Roman - The Fall of Britannia (4 page)

Gwenno looked
back to the end of the horse column, seeing the first of the stolen
cattle that followed the riders, herded by the young boys who had
accompanied the party.

‘
Did
you kill anyone?’ she whispered, eyes wide.

‘
No
child, there was no need of any killing.’

‘
But
how did you get so many cattle?’

‘
Let’s just say that they were very understanding of our
request.’

Gwenno glanced
again at the heavily armed warriors. She had heard rumours of how
persuasive her father could be during these trading
missions.

‘
Have you brought me anything?’ she asked shyly.

‘
In
the name of Ocelus, child,’ he laughed, ‘at least let me get home
first.’

‘
Stop calling me child,’ she hissed, looking around in alarm
to see who had heard, ‘I am almost fourteen.’

‘
You
are just turned thirteen and you are still my child.’ he chided
gently, and picking Gwenno up, swung her around in his muscular
arms as his freed horse trotted on through the gates, eager to get
back to familiar surroundings.

‘
Tad!’ she screamed in mock anger, yet secretly delighted at
her father’s affection. ‘Stop it!’

Erwyn smiled and
put her down gently.

‘
Wait here, he will be along shortly.’

‘
I’m
sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she said with a huff and a
haughty flick of her head.

‘
So
all this nonsense is for me then, is it?’ he asked, looking at the
flowers in her hair.

‘
No!’ she laughed, ‘Mother has her own flowers for you.’ She
straightened her crumpled dress and after giving him a big kiss on
the cheek, ran back through the gates to wait at the bridge as the
rest of the trading party passed.

Erwyn walked
through the outlying roundhouses of the protected village. It had
spread out over the last two years, as the attacks from
neighbouring tribes had eased off and the families had felt more
confident in the strength of their warriors. As the clan numbers
increased, more roundhouses were being built and the timber
stockade that afforded them protection from raiding parties, had
needed to be increased in size twice in the last year. Swirls of
smoke emanated from the conical thatched roofs, as the women
prepared evening meals for their families, and grubby children
played in the dirt, waiting for their dinner.

The frames of
the roundhouses were made from a circle of poles, sunk deep into
the floor, and intertwined with walls of hazel or birch. Their
thatched roofs swept down to almost floor level and daubed walls of
mud, straw and animal droppings, kept the house cool in the summer,
and surprisingly warm in the winter. They had made their houses
like this for as long as anyone could remember and the same
construction was used throughout the country.

It was a good
time for the Blaidd clan and the Deceangli in general. The
ruggedness of the landscape, their willingness to defend their own
territory from the other tribes, and the tactical positioning of
their hill forts, meant they were seldom troubled by would be
invaders. In addition, because of the role they played in
protecting the nearby sacred island of Mona, they also enjoyed the
spiritual patronage of the all-powerful Druids and the possibility
of upsetting the religious sect, meant few tribes were willing to
risk their wrath.

Most tribes were
happy trading with their neighbours or farming their own lands.
Conflict was more likely to be between clans of the same tribe, and
most of these could be sorted out in the gatherings of elders that
met every moon to sort out their differences.

Trading missions
were frequent and they rarely ended in quarrels. However, honour
needed to be satisfied occasionally, and champions from either side
often fought to the death. There was no honour in losing a duel,
only in winning.

Throughout
Britannia, all the tribes interacted with each other on a regular
basis, though little was known about the Silures situated in the
south. They were a fierce and uncompromising tribe of mountain
warriors, who seldom ventured out of the hills of their own
territory and few people were ever allowed in.

----

Gwydion rode his
pony at the rear of the column; the halter hanging loose around his
mount’s neck. The boy guided his steed with pressure from his
thighs, and the animal responded to the slightest touch of the
skilled rider. He wore plaid leggings made from coarse wool and a
linen tunic, which hung down over his upper legs. A heavy plaid
cape hung from his shoulders, fixed at one side with a bronze
clasp. His weapons consisted of a sword hanging from a leather belt
and a yew bow lying across his lap, ready strung for instant
use.

Because of
Gwydion’s skill with a bow, Erwyn had given him the role of Cefn,
an important position that guarded the rear of the column. A group
of experienced warriors had turned off the track an hour before,
and circled miles back along their route, to lie in ambush on their
trail. Any unwary followers stupid enough to think they could catch
the Deceangli unaware, would find themselves caught in an onslaught
of steel and willow, long before they got anywhere near the
village.

The role of Cefn
was an honour for Gwydion and he took the position very seriously.
If they were attacked, he would be the first to know, and he would
sound the alarm to the rest of the clan. Every twenty or so paces,
he turned his horse around to stare back down the trail, looking
for anything out of the ordinary.

Villagers were
already herding some of the cattle into prepared pens and their
families, relieved to see them home, greeted the dismounted riders.
Gwydion noticed someone waving frantically at the gate and was
pleased to see Gwenno waiting to greet him. He started to raise his
hand to return the wave, but had second thoughts. His smile changed
to a frown and a look of serious concentration appeared on his
face.

Just in time, he
realised it would do his credibility no good at all for any of the
other young men of the village to see him with a stupid grin on his
face. This had been his first serious expedition with Erwyn, chief
of the Blaidd, and he had his image to think about. Other boys of
his age would be green with envy when he recalled the tales of this
adventure. Though there had been no fighting, the hardship and
subterfuge on the trading trip had been exciting enough for the
young man, and he was slightly relieved to be coming home to this
familiar place after three weeks of hardship.

‘
Hwyl, Gwydion!’ called Gwenno, greeting the young man in the
traditional way.

Although he
didn’t return the greeting, Gwydion acknowledged her with a nod of
his head. Instead, when he reached the gate, he turned his horse
for the last time and peered into the distance, making sure Gwenno
could see the bow in his hand. She joined him alongside his horse,
taking hold of the harness.

‘
Who
are you looking for?’ she asked, following the boy’s
stare.

‘
Cornovii warriors!’ he said.

Gwenno looked
startled.

‘
Cornovii!’ she said. ‘Are we being attacked?’

‘
They may have followed us and it is my job to make sure the
clan is safe.’

They both stared
in silence.

‘
Are
you coming in?’ asked Gwenno.

‘
Not
yet, I am the Cefn, it is my job to protect the tribe,’ he
answered.

‘
Tell me, Gwydion,’ said Gwenno, ‘how many warriors do the
Cornovii have?’

‘
Hundreds, perhaps even thousands,’ said Gwydion, his stare
unrelenting.

‘
What would you do if they appeared now?’

‘
Attack them,’ he said, sitting slightly higher on his horse
in self-importance.

‘
Then, I think you should come in for a while.’

He frowned and
looked down at the girl. She had a wicked grin on her
face.

‘
Why
would I do that?’ he asked.

‘
You
are going to need a few more arrows,’ she laughed and pointed at
his quiver.

In his efforts
to impress the girl, the quiver had tipped forward and emptied his
arrows silently onto the bracken.

‘
Oh
no!’ he gasped, frantically looking around to check that no one had
seen. He jumped down from his horse and dropped to his knees,
repacking his quiver as quickly as he could.

Gwenno joined
him, trying her best not to laugh He counted the arrows
furiously.

‘
Eleven,’ he said. ‘There is one missing.’

‘
Is
there?’ asked Gwenno, a look of innocence on her face.

‘
Have you got it, Gwenno?’ asked Gwydion. ‘What’s behind your
back?’

She walked
backwards, a smile on her face.

‘
Gwenno, give it here,’ he said and reached out to grab
her.

She skipped out
of his reach, revealing the goose-fletched arrow she had been
hiding.

‘
Make me!’ she said mischievously.

‘
Gwenno,’ he hissed, ‘someone might see.’

‘
So
let them see. I don’t care.’

‘
Gwenno, please,’ he repeated, ‘it is not good to lose a
weapon. If your father finds out, he won’t let me go again. You
won’t tell him, will you?’

Gwenno stopped,
and walked toward him.

‘
What is it worth?’ she asked, suddenly serious.

‘
What?’

‘
Make it worth my while.’

‘
How?’

‘
A
kiss,’ she said suddenly, shocked at her own audacity.

‘
A
kiss?’ he asked incredulously, ‘I can’t do that!’

‘
Why
not?’ she asked. ‘No one will know.’

‘
Gwenno,’ he said, ‘If your father finds out, he will have me
whipped.’

‘
I
won’t tell if you don’t,’ she said, blushing.

‘
I
can’t’ he repeated, ‘I daren’t.’

‘
Huh,’ she snapped, ‘you’re afraid of a little whipping, and
you call yourself a warrior? What good would you be against the
Cornovii?’

‘
I
am not afraid of anyone,’ scowled Gwydion.

‘
Don’t you like me anymore?’

‘
Of
course, I do, Gwenno,’ he pleaded, ‘but Erwyn is my leader. I will
not disrespect him.’

‘
Not
even for me?’ she asked. ‘Just one little kiss on the
cheek.’

Gwydion wanted
nothing more than to kiss this beautiful girl, but even though he
was a Deceangli, he had been brought up with strict Catuvellauni
honour. Just after his birth fifteen years earlier, Gwydion had
been fostered out to a different family, as was the tradition in
his people. However, in his case, he had not been given to a family
within his own clan, or even his own tribe, but had been sent many
miles to the east in a conciliatory gesture to seal an uneasy truce
between Deceangli and Catuvellauni. Similarly, a Catuvellauni baby
had taken his place at the hearth of his own family, and both boys
had returned to the clans of their birth at the age of
fourteen.

Gwydion had been
lucky enough to have been fostered to a family close to the now
dead King, Cunobelinus. As well as becoming an expert archer and
swordsman, he had also been taught the Roman language by a slave
brought back by Gallic traders from the forests of
Gemina.

Both boys were
safe from harm, as long as the truce endured, but had either tribe
transgressed the agreed terms, then the Druids would have
sacrificed both boys, and a bloody war joined. Luckily, for them,
the past fourteen years had been relatively peaceful and both were
back where they belonged.

----

‘
Do
what you will, Gwenno,’ he said eventually, ‘I will not betray
Erwyn’s trust.’

‘
I
am glad to hear it, boy,’ boomed a voice and the two teenagers spun
around to face Erwyn, who had returned to see where they
were.

‘
Give him the arrow, Gwenno’ he said, ‘and get back to your
mother.’

‘
Sorry, father,’ she murmured, looking down at the
floor.

‘
Quick about it,’ he ordered.

Gwenno sneaked a
wicked smile to the boy before running into the camp, dropping the
arrow as she went. Erwyn picked it up and joined Gwydion near his
horse. Gwydion stared into the distance, the shame evident in his
eyes. After a while, Erwyn addressed him.

‘
Tell me, boy,’ he said, ‘why do you favour the bow over the
sword when you can gain much more honour in close
combat?’

‘
I
do not spurn the sword, Erwyn,’ he replied, ‘and will pit myself
against any man if challenged, but arrows can kill many men from a
great distance. Surely, this is a great advantage in battle when
the enemy is larger in number?’

‘
Perhaps so, but how can you take the head of your enemy if
you are a hundred paces away? Let me teach you the skills of the
double axe. That truly is a warrior’s weapon and will gain you many
heads.’