The Retreat to Avalon (The Arthurian Age Book 1)

by Sean Poage

  As the evening darkened, the fog and clouds gave way to a starry night and a bright, waning moon. It was colder than they had become accustomed to, and they wrapped their cloaks tightly against the chill. Bedwyr and several of the men sat in a cluster speaking quietly about what may have transpired in Britain since their departure. Some worried if their lands and families were safe from both foreign and domestic pillagers. All were concerned about what would happen when it was learned that Arthur had died.

  “Who will succeed Arthur?” Cethtrwm wondered.

  “You should be more concerned about who will wish to succeed Arthur,” a strange voice spoke from the dark shape beside Gawain.

  Everyone scrambled to his feet spouting curses and reaching for weapons until Bedwyr roared, “Hold!” In the silence that followed, Gawain could see the cloaked shape in front of him shaking slightly, as if in suppressed laughter.

  “For God’s sake, Myrddin!” Bedwyr scowled. “Must you do that? One day someone will run you through before they realise who it is.”

  “As if any man’s blade could touch me!” Myrddin chuckled, pulling his cloak back from his head. He had grown a full beard and longer hair since last Gawain had seen him. “I was enjoying the conversation, but it’s late, and I tire of idle speculation. Since Arthur’s death, I’ve prepared for your return.”

  “You knew of Arthur’s death?” Gawain gasped. Myrddin paused, and even in the dim light, it was plain that Myrddin looked at him as if he were daft. The others, unsurprised, shuffled in silent discomfort.

  “Your arrival is timely,” Myrddin continued. “Conflict has been fermenting since you left. The usual actors, manoeuvring for position. Modred has performed his duties with… alacrity. Growing his influence, creating new webs of rivalries. If word of Arthur’s death becomes public, it will mean civil war within and a resumption of foreign invaders from without. Between these two stones, Britain will be crushed.”

  “What are you saying?” Bedwyr said. “That we continue with the charade that Arthur is alive? For how long?”

  “Before Arthur drove back the Saxons and united the Consilium, what transpired in Britain?” Myrddin asked.

  “War,” Bedwyr replied.

  “Yes, and more often between Britons than against Saxons,” Myrddin said. “Our cities emptied, trade stopped, industry nearly vanished, poverty, fear and death became the norm.”

  “Punishment for our sins,” Cethtrwm mumbled.

  “If so, then Arthur was to lead you to the light,” Myrddin shot back over his shoulder before continuing hotly. “He laid the foundation, but no man lives forever. Eventually, others must continue building the cathedral or squander all the effort, blood and treasure.”

  “Of course,” Bedwyr said. “But that doesn’t answer the question of how long this deceit must be maintained. Or to what end.” It occurred to Gawain that while Bedwyr respected Myrddin, he did not hold him in awe as the others did.

  Myrddin sighed, seeming to shrink before their eyes. He sat down and leant against a log, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  “Get a fire going,” Myrddin said tiredly. “There’s no fear of discovery tonight, Bedwyr. If we’re going to be up late talking, we may as well be warm and drinking.”

  Bedwyr glanced around at the hilltops, then grudgingly agreed. In a short time, a crackling glow lit the sheltered hollow. Those who were not on watch—Bedwyr did not relax that much—pressed in to listen to Myrddin and Bedwyr discuss their future.

  “We devised the ruse of Arthur’s survival to procure passage back for our men,” Bedwyr began.

  “Ah, yes,” Myrddin interjected. “And whose idea was that?”

  Bedwyr, caught off guard, thought a moment, “Er… Morgen’s.”

  Myrddin nodded, a look of mock revelation on his face before turning serious again. “To address your question, I cannot foresee how long it must be maintained. That’s determined by the second question, to what end?” He stared at the fire for a moment. “Arthur has shown the way. We won’t find another Arthur, but wisdom, leadership, charisma… these are traits we must find to keep our jealous princes united.”

  “Cador has always been loyal,” Bedwyr suggested.

  “He’s upheld Arthur’s vision,” Myrddin agreed. “But does he possess the diplomacy to guide rivals to the same goal? Or if needed, the determination to yoke them to it?” Bedwyr remained silent.

  “Cadwallon is strong and pious,” Cethtrwm spoke up.

  “He’s also in his twilight,” Myrddin replied. “And it’s no secret that he doesn’t even trust the future of his kingdom to his own son, Maglocunus.”

  “I suppose that leaves Aergol out,” Gwrhyr said.

  “Aside from his age,” Bedwyr said, “his ongoing feud with Rhyddfedd would be a sure spark to war.”

  “So what do we do?” Tegyr asked, frustrated.

  “We buy time,” Myrddin said. “As much as needed until a worthy leader is found. Or made.”

  “And if one does not appear who can unite the Consilium?” Bedwyr asked.

  “Then we buy as much time as we can,” Myrddin replied firmly. “Until civilisation and the Church may tame the barbarian.”

  The next morning dawned bright and clear. Myrddin was nowhere to be found, to no one’s surprise. The troop rode swiftly north, eager to reach their goal now that it was so near. They stayed to the hills until they were less than a mile from the great fortress, coming out of a narrow gap into a valley shaped like a horse’s hoof. To the north, the hillfort’s white walls gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Bedwyr led the band into a canter to cross the final stretch. Tegyr blew a blast on a horn and unfurled Bedwyr’s yellow banner, causing a stir upon the battlements.

  The steep climb up each embankment slowed them to a walk. At the summit, they found the gates closed, soldiers clustering on the parapets. Bedwyr stopped the group and rode slightly ahead to address the guards.

  “How in the name of God do the king’s men return to find the gates closed to them?” he roared, his arms spread wide so that his missing left hand was especially noticeable. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “My lord, it is I, Maccus ap Lleu,” a voice called down. “Forgive us, we had no word of your approach and could not identify you sooner.”

  A clang of metal, the scrape of wood on stone and the gate heaved open. They rode into the compound and were immediately swarmed by everyone within view. More hurried down the hill towards them, everyone wanting news and gossip. Bedwyr had given them explicit instructions on what to say and when to say it, so they pushed through the crowd and climbed the hill to the entrance of the Great Hall. The only difference in the fort since their departure was that the market stalls were gone and fewer people were about, lending a somewhat dismal aspect to the place.

  Dismounting, Bedwyr led Arthur’s staff into the hall, followed by the four line leaders of the Guard. Inside the dim chamber, they found Gwenhwyfar taking her seat on the dais. Modred, dressed in expensive furs and silks and wearing a sword, stood behind her in Cei’s former place. She seemed as pale and thin as the last time Gawain had seen her, and was fretful as the men marched into the room and bowed.

  “My dear Bedwyr, we had no idea you were coming,” she smiled. “Where is my husband? Does he return soon?”

  “My lady, Arthur bids me express his love,” Bedwyr replied, “as well as his regrets that his duties will detain him in Gaul for an undetermined time longer.” It pained Gawain to see the look of utter disappointment in her eyes and a perceptible slump in her shoulders. Modred looked unfazed, perhaps even pleased that his status would likely continue unchanged for some time longer.

  “What brings you back without him?” Gwenhwyfar asked. “Are these not his household warriors? Should they not be at his side, protecting him?”

  “My lady, Arthur has been fantastically successful in Gaul, an
d his remaining duties are more of an inconvenience than a threat.” Bedwyr lowered his voice and took a step towards her. “We were ordered to return because he has need of his most trusted men to see to his interests here.”

  “What interests require his foremost warriors?” Modred spoke up, eliciting an icy glare from Bedwyr. “His kingdom is secure, and peace yet prevails.”

  “Arthur’s reach stretches from the sun’s rising to its setting,” Bedwyr said. “He has information that unrest within his kingdom requires attention. He sent me to investigate and his most loyal men to protect his queen.” He handed a leather satchel tied closed with Arthur’s wax seal to Gwenhwyfar. “This contains a letter for you and documents of official matters.”

  “I assume that I am relieved of my duties, and you will resume your post as marshal?” Modred asked. His tone was mild, but his eyes betrayed apprehension.

  “Not at this time,” Bedwyr replied. “My duties are of another sort.” Modred nodded, a slight look of puzzlement showing through his calm bearing.

  “Let us hope that any rumours of strife are quickly laid to rest,” Gwenhwyfar said. “But for your triumphant return, we must celebrate. Forgive me; I would have prepared a feast had we known you were coming. We will have meat and drink prepared for your men, but a proper welcome must wait until tomorrow.”

  With that dismissal and the customary exchange of pleasantries, Bedwyr led his men back out of the hall. A steward met them outside to make arrangements for stabling and billeting. When all was complete, Gawain found that he had free time on his hands and no idea what to do with it. After checking on his men, he went in search of his friend, Glyf. He found the old soldier on a work party, repairing a washed out section of the road outside the north gate.

  “Gawain!” Glyf smiled uncharacteristically. “We heard rumour that some of the Rigotamos’s men had returned, but were told it was his Guard.” The work party stopped and clustered around the two of them.

  “You heard correctly,” Gawain smiled. “I’ve been advanced to the leader of a line within his Guard.”

  “Oh-ho!” Glyf exclaimed. “I should’ve expected as much for the Hero of Namnetis!” In response to Gawain’s surprise, he laughed and said, “Oh, yes, we’ve heard stories of the war here, though none recently. Is there news to share?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Gawain said, thinking of the instructions Bedwyr and Myrddin had given. “We fought a tremendous battle against the Vesi and held them long enough for the Romans and their Salii allies to arrive and crush Euric’s army. Euric has holed up in a city with the remainder of his force, and the Rigotamos is harassing him mercilessly.”

  Gawain was peppered with questions, which he either answered in line with the ruse or deflected. Apparently, Myrddin was the only person in Britain to know of the battle at Dolens, much less the outcome. The greatest shock was the death of Cei, the details heroically embellished and adjusted, while descriptions of Arthur fighting and leading were most demanded. After several minutes, Glyf ordered the men back to their work.

  “We’ll be out here until the moon sets if we don’t finish,” Glyf said. “I’ll find you afterwards, and we’ll exchange stories tonight over ale.”

  Gawain walked back into the fortress to find Peredur and some food and nearly knocked over Modred walking through the gate.

  “Ah, Gawain, my brother!” Modred exclaimed, embracing Gawain heartily. “They said you were out there, but I didn’t expect you to ambush me. How are you? A leading member of Arthur’s household! I’m not the least bit surprised. Did you get my letter? Let us get some food and drink.”

  Swept along in Modred’s animated wake, Gawain followed him to his house. His domestic staff of several slaves arranged food and drink for them on couches beside the hearth. Modred begged for stories from Gaul. He was particularly interested in the final battle and how Arthur had led Euric’s army on a chase that caused the Vesi army to be split apart and defeated. The depth of the questioning began to make Gawain uncomfortable, so he finally asked Modred to tell news of himself.

  “Oh, my stories are much less remarkable,” he shrugged. “I’ve kept busy organising patrols, countering raids and leading punitive sorties.”

  “Against the Saxons to the east?” Gawain asked. “Have they grown bold in Arthur’s absence?”

  “I doubt they realise he’s gone,” Modred laughed. “Due partly, I dare say, by some progress I’ve made in pushing them even further east. Our biggest threat of late has been from the Scoti. I’d like to punish them in Iwerddon, but Cador is stingy with the fleet and thwarts my attempts to borrow the ships.” He was clearly irritated by this last issue. “In any event, we’ve won back land and much plunder, and this keeps the soldiers happy and their steel sharp.” As the wine flowed, he went on about the gossip from around the kingdoms as well as his romantic conquests, which were clearly on a grander scale than his martial exploits.

  “Modred,” Gawain spoke up in a short pause between one of his friend’s stories. “Have you heard any word of strife within the Consilium while we’ve been away?”

  “Bah!” Modred snorted into his cup. “If you mean worse than before Arthur left, I would say no. The evil old bastards are relentlessly plotting and manoeuvring. Cador and Aergol are meddlesome, but the others spend most of their time trying to undercut each other. If this is the strife Arthur sent Bedwyr back to deal with, he must’ve been blind to it before he left.” He paused a moment, then asked, “How has my brother acquitted himself?”

  “I’ve had little contact with him,” Gawain answered. “He was assigned as a staff officer to Gwynn and continues in that capacity.” Gawain could not know how Aergyn fared, but under the circumstances, the likelihood was grim, and he felt sick for lying to Modred. Using the excuse of meeting with Glyf, he thanked Modred and gathered his cloak to leave. “It’s good to see you again,” Gawain smiled. “And to see you’ve had such success.”

  “You as well, my friend,” Modred embraced him. “You’ve risen faster than the sun. Will you stay on here?”

  “I don’t know,” Gawain said. “At the moment I can think of little but returning home to my wife and the child I haven’t met.”

  “Of course,” Modred nodded. “But when you’re home and bored, remember the opportunities you have with Arthur. And of course, I’m here,” he winked with a grin.

  “What more could I need?” Gawain laughed and turned out through the door.

  Strips of cloud scudded across the moon and a cold breeze brought the scent of earth, grass and livestock. Glyf was at the barracks and hushed Gawain’s attempts to apologise. Grabbing a small keg of ale and two cups, he led Gawain back out to a quiet place on the ramparts where they sat drinking and catching up. It was much the same as with Modred, though Glyf was more interested in Gawain’s adventures than Arthur’s.

  “Have you been along on Modred’s raids?” Gawain asked.

  “A few,” Glyf grimaced. “Until I’d had enough.”

  “Enough?”

  “Eh… Most of the young hounds love battle. And the plunder,” he shrugged. “But the fights have been mostly against small raiding parties or villagers. I suppose that’s why I grew tired of them.”

  “Not enough challenge?” Gawain looked sceptical.

  “Fighting enemy warriors is honourable,” Glyf shook his head. “These forays are more about imparting terror and taking plunder. Many of the young soldiers thrill to that, while some of us just feel sick.”

  “Does Modred know how you feel?”

  “Why do you think I repair roads and dig wells now?” Glyf grinned.

  They drank and chatted until the moon was descending. Gawain, exhausted, told him that he would be leaving soon to return home.

  “Will you come back?” Glyf asked. “Certainly as a leader among the Rigotamos’s household you’ll be entitled to lands and riches.�
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  “I don’t know,” Gawain said.

  “Well, I hope to see you again,” Glyf smiled, smacking him on the back. “If nothing else than to see you stumble around a battlefield.” Gawain laughed, they wished each other farewell and headed to their rooms.

  The next day was spent in cleaning and maintaining kit, caring for the horses and resting as the queen organised the feast in their honour. Dignitaries from the region arrived, including Melwas, Cador and many lesser nobles and clergy. Gawain fretted, as now that he was back in Britain, he wished for nothing more than to ride north as fast as he could. He kept his peace and made the best of the festivities that evening, which were pleasant even without music.

  Gawain saw no evidence of malice in Cador, though Melwas still struck him as slimy and conniving. He was disappointed to hear that Drustan had not survived the voyage home and surprised to learn that the Saxons had been pushed back far enough that many had abandoned their colonies and returned to Germania.

  “You don’t seem yourself tonight,” Peredur said, sitting down on the bench beside Gawain.

  “I have little stomach for celebration and would be happier with hard bread and water if it meant I was on the road north,” Gawain said glumly.

  “Shall we set out tomorrow then?” Peredur asked.

  “You’re returning, too? I rather expected you to stay on here.”

  “I’ll come back,” Peredur nodded. “But Bedwyr is giving everyone leave to return home to see to their domestic affairs. I want to tell my father…” He trailed off awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Gawain.”

  “Don’t think of it,” Gawain smiled ruefully. “My father may not be there anymore, but I have a wife waiting and a new child to meet. You know, it’s about time you gave some thought to finding a woman as well.”

  “Perhaps,” Peredur shrugged. “Modred offers to find a woman for me every night.”

  “Ah, so now we know why you’re returning,” Gawain chuckled. “Yes, let’s go tomorrow.”