The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  After a few minutes of staring out at the fog-covered lowlands, Gawain trudged back to the mead-hall. He found Piran sitting on a split log bench near the door, with some chewy day-old bread, cheese and a large leather mug of water. He had brought out enough for two and motioned for Gawain to join him.

  “You look like the glow of your victory has faded already,” he said around a mouthful of bread, gazing across the yard.

  “It wasn’t my victory,” Gawain mumbled, sitting down and picking up the mug.

  “Ah, silly of me to offer up an easy way to change the subject.” He pulled off a piece of bread and handed the rest to Gawain. “So tell me what is bothering you.”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Gawain replied after a long minute. “I feel like I’m missing something. That I’m not doing what I was meant to do.”

  “You mean like riding off with Modred?”

  “Well, no. I mean… I don’t know. I wish he had stayed longer and met my father.”

  Piran chewed on his bread for a bit, thinking. “Keep in mind, Gawain, that he is a prince of a land that lost its sovereignty to this kingdom. Relations may be friendly now, but there may yet be tension and unspoken bitterness. I would imagine there is a reason your father doesn’t speak of his years before his fostering with Ceretic.”

  “Is there something you know of this?” Gawain probed.

  “No,” Piran chuckled. “Your father is as miserly with his words as he is free with his treasure. He’s only told me enough to enable me to recite his lineage at feasts, so that is how I realised that Modred is your cousin.”

  Gawain ate silently for the next several minutes, while Piran finished and sat placidly staring out at nothing in particular. Finally, Gawain finished off the tankard, stood and stretched.

  “So,” he said. “I suppose it’s time to carry on with my duties and find contentment in the blessings I’ve been given.”

  “Very wise,” Piran nodded. “But don’t despair. As the psalm says, ‘Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.’”

  “The pastures are quite safe,” Gawain chuckled. “And I should get on with doing good, so that I may earn those desires.”

  “Quite right,” Piran nodded. “Just be wary of what those desires may be.”

  Two hours of the sun had passed, and Gawain was supervising a work crew inspecting the well when he heard the slow metal clang of the copper bell beside the gate. He jogged over to the gate, where a small group of people were gathering. Conn pointed out a single rider coming from the north, riding fast towards the fort. Gawain looked around and found Peredur near at hand.

  “Peredur, go rouse the men at the hall and tell them to stand ready. We have a messenger arriving.”

  Peredur dashed for the mead-hall while Gawain sent one of the young stablehands to prepare a horse, in case the rider needed a replacement to continue on with.

  In a short time, the tired horse and rider clattered up to the gate. One of the young warriors from the hall took the reins of the sweating and frothing horse as the rider dismounted and saluted Gawain.

  “My lord,” he panted, “Your father sent me in haste to tell you that he will be returning this afternoon. Moreover, he bids you send riders to all corners of his lands and call the nobles to a feast and council tonight.”

  Gawain turned to the handful of young warriors who had gathered and assigned each to the different farms and hamlets that dotted the territory of Pollag. As they rushed to the stables to retrieve their horses, Gawain gave orders to others to begin preparations for his father’s arrival. He invited the young rider to the hall for a meal and rest.

  “Is that all?” Gawain asked him as they walked. He felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. “Do you know anything more?”

  “He told me nothing more,” the rider replied. “There has been little news, but the rumours all speak of war.”

  Chapter Three

  By early afternoon all the riders had returned, and the mead-hall had been scrubbed and readied for the evening’s feast. The smell of roasting meat permeated the fort as all available hearths and several outdoor pits prepared food for the many guests who would arrive. Gawain managed to be everywhere at once, directing as necessary and lending a hand where needed. Finally satisfied that all was in order and on schedule, he returned to the house for a mug of ale, a bite to eat and to rest. Rhian was adding chopped, dried herbs to a large kettle of potage. Gladus felt ill and was lying down in a dark corner of the room as the children played outside.

  “You look ragged,” she said, putting down the cutting board and going to the ale cask to fill a cup for him. She sat him down, kissed him, gave him the mug and some food and removed his boots before sitting beside him. “So, can you tell me what’s going on? It’s clearly more than your father not getting his fill of meat at Dyfnwal’s court.” She smiled, but Gawain could see the worry in her eyes.

  “I wish I knew,” he shook his head. “The messenger wasn’t privy to what happened at the council, only to the rumours that flutter around in its wake.”

  “All the gossip suggests war or treachery,” she said. “We’ve heard nothing from the Picts for a long time. Perhaps one of the other kingdoms has broken the truce? Or the Scoti have resumed their depredations?”

  “I don’t wish to give it any thought because my best guess would most likely prove wrong and we will learn the details soon enough,” he said. He took a drink and stretched out on the cushions. “But right now, if you can spare the time, I want nothing more than to lay beside you and think of nothing but the scent of your hair and the softness of your skin.”

  “I’ll always find the time for that,” Rhian smiled and stretched out beside him with her head on his chest. They chatted for a while, enjoying each other’s company as the servants completed final preparations for the evening.

  Before long, the slow double clank of the gate bell heralded the arrival of the lord of the hall. Gawain and Rhian sighed, smiled, kissed and returned to their duties.

  The swirling rumours intensified the usual stir around the chieftain’s return, but the questions would remain unanswered for the time being. Gawain shot a questioning look at his brother as the travellers were dismounting, but Gwalhafed looked grim and gave a short shake of his head. Gawain remained patient and directed the servants in unburdening the horses and riders.

  After shedding their travel garb and washing, they hastened to the hall. Gwalhafed obtained leave to see his wife and Gwyar motioned for Gawain to join him. Once inside, they all poured cups of ale and stretched out around the room to rest, some even closing their eyes for a nap.

  Gwyar, sore and stiff, plodded to his chair and settled down with a low groan. Gawain took a stool beside him. After a long drink, Gwyar wiped his mouth, looked around the hall and said, “Well, the place hasn’t burnt down in my absence.” He smiled and asked his son for a report. Gawain gave him a detailed description of the business and administrative issues he had dealt with and was pleased when his father said, “Fine job. Is there anything else of note?”

  “The criapan has come home,” Gawain smiled.

  “Oh-ho! That will be of interest tonight at the feast. Tell me about that,” Gwyar said, leaning forward.

  Gawain related the story of the game, culminating in the win through Modred’s aid. His father was quite pleased but showed no spark of recognition at Modred’s name.

  “Where is Modred?” he asked. “We should honour him, and you, at tonight’s feast.”

  “He and the other escort departed this morning. I tried to convince him to stay, but he felt he had stayed too long already.” Gwyar grunted and shrugged. “Father, he was no mere soldier. He said he’s the son of Lot of the Gododdin. Piran says that his father is your cousin. Is this true?”

  “Hmm
, yes,” Gwyar looked disinterested and took another drink. “Has anything else of interest happened in my absence?” He was not subtle about his desire to change the subject. Gawain decided to let it go for the time being.

  “Nothing more comes to mind, Father.” Gawain paused, and Gwyar glanced sideways at him.

  “I suppose you’re curious about the council tonight, and at Alt Clut?”

  “I was sure you’d tell me in your own time.”

  “Surprisingly patient of you,” his father nodded. “There’s much to explain, and I’m too tired to go through it all, just to repeat it all tonight. For now, and this is only for your ears, suffice it to say that our people are being dragged into a conflict that is none of our business. But we will do our duty and pray that it doesn’t result in all our undoing.”

  Gwyar’s words and the quiet vehemence behind them surprised Gawain. His father clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’ll hear all there is to know tonight, until you’re long tired of hearing about it. For now, I will rest. Please wake me when it’s time for me to receive our kin.”

  For the next hour, Gawain walked around the fort supervising the preparations and hiring some of the locals as servants and hostlers for the evening. He avoided going to his house because he did not know what to say to Rhian.

  As the sun started sliding down to the west, the guests began to arrive. Each was welcomed by Gwyar and his family as they entered the hall, which soon filled. Ale and weak beer started the evening, and the gallery became loud with conversation and laughter. A pair of youngsters sat near the wall behind the chieftain’s table playing music on a drum and wooden flute. Yellow light from oil lamps and tapers augmented the red glow of the fire in the centre of the hall.

  Soon after all the leaders of the clan had arrived, servants brought in the food. Roasted meats were the primary attraction: beef, pork and poultry. But there were also oysters and fish stew, flat and loaf breads and various roasted vegetables and soups. The soups and softer foods were popular with some of the older members who were missing most, if not all of their teeth. Piran stood forward from his table beside the musicians and offered the prayer of thanks. Nearly all bowed their heads. There were yet a few who had not been convinced to give up the old gods.

  The din swelled as the merrymaking continued, the voices rising over each other and the clatter of bowls and cups. Gawain and Rhian sat at the table across the pit from his father, so that he could represent his father for those seated further away. Gareth, still recovering from his injuries, sat at the far end of his table looking uncomfortable and tired. Gwalhafed sat with Gladus at the far end of their father’s table entertaining one of the more prominent family leaders. The recent council at Alt Clut was not mentioned, as if no one wanted to broach the subject. Gawain watched his father, from whom he could always expect a lesson.

  Gwyar knew how to read the mood of the room. To know when bellies were not so full that they caused drowsiness or minds were dulled by too much ale, but when his guests were relaxed, at their most agreeable. The rushlights were spent, so the room was dimmer, redder. He stood, his stout ceramic mug raised high. In moments the room quieted, all eyes turning towards him.

  “My friends!” he said, voice barely raised. “Thank you for coming tonight, on such short notice. I would not have requested this if it were not of the utmost importance.” He paused, waiting for the nodding and rumbles of assent that rolled across the room to die down. “Heaven and our king have blessed me far more than I deserve, to have this hall, and such men to fill it!” This brought a round of pounding on the table and an eruption of endorsements and appreciation. As it settled down, he continued, “We will talk business soon enough. But first! Allow me the honour of bestowing what gifts I may amongst my true and valiant kin!” The thunder of stamping feet, table pounding and shouts of approval nearly drowned out his final sentence, “And let the mead flow like the Clut!”

  Amidst the thunder of response, the servants swept in with butts of mead, newly tapped. Horns replaced the mugs and cups and were filled with the heady liquor. According to custom, Piran stepped forward and offered the first toast, to Gwyar, reciting his lineage and honours. Gwyar then offered a salute to the king, Dyfnwal Hen. Others around the room stood and toasted Gwyar and Dyfnwal, others present, fallen comrades, or to the blessings of Heaven. Finally, the requisite tributes had been made and horns refilled as necessary. Servants brought chests from the wall behind the chief and set them beside him.

  “Before we begin,” Gwyar called out, “I would hear of how the criapan came back to this hall!” His words ended with his hand, holding the scarred wooden ball, slamming down onto the table in front of him. “Piran!” he bellowed, “Give us the story!”

  Piran, performing his other role as the court bard, stepped into the centre of the hall and told the story of the prior day’s game. Many had seen some part of the game, but few knew the details, which Piran embellished to Gawain’s embarrassment. Peredur, had he been at the feast, would have been relieved to hear that his fumble was omitted and described as a masterful pass from Gawain to Modred, who was referenced only as a kinsman. When Piran finished, Gwyar stood again and called for Gawain to join him. Gawain made his way to his father’s side, noting a broad, knowing smile on Gwalhafed’s face.

  “The people of Pollag gave me their greatest treasure—my wife, Anna,” Gwyar said, grasping Gawain’s shoulder. “And she gave me progeny to be proud of.” More cheers and Gawain felt a flush of warmth flood through him. “Not a week past,” he continued, “Gawain and Gareth brought down the largest boar seen in these parts in living memory. It rivals anything I ever hunted. And they did it alone, without dogs or nets. It deserves a fitting commemoration.” He turned and bent to open the sack he had left behind his chair, reached in and pulled out a massive boar skull and set it on the table in front of him.

  The room erupted with cheers and hammering on the table. The skull had been boiled and cleaned of all flesh, then lacquered black, except for its teeth and long tusks, which stood out in brilliant white. A copper disk with a cluster of small garnets in the centre had been fitted into each eye socket. The lower jaw was wired onto the skull, and Gwyar pried it open enough to set the criapan between the front teeth. He held it up above his head for all to see, before setting it down again and embracing his son, slapping him on the back. Gawain, surprised and delighted, thanked his father and made his way back to his seat beside his beaming wife.

  The next hour or more was spent in giving out gifts, the time-honoured duty of a warlord to his retinue. The elder warriors, landholders, were given horses or cattle; a few were given bolts of fine cloth. One received an iron spit set and tripod, another, a dress for his wife. Younger warriors were gifted with small items of jewellery, brooches, rings, spears, knives and shields. Two received swords for their killing of a pair of bandits on the southern edges of the region. For his role in the boar slaying, Gareth received a large silver-bound drinking horn with a carved wooden stand and a new pair of boots to help him stay on his feet in the future. Laughter rolled around the hall, and Gareth had the horn filled with mead to toast Gwyar in thanks, all the men rising to their feet to join him, extolling Gwyar’s leadership and proclaiming their loyalty.

  With the customary functions of the feast accomplished, and spirits lifted and saturated with mead, it was time for Gwyar to address the datlā—the court of warriors whose role was to advise the chieftain. Servants came in and whisked away the platters, bowls and other detritus, then left the hall, along with the musicians and wives, who followed Gladus and Rhian to their house, where most would sleep that night. The room settled into a quieter atmosphere, markedly subdued from the earlier festivities. The benches were reset so the elder warriors would sit close to Gwyar, with the rows behind them for the next ranking men. The youngest warriors stood back against the walls. They were to watch and learn, but not speak.

  Gwalhafed,
as heir, was seated to his father’s left. On Gwyar’s right sat his oldest friend, Iden. A white-haired mass of wrinkles and sinews, Iden had mentored Gwyar as a young warrior in Ceretic’s warband. Gawain took a seat in the second row, at the far end of the benches, opposite his brother.

  When everyone was seated, the murmuring faded away as all looked to Gwyar. He sat staring at the fire for longer than expected, but not a word was uttered. Finally, he looked up, around the hall, then nodded to Gwalhafed and Iden. He locked eyes with Gawain for a moment before standing.

  “My brothers,” Gwyar began, “As you know, our king summoned his chieftains to a high council. This was at the request of the Rigotamos, and Dyfnwal assented. We listened, and spoke, and debated at length. In the end, our king decided, and we are here tonight to discuss how to best honour his ruling.” There was some murmuring, but Gwalhafed, Iden and the other four warriors who accompanied Gwyar were silent. Gwyar continued.

  “The Rigotamos has come to report that war is on the horizon and requested that our king raise troops and join with him.” He paused as the chatter picked up again.

  “My lord,” Eudaf, one of the elder warriors who had not gone to the council, stood up. “Who brings this war? Are our lands at risk? Or does the Rigotamos look to use our strength to quell problems of his own?”

  Gwyar frowned, took a breath and seemed to gather himself. Iden looked down at his drink. Gwalhafed seemed lost in thought. “The adversaries are the Saxons and another people, the Vesi of Hispania.” Confused silence, rather than chatter followed.

  “The Saxons have never been a threat to our lands,” another warrior spoke up. “But who are these Vesi from so far away? Do they seek to pick up where the Romans left off?”

  “Even Rome never held our lands for long,” said another. “And we are not subjects of the Rigotamos. Do we now defend his southern shores?”

  Gwyar let the babble go back and forth for a few minutes before speaking up. “This war is not for our own lands or our friends to the south. At least not for now. This war is to be waged across the sea, in Gaul, in alliance with Rome.”