by Sean Poage
“We have one point of business to decide. Who shall lead this cohort? It was discussed in our meeting, and only one name was submitted, that of Gawain ap Gwyar. But as our lord pointed out, the men must choose their own leader. So, if any have a name to submit, let them make their case now.”
There was a slight murmuring, but no one stood to make a nomination. Gawain felt a bit guilty for the advantage of being the chief’s son, though not enough to stand and decline the honour. Never one to demand position, he still held the ambition for it.
“Are there no other names?” Dochu called out, arms outstretched. “Then, warriors of Pollag, do you now elect Gawain as the leader of this cohort?” Thunderous banging on the tables and shouts of approval answered him. Dochu turned to Gwyar and bowed.
“My kith and kin, you honour me greatly in the trust you place in my son,” Gwyar stood. “Very well, let it be so. Gawain, approach.” When Gawain stood in the centre of the assembly, Gwyar continued, roughly following the formula of vows that bound warrior and liege since the beginning of time.
“Gawain, do you accept this charge, to govern these men honourably for as long as they are in your command? To reward valour generously and to punish misconduct fairly? To lead always from the front, and never retire from the field of battle before your men?”
“I do, my lord,” Gawain answered firmly, though in his head he wondered what he was getting himself into.
“Then those who would follow Gawain, come forward and swear your life and honour to him for as long as you are a warrior of this cohort.” Gwyar paused and added, “This oath binds you even if you find yourself under the command of another.”
Twenty-five men, including Peredur, strode up and knelt before Gawain, swearing to serve honourably, to follow his commands unto death and to never leave the field of battle before him. Some—Ajax, for instance—seemed somewhat less earnest than others, but all swore the oath. Even Eudaf, who came last, knelt with a tight-lipped smile, but a look of approval in his eyes.
When all had finished, Gawain had the cups refilled, then toasted his father, then his king and then the men who would march with him.
“Thank you, all. I’m honoured by the trust you’ve bestowed upon me,” Gawain began. “My father has taught me many things, such as keeping words to a minimum, and I hope all his lessons have taken root.” Chuckles rumbled around the gathering. “Therefore, I’ll only say that I hope that, by his example, I may lead wisely, and I swear to do my utmost to reward your trust.”
Mugs were drained, and a thunder of table banging and shouts accompanied Gawain back to his seat beside Rhian, who glowed with pride.
Not long after, the celebration began to break up, sooner than usual. The soldiers had gorged after a week of shortage and were exhausted by their training. Many still suffered from the cough and other ailments of the camp. The participants trickled off to their tents or nearby homes until only the servants remained to clean up the debris.
Gawain was happy to make it an early evening. Rhian had been whispering suggestive comments to him all night, so as soon as they thought they would not be missed, they slipped away to their home. Alone, they made every attempt to make up for the many nights they would not have together.
Chapter Five
All were up early for the march to Alt Clut. Aside from the twenty-five soldiers, Peredur, and Mabon’s slave, the party included Gwyar and Rhian. The soldiers wore their full panoply to give the best showing possible when they arrived at the king’s fortress. Each warrior carried a shield and about half had found helmets of various sorts, more often leather than iron. Most had no other armour. Only Gawain and Eudaf owned a full mail shirt. Mabon had a shorter mail shirt, while the other cavalrymen and a few of the infantry had various forms of leather cuirasses or other odd bits of armour.
The primary weapon, the spear, was carried by all, along with at least a pair of shorter, lighter javelins. Swords were rare and expensive. The cavalrymen all came from families with the resources to provide swords to their sons, but amongst the infantry, only a few, such as Eudaf, owned one. Many took an axe or hatchet, and all had a knife or dagger of some sort, items that were useful in either battle or camp. The infantry had their pole-mounted satchels, containing a blanket, some food, a cooking kit, a few small personal items and spare clothing, if they had any. In all, it was a fair burden, but not more than they could handle. The cavalry could transport extra gear on their mounts or spare horses, and many took advantage of that by bringing more than they needed. The wagons carried additional supplies, spare shields, spears, and camp equipment. Families and soldiers exchanged last minute blessings and tearful farewells before the soldiers assembled for the march.
“Good fortune, Gawain, and trust that Rhian will be well cared for until your return,” Gwalhafed said as Gawain swung into his saddle. “The local deer population may even recover by then,” he winked. Gawain laughed and thanked him.
Piran led a prayer, then Gwyar ordered the march out. Horns sounded, and the riders led the way. The people of Pollag lined the road to see them off, cheering and throwing rushes and flowers in their path.
The two ox-drawn wagons and a line of spare horses tended by several slaves and a dozen soldiers followed next. They were slower than the leading party and would arrive late to set up the camp.
Alt Clut was about fifteen miles away, through friendly territory on fairly reliable roads. With their small group, it would not take more than about six hours to arrive, allowing for some short rest breaks. It was a pleasant day, and the band travelled in good spirits. The rains had swollen the Clut, so they had to go somewhat out of their way to the east to an easier ford near the little hamlet of Cathures.
After crossing the river, they found that other warbands were also making their way to Alt Clut, so the road was busier than usual. Some locals had set up stalls around the road passing Cathures, selling food and small crafts. Gwyar did not let them stop but pointed out a low hill with a cluster of huts at the base.
“When I was very young, the monk, Ninian, would pass through that village from time to time on his frustrating mission to convert the Picts. He even consecrated a cemetery there,” he said. “His sermons led to my baptism, and inspired my purchase of Piran.”
Beyond the village, they took the road leading north-west away from the muddy flats along the river. Before long it merged with the east-west route that connected Alt Clut with Din Eidyn. It followed Grimm’s Dyke, said to be the mark of a giant’s heel, as he drew a line daring another giant to cross. But Gwyar said the Romans built it long ago, as a defence against the treacherous Picts to the north. Every couple of miles or so you could see the ruins of a small fort. Now and then the old foundations or remaining walls were being used as a family’s home or animal pen.
Well past midday, about five miles from Alt Clut, the dyke came close to the river and ended at a fort, a larger one still in use by a small garrison of the king’s men. The traffic was thick, slowing their progress, and it was late in the afternoon when they finally rounded the spur of a ridge and saw the Rock of Alt Clut in the distance. Gawain had seen it before, but this would be the first time he would enter.
The citadel occupied a massive pair of adjoining rock hills, rounded at the top and not unlike the breasts of a well, if unevenly-endowed woman lying asleep. It jutted out on a small peninsula where the Lemn flowed into the Clut. The road approached the entrance on the south by passing below the sheer face of the rock on a narrow strip of land along the river.
Between the stony cliffs of either peak, a stockade wall traced a semi-circle through the greensward above the river. A few buildings and stables were near the wall, and a path led to the narrow cleft between the rocks. This rift was fortified by another wall with a gate that opened to a narrow, precipitous stair that climbed to a small saddle between the peaks. Here were more houses and the great hall of Alt Clut. The peak to the
right was larger and flatter, providing space for more homes and some small gardens, surrounded by another stockade. The one to the left was much steeper, surmounted by a small round palisade enclosing a single large building. It provided the king with a last refuge if enemies managed to force through the lower levels. It was a magnificent citadel that had never been taken, and Gawain could not imagine any force ever could, short of blockading the land and rivers and starving them out after a very long siege.
A thick haze of dust hung in the air as they neared the Rock. People moving in both directions clogged the road. Besides the warbands of various sizes, farmers and slaves moved goods and animals by cart, wagon or on their backs.
In a field on the north side of the Rock, Gwyar had the men spread out to claim a cramped parcel of land for a campsite. They would hold it for the arrival of the wagons while he, Gawain and Rhian went to pay homage to their king.
They wove their way through the throng, around to the gate and joined the queue waiting to get either in or out. A few soldiers stood idly on the parapet above, and there was an atmosphere of festival rather than looming war. The aged gatekeeper, on a stool beside the open gate, hailed Gwyar.
“Back so soon,” the porter called out. “Returned to taste of that wine again?”
“No, Gronw, I only wanted to see if your old black heart was still beating,” Gwyar answered, grinning. “Looks like I lost that wager.”
“You will go before I do,” the porter laughed. “Though I thought it would come sooner after watching you race horses.” He started hacking and spit off to the side. “Although I may yet find my end from the foul airs the crowds have brought with them. Well, you know the way to the hall. Dyfnwal is receiving his nobles now.”
“Thank you, and keep well, old friend.”
They led their horses through the gate and left them in the care of a hostler, then followed the path to the inner gate. The climb up to the great hall was steep and, with the crowds, somewhat hazardous. Gawain noticed that his father, who would never admit a need to slow down, was breathing hard, so he gave a pointed look at Rhian. She feigned fatigue and asked to slow their pace up the steps.
They finally reached the great hall, an imposing rectangular timber structure with a steep, thatched roof and great double doors at the end. Idle loiterers obstructed those hurrying about business in the narrow courtyard and between several smaller buildings clustered around the hall.
They were greeted at the doors by the steward, another old battle comrade of Gwyar, and admitted. Inside the warm, dim hall, nobles murmured in small groups. On a raised platform at the end of the room sat the chair of their king, Dyfnwal the Old. The king was broad, of average height, with a long white beard and a fringe of hair around the back of his shiny head. His leathery, wrinkled skin spoke of the many days of life outdoors on campaign. He sat speaking with several men until he noticed Gwyar and his party waiting. After finishing, he turned and greeted them.
They rendered their respects, and Gwyar introduced Gawain and Rhian. After receiving a report of the soldiers and supplies that Gwyar was contributing to the muster, Dyfnwal nodded and turned to Gawain.
“So this is the young warrior who single-handedly slew the monster boar?” Gawain, glad Gareth wasn’t there, started to explain before his father elbowed him in the ribs. “I see you have some skill in hunting lovely women, as well,” Dyfnwal said. He turned his smile towards Rhian in a way that might have earned a duel if not for his age and position.
“Your father is very shrewd,” he grinned, turning back to Gawain. “He wouldn’t accept any gifts of wine, oil or other luxuries from the south, asking that I save the expense to ensure his soldiers are well equipped for the march. I thought that quite noble until it occurred to me that it might cost me more than the wagon full of gifts I had intended.”
Gwyar protested, insisting that the men needed very little, but Dyfnwal waved him off.
“Gwyar, you’ve been loyal to our house since the day you were fostered at my father’s table. My armourer will be at your camp in the morning for a list of what your men lack, and it will be remedied as well as my stores may provide. Now go and refresh yourselves before the feast begins.”
Rather than return to camp, they strolled around the fortress, taking in the beautiful views of the river and the sea in the far distance. They greeted others doing the same, and Gwyar introduced them to many old warriors, making the time pass by sharing small stories.
As the sun sank towards the sea, they stood on the northward ramparts marvelling at the host gathering below, the largest since the war with the Picts. Wagons were arriving at the tract of land their troops staked out. Laughter behind them caused them to turn to see a cluster of young men and women walking by. Gawain was surprised to see Modred leading them, telling jokes and charming his companions. Gawain called out to him and stepped down from the wall.
“Gawain!” Modred exclaimed, striding up to embrace him, before turning to introduce him to his friends. “If this fellow is as skilled with a sword as he is with the criapan, the Vesi will be swept aside like chaff in a gale!”
Gawain laughed and turned to introduce his family. Gwyar was cordial, though cool, perhaps because among Modred’s associates were three they knew, Hueil and Etmic, the sons of Caw, and their sister, Cwyllog.
Caw was the warlord whose lands bordered Gwyar’s on the east. He was a troublesome neighbour, a volatile descendant of the Picts who inhabited these lands before most were pushed further north by the Romans. Caw’s father had sparked a blood feud with Gofannon, the warlord who held Pollag before Gwyar, killing him in the hopes of claiming at least some of his lands. He was not pleased when Ceretic used the opportunity to reward Gwyar with marriage to Gofannon’s only child, Anna, and lordship of the lands of Pollag. When Caw succeeded his own father, he claimed no quarrel with Gwyar, though he was forever irksome. He was prolific, having at least twenty children, some legitimate. They were all much like their father and grandfather, truculent and haughty. Caw had made an effort to have one of his sons wed to Gwyar’s daughter, Beatha, and when that scheme was frustrated, offered to wed his daughter, Cwyllog, to Gawain. Though beautiful, she was controlling and scheming, and Gawain opted to decline. She had hated him ever since.
“What are you doing here?” Gawain asked Modred. “I thought you were on your way north to put a final end to the Picts, perhaps find a giant or two to slay.”
“Oh, and miss the war?” Modred laughed. “I arrived shortly after the council departed and when I learnt of it, I pledged my sword to Dyfnwal for command of a troop of horse. He was very obliging.”
“You wouldn’t rather lead a cohort of the Gododdin?” Gawain asked, surprised that Modred would not seek the higher position that was his due from his father’s realm.
“The Rigotamos had already left for Din Pendyrlaw with an emissary from Dyfnwal.” Modred seemed to brush the question away. “Since I’m here, and the army will soon set out, I was happy to pledge my service to our beneficent sovereign.”
“Thank you for seeing Rhian safely home, and for your part in winning the criapan,” Gwyar spoke up. “It was a commendable effort. For now, we must prepare for the feast. I trust we’ll see you there?”
“Of course, my lord,” Modred bowed. “It was an honour to represent your family.” With that, Gwyar marched off down the slope toward the hall. Gawain and Rhian scurried to catch up as Modred returned his attention to his friends and resumed their walk in the opposite direction.
The feast that night was the grandest thing Gawain had ever seen. Nobles in bright colours chatted while servants bustled about. The king and queen sat at their table on the platform at the end of the hall with several prominent lords to either side. Tapestries depicting old stories hung on the walls, and fresh cut flowers were tied to the posts.
Before the guests sat down to eat, Dyfnwal stood and greeted them. He launche
d into a long and tiresome speech about his pride in the force assembled there, his certainty of their valour, the opportunities this would provide his people and the repayment of the debt owed to the Rigotamos. Finally, he concluded his speech, sat down and tore a piece of meat from a platter, signalling for the others in the room to sit and begin their meals. Gawain noticed that no prayer was offered, though some, such as his family, did bend their heads and offer private prayers before eating.
The food was like nothing he had experienced, far more than his father’s hall, more varied and heaped on platters. Fish, oysters, venison, pork, duck, goose and beef. Great bowls of various stews. Few vegetables this time of year, but much bread, especially the large flat pieces used as plates. Ale and mead were served, but also wine, an extravagance only rarely seen in his father’s hall, and not since Gawain was young.
The king’s hall followed stricter protocols and manners, and Gawain found it easiest to see what others did before following suit. Rhian was equally awed and spent little time eating, caught up as she was in the scenery, people and gossip.
As the meal began, musicians played, and later in the evening, the king’s bard sang songs relating old stories of valour, affairs of love and legends from before the Romans ever set foot in Britain. This was a true bard, not a scholar like Piran, who only filled the role at his father’s hall. Dyfnwal was immensely wealthy, holding some of the largest lands within Britain. His power was such that he exercised influence, if not outright control, of the kingdoms bordering his.
Gawain and his family sat on the left side, somewhat more than halfway down the hall. Caw and his brood were next to them, and the only comfort was that they sat further from the king, denoting a lower place in the king’s favour. Gwyar sat beside Caw and put on a mild face, the closest he could come to being pleasant around the man.