by Henry Treece
The boys loved her and respected her at the same time, for, as they both knew, she was usually too busy to tell a lad twice to do things! The second command was often accompanied by a good sound smack. They had both felt the force of this argument, and so when she came into the hall, they stopped bickering and went by the back door outside into the broad, palisaded yard.
There, a new sight met their eyes; two grooms were scrubbing down the war-chariot, cleaning it of its old caked mud, and burnishing the bronze decorations along the single shaft on which the archer stood when the vehicle went into battle. The sword-smith was bending over the wheels, a rough stone in his hand, sharpening the long scythe-like blades that projected from the axles on either side of the chariot.
He looked up as the boys approached, his tanned and wrinkled face smiling grimly. “Here’s something you lads have never seen before,” he said. “These two knives have not been sharpened in your time, I warrant!”
The boys stood back and watched him, stricken with awe. The two knives looked terribly sharp already, and yet the smith went on honing them, as though they were blunt bars of iron.
At last Gwydion said, “Is it the Romans, Dillus?”
The smith pursed his mouth and, shaking his head, said, “It’s not my place to pass on rumours to young lads. I only know what I do know, and that’s all. Your father told me to do this, and so I am doing it. Go and ask him, if you want to know!”
He grinned at the boys, for he knew that Gwydion would not dare to ask his father about anything as serious as this. Then he went on working and the two lads whistled Bel and strolled off into the fields, hoping to start a rabbit from the gorse bushes that fringed the farm.
Yet, though they whistled and sang in a carefree manner, both of them were thinking the same thing: Were the gods about to bring misfortune on the family of Gwydion? And was that because Math had killed the sacred hare? They hid this thought from each other, but it ran in their minds all the same, until at last they returned and went to their beds.
Gwydion saw the bright torch-light still burning in the hall as he pulled the hide coverlets over him and tried to settle down on his mattress of springy heather and fern-fronds. This worried him and he could not sleep, for the glow struck under the door of his cubicle. Moreover, he could hear the sound of armour being scrubbed and of a sword or a knife being rubbed rhythmically against a sharpening stone. He did not dare go into the hall to see what was happening, for his father was very strict about things like that. So he lay on his bed, too curious to sleep, and wishing that his father would say something from the other room that would give him an idea of what was going on; but all he heard at last was his father’s voice, bidding his mother goodnight and telling her that a guard would be posted at the gate of the farm and that she was not to be afraid. Then he heard the hall door close, and his father calling to one of the grooms to bring him a horse and to see that the visitor’s charger was well saddled.
Gwydion waited for a few minutes, then, acting on an impulse, he rose from his bed and tapped on the horse-hide partition that separated him from Math. There was no reply, and Gwydion did not dare risk shouting. He decided that Math must be fast asleep, and so decided that he must do what he wished to do alone.
He slipped on his tunic and trousers, and wrapped a wolfskin about his shoulders, for the nights were chilly on the hills, and he did not want to catch a cold just at this moment of excitement.
Then, when all was quiet in the hall, Gwydion squeezed through the window-hole above his bed, ran the few yards to the stockade, and clambered up and over, falling lightly into the fern on the other side. Then, without turning to look back once, he set his course down the hill, in the direction his father’s horse must have taken, towards the great royal city of Camulodunum.
He saw no one but an old shepherd as he raced over the undulating fields, and that old man was too frightened to do more than run into his little hut of clay and wattles, and pull the door to behind him. Then, running among the grazing sheep so silently that he hardly disturbed them, Gwydion came to the beaten earth pathway that led at last to the town gates.
As he approached the tall posterns, he saw in the moonlight that the sentries were on watch, holding their long spears at the ready. No doubt they would let him in, for they knew him quite well as his father was so important at the court; but this night they would surely escort him to his father, and that was just what Gwydion didn’t want to happen. So he turned away from the town gates and skirted the wall for a few hundred yards, until he came to a place where the coping had fallen from the top and the wall was a little lower than at other parts. He knew this place well, and fumbled in the ditch until he found what he sought. It was a long pole, a pine sapling that the other boys hid there for those occasions when they were locked out of the town at night and must return home or get a thrashing.
Gwydion stepped back for twenty paces, then ran at the wall. Just before he reached the stones, he dug his pole deep into the soft earth and leaped with all his force. He sailed over the wall, leaving the sapling upright in the ground.
Gwydion had done this many times successfully, but this night his luck was out. Even as he was falling into the citadel he saw below him in the bright moonlight, a fat citizen, a butcher or a tanner—at least, a prosperous man, walking with a lady as plump as himself, and a small boy. It was unavoidable. Gwydion crashed down, almost on top of the man, and they both rolled over in the roadway, gasping with the impact. Almost at once the woman began to cry out that the enemy was entering the city, and the small boy raised his staff and began to beat Gwydion about the head, saying that he would be revenged for his poor father. The poor father lay so still for a while that Gwydion was afraid he had killed him. Then the man began to stir and groan, and Gwydion, wrapping the wolf-skin about his head so that he would not be recognised, ran into a side-turning, among the overhanging thatch roofs, and tried to get his breath back before going on. However, soon he heard a commotion and saw the lights of torches burning in the main street. He knew then that the woman’s cries had aroused the guards, and so he could not wait any longer.
Keeping to the shadows of the low-built houses, he ran as fast as he could, and by the time he reached Caratacus’s hall, the sounds of pursuit had faded away.
The hall was brightly lit and Gwydion could see that many lords must be there, for chariots and horses were waiting before the great doors, attended by grooms and men-at-arms. The boy moved round to the back of the tall wooden building, and, choosing his opportunity, ran into the dark shadow which it cast across the ground, and looked for a means of reaching a window that opened a few feet above his head.
As he stood there, hardly daring to breathe, he heard the sound of horns from inside the hall, and knew then that Caratacus the king was about to speak. He could not catch the words that were said, but he understood by their tone that the king was defiant, and he heard the great growl of applause that greeted them. Then he heard another voice, a voice which he knew only too well. He was too excited to
think what he was doing, almost, but he felt that he must see inside the hall. He took a short run and leaped lightly up towards the window. His fingers grasped the ledge, and silently he pulled himself up until he could see into the room. There a sight met his eyes which he never forgot.
His father was striding up and down the long hall, his head thrown back and his arms waving as he spoke in a loud voice. Warriors on either side of him parted as he approached them, to give him free passage, and the king himself smiled down at him from his high chair set on a dais at the end of the room.
Gwydion suddenly felt his heart swell with pride for his father! What a soldier he looked, his long plaits swinging below the gold helmet, from the sides of which rose the fierce bull’s horns; his arms blazing with light as the torches caught the many gold bracelets on his wrists; the gold gorget at his throat burning like a fire; his scarlet cloak thrown back over one shoulder to expose the burnished plates of his
body armour! No wonder such a man was the favourite henchman of Caratacus!
Gwydion almost shouted with glee himself, as his father swore to beat the Romans back to Gaul with one hand tied behind his back! Everyone roared with laughter as Caswallawn gave an imitation of a Roman officer, mincing and prancing up and down the room. “Is this the redoubtable Roman army?” he asked, among loud laughter. “Why, we need not fight them! We could send our young sons to fight them!”
Then the mead horns were raised, and long toasts were drunk to Caratacus and Caswallawn, and the Belgae in general. In fact, as Gwydion hung there, above the ground, he thought they would never stop toasting each other, and he hoped that his father would return home sober when that war-meeting was finished.
Just then someone struck a chord on a harp, somewhere at the back of the room, and instantly the mead was forgotten and the warriors began to chant and to strike their swords against the boss of their metal shields. The noise was deafening, and its excitement swept through Gwydion’s heart like a shrill wind, until he almost fainted with the sheer thrill of seeing such great men making ready for war.
But just then another sound came to his ears. It was that of men running, and seeking someone, in haste and anxiety. Gwydion listened and distinguished the voices of the fat man whom he had knocked down earlier, and of his plump wife. They were on his trail, and the torch-light was approaching round the corner of the council hall. There was no time to waste; Gwydion slipped to the ground and ran swiftly to the front of the building, ducking under a chariot and stooping there, hardly breathing. He heard the sleepy groom of the chariot snoring, so he knew that he had not been seen. After a while there came the pattering of footsteps across the yard before the hall, and the torchlight flickered for an instant between the legs of horses and through the wheels of the chariots. Then Gwydion heard a guard begin to curse and tell the fat man that he must have been imagining things; and so at last they went away, and the boy breathed a sigh of relief. But now he was in a dilemma. He could not go back to the break in the wall, for there the guards would surely be waiting and he would be taken captive without a doubt. He thought for a moment, and then he pulled off the wolf-skin, by which he might have been recognised, and flung it into the shadows beneath the chariot. Then he stepped out into the open and walked purposefully through the town, towards the main gates.
No one questioned him. In fact, certain passers-by nodded or spoke to him, saying that it was a fine night, and wishing to be remembered to his mother when he got home.
At the gate it was a different matter, however, for the guards knew everyone who had entered the city that day, and they knew that Gwydion had not passed through their gates since morning. A Captain of Guard, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek-bone that made him seem very frightening, slowly strode to meet the boy, his eyes stern, but his mouth half-smiling, under his drooping Celtic moustache.
‘‘Halt!” he commanded, laying his hand on his long sword.
Gwydion smiled up at him, “Certainly,” he said. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
The soldier looked at first as though he might take hold of the boy and lay him across his knee; but in the end he smiled and said, “So you must be the enemy who entered the city, young Gwydion?”
The boy looked surprised and said, “What, me, Captain? I am no enemy, am I? Is it to fight me that my father has got his war chariot all bright and polished today? I am surprised.”
The Captain turned to the sentry at the gate and said solemnly, “Gwyn, take note of this boy. He is an enemy of the Belgae, in disguise, I shouldn’t wonder! If ever you see him vaulting over the town wall at night again, you know what to do, don’t you?”
The sentry put on a ferocious expression and drew his finger across his throat with a vicious hiss. Gwydion shuddered, for the man seemed to mean it! Then the Captain gave him a push that sent him through the gates, and the sentry gave him a smack with the end of his spear that tingled for quite a time: and so Gwydion left Camulodunum for the last time for many years, after listening to the only war council that he ever was to hear.
3. THE MAN UNDER THE TREES!
The journey back home was not a long one, but Gwydion did not feel that he wanted to return to his bed straightway. There was too much to think about; he was sure that he would never sleep if he went home immediately. So he turned away from the path, and took a route that led him out towards the woods where he and Math had been hunting earlier in the day.
Near the spot where he had stood to throw the knife in among the trees, Gwydion stopped and sat down on a flat stone, to think about the gallant scenes he had witnessed in the council chamber. He recalled the king, lolling in his carved oaken chair, a cow’s horn full of mead in one hand and his other bejewelled hand caressing the head of his favourite greyhound which was always given a place beside the throne. He recalled his own father, strutting up and down, his face red with pride and wine, his words bold and brave, his arms making arcs of light in the torchlit hall as he swung them about, to emphasise his words…. Gwydion sighed with admiration for such things, for he was a true boy of the Belgae, a natural warrior, and he dreamed of the day when he would pass the initiation ceremonies and be allowed to ride with the king on a grey horse like the one his father rode. Then they would give him a battle-name, like “War Eagle,” or “Wolf,” or, if his father was still living, they might call him “Young Badger,” for his father was ‘The Badger.”
As Gwydion thought of this his heart was filled with pleasure, until he thought of Math, suddenly. Math could never be his friend then, for a lord could not ride with a mere slave. Gwydion’s pride was stilled then and he half-turned towards the wood, his eyes a little moist, for he loved his friend, Math, as dearly as he loved Bel, and perhaps more. As he turned, his heart started up into his throat violently and he felt a great shudder run through his body. A man was sitting within the shadow of the wood, quite still, and watching him with bright, unwinking eyes.
Just then a shaft of moonlight struck inward through the foliage of the wood and Gwydion saw for an instant what the man looked like. His face was a dark brown, darker than Math’s, and his eyes were as piercing as those of a hawk. His long nose was hooked and his lips curled in a cruel smile below the hanging moustaches that almost reached his chest. In his ears he wore dangling ornaments, and on his head towered a high conical hat of sheepskin, in which was stuck a heron’s feather. His broad body was clothed with brightly coloured animal skins, held round the waist with a broad studded belt, into which was thrust a variety of knives such as the Belgic boy had never seen before. Yet what attracted Gwydion’s attention more than anything else was the great bow which was slung over the stranger’s shoulder. It was exactly like that which Math had flung away, but of course much longer and stronger. A wide sheaf of arrows lay across his knees, their feathered ends coloured red.
Gwydion saw all this in a flash, and then the moon withdrew her light, and Gwydion shook with fear as he heard the man moving towards him. At first, the boy was rooted to the spot, but as the man came out from the dark shadows, he was able to jump to his feet and begin to run in fear.
When he was twenty yards or more away from the wood, Gwydion looked back over his shoulder. The man had stopped at the edge of the wood and seemed to be laughing and calling something. Gwydion listened, but could not make out what it was. The language he was using was certainly not any sort of Celtic, nor was it Latin, for Gwydion had been to school in Camulodunum and had had a Roman teacher who had taught him from Caesar’s book about the war in Gaul. This was something different, something the like of which he had never heard before.
Then a fearsome thought struck him. This must be a god of the woods, and the language he was speaking must be the language of the gods! Yes, that was it—this was a warning from the gods that Math, or Gwydion, or both, had done wrong! This god had come to punish them!
Gwydion began to run frantically towards the house on the hill; neve
r looking back after that realisation had come to him. Yet, when he was half-way there, he stopped, and another thought struck him. If this was a messenger of the gods, why hadn’t he put an arrow to that great bow and shot it at Gwydion? Or, easier still, why had he not drawn one of those long knives and… Gwydion shuddered at the awful thought. Then he became calmer. No, this god must be a kindly one. He must have come down to say that their guilt was forgiven, that their sacrifice of the bow and the knife had been sufficient to pay for the dead hare. Gwydion’s mouth began to smile. He felt easier in his mind now and turned back, to look towards the wood. In the silver moonlight, he saw the man, but this time he was seated on a horse, a small shaggy pony rather than the sort of tall charger with which the boy was familiar; and he was waving something above his head. What was it? It looked like a creature of some sort. Yes, it was a hare, and he was waving it by the hind-feet, as though he were wishing Gwydion goodbye.
The boy’s legs suddenly felt very weak, for he had been through much excitement since he had stolen from his bed that night. He began to make his way slowly to the house, still a little afraid, but now determined not to say a word about this strange encounter, lest the gods should be displeased a second time, and should take Bel from him.
4. DEATH LOOKS IN THE DITCH!
he next morning, after a troubled night’s sleep, Gwydion awoke to hear great bustling and commotion in the yard outside. He dressed quickly and went outside, to find the farm full of men and horses and stores. The great chariot was now bright and shining, and its blades and coral-studded harness all ready. The boy saw that the long trek-wagon had also been made ready and was now almost full of provisions and clothing. Among all the bustle of men arriving and departing on sweating horses, Gwydion saw his mother and father talking earnestly, in the thick of the people. When they saw him, they beckoned to him to come to them straightway. Then his father, who looked a little tired and red about the eyes, said, “Gwydion boy, you will withdraw with your mother and the servants in the wagon, to a spot well away from the city. If all goes well, I shall ride to you tonight, or tomorrow night at the latest. If all goes badly, I shall try to get a messenger to bring you word that you are to retreat towards the west, into the wooded lands. Your mother knows which relatives we can trust out there, and she will be in charge if I do not return. Do you understand?”