Owane's Blades

By Winston Baldwin and TBD

The story takes place after the Roman legions leave Britain.  There are several High Kings who are nominally in charge of newly forming tribal kingdoms.

Vortigern, the High King, gives Kent to his Saxon allies.  Other Saxons seize neighbouring Sussex.

Aurelius Ambrosius defeats Vortigern and, as High King, tries to drive ou

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winston Baldwin
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916377967

Book preview

1

From an early age, I listened in to adults talking, especially when they looked around to make sure they were not being spied upon. They paid scant attention to a young child. After all, children knew or understood nothing.

From these early days, I managed to put together some kind of picture of where we lived, the world around us, then further afield. The people in our area were prosperous, a strong work ethic being looked upon as essential to being acceptable companions.

Suffice to say, we lived comfortably in our hill plateau, free from molestation or threat. Not all areas were safe. Saxon pirates raided the south coast; some settled permanently, but too far away to worry us in Cocha, or Coccium as the Roman’s called it.

I gather that in our grandparents’ youth, they were in control of our land. There were strong benefits to their rule, but generally, people figured we could manage very well without their interfering.

The civita prospered with its large mineral reserves, listening to traders or travellers, staying up-to-date with world events in a distant land called Egypt. The men who traded there were dark-skinned or black. Generally, they stayed with their ships further north along the Ribble at Ribblesdale.

2

My father, in his wisdom, sent his sons into the world to make their way in trade of whatever they chose. Being the last one remaining, I guessed his intentions before he somberly confronted me.

We lived in the centre of Cocha, and like so many successful traders, we had a compound where all our needs and business could be reached within moments. Those who worked for him respect him, as I did. He sold iron bars or ingots of a fashion.

My older brothers, Geraint and Marcus, had a nearby mine. They brought the ore from that hill and my father’s men smelted it.

"Time your future was taken seriously,’’ he began, cautiously.

My heart leapt to tell him what I wanted: Military training, soldiering with glory heaped upon me from fighting our invading enemies.

I would choose to be a warrior, I said. Already, I knew I had gone too far with my honesty.

Surprisingly, his anger did not rise.

In this age of uncertainty we need warriors, Merion, and at Ribchester, there are soldiers and cavalry stationed to protect us if needed.

I nodded, knowingly.

"The men there waste time gambling, soaked in drink, unworthy. I would not have you with them.

You are fourteen and help me here but before you take up anything seriously, I would have you travel. Marcus did before he settled into the ore business. I have contacts as far as Eboracum, Chester, Viroconium and occasional sales in Magon. I would have you travel."

2a

Magon, Chester… These were far-flung words to me. Sounds with no specific meaning. I would go to these places, making them a reality.

If you travel the roads, Merion, you must be capable of defending yourself. You will have a sword by your side.

I have several swords stolen from the Mansio when the Romans left. But first I will teach you how to fight using a wooden sword.

The mansio was a large square stone and wood building, lying empty, with a plank nailed across the doors. Its shutters were closed against daylight. After being plundered, the men of Cocha closed it as if turning their backs on anything imperial.

We were an independent lot with no real ability in reach of us.

Using pieces of wood, we parried on a daily basis when we were able. He sweated profusely, which tended to worry my mother. I paid scant attention to this. I enjoyed the learning. He enjoyed the teaching.

Marcus often saw us in combat, scowling as he passed us by. When I was born, I had replaced Marcus as the youngest. For certain, he resented me and I found it impossible to talk to him. With my father being with me most of the time, I think it fed a deep resentment that he nurtured. Usually, Marcus cuffed my ears whenever he found an excuse. He constantly looked for reasons to tell me, with satisfaction, that I had done wrong. Geraint, on the other hand, had no resentments against me: I preferred Geraint.

My father did not consciously favour me. We were very similar, I suspect. So, I would start learning with the packhorses and wagons. There are ten men working for me as drivers. They are also defending our ore, if necessary.

3

I simply nodded. It could have been worse. Lately, he had been showing an interest in digging the black coal. If we were attacked, I could brandish my short Roman sword.

I thank you! I said, happily.

His intentions were good. My first steps were thus laid out. When I had worked at this for a few years, I would be old enough to confront him or rebel, if I thought it necessary.

The men who tramped through Britain for Eugene ap Pabo usually came back from their journeys within a week of setting off. They were good, affable men, full of stories from all over Britain and beyond.

On this return journey, I listened to them closer than ever, because I would be one of their kind. Their return was from Manchester. It was technically a short journey where news or gossip came from Elmet, from the Peake peoples or even further.

I helped unload panniers, my job, when present, as ever was to be useful and cloth did not weigh heavily. Their chatter centred around talk of Picts from the far north raiding along the east coast. These tales were not new or very interesting, for in Cocha, we did not know how far that could be in miles.

Another hot summer night, I knew I would not sleep, especially with being with the wagoners. Sure enough, dawn came quickly and to my surprise my father roused me:

Come on, Merion.

4

Time we were off before the sun bakes us.

You are coming too?

Yes. Caw, our lead man, has gone down with a sweating sickness.

The men were loading coal, iron and sulphur into the carts. Carefully, bundled crude iron bars were put into the panniers of the packhorses. By the time the dew had gone, we were in Makerfield heading for Warrington.

You rarely do the journey? I eventually asked my father. He glanced sharply. I might pick up some new trade along the way if the Irish are docked in Chester, city of the legions, otherwise our panniers will be half empty. We will never prosper coming home with empty panniers.

At almost fifty years of age, Eugene ap Pabo lived for his work as much as he loved best my mother. From humble beginnings in Cocha, he found favour with our local lord who had been our protector since the Roman soldiers left. My father’s father worked for the lord who based himself at Preston or Ribchester.

At midday, we called a halt at a small stream running shallow, but enough so as to water our sixteen horses. I drank copiously from my own leather flask, then unceremoniously stuffed bread into my bulging mouth. My father checked the panniers, running his eyes over every animal, checking for fatigue.

By the later afternoon, we came into Warrington, or I should say, Sankey. A bustling place east to west, north to south. We could stay within its bounds or push further along west towards Chester.

5

After a brief respite, we set off towards a great green forest in rolling country, having paid the toll for ourselves and our animals across the wide Mersey river. People south of the river paid us scant attention. A busy dusty road, full of strangers who meant no harm. Nevertheless, my father hung a blue plaid cloth over the side of the lead wagon, the colours of the