“Ah, but Arthur, therein lies the answer. Your great compassionate heart is the heart of a Lion. All great Kingdoms, won only by the strength of a man’s arm and the sting of his sword, are doomed to fall in Time, to a younger and stronger arm. And on and on it goes, generation after generation. Those Kings are ever competing, never striving for harmony, but only for power. It is your heart that has made our world what it has become. Even through the compassion you have shown toward your enemies have you engendered a deep respect from them. You could have vanquished every last one of the Warriors in this battle, raped and put their women to the sword – only then to face the next stronger arm. Because you have always put the good of the people before greed, lust, or Hero’s fame, fame is what you will have and will leave behind as a beacon of hope. But you do not see this in yourself, do you? And that makes me Love and respect you all the more.”
Chapter 25
Baldric the Bard
Gwyddion
Now, Arthur had in his court a certain Poet – and an excellent Scribe was he. This man’s name was Baldric. I had met Baldric when I was still a boy in Vortigern’s clutches. But his grace of song and phrase remained always in my memory. And so, when Arthur gained his power, I found and brought Baldric to him.
Baldric’s Grandmother was from Swede-land. Her family had migrated South into the Jutland peninsula. She spoke a somewhat different tongue than his Grandsire, who spoke more similarly to the Jutes – for his family had come from North of the Saxon lands, where the two had met. There they married and made Baldric’s Father. He, in turn had married a Saxon woman – fair of skin and golden blond of hair. Together they made Baldric.
Their family had been amoungst the earliest settlers on Briton’s Eastern shores – those who had come when Vortigern first made bargain with Hengist and Horsa, to hire his Saxon mercenaries.
Of course, Baldric’s grandparents had never been anything but farmers.
No, it was his Father who had fought the Eire when they came across the Western Sea to plague the Clans of Gwynedd, Cambria, Powys, and Alba. Baldric’s Father had died in one of these early skirmishes when Baldric was yet an infant. His Mother soon followed his Father into Death, so Baldric was raised by his Grandparents.
He was taught to speak in both his Grandsire’s and Grandmother’s tongues. He was also taught the Runes and Magic by their village Thane. There he stayed until the beauty of his countenance and gift of voice came to the attention of Vortigern’s court. Then Baldric was taken to Vortigern’s fortress and educated in the Latin Language – both in spoken and written form – by a Scholar of renown.
While with Vortigern, Baldric had had much intellectual intercourse with Scholars of both Vortigern’s and Hengist’s courts, who, together with Baldric, eventually forged a transliteration of the Saxon Runes into the Latin alphabet by the use of phonetics – the perceived sounds of each other’s written marks.
These were the Runes they used:
.
They were transliterated as: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z . In addition to these, there are a few other Runes, which correspond to sounds in Saxon, these are:
= AE, then there is a Rune that looks something akin to two Xs – one atop the other, which corresponds to the sound NG. Also one for the Cymru sound of DD – or TH in Saxon – but in Latin there is not this sound. This Rune looks similar to a letter P.
It was not long after this great accomplishment that Baldric began to compose poetry in Latin and then translate it into the Runic characters. I know of these things because Baldric told me.
Just before I abandoned Vortigern, Baldric gave a gift to me. It was a small piece of vellum, which skin had been painstakingly prepared by his friend Swidhun, the Smith. Upon this vellum he had written the Runes and their corresponding Roman letters. So intrigued was I with his brilliance and so honoured by his gesture that I have kept it on my person, in my pouch, ever since. In fact, besides the clothes on my body, my cloak and brooch, my dagger, and some bread to eat, it was the only possession I took with me when I fled Vortigern’s camp.
Arthur thought that Baldric could be of great political worth as regards this battle – to engender goodwill amoung his Saxon allies, by writing of it in their tongue – for it was well known that they were charmed and much enamoured of Poetic Sagas.
I am sure that Morgan had a great influence upon Arthur in this too, for she has ever been a great appreciator of the Poetic Arts.
Baldric
The Battle of Baddon Hill...
A great fog had arisen, so dense that I could not see my hand held in front of my face. I heard not a sound but the lapping of Water against the sides of our Ship and the thudding of my heartbeat in my ears. We were under orders of silence. At Times our wooden hull groaned and creaked and in the distance there were other lappings, groanings and creakings, but the surrounding Waters ate up most of these. Or was it the impenetrable Darkness and eerie Fog that did so?
Expectant, with my stomach churning like the Sea beneath us, I wondered where we were? Surely we were anchored not very far from the Coast, but who could know? It gave a man Time to think of what Creatures might lurk in the depths beneath – great Sea Serpents a-waiting their chance to drag us down into the Deep to devour us – down and down, into a Watery grave.
Somewhere a man coughed. Was that man on our boat? Or had we drifted too close to another? Instinctively, I braced myself for a great bump. Would I next feel the icy breath of the Water Spirits upon my neck?
I chided myself – “Get yourself together, man...”
Just then, Rhodri, the lead Archer of Arthur’s three boats, found his way over to me. He whispered, “When weell it begin?”
Gryffydd, the Shipmaster of the boat we were on – who was not privy to King Arthur’s plan – sidled over to listen. But first he asked, “Rhodri, why are y’r Archers leaving our ship?
“Now is’t the Time I can tell ye Gryffydd,” said Rhodri, “what be our orders. King Arthur ‘as a great cunning for this morning.
“Ye ‘ave seen the Archers, who‘r staying a-board through th’ battle, be dressed as Saxons – for as t’ trick ‘em what might call out t’ us from a Saxon Ship. Then we ‘ave a-board one o’ th’ two Saxon captives t’ answer ‘em in their own tongue if they ask a question from being suspicious. But as for th’ rest o’ th’ Archers – them that’s climbing o’er th’ side of the ship now and going t’ shore that is – an’ sure ye’ve noticed – everything, ev’n their bows and arrows is black. Their heads be wrapped in black cloth too. An’ they be all naked an’ covered from head t’ foot in thick black mud. Like the pitch it is. I ken ye must ‘ave wondered why.
“Weel, me Archers ‘ave been told t’ not e’en look up or straight ahead – so as not t’ ‘ave the whites o’ their eyes give ‘em away. All a-quiet, not so far behind the enemy will they sneak their way t’ shore... slinking as Deer t’ their places.”
Gryffydd muttered, “But when weell all begin an’ what be th’ trick ‘o getting our small boats a-beach an’ y’r Archers behind enemy lines without ‘em bein’ seen? Be it by Magic?”
Rhodri answered, “You know, I heard it whispered th’ Enchantress Morgan herself cooked up th’ stuff from Magic honey an’ dust o’ th’ Tor an’ dyed it blackest black from crushing o’ the Walnut husks. Blacker e’en than pitch is this conjured stuff, ‘though not so easy to a-light. For if t’were really pitch, th’ men would go up in a fiery Death – if they be seen that is, an’ hit by blazing arrows. She, the Enchantress – it is alike whispered – then added Magic’t Flea Bane Herb t’ her potion, for so t’ keep th’ biting vermin from bedeviling th’ men. Don’t know it be true – but t’wer what I heard.”
Gryffydd crossed himself at that...
I said, “Look, the Eastern Sky is lightening, soon will be the rising of the great disk of the Sun across the Water. We must wait for those moments when the Water is aflame with Her brilliant golden light, blinding all w
ho look Eastward from the shore toward us or from their Ships.
“All must be Timed perfectly! The battle cry will go up and just after the havoc is full on, those Archers who remain a-board will let loose their Fire-birds to torch the enemy long boats.
“When all is done and the Water is full a-flame with brilliant blinding light, you will raise anchor and we will wend Southward...
“But first Rhodri,” said I “is it not Time to arm the rest of your Archers, as the moment is growing near. It will not be long now.”
Rhodri gave the order and all were armed in quiet precision! Then he asked me...
“Baldric th’ Scribe, how weell Gryffydd an’ our other ships get away quick enough so as t’ keep th’ Saxon Shipmen – who are left behind t’ mind their own Long boats – from torching ours?”
“The North Wind, Rhodri.”
“Wha’ Wind?”
“The same that has made the fog and then lifted it... The Merlin... He will call the Call of the North Wind and our Ships will sail swiftly to South.”
At that Gryffydd made the sign against evil Enchantment, and hurried to follow his tasks. I did wonder then if he was a Christian? But even so, did not their Saints raise the Winds as well?”
Then Rhodri – after stealing the “Black Archers” to the shore, a-waited the agreed signal.
All there was left to do was to wait – but not so long. No matter... no Time... The cry went up... It was on...
To quiet the devils in my head, I placed quill to vellum and wrote...
No matter then... No Time was left...
The cry went up... The signal sent...
And who could tell how Wyrd was bent?
I saw it all transpire...
Did’st Hell’s fury let loose... let loose...
Arrows torching Woden’s fleet...
Ne’er did’st a one see from whence they came...
Only shadows did’st fall at their feet...
The Valkyries swooped with their Flaming helm’s...
We heard their screeching cries...
Or was this the call of delirium –
Mortals meeting their demise?
Woden, Woden, the Terrible... The True...
Has’t your fury abandoned you?
Where went your Warriors, Berserkers who,
In mad and frenzied lust...
Do slash and bend... Do kill and maim...
Do pummel, crush and thrust?
“Look, the Eastern Sky is lightening”
Said the Archer at the rising of the Sun...
I replied:
“Across the Waters, there be Sol...
So hold... hold... hold... trust...
Wait... the battle cry will rise...
Wait... Wait... Wait they must...
“When the Sea is’t aflame... a-flame...
With Sol’s brilliant golden light...
Blinding all who look to East
Then will the moment be right...”
The cry went up... and louder grew
Beserkers frenzied call...
How coulds’t they know by high Sun’s light...
They’d be vanquished one and all...
The Picti wailed and blew their pipes...
They beat upon their drums...
The Old Dark Tribes they shook their bells
Chanted, danced, and Hummed...
The Clansmen and the Romans
Shadows of the waning Night...
Didst shout vile insults, blasphemies
Ridiculing heart and might...
No matter then... no Time was left... the battle it began...
And all... unfolded... perfectly...
Just as King Arthur planned...
Some Time later, I travelled from the land of my birth, through all the Tribes of the Teutons, Northward to the cold land of my Grandmother’s Father, all along the way speaking to my kinsmen – friend and foe – jof Arthur’s quickly won battle...
All did ask and meant to know:
“How is’t that Woden did’st abandon his blood... men and women, young and old? Did’st th’ Valkyries fly their chosen to Valhalla? Or are their corpses still gaoling their souls?”
How could I answer that they might understand? T’was a hard thing for me myself, with so many Gods of Tribal difference, yet all seeming as from one Well...
So I, Baldric, the Scop, composed this poem – and recited:
The Night of Woden’s Shame
That Day I drank from Woden’s bucket
The Mead of Poetry...
Then Wyrd demanded that I scald
The truth of memory...
Old Woden hung from Yggdrisil’s bough
Wracked with hunger, thirst and pain...
For seven Nights and seven Days
In the cold Winds He had sway’n...
Oh, one eyed Lord of Asgard
He sacrificed his sight...
To gain the Wisdom that he sought
The Magic, Runes, and Rites...
The Gods serve not blood, nor desire, nor greed
Nor borders nor lands nor field...
Nor what seems just in the hearts of Man
But for honour their judgments wield...
Although when – as in this instance…
There are two lands, one blood, two sides...
Where in men’s heart does Justice sing
And rightfulness abides...
When each man says in heartfelt truth
‘T’is My way that is right...
The Norns must choose by their will and Wyrd
And Their unfailing Sight...
By Thor’s all thunderous name
By Loki’s devious game...
By Sigurd and ol’ Heimdal
By Wulpur’s Perfect aim...
By Baldur’s Shining Day
By Frey’s Lordly might...
By Nanna’s lullaby
By Freyja’s Long Night’s Lights...
By Frigg... High Queen of Asgard
Who Weaveth all to Wyrd...
Yet in the fray of battle clash
Has’t ne’re She interfered...
Dark Lady flies Her black Mare
Hair whipping in the Wind...
Keeps count of all who have transgressed
Shone kindnesses or sinned...
Calamity... pain... Her Warriors’ fall!
All hast She heard and seen...
But ‘tis written ‘Is’t not Her task
To answer wail or keen...
True, Seaxneat and Ull bless sword or ax
If wise be he who wields it...
But with Woden’s wizened sanction
Eostar slays the fool who shields it...
Who will judge, which side to fall?
Who is wrong or who is right?
Nay, but men alone must win their wars
By their own swords’ mortal bite...
You asked if He abandoned us
T’was written in the Stars...
That we the men of Middilgard
Clash like insects in clay jars...
No right nor reason hath we all
To put Gods to the test...
For Brothers killing brothers
Is’t ne’re a noble quest...
True, Sigurd brave slew Fafnir
To claim the Dragon’s gold...
Yet no squandered blood would’st Gods accept
In Middilgard’s Days of old...
Who then can judge the “Eternal Ones”?
Or who can rightly claim...
A grudge against ol’ Woden
Or curse his mighty name?
Does Woden care? Oh, yes, He does
His Love is’t beyond all blame...
There never would... Nor ever could
Be a “Night of Woden’s Shame!”
Part Three
The Summer King
Chapter 26
Rest in Peace
Gwyddion
The
next few years breezed by in uneventful and blissful peace – for the most part that is.
With Arthur’s leave, I settled back into the old Cave in Gwynedd that had served as a dwelling for Chronos, the boys and I, so many years ago. I rested, read, tended my Herbs, and wrote my journals whenever Arthur did not need me.
As for Arthur and Bedwyr, these may have been the best years of their lives.
Prosperity filled these, Our Fair Isles. Even the Harvests were more than usually bountiful. The land was well with her people satisfied.
Igraine’s fortress and surrounding village prospered and ever more and more people were coming to honour and be blessed by Nodens’ Well.
Bedwyr finally had Time to oversee the refurbishment of both.
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