The Retreat to Avalon

by Sean Poage

  The next three days flew by as the army practised together. It was challenging because many of the soldiers were such in name only, coming from regions that did not train their men to the extent that Gawain’s coriios did. Another problem resulted from frequent clashes of personality and old family grudges.

  One such clash on the second day resulted in the death of a man. The only thing that stopped an internal war from breaking out was swift and decisive action by Cunbelin and other leaders. On return to Alt Clut, Dyfnwal held court, and judged that the survivor of the fight, a young brute named Menw, had instigated the confrontation. This put Dyfnwal in a difficult situation. Until the army departed, it could be argued that the men were guests under his roof and his protection. The ancient laws regarding hospitality considered violence to a guest as a grievous offence to be dealt with harshly by the host, whether the humblest swineherd or the highest king. But a clumsy handling of the situation could see the orderliness of the army, not to mention the peace of his kingdom, shattered by reprisal and vendetta.

  In this case, the death occurred miles from the fort, and during military operations. So while the family of the slain man was outraged and demanded the death of Menw, Dyfnwal was able to broker an agreement between the two families. The family of Menw would pay a blood price of three heifers to the family of the slain man. Menw would also receive one hundred lashes for violating the good order of the army and to ensure the aggrieved family would not seek further vengeance. The punishment was carried out immediately, and while Menw bore up well under the thrashing, he would need time for his back to heal.

  On the evening of the third day, a huge feast was prepared on the game field for the soldiers, and the officers gathered in Dyfnwal’s hall for a more sumptuous meal. As leader of a small coriios, Gawain held a minor officer’s position.

  Before the food was served, Dyfnwal addressed the men, praising them for their hard work and explaining how they were to proceed the next day. Each soldier would carry three days of food, but the army would resupply every day or two at points already coordinated by Dyfnwal within his kingdom, and by the Rigotamos for the lands beyond.

  At the borders of each realm, they would meet guides to keep them on the right roads. It would take about a month to cross the roughly four hundred miles. While they would travel through generally friendly countries that expected them, they would march as if in enemy territory. This would help them become accustomed to the way of life on campaign.

  “Now business is settled,” Dyfnwal said, picking up his goblet and stepping down into the midst of the men. “Let us feast! For tomorrow you embark on an extraordinary opportunity for yourselves, towards glory, riches and perhaps new realms. But more than that, you lift from our shoulders the debt owed to the Rigotamos and his Consilium.” He stopped, raised his goblet high and thundered, “And in doing so ensure that we will forever remain strong and free!”

  The room exploded in a cacophony of stomping, banging and cheers. Dyfnwal strutted around the room, grasping shoulders and smacking backs, while servants swept in with food and drink.

  When the meal was finished, and the bard was tuning his harp, the doors to the hall banged open. Six men carried in a large stone pillar, much like the standing stones erected as memorials. Dyfnwal’s legendary whetstone, known to all but seen by few. It was furrowed and scarred by ages of weapons passing across it. The soldiers stared in awe, some crossing themselves.

  The stone was set on the floor in front of the king’s table, whereupon Dyfnwal clapped his hands for attention and bade the men fetch their swords from their places against the walls. When all had done so, he stood and addressed them.

  “Here before you is the famed Whetstone of the North! Imbued with the ancient enchantments of our people, it will turn the blade of a brave man into a weapon that none may withstand, while the steel of a coward will be blunted. I see none but heroes before me, but line up! Let us see what the spirits of our forebears think!”

  Each man, in turn, stepped up to the stone and drew his blade across a channel, then turned and presented his weapon to the king. Dyfnwal examined the edge of each, murmured his approval and returned it. Before long, all had taken their turn and returned to their seats. Gawain inspected his blade before putting it back against the wall. It seemed no sharper than what he had done with his own stones, but who knew the workings of magic but a sorcerer? He shrugged and propped it against the wall beside the others.

  “As I suspected,” Dyfnwal rumbled, standing, swaying slightly from drink. “None but heroes in my hall! Let us revel as heroes ought!” Roars of accord answered him, and the celebration lasted long into the night until the king finally bade the men to take their sleep in the hall with him.

  Servants swept away the rubbish of the feast, as well as the benches and tables, replacing them with woven mats and blankets. The fires were stirred to embers, and peace settled on the hall.

  The next morning came grey and threatening rain. The men rose reluctantly, most with pounding heads or upset stomachs, but the camps were struck and the order of march set. Gawain’s coriios was among the few that had distinguished itself, and so the infantry was assigned to the main body, accompanying Cunbelin and his household troops. Garmonion had command of the rearguard and Presuda commanded the cavalry, to which Gawain and his five companions were attached.

  The cavalry would act as the scouts for the army, moving several miles ahead and to the sides in rotations of wide, sweeping patrols as the column of infantry marched along the roads. When not patrolling, the cavalry would walk beside their horses. A troop of twenty horsemen, warriors from the lands near Cathures who were most familiar with the region, departed first, as the companies of infantry were just forming up along the road.

  The infantry would march in three ranks, as the roads they planned to follow were generally wide enough for this and, if ambushed from the side, would allow the men a reasonable depth of defence. Each coriios marched as a unit, with a short space between it and the next in line. Aside from the mounted personal guard for Cunbelin and Garmonion, the cavalry was split into two wings, with one in the vanguard and the other in the rearguard. Their spare horses and the few pack horses and mules that carried the tents and other bulky items, as well as the slaves and personal servants, were interspersed among the units. All told, not including the scouts ahead and behind the army, the column stretched out for a bit over a mile. It was several hours after the scouts set out that the rearguard was finally able to start down the road, and a steady rain had begun falling.

  Gawain and his companions were assigned to the first wing and were assembled to set out early. They wore their arms and armour, their shields hanging from the rear of their saddles on one side, their helmets and a pair of javelins in a quiver on the other. Their spears dangled from a small leather loop near the centre of balance from a notch on the front of the saddle, and most let the shaft lean against their shoulder. Some belted their swords on their hips, but most, like Gawain, hung their scabbards from a baldric slung over their shoulder to their hip.

  As Gawain sat in the saddle, waiting for the vanguard to start off, Peredur came up beside him and held out his hand. Gawain took what he offered and found a small round charm on a leather thong. A piece of clear Roman glass had been set into a thin silver disk, beaten from an old coin. Pressed between the glass and the silver backing was a small lock of auburn hair, braided and curled into a spiral. He looked up at Peredur, puzzled.

  “A gift for your birthday.” Peredur smiled. “Is it not today?”

  “Uh, it may be. It’ sometime this month,” Gawain looked askance at him. “But I fear you have the wrong impression of our relationship.”

  “What? I- no!” Peredur stuttered. “Rhian gave me the bits, bade me craft this and give it to you on the eighth day following Calandmei, with her blessing.”

  “This is Rhian’s hair? Her gift?”

 
“Of course! I finished it yesterday.”

  “My thanks,” Gawain said, studying it. “It is a fine piece,” he beamed.

  “Well, it’s not the only, um, gift she charged me with,” Peredur stammered.

  “Oh? What else did she leave for me?”

  “Well…” Peredur looked away. “It’s actually more of a task, one that she’d normally perform this night. She made me swear to stand in her place.”

  Gawain gaped at him, speechless, for a long moment before sputtering, “You cannot be serious!”

  “What?” Peredur turned to face him, innocence poorly displayed on his face. “She asked me to give you a cup of mead in celebration.”

  Gawain stared a moment until Peredur started cracking a smile. He threw his head back in exasperation and swung his fist out towards Peredur, who deftly avoided it, bursting into laughter. The horn sounded for the vanguard to start moving out.

  “You’ll pay for that one,” Gawain growled, grinning, and wheeled his horse around. He trotted towards his fellows and their place in the line, Peredur close behind.

  They set out at a brisk pace. Travelling through friendly territories without needing to forage for supplies would let them average roughly twenty miles per day. The first day, through the farmlands along the Clut, followed an ancient beaten highway until it met the old Roman road that would lead them to Cair Ligualid, capital of Rheged.

  As they travelled south, the lands soon became less populated. Other than representatives of the villages that were to provision the army as they passed, they saw few people. Most, having no familiarity with the king’s ventures, quietly melted away at their approach. The appearance of large groups of armed men typically heralded death and disaster.

  The road was not well maintained and would have disappeared beneath the grass if it was not still used occasionally. Leaving the Clut Valley, they crossed the high moors, beautiful and stark, often seeing ancient ringworks on hilltops where their ancestors once built their forts. Beyond the hills, they came to the scrubby lowlands north of the River Isca and the borders of Rheged.

  On the fifth night, they made their camp between the road and an imposing flat-topped hill. Once the stronghold of the Neuant, it was now thought to be haunted by the spirits of the many warriors who had died on its ramparts. They were met there by a pair of guides, soldiers from the court of Meirchion Gul, King of Rheged. The guides explained that Cair Ligualid was about twenty-five miles away. They could force the march through the next day but would arrive late, and the men and animals would be exhausted. It was decided to make a shorter trek to cross the Isca the next day, leaving a short nine-mile hike to the city for the following day.

  A few hours into the seventh day, passing through well-tilled lands, they approached the stumpy ruins of a stone fortress beside the River Idun. The road climbed a steep embankment crowned by a short stone wall in poor repair that stretched off to the east. Beyond the river rose the imposing stone walls of Cair Ligualid, white banners bearing a black raven fluttering from the square towers. It was an impressive sight, and most stared in awe as they crossed the bridge and halted in the open fields before the city. Camp was established while the guides led the officers through the gate and into the town. The men left behind felt envy for the officers’ elevated positions more keenly than ever.

  Inside, Gawain saw a scattering of sentries and small groups of labourers going about the work of repairing the walls. There was a sense of ancient decay about the place. Some stone buildings had collapsed into rubble or were cleared to the foundations. The material was used to repair the walls or other structures. Many of the old foundations were repurposed as animal pens, vegetable plots or even rubbish dumps. Newer buildings were of timber and wattle with thatched roofs, and most of the remaining stone buildings had their tile roofs replaced by thatch. The main road from the gate was cobbled, but the other streets were muddy.

  The town contained many residents, more than any place Gawain had seen, but felt nearly abandoned when compared to its size. The soldiers outside the walls likely outnumbered the civilian townsfolk. The place smelled vaguely of filth, animals and smoke, and Gawain did not want to imagine the reek in the days when the city had been full.

  The cobbled road led to the north-west corner of the city where the town walls met the old rectangular Roman fort, wherein stood the king’s hall. Passing through another gate, they found a straight road between rows of long barracks, leading to a large building in the centre of the fort. Hostlers took their horses to stalls within the first barracks on the left, while the porter led them along the street to the great hall.

  A few soldiers paced the ramparts, stood upon the high towers or went about their tasks. Some of the buildings were in good repair, while others appeared neglected, and a few had been razed to the foundations, the rubble in orderly piles.

  The large central building was of lime-washed stone and timber with a red tiled roof. Small square windows were set high into the walls, and a large pair of doors stood in the centre. The porter explained that this, the king’s hall, had been the court of the civitas governor when Rome had ruled here, and his house had been on the right but had burned down. A large parade field lay to either side. A horse was being trained by a pair of men on the right side.

  The doors of the great hall swung open as they approached, and they were ushered in. The central courtyard had once been open to the sky but had been covered by a high timbered roof. Tall pillars surrounded the hall, with small rooms opening from the gallery behind. Armed soldiers in mail stood statue-like beside each pillar. The room was empty of benches or tables, except for the platform at the end, where an ostentatiously carved wooden chair stood as a throne.

  A tinkle of falling water echoed pleasantly about the room. In the centre of the wall behind the throne was a stone sculpture of three vases tipping forward. Water flowed from the vessels into a broad stone bowl, which overflowed into a larger knee-high pool of marble beneath it. Gawain, dumbfounded, wondered where the water came from until he was distracted by the sound of a door opening in the shadows of the rear gallery and the approach of several men.

  They were led by Meirchion Gul, a tall, gaunt man with sunken eyes in a hawkish face. He strode to his seat while his advisors and clergy stood further back. He spoke quietly and briefly with Cunbelin and Garmonion, then abruptly stood, nodded and departed the way he had come, his entourage hurrying after him.

  It was not a warm reception, but relations between Alt Clut and Rheged had declined after the passing of Meirchion’s great-grandfather, King Coel, Rome’s last Dux Britanniarum. Meirchion was old enough that he might have fought against his northern neighbour in years past. Meirchion had curtly informed Cunbelin that his contribution to the Rigotamos’ expedition had already departed. Their army was to remain outside the city walls, but the officers were welcome to stay within the fort and join him for dinner that night. After the long march, the animals and men needed a day of rest. Meirchion would supply them, but they must set out again the day after. He did not want to feed them longer than necessary, and no king appreciates having a rival’s army on his doorstep, even if on currently friendly terms.

  The men were directed to a building behind the palace where they could wash and rest. The sound of metal and woodworkers came from the buildings nearby, and others appeared to be storehouses. As the sun began descending towards the west, they were called to the hall, which was now furnished with tables, benches, braziers and oil lamps. It filled with Gawain’s fellows as well as Meirchion’s advisors, household troops, their wives and many servants. The groups had little to do with each other, conversing in small clumps of friends until called to the tables. Assigned seats ensured intermingling, but resulted in more subdued conversation.

  As they were being directed to their seats, the front doors flew open and in strode a giant of a man. He was a head taller than anyone there, broad across the chest
and shoulders, and dressed in a green tunic over multi-coloured trousers. He had a thick and unruly mane of red hair with a beard to match on a weather-beaten face. His manner was friendly, in an intimidating way that appeared off-putting even to his own people. The crowd parted as he strode down the hall, bellowing greetings and mild insults to all around him. He stopped at a seat close to the king’s table, across from Modred’s place. Gawain, speaking with a young priest, learnt the man was named Bachlach, a fearsome Scoti warrior who had joined Meirchion’s retinue.

  Finally, Meirchion and his cortege swept in, with his wife and a young son of about ten summers. He cordially greeted those he passed on his way to his table, then stood until the room quieted. He welcomed everyone and took his seat, signalling the guests that they could take theirs.

  The food was simple, though well made, and ale, mead and even wine were plentiful. After the meal was pushed aside and the bard had sung a few songs, the atmosphere warmed, and the residents and guests laughed and conversed like long-time friends.

  Gawain was enjoying himself and he felt the mead go to his head as he wandered over to the knot of men and women surrounding Modred, who was his usual charming self. At that moment they were listening to Bachlach boast about his skills as a hunter and the recent stag he took down. Modred laughed and grasped Gawain’s arm, pulling him forward and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

  “You vain boaster!” Modred exclaimed. “None match the hunters of our lands! Why, Gawain here tracked and felled a spawn of Twrch Trwyth, the mightiest boar in Britain, with his own spear and did not even take hounds!”

  “Hah! You say I boast!” Bachlach bellowed, his Scoti accent sounding strange in their native Brittonic. Gawain was so busy being jostled and questioned by the others that he didn’t pay much attention to the ensuing argument. Rather enjoying the celebrity, he also didn’t spend much effort to set the record straight. After a few minutes, he noticed that the discussion had become louder and sounded angry. The rest of the hall quieted as their attention was drawn to the group. The good-natured crowing had turned belligerent, Bachlach’s face was deep red, his chest puffed out. Modred looked taken aback, as did the others around them.