The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  This day began with another long run, and they were careful to keep track of their general location. After a swim in an icy stream, as much to clean off as for exercise, they ate, then started on the daily revolutions. These were much the same as the day before, except that each was shorter, and before the midday meal they were on marching and formations. To the prior day’s drills were added flanking turns, counter-columns and echelon manoeuvres. More emphasis was given to repositioning the shield without disrupting the others in the line, which was vital to reacting to threats from different directions.

  By the end of the day, they had moved on to the exercise known as the Cesspit. Two lines of men overlapped their shields to form the wall and faced off. Each took turns, with one line holding their position while the other charged, slamming into the opposing line with all their might. The crash of shields and bodies was thunderous, and the exercise is said to have received its name from the bowel-loosening force of the impact and the noxious mess left on a battlefield from men engaging in combat while often suffering from dysentery, terror or the loss of control that accompanies death.

  The rain lightened but remained steady, and the ground was churned to mud above the ankles from the two sides driving against each other, attempting to break the other line. This seldom happened in training, as no one’s life was in jeopardy, and there were no serious injuries aside from a few lost teeth, a broken nose and some bruises resulting from lack of proper form.

  As the grey light began to dim, the Cesspit was halted, and the teams shouldered their logs for the march around the camp until nightfall. As the logs were being replaced around the fire pit, a wagon creaked into the camp. The contents were hidden under a leather tarp suspended over a wicker frame.

  Dochu, Eudaf and several of the cadre met them, and a short discussion followed. Dochu shrugged, and Eudaf turned away with a disgusted look before calling the men together. The spent, miserable soldiers hustled over out of curiosity.

  “It appears your mammies worry about your delicate conditions,” Eudaf growled, contempt dripping from his words. “So line up and get your turn at the teat so we can return to weening you in the short time we have.”

  The troops moved to the rear of the wagon to find three women and a large barrel inside. The top of the barrel was opened, and steam escaped, along with the hearty smell of soup. The men rushed forward, jostling for position until brought to order by the cadre yelling and whacking them with their spear shafts.

  Gawain joined the line, motioning for Peredur to step ahead of him, and peered into the darkened wagon. He could make out a woman handing out bread, another ladling soup into wooden bowls and a third woman, who passed each bowl to the next grateful young warrior in line. As Gawain shuffled closer, he realised that the woman giving out bread, smiling to each soldier and offering a word of comfort, was his wife.

  The sight warmed him, and he felt light-headed when her eyes met his, a smile on her lips, concern in her eyes. He drifted up to the wagon when it was his turn and reached up with both hands to receive his piece of bread. Her soft, warm hands covered his for too brief a moment.

  “I wish I could give you more, but this is all I can manage,” she whispered with a wink. Gawain managed nothing more than a smile and a brush of his lips against her hand as he stepped to the left and received his bowl of soup. His eyes never left his Rhian. Feeling dazed, almost forgetting the soup, he moved on. Rhian looked back and smiled, nodding at him to go on. A cadre member barked at him to move along, so with one more glance back, Gawain walked to a log near the fire pit. He sat beside Gareth, who looked up as he approached with a knowing grin.

  “Just keep your mouth busy with your bowl,” Gawain said, putting the bread under his shirt and taking a long drink of his soup. It was thick, rather spicy with peas, leeks, mushrooms and finely chopped pieces of mutton. A good soup for cold, hard work.

  When he had drained off most of the warm liquid, he reached into his shirt to pull a chunk off the bread to scoop up the remainder. He found that it was split in the centre and, stuffed inside, was a small honeyed cake. It was the kind he loved that Rhian made with spices, pine nuts and bits of dried fruit. He glanced around, then nudged Gareth, who grunted, wiping clean the inside of his bowl with a crust.

  “How was your bread?” Gawain asked.

  “Fresh. But not as good as this soup!” he replied, licking his fingers.

  “Did you eat all of it?”

  “Yes, why? Did Rhian not favour you with a large enough piece that you must beg of mine as well?”

  Gawain shook his head, returning to his soup. He left the delicacy for later and pulled off just enough bread to scoop out the remains of his soup. He smiled to himself, thanking God for such a clever, loving bride. He only wanted to look at the small cake and think of her hands forming it, but its scent and his hunger would not allow it to survive the night. Part of him felt guilty for having a treat the others did not. But then, only he had Rhian, and he could not be liable for all the men who didn’t.

  Following the meal, the men cleaned the bowls and returned them to the wagon with many thanks. Gawain returned his bowl, stealing a quick kiss from his wife. To his dismay, this was not missed by anyone. Rhian’s companions giggled, and the men made hoots and suggestions that might have brought a duel in other circumstances, but were meant in good humour and demonstrated a rise in morale.

  The wagon rumbled off through the rain, and the men returned to the evening chores so they could set the watch and climb into their tents. Gawain and Padraig again pulled the middle watch, with the night passing uneventfully, and the cake savoured, a furtive bite at a time.

  The next morning, they woke to the same light, steady rain, but a change in routine, as each received a short branch, a leather sack and some leather laces. They were instructed to create a satchel by tying the branch across the top third of their practice spears, like a crucifix, and using it to support the bag. These were filled with enough rocks to simulate the weight carried on a march. The satchel hung behind each man, supported by the pole on his shoulder. One of the men complained, suggesting the baskets with straps used by farmers to carry vegetables would be easier and more comfortable.

  “And what if you’re ambushed?” Eudaf answered, for all to hear. “You wouldn’t have time to shed the basket and then have to fight with its weight and instability. With this, it’s a simple matter of dropping it to the ground. Just wad up your cloak under the pole and shift shoulders as needed. You’ll be fine.”

  Once completed, each received a skin of water, a hunk of bread and some cheese to eat on the march. They donned whatever footwear they owned, if any, gathered their shields and spears, and set out in a column of two files. Eudaf led the way at a brisk pace, his satchel looking larger and heavier than any others. The other cadre were unburdened, but moved up and down the line encouraging or, more often, berating the men to keep together.

  “You must learn to march swiftly, in close order,” Dochu called out as they tromped along. “An army on the move becomes split up by men walking at different paces or by stragglers at the rear. Then you’re a ripe target for ambush, or for enemy cavalry to harass and pick apart. An army that maintains discipline on the move is better able to defend itself or to deploy into the offence.”

  They headed towards the higher, more rugged land to the south and west. Gawain thought it a pleasant break, as he was more suited to walking all day under a heavy load than running all day unencumbered. By the time they returned to camp some five hours later, he estimated they had travelled a bit over twenty Roman miles.

  After a quick meal, the cadre ordered the men into three groups. One traded their spears for heavy wooden swords and went to practice on the tree-men, while another group received javelins and went to the throwing field. The third group traded their spears for the training version and worked on spear and shield manoeuvres in a different area.

/>   Gawain began in the sword group, with Dochu leading the training. Swords were rare and valuable things and thus status symbols as much as weapons. Most of the warriors had never owned one, but all learned the basics of swordsmanship from an early age, in case one became available through plunder, inheritance or gift. Gawain’s father had given him an old Roman spatha on his fifteenth birthday. It was a serviceable sword, if rather point-heavy.

  Gawain enjoyed sword work and needed little coaching on the tree-men. He helped some of the less familiar soldiers hone their skills, offering tips on slashing and thrusting techniques, footwork, balance and shield use. Aside from practising form, striking the wooden posts with the training swords helped to condition their arms for the often jarring impact of steel on steel or bone.

  At the horn call, the groups rotated, Gawain’s team moving to the javelin field. Eudaf, an expert in the javelin, led the training there. Their targets were man-sized bundles of hay arrayed with training shields, now looking somewhat worse for wear.

  From about twenty paces, a javelin’s usual range in battle, the men lined up and made their throws, aiming for the bales behind the shields. Some made strikes on the bales, many hit the shields, and often the javelin missed both, leading to gibes from their fellows. Ajax, in particular, had trouble with accuracy, though he could launch it an impressive distance. His frustration mounted until he let loose a string of curses and snapped the javelin he held in two.

  “You needn’t get angry,” Eudaf said, relaxing on a low mound and cleaning his toenails with a thorn. “Your concern for your peers’ opinions throws off your aim. In battle, the enemy will usually be bunched together. Your throw will hit something besides dirt. Oh, and you’ll be paying for that javelin.”

  Ajax grunted, threw the pieces aside, and turned to step off of the line. He slipped in the mud, falling to one knee and hand, and let loose a new chorus of curses. The others looked away to avoid provoking him.

  “Will this damned rain never end?” Ajax complained, sitting down and wiping off the mud.

  “What rain?” Eudaf asked, looking up at the sky. “I see only blue sky and warm sun.”

  Ajax looked at him as if he were mad. Gawain, returning from collecting his throws, grinned and took a seat on the embankment nearby.

  “I don’t even have memories of blue sky,” Ajax grumbled, flinging a glob of mud away.

  “Well, I hope you have something good to remember,” Eudaf said. “Because there will come a time when that is the one thing that keeps you going.” He tilted his head sideways towards Gawain.

  “For instance, good Gawain here,” Eudaf smirked. “I’d guess that his bride would be his memory, but I doubt he’ll need to hold onto his mind’s image of her. We could chase the Vesi to Rome, and I wager she’d manage to show up with soup and a treat for him.”

  Gawain grinned, turning red, as the others burst into laughter. Did nothing escape Eudaf’s notice?

  “Did you need to call on your memory at Melbrinn?” one of the soldiers asked. The chatter died. Eudaf glared at the youngster for a moment before sighing and nodding.

  “At one point, yes,” he answered. “It steeled my resolve to push on when I was exhausted. And to die honourably when I was hopeless.”

  “We’ve heard little of that battle,” another said. “Or the deeds that made your fame. Will you tell us about it?”

  By now, the men had stopped any pretence of training and closed in around Eudaf. He looked around frowning, then nodded.

  “There’s not much to tell. Several days before, messengers from the Rigotamos came to our king, saying that a large Pictish army was moving north into our lands. The Rigotamos said he was in pursuit, but his cavalry was unable to attack in the rugged terrain.”

  “Moving north into our lands?” someone queried. The Picts lived to the north of Alt Clut, so they should not come from the south.

  “Aye,” Eudaf replied darkly. “He implied that the Picts were raiding into our lands, raising our alarm and convinced Dyfnwal to gather his warriors to oppose them.

  “The Picts were trying to return to their homes beyond our lands, using the fens and forests to keep the Rigotamos’s cavalry at bay, but they could not lose his scouts. Once they reached the open moors around the headwaters of the Clut, they turned to the old Roman road that steers towards Din Eidyn along the Tuedd.

  “Appraised of their general location and direction, we marched east from the Clut towards Melbrinn. It’s a homestead at the southern edge of the Celidon Wood, where the road and the Tuedd exit a narrow valley from the moors.

  “We planned to stopper them into the valley, and while we assaulted their front, the horsemen of the Rigotamos could fall upon their rear. That part of the valley offered little in the way of concealment for an ambush, so we drew up the bulk of our forces across the road, and set our reserve behind the ridge to the west. They did not expect to find us blocking their path.

  “Though they were more numerous than us, between our shield wall and the cavalry of the Rigotamos, we felt confident of victory. But the Rigotamos was not there when they flung themselves against us. We held for a long time, wondering where our ‘allies’ were. Our left flank was protected by the marsh along the Tuedd, but they began sending their reserve up the slopes of the hill to our right. Dyfnwal ordered our lines to pull back towards the bald hill and the wood line a half mile behind us.

  “I was among the reserve. We moved to strengthen the line during the withdrawal, but the Picts, perceiving our plan, attacked, committing their reserves and threatening our flank. We fought desperately, losing many good men as we withdrew. We gained a respite at the edges of the wood and Dyfnwal took advantage of the pause to regroup.

  “Before we could make much progress, the Picts attacked again, looking to finish us. They would have, if the Rigotamos had not finally arrived, sounding every horn, giving us heart and throwing the enemy into confusion. The Picts drove against us, hoping to get deeper into the forest and make it harder for the cavalry to catch them. The Rigotamos’s horns had squandered his element of surprise, and his soldiers were forced to dismount and fight amongst the trees.

  “It was bloody and close, but in the end, the Picts broke and tried to flee. We killed many, taking few slaves. A handful escaped deeper into the woods and eventually made it to their homes beyond the dyke,” Eudaf ended his account.

  “The Rigotamos lied about the Picts’ intentions?” Gawain asked. “To what gain?”

  “Later we learned of a battle to the south. Apparently, it was nearly a defeat for the Rigotamos, and he pursued them out of vengeance,” Eudaf answered. After a slight pause, he looked down and spat. “This action united the Picts in war against us. Our eventual victory was costly, bringing the Rigotamos and his armies to our lands, putting our king in his debt and our feet upon this path.” That left the men quiet for a moment until Peredur spoke up.

  “You didn’t tell us what you did to win renown there.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t remember,” rumbled the voice of Gwyar from behind them, causing all to jump, including Eudaf. The men parted as the chief strolled up, smiling at Eudaf’s scowl. “What he failed to mention is that he and his father’s cohort were the men at the end of our right wing. They were the reason the Picts weren’t able to turn our flank as we withdrew.” Gwyar turned sombre as he continued. “And he is the only one of his family to survive. We thought him dead as well when we returned to that part of the field to recover our fallen. We found his father and brothers slain. Eudaf was under a pile of Picts, his head bloodied, his shield riven, his broken spear through two of them. He still breathed, but did not wake for three days and had no memory of his part in the battle.”

  The men looked on Eudaf with awe, as Gwyar slapped him on the shoulder and walked off towards the tree-men.

  “Now get back to training,” he said in parting.


  At the next rotation, the spear and shield manoeuvres, they practised much as they had the previous days, but with the addition of the training spears. This added the complication of employing the spear in the attack and the defence, passing spears forward to replace those lost or broken and how to move men to the front to replace casualties.

  “In practice, it’s a simple thing to rotate through the lines,” Gwalhafed, explained. “But in battle, it’s near impossible. The wounded are often trampled or suffocated. Sometimes the press is so dense the dead cannot even fall to the ground. If the fight goes long, and men must rotate, you’re more likely to be crushed or attacked as the man behind you tries to take your position. The best you can hope for is to cover yourself, let the tide wash over you and pray that you soon find yourself behind the lines of your men, and not of the enemy.”

  The end of the day brought another rotation of the log drill, though the rain finally came to a sudden end, accompanied by a cold breeze. The cadre brought out dry wood from the stores and started a blaze in the long trench pit. The end of the rain, the warmth of the fire and a hot meal gave an immense boost to morale. Banter and insults began to flow again as they prepared for sleep and the watch.

  The next morning started with a run, much shorter, but more gruelling. They ran in single file at a moderate jog. The last man in the line would sprint to the front of the line, then drop into the regular pace. As each man reached the halfway point of the line, the man who was now last in line began his sprint, and so this alternation of sprinters continued through the course of the run.

  This morning, they learnt, was Sunday, so they were briefly given over to Piran, who acted as their chaplain. Most fell asleep during his service, to which he tried not to take offence. Afterwards, they resumed training with rotations at the tree-men, javelin and shield wall. At midday, Gareth’s uncle, Rhufawn, arrived in camp with a line of horses. Gawain, Gareth, Mabon, Teilo, Keir and Peredur accompanied him to prepare for their role as cavalry.