The Retreat to Avalon

by Sean Poage

  “Tonight we served only ale and water. Soon you will have the chance to earn your mead, but now is the time to push aside our mugs and take our sleep.” Gwyar smiled, his hand sweeping towards the door. The young men looked around in puzzled silence, the veterans scarcely trying to hide their smirks.

  “What? You expected to stink up my hall the entire night?” Gwyar barked. “You’re on campaign! Get your arses back to camp. And the last man there gets the middle watch!”

  That set the room in motion, as the young men scrambled to get out while Gwyar thundered at them about not wrecking his hall. The mob raced through the courtyard, and the guard at the gate hurried to throw it open for the dash out onto the road. The driving rain and darkness made for a treacherous race down the hill and across the field. Several received minor injuries from falls and collisions. Gawain managed to stay towards the lead of the pack as they stumbled into camp.

  The cadre, Dochu, Eudaf and several other senior warriors, strolled out of a large tent and stood unfazed in the rain, barking orders for sleeping quarters and sentry shifts. Gawain was in the coveted first watch and worried that some would think he was receiving preferential treatment due to his father. Shrugging the thought aside, he threw an oiled skin over his head and found his tent mate, a young man named Padraig. The two of them sloshed out to their post beyond the perimeter.

  They passed the time staring out into the darkness, conversing in whispers and nudging each other if the other started to nod off. When relieved by the next shift, they went gratefully to their small tent of oiled leather and passed out.

  It seemed he had scarcely closed his eyes when shouts in the camp, followed by kicking at the tent, indicated that “morning” had come. Groaning, they crawled out of the shelter into the darkness and rain. Gawain and Padraig staggered over to the knot of unhappy young men gathering in the centre of the camp.

  “What a glorious morning!” Eudaf exclaimed, striding up to the group. He was barefoot, dressed only in a belted tunic and carrying a shield and training spear, one minus the iron head. “We’ll start the day with a little light running to loosen you up and see who’s spent more time at the table than in the field.” Groans rippled throughout the group as he continued, “Please step over to the storage tent and receive a shield and spear and join me over there.” He pointed with his spear to the camp entrance.

  They started off at a brisk pace, just enough to make the rain and mud tricky but not treacherous. They stayed close together, alone or in pairs, but not in formation. Eudaf led the way, with the other cadre spaced out along the line. Dochu, another tough old goat, ran at the rear, haranguing those who slowed down.

  It seemed they would never stop running. Just as they thought Eudaf would bring them back to camp, he would veer away again on some rough track through woods or fields or across a small stream. For all but a few, breathing came hard, feet were raw, and legs were leaden. Their arms and shoulders ached from the training shields and spears, which were twice the weight of those used in battle. Many who had not thrown up their heavy dinner the night before made up for it that morning. When the slower fellows started falling back or slowed to a walk, gasping or vomiting, the cadre would call up the line to Eudaf. He would turn the entire column around, run back past the stragglers about fifty paces, turn back around again and scoop them back into the pack. Their fellows, tired enough with running forward, would welcome them back into the fold with curses and rebukes.

  “We all stay together!” Eudaf yelled each time. “When you let your fellow in the shield wall shirk, he puts your life at risk!”

  Gawain, near the middle of the pack, kept his head down and focused on breathing. He had lost all sense of direction and location when Eudaf called a halt so suddenly that several people stumbled over the man in front of them.

  They were on a narrow track through a forest of thin trees and dense brush. Gawain and his fellows squatted or leant against a tree, catching their breath. After only a minute or so, Eudaf bellowed for the men to gather up near him.

  “Does anyone know where we are?” Eudaf swung his arms in a circle. The others looked around, perplexed. The sun was up enough to bring a dull grey light, but it was an unremarkable place with nothing that amounted to a landmark. Even the taller hills that surrounded their lands were masked behind trees, clouds and rain.

  “Not one of you goat rapers has kept your head well enough to know where you are?” he roared. “What in hell? You!” He pointed at Ajax, who stood towards the edge of the group. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m called Ajax.”

  “I know that, you horse’s ass!” Eudaf glared at him. “What’s your given name?” All eyes turned to Ajax, who stood gaping for a moment. Either he was flustered by exhaustion, or it had been so long since anyone had called him by his actual name that he had to think about it.

  “Tegid, my lord,” he stammered.

  “Tell me, Tegid, do you wish your name to be remembered beyond your days on this earth?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then you damned well better keep your wits long enough to do something worth remembering!”

  Eudaf pointed his spear at another young man. “You’ve eaten from my table enough for me to know your name, Brychan! So tell me why you don’t know where you are!”

  “We just followed you,” the soldier spoke up hesitantly.

  “What? Without any thought to keeping track of where you are, or where you’ve been? Why?”

  “We knew you would lead us back when you were ready.”

  “Oh, did you?” Eudaf turned calm. “You followed my lead, blindly trusting that I would shepherd each of you little lambs back to camp?” Some tentative nods and lowered eyes were his only answer.

  “Listen to me well,” he began. “We have little time to prepare before we depart for lands far beyond our own. Some amongst you will be leaders, and the rest of you will follow them into hell. But do not do so with an empty head. What happens if your commander is slain? Who then leads you out of hell?” He looked around the silent group.

  “While none of you are blooded, none of you are children. You were all raised and trained to join your brothers, cousins, neighbours, in the line and hold the wall of shields to protect your families. But this will require far more of you. Many of you will perish if you do not support each other. Shield the spear arm of your line mate! Keep your wits about you for yourself and for when your brother breaks, because every one of your lives depends on the life of every one of you.”

  The men stood shivering, rain streaming down their faces, washing away the mud and vomit along with the images of glory, riches and adventure of the day before. In its place was a new uncertainty, with new visions of fear, toil and peril.

  “So,” Eudaf straightened up, stretching, “the morning is wasting away. If you want your breakfast and a rest, I’d suggest you get back to camp before the next rotation of training is due to start.”

  The men looked around at each other and back at Eudaf, who sat against a tree, stretched out his legs and pulled a piece of dried meat from his belt. Then they discovered the rest of the cadre had disappeared. After a few moments of confusion and quiet babble, someone asked Eudaf if he would show them which way to go. Eudaf only laughed and shook his head, gnawing on the strip of dried meat.

  Finally, a knot of the more assertive men formed to discuss their options. Gawain moved up to the group but decided to listen in rather than speak up. It was understood that they had a time limit to make it back to camp, but there was some argument about how to proceed. Some wanted to send people out to determine their location, others said to continue along the path in one direction or the other. One suggested that they each make their way back as best they could. Gawain glanced back at Eudaf and saw him watching the group from under hooded eyes as he gnawed his strip of beef.

  Gawain leant into the huddle and in a
lowered voice said, “This is a test of more than our ability to find our way home. We must arrive together, and we must show that we can work together.”

  “You finally speak!” Ajax said. “So what do you suggest?”

  Everyone looked at Gawain, who thought for a moment, then said, “We’re most likely somewhere south of the camp. We never approached the Clut, as near as we can tell. All the rivers in this area flow towards the Clut, and we know from the trees that north is roughly that direction.” Gawain pointed to the left of the trail. “If we continue north, at worst, we’ll come to the Clut and know where we are. In the meanwhile, we may come to a spot someone is familiar with.”

  “That could still leave us far from our camp!” Ajax protested. “We should send out patrols in all directions to try and identify our location.”

  “We could do that,” Gawain nodded. “But how long must a patrol be away to find something and get back to us? Then how long must we wait for the other patrols to return, and how long will they push on before returning, not knowing that we’ve found our position? What if a patrol gets lost or hurt?” Ajax glowered, not having a good response as others mumbled in agreement.

  Keir spoke up, “So we press on, but which way? North through the trees, forward along the path, or turn around and follow it back?”

  “Our entire troop pushing through the trees would be slow and likely to become lost,” Ajax grumbled.

  “True,” Gawain replied. “So we stick to the trail. But whether to proceed forward and hope the track turns north, or go back in the same hope.”

  “Er, Gawain?” Peredur spoke up from behind. “I think we passed a track leading off to the left a bit back.”

  “Are you certain?” Gawain asked, turning around.

  “I believe so,” Peredur hedged. “Perhaps a quarter of a mile back.”

  “Take a fast runner and go back to check,” Gawain said. “Leave your shield here, but keep your spear.” Peredur handed his shield to Gawain, nodded to another young man who volunteered to go with him, and they sprinted off. The others agreed to this plan and settled down to rest and wait. Gawain spent several minutes rotating amongst the men, checking on their wellness and offering encouragement. Before long, Peredur and his companion came trotting back.

  “There is a narrow trail that turns north,” Peredur called out. “Only wide enough for single file.”

  Gawain looked around at the others and received nods or shrugs.

  “Let’s give that a try,” he said. After a few moments to get everyone organised, they set off back down the trail, Peredur and Gawain leading the way. Eudaf waited for the last man to pass, stood, stretched, then jogged after them.

  The path was narrow but level and clear, so they continued to run, though at an easier pace than earlier. Not long after starting, they came to a fork in the path and Gawain called a halt. The trail to the right seemed to stay more to the north, while the left one climbed uphill and veered somewhat westwards.

  After a quick discussion, the group agreed on continuing along the right-hand trail. Gawain, glancing back up the left-hand trail, noticed something where the ground rose and was rockier. He motioned for the group to wait and walked up the left path, scrutinising the ground. Sure enough, some rocks had been recently disturbed, and a little further on he found several footprints in the mud.

  “Ha!” he called out. “This way, brothers! Our wayward instructors know where they are, and this is where they went.”

  Cheered, the group set off with renewed vigour along the left-hand trail. As they crested a low hill, the trees thinned enough that they stopped to get their bearings. Far to the left, they made out the higher land that marked the western boundary of their territory. One of the men pointed out a small river and his homestead, finally allowing them to fix their position. With that, they were able to pick out the correct path to bring them back to camp, several miles away. Their pace increased as their destination came into view and they formed a pair of columns, putting on their best appearance as they jogged through the perimeter. Eudaf brought up the rear, his grizzled face bearing a hint of a smile.

  They found the other trainers seated around the cold fire pit, enjoying the end of their breakfast, oblivious to the rain.

  “So our dawdling young warriors have finally decided to return,” Dochu stood, arms wide in welcome. “Well, I’m afraid what remains is cold, but you have a few minutes to eat before our training is due to resume.”

  At that, the column dispersed and the men fell upon the pots of soggy, cold porridge, bread and cheese that were laid out. Gawain, noticing a look of frustration on Peredur’s face, nudged him and asked him what was bothering him.

  “How can they say we were slow? We couldn’t have arrived here much after them.”

  “Don’t let it get to you,” Gawain chuckled. “They torment us as they were tormented, to give us thick skins and get us accustomed to hardship. You did well this morning. Eat so you’ll be prepared for the rest of the day.”

  Peredur, encouraged by the praise, nodded and set to his cold, wet meal, shivering.

  They scarcely had time to eat and relieve themselves before the call to form up again. The cadre seemed to be everywhere, screaming at the men who were slow to move, or God forbid, did not have their spears and shields close at hand. These often received a sharp crack on the head, back or shins from the short spear shafts the cadre carried.

  The clouds toyed with the soldiers, sometimes slowing the rain enough to bring hope before dashing it in a fresh deluge. It was an exhausting day filled with the banalest of training. Running, swimming, high and long jumps, the throwing of heavy stones and large logs, cutting of firewood (which seemed pointless in the endless rain), and the digging of a defensive ditch around the camp. The noon meal was gulped down while standing.

  The closest thing to a break that day was towards the middle of the afternoon when they were called together for formation drills. Walking, jogging and running in proper step as a unit. Breaking and reforming ranks quickly. Shifting between columns and ranks of a single line, double line and up to eight deep, as well as square, circle, and the “boar’s nose” wedge formation.

  Positions were called out by various horn calls, as this is the only thing that might be heard over the din of battle. As each command was blown, everyone would shout the name of the formation, ensuring that their brothers all knew what was coming next.

  They marched around the field, through the woods and thickets, across streams and over and around obstacles. The goal was to become so accustomed to moving together that they could maintain their overlapping shield formation while flowing over rough terrain like water.

  It had been some time since most had worked together in such a large company, and their rusty skills showed. But by the end of the afternoon, they had made good progress towards looking like relatively competent soldiers.

  Then it was time for the log drills, the final torment of the day. Exhausted, cold, soaked and hungry, they formed into four lines of eight men. Each line lifted a large, thick tree trunk and carried it above their heads in a wide circle around the camp. After each revolution, the teams were given a short rest.

  It required teamwork to lift and move as one, in step, so that the weight of the log did not shift and fall from their grasp. It was during this exercise that the first serious injuries occurred. A member of one of the teams slipped in the mud, causing the others to lose their grip on the log. In the confusion, the team did not manage to coordinate the drop. When it fell, it dislocated the shoulder of one man and crushed the foot of another, his shriek of pain nearly causing the other teams to falter. Their teammates and the cadre saw to the two injured men, who were taken away in a cart. A soldier from another squad was reassigned to the team that lost the two men. Even down a man, they were expected to continue.

  As the light began to fail, the cadre finally called a
halt. The men carried their logs to the centre of camp and dropped them around the fire pit to act as seats. Dinner was, again, cold, soggy bread, meat, cheese and mashed beans, washed down with weak beer.

  The men devoured the food, too weary, cold and miserable to converse. They huddled together, using their overlapped shields to create some shelter from the rain.

  Gawain thought about the two injured men. The one with the shoulder injury would probably heal and be fine, though not in time for the march south. The other would likely end up lame for life—a fate worse than death, leaving him a beggar to his family and neighbours if he could not find an apprenticeship in a trade that could accommodate his handicap.

  Camp chores followed dinner. They cleared away rubbish, checked the tents, dug the defensive perimeter deeper, cut new drainage channels for the rainwater to escape, cleaned equipment and all the other mundane duties of camp life.

  By the time all was done, it was quite dark. The cadre established the perimeter watch and sent the others to their tents. Gawain and Padraig drew the middle watch—that cursed shift that disrupts sleep and leaves the sentry fighting to stay awake while staring into the darkness. The shifts were timed by the Master of the Guard, who gauged the length by the number of circuits he made around the perimeter checking on the guards. His deputy was tasked with waking the next shift, sending messages and choosing random guards to check. Being caught asleep would result in a severe beating and other punishments in training. In war, it could mean execution. Guards worked in pairs to help each other stay awake and to allow one to send messages to the Master if necessary.

  Gawain and Padraig made it through their watch, went back to their tent and fell right to sleep. They woke again to darkness and rain and the cadre yelling insults and instructions. Even in the worst of situations and the most gruelling of training, soldiers would joke, laugh and insult each other mercilessly. But under these circumstances jokes were few and tempers were brittle.