by Sean Poage
The conversation turned to their separate trips and the news from both regions about the crops and animals, the Easter celebrations, the health of family members and the petty squabbles and intrigues common to family and neighbours. Gawain paid only passing attention when the conversation wasn’t directed at him. Instead, he brooded on what might be happening at Alt Clut and daydreamed of riding into battle against the Picts.
Following dinner, Piran entertained the children with a story from his childhood while Rhian and Gladus cleaned up. Gawain went out into the dusk to see that the animals were secured, the escorts were comfortable in the mead-hall and to bring Conn some food, send him home and shut the gate for the night.
“Fine weather these past few days,” Conn said as he hobbled down the path. “Perhaps the Romans have finally lost their grip on the sun.” The climate’s cold turn seemed to have coincided with the Romans leaving Britain long before, so many blamed them for the poor weather.
“Let us pray it is so,” Gawain patted the head of one of the hounds that tried to sneak back in as the gate swung closed. “Go do your job,” he scolded her and then shut the gate, dropping the heavy beams in place.
He waved to the boy patrolling the rampart that evening and went to the stable to check on the mares before making a short visit to Efrawg’s family. His father had stressed the importance of a leader looking after his people. Finally, with the evening chores completed, he approached the door of his home as Piran exited. Gawain was always glad to see his old tutor and relied on him for his wisdom. They greeted each other, pausing near the door.
“I heard about the huge bear you strangled yesterday,” Piran whispered, eyes crinkled in mirth.
“Oh, for God’s love! Such rumours,” Gawain groaned. “It was only a boar, though large. And I didn’t strangle it. I crushed its skull with my fist.”
Piran stifled a guffaw with his hand. “Ever trying to outmatch your father, I see. I’ll be careful to set the rumour-mongers straight.” He lowered his voice, “I can see there’s something on your mind – no, let it rest tonight. Go see to your lovely bride. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“It’s much too late for you to walk home,” Gawain said. “Stay here with us tonight.”
“No, no, I’ll go to the mead-hall and make a bed there with the young warriors. I’ve had quite enough of domestic intrigues, and it would do my old heart well to have a bit more ale and listen to the boasts and jokes of the young men.”
Piran ambled off as Gawain ducked into the house. It was warm and quiet. The only light was the warm red glow of the smouldering fire, leaving most of the house in shadows. Gladus and her daughters were at the far end, on thick piles of furs and woollen blankets, behind wicker screens pulled down from the storage area. Gawain removed his shoes, stepped around the water barrels to his left and slipped behind the screen that partitioned off the space he shared with his new bride.
He could just make out her shape, sitting up on her elbows, looking at his silhouette. He fancied he could see her smile and shining eyes, her hair loose, flowing across her shoulders and down her back. He slipped out of his clothes at the foot of their bed, then dropped down and crawled up to lie down beside her with a sigh of release. He felt her hand brush his shoulder, then move across his chest as she leant over against him. With one hand he reached up and cupped the back of her head, the other pulling her hair gently back so he could find her lips with his. They kissed long and deep, Rhian’s hand sliding to his shoulders, pulling him closer. They relaxed, and he kissed her cheek, nose, then forehead, and relaxed back onto the furs. Smiling, he slid his hand down to her shoulder as she nestled up against him.
“What kept you, my love?” she whispered. “I didn’t think I’d have to wait so long to touch you once you were within reach again.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I wanted nothing more than to be here, but I had to see to the steading first.”
“I know,” she squeezed him closer. “You’re not one to shirk your responsibilities, or even to lay them off on others. It’s one of your admirable traits.” She rolled out from under the sheet, onto him, her skin cool and silky against his. “But now those are done, as are the problems of the day. Now it is night, and you have your husbandly responsibilities to attend to.” Her hands went to the sides of his head, her fingers pushing through his thick hair as her lips found his, kissing him hard and hungrily.
The next morning was cold, foggy and promised rain. Gawain and Rhian woke early but stayed quiet beneath the covers until Gladus and the children got up and started the daily routines.
“Are your lazy bones planning to move sometime today?” Gladus called out. “I’ve kept the children quiet as long as I could.”
“Probably not,” Gawain answered. “I don’t think we’ll be missed today.”
“Go rouse them, Torri,” they heard Gladus say, followed by a devilish squeal of delight and the flutter of little feet across the floor. The screen was knocked over as Torri launched herself on top of the pair with an animal growl. Rhian tried to prevent Torri from getting hurt while Gawain wrestled roughly with the giggling, howling little goblin. Gladus coaxed the fire back to life while Tarran put the bedding and screens back on the storage ledge. Anna, clutching her mother’s waist, stared wide-eyed at her sister’s antics.
Gawain and Rhian agreed to get up and help with the morning’s chores if Gladus would call off Torri, which was done with difficulty. The screen was righted and the two of them dressed. After a quick breakfast of cheese and warmed bread, Gawain went out to see to the morning chores while Rhian helped Gladus in the house.
Peredur had already opened the gate and was acting as the porter until Conn arrived. He waved as Gawain walked to the horse stables to check on the mares. Gawain was irritated to find that none of the younger warriors of the household had bothered to feed the horses and let them out to exercise. He would have to see what kept them.
After feeding and watering the horses and checking their health, he started leading them out of the stable into the yard. He found Rhian standing by the fence rubbing the belly of one of the hounds. She stood when Gawain approached.
“How are the mares coming along?” she asked.
“Quite well. We should see the first birthed within a day or two.”
“Please let me know when one comes; I love to see them stand for the first time!”
“Of course I will,” Gawain smiled and kissed her hand that rested on the fence and started to return to the stable.
“Gawain, my love,” Rhian said softly, causing him to pause. “Are you displeased with me?”
“What?” Gawain was stunned. “Why would you ever think that?”
“You seem so distant since I last saw you… before your visit to your sister. And we’re so recently wedded.” Her eyes were lowered, her voice worried.
“My dear, dear, no! It’s nothing to do with you,” Gawain reached across the fence to grasp her shoulders, pulling her closer and kissing her. “I, well…” he stammered and frowned, trying to find a way to put into words the frustration he had been trying to ignore. “Rhian, I love you completely. It’s not you, by my faith, it’s simply, perhaps, frustration. With my place in the family.”
“What do you mean?” She looked up, puzzled, with a glimmer of relief. “You’re respected and well loved.”
“Not in the eyes of the warriors of our household.” He stared at the ground. “My father went to Alt Clut, and again chose to leave me here. He may love me, but he has little respect for me. And why should he? I spend most of my days as a child, pursuing game, or carousing with the other young warriors. Not contributing to my father’s fame or wealth, but bleeding it. I’ve been a man of the warband for six summers and have yet to be given the opportunity to earn my mead.”
“How can you say that? You’re his master of horse, and you’ve scarcely passed a score of years! You’re
the best rider in Britain, and you’ve made your father wealthier by your skill in training his horses.”
“You needn’t flatter me so much, my dear. You already own my heart,” Gawain smiled a little. “But it remains that I’m his marshal only because my brother is unable to ride well enough with his missing leg. I have no experience to support my title.”
“But since the Rigotamos and Dyfnwal crushed the Picts they don’t dare to raid into our lands. Even the Scoti fear to cross the sea to try us,” Rhian looked puzzled. “There’s finally peace like we’ve not enjoyed since before even your grandfather was born.”
“There have been some forays since I received my arms,” Gawain said. “But each time my father has left me behind with the youngest to guard the women and cattle. He doesn’t have faith in my ability to hold my place in the line.”
“Are we not worth your protection?” Rhian asked, looking him in the eye. “Are you so eager for glory that you’d rather leave us with the children and whatever pointed sticks we may find? Do you prefer cold ground and the shadow of death to our soft bed and my arms around you?”
“I… no,” Gawain looked down, ashamed, conflicted. “You are the only reason I haven’t taken my spear and shield and struck out to find my own way in the world... I don’t know how to explain it. I cannot expect you to understand what it is to be less of a man than what I know I am capable of.”
“My love,” Rhian sighed, “it’s impossible for a woman to understand why men would fight so hard to destroy evil, then bemoan its absence. If only they could focus on the beauty of the garden, their homes, their children,” she reached out to caress his cheek, a twinkle in her eye, “even their wives, in those precious moments when we’re free of evil’s shadow.”
Gawain was quiet for a short time, looking down while he held her hand against his cheek. Finally, he smiled, kissed her hand, caressed her arm and said, “Rhian, you’re wise, and you soothe me. I’ll try to keep my eyes on the blessings God has given me and not waste my joy on envy for stories of old men over their cups of mead.”
Rhian smiled at him, and they embraced before she turned to walk back to the house. He stood a moment, admiring the curve of her form and the grace of her walk, before turning back to his work. His heart felt lighter, and the horses were more responsive to him in turn.
Chapter Two
Gawain’s duties for the next few days were many, and quite dull. He directed work parties, birthed two foals, bartered, quite shrewdly he thought, with a villager for a supply of charcoal for the fort’s metalsmith and mediated an argument between two families over the use of a shared ox. Evenings were spent with his family and often Piran, and nights in the arms of his lovely bride.
On Sunday, all set aside work for the Lord’s Day. It began with a morning wash and change of clothes, followed by church service. Even the animals should not have to work on Sunday, so they walked the three miles to the chapel at Goban. After, the young men of the combrogi came together to enjoy sport. Foot races, wrestling, javelin throwing for accuracy and large stone throwing for distance were a few of the diversions. The women, children and elderly cheered on their kin and tended to the inevitable injuries.
This particular Sunday, however, there would be a rematch of the last ball game at Easter, two weeks earlier. The hamlet of Wentas had captured the criapan at the previous two games, and the other villages wanted another chance to display it in their own hall. The younger men, several hundred from the various neighbouring clans, stripped down to their breeches and formed up in a field that was roughly equidistant from the different settlements. They grouped into knots of friends and family in a large circle at least one-hundred paces from the arbiter, whose dangerous and thankless role Piran often assumed.
A representative from each community approached Piran, with the delegation from Wentas carrying a small wooden box. Gawain grinned across at Gareth, who, still stiff and sore, offered a smirk in return. Whatever happened, Gawain would make certain the criapan did not arrive at Gareth’s village.
The Wentas man stepped forward to Piran with the box and lifted the lid. Piran reached in with both hands and with as much dignity as he could muster, lifted the ball out of the box. Carved from solid yew and twice the size of a man’s fist, it was pitted and marked with past contests. It was also shiny and slippery with the tallow that it had been marinating in for the past few days. He inspected the ball, showed it to the other delegates. All agreed that it was the criapan, that it was properly prepared, and that everyone agreed to the few standard rules.
A young boy carried the box out of harm’s way while Piran waited for the parties to return to the ring. When ready, Piran held the criapan straight up for a moment, then leant well over. A hush settled over the field as players and spectators alike waited. Aside from showmanship, it was in Piran’s best interest to get this right.
With a sudden heave, Piran launched the ball straight up, hitched up his long tunic and scrambled for the largest opening in the ring. The field erupted in a roar as the players charged towards the centre. The ball returned to earth as the fastest converged on it in a clash of bodies. The fray for possession of the ball was fearsome, and several players would find themselves already out of the game due to unconsciousness or other injuries. Finally, someone deep inside managed to get enough of a handhold on the criapan to launch it out of the scrum in the vain hope that it would go to one of his teammates.
In any event, it was caught, then fumbled by another player, who lost it to another, who in turn managed to launch it further out into the field to one of his kin.
For much of the next hour, the sport continued in the vicinity of the field, as teams struggled within the mass of players and the ball went back and forth in different directions. Gawain, being average in height, but very quick, focused on being in the right place outside of the scrum, or in chasing down any player unlucky enough to find the ball in his hands. The best strategy was to keep the ball moving because any player holding the ball would quickly find himself flattened. Wentas’s secret weapon was a mass of muscle that everyone called Ajax instead of his true name. He would wade into a crowd and toss other players aside in his quest to gain the criapan. If he did, it was very difficult to take it back from him.
Ajax had been surveying the field, waiting for the mob to begin to tire, and now chose to move in as the ball was trapped within the group. Members of his village moved in from other directions. Gawain saw this as the time to change tactics. He was fairly confident of the route Ajax would take back to his village, so he called out to some of the players from his team and waved for them to follow him as he turned and ran into the wood line. Four followed, including Peredur, who seemed always to be close at hand. Once out of sight among the trees, Gawain stopped and addressed them.
“I have a plan,” Gawain told them. “But we need a scout to go back to the edge of the field and keep an eye out for wherever the ball ends up.” As expected, Peredur volunteered and dashed off while Gawain explained his plan to the others.
A few minutes later, Peredur rushed back to the group. Through his panting he managed to report that Ajax did indeed have the ball and was jogging towards his village while his teammates kept the other players from getting to him.
Gawain and his mates darted off, deeper into the woods, making for an area they expected the Wentas team to cross. They soon found the spot Gawain had in mind, where the path narrowed and passed below a slight ridge on the left of the trail, and a drop-off to the Carindis on the right. The group hid themselves among the trees on the ridge and waited.
Before long they heard the tramp of unhurried feet on the path. Apparently, any players still attempting to get the criapan back were being held off by Ajax’s teammates. Sure enough, one of the Wentas boys rounded the corner, with Ajax not far behind him, and a couple more strung out behind. They jogged along at an easy pace, expecting no further challenge on the way ho
me.
They were caught completely unawares when Gawain and his fellows leapt down upon them. The plan called for Dag, the largest of the group, to launch himself at Ajax, with the hopes of knocking him over. Gawain and the others would aim for other members of his team.
Dag slammed into Ajax as Gawain bowled over the lead runner, who tumbled down the slope towards the river. The others had varying degrees of success, but there was very little time to seize the initiative. Gawain regained his footing and spun towards Dag and Ajax, who were sprawled on the ground wrestling for the ball that Ajax had managed to keep a hold of in one huge hand. The others were recovering and would soon converge on Ajax. This was the time.
Ajax held his arm with the ball out away from his body while trying to shove the persistent Dag away with his other arm. Gawain scrambled forward, stomped on Ajax’s forearm and scooped up the ball as it came loose. He clutched the slippery sphere close, turned and sprinted down the path in the direction in which Ajax had been heading to avoid running into more of his team. The yelling intensified behind him. He had but seconds before the chase would begin, and a very large man was going to be very angry with him.
He needed a way off this path to go in the opposite direction towards his home. He knew the land well, but could not be sure where the other players would be. To the left, he might run into those heading towards Wentas or still in the field. To the right was the river, without a good crossing for some distance. Decided, he turned left where he saw some softer earth and the ridge was lower. Reaching the top, he turned to see that he had left some clear prints. He gathered himself and leapt as far as he could back across the path, landing beyond some low scrub and stinging his foot on a large rock. Gritting his teeth, he sprinted down the hill toward the river. That diversion would not fool them for long.
He slowed when the sound of his pursuers passed by on the trail above, then turned to follow the edge of the river. He was beginning to feel confident of being past the worst when he almost ran over a man sitting against a clump of bushes. Both yelled in surprise, and Gawain leapt over the man, who flailed his arms in an attempt to grab him. It was the Wentas man he had tackled over the edge of the path. Gawain caught a glimpse of a splint of sticks around the man’s lower leg, and the fellow did not try to get up to chase him.