Bedivere: The Book Of Deeds | Part 1: The Druid Priestess

By Brock Law

Bedivere, his cousin Guinevere, and Kay witness the definitive collapse of the Western Roman Empire. As classical civilization vanishes, they and the surviving Brythonic clans struggle just to tread water against the merciless heathen hordes sweeping across Europe. Though the age was dark, it was also an age of heroes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brock Law
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463445129

Brock Law

Just another suburban dad with a day job and a hobby. Although spare time is hard to come by, I love to spend it writing just because it makes me happy. Creative projects certainly aren’t get-rich-quick schemes, so it is the process that is the pleasure. If you love the labor, good work will naturally follow in time. I hope you find something in my slowly growing catalogue that makes you smile. Like everyone who is trying out self-publishing, you never know if lightning will strike, but with your support maybe I will at least finish a series someday.

Book preview

Bedivere

The Book Of Deeds

Part 1

The Druid Priestess

Brock Law

Copyright 2021 Brock Law

For little buddy

Table Of Contents

Scene One

Scene Two

Scene Three

Scene Four

Scene Five

Scene Six

Scene Seven

Scene Eight

I will, therefore, if God be willing, endeavor to say a few words about the situation of Britain, her disobedience and subjection, her rebellion, second subjection and dreadful slavery - of her religion, persecution, holy martyrs, heresies of different kinds - of her tyrants, her two hostile and ravaging nations - of her first devastation, her defense, her second devastation, and second taking vengeance - of her third devastation, of her famine, and the letters to Agitius - of her victory and her crimes - of the sudden rumor of enemies - of her famous pestilence - of her counsels - of her last enemy, far more cruel than the first - of the subversion of her cities, and of the remnant that escaped; and finally, of the peace which, by the will of God, has been granted her in these our times.

- Gildas the Wise

Scene One

As behind, so ahead in a wicked world. Carnage, wrath, and suffering fogged the distant hills ahead, and death stalked closely behind. Death and a shield. A shield so hacked and splintered that it would have protected the soldier from little else than the bellowing winds from the Celtic Sea. It was just as well, for his fighting was done. However, drifting in on those same seaward gales came the tiding of another war that was yet to come.

The battered old boards that the trudging warrior had slung across his back had born the brunt of no less than the fall of an empire, and the ruin of a nation. Chipped and split, that oaken plain, smeared purple with dried sinew, made it look as if its faded depiction of a fanged white dog that peaked through the stains, had itself torn the limbs from its bearer’s enemies. Despite the shield’s condition, the face of the one who wielded it bore no such scars, thanks to its steely sylvan fiber. The contents of the man’s soul, however, were an entirely different matter.

While his body was intact, and his stamina had not failed him as he plodded the final mile towards home, he did carry the pungent crustiness of weeks on the march. He looked more like a rabid beast hobbling over the cart ruts in the road, hardly resembling the noble soldier who had paraded from the manor the prior spring. His hair was an oily matted tangle, the skin on his hands was dirty and calloused, his eyes were red and sunken from sleep deprivation, and on every thread of his tabard and cloak the dust of lonely travel was caked on as finely as the embroidery it now obscured.

The path wound along the well trodden troughs between the surrounding hills. On either side of the rural lane lay freshly harvested fields, stripped to the turf of their grains. The stout scent of barley and oats still permeated the late summer air, and the haystacks that dotted the countryside were as tall as turrets. Beyond the fields to the north, a dense grove of apple trees still clung to its mature clustered fruit, nearly large enough to be plucked by the boat load. Apart from the clatter of scythes in a nearby barn, and the startled vibrato of a herd of sheep, the afternoon atmosphere was serene and peaceful.

Idyllic, though the agrarian surroundings were, they made no impression on the weary warrior. His heavy heart blockaded his emotions against the soothing effects of the picturesque landscape. His true burden was a mortal one, a catastrophe that threatened to ignite the scenery that now lay before him, sullying the glory of his homecoming.

At last, he came to the end of the road. There sat a circular stone enclosure capped with a bushy conical thatched roof, sprouting out of the lush grass by the bank of a stream like a pointy oversized mushroom. The ancient dwelling was a large specimen of the native architecture. The clumps of moss that clung to the walls, and the ivy that crept up them, however, revealed the inattention to the maintenance of the manorial seat, which had been neglected in favor of harsher priorities. Once a stately tribal cottage, it now lacked usefulness as a defensible position, which ensured its obsolescence in the wake of the departure of the Roman legions. Fortunately for the structure, its lord was far too consumed with the militant politics of the day, and was perhaps far too traditional to demolish the relic outright. The place was imbued with a rich sense of locality, a junction of both the pride and the decay of the old ways.

The traveler halted and stared expressionlessly at the moldering planks of the door, carved with intricately knotted crosses. Without even the slightest jerk, his shield slid effortlessly down his back and stuck into the earth at its tip. His meager luggage, which had been strapped inside the shield, tumbled out. A rust-tinged helmet, a sword bound in fleece and leather ribbon, a bronze flask emblazoned with the crude etching of a stag, a worn-out pair of sole-less boots, and other odd articles of soiled clothing.

Upon releasing his belongings to the ground, he pivoted in the direction of the stream and stumbled towards it. With a groan, his legs buckled and he crashed down on to his knees in the dirt. Tipping over, partly intentionally and partly from a sudden loss of balance, he fell forward, planting his fists at the water’s edge. Pausing another moment, he watched little bubbles mosey by in the lazy current, relieved that the brook’s surface was too rippled to clearly mirror his unkempt reflection. He inhaled slowly, gulping down the warm air to inflate his lungs to their fullest, and plunged his entire head directly into the cool water. The grunge that lifted from his hair and skin muddied the current that curled past.

His head remained submerged for as long as he could hold his breath. When his lungs began to burn, he withdrew and hauled himself back up on his feet. Regaining his composure, he slicked back his wet hair and rambled towards a tree stump. Nearly tripping himself as he spun around, he collapsed on to the timber stool, doubled over, and hung his head between his legs like a corpse.

A cautious voice wafted out from behind the cracked doorway of the house, Bedivere? Is that you, Bedivere?

Tis I, Guinevere, Bedivere replied with a beleaguered sigh, as he slumped on the rotting trunk.

A young woman emerged and hurried out from beyond the threshold of the home to greet him. She was a cloud of softly brushed strawberry locks, skipping lightly over the ground in a leafy green gown. As she approached the melancholy warrior, her joyous countenance quickly turned sour.

Dear cousin, you look a fright, Guinevere declared unsympathetically. I thought you were some filthy Saxon marauder come to carry me off. I nearly fled when I spotted you down the road.

You should have, was Bedivere’s unthinking response.

I take it your expedition did not go as planned, then, Guinevere remarked with a stern glare.

It did not, Bedivere announced dejectedly.

She pressed, What news from Gaul?

Bad news, he withheld sorrowfully.

Guinevere’s expression turned grave, but still her stare was unmet by the soggy soldier who continued to slump ever closer to the ground. She gingerly stepped towards him, unsure what response her inquiry would provoke. She knelt down at his feet, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and tilted her head to peer through his concealing web of auburn hair. Bedivere remained unresponsive, positioned as if he had breathed his last and expired with one final glance at home.

Slowly, the emanating warmth from her caring touch began to sink through his armor. The trickle of energy made its way through his flesh, and eventually into his brain, resuscitating his mortality with tiny zaps of compassion. Eventually, with a rekindled spirit, he lifted his eyes to meet hers.

We are lost, he said.

Guinevere stared into his face, searching