The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  They were also introduced to Bedwyr, Arthur’s marshal, who directed the training drills. While Cei was tall, thin and arrogant, Bedwyr was a bit shorter than average, burly, very handsome and had a friendly, if restrained, demeanour. He was, however, missing his left hand at the wrist, the stump covered in a leather sleeve. Gawain would later learn that, even with the loss of his hand, Bedwyr was Arthur’s most valiant and deadly warrior.

  The next several weeks were spent in performing the assigned duties, patrols and training sessions. Cynyr, the father of Cei, was particularly adept at teaching battlefield manoeuvres and often assisted Bedwyr. Cynyr kept several old books that he said were left behind by the Romans as instructions on training men for war. When he learnt that Gawain was fluent in Latin and interested in the writings, he allowed Gawain to peruse the old tomes.

  Hasdi occasionally spent evenings with Gawain and the men, though his visits no longer included free wine. Cei had little to do with them other than to address complaints about camp discipline or changes to the duty roster, and when he did, he was generally surly and rude. Gawain had the impression that Cei did not relish the honour of being seneschal to the Rigotamos. Gwenhwyfar was rarely seen, except at services at the church.

  About two weeks after arriving at Cadubrega, the army was training with the local forces on a plain to the north-west of the hillfort when a troop of horsemen appeared on the road to the north gate. Just before they passed behind the shoulder of the hill, a long, red, streaming banner unfurled, sunlight glinting off gold at the front. One of the local soldiers said that the Rigotamos had finally returned. Bedwyr would not cut short the training, so by the time the tired men finished and returned to the fort, any excitement about the king’s arrival had passed.

  Gawain broke his custom and went to the great hall for his dinner in hopes of seeing the man or hearing some rumour. Unfortunately, the Rigotamos did not leave his private chambers that night, and the warriors of his bodyguard were a tight-lipped lot. As Gawain sat in the hall chewing a particularly tough piece of meat and listening to a woman play on a harp, the door swung open and in stalked Modred with a look on his face that might have caused the door to open itself out of fright.

  Modred hadn’t had much to do with Gawain as of late. If the rumours were true, it was because any spare time Modred had was spent working his way through any women who lived in the fort or within sight of the hill. Modred stomped to the sideboard, grabbed a trencher and hacked at the roasted beef shoulder until he had a sizeable mound. After filling a cup with ale, he turned to find a table. Gawain raised his cup, catching Modred’s eye, and after a moment’s hesitation, Modred joined him.

  “Did you lose your horse at dice?” Gawain quipped. “Or has a lass spurned your charms?”

  Modred returned a sarcastic smile around a mouthful of food and replied, “As if either event was likely.”

  “So then what turns your mood so sour?”

  “I was chatting with one of the hostlers who quartered the horses after the Rigotamos arrived. He said that shortly behind the king comes an army from my father’s lands.”

  “That’s bad news?” Gawain asked. “There should be plenty of room for them here.”

  “My father rides with them,” Modred muttered, his eyes narrowing and brow furrowed.

  “King Lot?” Gawain was puzzled. “I’ve often wondered if there was some rift between you and your father. Did he disapprove of your departure? Would he demand you ride under his command?”

  “Humph,” Modred grunted. “The old fool can’t possibly intend to ride to war. No, we have other disagreements between us.” He did not care to go into detail until, with gentle prying and refilled cups, he sighed and lowered his head.

  “My father murdered my sister,” Modred muttered.

  Gawain was taken aback and remained silent, waiting for Modred to expound, which he finally did.

  “Taneu was a sweet child,” Modred began wistfully. “But full of the recklessness of youth and indulgent upbringing. She became pregnant, which enraged our father. The more so because she refused to reveal the father. As they argued he became more incensed and threatened to wed her to a swineherd. She laughed at him and said he was daft to think she would submit to such. At that, he lost his senses and cast her over the rampart. She fell down the cliff-face to her death.” Gawain saw Modred’s eyes grow moist before Modred turned away and drained his cup.

  “We had bitter words, and I left,” Modred continued. “I went to his other court at Din Eidyn, where I was hired as your bride’s escort.” He started laughing and slapped Gawain on the shoulder. Gawain raised an eyebrow to this change of mood.

  “Speaking of brides,” Modred shook with inward mirth, spilling as he refilled his cup. “I do look forward to seeing his expression when I tell him that I’ve married!”

  Gawain nearly choked on his drink.

  “What?” he exclaimed. “When? Who?”

  “Why, to Cwyllog, Caw’s daughter,” Modred replied as if it were obvious. “The day before we departed. It was a very quiet ceremony, and I’m sorry I didn’t invite you. She’s not fond of you at all!” Modred chuckled.

  “Bad blood between our families, long before either of us,” Gawain mumbled, aghast that Modred would marry such a shrew and worried that his opinion might show. He stuttered a bit before finally blurting out, “Why?”

  “For love, of course!” Modred laughed, thumping Gawain on the back again. “And to thwart any plans my father might have to marry me off to that swineherd!” Modred continued to laugh, and Gawain managed a chuckle. “Ah, she is a beauty, Gawain, and I love a fiery spirit in a woman. And it doesn’t hurt that she brings a decent dowry and access to the court of my father’s suzerain,” he winked.

  Marriage for political or economic purposes was common, especially amongst the nobility, and often arranged by families. In fact, it was much more common than marriage for romantic reasons. Gawain thought Modred could have obtained a more advantageous marriage if that were his goal. In any event, it did not appear to have changed much in his manner of living, and Gawain decided to put it out of his mind. They sat drinking and chatting about different subjects for a while longer before Gawain said goodnight and walked back to the camp.

  The next day was Sunday, a day of rest and worship, except for those on sentry, patrol, or other necessary duties. Gawain would have gone to Mass, especially in the hopes of seeing the famous king, but he had patrol duties that day, keeping him out of the fort the entire day. Returning at sunset, he learnt that the Rigotamos was hosting a feast that night to welcome the warriors of Alt Clut.

  Gawain hurried to wash and change into his best clothes, making it to the hall just before the dinner was to begin and before Arthur had entered. Modred waved him over to a seat beside him. Etmic sat on the other side, and Gawain nodded politely to him. Looking around, he was surprised by the layout of the room. Modred, who had spent most of his free time in the hall, briefed Gawain on who and what he saw.

  At the end of the room, an enormous white tapestry with gold edging had been raised to the rafters. The Chi-Rho symbol of the Christ was embroidered in bright scarlet across the cloth, with the Alpha and Omega symbols in gold on the space to either side. In front of the tapestry was the table of the Rigotamos. It was not large or specially adorned, nor raised above the other tables. It was the other tables that bemused Gawain.

  In a king’s hall, the sovereign’s table was usually upon a platform at the end of the room. The other tables stretched down the sides of the hall. It was considered an honour and a sign of status the closer one was seated to the royal table. Gawain now saw why many of the tables were smaller in this hall. Nineteen were arranged to join with the Rigotamos’ table to form a circle. To either side of Arthur’s table was a space to admit servants into the centre to serve food and drink or access a large brazier of charcoal. A few members of the Consilium s
at there, clustered at the tables closest to the High King’s. Not all the members of the Consilium were present, so lesser dignitaries could fill any empty seats. Cador, the wealthiest warlord of Dumnein, and Marc, his client king to the south, sat on the right-hand side. Rhyddfedd of Paguis, a heavily freckled man, sat opposite with Ynyr of Guent, Gliguis of Cair Teim and Calpornus, the magistrate of Cair Cerin. The other seats remained empty.

  As Modred explained, the custom of Arthur’s hall was that the members of the Consilium were each kings of equal right, so sitting in a circle was meant to prevent issues of precedence from coming between them. The positions of the kings, other than that of the Rigotamos, were shifted daily.

  A table stood in the spaces behind and to either side of Arthur’s table. Cei, Bedwyr and a young noble that Modred said was Cador’s son, Constantine, sat at the table to Arthur’s right. To his left were seated a trio of robed priests.

  The remainder of the room was filled in the traditional manner, with straight rows of tables and benches in which issues of precedence were in full effect. Besides the other officers of the Alt Clut contingent, there were several local officials of the fort, the church and nearby villages, as well as their wives. Quiet chatter filled the hall, accompanied by an older man playing light, soft music on a harp in the shadows to one side of the room.

  Suddenly, Cei stood and boomed across the room, “All rise for the Rigotamos!” The chatter and music ended, replaced by the rumble of everyone standing and turning towards the door to the private chambers at the front of the hall. It opened, and the Rigotamos strode into the room, leading Gwenhwyfar by the hand.

  He was tall. Very nearly as tall as Bachlach, though less barrel-chested, with dark, grey-flecked, shoulder length hair and a trim beard. His clothes, simple but well-made, were those of a warrior more than a king. A grey embroidered linen tunic over doeskin breeches, with a deep scarlet cloak edged in gold embroidery, held in place by an enamelled bronze penannular brooch. His gaze was acutely perceptive, with deep-set, blue eyes taking in the whole room as he walked.

  He smiled and greeted those he passed, and Gawain felt the same awe that every other person in the room exhibited in his presence. The man seemed to radiate power. Arriving at his table, he saw Gwenhwyfar to her seat and then addressed the room. He saluted the members of the Consilium and his counsellors before holding his hands out towards the rest of the chamber.

  “Thank you for joining us tonight. Let us welcome our kin from the far north, the intrepid warriors of Alt Clut.” He paused while the others in the hall voiced a welcome before continuing. “I apologise for not being here to greet you upon your arrival. My travels have been extensive, spanning the entirety of Britannia in preparation for our quest. However, arrangements are nearly at an end. Much of our army has already landed in Letavia amongst our kin who dwell there. Soon it will be time for us to join them.” He waited for the rumble of foot stomping and mug banging to die down before continuing.

  “But there’s a bit more work to do, so tonight let us eat, drink and build friendships!”

  Applause answered him as he sat, and a door to the outside behind Cei’s table burst open. A long line of servants swept in carrying platters of food and jugs of wine, ale and mead. Everyone in the hall found their seats as the food was laid out, but before they were allowed to begin, Congar, one of the monks, stood. He fastidiously straightened his brown robe and gave a long prayer of thanks. By the time he finished, Gawain was most thankful that the priest seemed to have run out of things to express gratitude for. The hall became noisy with talk and laughter. The food was delicious and full of delicacies they had never seen, imported from distant lands. Nuts, figs and other fruits, more wine than mead, and a pungent sauce for sprinkling on meat, called garum, which Gawain rather enjoyed.

  As the evening wore on, Gawain noticed that Gwenhwyfar began to look distracted and tired. Arthur apparently perceived this as well, so he stood, thanked everyone for attending, and said that long days of travel had left him fatigued, so he would retire to his chambers.

  “More likely needing time to reacquaint himself with his queen,” Modred grinned lewdly. He was deep into his cups, and Gawain convinced him to go to the barracks, walking back with him before returning to his own tent in the camp.

  The next week was more of the usual. The training progressed, and the men were fitting well into the organisation of Arthur’s soldiers. Arthur was in frequent meetings with members of his staff and the Consilium, including the famous Ambrosius Aurelianus, who arrived the afternoon of the eighth day after Arthur’s return.

  He was old, but Gawain could not guess at his age. He seemed to be older than his years, balding, tired, in frequent pain and quite fat. Descended from a Roman family, he affected Roman clothing and mannerisms and did not wear a beard as nearly all men of the time did. While a very wealthy landholder and the de facto ruler of several cities, he eschewed any attempt to label him a king, preferring the Roman title of Comes. He was a quiet man, regimented and strict, but seemed friendly enough in his dealings. If the tales were true, he was the man who led the revolt against Vortigern and won some of the first victories against the Saxons. Upon arriving, he went directly to Arthur’s private chambers and was not seen the rest of the day.

  That evening was Gawain’s turn to man the walls. Due to his rank, he was placed in charge of the contingent at the south gate. Because he was not familiar with the region, he relied on a local, Glyf, to fill him in on the details of the role. Glyf was a cranky, seasoned old soldier who stank perpetually of ale and pretended to be annoyed with having to babysit new soldiers. It was obvious he relished the role and had great pride in his castle and position.

  Glyf had wandered off to relieve himself, so Gawain sat on the edge of the battlement beside the gate tower, gazing out to the south and sweating in his armour on an unseasonably hot evening. To the east, a line of hills broke the horizon, while dusk hid the flatlands stretching off to the west. He thought about the things he had learnt in the past couple of weeks. Soldiers live on rumours and complaints, and a careful listener could pick the threads of truth out of the tangle of misperception and grudge.

  From their homes far to the north, Gawain’s people heard little from the south, and it rarely turned out to be accurate. Neither had the Saxons nearly destroyed the southern kingdoms, despite the extensive damage they had caused, nor had they been wholly subjugated by Arthur. But they had been beaten badly enough that they rarely made raids, much less outright war upon the Britons now.

  Additionally, Arthur was not the wholly beloved Rigotamos they had believed him to be, wielding the power of a score of kingdoms. He was certainly loved by the men he led in battle and had strong allies amongst the realms. But his election as the High King was fraught with controversy, due as much to the scandal of his conception as to the fact that his father was a minor warlord of the Cornovii and not of one of the great royal families. Even his stunning successes leading their combined armies against the Saxons, Picts and Scoti would not have won him such an honour without the patronage of Ambrosius and his politically influential marriage to Gwenhwyfar, a Roman-descended kinswoman of Madrun, the wife of King Ynyr of Guent. If one thing seemed to unite many of these southern Britons, it was a desire to be viewed as Roman as possible.

  The Britons had an ancient history of strife amongst themselves that was only restrained during the Roman occupation. The Consilium was an attempt to maintain a sort of federation for command and arbitration among the fractious warlords who filled the vacuum of the Roman withdrawal. Not all the Brittonic kingdoms were members of the Consilium. Gawain’s own lands of Alt Clut, the Gododdin of Modred’s family and Berneich were not members. Ebrauc and Rheged were the northernmost kingdoms represented. Some regions, like Linnuis, Lundein and what remained of Cantia, were governed by magistrates responsible to the Consilium and only tenuously secure, their populations depleted through war, plague a
nd migration west or across the sea to Letavia. Even for member states, there were varying levels of involvement and cooperation.

  The many competing interests and personalities resulted in a fragile web that could not credibly be called unity. Some kingdoms tended towards amity with certain others through ancient connections of family and friendship, though even these ties could be broken. There was an undercurrent of tension and political manoeuvring, if not veiled insurrection within the Consilium. From what he had learnt, Gawain was amazed that the Rigotamos had been able to cobble together such a large army.

  Gawain’s musings were interrupted when he noticed a figure, a man in a long, grey hooded cloak, standing outside the gate. He could not imagine how the man had gotten to the walls so suddenly without being seen, even in the dim light of the evening. He jumped to his feet and whistled to the guard in the tower above him, comforted to see he was equally surprised.

  “Who are you?” Gawain called out. “What’s your business?”

  “My name is Myrddin,” a voice replied from within the hood, softly, and at the same time, hard as stone. “My business is that of the Rigotamos, Gawain ap Gwyar, so I suggest you open the gate so that I may be about it.”

  Gawain was flabbergasted and looked back and forth between the man and the guard, who was equally bewildered.

  “How do you know my name?” Gawain asked. “Yours is not familiar to me.”

  An exasperated sigh came from within the hood. “I know many things, including what will happen to you if you do not see me to the hall of the Rigotamos immediately.”

  Gawain heard scuffing on the steps behind him and turned, relieved to see Glyf returning.

  “Who are you talking to?” he grumbled.

  “A man at the gate, says his name is Myrddin,” Gawain answered. “He claims to have business for the Rigotamos.”

  Glyf froze, and even in the dim light seemed to pale, his eyes widening. He motioned for Gawain to follow him as he went to the gate and ordered one of the other soldiers to help him open one of the doors.