by K. M. Ashman
‘Can’t you shut that noise up,’ he asked, ‘someone will hear us.’
‘Can’t do that,’ said the fisherman. ‘Them’s my fairy bells, keeps the evil spirits away they do. A witch from the emerald isle gave them to me many years ago.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ mumbled Gwydion.
It was dark when they landed on a pebbly beach. Nearby a stream emptied its fresh water into the sea.
‘Follow that stream,’ said the fisherman, ‘it will take you right into the Henge.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Gwydion.
‘Sure as I can be,’ said the fisherman. ‘It runs blood red often enough.’
‘Can you wait for us?’ asked Gwydion.
‘I am already risking execution,’ he said. ‘This is a holy place. If I am found, it would be my blood that colours the stream.’
‘I will pay you extra!’ said Gwydion.
‘I will not stay,’ said the fisherman, ‘but for the right price, I will return tomorrow night when the moon is at its highest.’
‘Name it.’
‘That Torc you wear around your neck.’
Gwydion’s fingers crept subconsciously to his necklace. It was the symbol of his clan given to him by Erwyn, the first time he had visited the Cerrig.
‘How do I know you will return?’ he asked.
‘If I don’t, and you still live, then you know where to find me.’
‘I will trust you,’ said Gwydion, ‘but if you betray me, then know this. Before I cut your throat you will watch me burn your wife and children.’
The fisherman swallowed nervously.
‘Understood!’ he said.
‘Midnight tomorrow,’ confirmed Gwydion.
‘I will be here,’ said the fisherman, ‘but will lay off shore. If you are successful, light a flame and I will come in to get you. I will wait no longer than sunrise.’
Gwydion unfastened the Torc and gave it to the fisherman.
‘Until tomorrow,’ he said.
The fisherman climbed back into his boat as the two men ran toward the nearby tree line.
----
Prydain was still weakened from his imprisonment, and he struggled to keep up. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a tree.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Gwydion.
‘Just need a minute,’ answered Prydain.
Gwydion removed a leather water flask from beneath his tunic and offered it to the Roman.
‘We have to push on,’ he said, ‘the solstice is in a few hours and the Druids like to conduct their grisly business at the rising of the sun.’
‘What do you intend to do when we get there?’ asked Prydain.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Gwydion, ‘but I haven’t ridden two hundred miles to give up now. Are you ready?’
Prydain nodded and forced himself away from the tree trunk. They started to run again, following the stream inland. Suddenly, Gwydion stopped dead in his tracks, causing Prydain to walk into him.’
‘Shhh,’ he said, holding up his hand and they both fell silent, listening to the ethereal drumming that echoed faintly through the forest. ‘Must be getting near,’ said Gwydion and they continued at a slower pace.
To their front, the darkened sky was glowing from unseen fires and the two men slowed their pace even more. Eventually they peered through the forest edge and saw a ring of braziers around a stone circle. Rows of robed men and women chanted strange incantations and a drum beat permeated the air as more robed people filed into the clearing, each carrying a flaming torch.
‘This must be it,’ whispered Gwydion. ‘But where is Gwenno?’
Prydain pointed up the slope at the far end of the valley to a stone hut, surrounded by armed warriors.
‘I’ll wager she’s in there,’ he said.
‘We have to get up there,’ said Gwydion, ‘there’s only an hour until dawn.’
They retreated into the undergrowth and circled the Henge, staying well away from the hive of activity.
----
The going was much slower than they expected due to the amount of human traffic making their way to the Henge in the pre-dawn gloom. They stayed in amongst the thicker undergrowth around the outer edge of the copse, crawling on their bellies to remain unseen in the darkness. Finally, they reached the edge opposite the hut door and were dismayed to see there was still a guard on duty. They waited for an age, listening to the hypnotic chanting of thousands of voices permeating the surrounding hills and forests. Suddenly, Gwydion grabbed Prydain’s arm.
‘Look!’ he said.
Prydain followed his pointing finger and could see the shutters being opened from the inside. Though it was still dark outside, the two men could see the profile of a girl, illuminated by the light of candles.
‘Is it her?’ asked Prydain, staring at the shorthaired girl wrapped in a scarlet cape.
‘No!’ said Gwydion, the disappointment evident in his voice, ‘I don’t understand. The messenger in Caratacus’s camp described her clearly.’
‘Perhaps, he was mistaken,’ said Prydain. ‘Perhaps she is safe at home while you have travelled all this way for nothing.’
‘I hope you’re right, Roman,’ said Gwydion.
Suddenly another figure joined the red caped girl at the window, her long blond hair reflecting the candlelight in a golden glow that beautifully matched the astonishing bejewelled cloak she was wearing.
‘There she is,’ stuttered Gwydion. ‘By the Gods, I have never seen a vision so entrancing.’
‘Are you sure it is her?’
‘I grew up with her, Roman, I would recognise her anywhere. Who else in the whole of these Britannic islands has hair such as she?’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Prydain.
‘We have a little time,’ said Gwydion. ‘I hope that guard will be distracted long enough for us to get inside and bring her out.’
Prydain pointed at another three guards around the edge of the thicket, each keeping an eye on the hut entrance.
‘What about those?’
Gwydion evaluated the situation over and over again, finally realising that there was no way he could approach the hut without being seen. The drums and chanting grew louder and he was conscious that the horizon was getting lighter. They had to act now. He turned to Prydain.
‘I hardly know you, Roman.’ he said. ‘Our people are at war and I have imprisoned you with the full intention of selling you into slavery for my own ends. Yet now, I find myself asking you to do something that I have no right to ask.’
Prydain stared back in silence as Gwydion drew his knife and offered it to him handle first.
‘Have you ever murdered a man, Roman?’ he asked.
‘No,’ answered Prydain eventually. ‘But I have killed many in a cause designed to make a rich man richer. Is that not the same?’
‘Only the Gods can judge,’ said Gwydion and nodded toward the furthest guard.
‘If you can take care of him, I will take the other three.’
‘Three for you and one for me,’ smiled Prydain, ‘you think a lot of yourself.’
‘I know my own skills, Roman.’ he said. ‘Wait two hundred heartbeats and I will slay the first. When he falls, you take your man. The rest are mine.’
Prydain paused before taking the knife and without another word, crawled back into the undergrowth to circle his way toward his target.
Gwydion unpacked Angau from its leather wrap and strung the bow, grimacing as its ancient frame creaked under the strain. He withdrew three arrows and placed them on the ground before him, calculating the order of the kills. He needed to take the one facing him first so there would be a delay before the alarm was raised. After that, he would take the nearest and finally, if he had been successful with the first two kills, he should have enough time to take the third. He placed an arrow in the string of Angau and as the beats of his heart reached two hundred, took a step into the clearing in full view of the guard facing him.
He fell to his knees in shock and tried to call out a warning to his comrades. His efforts were in vain as he choked on his own blood and as the pain kicked in, he dropped writhing to the floor. A second guard looked over, attracted by the noise. More alert than the first victim, he immediately recognised the danger and called out as he ran toward Gwydion.
Gwydion reloaded Angau and sent an arrow straight into the middle of the warrior’s chest, killing him instantly, but as good as he was, he knew that he could take only one more before the last warrior reached him.
‘Blast the Roman.’ he thought, ‘this one should already be dead.’
His third arrow missed completely as the warrior ducked at the last moment and Gwydion discarded Angau to draw his sword. He knew there was no way he could defeat the two attacking warriors, but he would go down fighting. He raised his sword to deflect the strike of the warrior’s larger blade being brought down to cleave his skull in two, shuddering under the impact. Pain shot through his arm and it was all he could do to lift it up again to deflect the second strike. The remaining warrior closed in to finish him off and Gwydion knew he his chances were minimal.
Suddenly Prydain came crashing out of the undergrowth and flew at the second warrior, knocking him off his feet. Gwydion’s strength was momentarily refreshed by the unexpected arrival of the Roman, and as the other two antagonists grappled in the dirt, he renewed his efforts against the heavier swordsman.
Both Prydain’s knife and the warrior’s sword had been dislodged in the collision, and though Prydain was weaker than his enemy, he had managed to cut through the man’s upper arm muscle before he lost his blade. With one arm now useless, the odds were even and they rolled around the clearing, each seeking an advantage over the other. They got to their feet before Prydain managed to get his hands around his opponent’s throat to throttle him, but the man responded by smashing his forehead into the Roman’s nose, spreading it across his face.
Prydain staggered backwards, momentarily stunned as the warrior closed in for the kill. He realised he was close to losing the fight and placed all his strength into one last effort. He allowed the man to come in close and as his opponent reached back to wind up an enormous punch, Prydain stepped in toward him and using every last ounce of strength, drove the heel of his hand upwards onto his opponent’s chin, instantly shattering both sides of his jaw at the joints and driving the bones up into his brain. The warrior fell back in excruciating pain and as the brain cells struggled to make sense of the damage, he fell to the floor before thrashing uncontrollably in a final painful death throe.
Gwydion had also bettered his man and was forcing him backwards despite the warrior’s larger sword. He knew he was the better swordsman and kept the pressure on. Finally, the opportunity he had been waiting for materialized and as the tired warrior swung a wild horizontal blow, intended to decapitate him, Gwydion ducked inside and drove the point of his sword upwards through his opponent’s stomach and deep into his chest. The warrior stopped suddenly and gripped Gwydion’s throat, but the sword was deep inside his body and Gwydion savagely twisted the blade, slicing the man’s heart in two. The man’s grip fell away and Gwydion pushed the dying warrior backwards to withdraw his blade.
Gwydion took a step backwards gasping for breath, but seeing a movement out of the corner of his eye, span around to defend himself.
Prydain stood in front of him, and as Gwydion watched in horror, the Roman reached back and threw his knife directly at Gwydion’s head. The spinning blade passed close enough for him to hear the rush of air, and realised the Roman had missed.
Prydain stood across from Gwydion, each staring at each other in silence. Although he didn’t understand the reason for the betrayal, Gwydion resolved to finish the situation once and for all. He re-gripped the hilt of his sword, but before he moved, another sound from behind him caused him to spin around.
A final, previously unseen guard had fallen to his knees a few paces behind Gwydion. He had sneaked up to kill him from behind, the threat obvious by the sword hanging limply from his hand, but his mission had been cut short by Prydain’s blade sticking angrily from between his eyes. As Gwydion watched, the warrior toppled forward into the dirt and Gwydion span back around to stare in gratitude at the Roman.
‘I thought that was meant for me!’ he said.
‘Perhaps it was,’ said Prydain, ‘maybe I killed the wrong man.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Gwydion. ‘Anyway you were late!’
‘You count too fast!’ answered Prydain.
‘Come on,’ said Gwydion, ‘there is little time!’ and he ran across the clearing and into the hut.
----
Chapter 32
On the northern coast of Khymru, a stranger sat on a grassy bank at the side of the road leading through Treforum, hungrily eating a bowl of soup from the same trader that Gwydion had patronised over a year earlier. The nosey old woman gave up trying to engage him in conversation when he had indicated he couldn’t understand, but though he looked a bit rough, his money was as good as any and she had happily ladled two heaped spoons of broth into a wooden bowl in return for a copper coin. The stranger’s common clothing was well worn and dirty. His black hair was unkempt and droplets of soup ran through his week old beard. The woman’s partner joined them and tried to make conversation.
‘Come far?’ he asked.
The man shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something in a strange language.
‘I’ve tried that!’ said the woman. ‘Can’t you see he’s a foreigner?’
The old man stared at the stranger wolfing down the food.
‘Hasn’t had a meal in days by the look of him,’ he said before trying again. ‘Gaul?’ he asked pointing at the man’s chest. ‘Are you from Gaul?’
The man looked puzzled for a moment and then nodded in agreement.
‘Oui,’ he said, ‘Gaul.’
‘I knew it,’ said the old man, ‘another refugee from the Romans, I’ll wager.’
The man looked up again, spoon halfway to his mouth seemingly alarmed at the familiar word and he sprang up, drawing his knife and looking around him nervously.
‘Roomans?’ he repeated in his strange language and looked quizzically at the old man.
‘Don’t worry,’ laughed the old man, ‘no Roomans around here. Well, not yet anyway.’
‘Poor thing!’ said his wife. ‘Must have had some bad experiences.’
‘What’s your name, friend?’ asked the old man slowly, trying to break through the language barrier, ‘I am Owen,’ he continued pointing at his own chest, ‘You?’
The man looked puzzled but then realisation dawned.
‘Jeanne,’ he answered, ‘Jeanne.’
Owen laughed.
‘See,’ he called to his wife, ‘the smelly brute isn’t so stupid after all; he understands me.’
‘Owen, Jeanne!’ repeated the stranger again.
‘Well, Jeanne,’ said Owen, ‘we may not be able to understand each other, but anyone who has faced the Romans and survived is welcome here. Wife!’ he called, ‘bring our friend a tankard of beer.’
As the old woman poured the ale, a commotion appeared further down the track and a troop of horses appeared from around the bend to gallop past the hut in a cloud of dust. The old woman came out carrying the ale and watched the warriors passing.
‘Where are they going?’ she asked.
‘Out to the clans,’ said the old man. ‘Idwal is calling them to arms.’
Jeanne looked at the riders and then quizzically at Owen, the unspoken question obvious on his face.
‘Warriors!’ said Owen slowly. ‘From the Cerrig,’ he pointed up toward the n
earby mountain, ‘The King’s fort up in the hills.’
Jeanne shrugged and smiled simply, his demeanour displaying his lack of understanding.
‘Never you mind, Jeanne,’ said Owen. ‘here’s your ale.’
Jeanne took the drink and sat back down on the grass verge before picking up the bowl once again. His eyes were focussed on the soup, but underneath, his mind was racing. Not only did he understand everything the old couple were saying, but he had only been in the village an hour and already he had learned vital intelligence. Jeanne of Gaul, otherwise known as Andronicus of Rome and scout of the General Plautius’s personal elite, put down his empty bowl and finished his ale. He had to admit, despite their backward ways, they certainly knew how to treat a guest.
----
Andronicus wandered through Treforum, careful not to be too conspicuous, yet taking in everything he could about the people. He had learnt the Britannic languages back in Gaul, taught by prisoners who had been sent to Rome by minor Britannic kings. He had learnt the particularly difficult Khymric tongue, and whilst he would never pass as a local, could understand enough to gather the intelligence he sought. He had landed secretly on the shoreline many months ago in anticipation of the invasion and had spent the time embedding himself in the locality as the harmless foreign buffoon he portrayed. Others of his unit were undertaking similar tasks in villages across the country and the time was fast approaching when he would be expected to rendezvous with Plautius.
----
Chapter 33
Fifty miles away, over a hundred men, women and children who had not been required by Caratacus, stood nervously behind the pointed logs of a small stockade, brandishing a range of old weapons and field implements in defiance of the force to their front.
Before them, grassland that less than an hour ago had held only a few scrawny goats, now held almost five hundred heavy infantry in battle formation, supported by twenty cavalry and two centuries of Germanic archers.
A few yards to their front, Tribune Mateus sat astride his horse alongside Centurion Remus, both amused at the feeble defences of the stockade. A bruised and bleeding prisoner lay in a heap at their feet, clinging onto life. It was his testimony that had brought them to the stockade, the severe beating finally convincing him that his only chance was to let the Romans know what they wanted to hear. They were looking for a deserter and at first, the boy had denied any knowledge, but after the brutal attention of Remus, realised he had no choice and told them of the prisoner taken by his people a few days earlier. He looked up in misery. He had given in to the pain and betrayed his people by bringing the enemy here, and was surely dammed. Mateus spoke to his interpreter who called out to the defenders on the wall, relaying the answers back to the Tribune.