by Sean Poage
The Retreat to Avalon: The Arthurian Age
BOOK 1
Copyright © 2018 Sean Poage
Kindle Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Cover Design: Dmitry Yakhovsky
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Chapter Illustrations: Luka Cakić, https://lukacakic.deviantart.com
© Sean Poage 2018
Maps: Maria Gandolfo | RenflowerGrapx
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To my inspiration, my joy, my wife, Jennifer.
“Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise, you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.”
- C.S. Lewis
Prologue
“Never has Rome’s future looked so dark.” Anthemius shook his head, rocking against the balustrade, glowering down at the Circus Maximus, where the horses were being exercised.
“Some might say Rome’s prospects were gloomier following Cannae,” his companion replied. “And yet, Dominus, Rome prevailed.”
“Thousands dead. The fleet destroyed. I, and Leo drained the treasuries to finance that invasion, Sidonius,” Anthemius muttered. “Now, Africa is forever lost to the Vandals, and I can scarcely scrape together the resources to protect Italia, much less keep Gaul from Euric’s bloody grasp. And I am certain my Magister Militum schemes against me.” He slumped against the railing. “I face the shame of being the last Augustus in the West. Such an ignoble epitaph to bear.”
“You do not stand alone, Dominus,” Sidonius leaned in beside him. “There are still many Romans in the cities of Gaul. My brother-in-law, Ecdicius, watches over Avernis, Arbogast maintains Treveris, and Syagrius holds a vast Roman territory in Northern Gaul.”
“All of these are cut off from us,” Anthemius replied. “And that fool, Syagrius, has made Childeric of the Franks an ally, not comprehending that he has let the wolf into the fold. We have not the strength to aid any of them.”
“What of the Britons?” Sidonius asked.
“What of them?” Anthemius frowned. “They cast out our magistrates sixty years ago, then begged for our armies to return to deliver them from the barbarians who flooded in. They’ve descended into darkness, their industry destroyed, their cities abandoned, their trade all but ceased.”
“That was true, for a time.” Sidonius nodded. “The draining of their defences left them in dire straits. Yet in recent years they have seen a remarkable resurgence. So much so that they have reclaimed much of their lost land and convinced the barbarians to abandon many of their colonies and return to Germania. All due, they say, to a great leader called Riothamus.”
“Riothamus? Such an odd name,” Anthemius said. “Does he rule the entire island?”
“‘Riothamus’ is his title in our language,” Sidonius said. “They pronounce it ‘Rigotamos’, which means ‘Highest King’ in their language. He leads, or perhaps influences, a council of British rulers in the regions where Roman culture was strongest. It is somewhat like our Consilium Principis, but he must shepherd a fractious flock of warlords and petty kings.”
“Tell me what you know of this Riothamus.” Anthemius straightened and turned to face him. “Is he strong? Is he honourable?”
“His sense of honour would overburden most men. In battle he is unmatched. I could arrange a correspondence. I know him, personally,” Sidonius smiled. “His name is Arthur.”
Chapter One
469 A.D.
“My lord, a moment, if you please!”
Jostled irritably out of his lethargy, Gawain wheeled his horse around, looking for the source of his disturbance. It was an older man in his thirties who looked twice that age, with knotty, wiry limbs and a well-fed paunch swelling a stained woollen tunic.
Gawain flashed a pained look over his shoulder at his companion, Gareth, who backed his horse under the shade of a tree. Gareth yawned while waiting for Gawain to conduct his business with the old fellow.
“Good day, Arwel,” Gawain sighed. “What may I do for you?”
“The devil’s minions have been through my leek field, wrecking any hope of harvest!”
“You know Ninian drove his folk off long ago,” Gawain slumped, trying not to grimace. “It’s a hot day, and late, and we’re returning from a long errand.”
“Lord!” Arwel hurriedly crossed himself. “Satan waits to hear such words! Please, come and see! It’s not far, not a third of a mile. Your father will want to know why I won’t have my full measure this season.”
With a gesture for the old fellow to lead the way, Gawain glanced back to roll his eyes at Gareth. Arwel trotted a short distance before turning off the road onto a narrow footpath. Low hanging branches caused them to dismount.
Thickets soon opened up to a sown field, and they walked along the edge until they were close to the woods at the far end. Now the damage was clear to see, with torn up plants and previously well-ordered furrows in disarray. This kindled Gawain’s interest, and he traced the edge of the woods, looking for a sign of tracks. Arwel fidgeted a safe distance away.
“Most certainly boar,” Gareth called from another shaded spot he had found.
“Yes, thank you, my brilliant friend,” Gawain answered distractedly. “It appears to be alone. The tracks return to the woods there.” He squatted on the edge of the field and pointed to a small break in the tree line. Gareth approached to look and stood beside Gawain. He knew what was coming and tried to head it off.
“Not a good idea,” Gareth asserted, looking doubtfully into the woods. “We’re not properly equipped,” he said, gesturing to the horses with their spears and javelins tied to the saddles.
“Bah! The tracks are hours old and rather small. A young sow at best,” Gawain replied, walking back to his horse. “A boar hasn’t wandered this close to home in years. Do you want others to take her?”
There was no point in arguing once Gawain caught the scent of a hunt, but Gareth felt compelled to do so.
“No one in their right mind hunts boar like this,” Gareth muttered, following him. “Two imbeciles, alone, without dogs.”
“We’re not hunting,” Gawain objected. “We’ll just track her down to the water to see which way she went, to save time when we return tomorrow.”
“Your father is expecting your report,” Gareth argued. “It’ll appear you’re shirking your responsibilities for sport.”
“We also have a responsibility to our people,” Gawain retorted. “And, as usual, there’s nothing so crucial to report that it can’t wait a bit longer. Wait here with the horses, if you wish. I won’t be long.�
� He pulled his spear and a pair of javelins from the sack behind his saddle and turned towards the woods.
Gareth gritted his teeth, watching Gawain walk off. Finally, shaking his head in resignation, he waved Arwel over to tend to their horses. Retrieving his own weapons, he hurried after Gawain and caught up at the forest edge.
Sunlight filtering through the leaves above had the golden hue that heralded the approach of dusk. The pair picked their way between the trees and down a gentle slope over dry ground covered in the fallen leaves and branches of many years. The going was slow as they avoided thickets and tried to make as little noise as possible by stepping from mossy patches to large roots.
The trees thinned as the ground dropped a few feet to level out to a flat expanse of damp leaves and ferns. Water glinted about sixty paces to the west.
Gareth grunted, pointing to the left. An old tree had fallen, and a section of the rotted trunk was ripped apart, pieces of bark and bits of softened wood scattered around. He reached down and prodded the ground with the butt of his spear. The wet leaves covered spongy, muddy soil. He gave Gawain a look indicating how he felt about the future clean-up.
They slid down the embankment and approached the trunk. There were definite boar prints and tusk marks around the stump. A few grubs that had survived her rooting writhed listlessly within the ruin. The tracks disappeared in the thick, wet carpet of leaves, so they looked around for other signs.
“Look,” Gawain whispered, pointing northward at an old, rough alder with a patch worn smooth and caked in mud. “It’s as if we’re meant to find her before anyone else,” he grinned.
“That patch seems a bit high for a boar,” Gareth frowned.
Gawain looked for a moment, shrugged and picked his way towards the tree, looking for more tracks. Gareth sighed and followed.
He found a few prints near a gap in the thickets, and they pushed through. The scrub and small trees closed in on a narrow game path, and the tracks were soon lost to the damp vegetation. Gawain was about to give up when he came across boar scat that was less than a day old. A few minutes later the trees and undergrowth opened into a small glade of marshy grass and ferns.
Some broken stems and green bark torn from a small tree caught Gawain’s attention. He froze, transitioning his spear from a walking stick to a low carry, and pointed the tip at the opposite side of the glade. The ground near the edge of the bushes had been torn up, marking a boar’s shallow bed.
“I don’t see anything in there,” Gawain said, craning his neck for a better view.
“Neither do I,” Gareth replied nervously. “Maybe this is a good time to head back. We can mark the spot to return tomorrow with the hounds and perhaps a couple more lads.”
Gawain looked up at the fading daylight and nodded in agreement. “Fine. The road isn’t more than a few hundred yards that way,” he pointed back up to the east.
Plainly happy to go, Gareth turned towards the road and a fallen tree that had flattened out a stand of scrub. Gawain glanced back at the bed, partly in regret and partly in concern of putting a dangerous creature at their back. He looked forward again in time to see his friend push aside a clump of bushes with the butt of his spear as he stepped up onto the log. A terrifying, guttural roar accompanied an explosion of leaves, sticks and earth. Gareth flew back from the log, nearly into the centre of the glade. An immense male boar launched out of the thicket and scrambled after him. It was the largest either had ever seen, with tiny, blazing eyes, a broad chest and narrow tapering hips. A thick mane of black bristles stood on end, making him appear even larger.
Dazed, Gareth had dropped his weapons in his sudden flight. Luckily, he kept his wits enough to roll away onto his stomach and lie as flat as possible to prevent the boar from getting its long, wicked tusks under him. The beast tried to butt him over, but when that didn’t work, proceeded to trample him in its rage.
Time slowed as Gawain glanced wildly around the glade, unsure of how to deal with the monster. There were no rocks nearby. He did not want to risk hitting Gareth with a spear. Approaching the boar directly would be suicidal. Gawain screamed at the animal, but it took no notice. As the possibilities streamed through his mind, he found a javelin in his right hand, poised to throw. For a moment, the boar moved to the side, trying to get its tusks under Gareth’s prone body. Gawain launched, aiming for the creature’s sloped hindquarters, away from his friend. The dart appeared to crawl through the air and Gawain prayed the beast would not move before the missile arrived. It struck the boar in the hind leg, making the animal stumble, stop and turn its blazing eyes upon Gawain. It screeched as it charged across the glen at its attacker. The javelin’s end caught on the ground and ripped out in a spray of blood that the boar did not seem to notice.
His goal accomplished, Gawain dropped the second javelin and backpedalled toward the trees behind him. He thrust his heavier spear out at the onrushing beast, his eyes on the flashing tusks as long as his hand. His only hope lay in getting something between him and the fiendishly quick animal. His left shoulder bumped against the slim trunk of a tree just as the boar was upon him. Gawain threw his full weight behind the spear, aiming for the mouth. He missed by inches and sent the blade deep into the creature’s left shoulder.
It seemed to have little effect on the boar, as its full weight crashed into the spear, throwing Gawain back. He careened off the edge of his tree, bounced off the side of a trunk to his right, tripped and fell between the two trees, onto his back. He gripped the spear desperately with both hands, as blood poured down the shaft, turning it slick. The brute ignored the wound, pushing itself further down the shaft in its frenzied drive at Gawain.
The closeness of the trees he’d fallen between now came to Gawain’s advantage. He locked the end of the spear under his right armpit, pulled his legs in, away from the thrashing hooves, and thrust his feet out at the tree on his left. With all his strength, he threw his shoulders towards the tree on his right. It caused the spear to lever the boar to the left, putting the tree between them. The creature screamed in rage, tusks and hooves shredding the tree trunk and ground around it. Gawain closed his eyes and said a prayer for deliverance from this undying spawn of hell.
The spear jerked in Gawain’s arms, and the sound of the boar’s attack was replaced by the blood pounding in his ears and the gasping of his breath. He opened his eyes to see Gareth standing above him, covered in mud, grass and his own blood, but grinning from one ear to the other.
“Thanks for holding him still so I could kill him!” Gareth croaked, and leant against the tree, holding his hand out. “Can you stand?”
Gawain, panting, took his hand, staggered to his feet and noticed that his own legs and left arm were bleeding and scraped. The hog lay on its side, Gawain’s spear deep in its shoulder and protruding from its back. Gareth had recovered his spear and, unable to get at its throat, plunged the blade between its ribs, managing to strike a vital point.
“You killed it?” Gawain was incredulous. “It was dying on my spear! You merely came along to poke it with that walking stick of yours, and now you want the credit? You should’ve finished your nap, so you’ll be rested enough to carry it home for dinner.”
The banter evaporated as they turned to consider the animal lying before them. It was huge, nearly chest-high when standing and more than the weight of both men combined. It would be a tough haul.
They limped to the water’s edge to clean and bind their wounds as best they could. Nothing serious, though Gareth was badly bruised and might have cracked a rib.
“Why don’t you go back to Arwel and retrieve our horses?” Gawain said. “I’ll field dress this for the trip home.”
“Mind you don’t nick those stench glands!” Gareth called over his shoulder, wasting no time in accepting the offer.
“Perhaps you’d prefer this task instead?” Gawain shot back at him, with no response in return. Gawain
had a messy job ahead of him, but it would lighten the boar for travel and reduce the chance of spoiling the meat. He worked carefully, then cleaned up at the edge of the river. Gareth’s call brought him back to the glade to see his friend standing with a stout pair of staves, a roll of cord and a sack.
“The old fellow was kind enough to lend us these. He was quite happy until I told him we didn’t get the culprit that destroyed his fields.”
“Did you assure him that we’d return tomorrow to find her?”
“I assured him that you would return,” Gareth snorted. “I’m going to hunt squirrels for a while. In any event, it’ll be dark soon. The horses are up on the path, not far over there,” he pointed up the hill. “We can muscle this thing out on these poles and quarter it for the trip back on the horses.”
“I would very much like to walk in the gates with it in one piece,” Gawain grinned. “Can you imagine the awe?”
It was no easy task, and the horses snorted and started in distaste for the foul burden. Gawain had great skill with horses and, under his gentle reassurances, they finally crossed out of the woods to the River Carindis. They waded across a ford near where a loop of the small river slowed and created a calm mere before continuing on its way to join the Clut. Beyond the ford was a large open meadow, the distant edges dotted with a few small cultivated plots and their owner’s turf-roofed huts. A herd of small black cattle grazed far to the west, near the forest. Two-thirds of a mile to the north a low drumlin rose, running roughly east to west. Near the eastern end, on the highest point, a stout stockade surmounted a circular earthwork. The road passed the hill and continued across the fields before disappearing into the woods to the north-east. A branch turned north and curled up the slope to the small ring fort that was Gawain’s home, the hall of his combrogi and a place of refuge in times of war.
As they approached the climb, their hopes of being hailed and assisted dwindled. Something was going on within the fort, and horses were picketed beside the small spring-fed pond some 200 feet south-west of the walls. That little pool gave their home a name, Pollag. A hundred paces before the earthen rampart, the packed dirt of the road became a wide street of broad stones. It crossed the causeway over the deep ditch circling the wall and entered the fort through an open gate.