides, the long warm upper room had two good windows; the one looking out over the market-place, where pillared mansions and thatched wooden halls jostled against each other; the other looking down on to the harbour, where the masts of many ships jigged about with every movement of the tide. It was useful to keep one’s eye both on customers in the market-place and porters bringing up supplies from the dock-side. Anyway, in troublous times, it was always wise to stay somewhere that had a back door down to the sea!
One autumn afternoon, three men sat by the open hearth in that long room, warming their hands, for a bitter wind had blown up across the Saxon Sea, and sipping from time to time out of their beakers of mulled and spiced wine, which they considered just the thing to keep chills away!
Two of them wore the clothes of sea-going merchants - tight-fitting woollen caps, hide-jerkins over thick linen tunics, and cross-bound breeches tucked into stout neat’s-leather ankle-boots; a dress that might not have been elegant, but which probably cost as much as the latest Queen Gwenhwyfar’s feast gown (and each of the three Gwenhwyfars was noted for her festive finery). One of the merchants was tall, pale-skinned and very fair-haired; the other shorter, dark and bearded. Both spoke a dialect of Breton.
The third man was much older; his long black stuff robe and the inkhorn that swung at his girdle proclaimed him scribe or scholar, every bit as much as his swarthy complexion and sharp accent announced him to be a Spaniard.
‘So you write out letters for folk in the market-place?’, said the fair-haired merchant. ‘I shouldn’t have thought there was much money to be had in Britain at that trade.’
The Spaniard smiled slowly. ‘It is remarkable,’ he said, ‘how much these Saxons like writing - letters to their cousins in Germany, records of old battles, trade-agreements, and so on. They have turned into quite a formal, businesslike folk since the country settled down.’
The bearded merchant said, ‘I’d rather bargain with a Celt any day - they enjoy a bit of haggling; but a Saxon, and especially a
Jute’ - and he gave the other a sly dig in the side - ‘well, they state a price and stick to it, through thick and thin. And they drive a hard bargain, and, what’s more, they have it set down in black and white so that you can’t deny it later!’ The scribe said, ‘What is your trade, if I may ask?’
The fair-haired merchant shrugged and said, ‘Well, we bring almost anything there seems to be a demand for. At the moment, with winter coming on, we sell many hide-jackets, and even some boots like these; though they cost rather too much for the average citizen. All the same, we get asked for them among the old Cymry, the personal bodyguard, you know, of Arthur’s household. They like to look well.’
The bearded merchant added, ‘That’s where we sell most of our wine, too, It’s the fashion at the court now; they have stopped serving mead at table. The idea is to get back to the Roman manners as far as they can. And they seem to be doing it, too.’ The Spaniard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘One never knows in Britain, and especially in a port like Camlann. I admit that, since Arthur crushed foreign superiority at Badonis and made all the folk work together or get out of the country, and since he has got the roads into shape again, and the forests cut back a bit, things have been better. But, you know, I have seen many governments come and go in my part of the world, and I know that although a system looks well on paper - new tax-inspectors, magistrates, schools, and so on - it is what the ordinary man thinks that really matters. And I am not sure that all is well here.’
The fair-haired merchant said, ‘Well, we have been coming twice each year for the past twenty years, during the great peace as they call it, and we have never seen the ordinary man look better clothed, or have more money in his pocket to buy our wares - real money, of the old sort, not those clipped minims I knew as a boy.’
The Spaniard gave him a shrewd glance. ‘Where did you know clipped minims?’ he asked; but the bearded merchant chipped in quickly and said, ‘What makes you so doubtful, sir, about the state of Britain?’
The scribe began to say, ‘The surface is unruffled, but underneath there is a strange stirring, and strange sensations of..
Just then the door opened and a gaunt red-haired man. came in and asked courteously whether he might sit by the fire. The others moved back in friendly fashion and the newcomer began to warm his hands, silently, as though not wishing to join the talk.
The scribe held out the wine-flask. ‘Fill your glass with this, friend,’ he said. ‘It is a cold day.’
The red-haired man said, ‘Thank you, master, yet I drink but water and milk. I need a clear head for my trade. But thank you, all the same.’
‘You are a Friesian, are you not?’ asked the Spaniard. But the other did not seem to hear him and continued to stare into the fire.
The fair-haired merchant smiled then, for he knew the hard nature of these folk, often hidden under a soft and courteous exterior. Almost as a joke he said, ‘You bear two knives, friend. That is strange in a city of peace, such as this.’
The Friesian moved his stool back from the fire and turned to the merchant. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘it is a cold day and you are from a warm country perhaps. It would be a shame to stay in Camlann and take a chill when you could be on your ship and sailing to where the sun shines.’
The bearded merchant had jumped from his stool, knocking it over in his haste. His face was flushed with anger. But the Spaniard put out a hand and restrained him. ‘What is to happen today, my friend?’ he asked the Friesian.
Once more the man turned from the fire. ‘That Woden will decide,’ he said, simply. ‘But I think many will catch their death of cold.’
The bearded merchant was about to say something else when the market square below was filled with the sound of trumpets, high, urgent, officious. He began to cross to the window, but the Friesian was there before him. ‘Stand back, master,’ he said. ‘This window-hole would be no protection from an arrow.’
The merchant grappled with him. ‘Let go,’ he said, ‘I am a free man.’
‘A free man is as good a target as any other man,’ said the Friesian. ‘Stand back!’
Over the man’s shoulder, the merchant saw a strong body of horsemen canter down one of the avenues that led into the square. At their head were three men who could not be mistaken, despite the passage of many years. The central rider was big-boned and strong, though his scant hair and long grey beard gave him the appearance of a sage rather than a warrior; yet there was no mistaking the wide scar-marks on his high cheek-bones and the gap in his teeth when he laughed. His Roman helmet lay before him on the saddle; his long cavalry cloak hung in graceful folds almost to the ground. But now the great sword, Caliburn, had been replaced by a smaller, lighter one; and that in itself told a tale.
To his right rode a gaunt and grizzled man, in sober armour. He was much bent by age and seemed to ride with difficulty. Nor did his grave face ever relax into a smile.
To the left of the leader sat another man, who bore his age well, for his hair was still black and curled, his smile flashing and white, his arms and fingers laden with bracelets and rings.
‘I know those men, let me watch them,’ said the bearded merchant, still struggling. As he said this, the fair-haired one ran to the window too, and the Friesian gave up the attempt to stop them. Now his voice changed to one almost of violence. ‘You asses,’ he said, ‘be advised. Go through the door at the back of the tavern and board your ship. You still have time.’
They looked at him askance, and then he pointed to the other windows, all round the square. The two merchants saw that men gazed down from every room; men such as the one who carried the knives in his belt. And even as they turned to him, to question him farther, they saw the tragedy unfold.
As the first few riders entered the square, a great haywagon was suddenly pushed from an archway across the street, cutting off the remaining cavalry. At the same time, other wagons were drawn across the streets which led from the market-place.
‘Good God!’ gasped the bearded merchant. ‘Arthur and his chosen few are trapped.’
The Friesian bared his teeth in a grim smile. They saw that he had drawn a bow and a sheaf of arrows from beneath his long cloak. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They are trapped, but it needs more than two knives to kill such a prey.’
Then the square was suddenly full of men, who came from every doorway and ran, like hunting wolves, across the square, swords, knives and lances in their hands.
The Friesian fitted an arrow to his bow and drew back the string. ‘This for the Bear!’ he said, and then the bearded merchant had struck him hard beneath the ear so that the man staggered against the wall and the bow fell harmlessly to the floor.
Then, as in a nightmare, the scene below enacted itself with a grim inevitability. Arrows flew from upper windows in showers, until Arthur and his two companions alone were left standing. At first the Bear seemed bewildered by this act of treachery. Then he clapped on his helmet and dragged out his sword, shouting something to the man at his right hand as he did so. Yet even as Arthur moved to meet the first onslaught of the attackers before him, Medrodus spurred forward behind him and drove his own blade deep into the Bear’s back, at the point where the cuirass plates were laced together.
Arthur gave a great start and the men who had been running at him stopped, aghast, even they. Then, as the watchers from the tavern clutched the window-sill with whitened knuckles, in horror, they saw the Bear turn slowly in the saddle, his face distorted with anger and pain; and they saw him sweep out once with his long sword. Medrodus, whose own weapon had been wrenched from his hand when the Bear turned so unexpectedly, sat unarmed, too amazed it seemed to try to ward off the ponderous blow. His dark and curled head fell from his shoulders among his treacherous accomplices.
The bearded merchant groaned and turned from the window, his hand over his eyes. Then the Spaniard took him by the arm. ‘The back door is still open,’ he said. ‘And I would beg leave to accompany you as far as some
friendly port in Armorica, if I may.’
The fair-haired one stayed at the window a second longer. ‘Only Bedwyr,’ he said. ‘Only he left, holding his shield over his master as the other dogs run in! Poor Bedwyr!’
But already the bearded one had shaken his wits together. ‘Come, Wulf,’ he said, ‘there is a running tide and the way to the wharf is clear. We have tomorrow to live for!’
Then the three men made what speed they could towards the ships that nodded in the quiet harbour.