The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  “The man is a sorcerer,” Glyf hissed to Gawain. “He’s a counsellor to the Rigotamos, and no door bars him.”

  The door swung open, and Myrddin strode in, lowering his hood so that Glyf could identify him. He was of average height, thin, with short brown hair and brown eyes that seemed even more piercing than Arthur’s. He had a hawkish face and sharp nose, and only the shadow of a beard. It was not easy to determine his age, though he did not appear much more than forty winters.

  “My apologies,” Gawain bowed. “I—”

  “There’s no need,” Myrddin interrupted wearily. “You’re new to these lands. No, thank you, I know the way to the hall.”

  Glyf gave a curt nod to Gawain, and they both stepped out of the way as the man trod up the path, disappearing into the shadows.

  “How does he know my name?” Gawain muttered, only half directed at Glyf, who was helping to close the gate.

  “I told you, he’s a sorcerer,” Glyf returned from the darkness under the tower. “He often shows up unexpectedly after wandering in some distant place. And never once has he brought good news.”

  “Arthur keeps a sorcerer?” Gawain asked, puzzled. “That seems to go against his pious nature.”

  “Hah!” Glyf snorted. “I would not say that Arthur kept him, or indeed ever commanded his actions. No king has, though he has been an advisor to the Rigotamos since he was a boy, and to his father and Vortigern before that.”

  No one else was seen that night. When Gawain was relieved, he went to the hall, but the fires were low, and the few people who were staying in the room were asleep, so Gawain returned to his tent.

  The next day was spent in training exercises, and Gawain did not bring up the events of the night before. But when they were released, he went straight to the market, arriving as many were packing up their goods for the day. Hasdi smiled when Gawain appeared at the entrance to his stall.

  “Gawain, my friend! I’ve packed away most of my goods for the night, but say what you need, and I’ll produce it for you immediately.”

  “Good evening, Hasdi,” Gawain smiled in return. “I was happening by and thought I’d stop and see if I could buy you a mug of wine and see how business has been.”

  “Well, I happen to have some here, so please share it with me,” Hasdi motioned for Gawain to take a seat on a bundle of cloth. He produced a jug and pair of cups and sat on another bundle near him.

  “As it happens, business has been very good,” Hasdi nodded, handing Gawain a cup. “In fact, I’ve sold most of my wares and will sail in two days to bring a shipment of wool to markets in Gaul and Hispania.”

  “Oh, so suddenly,” Gawain was disappointed. He had grown fond of the strange, worldly man. “Will you return to your home? Or will you come back here soon?”

  “I can never tell,” Hasdi shrugged. “Though I doubt I’ll be able to return to my home for some time, at least until I’ve restored my fortune enough to buy a new ship and crew of my own.”

  They chatted a while about the wool and textiles trade, and how Hasdi had lost his ship and its cargo to a fire, a common hazard for traders. After a short time conversing, Hasdi looked quizzically at Gawain and refilled his cup.

  “It seems you have something on your mind, other than idle chat about the life of a merchant.”

  “No,” Gawain began. “I mean, perhaps, but it’s more of a curiosity than anything. Have you heard of a man named Myrddin?”

  “Ah, old Merlin?” Hasdi nodded. “I know a bit about him. Why do you ask?”

  “Did you say ‘Merlin’?” Gawain asked. “The man I met said his name is Myrddin, and I don’t think he’s old.”

  “Oh, yes, he is the same. He’s older than you think, older than I am, probably,” Hasdi chuckled. “He goes by the name Merlin outside of Britain, which is why I always think of him by that name. I met him long ago in Rome.”

  “Rome!” Gawain’s head was swirling with questions. “I assume you were trading? What would he have been doing there?”

  “Oh, yes, I was trading, and Merlin was there doing the same. He worked on a merchant ship for a time in his youth. On that day, I had stopped at the forum to listen to the philosophers. I was standing next to him when he proceeded to pick apart the orator’s thesis. After he was not-so-politely asked to leave, we struck up a conversation. He is a very learned man,” Hasdi nodded, his eyes focused on years past.

  “Is he a sorcerer?”

  “Humph,” Hasdi grunted. “I know nothing of such things. But many people say that. Of course, many people think a sorcerer or a witch or an angry fairy is the reason a pregnancy fails or the milk spoils.”

  Gawain was uncomfortable with that line of discussion, as he was not sure what to believe. The monks said the old gods were false, that magic was the tool of Satan and that the fairies were spirits banished from Heaven for their neutrality when Satan rebelled against God. While many people now worshipped the Christ, they often still believed the old gods had only retreated, and the fairies that haunted the ancient mounds and forests could be friendly if treated respectfully.

  “So why does he go by Merlin in other lands?” Gawain asked.

  “Well, because your language is strange to most of the world,” Hasdi grinned, “but Latin is spoken nearly everywhere. And unfortunately, his Brittonic name sounds too close to the Latin word for shit.”

  “Oh, that’s true,” Gawain nodded wryly. “I can see why he’d change that.”

  They drank and chatted a while longer before Gawain grudgingly admitted that he should not take up all of Hasdi’s time and needed to see to his own responsibilities at the camp. The two said fond farewells and wished each other good fortune with the hopes of meeting again, then went their separate ways.

  Three days later Gawain completed a training session early and went to the king’s hall for a well-deserved ale and bite to eat. Aside from a couple of servants cleaning, the room was empty, which was unusual. One offered to bring Gawain some bread and meat, and he poured himself an earthenware mug of ale. While he waited, he strolled around the hall taking a closer look at some of the artwork on the tapestries and shields. The wall-hangings told stories, of course, but he was more interested in the shields and wondered what stories they would tell if they could speak.

  Beside the door to Arthur’s private chambers hung an oval shield, its scarred red leather face bearing a large Chi-Rho symbol in white. The design was common enough in this area, but what caught Gawain’s attention was the writing that wrapped the top edge, stamped into the leather and filled with silver. ‘Singuli Pugnantes, Omnes Vincuntur.’

  “Fighting singly, all are conquered,” Gawain translated softly to himself.

  “You’re familiar with Tacitus?” a deep voice behind him said, startling Gawain. He turned to find the Rigotamos standing behind him.

  “My Lord!” Gawain bowed. “I apologise, I—”

  “Relax, relax,” Arthur chuckled. “There’s nothing to apologise for. If I didn’t want people to appreciate such things, I’d keep them locked away. I was intrigued because few can read Latin these days. Have you read Tacitus?”

  “Only small parts of his Annals,” Gawain answered. “My father intended a good education for us, but books are difficult to come by. We borrowed all, except for Xenophon’s work on horsemanship which he had purchased.”

  “An excellent book, especially for a cavalryman,” Arthur nodded. “Have you read any of his other works?”

  “Only a Latin translation of his Anabasis. I’ve studied very little Greek.”

  “One of my favourites, a testament to the human spirit,” Arthur smiled. “You’re from Alt Clut, are you not? What’s your name?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am Gawain ap Gwyar.”

  “Gawain, yes, I’ve heard of you,” Arthur smiled thoughtfully. “Good things, of course.”

  At that
moment, the servant returned with the platter of food for Gawain.

  “I was going to have a bite myself,” the king said. “Would you join me?”

  Gawain managed to say he would be honoured, and the two of them sat at a nearby table and shared the platter of meat and bread, which the servant very quickly doubled, along with a bowl of olives and assorted pickles.

  “Your father sounds like a wise man,” Arthur said. “Is he a warrior or of the clergy?”

  “He’s a warrior,” Gawain answered, “He fought with you at Melbrinn, as did one of our men, Eudaf.”

  “Melbrinn?” Arthur thought for a moment. “Oh, you’re referring to the battle we call the Celidon Wood.” He turned solemn, gazing into his mug of ale for a few moments. “That did not go as I had planned,” he said regrettably.

  “Would you tell me about the battle?” Gawain asked. “My father says very little of it.”

  “Celidon Wood… I was but the Dux Bellorum then,” Arthur said softly, gazing into his mug. “Ambrosius led the Consilium, and I was his general, leading his forces against the Saxons. We were having great success, and they feared we would push them out of Britain entirely.

  “They launched an assault on Linnuis and had convinced the Picts to join them in setting an ambush for our forces. If they could destroy our army, they could pick apart the remains of Britain. Fortunately, I discovered their intentions and manoeuvred to avoid their snare. We defeated the Saxons at Cair Lind Colun and then moved to trap the Picts where they had thought to ambush us.

  “But as all things in war, well-laid plans fall prey to many factors beyond any control. We won the field against them at the Bassas, but they were able to retreat with most of their army. My men were exhausted by a forced march and two battles, so I could not immediately pursue. I wanted to discourage such behaviour in the future, so I had my scouts shadow them while we regrouped, and I sent envoys to Alt Clut to warn them of the Picts and ask for aid.

  “I set out with all our available cavalry, outnumbered but the only hope of catching up with the Picts. We forced them to keep moving, but they stayed to lands unsuited for mounted combat, and we could not engage them.

  “When they took to the road to Melbrinn, I sent our fastest riders west around the hills to try to coordinate with your king’s army, which I had been told was marching east from Alt Clut. I didn’t expect them to have moved so quickly, so I had my men hold back, hoping to convince the Picts that we’d given up and to give Alt Clut’s army time to get into a blocking position. Unfortunately, the Picts found them already in place and suspected our plan, so they launched their attack, hoping to break through before we could arrive.

  “I was horrified that we were unaware of the battle until it was almost too late. I ordered all our horns blown because of the amount of the dead we passed as we rushed to relieve your people. I wanted to draw the attention of the Picts and give your king a respite. It meant we had to dismount and fight in the trees, losing many good men, but I hoped to save some of yours.”

  Arthur fell silent and chewed his meat while Gawain thought about what he had learnt through different eyes. Eudaf’s bitterness and the sceptical view of Arthur’s motives were understandable, but Gawain sensed sincerity and truth in the king’s words. Moreover, Arthur took sole responsibility for any failures, while not claiming sole responsibility for success. There seemed to be more to this man than just a formidable warrior.

  “My lord, what does the quote refer to?”

  “Hmm?” Arthur looked up. “Oh, on the shield? It’s from a book by Tacitus about Agricola, a Roman general during the conquest of Britain. Referring to our people, he said that Rome’s greatest advantage in coping with tribes so powerful is that we don’t work together, even against a common danger. Thus, while we fight singly, all are conquered.”

  Arthur turned to Gawain. “That is why we have the Consilium, to ensure that never happens again.” Arthur stood, squeezing Gawain’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing a meal with me and for the conversation, but duty beckons.”

  Gawain thanked him and watched as Arthur went through the door to his private chambers, just as a group of men came into the hall to find food and drink. He did not recognise any, but their accent was like his own, and he realised that these were some of the expected warriors of the Gododdin.

  Gawain greeted them and learned that these were the forward scouts of King Lot. They had arrived ahead of his army to arrange for space for the men to camp, quartering for the officers and such. Within a few minutes, Cei walked in and called them to a table, so Gawain excused himself and walked to the barracks where Modred and the other officers were quartered.

  He found several playing at dice and drinking. They greeted him and invited him to join in, which Gawain did for a few rounds, bowing out when he lost a few small coins. He was never lucky in games of chance. The men said that Modred had volunteered to take the place of another for a long patrol that day and would not return until the next morning. Gawain said goodnight and returned to his tent. It appeared Modred did not want to be around when his father arrived.

  Just before dusk, Gawain and his men were preparing meals when they heard a horn blow from beyond the north gate, answered by one from the walls. Lot and his army had arrived, and before long they were directed to the clearing next to Gawain’s camp. Gawain and the others stood along the road to watch them pass. They appeared much the same, of course, though fewer in number, about four hundred infantry and one hundred horse. Old King Lot and his bodyguard continued on the road towards the hall while his men began setting up their camp. When they finished, the two camps began to mingle, exchange news and rumours and share food and drink around the fires until late into the night. Some from both camps knew each other, and some were distant relations. Surprisingly, all the infantry of the Gododdin were men of the sea, and many had never trained or fought as soldiers. However, their king had chosen sailors and fishermen, even a few skilled shipwrights over his hardened warriors. Some said it was to preserve his strength, and because he needed farmers and fighters at home more than fishermen, traders or coastal raiders.

  The next morning was a typical day of training, though cut short so that the men could wash and clean their clothes for a feast that evening. The officers were to meet in the hall, of course, while the rest of the men would celebrate in the camps. Gawain finally found Modred, who had taken to staying at the camp upon his father’s arrival. He would go to the hall for the feast but would sit with the Alt Clut detachment and not with his father.

  This feast was only for the officers so they could discuss the war with somewhat less risk of gossip leaking the details to unfriendly ears. The hall was much more crowded, with the officers of Alt Clut, the Gododdin and Cadubrega, as well as the kings of the Consilium. Besides Ambrosius, Cador, Marc, Rhyddfedd, Ynyr and Gliguis, they had been joined by Aergol of Demetia, Usai of Ceredigion and Brychan of Brycheiniog. Lot was not a member of the Consilium so it would not be proper for him to sit at the places reserved for those kings, even though many of the seats were empty. So to avoid any insult, Arthur invited him to sit beside him on his left, as his guest, while Ambrosius, whose station, not to mention their close friendship, entitled him to greater honour, sat on Arthur’s right.

  Gawain sat beside Modred, somewhat closer to the head tables than he had expected. He noticed that Modred never glanced in his father’s direction, while Lot’s eyes frequently fell upon Modred, with a mixture of sadness, reproof and fatherly longing.

  “If you look discreetly at the table on the left, closest to the head tables,” Modred whispered to Gawain while looking into his mug, “you’ll see my older brother, Aergyn Faen. You can’t miss him. He’s a tall man, sandy hair and one shoulder sits higher than the other.”

  “I see him,” Gawain murmured. “Who tends your lands while the three of you are here? He will return with your father?”

  �
�I’ve been told my father has placed him in command of the Gododdin’s contingent,” Modred scowled. “My father wants me to return home with him to lead our forces there.”

  “Is it safe to say that you are not interested?” Gawain asked wryly.

  Modred snorted, nodding and was about to speak when the Rigotamos entered, and the room became quiet as he took his place. He went through the usual greetings and introduced Lot to the gathering, thanking him for coming. As this was the first time Lot had been to this hall, Arthur’s chief bard, Trysin, followed the ancient tradition of reciting Lot’s lineage. Following a lengthy prayer, the feast began, more sumptuous than the first, and the servants were careful to ensure that no cup was ever empty.

  When the evening turned from food to entertainment Trysin sang of old battles, and Arthur called for people in the hall to participate by offering jokes, riddles and short songs. Gawain enjoyed himself but, after a while, his thoughts drifted to home and family. He was snapped out of his contemplation by hearing Modred call on him to offer up a tune.

  “I would not insult the Rigotamos with the sound of my singing,” Gawain laughed, nervous at the attention and unable to think of any song.

  “So give us a riddle,” Modred enjoined, “Or better yet, tell us a story, perhaps of the giant boar you slew!”

  Gawain was speechless for a few seconds that seemed much longer. It was better to offer up something than to sit and protest, so he stood and recalled a story he had heard from a sailor several years before.

  “Two fishermen were adrift after being swept far out to sea in a storm,” Gawain began, nervous at first. “One got on his knees and prayed, ‘God, grant me one wish.’ Suddenly the clouds parted, and a booming voice said, ‘Because you have the faith to ask, I will grant you one wish.’

  “Stunned, the man blurted out, ‘Turn the entire ocean into ale!’ There was a deafening crash, and immediately the entire sea turned into the finest ale ever tasted. The clouds closed, and only the gentle lapping of ale on the hull broke the stillness as the men considered their circumstances.