Pendragons

By Chris Gregory

The high chief warrior of the Dark Age Britons takes the title of Uthyr Pendragon. His health is failing. His leaders, the pendragons, compete for power and enemies of the Britons sense weakness.
But the wise Myrddin has selected noble sons and daughters to be fostered in the Black Mountains, where they are trained to protect all. He predicts young Arthwys and Lailoceen will shine, forming bonds across the fractured kingdoms. What he does not predict is Arthwys’s bonds with the household slaves, taken from each of the raiding peoples: the Angles, Saxons and Picts.
Lailoceen clashes with Arthwys, then she grudgingly comes to see him as the future Uthyr Pendragon. The man we now call King Arthur. Afro-Celtic Arthwys attempts to embrace all those who would live peacefully in Britannia, yet he is brutally attacked. Will he seek peace, or unleash his rage upon those who would burn his land?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Gregory
• Release date: Nov 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005137144

Chris Gregory

Chris Gregory - writerHello, thank you for showing an interest in my writing.I have been writing stories for over ten years and would like to share them with you.You may be interested in historical fiction or science fiction or, like me, both. Both have the potential to take us on an adventure, a journey to another time. And both allow us to look at our own time from another perspective.You may be interested in why I write and the theme that runs through all my stories: home. If so, please take a look at my website.When I am not writing, I design new and refurbished homes. I am a fencing coach who enjoys helping beginners (the sport with swords, not timber panels!) And I work hard as head of staff, looking after my creative writing director (my cat).

Book preview

Prologue

Igerna

Off the Coast of Armorica, [Brittany] 469AD

Lightning split the dark. Thunder shook the timbers of the small boat as the sea surged beneath, rising like a cliff. The steersman screamed orders at the crew who wrestled with the flailing sail and implored their many gods for salvation. A wall of water rose then curled over their heads; a sea-serpent poised to swallow their vessel. The wave teetered, collapsing in slow motion, pummelling the passengers below. The young woman was washed from her seat, sliding across the slick boards where she was caught by a man with a grey flecked beard. He threw his purple cloak around her, drawing her up beside him. The sea thrashed the boat, tossing the crew like dice in a tumbler. All the while, the grey bearded man held the young woman and clutched them to the bench as a limpet grips rock.

She thought she was about to die.

But, as the night stretched out, it was the wind that died. The iron clouds rolled back. The rain sighed away to a patter while the boat slid between mountainous waves to search out the foothills of swell beyond.

A new day dawned where sea flowed into sky. The steersman steadied his rudder, watching the North Star pierce the morning haze. The sailors pulled on oars to bolster the light wind that flapped what was left of their sail, while the man with the silver flecked beard sat motionless beside the mast, eyes closed in meditation. And the young woman now stood proudly at the bow, like a figurehead. The breeze fluttered the hem of her white robe. She caught it and wrapped it around her black skin, searching the mist for signs of land.

She was now more excited than afraid. The sailors had spent all night bailing water and today their craft creaked softly, as if remembering the trauma of thunder and high waves. She would never forget it. Neither would she forget the impenetrable shield that the purple cloaked man had thrown about her. He had joined them at Armorica, the Celtic kingdom at the north-west tip of Gaul that had defied generations of invaders. Now she turned to look at him.

Unlike many men, who devoured her with their eyes, he nodded politely and introduced himself, I call myself Emrys.

She understood the name was the Briton’s way of saying Ambrosius. A Latin name, like hers. I am Igerna, Princess of the Numidian court at Cirta. Our Roman overlords called the lands New Africa. Before the Vandals overthrew them, she added with a wry look. Even they rely on my father to keep order.

What brings an African princess to the Islands of Britannia? asked Emrys.

I have been promised to a Duke called Gwrlais. Igerna had been taught how to say his name, ‘Ger-lay’, in their challenging throaty language.

Emrys smiled, I know Gwrlais, he said. A fine and noble young man, well educated in Roman scripts and the Christian faith. I’m sure you will like him.

Igerna felt an unnamed fear float free. Her father had assured her that Gwrlais was a good man, but she had met some of the chinless fools her sisters had been promised to. To hear the unprompted testimony of a stranger was an unspeakable relief. Are you of Roman nobility? she asked Emrys, looking at his purple cloak.

He looked away for a moment before turning back to reply, As Ambrosius I was. I have taken many names, but now I shall take another, Myrddin Emrys. I am returning to my people, where I belong.

Igerna thought she saw some hint of shame in his eyes before he presented a wall of implacable intelligence. Emrys had said little to anyone on their voyage, but he had held Igerna against the thrashing of the waves. His stillness radiated protection like the great Lighthouse of Alexandria.

Dūn-Tagell, Dumnonia, [Tintagel, Cornwall] 469AD

A gull cried. Igerna looked up, following the silhouetted wings as it glided over her head.

Land! called the steersman.

A grey mass lurked beneath the mist and breath caught in her throat. Had they arrived? The laborious strokes of the rowers quickened, and she sensed a shudder of anticipation run through the crew. Her bodyguard stood at her shoulder, anxious to make up for his loss of nerve in the storm. He had clung to the edge of the boat and shivered while Emrys protected her. Slowly the veil of mist drew back to reveal a vertical rock face, scarred by deep diagonal clefts. A circular stone tower rose from somewhere far back on its summit and around it she saw a cluster of roofs all covered in turf. Not one bore the Roman pantiles or neatly plastered parapets of her homeland. The first glimpse of Britannia seemed deeply strange to Igerna. Disorientating and wild.

The steersman guided them around the rocky headland and into a sheltered cove. Caves pocked the cliffs on either side and a huddle of boats rested their flat keels on the shore, all sails reefed and stowed. Beyond the boats a crowd gathered beside brightly coloured tents and fishing nets hung from poles. A market? Above their heads a slender rope-bridge spanned precariously between outcrops on either side of the cove, joining two fortified palisades. Timber, not stone, and turf instead of tiles. Had Rome not civilised Britannia? Were these people barbarians?

Their boat slid to a stop on the wet sand and the sailors leaped the sides to heave the vessel the last few yards up the beach. A man dressed in a thick woollen tunic and strips of leather wrapped around his shins approached them. He held himself upright, looking down his nose at the ragged craft just arrived on his shore. The local port official? You could always recognise the bureaucrats wherever you went, rued Igerna.

The steersman introduced himself and started speaking in the impenetrable local tongue, all throaty th’s and ch’s. Despite the presence of her multi-lingual bodyguard, Igerna felt a panic rise. Would she be required to speak this language? She had been led to believe they all spoke Latin, but the only Briton who had spoken her language so far was Emrys.

Allow me to guide you to Duke Gwrlais’ court, said Emrys, stepping beside them.

Igerna nodded her grateful thanks. She barely knew him, yet she felt as safe in his presence as she had in the storm. She saw her frowning bodyguard and sensed his pride was still injured. He was a good man. She smiled then beckoned to him to follow her and Emrys, along the shore. Close by, she saw a cave transformed into a trading stall, all brightly festooned with dyed woollen cloaks, pots of salt and stacks of tin ingots. The next cave was full of walrus tusks, seal and wolf skins. One huge skin made her stop and stare. It had dark brown fur and a wide snout, still lined with wicked white teeth. Too big for a wolf. Below the disturbing pelt were a neatly arranged row of razor-sharp claws longer than her hand, perhaps plucked from the paws of the same beast. They made her shudder. Tales about the wild animals that roamed these islands were traded along with their furs.

She saw merchants with black skin like hers, probably from further along the Mediterranean coast. They carried amphoras of wine and oil, precious purple dyes, and spices, which they bartered for the furs.

Further along the beach was a wicker pen full of hunting dogs, straining at their chains, perhaps imported from Hibernia which was famous for them. It was equally infamous for its trade in slaves. A dozen miserable men and women, some in early teens, sat in another pen, chained to a wooden stake, like the dogs. Slavery was older than the Roman Empire, which had thrived on their service and trade, yet Igerna disliked it with a deep and heartfelt instinct. Her bodyguard was a free man, he had chosen to come with her. But she herself had come out of duty. A promise made by her father, not her, so she felt a special empathy with those who did not chose to be here.

This way, said Emrys, pointing to a winding stair cut into the rock. A rope had been pinned to the side of the stair with iron hoops, but it did nothing to take Igerna’s eye from the drop. She tore her gaze from the swarm of traders on the beach and looked up. A woman crossed the rope-bridge which swayed wildly, swinging her from side to side as she gripped an amphora like the ones her countrymen had been selling below. Perhaps she brought wine for the locals, assuming she could cross that suicidal bridge.

I thought the Romans had brought their engineering to Britannia, she said to Emrys. Stone bridges, roads, viaducts.

They did, agreed Emrys, But you can’t cut a stone viaduct when Hibernian pirates come raiding.

Pirates? repeated Igerna, alarmed.

They usually stay clear of Dūn-Tagell. Too well defended, he nodded at the stout timber palisades at both ends of the bridge. But they wreak havoc along our west coast. And the Saxons take their toll along the south. That’s why so many ships from the Mediterranean come here.

Igerna wanted to know more. She thought Britannia had been civilised by four centuries of Roman rule. It was now little more than sixty years since Constantine ‘III’ called the Roman Legions away, and many of the proud British nobility had taken the opportunity to shrug off his rule. What had happened to these islands since then, wondered Igerna? But Emrys had his back turned, climbing the steep steps.

She stopped to draw breath at the grassy top of the cliff. The traders appeared as specks below. Looking away, she saw the clusters of turf roofs and huts that she had first glimpsed from the sea, with a steady flow of locals weaving their way between them. The men wore the same thick tunics and leather gaiters that the official had worn. The women wore their tunics longer with woollen leggings and many had a shawl or cloak pinned around their shoulders with a large bronze brooch. Igerna looked down at her white robe, now grubby at the hem from the mud on the path. She expected to draw attention, but the locals only glanced, nodded, and carried on. Some men’s stares would linger, but she was used to that. She knew men saw her as beautiful.

The path wound round to face a gatehouse built into the timber palisade, where two warriors in polished chainmail stood guard. Emrys approached and asked to see the Duke. One guard disappeared inside and the other stepped forward, spear held across his waist with both hands. Obviously, they were to wait. Igerna shivered. The late spring air was warm, but the breeze blew stronger across the grassy headland.

The welcome so far had not been effusive.

After some while, the first guard reappeared and beckoned them through the gate, into a long courtyard, lined with urns and sacks of grain. At the far end was a tall timber hall, heavy oak doors flung wide, and the smell of woodsmoke drifting from within. Igerna paused to study the elaborate carvings that decorated the doors and columns, like snakes chasing each other through knots of their own sinuous bodies. Not Roman. But not barbarian. It seemed civilisation could take many forms, even within former imperial territory.

A wiry old man, in a fine purple tunic and matching silk cloak approached and grinned at Emrys. You’re back! he exclaimed in Latin, then embraced him.

Emrys seemed uncomfortable. Not as I would have wanted to return.

Nonsense, said the finely dressed man, it was a fool’s errand, and you knew it. You took warriors to fight beside our brothers from Armorica as promised, but they could never win. Some day the Visigoths will overrun all. Thank God for the sea that separates us from their insatiable ambition.

It doesn’t stop the Saxons, said Emrys, sourly, or the Hibernians.

You’re safe and home, that is all that matters now.

Emrys nodded to his side, This is Princess Igerna of Cirta, he said. Princess Igerna, this is my friend, King Urbanus.

The king waved aside the formal use of his Latin name, Please call me Erbin, he said, taking her hand, I’m delighted to meet you, young Igraine. She noticed he pronounced her name the local way. My son is a lucky man to be promised to you. Please, come sit with me and our other guest by the fire. I know it’s spring, but I feel the cold.

Igerna followed Erbin and Emrys to the far end of the lofty hall. Daylight crept through slots, high in the vaulted ceiling, and filtered past more beautifully carved columns. She was used to elegance presenting itself in stone but was coming to see that Britannia was a land rich in timber, as well as precious metals and furs. Sealskins covered the benches around the fire and a wide bronze cauldron hung above it on a chain. Fine engravings of strange animals chased each other around the side of the cauldron, among horseback hunters.

Another man stood out of the shadow and bowed as they approached, casting an admiring smile in her direction. The other guest, not Erbin’s son, Gwrlais? He was young broad and tall, heavy built like a great warrior, yet athletic, not slow. He had long dark hair which he wore loose about his shoulders and a roughly trimmed beard. He was handsome, she thought, in a somewhat barbaric way. Emrys! he exclaimed, I thought not to see you again, my friend and mentor.

There were times when I thought the same, young Enniaun, said Emrys, shaking his hand. I thought you’d be with your father. I heard rumour that his health was failing, Emrys added, concerned.

He sent me to speak with all the kings of the Britons, to seek their support in our petition, the handsome Enniaun said.

Emrys raised his eyebrow, Your petition?

That I should be proclaimed Uthyr Pendragon, Enniaun looked to King Erbin for support.

I’m sure that you will be a fine inheritor of that title, Erbin smiled to the young man, then turned, should Emrys agree.

Igerna saw Emrys’ face darken as if a cloud had rolled across and wondered what it was the prince sought. Please forgive me, what is an Uthyr Pendragon? she asked.

Leader of all our dragon warriors and their pendragons, enthused Enniaun, protector of all the kingdoms of Britannia.

No, answered Emrys, flatly. Protector of all the people of Britannia, he watched the young man purse his lips. You should know that if you seek the title. You should also know it does not sit well with me that one man is both a king and Uthyr Pendragon, said Emrys. Remember the tyrant, Vortigern?

I am a prince, not a king, protested Enniaun, looking wounded, and certainly not a tyrant. I have no ambition to take power by force.

Emrys narrowed his eyes, as if doubting, You are soon to be a king. Or else why would your father have sent his eldest son out to gain support while he lays ill on his bed?

The elderly King Erbin stepped between the glowering Emrys and the Prince Enniaun, Let me make proper introductions. Prince Enniaun of Gwynedd, this is Princess Igraine of Cirta, who has travelled the seas to Britannia.

Princess Igraine! exclaimed Enniaun, lifting the mood with charm, The rumour of your beauty proves true, he welcomed her onto the bench beside him.

It seems I am surrounded by princes and kings, she answered. She was not overwhelmed by royalty. She was a princess and felt comfortable in their company. Despite the strangeness of the country and the people, Igerna was starting to relax. Just a little.

We are all guests in my son’s hall, said King Erbin. But Gwrlais is with my eldest, Gerren, attending to an unwelcome visit by Saxons on the south coast. They will not return for several days. And perhaps Gwrlais did not expect you to make such good time from New Africa.

We almost didn’t, said Igerna. But Emrys here sheltered me from the storm off Armorica.

Emrys is a fierce protector, said Enniaun, smoothly praising the purple cloaked man who had been questioning his motives only moments ago. Then he turned back to Igerna, I’m delighted you arrived safely. As King Erbin said, Gwrlais is a lucky man.

She nodded remembering the reason why her father had sent her, I understand Dumnonia wishes to make ties with my people in Numidia, to strengthen the revival of trade, having… Igerna paused, searching for a diplomatic phrase, …having left the Empire’s formal trading agreements.

Quite so, said Erbin, We’re eager to take our part of the wider world once more. And grateful for your part in that, he added, equally diplomatic. He beckoned for a servant waiting at the door to serve them wine from beautifully wrought glass goblets.

We are graced by your presence, said Prince Enniaun.

Emrys raised an eyebrow at him.

Igerna settled into the sealskin, nursing her goblet, and enjoyed the aroma of the fine wine. She was beginning to warm to Dūn-Tagell and her new company, especially the handsome Prince Enniaun who paid her such keen attention.

Perhaps I may entertain you while you wait for the Duke? suggested Enniaun. A ride along the coast? The views will lift your soul.

Igerna knew he was flirting, yet she was grateful for friendliness and comfort after so long at sea. Yes, I’d like that, she answered. King Erbin looked uneasy, then she caught sight of Emrys.

He was frowning, eyes narrowed again at Enniaun.

His face was as thunderous as the storm they had escaped.

1

Seiriol’s Cell

Lailoceen

Penmôn, Ynys Môn, [Penmon, Anglesey, Wales] 521AD

Arthur. Artorius. Arth is the name I first knew him by when I was a girl.

Our names are supremely important, and his name is now banned by the tyrants. They fear him still. They fear his name is a rallying call for all those who seek justice. And the Saxons fear those who would rally against them in his name. His name will not be forgotten. The ordinary folk whose lives he touched will remember him with the name they knew him by.

Arthwys.

It is cold. The north wind blows across the straits that separate Ynys Môn from the rest of Britannia and it chills my aging bones. My circular stone cell huddles against a rocky outcrop and the open door reveals a view of the white flecked waters and the mighty mountains beyond. A panorama of majesty that would take my last breath, though I have no intention of breathing my last. Not yet.

I have much to tell.

From here I can see the mighty castle of Caer Ddegannwy, the nest of the viper as many now call it. Our visiting monk calls its king the arch tyrant, the dragon of the island. An irony that does not pass me, for I was once a dragon, what we also call a warrior.

And then I became a pendragon: a head warrior and protector.

I was also a pagan. I venerated the old gods of our land who dwell in the springs and rivers, in the mountains and trees, and Mother Earth who cradles them all. The truth is I still do, as do all the people of this land, if we are honest. Christianity has put a respectable face on faith. The one true God. His spirit is in everyone, if only we should let Him in. And He is everywhere: in the springs, in the rivers, in the mountains and in the trees. Cunning, isn’t it? The midwinter feast is now the feast of Saint Nicholas. The spring bacchanalia is now Easter. Even this island, Ynys Môn, once the very heart of faith for our pagan ancestors, is now a Christian retreat. And I have retreated. Away from the tyrants who now desecrate the land I love.

Now I seek God’s love.

Brother Seiriol shelters me here at Penmôn, nourishing my faith and my stomach. I try to help with our crops, but he tells me how useless I am with a plough, insisting I scribe instead. ‘You know so much of Arthwys and his deeds,’ Seiriol says, ‘you must write them all down, should we forget.’ I hate writing. And we will not forget. Even if the tyrants or the Saxons should burn every scroll I write (and they might), we will never forget Arthwys.

But I write anyway. I see it as my penance for the many lives I took while I was a pendragon. It is ironic, for once, long ago, I would have spat at the idea of being a scribe. It is another irony that Seiriol should be the one to shelter me here. He is the younger brother of the tyrant in Caer Ddegannwy, son of the most valiant of Arthwys’ friends and warriors, Owain. I did not like Owain when we first met. There were not many people I liked then, and not many liked me. I was… difficult. I dare say my name will be forgotten. For a start I am a woman. History remembers men. And when a light burns so brightly, it puts all around into shade. We used to talk of the past when days were as dark as night. Now it seems our future will be darker if the tyrants have their way. But Seiriol gently rebukes me for such thoughts. ‘There is always hope,’ he says, ‘and redemption in our Lord.’ I do hope. I have slain so many I feel beyond redemption. ‘You were doing the Lord’s work,’ says Seiriol charitably.

‘It didn’t feel like it,’ I say.

I am ashamed that I took so many souls before I was encouraged to start saving them. Strange. I was once proud of my reputation as a taker of souls, for reputation is everything. A name is made by reputation: Caradoc Strongarm, Owain White-Tooth, Cai the Tall, and Bedwyr of the Perfect Muscles. Their reputations preceded them. It was easy for them; they were all men. Rhiannon Swift fought hard for her title of pendragon. I fought harder. And harder still for my name: Lailoceen the Lance.

I have another name now, Lailoceen Wild. I have learned that we are all capable of earning more than one name, should we choose to change who we are. Sometimes they joke and call me Myrddin Wild, which is a dubious honour, but that is another story. Let me tell you the story of the pendragons. Let me tell you how I came to the villa in the Black Mountains, where another man with reputation welcomed me into his family. It is there, as a girl, I first met Arth. Arthur or Arthwys as he was later known.

I hated him then.

And I thought he hated me.

2

Villa Cynyr

Lailoceen

Caer-Leon, Gwent, [Caerleon, Gwent, Wales] 480AD

I was eleven years old, and I knew everything. But father arranged for me to be sent across the sea from Armorica to the Islands of Britannia to learn some more. He said he wanted me to become a great dragon warrior, in the Celtic tradition, like my mother had been. I suspected he just wanted me to stop fighting with my younger brothers and sisters. I think I terrorised them if I’m honest. I landed at the city of Caer-Leon. The City of the Legion, where Romans Emperors had kept a legion of soldiers, in readiness, a warning against insurrection. My father joked that I could start an insurrection all by myself. Better to have my reckless energy channelled by those who knew how to use it. I was met at the harbour by an old man with a white beard and a long black cloak. He was tall, with a razor-sharp stare that would strip the bravado from a young thug like me, though I was determined not to be intimidated.

Who are you? I asked, hands on hips and head on one side.

He regarded me. An unruly girl with dark brown hair that sprawled across her pointy face and mutinous ice-blue eyes. You can call me Myrddin, it sounded like ‘Merlin’ because of the way he rolled his tongue. Judging by the cock-sure bluntness, you must be young Lailoceen. He said my name ‘Lay-lo-keen’, the way many Britons say it. The Bretons of Armorica share the same language, but deliver it with a lighter touch, more musical to the ear. Something they share with the Hibernians.

My mother had come from Hibernia.

I put that thought to the back of my mind so I could keep up my swagger. Maybe I am, I said, But I say it ‘Lay-le-seen’.

Fascinating, said Myrddin, eyes narrowed, But I shall call you ‘Lay-lo-keen’. Follow me, and without waiting for further smart replies, he turned and walked off in the direction of a great stallion, as black as the cloak he wore. I remember thinking him surprisingly spritely for someone his age, as he leapt up into the saddle and threw out a hand to help me up. I refused of course, and took a running jump, landing with my legs astride the beast’s back. He ‘harumphed’ which I chose to take as being impressed. Then he gave the stallion a gentle nudge to walk on, while muttering his frustration at there being more ways to pronounce the same name than there were Celts.

I ignored him and enjoyed the ride.

The bustle at the edge of the city soon gave way to green fields and wooded hills. I watched a pair of woodsmen carrying a long saw between them. They approached a tall and venerable pine, bowed to it, then offered up the edge of the saw to its trunk. They would take a long time to cut through that, even with two of them, the trunk was almost as broad as I was tall. But they had bowed to it. Being a pagan, I recognised that gesture of respect to the spirit of the great tree. I had been told the Britons were Christians. Evidently not all.

I saw a few weeds growing between the compacted pebbles on the wide Roman road and dried mud filling the drainage ditches on either side. Farmers sowed crops. Shepherds herded their flocks to higher pastures. The spring sunshine warmed my cheeks, and I threw my head back to enjoy it. Further on, the hills rose higher, and a band of low ferns and scrub pushed above the belt of blossoming trees. The farms became more spread out with fewer people in the fields. Later we left the road, following a well-trod path along the side of the valley. On the far side I saw bare rocks rising higher than the scrub and trees, and beyond them I saw mountains. I didn’t tell Myrddin, but I was in awe. I had never seen a mountain before. Armorica has great hills and rugged cliffs along the coast, but no mountains, not like those I saw soaring into the crystal blue skies over Britannia. I wondered at the majestic spirits that must dwell among them.

We are entering the Vale of Ewias, said Myrddin, bordering the kingdom of Gwent. It meant nothing to me, I just gawped at the mountains. Spring was only arriving in this valley and the buds of blossom were still tight bound, showing tiny tips of white among the spidery lace of twigs and branches. The steep hills on either side towered over me, enclosing me, as if shutting out the rest of Britannia and slowing time. I could just see the edge of ancient earthworks on the brow of the hill to my right. Another hill fort, long abandoned, snaked around the peak to my left. Young as I was, I felt as if I entered another world.

The world of the Old Ones.

Villa Cynyr, Ewias, [Vale of Ewyas, Monmouthshire, Wales] 480AD

There it is, Villa Cynyr, said Myrddin pointing to a fine white rendered building on a promontory at a turn in the valley, Cynyr will be like another father to you. And his wife, will be a new mother.

I stiffened but said nothing. I was not unhappy with the idea of second father because mine had been so distracted that he spared little time for me. But no one was going to be a new mother. As we approached, I saw youngsters out in the field below the villa. They were divided into two teams, holding brightly painted shields, and a stout middle-aged man stood to one side, both arms in the air.

Ready? he called. There were muffled grunts of assent from the two shield-bearing teams. Ready? he called again, more clearly, not shouting.

Ready! came a crisp reply in unison from both sides.

Charge!

The team on the left started moving a fraction before the team on the right. The lines of shields met head on with a crack of willow boards and cries. Heads lowered, legs stretched out behind and scrabbled for a grip on the sappy grass. The scrum began to rotate slowly then collapsed progressively from the right-hand side. The left-hand team sprang up, leaping about with shouts of laughter while the others lay giggling helplessly, rolling around in the meadow grass.

Looks fun, I said. Can I have a go?

Hmm, Myrddin’s frown was a stark contrast to the shrieking, giggling children. I had better introduce you to Cynyr first, he said, dismounting.

Cynyr saw us and walked over. He had a blonde beard and neatly cropped hair, framing a generous face that smiled over an equally generous stomach. He embraced Myrddin then looked me up and down while I put my hands on my hips again. Good day to you, Lady Lailoceen, he said my name, ‘Lay-le-seen’. I let slip a small smile from the corner of my mouth and I tried to remember how Myrddin had said the man’s name: ‘K’n-yer’? It is an honour to have you join us. I imagine you’ll be hungry from your long journey? I nodded. I realised I was famished. My wife will have a hog on the roast for us all. I think I may have dribbled a little. Follow me and I’ll introduce you to my ever-growing foster family.

I didn’t remember everyone’s name on first introduction, I just saw lots of new faces. Some smiled. A few looked wary. One or two waved from a distance. There were two things of which I had strong memories from that first evening. The first was the taste of the hog roast which melted on my tongue. The second was the huge circular table that we all sat around.

A woman in a fine long tunic entered alongside a servant. They held a whole roast pig on a platter between them. The woman looked slight but was evidently strong, tilting her head to keep her long light brown hair from her eyes and revealing an unusual linen scarf around her neck. The servant was a tall, gangly lad, with clever blue eyes. They hefted the platter into the centre of the rugged oak circle then the woman paused, standing behind her chair. I missed her cue and leaned in with my knife and bowl. A tall, brown-skinned boy poked me with his elbow. I turned, scowled, and poked him back, but he just nodded at Cynyr who had closed his eyes and put the palms of his hands together. I realised they were about to pray, and I fumed at the tall boy beside me who had made me feel so ill mannered and uncouth.

For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful, Cynyr prayed.

AMEN! came the reply from around the table.

Then everyone leaned in as one, to attack the roast. I pushed my way in too, growling and elbowing the tall brown lad back out of my way. I saw him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, as if weighing me up. He waited until I had filled my bowl then took his turn. It was clear he’d decided to tolerate my behaviour. For now.

So, Myrddin, what news of the world? asked Cynyr, as he took a large cut of pork and chewed happily, letting the juices dribble into his blonde beard.

Caer-Leon thrives, answered Myrddin, in between bites of hog roast. Somehow, he kept his long plaited white beard out of his bowl. So does Viroconium. The signs are good for this year’s harvests and trade with the Mediterranean is growing once more.

What about the new Saxon chieftains on the south coast? frowned Cynyr.

Aelle and his sons?

I hear they expand their territory.

A darkness passed over Myrddin’s face. Hmm, he nodded gravely.

So, what will our Uthyr Pendragon do?

King Enniaun, the Impetuous? Myrddin said his name with some distaste. I expect he’ll do what he usually does. Half read the situation. Half prepare, then rush in and make more enemies than there were to start with.

Cynyr shook his head. I know you did not agree to Enniaun taking the title of Uthyr Pendragon, but can’t you talk some sense into him?

I’d sooner talk to a stone, said Myrddin, which drew a few sardonic laughs from around the table. I did not understand why at the time, I had yet to learn the subtleties of their Brythonic dialect. My fear is that he’ll turn the people of the south coast against us. That they’ll support their new Saxon chieftains, instead of the British nobles. It’s what happened after the tyrant Vortigern tried to curb Anglo-Saxon expansion in the east.

They’d rather a firm but generous Saxon ruler than a venging Briton?

Exactly.

It seems we walk on a knife edge, said Cynyr, pondering his goblet of mead.

We have ever since the Roman legions departed, said Myrddin, but not everyone has seen it.

I have, said Cynyr, bleakly.

I know, my friend, said Myrddin and placed a hand on his shoulder. His wife did the same on his other side, touching her scarf with her free hand. I wondered at this. I understood little of their conversation, but I saw both had been hurt, and it hurt me, even if I did not understand why.

I can live with leaving Dyfed, said Cynyr, gripping his knife, "but I refuse